Okay, It's Definitely My First Rodeo

Beth kept her eyes shut and her head clear.

Mindfulness. Intent. Purpose. Control.

She focused on feeling every muscle and nerve within her feet and legs. Then her arms and hands. Then her torso. Until the sensation of being solid was returning and filling her neck, dribbling down her spine like warm water. Until her flesh and bones no longer felt like dust floating on a gentle breeze. The heavy weight in her gut gradually lightened until she was certain she could remain grounded without it. Then it faded away entirely.

The soft buzz of energy and life filled her ears once more, the final reassurance that she'd made it back to where she belonged. Safely. Confidently.

She slowly opened her eyes and blinked a few times, her back stiffening as she looked around. It was still her same old bedroom, just as she knew it, and it was still nighttime. She glanced at the clock and saw that only ten minutes had passed since she'd made her first attempt at meditation.

"Wow," she breathed out, unable to contain her astonishment.

Another look around and she was reassured that Merle hadn't returned yet. Which meant she was still completely alone.

"Wow," she said aloud again. A grin was spreading across her face.

She'd done it. She'd fucking done it! And all it took was a little focus. Some intent. Some damn purpose. Who could've guessed?!

Reflexively, Beth lifted a hand and grasped for the cross hanging around her neck. She found it, pinching it tighty between two fingers and letting out a soft hum of contentment. She knew it wasn't really her mama inside her own head, but man, was she glad that her subconscious had chosen that voice. It made the whole thing feel so much easier somehow.

Now if only she could tell Morgan about this progress and get his advice on what she should do next. Where had Merle gone, anyway? Was he really gonna turn down her deal and risk being banished away from her?

Though she knew now, with all prior doubts erased, that she couldn't banish him. Not that she necessarily intended to in the first place. It was an option, but not really. He needed her. And… yeah. She kinda needed him, too. Unfortunately.

She couldn't rely on him one hundred percent, though. That would just be foolish. And she still wanted—no, needed—to speak to Florence Newton.

It was just a case of figuring out how to contact the Witch of Youghal. Without stepping too far and risking her own soul again. Did the padlocked door inside her mind have something to do with it? Was Florence waiting for her somewhere on the other side of that heavy wood?

Or was something else waiting for her?

Well, maybe. But Beth was inclined to believe that whatever was behind that door wouldn't harm her. She'd seen The Veil. She'd approached it. And she'd heard Papa Legba taunting her from The Other Side. Yet she'd kept it shut. She'd resisted his tricks and denied the urge to let him in.

So what were the odds that evil was lying in wait for her behind both doors?

Crap. I don't know, she admitted to herself.

She remembered what her mama's voice had told her; reminded herself of what she'd read about the differences between sleeping and meditating. She still didn't know nearly as much as she should about what—or who—she could and couldn't access through either states. And she wasn't sure if she was willing to take the risk and find out by diving in head-first.

Yet something about that navy blue door had called to her.

Once again, she was desperately wishing she could talk to Morgan again. Or better yet, contact Florence Newton. She had so many damn questions that the internet would never be able to answer.

She threw her legs over the side of the bed and glanced around her dark bedroom. Was Merle really gone for the night? The one time she actually needed him?

"Merle," she whispered out, waiting and half-expecting him to pop up, as though speaking his name aloud would summon him. When he didn't appear, and she still couldn't feel so much as a trace of his presence, she spoke a little louder. "Merle! Merle Dixon, you come back here right now, or…"

Nothing.

With a sigh, Beth climbed out of bed and walked with ginger footsteps across the floor, stopping in front of her mirror. She could barely see her own reflection, but she kept her eyes open and staring at the glass.

"Merle Dixon… Merle Dixon… Merle Dixon…"

She held her breath for a moment. But when nothing happened, she let it out and rolled her eyes. She quickly turned away from the mirror, embarrassed by her own dumb face.

Stupid, she admonished herself. He's not Bloody friggin' Mary, why would I even bother trying such a stupid thing…

She spoke aloud one more time: "Merle, I need your help. I really do. I won't banish you, okay? I mean it. And I'll tell you that you're right as much as you want, as long as you help me out here."

She must've stood in the middle of her bedroom for at least five minutes, slowly looking around and willing Merle to reappear—or at least, to hear her calling out to him. But she was met with only silence. And the noticeable lack of a paranormal presence, dead or otherwise.

So now I'm getting the cold shoulder from a dead guy, Beth scoffed and went back to bed. She lay down and stared up at her ceiling with discontent. I guess this is my life now.

