The Sayavong Sisters

NAMAARI TAN

៚

I awoke at half-past six in Fayrun, southern New Hampshire. The leaves were starting to turn orange, and the light of day was slowly fading. I was graciously invited to join the Sayavongs for dinner by my dear friend, Vivian. The Sayavong sisters had moved into Fayrun, where lakes and deities surrounded us. They were an odd little family, to say the least—but oddly endearing.

Odd, because they were witches—daughters of a witch, to be precise. 

I wasn’t scared nor terrified, but deeply intrigued. The Sayavongs trusted me to keep their secret. I never felt embarrassed to be with them as they were utterly enchanting to me.

I first met Vivian Sayavong on the brink of fate in 1985. I was at the playground with my Ahma, who spent her afternoons playing mahjong with the local aunties underneath the sun. A blur of orange caught my eye, and I gawked across the playground to see Vivian Sayavong in the flesh. An Asian redhead? I had never seen one in my thirteen years, yet here she was, swinging lively on the monkey bars with her two sisters, who also had red hair. I remembered that day so vividly.

The house on Shadowdoe Lane had waited, empty and forgotten, until one evening when there were stars aplenty to colour the sky, the Sayavongs appeared, as if called by the stars themselves. Their home had always appeared to be alive—candles lighting themselves at unexpected times whenever I slept over, its windows catching the moon in a different way than any other house on the block. Now, on this magical September night ten years later, the moon shone confidently, full and drenched in energy. The Sayavongs and I lived only a street apart—me on Amber Street and the girls on Shadowdoe Lane.

The three girls, though bound by a last name etched with lore, could not have been more different in spirit. Vivian who was twenty-three like me, always appeared to drift through rooms as if she could hear the walls breathe, her keen eyes sweeping for something that I could never see. Lila, the youngest at eighteen, exploded around in her laughter and whirled at the edges of existence, as if daring it to keep up with her. Faye, the eldest at thirty, carried the same quiet that weighed the air, like a shadow falling softly against your chest. She did not need to utter a word to be heard. Now standing here, the reflective light of the moon brought the roof of Vivian’s home to a million cold hues of blue, each as magical as the others. They had a garden bursting with chilli bushes, sprigs of mint, and a tall papaya tree that seemed to wave a quiet hello as I walked through their gate. I knocked on the door, engraved with sak yants that seemed to whisper secrets and radiate protection from the gods above.

When it swung open, I was met with Vivian.

During sundown, her red hair became a special auburn, and in the starlight, it was the darkest of browns. She had an extremely pale profile, and she was quite a fragile, skinny-looking ragamuffin. From her button nose to the tattoo of a star that stretched behind her ear, her beauty was exquisite. Walking tall and proud, you could sense the peculiar aura she elegantly spread around. 

‘Cecilia, you’re here!’ Vivian beamed. Behind her, her home gleamed in the dark, sharp and almost unreal, and for a moment, I was charmed. 

‘Of course I am, Viv,’ I replied, smiling at her as I slipped off my slippers.

‘Come in!’ She exclaimed, waving her lazy hand through the air. The door clicked, and then swoosh—it flicked closed on its own, carried by a gentle whisper. I could only smile. 

It never, ever got old.

As Vivian led me inside, I came to a halt, taking in their home. Even though I had spent much of my teen years visiting, it never failed to strike me—every corner, every detail was divine. Lotus-drenched wallpaper adorned the walls, incense burnt gently in every corner, and water bowls were carefully spread across the living room. These bowls were offerings to the gods, protecting the household from the many deities that surrounded them. One of the reasons Faye moved here, as she would cheerfully remind us, “The more deities, the more fun! New Hampshire is full of them! I wouldn’t have moved here if the gods hadn’t insisted!” Entering the house felt like stepping into a mellow bath of delightful melody from a soft playing piano. My eyes wandered over photographs of the girls—one even included me; a velvet sprawl worn soft and familiar from years of use seemed to embrace me like an old friend.

‘What have you been up to this weekend?’ she asked as her voice echoed softly, stepping into the kitchen's glow.

‘Uh, not much, honestly, just helping Ahma around the house for Pchum. Oh, and she brought you guys some rambutan,’ I said, holding up the plastic bag I had been gripping a little too tightly, the wrinkles of the plastic leaving faint marks imprinted across my palm.

‘Ehh! Did I just hear ‘Ahma’ and ‘rambutan’ in the same sentence?’ A voice called from afar. As we turned the corner, we were met with the other two auburn-haired girls. Lila and Faye were each beaming as we walked in.

‘Cecilia!’ Lila cried, dashing up from her seat to give me a big, exuberant hug, as if we hadn’t seen each other in years. 

‘Heya, Lil!’ I exclaimed, barely able to breathe, as I handed the bag of rambutans to Faye with a faint, ‘Here,’ while Lila squeezed me dry like a tangerine left out in the sun for too long.

‘Lila, you’re going to kill the poor lady,’ Faye said, a smile tugging at her lips, before mouthing a quiet, ‘Thank you.’

Faye Sayavong was the wisest, bravest woman I knew. She was special. Well, all of them were—because of the whole witch thing—but Faye was different. She had endured more than most. Caring for her sisters at such a young age, fleeing the war, and witnessing the horror of their mother burning before her eyes. 

