Full circle
Cate Tiernan
1
Morgan
Goddess, how did I get here?
I'm barefoot on a narrow, rocky shore, and the sharp pebbles are biting into the bottoms of my feet. I stumble left and right, struggling to walk. The wind picks up, blowing hard, tangling my hair around my face so that it's almost impossible to see. The air smells faintly of brackish water, algae, and fish.
Where am I? How did I get here?
I realize that I'm afraid. I'm incredibly afraid of being here. Every cell in my body is begging to leave this beach. I could take off into the lake or head into the woods that border the water. Anything to get off this rocky shore, where I feel so vulnerable, so alone. Where am I? What lake is this? It's completely unfamiliar. I glance over at the woods, and then a dark shadow appears over me.
Cold. Black. And getting bigger.
My whole body goes rigid. Everything in me knows that this shadow means danger. Looking up, I'm shocked at how close it is, and I reflexively crouch down on the stony shore. Now I can see its source: a huge, dark-feathered hawk, flying just overhead, its vicious, golden eyes glowering. Who are you? my mind screams. What do you want with me? But the hawk has caught sight of something else.
As I watch, consumed with panic, the raptor tucks its wings to its sides and shoots down like an arrow. Ten feet above the water it swings powerful legs forward and slashes at the choppy surface with curved razor claws. A moment later it spreads its wide, dark wings and beats the air, bringing itself upward slowly at first and then with increasing speed. In its talons a large, speckled rainbow trout is twisting frantically, arching back like a bow in an attempt to drop free. As the hawk surges upward, soon to become a small spot against the sky, I see the fish's eyes go blank with death.
The fear I feel is overwhelming, even though the hawk is gone. My whole body feels shaky, numb, as though I had just avoided death myself. Without understanding it, I know the hawk was after me. Is after me.
I have to get off this beach!
I run for the trees, the pebbles flaying my feet. Soon I'm limping, stumbling, looking back over my shoulder, desperate to make the line of trees before the hawk returns. Then, just as quickly as the hawk appeared, I'm at the entrance to the woods, and I plunge into darkness. It's cooler. It takes a minute for my eyes to adjust to the shaded light. The ground is covered with pine needles, ground-hugging vines, weathered bits of leaves, all dry and crackly. I look around but can't see any kind of path, any destination. There's a fallen log nearby, and on it is a cluster of pale, spindly mushrooms sprouting up like a tiny Dr. Seuss forest. Large black ants swarm over the log, moving fast in a wavering line.
Oh, Goddess, where am I? Without knowing that, I feel so alone and scared. What woods are these? One thing is clear: I have to find my way out. I'll have to make my own path. A quick glance finds a slightly less overgrown section, and I head for it. I hold slim branches aside as I pass through, heading deeper into the woods.
Then I stand quit and unmoving in the woods and realize that all of my senses are prickling. Magick. There is magick here. More than the constant low hum of energy that most blood witches pick up on and then ignore as background noise. This is magick being worked, being created, brought into being by design and effort and thought. My skin us tingling, my breathing faster.
Closing my eyes, I cast out my senses, searching for the magick's source. I concentrate, slow my heartbeat, remain perfectly still...there. My eyes pop open and automatically search ahead of me
at eleven o'clock, north and slightly west. I ease my way through closely grown trees, step over fallen logs and thigh-high vines blocking the way. I get ever closer to that elusive, irresistible vibration, the vibration of a blood witch pulling power out of air. Now the woods' smell of humus, dry bark, fungus, and insects is overlain with crisscrossing ribbons of smoke from burning herbs. Somehow I know, without a doubt, that a powerful blood witch is working this magick, and that she is a stranger to me, and that I could learn from her. My fingers begin to itch with anticipation-what can she teach me? What can I show her of my powers? My chest fills with both pride and uncertainty: I know I am strong, unusually strong, and have impressed witches much more educated than I. I also know that my successes are sometimes flukes-that my abilities are unpredictable because I am untrained, uninitiated.