She reached over and grabbed her phone, checking on the off-chance that Daryl might've texted back. But there were no new messages. He'd probably gone to bed and fallen asleep by now. Like she should be.

But how could she fall asleep when she was still buzzing with excitement over her success?

As it turns out, pretty easily.

Beth was still smiling when she closed her eyes, intending to rest her eyelids for a few seconds. And then, she was slipping into unconsciousness. Just like that.

Mindfulness. Intent.

Luckily, her mind was still on high-alert, even as her body relaxed. She hadn't planned to drift off, but just in case the physical exhaustion managed to take over, she'd been sure to focus her thoughts on something other than the Dixons or Philip or Papa Legba.

She'd focused them instead on the Witch of Youghal; on every little detail Maggie had shared from her childhood memory; on her bone-deep desire to speak face-to-face with Florence Newton herself. Even if it was Florence's ghost. Beth didn't care. She just wanted the chance to experience a meeting like Maggie had been given—a chance to ask the most important questions. A chance to find out if she was doing this Witch thing correctly.

She also really wanted to know what was behind that padlocked door.


Purpose. Control.

Beth slowly opened her eyes and, for a split-second, forgot that she was asleep. But then it came back to her just as suddenly. The complete silence in her ears, the feather-light sensation that filled her entire body, the confusion muddling her head. The memory of lying down in her bed and falling asleep.

Okay. So this was a dream. Or… something. She was asleep. So that might mean that she could do more than what she'd done during meditation. Or she was mistaken. Either way, she was still in her bedroom, perched on the edge of her bed. Confused. Disoriented.

There was no sunlight pouring in through the windows this time. Everything was dark, dimly lit even though she couldn't spot any lamps within eyesight. All of her furniture and belongings were exactly where they were supposed to be. The room itself was nearly indistinguishable from her actual bedroom. Even the posters on the wall and the pictures on the desk were the same.

But there were little details that she immediately picked up on: her phone was missing from where she knew she'd left it plugged in atop her nightstand, the mirror on the wall was the one that Merle had broken rather than the one that her dad had brought up from storage to replace it, and her bedroom door was shrouded in a long, translucent cloth veil—just like it had been inside her mind.

Something flickered in the corner of her eye and she quickly glanced over to find that her closet door had transformed while she wasn't looking. It had been replaced by the big, thick, navy blue door that she'd seen inside her mind while meditating. The padlock remained. As did the unseen tug from somewhere within the depths of her chest that urged her in the door's direction.

It was calling to her again.

But what was waiting behind it? And why was it padlocked shut?

Maybe it was for her own protection. Or maybe it was for someone else's…

She wished she could hear her mom's voice again. But at the same time, she knew that voice was no more than a disguise for her own subconscious. She didn't need guidance through this place. She was already smart enough. Already strong enough.

She wasn't a naive little girl anymore. She had a Gift.

Purpose. Intent.

Beth stood up from her bed and realized she was dressed in the same outfit as before: a plain white T-shirt and blue jeans. But she was wearing shoes this time. And not just shoes—her favorite pair of boots.

Cool. Good. That had to be a positive sign, right? The fact that she'd gone from being barefoot inside her own mind to wearing her best pair of boots in her dreaming state? It certainly wasn't a bad sign.

Then she blinked. And rather than seeing her clothes and shoes, she saw bright yellow tendrils—like thick tentacles or vines, or an odd hybrid of both—reaching out from every one of her limbs. She barely felt them, and she most definitely couldn't control them. They seemed to be moving on their own accord, reaching out and worming around, ominously searching for prey.

There was one leaking out from her right hand, another from her left hand; one from her left foot and an identical from her right foot; the final yellow tendril emerged and stretched out from her core. It burst forth from an unseen opening just below her breasts.

And that one… the tentacle-like vine reaching out from within her core… that one, she could feel. Similar to the wordless calling from the navy blue door, yet a million times more palpable.

Each vine was fluorescent yellow, emitting from an untraceable source within Beth's body. They inched their ways outward, each one stretching in a different direction.

The tentacle-vine from her right hand inched its way towards the veiled bedroom door. The one from her right foot was reaching for the window at the other side of the room, while the one from her left foot was slinking slowly across the floor in the direction of the darkness that lay beneath the bed. And the one from her left hand was writhing in mid-air beside her body, as though it couldn't decide what it wanted to do with itself.

The further each vine reached out, the more sensation she experienced. Very suddenly, she was able to feel all five tentacle-vines that were currently stretching outwards and tugging her in opposite directions.

However, the one from her center had stretched itself far enough down to reach the floor, and now it was squirming its way forward. It was inching, slowly and gradually, towards the navy blue door.

