The Change

My mother said everything was changing while clutching my hands, squeezing my fingers together. She begged me to go to the cabin and stay there until it was over. Until what’s over? She never replied. Instead, she handed me a picture of her mother.

My grandmother was a troubled woman. At least that’s what I heard growing up. She had visions, weird dreams. My earliest memory of her was when I was ten years old. She used to pace up and down the hallway in the middle of the night. A whisper escaped her lips every nine steps. I mentioned it to my mother. She brushed it off. Told me everything was going to be alright.

Before she came to live with us, she was in a psychiatric facility. For what, I don’t know. My mother never answered that question either.

My mother changed after she passed away, which everyone expected, but she started taking trips down memory lane. Offering information she held onto for years. Information that would have given me more insight into our family history. So I see my grandmother through my mother, for I have no memories of my own to hold on to. 

Only one picture remained of my grandmother–the one taken before she went into the hospital. After she started having visions, my mother committed her. My father called them hallucinations, of course. My mother referred to them as dreams.

She said a woman was coming to get her. Said it was a family curse. My mother didn’t know who the woman was. Neither did my grandmother. But my great-aunt Mary believed it was an ancestor. She was the one who told my mother about the cabin.

I didn’t want to go. But instead of arguing with my mother, I did what she wanted. I packed a bag, jumped in my car, and made the quick trip to the cabin. 

Light traffic turned the familiar road into a dark, deserted passageway as trees hovered over the paved concrete. No shadow cast. No birds chirped. Even the sun darkened.

Pulling into the driveway, I jumped out of the car, grabbed my bag, and made my way through the front door. The wooden floor creaked as I stepped into the living area. The curtains fluttered as a breeze rushed through an opened window. 

I dropped my bag on the couch, walked over to the window, and peered into the darkness. My eyes gravitated to a large tree. I stepped back as a figure appeared. A tall woman, wearing a black empire dress draping down over her spring-sided boots. A black mantelet wrapped around her shoulders. Her eyes looked familiar, like my grandmothers, but darker. She disappeared as the wind pushed through the window.

My mother told me I would be safe here. Trusting her, I slammed the window shut and pulled the curtains closed. I took a few steps backward. My calves bumped into the coffee table, knocking a book against the wooden floor. I picked up the book and blew the dust off of the cover. 

I ran my fingers across the brown leather, tracing the outline of a tree embossed on the front. Above the tree, big bold letters spread across the top–‘die Familie’. I sat on the couch, flipped the two brass locks open, and pulled back the cover.

Written on the first page–a few notes about the family, when we immigrated from Germany to North America and where the family first settled. On the next page was a photograph. I didn’t recognize the face, but she had my eyes.

My father used to call them ‘Soul Diggers’. He said my mother’s maternal line all had the same eyes. The kind that could dig a grave. I never understood what he meant, and he never offered an explanation, but looking at the photographs, I saw myself looking back at me. 

I flipped through a few more pages of my family’s history before coming to a page full of symbols. The top of the page read ‘Bind Runes’. My great-aunt Mary wore a necklace with a symbol called Ansuz. I never asked her what that meant, but a few of the sigils on the page incorporated that rune.

I turned the page and stared at the picture. I raised my eyes toward the window and back down at the photograph. Her name was Anja. Murdered in 1884, underneath her picture rested the word ‘Hagazussa’. 

Anja, a powerful Hagazussa, walked the nine worlds. The power of the ancestors, buried within her loins, rose like the ravens. On their backs, she gathered wisdom from the ancient tree of knowledge.

I flipped through the rest of the book. Every page held a new picture with their history. Powerful women, rooted in the earth. They all had the same eyes. My eyes. My mother’s eyes.

The very last page in the book was a drawing of a cabin. The outside surrounded by large stones, an old oak tree sat along the side with a bind rune etched into the bark. Underneath the photograph were the words ‘Runes etched into the wood granted protection to whomever remained inside’. That’s why I'm safe here.

I closed the book, threw it on the table, grabbed my bag, and ran to my car. Driving back home, all I could think about was my mother. Was she safe? Is she the next woman in our family to suffer the same fate as the others? 

She attempted to save my life in hopes I would embrace the traditions of our ancestors and break the curse. But what kind of ancestor would I be if I let my mother die?

My foot slammed on the brakes as she appeared in the middle of the road. She stood there, frozen in time. Her eyes stalking my soul, walking up and down my spine, etching her pain in my bones as her history ran through my body. The whisper of a thousand women crashed against my eardrum.

The tears streamed down my cheeks as their memories became mine. I understood. I understood the importance of the history. The importance of the traditions. “Spare my mother,” I cried as she walked toward the car. 

I wiped the tears from my eyes, opened the door, and stepped onto the road. More women gathered around, encircling me. The warmth of their embrace radiated through my body as the elders passed their knowledge onto me. I closed my eyes as Anja's soft lips pressed against my forehead.

Silence enveloped the empty road. My eyes shot open, searching for my ancestors, but they were gone. I jumped back in my car, slammed my foot on the gas, and sped home. 

The ride back was different. Traffic lights sprinkled the night sky. Chatter from pedestrians crossing the streets intermingled with beeping horns. The once deserted passageway sprung back to life.

Pulling into the driveway, I ran up the sidewalk and busted through the front door. My mother jumped up off the couch and stared at me. I ran over to her, wrapped my arms around her, and cried.

“What are you doing here? You’re not safe.”

“We’re fine, mom. We’re going to be fine.”

“I don’t understand.”

“I know. But don’t worry, everything is changing.”