“G5?”
“Great-great-great-great-grandmother. That’s her relationship so Brigid, so it would be the same to you. It’s her ghost that they’re talking about.” Ghosts. Uh-huh. What next? Did they have vampires in the cellar? Unicorns in the yard? “You’re telling me that ghosts are real?” I said incredulously. “I’m still getting used to witches.” “She’s an energy,” he explained, popping the wrapper off a straw. “A force. She’s been around for years, causing all kinds of little problems. She used to swat things off tables, break an occasional window, rip the curtains. That sort of thing. Now objects aren’t just moving or breaking---they seem to be attacking people.” “Attacking people? “ Huh. The good part of this story was that it didn’t sound like I was the one responsible for what had happened to Sam. At least, I didn’t think so. The bad part was that I seemed to be walking into another series of scary situations. The fun never stopped. “The story goes like this,” he explained. “Oona’s husband, your G5 grandfather, and their two sons died in a flu epidemic in the mid- to late 1800s. Oona lost her mind. It’s bad when anyone loses his or her mind, but when it happens to a witch, it’s really bad. If the person can’t be healed, the person’s coven will perform a reining spell to protect everyone, including the afflicted. In really bad cases, the person will be stripped of power. That’s a horrible process. Máirin, her daughter, must not have been able to stand the thought of her mother going through it, so she tried to keep the illness hidden. It was a huge mistake. Oona ended up committing suicide.”
“Oh my God,” I said.
“No one knows what spells Oona cast after she lost her mind,” he continued, “but it seemed that one of them must have ended up lodging her energy in the house. Máirin describes all kinds of problems that started the minute Oona died.” “How do you know all of this?” I asked, feeling the hairs on my neck starting to rise. “Aunt Evelyn found Máirin’s Book of Shadows years ago,” said Brigid, crushing a packet of crackers into her soup. “But it disappeared from her room a day later. Maybe Oona took it” “From what Evelyn’s said,” Charlie chimed in, “there were problems when Evelyn was a child. Then they quieted down for years and started again... in the, um, early seventies. After the other family problems.”
He was saying that they had started around the time my mother left home. During an awkward pause that followed, the waitress brought our food. I had to admit that though the menu was a bit much, the chowder was amazing.
“What happened after my mother left?” I asked, taking a big spoonful and nodding for Charlie to continue.
“It was bad at first, I think,” Charlie answered, reaching for the bowl of crackers, “I think there was a small fire and definitely some broken windows. Then the problem quieted down again. I
think it only popped up occasionally during the late seventies and eighties. But in the last few
months it’s gone off the charts. One of the walls developed a crack. Some banisters tumbled down from the widow’s walk. Two weeks ago the gas line to the over was punctured when Brigid was alone in the house. It could have been really serious, but fortunately she smelled the gas and got out.”
“We’ve done just about every kind of spell we can think of,” Brigid added. “Now Mom’s even trying to talk Aunt Evelyn into selling the house. But Aunt Evelyn won’t do that. We’ve owned the house for over a hundred years, and she’s way too stubborn to give up trying to solve the problem. She’s sure that with our combined powers, we can do it. Oh, but...” She looked at my with what I thought was slightly exaggerated pity. “You wouldn’t know anything about that. You don’t have any powers.”
It wasn’t a bad assumption since I shouldn’t had had any powers. It just turned out that I did. I could have told her, but somehow, “I just squashed a dark wave” wasn’t going to slide right into the conversation.
“It must be terrible for you,” Brigid went on. “How long have you known that your mom was a witch?”
“Just a couple of weeks,” I said, dragging into my chowder. “I joined a coven, and then I found out later. It was a surprise.”
“Well,” she said, “I think it’s great that you’ve decided to join a coven. I mean, considering that you can’t do what we can do. But even though you’re not a real witch, you can definitely be a part of Wicca. It’s open to everyone.”