I can feel it now, magick threading through the trees like a scent. These vibrations are strange to me-is this good magick being worked? What if it's not? For a moment I hesitate. What if...But I press on. Just ahead of me the greenish light filtering through the trees' crowns grows brighter: there's a clearing ahead. I swallow and try to press forward, crashing clumsily through the trees and bushes, slapping the vines aside. This is it-soon, soon I will see the magick worker. I will compare myself to her-she will be more trained and more knowledgeable, but I will be stronger. My throat is tight with excitement. Soon, soon, just another step... and then my foot catches on a tree root, throwing me off balance.
As I feel myself falling, my muscles tense and I fling out my arms. My wrist hits something hard with a startling smack. Wild-eyed, I jerk to a sitting position, not able to make sense of what I am seeing. Did I faint? Did the witch put some kind of spell on me?
No. I was in my bedroom, at home. It was quite dark-not yet dawn, it seemed. My bed felt soft and weirdly smooth beneath me since I was expecting the crunchy edges of leaves and twigs. Blinking, I looked around. It had been a dream.
My heart was still racing. In the strange half-light of my bedroom I could still see the hawk above me, still see the glint of its razor- sharp claws as it grabbed the fish. I pushed my damp hair off my face and reassured myself that none of that was real, that everything in my room was just as I had left it the night before. Of course it was. It had just been a dream, that's all. An incredibly realistic, visceral, strong dream.
Slowly I lay back down and flipped my pillow over to the cooler side. I lay blinking up at my ceiling, then glanced at my clock. 5:27. I never wake up that early. It was Saturday. No school. I could go back to sleep for hours if I wanted to. I tried to calm down, but I still felt anxious and headachy. I closed my eyes and deliberately relaxed, willing myself to release all tension and enter into a light
meditation. Very quietly I whispered, "Everything is fine and bright. Day must follow every night. My power keeps me safe from harm. The Goddess holds me In her arms."
It was a simple soothing spell, something to help me banish the leftover weirdness from my dream. It hadn't been a nightmare, exactly-not all of it. But strange, with some frightening parts that I could hardly remember anymore.
When I opened my eyes again, I felt better, calmer. All the same, I wasn't able to fall back asleep. Instead, I lay on my bed and watched as my room slowly filled with the ever-brightening pink glow of dawn. By six it was definitely light out, and I heard birds chattering and the sounds of the occasional car going by our house. Though my eyes drifted shut, I didn't sleep until I heard my parents get up around seven-thirty. The sounds of them going downstairs, talking softly, the rush of water as Mom filled the coffeemaker-it was the lullaby that finally eased me back to sleep. I had no more dreams and didn't reawaken for another two hours. I heard my younger sister, Mary K., turning on the shower in the bathroom we shared, and I smiled as she started singing a song that had been all over the radio lately.
Everything is fine, I told myself, stretching and yawning loudly. My family was all around me. I was safe in my bed. Later on I would see Hunter, and as usual, just the thought of my boyfriend-his short, white-blond hair, his fathomless green eyes, his intensely attractive English accent-made me shiver pleasantly. Everything was calm and normal, an incredibly nice change when I considered what th
e past several weeks had been like.
Everything was okay. I was Morgan Rowlands, a blood witch of the Woodbane clan. Tonight I would meet with my coven for our regular Saturday night circle. But now I was going to go downstairs and see if we had any Pop-Tarts.
2
Hunter
"Right," I said. "But why you would use the second form of limitations here? This spell is all about place, about where you are, where you want the spell to ignite."
My da nodded. "Aye. But what's its purpose?"
"To make a barrier that would stop something or slow it down," I replied. It was Saturday morning, and Da and I each had about an hour before we had to leave: me for my part-time job at Practical Magick, one of the few very good occult bookstores nearby, and Da for a lecture in a town two hours away. Ever since he had crafted the spell that dismantled a dark wave, he'd been in high demand as a speaker at coven meetings. Witches everywhere were eager to know how to dispel this massive threat, and Da seemed happy to teach them.