The sound of familiar voices drifted in from somewhere outside the open window. They reached Beth's ears as no more than faint whispers or distant cries, but they reverberated through her bones with realization.

"We aren't doormats, Beth. You have a Gift, not a curse."

"You are the one in power here, Beth."

"Reckon you oughta grab the reins on this Gift, girlfriend. Otherwise we're gonna be in fer one hell of a disappointing rodeo."

That's right: she had to remember she was in control. She had to maintain it. How could she have forgotten?

As soon as she put a little willpower into it, the fluorescent yellow tentacle-vines began to slowly retract. They stopped reaching forward, and Beth managed to reel them back in with the same effort it took to inhale a deep breath. Until they'd disappeared inside her limbs. She could still feel them, but they weren't writhing outward anymore.

Except for the one.

The one that protruded forth from her core, stretching and slowly reaching for the navy blue door.

She took a tentative step forward. Then another. The tentacle-vine didn't stretch out any longer, though it was still writhing before her and desperately reaching towards the door.

She took another step. And a deep breath. She paused. Watched the glowing, yellow, vine-like thing squirm around outside her chest. Tried to figure out why it wanted to keep moving forward. Why it wouldn't retract like the other tendrils had. Then she took one more step.

She stood before the navy blue door. The yellow tentacle-vine stretched out and barely tickled the wood with its tip. But Beth felt the shock course through her body at the contact.

Without hesitation, she reached out and grasped the copper doorknob.

But how would she open this padlock?

Despite everything that told her she would need to find a key, her first instinct was to turn the doorknob. So she did. And she gave it a strong tug. The padlock popped open and fell off, hitting the floor with a clatter of metal against wood. Beth took a half-step to the side and pulled the heavy door open the rest of the way.

Well. That was easy enough.

The tentacle-vine from her core finally retracted. She could no longer see it, but she could still feel it settled somewhere between her stomach and her heart. Nonetheless, she stepped through the doorway and didn't bother looking back.

The sky was completely gray. There was no hint of sunshine, or even the presence of the sun itself. Nothing but endless dark clouds and a somber atmosphere. The wind was nonexistent, yet a chill ran through the air. Like electricity, but colder. More shocking. More numbing. She felt the tentacle-vines writhing around beneath her skin at the tips of her limbs, but she kept them withheld. She controlled them.

She knew they were emitting a fluorescent marigold haze around her, silhouetting her entire form and practically setting her aglow. But she didn't allow herself to think on it too much.

There was no time for that—things like fear and doubt. She simply wanted to see the Witch of Youghal.

The ground beneath her was all pebbles and rocks and sand. There was the slightest hint of salt in the air, mixed with sulphur and decay. And in the far-off distance, the faint sound of screams.

She stepped forward. To her right was a dense forest, everything beyond the treeline turned black. To her left was a vast lake, the water dark and still and ominous, no horizon in sight. And farther to her left, several yards away from the shore, was the jutting cliff that she'd stood upon with Papa Legba. She recognized it immediately. She stopped and gazed over at it.

Sitting atop the perch were Legba's Hellhounds. There were thick steel chains around their necks, tethering them to an unseen post stuck into the ground. They stood at the edge of the cliff, completely still. And when Beth looked up and met their gaze, she could feel the anger that pulsated around them. She could see it in the glowing red eyes that glared down at her, in the way their upper lips curled over their razor-sharp teeth. She could hear their quiet snarls and threatening growls, even though she wasn't close enough to actually hear it.

"Fuck you, Legba," she said aloud, turning away from the Hounds and taking another step forward.

The tendrils within her stirred, but they didn't attempt to reach out.

There was something within view from up ahead. She kept walking, eyes set on the blurred image. And when she was finally close enough to discern what it was, her pace slowed. She didn't bother trying not to stare. How could she not stare?

It was an old wooden rowboat resting at the water's edge on the shore. And standing beside it, like some kind of guardian, was a figure draped in a big black cloak. Their face was shrouded in shadows beneath a hood, and one skeletal hand stuck out from within the darkness of cloth to grasp a scythe. Its blade was sharp, the metal gleaming in non-existent sunlight.

Beth had to take several more steps and walk directly past the rowboat—and the hooded Death-like figure—to see the cardboard sign that was posted at the bow of the boat. It read: Reserved For Merle Dixon.

She dared offer a glance towards the cloaked form. She could feel the disapproval despite being unable to see the figure's face. Then, a deep voice emitted from somewhere beneath the cloak:

"Keep walking, Visitor."