Charlie started rocking his spoon on the table and stared at the wall next to us. I don’t think he liked the patronizing tone that Brigid was using but didn’t really want to intervene. “I’ll show you something, Alisa,” she said. “Want to see me work with the rhythm of the waves?” “Brig,” Charlie said, his eyebrows shooting up, “Are you, um...” “Don’t worry,” she said. “This is a new spell I’ve worked out. Sending the energy out to the water. It’s really mild version of a return-to-me spell. I’d just like to show Alisa some magick. She’s probably never seen any.”
Since I’d just been through enough terrifying magickal phenomena to last a life time, it was all I could do not to laugh out loud. And considering that my uncle had accidentally killed several people while trying to help with the rain, this seemed like the worst kind of arrogant, foolish magick in the world. A party trick using the ocean? I wasn’t a trained witch, but I had enough sense to know that this was a bad, bad idea. Charlie blanched. Apparently he didn’t think much of the idea, either. Hunter had taught me a few basic deflections while I was learning the dark wave spell. I tried to find them in my memory, where they were stuck together. Nal nithrac, tar ais di cair na, clab saoil... which were the right words? It was as if I was grabbing at hundreds of jars of exotic
unmarked spices, each tantalizing and overwhelmingly pungent, and trying to figure out how to best combine them.
Suddenly I heard Morgan’s voice somewhere in my mind, just as I had when we’d joined our minds, giving me words to a spell I’d never heard before. They ran through my head, like an old song: Sguir bhur ire, cunnartach sgeò, car fàilidh, agus eirmis tèarante sgot. I had no idea what the words meant, but I understood how they worked. I was to look for a safe place to redirect the energy that Brigid was sending to the waves. I happened to be looking at the salt, so I put it there.
The saltshaker began to bounce. Brigid, who had been focusing on the waves lapping at the seawall outside the window, looked down at the noise. The shaker wobbles down the table and the floor. From there it rolled unsteadily to the wall near the window and stopped, unable to go any further.
When I looked up, Charlie’s amber eyes met mine and didn’t flinch. His expression was unreadable, not unfriendly but definitely serious. I felt a wave of electricity ripple through me, giving me goose pimples. He had power, lots of it, and he was sending some of it my way, casting out his senses like Morgan and Hunter had. I suddenly felt very self-conscious. Within a second the event had passed. Brigid was flushed with embarrassment. “Well, that didn’t work right,” she said.
“It was fine,” Charlie said graciously. “The salt was trying to reconnect with the seawater---it
was affected because it was lighter and closer to you. Working with the ocean is tricky.” “It was good,” I nodded in agreement. “It was cool.” Anything to make her stop. Brigid started moving everything on her place mat around, seeming uncomfortable. Conveniently her cell phone rang. I wondered if she’d manage to spell it, too. “Damn,” she said, hanging up after a quick conversation. “That was Karen, my boss. She needs me at the shop. Sorry, Alisa. I guess I can’t show you around after all. Can you do it Charlie?”
“Sure,” he smiled at me. “I’m off today.” “Good,” Brigid said, stuffing her phone back into her purse. “Alisa is coming back for dinner, six o ‘clock.”
“Is this okay with you?” he asked, pulling out his keys. “Sure,” I said, hoping I didn’t sound too eager. “Let’s go.” 10. Charlie
June 23, I woke up this morning to the sound of a great tearing. When I opened my eyes, I saw that Oona had torn the front of my bridal robe---right fro
m the collar down to within six inches of the bottom hem. My beautiful robe!
I couldn’t help myself. I started weeping uncontrollably. Mother ran upstairs and came right into my room. I felt so hopeless, but she knew just what to do. She sewed up the great jagged rip with lasting stitch. It looked like a Frankenstein robe, with ugly scars. Then she put me in a hot bath filled with rosemary and lavender and instructed me to stay there for one hour, repeating the wedding day blessing. When I emerged and returned to my room, the gown was as good as new. In fact, it looked more beautiful than before. Mother had cast a glamour that concealed the tear. I am ready now, and we will be leaving soon. There is no more time for me to write .