Right now, he was teaching me.
"You're right there," said Da. "But is the place in which you set the spell its most important aspect?"
"Of course," I said. "If you set this barrier in the wrong place, it's useless."
Da gave me his even look, the one that made me feel like I was particularly slow-witted. He was an incredibly gifted spellcrafter, and I was lucky to have the chance to learn from him. As a Seeker, I had been well trained in many areas but had gotten only the most basic training in spellcraft.
What was he was getting at? I waited, telling myself to stay calm, not to get my hackles up. It wasn't easy: Da and I had had a lot to argue about in the past few months.
"What level of a starr is this?" Da asked, flipping though his Book of Shadows, hardly paying attention.
"What level? This is a...a..." Oh, bloody hell! My brain screamed, recognizing too late the trap I had fallen into. Damn! I hate it when I do something stupid. Especially, most especially, in front of my father. I tried to keep burning embarrassment from reddening my face. I had two conflicting feelings: humiliation, over making a mistake in front of my father, and annoyance, about the lecture I knew I was about to receive.
But to my surprise he said, "It's not easy, lad. You could study spellcraft for years and still make mistakes like that. And who knows? There could conceivably be a situation where the exact location of a starr is more important than its strength."
I nodded, surprised at this unprecedented display of mercy. "Mum was a great spellcrafter, wasn't she?" I asked the question gently, still feeling the pain myself and knowing how heavily my mother's death, only four months before, had affected my father.
Da's eyes instantly narrowed, as if he had suddenly stepped into sunlight. I saw his jaw muscles tighten, then relax. "Yes," he said, sounding older than he had a moment ago. "She was that." A wistful half smile crossed his face for a moment. "Watching your mother craft spells was like watching a master wood-carver cut complicated figures out of a simple block of wood. It was an amazing thing. My parents and teachers taught me the Woodbane basics when I was a lad, but it was your mother, with her thousand-year Wyndenkell heritage, who taught me the beauty of pure spellcraft."
"I would like to become a master spellcrafter someday," l said. "Like Mum."
Da gave me one of his rare smiles, and it transformed his thin, ravaged face into that of the father I had known so long ago. "That would be a worthy gift, son," he said. "But you have a lot of work ahead of you."
"l know," I said, sighing. I glanced over at the clock and saw that I had about half an hour till I had to leave. It would be midafternoon in England. I had a phone call to make. "Ah, I think I'll ring Kennet
now, while I have the chance," I said offhandedly.
The truth was, I was dreading this phone call. A few weeks ago, following our battle with the dark wave, I had decided that I was quiting my position as a Seeker for the International Council of
Witches. At seventeen I had become the youngest Seeker in history, and for a time I'd had complete faith in the ICOW's judgement. I had taken great pride in my work, in making the world a safer place for good witches. But that was before the council has failed me in several key areas: neglecting to tell me that they'd found my parents, for one, a decision that resulted in my mum dying before I had the chance to see her and say good-bye. Also, they has failed to warn Morgan and me that her father, Ciaran MacEwan, the leader of a dark coven called Amyranth, had escaped from captivity and might be coming to Widow's Vale to harm us (or to send the dark wave after us, as turned out to be the case).
Da was quiet for a moment. I knew he had reservations about my quitting the council, but I also knew that I couldn't continue serving a system I no longer trusted. Kennet Muir had once been my mentor and my friend, but he wasn't any longer as far as I was concerned. "Are you quite sure?" Da asked.
"Yes."
"It's not too late to change your mind, you know," he said. "Working at Practical Magick is fine for now, but in the long run, you'll be hurting for a career with more fulfillment. Even if you Bo longer want to be a Seeker, surely you could find something to challenge you a bit more. I just hope you've thought this through."
"I know, Da. And I have. I just need some time to figure out what the right new career is." Nobody was more frustrated by my lack of direction than I, but you can't spend years dedicated to being a good Seeker and then find something just as fulfilling overnight.