She chose to obey and quickly looked away, forcing herself to keep her eyes ahead and keep her feet moving.

As she passed by and the rowboat disappeared from her periphery, she heard the same deep voice let out a scoff. Followed by a passive-aggressive mutter, "Fucking tourists."

She ignored him and continued on. The tendril within her core urged her forward, and she cautiously followed its silent beckoning. Until she was approaching the other end of the lakefront, stepping closer to the darkness of the treeline. Only then did she stop and hesitate.

Beth could feel herself being pushed to walk forward, like an invisible hand pressed gently to her back. She glanced around warily, unable to see what was lying in wait for her within the trees.

Then she heard humming—a woman's humming. Soft and somber, barely loud enough to discern. But it was drifting into her ears from behind the treeline. So she followed the sound, as well as the internal tug that was urging her in the same direction.

When she crossed from rocks to undergrowth and stepped into the thicket of the trees, she found herself surrounded by complete darkness. But she could still hear the humming, so she kept walking forward, slow and cautious. It only took half a dozen steps before the darkness faded away and opened into a grove. One more step forward and she realized she'd entered a small clearing. Scattered beams of late evening sunlight shone down through the gaps in the canopy of branches and leaves above. Every side was lined with more thick, dark trees. And the humming had grown louder.

An old woman was sitting at a small wooden table in the center of the clearing, her back to Beth. There was another chair across from her, sitting unoccupied.

The woman was humming. Her hair was long and gray, intricately braided all the way down her back. There was a cane resting beside her.

"Come sit, wee Beth. Have some tea."

She recognized that voice. The light Irish accent.

"Florence Newton," Beth said.

The old woman chuckled and finally turned her head to look back at Beth. She was smiling, green eyes sparkling. "Were yeh expecting someone else?"

"I didn't know what to expect," Beth admitted.

"Don't be rude, lass," Florence said, turning back to the teacup grasped in her hands. "Sit. I've already poured you a cup."

"Right, I'm sorry," Beth apologized, hurriedly walking forward and taking the seat across from the Witch of Youghal. "I didn't mean to be rude."

Florence smiled at her and gestured to the steaming teacup sitting in front of Beth. "That's quite alright."

Beth took a sip of the tea and felt the warmth slide down her throat and spread through her whole body. The tendrils writhing beneath her skin seemed to calm and stop stirring. It was the strangest thing.

Then she asked, "What are you doing here?"

Florence blinked, smirking. "What do you think I'm doing here, lass?"

Beth shrugged.

"Well," Florence said. "You called me here."

"I did?" Beth asked, confused.

"Yes, love."

"But… how?"

Florence raised her eyebrows and took a sip of tea. As she lowered the cup, she replied, "We don't have all night, my dear. Aren't there more important questions to be asked? Perhaps some that you don't already know the answer to…?"

Of course. Because Beth did actually know how Florence was here. She had called her here. She'd come here with intent and purpose. She'd successfully summoned the Witch of Youghal.

She asked the first question that came to mind: "Why did you visit Maggie years ago? But never me?"

Florence remained nonchalant, leisurely sipping tea, and answered, "I'm here now, aren't I? I do not weave the threads of Fate, lass. I'm merely another player in the game."

Hm. Okay. Fair enough.

"So how long do we have?" Beth asked.

Florence shrugged. "Until we finish our tea." She took another long sip and Beth felt a surge of panic.

"Then stop drinkin' it so fast," she chided.

The look of absolute indignation on Florence's face made Beth snap her lips shut.

"I'm sorry," she immediately apologized. "I didn't mean—that was so rude. I just have so many questions, and I—"

To her surprise though, Florence threw her head back and cackled loudly. She was still grinning when her bright green eyes met Beth's again.

"My goodness. You are a Greene through-and-through, aren't yeh lass?"

Beth smiled back weakly. Unsure.

But Florence just chuckled and took another sip of tea from her still-steaming cup. She gazed across the table at Beth with nothing less than adoration.

"Sweet as sugar," she said. "And sharp as a blade. Just as I remember."

Beth was truly perplexed now. "But we've never met before."

Florence's eyes glinted and she continued smiling. Knowingly, like she had a secret she couldn't wait to reveal. "Of course we have, love. Many lifetimes ago, in the motherland."

Beth narrowed her eyes, trying to figure out what the Witch was talking about. "You mean… in Ireland? I don't remember."

"And you never will. There was a time when you did—you remembered and you spoke of it, dreamt of it, mourned for it… and then your brain developed and your memories of this life began to form, and all your past knowledge faded away. As it does for every child. As it should. Best not to linger on the skin we've shed, wouldn't you say?"