---Aoibheann
I instantly figured out which car was Charlie’s. It was a small green Volkswagen, obviously a few years old. There was a near like of stickers on the back for different Irish and Celtic bands, including the Fianna. The thing that really gave it away though, was the one that read, 2 + 2 = 5...for Extremely Large Values of 2. I just knew that was his. Don’t ask me why. We drove around the harbor, looking at the fishing boats and the activity on the docks. He told me all about Ròiseal, how they worked a lot with the energy of the sea, and how they often had circles on the beach in the moonlight. He also explained how the coven was set up and how they worked. Because they were all experienced blood witches, they did a lot more complicated things than we did at Kithic circles. I began to wonder if Hunter found it frustrating to work with us. In comparison, running Kithic must be like watching a bunch of kindergartners, trying to make sure they don’t eat the crayons. “We each have a general background in magick,” Charlie explained, "and we each have an area of expertise to help balance out the coven. We're all lifelong students, of course, because we're Rowanwand. This way we split up the burden of studying. Ruth does a lot of healing work. Brigid is being trained to do the same. Evelyn works divination. Kate and James work with defensive and deflective magick."
"What about you?"
"Spellcraft," he said. "How they're written, how they're broken, how they're restricted. My dad works in the same area but on a less practical level than I do. I usually work with everyday
magick. He works with mathematical stuff relating to astronomy, sigil drawing, the Key of
Solomon, things like that---right into the realm of abstract math, where numbers turn into sounds and colors and shapes... really hard stuff, and he also studies some very dark stuff for reference. Academic magick.
He parked the car, and we walked down Western Avenue, along the water, then up into the shopping area. As we walked, I saw that I was passing by many of the places my mother had described in her Book of Shadows. There was the chocolate shop where she used to get chocolate turtles and peanut butter fudge. There was town hall, with the library across the street where Sam had found Harris Stoughton's book. I smelled the delicious aroma coming from Rocconi's Pizzeria on Middle Street, where she used to meet her friends after school. And at the old floral shop on Main Street, the window was filled with lilacs---her favorite flower. It was all so strange, so unreal. I felt so close to her. For the first time in a long while, I missed her with a physical ache.
It began to rain again, catching us completely off guard. It wasn't a warning trickle that lead to a bigger downpour---it was like thousands of buckets had been kicked over at once, sudden and freezing. Charlie grabbed my elbow and steered my down the street through the rain into a nearby coffee bar. We squished up to the counter and surveyed the offerings. When I reached for my purse, Charlie held up his hand. "Please," he said. "It's on me. What do you like?" "Thanks," I said. "Just coffee. Lots of milk and sugar." "Got it," he said.
I snagged a cozy table by the window with two plush seats and sat down to consider the significance of his action. No guy I knew had ever just bought things for me. I didn't even know that many people who where bought things on dates. What was this about? You don't buy coffees for someone you don't like, right? Charlie must like me. Not like me, like me---but he could tolerate me. Or so it seemed.
I occupied myself with this stupid internal dialogue until he came over with two grotesquely large mugs of frothy something and two biscotti wrapped into a napkin. "What are these?" I said, accepting one of the heaping cups with a smile of thanks. "I have no idea," he said, poking suspiciously at the foam, as if he was testing to see if it was alive. "Grande cappufrappes or something. I told them to make something big and steamy, with lots of milk. They gave me these. I'm assuming they are coffees." He held up his foamy stirrer and grimaced theatrically. I had to laugh. We sat at the coffee shop for hours, talking. Usually I'm not great around people I don't know very well. I'm that shy girl, the one who goes through a crisis every time she even has to ask someone where the ladies' room is in a restaurant. So my ease around Charlie was odd. For some reason, I felt like I could talk to him about anything. I loved the way he could be so serious, and then something funny would occur to him, and he'd jump from his seat and lean forward in excitement, his whole face bursting. During one story he became so animated that he knocked the sugar canister off the table three times. "So," I said, continuing our conversation from the walk, "your dad's some kind of genius?" "More or less," he said. "He's a number theorist. He's your classic absentminded professor. Brilliant beyond belief, but he literally forgets himself." "And you ended up finishing high school early? You must be pretty smart yourself." "It's not a big deal," he said, stirring what was left of his coffee. "I did really well, but it was nothing exciting. And my dad's been a really, really good math tutor." "What about your mom?" I asked.