"Perhaps I could help you," Da said, organizing the books we had been using for reference into a clean stack. "I do speak to a wide variety of witches in my spellcrafting lectures. Perhaps one of them..."
"No, Da." I shook my head and tried to give him a reasuring smile. "I'll be fine. Just need dome time."
He looked like he wanted to say more, but then he nodded and headed to the kitchen. I heard the tap turn on and the sound of water filling the kettle. I fetched Kennet's number and dialed it quickly, before I lost my nerve, even though I knew it was going to cost a fortune, calling England in the middle of the day. After five rings Kennet's voice-mail system picked up. I grimaced and left a brief message, giving him my mobile number and the number at Practical Magick.
Soon Da headed off to his lecture, not sure if he would be back that night, and I set off for Practical Magick. It was in Red Kill, about twenty minutes north of Widows's Vale, the town in midstate New York where I lived. As I drove, I thought about what Da had said. It was funny. For the last eleven years of my life I'd had no father. Now, at the age of nineteen, I had to get used to having a da to take an interest in me. But he was right about one thing: I did need a new life plan. All around me everyone had a purpose, goals-except me.
The doorbell jingled lightly when I entered Practical Magick. Its owner, Alyce Fernbrake, smiled a greeting at me as she rang up a purchase for a customer. I smiled and waved, then headed through a new doorway that had been cut into the right-hand wall of the store. The room next door was divided in two: a larger room that would stock store items and books, and a smaller room in back that people would be able to use privately. It was in this room that I worked, imbuing objects with low-level magickal properties.
For example, I might spell a small bottle of evening primrose oil so that it would be even more effective in easing menstrual cramps. Or I might spell different candles to increase their individual auras, make them more effective on rites or meditation. Alyce kept a small supply of spelled objects in a locked cupboard in the back room, to be bought and used only by witches she trusted. They didn't have to be blood witches, but she had to know them and be sure these things would be used only in the way they were intended.
For the first couple of days this had been amusing, even relaxing work. It allowed me to trot out all my basic second-year spells, brush up on my technique, my focus, and in general stay in tune with
magickal energy. But now I was growing bored and restless. I still enjoyed being at Practical Magick, working with Alyce, bu
t the repetition, the predictability of this job was starting to make me impatient. Da was right-I needed to find a vocation that would challenge me.
I was putting a light worry-not spell on a pale blue candle when my mobile rang, making me jump. I yanked it out of my pocket, then checked the number. It was Kennet, calling me back. I took a deep breath and answered it.
"Kennet. Thanks for calling me back."
"Hunter, how are you? No problems there, I hope?"
Not in the last week, I thought. It seemed that ever since I'd come to Widow's Vale, my life had been a roller coaster of huge events-not the least of which was meeting Morgan Rowlands, who's-well, she's more than my girlfriend. She's my mùirn beatha dàn-my soul mate.
I decided to dive in. "Kennet-you've had trust in me and put enormous effort into my training, and I've always appreciated it. I hope I've never let you down." Like you've let me down, I added silently. "Why do I feel you're about to?" he asked.
I took a deep breath. "I've decided to leave the council," I said. "I can't be a Seeker anymore."
There was silence on his end. I waited.
"I know you've been growing more and more dissatisfied, Gìomanach," he said, using my coven name. "And I know you were very upset at how the council handled telling you about your parents."
To put it mildly. Just thinking about it made my body tense. "Certainly that's part of it," I said, feeling anger rise up in my chest. "But there have been other problems, Kennet, other disappointments." I let my words hang there in the air for a moment. "The truth is, I feel I can't continue with the council in good faith. Not when I don't believe in it."
More silence. "Gìomanach, you know it's almost unheard of for anyone to quit the council, especially a Seeker." his voice was soft, but I sensed some anger behind his words.
"I know," I said. "But I have no choice. So I'm telling you officially-I'm leaving. I can't accept any more assignments. I'm sorry."
"How about a leave of absence?" Kennet asked carefully. "I could certainly okay that."