A memory that did not belong to Beth flashed before her eyes for no more than a split-second. She blinked and it was gone.

Then she said quietly, with a pain that was not her own, "Islandmagee. They were coming to take you away. They were gonna accuse me next. Half the village knew my secret—it was only a matter of time. But I was poor and pregnant. And scared. And you helped me sneak onto a ship… with my husband."

Florence smiled, but the sadness shone in her eyes, pooling with unshed tears. "That kind, golden-haired Greene boy with eyes as blue as the ocean itself… You're a spitting image of the ancestor you'll never know, wee Beth." She swiped a wrinkled hand across her eyes, still smiling. "You inherited many traits from that sweet young couple. But most importantly, you inherited that precious girl's Gifts. You inherited her power. It resides deep within your soul. Your old, old soul."

"What about Maggie?"

The question had formed on Beth's tongue and burst free before she could stop it.

Without missing a beat, Florence explained, "The poor Gifted girl who sailed away before she could be accused and persecuted had a twin brother. I only met him once. He died shortly before the Witch Hunts began… he was protecting her. I believe they were two halves of a whole; eternally bonded. I may not have known him well, and it may have been centuries since I'd last seen him, but I recognized that soul the second it appeared in my dreams. Your sister is predisposed to be ferociously protective. And loving, and loyal to a fault. If that beggar boy had been Gifted in his lifetime, I'm certain he would've chosen to let it fade away. Just as Maggie has. That soul strives only for love and stability. A sense of belonging. Nothing more."

"Wow," Beth breathed out. She couldn't stop staring at Florence, the teacup grasped lazily in her hand all but forgotten.

"Now, surely you didn't come here for a history lesson, did yeh lass?" Florence quirked an eyebrow and took a sip of tea.

"No, I just got a little side-tracked," Beth admitted. "I need help. With understanding my Gift."

Florence nodded towards the teacup in Beth's hand. Beth took a sip and Florence smiled.

"You seem to be grasping the concept fairly well, aye?"

"Well, kind of. But—remember when you spoke to me? In my dream? You warned me about guarding my soul an' venturing too far."

"Of course I remember. You were allowing the tide to carry you away with every ebb and flow," Florence said, lowering her cup slowly. "There are many and more who wish to see you fail, who are waiting for the opportunity to drag you below the surface. Your soul is very old and very valuable. You must always keep that in mind, Beth." She clucked her tongue and smiled knowingly. "When the Gifted dream, they must be cautious. For that is when we are at our most powerful… and our most vulnerable."

"So how do I keep the intruders out? Like Papa Legba—"

Florence raised a finger and interrupted, "Do not speak his name."

Beth snapped her lips shut.

"He is powerful," the Witch of Youghal went on very sternly, green eyes narrowed and unblinking. "He is ancient. And he abides by very few rules. You've already figured it out on your own, lass. You know how to protect yourself. The key, however, is to remember it; to never allow yourself to underestimate what The Others are capable of."

"I have to stay vigilant," Beth recited what she'd read.

Florence nodded, lowering her finger and wrapping a dainty, weathered hand around her teacup. "Indeed. You are the child born twice, a Greene, a descendant of the most powerful Gifted. Your blood stretches far past the motherland—aye, your soul is older than any I've met."

Beth furrowed her brow but didn't speak.

The Witch went on, a wistful expression in her eyes, "I suppose that's why I felt compelled to reach out years ago. Though I recognized your sister's soul and yearned to communicate with it once more, I would not have risked making myself known unless I knew there was something much larger at stake; an ancient soul endowed with many Gifts, plucked out and recycled from one life to the next for hundreds upon hundreds of years. Spanning continents, enduring wretched civilizations, flowing through every plane of existence like the wind itself. From a Pharaoh, to a Shaman, to a Queen, to a poor peasant girl… And now, here we are. One of the most Gifted souls I have ever encountered, occupying the life of an American farm girl in the twenty-first century, a staunch believer in the western Bible, with no memory of the dozens of lives before this… asking me for advice."

Florence chuckled to herself and took a long sip of tea. Then she muttered, "We mustn't linger on ages long past, but there is much to be learned from history…"

"You spoke through Morgan to get me to ask Maggie about it," Beth said, recalling the feminine voice she'd briefly heard in the Swamp Witch's cabin. "Right? That was you, wasn't it?"

Florence nodded and lowered her cup, blinking slowly. "Of course, lass. As I said, I do not weave the threads of Fate. When it is safe for me to intervene, I do such."