The moon was gleaming with anticipation. I remember freezing at the sight of the wooden platform. That figure, our mother, may have been a witch once, but not anymore. Her copper locks, which were once full of life, now gathered beneath her, her head shaved, her clothes ripped away, leaving her exposed and broken before the screaming village. Kill her! Kill her! Witch! Witch! My ears were screaming at me. Run! Run! Run! You’re next! Save your sisters! Save them! I could barely look, yet I couldn't run; I couldn’t leave my mother. She was a witch—not anymore. She was going to die. No one could tell me she was alive in any meaningful way. I accepted her fate and my own.

I shivered, recalling Faye’s words.

She had a still, almost unnerving, intangible quality that kept her apart from her two siblings. I felt the weight of what preceded settle on her shoulders as she passed, anchored to her. Her sleek red hair fell to the bottom of her back, covering almond-shaped eyes that seemed to contain light. Silver rings encircled each finger, and jade bracelets flooded her wrists, softly clinking as she walked. She wore a verdant tank top drawn into a plum-coloured skirt, the edges of its folds curving into little, airy spirals that whispered down her ankles. Her skin was pale, flawless, and intimidating. Come to think of it, they all looked similar—distinguished only by the length of their hair and Vivian, whose face was framed with baby bangs.

‘Did you need help with anything, Faye?’ I asked, scrubbing my hands with soap and water.

‘Nope, all good here, angel,’ she replied, eyes fixed on my wet hands. Before I could even dry them, Faye twirled her fingers, and the droplets leaped from my hands, sliding obediently towards the sink.

I gawked again—never growing tired of the powers they held.

‘Thank you, Faye,’ I said, my voice soft with awe.

‘Go on, you three,’ Faye urged, a faint shimmer in her eyes. ‘Off to the dining room; just leave the rest to me.’

I chuckled, knowing Faye would be done in minutes.

Lila and Vivian giggled as they scurried off to the dining room, their footsteps light and echoing like little chimes. The scent of tiger balm hit my nostrils as I walked in, while the smoky air hit my cheeks like ink on parchment. A bowl of dragon fruit beamed in the centre of the dining table, its vibrant skins seeming to absorb the scent of incense that drifted lazily through the air. I sat down, letting my eyes wander around the room. My favourite room at the Sayavongs was the dining room. The one thing that caught my eye most was the massive painting that filled the majority of the centre of the dining room wall. It was positioned exactly in the middle of their long wooden table, where there were intricate carvings I couldn't make out. The painting was of a Naga, the serpent-like body of which coiled effortlessly around the canvas, a subtle nod to Cambodian heritage that we shared.

The Naga. Once bound by ancient sorcery to guard the divine, they linger now between myth and earth. To those who call upon them, they are guardians of the river and soil, spirits who bend their strength towards human need. Their forms are ever-shifting, faces carved with human grace, crowned by the flaring hoods of serpents, sometimes with one gaze, sometimes with many. They are feared, revered, and never forgotten, for where the gods remain distant, the Naga still watch. That is when the naga stirred, bowing its many heads as the chant seemed to cross the threshold of heaven. 

Ahma's words echoed in my mind.

‘Oh!’ I gasped, looking down to find a soft head rubbing against my ankle. My eyes met with a familiar black shadow; the fabric of the black heavens came to us in feline form, eyes star-bright, whiskers of spun moonlight. 

‘Jinx! Oh, how I’ve missed you!’ I cried, bending down, scooping the sleek black cat into my arms. 

‘I think she missed you, too,’ Lila said, smiling.

‘She was meowing like crazy last week, looking all sad and miserable.’

‘You know, the other day, that reporter Raymond Sullivan actually tried to ask me about Faye…in the middle of my morning run!’ Lila continued randomly. 

Raymond Sullivan was Fayrun’s most notorious news reporter. He had been trying to expose the girls as witches for months. 

‘I secretly think he’s head over heels for Faye, honestly. It’s not even subtle anymore.’ I replied, placing Jinx down on the floor.

‘Who’s head over heels for me?’ Faye said, eyes wide, as at least ten plates floated behind her, hovering in perfect balance. 

‘Faye, if you needed help holding those, you could’ve just asked!’ Vivian retorted, dripping with sarcasm.

‘Ha. Ha,’ Faye said, her fake laughter crackling, sending the plates behind her dancing lightly as if bewitched by her amusement. 

‘He’s an arsehole that man,’ grumbled Faye, waving her hand, and the plates spun and twirled onto the table like leaves skittering across an autumn night. Her fingers then danced lightly along the edge of the table, reading its energy. With that, she walked with the quiet assurance of one who was strong and at ease in her own magic to the shrine of deities that stood in the dining room. She plucked three incense sticks from their holder, and with a flick of her wrist, they burst into flame in a gentle sigh of yellow fire, the writhing smoke curling up like tiny living things. She took the incense in her hands and began to pray. 

‘I offer these fruits to the gods. May their protection surround all those in this room, now and forever. Ancestors of our craft, I ask you to accept this offering and lend your guidance.’

When she was finished, she placed the incense sticks into a jar filled with rice, holding them upright as if anchoring the prayers she had just offered. She came and sat at the very end of the long table, softly uttering, ‘Namô Tassa Bhagavatô Arahatô Sammâ-Sambuddhassa. Let us feast.’

As the last stick of incense burnt low, the plates, the smoke, and even the shadows seemed to shimmer with life. The Sayavongs were an ordinary family, like me and Ahma. As I watched Jinx slip silently across the table, the smoke curled in impossible shapes. I knew their magic would never be gone.

It was only the beginning.

៚

Namaari is an aspiring short story writer, born and raised in Western Sydney. Proudly rooted in her Asian heritage, she weaves her culture and traditions into every story. She writes to make readers feel, often with her cat Tada nearby. Namaari’s work celebrates the beauty and complexity of life.