The centuries had come and gone, many
had lived and died. Some more than others. Lawyers,bankers strippers,
all walks of life all stemming from the same family tree. The
Brownshires. Throughout the years two things had always remained a
constant for the Brownshires. One, they were always the most well
liked and respected family in their respective
neighborhoods(especially the strippers). And two, when it came time
for them to pass, be it heart attack, stroke, whatever it was that
was going to do them in, they always returned home. Whether they came
from Germany,Nepal, Britain, or anywhere in between, each and every
Brownshire for as long back as one can remember returned to that
ramshackle hut deep in the Minnesota wilderness. Some in fact never
even left it to begin with.
The hut was nothing special, it had
remained for the most part the same throughout it's existence. It sat
on land surrounded by trees and long babbling brooks. To the naked
eye it seemed to sit at a slight angle, sinking into the mud. Walking
into the establishment only confirmed any suspicions. Weather and
time had been cruel to the now dull creaky wooden frame. The fact
that it still stood would have broken any odd makers bank time and
time again. The shutters jutted out at awkward, uncomfortable angles
and had refused to actually shut for the duration of the past three
occupants. Any passer by would simply assume that its once beautiful
mass structure was now used by any bum or would be gypsies brave
enough to enter it. But in all reality the hut was far from
unoccupied.
The land on which it now stood had not
always been in the Brownshire family however. It had been won, long
since passed, in a simple game of cards. What game specifically now
lost to time and the wind. And ever since that fateful flip of the
card every Brownshire ever born and died did so with great honor
within the confines of the land.
Far back deep in the surrounding woods
lay the family plot. Now overtaken with thick brown crackling vines,
all tangling up the memories of the now rotted Brownshires that lay
beneath. The plot had grown over the years. Charles, who was the
first to occupy the plot, now played host to over forty dead and
dusty realatives.
Over the centuries and years and days
many had tried to reclaim the land as their own. Some tried to take
it by force, amassing small armies to rise up as one against the one
or two occupants of the tiny hut. Others tried using wit and smarts,
forging a fake will here or a botched deed there. All failed and did
so fantastically. Great great great great(how many greats unknown)
grandfather put it down to brute force and cleverness. But as every
Brownshire knows, a little magic never hurt.
The family did their best to keep
their magics under wraps, using it only when absolutely
necessary(such as saving a drowning child, or getting the bar to stay
open past two). Throughout the years it had grown to be less of a
choice to keep their abilities hidden and became rather more of a
necessity. Be it a swing from a rope, the needles poke or the firing
squad blokes, it was all very good motivation to keep the magic to a
minimum.
Back when magic was common it wasn't
uncommon to see some pretty strange happenings going on in the
streets. It became a way for some to make a living. But just like
every other positive that mankind has gotten his hands on it
eventually spolied. Slowly decade by decade family by family it was
dwindled out. Magic slowly began to get blamed for most of the
problems that were arising(most of the time that was just the case).
It was being abused by those who knew how to use it too well, and
used irresponsibly by those who did not.
Maggie Brownshire was the last of the
kin to be executed due to her rather clumsy nature. She had run away
from home well before she had fully learned how to control herself.
She was hanged at the age of thirteen after a sneezing fit had caused
her to accidentally set fire to a neighboring girls hair. There was
no mercy for the accused, even for those as young as Maggie. The law
was the law and above that was the law of the Lord, break either of
those and it was most likely not going to end well for you.
The old myth of burning a witch at the
stake is just that – a myth. Sure, she would scream and writhe in
pain before being reduced to a pile of ashes. But given enough time,
and just the right amount of sunshine and rain, and those ashes will
begin to sprout a whole new kind of evil. This time with proper horns
and the like. It didn't take long for the people of olde to figure
out this little fluke, and once it was noticed they took all the
precautions necessary to prevent it. Glass jars were quite possibly
the best agent when it came to making sure a dead witch stayed dead.
The Hollorans were like a shadow, the
gum stuck to the sole of your favorite pair of shoes. Where ever and
when ever the Brownshires were the Hollorans were never far behind.
Unlike the Brownshire family however the Hollorans were often very
unpopular with the native folks. Their nasty attitude and equally
nasty grooming habits played a large role in this. They may have had
a bad relationship with the general public, but once hidden behind
doors with their own kind they were quite pleasant.
But they did have one thing in common
with the Brownshires. Just like their counterparts their family also
contained powers uncommon to modern times. And also just like the
Brownshires their ancestry also once held land on a quaint little
plot in the Minnesota wilderness. They had been brought up on the
stories of old, stories about fish that once filled the surrounding
rivers and streams, and eventually the bellies of the Hollornas of
past. The land was all that they required, all they ever wished for.
It was to be passed down from generation to generation, Holloran to
Holloran until time was no more.
No ink ever need touch paper for this.
No deeds were ever drawn up or wills signed for these actions to take
place. They were simply done. In the Holloran family blood respected
blood and and did what was told of them. They believed in the old
traditions in a new world. Fifteen generations had passed, and with
each a new occupant(or occupants) took residency of the land. It was
taken care of and loved by all who inhabitable the place. It was, by
the end of the century, the only real thing that the family had to
pass on to each other.
Bartholomew Holloran was the last of
the family to dwell within the house and land. He had lived their for
nearly fifty years before he lost it in a game of cards.
To say that the Hollorans and
Brownshires didn't like eachother is an understatement is, in fact in
itself, an understatement. The Hollorans held their grudge for
obvious reasons. They suspected, and still do, that cheating may have
played a hand in their families surprise eviction. And why wouldn't
they? When your great great great(again, how many greats is anybodies
guess) uncle loses a simple card game to an aging, leathery, old man
after he has successfully cheated out the rest of the state at the
same game, wouldn't you have some suspicions?