"Okay." Beth understood. She got it. For reasons she couldn't quite comprehend in this state, it made sense. Sure, there were a bunch of lives she'd lived that were much greater than what she was currently doing. Apparently, she'd learned all these lessons time and time again.

But that didn't help her now. That wasn't what she'd come here for.

Best to let old wound be old wounds.

"So… am I doing it right?" She asked. "I'm tryin' to keep him out, and I'm tryin' to work with this dead guy that needs my help, but it feels like I just keep hitting one roadblock after another. I'm not sure if I can control my Gift like I'm supposed to. I'm not sure I know how."

The Witch of Youghal hummed and smiled, gazing across the table at Beth with a quirked eyebrow. "You've always known how to do what you do, love. Peeking past The Veil comes as easily to you as breathing. It's no more than a case of uncovering hidden talents. Would it bring you assurance to hear me say you're following the correct path?"

Beth quickly nodded.

Florence's smile widened and she laughed. "Aye, lass. I'll admit, I hoped your sister would speak to you much earlier about your inheritance. But it wouldn't be a very fun game for The Others if you had all that advantage, would it? The journey is more important than the destination… or so I've been told."

"You sound like Lady Jadis," Beth said, unable to stop herself. It was odd to be here. She couldn't seem to control her own voice, and the thoughts that came to her kept finding their way to her mouth just as suddenly as they formed.

Florence's smile didn't waver. "Even a broken clock is right twice a day. Not all those Gifted are allowed the timeless knowledge that is shown to the likes of us. But don't fool yourself, child. There is a game, and we are no more than the pieces being moved upon a board."

"Then how come you can see so far into the future?" Beth asked. "If it's all a predetermined game, why did you think Maggie would tell me about our Gift sooner than she did? If you saw her meeting Glenn, and me meeting Merle and Daryl, then…"

Florence lifted one gray eyebrow and said simply, "I said it's a game, love. I never said it was predetermined. Despite all our suffering, it is true: the Creator bestowed us His measly gift of Free Will. And we all take advantage."

"I can choose to turn away from my Gift whenever I want."

Florence's smile fell, but she agreed. "Aye. Every game has a different ending. The path you follow is for you to decide, wee Beth. No one else."

Beth nodded with pursed lips, then she lifted her cup and took a small sip of tea. The warmth rushed through her once more. "I've decided I want to be a Witch. Like you and Morgan. I wanna be as powerful as I can be. And I wanna use that power to help the Dixon brothers. And maybe other people, too. If I'm capable of it."

The Witch of Youghal smirked and her eyes twinkled. "You are a bold one, child. I saw the spark in you many moons ago, when I dreamt of your birth." Her smirk faltered. "I saw the pain, too."

Beth wasn't interested in talking about that. She'd deal with it on her own time—in that bedroom of her mind, where a dozen suitcases sat waiting to be unpacked. Her tea was dwindling fast, and she still had so many questions.

"You saw me meeting Merle and Daryl," she recalled.

Florence nodded. "Aye, I did."

"And you said Daryl—or Merle, I'm not sure—would be searching for a light and would find it at my farm. That's me, right? I'm the light they need?"

Florence shrugged. "If the shoe fits, lass."

"So I can save him? Both of them? Is that what I'm supposed to do?"

"The only thing you're supposed to do is make the decision that feels right in your heart. Whether it be to help these lost souls, or turn your back on them."

Beth paused and took a sip of tea, mulling over Florence's words. Then she asked, "Is it even possible to save them? I mean, Merle is basically a lost cause, but Daryl… sometimes I think he wants to be better. And then sometimes, it's pretty clear that he doesn't. I dunno if he wants anything except to be left alone."

Florence cackled. "Men, sweet child. There was a time when your father was much the same."

"Right, but… you said he was 'clinging desperately to the remains of the man he is meant to be.' Does that mean…?"

Florence sipped her tea and let the moment draw out in silence before lowering the cup and smiling knowingly across the table at Beth. "The man he is meant to be. Not the man he was meant to be. If you search, you will find your hope stashed away exactly where you left it."

"And The Governor?" Beth asked. "What about his soul?"

Florence frowned. "There's a place reserved in the Afterlife for every soul. Best you worry yourself with the how rather than the where, dear girl."

"He wants to kill Daryl. And I think he might actually do it if he gets the chance."

"Aye. You've become a protector, like your sister."

"I'm trying. But I'm not sure I'm doing enough. Or doing it right. We're tryin' to find The Governor, and I've gotten lots of clues from my Gift. But every time I have a vision, I black out. And I can't control when I get them, or when I dream about this stuff."

