Free The Portal 00 - Legacy of the Witch by authors_sort Page A

you. Above all else
this. It’s not a story at all, my girl. It’s true. All of it. But I think you
already know that.”
    My eyes widened, and I wondered if the drugs she took for pain
were making her talk crazy. “Don’t be silly, Grandmother. Of course it’s a
story.”
    “You know it’s not. You knew the story before I’d ever told it
to you. You were there.”
    “That was just my overactive imagina—”
    “You knew their names. Before I ever spoke them to you, you
knew their names. Indira, Magdalena, Lilia. You knew, child.”
    I lowered my eyes.
    “We’ve kept the legacy of the three witches alive, kept their
story alive, down through generations of our family. And something else, too,
though I don’t know yet how it all fits, I think it will reach its culmination
with you, my precious Amarrah. So you must listen to me now and swear to do as I
say, or you will fail all those generations of your ancestors and the
long-suffering spirits of those three women you once loved.”
    I blinked back tears and told myself to just humor her, even
while part of my mind was hungrily absorbing all she said. And believing,
because part of me did believe. Part of me, perhaps, knew.
    “Go to the painting, child.” Gidaty lifted a weak hand,
pointing beyond the foot of her bed at the portrait on the wall. It was of the
three women from our beloved story, three harem girls standing on a cliff,
watching the sun rise over the desert. I’d always thought my grandmother’s story
had been inspired by the painting. But now she said it had been painted by her
grandmother, who had handed the tales down to her mother, who in turn had handed
them down to her.
    “Behind it,” she told me.
    Frowning, I tried to lift the bottom of the painting away from
the wall so I could peek behind, but instead it opened like a door, and there
was a wall safe behind it. I was shocked. I’d had no idea it was there in all
the years I had lived with my grandmother. I had gone to live with her in 1973,
when I was five and my parents had vanished, as so many did in Iraq in those
times.
    “Gidaty, what is this?”
    “Turn the dial, Amarrah. One to the left, then all the way
around sunwise, stopping at the nine the second time around. Back then to the
six, and right once again, stopping at the two.”
    I followed her instructions, then tried the lever, and the safe
opened. I peered inside, wondering what secrets my grandmother had been keeping
from me all this time.
    There, inside, was a box. It looked like a miniature treasure
chest, an ancient one. It was a couple of feet long, maybe half that deep, with
a top that curved and was banded in black iron. It was locked with a hasp and
antique padlock. I took it out of the safe with great care and brought it to the
bed. “What is it, Gidaty?”
    “I don’t know. I’ve never known. That box has been handed down
through our family, from mother to daughter, for longer than I have ever known.
You must take it now.”
    I frowned. “And do what with it?”
    “Keep it safe.”
    “But—”
    “Hush, now. Listen and I’ll tell you all I know, though it’s
very little. That box belongs to the witches of our story. They will come to
claim it one day. I know not when nor how. But I do know there are others, dark
forces, who do not want them to have it, and who will try to take it from
you.”
    “So I have to hide it?”
    “Yes. Hide it, and tell no one you have it. Keep it safe.”
    “But how will they find it? When are they coming? How will I
know them?”
    She smiled softly. “You sound just like me when my own mother
gave me the box. I didn’t know the answers then. I don’t know them now. I only
know that you will know exactly what to do when the time is right.”
    I nodded, wrapping the box in my arms, holding it against my
chest. “All right, Gidaty. I don’t understand it, but I’ll do it.”
    “Promise me, child. Promise me you will keep the witches’ box
safe.”
    “I promise,