The two families loathing for each
other had only grown worse over the centuries. Time, as it proves all
too well, does not heal anything. Every Brownshire since has spent
the majority of their life trying to escape the suspicious eyes of
the Hollornas. Picking the next safe town. A comfortable, Holloran
free state, or in some of the more delightful dreams a Holloran free
country. But no matter where they decided to go, cross continents and
seas, they were followed. Like a silent stalking breeze.
So here, at this small little town, brewed one of histories most amazing hatreds. No books of history
could ever contain its stories and complexities. It was know only to
the two side involved. Even if someone bystander were to hear a
whisper of it it would remain just that, a whisper, unheard by simple
mortal ears. The hate grew through the centuries until it had reached
a boiling point. And then, just when the world could contain it no
more it happened. Nothingness consumed the feud in a new
discomforting way. It was as if the two side had simply shook hands
and walked away from the other. There was never an explanation
offered up, it all just simply stopped one day. Cut and dry.
The rain fell at a hypnotizing,
peaceful and even rate. Nathan never regretted the money spent
replacing the old rotting roof with fresh tin sheeting, no matter how
dilapidated the rest of the hut looked.
When it came to the Brownshire
bloodline Nate was a first. He was raised, as every member of the
family before him. Taught from an early age where his ancestors had
come from and what abilities had been passed down the pipeline from
generations past. But as Nate would prove as he grew older, he had no
time for what he assumed to be family fairy tales.
Nathan Emanuel Brownshire was born on
July eighteenth nineteen eighty three in Prior Lake Minnesota. He
took after the rest of the males in his family when it came to build.
He was a tall stocky young man. Not fat by any stretch of the
imagination but certainly not slim. He was the result of his mothers
first and only one night stand. She had died only hours after giving
birth to her son. She managed to hold on just long enough to give him
his name and place him in the proper care. He spent the majority of
his childhood being raised by a miserable beast known as Aunt Janny.
Aunt Janny had done her best to bring up little Nathan as well
mannered and well magiced as herself. But try as she might she could
never get the little tike to take any of her lessons seriously.
He was never much able to make friends
as a child. After all he and his Aunt were the but of many a jokes.
As has always been the case children can often times the cruelest
creatures around. In his late teens he began acting out in ways his
Aunt could not handle. He dove deep into the world of drugs and
alcohol for quite a few years. It took quite a few more for him to
did his way back. And even through all of that, there by his side she
sat. Aunt Janny never gave up on him, never blamed him. Times were
changing, she was well aware of that.
On the somber day of her funeral
Nathan, as the only surviving member of the family, gave a boring
eulogy to an empty church. He was drunk. Not the kind of drunk you
use to hide behind your feelings with. No, this was party drunk. As
far as Nathan was concerned, it was all over. At least he had what he
had wanted all along, the only reason he had stuck around as long as
he did. The hut. And the land.
As far as Nate was concerned he had
two options when it came to his upbringing. He could follow the
instructions and tutelage of his Aunt, and grow and flourish in the
way of magic. Going with this route meant one thing for sure.
Therapists, and lots of them. Or he could do what he did. Try and
distance himself as best he could from the last remaining relative.
Try and get on with a normal life. An easy choice if you don't know
the facts of magic.
He often times found himself thinking
about the days gone by. About the time he spent as a child with his
Aunt. He still felt a slight twinge of guilt when ever she occupied
his mind. Now, looking back he realized that he never actually didn't
like the old bat. He wished it could have been different, that the
bedlam saw herself as something other that exactly that.
Nate sat writing at his desk,
listening to the rain, struggling against his now heavy eyelids. He
had, like his ancestors before him, decided not to tamper with the
arraignments of items within the hut. The most recent addition to the
cottage was a large tarnished phonograph. The old record player was
his favorite part of the hut. Each night before he sat to write he
would place his favorite records on and pour himself a nice hot cup
of tea.
The old oak desk he sat at was large
even by todays standards. It's dark knotted tones were flawless in
every was, except for one. He ran his fingers carelessly across the
deep gouges. He had read them so many times now, the only thing they
made him feel nowadays was numb. The names and dates of ancestors
past ran down the length of the desk from the top corner. All
perfectly etched in beautiful perfect copperplate, the kind of
craftsmanship no longer seen in todays society. All the names as far
back as the mid eighteenth century. At first Nate felt a deep guilt
for not caring what those names read or what they represented. To him
they were just a list of those long dead and gone. His guilt had long
since passed, now he was just glad that they had done the same and
left him the hut. The earliest date etching was dated May 4th,
1732.
E.A Brownshire May 4th 1732
T.H Brownshire August 24th
1784
B.R Brownshire November 18th
1802
and so on and so fourth.
The rain fell harder now. The loud,
little pellets growing in numbers. On most nights he would find
himself lying in bed, staring angrily at the faintly red glowing
numbers of his alarm clock, waiting impatiently for sleep. On nights
like these it was all he could do to write the next installment in
his journal. He was never quite sure why he had chosen to keep the
book in the first place. Most entries where anywhere from ten to
twenty five words long. He sat for as long as he could, staring at
the blank lined page in front of him. His tea growing colder he wrote
the only thing that would come to mind.
“I'm going to see her tomorrow.”
And with that he stood, flicked out
the lights and headed for the bedroom. Tomorrow he would head in to
town at the first sight of light.