"Oh"--- he shrugged uncomfortably---"she died a few years ago." "Sorry," I said, understanding his reaction. "My mom died, too, and I hate having to explain it to people. They always give you the look. It's kind of sympathetic, but mostly it's really nervous. It's like they think they've torn open an wound, and you're going to start screaming or something."
That's the one," he said, grinning thankfully. "So you spend a lot of time alone, then," I said. "No." He shook his head. "I spend a lot if time with Brigid and her family. I have a standing
invitation to dinner every single night, which is nice."
He put his feet up on the empty chair at our table and leaned back to look at me. "So," he said, "what about you? Your dad doesn't know anything about Wicca at all?" "He knows that it freaks him out," I said. "That's about it. I'm sure he just thinks it's some kind of phase I'm going through. A better-Wicca-than-drugs kind of thing, I guess." "If he doesn't like Wicca, why did he let you come here?" "Um... my dad doesn't exactly know where I am," I confessed. "What does that mean?" he asked, one eyebrow arching. "It means I ran away."
Okay. There. Someone knew. I twirled my biscotti in the dregs of coffee foam as nonchalantly as I could, wondering if Charlie was going to jump up and start yelling for the cops. Instead he exhaled and leaned back into the red velvet seat. "Why?" he asked calmly.
"A lot of reasons. Mostly because things were happening to me---I was having dreams about this place. My mother's Book of Shadows appeared out of nowhere. Sam's letters fell out of a broken box. So I wrote to you, and I made contact. It all felt like it was mean to be." "And, of course, you couldn't tell your dad about any of it." "Right," I said, running my hands through my hair. "There were other reasons, too..." "Like what?"
"I have powers," I said. "They came on all of a sudden and kind of freaked me out." He dropped his feet down to the floor and leaned in to me. "How's that possible?" he said, his eyes glowing with wonder. "Your father's not a witch, and your mother..." He stopped himself and shook his head. "Wow. I'm an ass. I can't believe I just said that. Sorry."
"It's all right," I said, waving my hands dismissively. "I know it's weird. My coven leader's father thinks it might be that since my mother stripped herself of her powers, they were all somehow concentrated in me. I definitely have more than I can handle. They tend to do things on their own. The last thing I did before running away was cause some kind of w
ater explosion in my coven leader's house. We were doing a release spell to get rid of negative emotions, and..." I hung my head. Charlie was so experienced---I was a moron. Still, he was listening attentively, and I knew I could tell him what had happened to me. Again, don't ask me why. "... I almost flooded his house. It was awful. It was the most embarrassing moment of my life, and that's saying something. I started crying, and just couldn't stop." He was quiet for a minute. I couldn't raise my head. I just stared to the table. "Trust me," he said, "I know how difficult and embarrassing it can be when you're first trying to use your power. Everyone screws up. All witches know this." "I can't imagine the people who run my coven screwing up," I replied, envisioning all of the experienced blood witches I knew---Hunter, Sky, Mr. Naill. They were probably born cool, calm, and talented. And sure, Morgan was erratic, but she was also superpowerful, and I'd seen some of the wonders she was capable of when we'd put our minds together. I was just regular and inept.
"They did," he said with conviction. "I promise you. I know I was a master at it." He could see I doubted him.
"I'll give you an example," he offered. "A lot of covens get together to hold circles and lessons for preinitiates. Our assignment one week was a simple nochd. A nochd is a revealing spell. Our teachers would hide something, and we would each use the spell to find it. When I was a kid, I always used to try and prove to everyone how smart I was. I wanted to do the most amazing and complicated nochd in the group. I searched through all of our books for a whole week. I finally found one that was hundreds of years old that I was sure no one else would have. I can still remember it. It was very long and involved. Everyone was impressed. Unfortunately, what I didn't realize is that not all nochds are alike. The term has many meanings, and the spells have many purposes. I wasn't smart enough to figure out that until it was too late."