Florence's smile returned, an expression of endless patience on her face. "You must enter every setting with the same willpower and sense of purpose as you have now. There are countless doors that can only be opened by you, but you must want to open them. And you must be prepared for what lies behind those doors. Your soul is prone to wander. But you know how to contain it, how to guide it and guard it. Use that knowledge. Rely on your hope and your sense of what is right and wrong to be your compass through every plane. Remember yourself, Beth Greene, and you will never be lost."

"Okay," Beth nodded, letting every word burn into her brain. She took a small sip of tea, aware of how few sips she had left. Florence was watching her with curious green eyes.

"Did you see me meeting Morgan? The Swamp Witch?" Beth asked. "Is that why you spoke through him? He said he saw me in his dreams—or visions, or whatever. Like he was supposed to help me, or we were meant to meet."

Florence huffed out a breath of amusement. "There are very few as powerful as him. We've crossed paths before, through his previous lifetimes. He may not remember me, but I certainly remember him. However, no part of your journey has been constructed by me, lass. I was merely taking advantage of an opportunity. You're lucky to have a mortal such as Morgan to offer guidance. He and his young son are the last of a dying breed. Power and light emanates from him in every plane he's ever crossed. Pure souls flock to him and surround him in many different forms."

"You think he can teach me how to be a better Witch?"

"Perhaps. Though I doubt there's much he could teach you that you couldn't teach yourself, given the right amount of determination."

Hm. Interesting.

Florence took a sip of tea and set down her empty cup. "You have quite a few questions for someone who's already formed a plan."

Beth furrowed her brow and looked back at the Witch of Youghal with confusion. "What plan?"

Florence smirked, folding her hands atop the table, and said, "You wish to save both of the Dixon boys' souls, but you know you can only truly save one. Yet regardless of the outcome, the Dealmaker is owed two souls."

Beth blinked, but she didn't say anything. The tentacle-vines were stirring within her again, so she took a tiny sip of tea to calm them.

"Yes, it really is that simple, love," Florence stated, as though she could read Beth's mind. And maybe she could. "I know your longsuffering heart aches for the soul you think could be redeemed. But remember: every soul that resides in Hell is only as evil as the purest soul that loved it. Veils and planes divide them, but their connection remains for eternity. Like the scars that decorate our mortal bodies."

"Merle isn't exactly a good soul, but Philip Blake is pure evil," Beth said. "And Daryl… he's good. He's really good. He just loved his brother—still loves him. He didn't know any other way to live. Or love."

Florence nodded in understanding. "Funny how that works out, isn't it lass?" Then she shrugged. "What of the good ones who loved Philip? Those who were connected to his soul by the unseen threads of Fate? Those who suffered for him?"

"I don't… I don't know," Beth admitted. "I haven't thought about it.

Florence raised a finger and gave Beth a knowing look. "Aye, you haven't, have you? Not until now."

Something inside Beth knew what that meant, but would not acknowledge it yet.

Then Florence waved a hand towards the teacup sitting in front of Beth. "Drink up then. It's nearly time for you to leave."

"But I still have questions," Beth objected, though she grasped the teacup with purpose as she was instructed.

"What more could you need to know?" Florence asked, a bit indignant. "You're a confident, powerful, morally conscious Greene woman. You have Gifts that most could never fathom, and you're growing stronger every day. The world is your oyster, lass—both mortal and otherwise."

The words poured from Beth's mouth on a shaky breath: "But Ms. Newton… I'm scared."

Tears were pooling in her eyes and she couldn't seem to fight them back. Florence's face fell.

Beth continued with a trembling lower lip, "I care about Daryl—I really care about him. An' I think he might be startin' to care about me, too. But I dunno if I can stop him from being murdered, and what if I do? What if I keep him alive, but his soul still goes to Hell with Merle's?" The panic in her voice rose. "I couldn't live with myself knowing they were both down there. Daryl doesn't belong there, but I-I didn't even know I had this stupid Gift until a few days ago. You say I'm like my sister, but I'm not. Not really. I've never been as strong as Maggie. I've never done anything like this before. I didn't even go to college, I'm not prepared for this!"

Florence chuckled sympathetically and reached into the pocket of her dress, pulling out a folded-up handkerchief. She held it out across the table for Beth to take.

"Don't shed tears for the living, dear," Florence said, her tone comforting. Beth took the offered handkerchief and dabbed at her eyes with the silky white fabric. "There is no school to teach you how to handle this. But don't doubt yourself; your sister's soul is only as strong as yours, no matter how it may appear on the outside. Power is a wonderful concept, but a terrible burden to those who possess it. We call it a Gift ironically—there is no part of this that will feel like a blessing. It's a series of long and torturous roads, and oftentimes, there is no reward at the end. Not for us. Yet it should not be considered a curse, either."

She paused and gazed at Beth sadly, sighing. Beth clutched the handkerchief in her lap, eyes dried and tentacle-vines writhing beneath her skin.

Then Florence went on, "Love is much the same; a terrible burden to bear, and so few rewards. Caring for someone so deeply that you're willing to tear yourself apart in order to keep them safe. What an awful and wonderful thing… But remember this, wee Beth: the lessons you learn through your Gift and the sacrificial love you will find lying at its core… it may not be the reward you were seeking, but it will award you more satisfaction than you could've ever dreamt. There is promise to be found in your power. A purpose you never thought possible. Your soul yearns for something that you are unable to remember. It calls to you, pulls you towards it with a sense of aimlessness. You're destined to seek it out, to rebuild it, time and time again, from one life to the next. Each reconstruction will take a form of its own, but they are all the same within."

Beth swallowed thickly. "Because they're all built on the foundation of love. And doing what's right—what's necessary."

She felt the tears trying to form, but she managed to fight them back this time. She didn't know where those words had come from, but they felt… right. They felt true.

Florence smiled and let out a laugh. "Aye. You understand. No need to rely on some batty old woman to tell you." She winked.

Beth smiled and lifted the teacup without thinking about it. The last of the liquid slid past her lips and down her throat, leaving her with an empty cup, which she set down gingerly. When she realized what it meant, her smile faded.

As if on cue, the sound of a clock ticking in slow-motion began to echo out from somewhere behind the darkness of the trees that surrounded them at every side. Beth's heart skipped and she looked to Florence.

"You must be getting back now," the Witch of Youghal said.

"How?" Beth asked.

"Take the way you came in," Florence replied simply. "You remember, don't you?"

Beth nodded. "Yeah. I think so." The ticking was growing louder and filling her ears.

She stood from the table and paused while Florence pushed herself up from her seat, grabbing her cane for support. But even as Beth told herself she needed to start walking away, there was a thought niggling at the back of her unconscious mind. And she simply could not leave without letting that thought form its own sentence and escape her mouth.

"Can I ask you one more question?"

Florence leaned against her cane with both hands and raised her eyebrows at Beth. "Quickly, lass."

The ticking was growing louder and louder, still in slow-motion but ominous all the same. Yet this urge surpassed her need to leave. She had to ask. She just had to.

"Maggie knows the truth, but I'm lying to my dad an' brother every day. And I hate it. But I know I can't tell them the truth… yet. D'you think I could tell 'em one day? Or would they just think I'm crazy? Will they ever understand who I really am?"

Florence smirked, chuckling softly. "You may be sisters, but you did not experience the same childhood. Nor did your brother. Your father is a wise and faithful man. Parenthood changes a person. What was true for your sister won't be true for you. She was his first. I'd like to believe he's learned many lessons since you came into the world, Beth. After all, the sun can shed light on even the darkest of places."

Beth pondered this statement and opened her mouth as though to ask another question, but Florence stopped her. She had to speak up over the sound of the ticking clocks.

"Save your questions. I'm sure this won't be our last conversation. Get back now, lass. There's no more time to waste."

Without question, Beth turned and began to walk away. But just as she approached the grove, Florence called out to her.

"I nearly forgot to tell you—"

Beth stopped and turned around to see the old woman reaching a weathered hand out towards her.

"You must remember: the door that brought you here is kept locked for a reason. Should you enter unwillingly, you may not be able to return. Guard yourself, wee Beth. Always remain wary."

Beth nodded, then Florence was waving her off, urging her to keep moving. So she turned back around and left the clearing.

She stepped through the grove until she was submerged in the darkness of the trees once more. The sound of the slow-motion clock helped guide her back to the shore.

The boat with its sign was still there, but the cloaked Death-like figure was nowhere to be seen. The Hounds were no longer visible atop the cliff. But Beth didn't take the time to look around. She walked quicker than before, heading straight for the open blue door that waited for her at the end of the shore.

The clock had begun to speed up, the ticking becoming normal-paced, but she was already at the door. She stepped through and it slammed shut behind her. She heard the loud 'click' of a lock. She didn't turn around to look at it.

Straight ahead, she saw herself lying in her bed, sound asleep and breathing steadily. She approached the bed and turned her back to her own sleeping form before lying down.

Then she closed her eyes.

The ticking stopped. Everything went silent.

to be continued…