“Da, where’s Mum?” I asked outright, as tendrils of fear began to coil around my heart. My father staggered as if hit and bumped against the doorway leading into what I guessed was the kitchen. I reached out to steady him, but he pulled away and ran his bony hand through his unkempt hair. He looked at me thoughtfully. “Sit down, son,” came his thin, stony voice. “I’ve imagined this conversation a thousand times. More. Fancy a cuppa?”
Through the doorway I saw that the kitchen was, if anything, even more filthy than the lounge. Unwashed pots and crockery covered every surface; the tiny cooker was black with burned grease; packages of opened food bore unmistakable signs of having been shared by mice. I felt ill.
“I’ll make it,” I said, and started rolling up my sleeves. Twenty minutes later Da and I were seated in the room’s two armchairs; mine wobbled, and the vinyl seat was held together with silver duct tape. The tea was hot, and that was all I could say for it. I’d run the water in the sink till the rusty hue had gone and scrubbed the kettle and two mugs. That was the best I could do.
I wanted to cry, “What the hell is going on? What’s happened? ” but instead sipped my tea and tried not to grimace. I hadn’t known what to expect—I’d had images, thoughts, but no solid way of knowing what my reunion with my parents would be like. However, this scene, this reality, hadn’t come close to being on the board. “Where’s Mum, Da?” I repeated, since no answer seemed forthcoming. Something deep inside me was afraid I already knew the answer, but there was no way I couldn’t ask it. Da visibly flinched again, as if I had struck him. The hand holding his tea mug trembled almost uncontrollably, and tea splashed over the rim onto the chair’s arm and onto his raggedy brown corduroys.
“Your mum’s dead, son,” he said, not looking at me. I gazed at him unwaveringly as my brain painfully processed the words one by one. They made no sense to me, yet they also made a horrible kind of sense. My mother, Fiona, was dead. In our
coven some people had called her Fiona the Bright because being around her, with her flaming
red hair, was like raising your face to a ray of sun. Da had called her Fiona the Beautiful. Us kids, when we were little and childishly angry, sometimes called her Fiona the Mean. And giving no respectful weight to our words, our anger, she would laugh at us: Fiona the Bright. Da was telling me she was dead, that her body was dead and gone. I had no mother and so no future chance of experiencing a mother’s love, ever again in my life. I couldn’t cry in that house, that horrible, dark, lifeless house, in front of this person who was not the father I had known. Instead, I rose, put down my tea, and staggered out the door to my car. I climbed in, coatless, and stayed out there until I was half frozen and my tears were under control. It was a long time, and Da didn’t come after me. When I went back in, Da was in exactly the same place I had left him, his cold, undrunk tea by his hand. I sat down again and shoved my hair off my forehead and said, "How? Why?” He looked at me with sympathy, knowing all too well what I was feeling. “Fiona had battled ill health for years— since right after we left. Year after year we went from place to place, searching for safety. Sometimes she would do a little better, mostly she did worse. In Mexico, seven years ago, we had another close call with the dark wave—you know what that is?” I nodded. As a Seeker, I had all too much experience with the dark wave. “And after that it was pretty much downhill.” He paused, and I stayed silent. “Your mother was so beautiful, Gìomanach,” he said softly. “She was beautiful, but more than that, she was good, truly good, in a way few witches are. She was light itself, goodness itself. Do you remember what she looked like?” His eyes on me, suddenly sharp. I nodded again, not trusting myself to speak. “She didn’t look like that anymore,” he said abruptly. “It was impossible for her not to be beautiful, but every year that passed took its toll on her. Her hair was white, white as a cloud, when she died. She was thin, too thin, and her skin was like . . . like paper, like fine paper: just as thin, just as white, as brittle.” He shrugged, his shoulders pointed beneath his threadbare flannel shirt. “I thought she would die when we found out about Linden.” My head jerked up. “You know?”
Da nodded slowly, as if acknowledging it created fresh waves of pain that he could hardly bear. “We knew. I thought that would kill her. But it didn’t—not quite. Anyway. This past winter was hard. I knew the end was coming, and so did she. She was tired, so tired, Gìomanach. She didn’t want to try anymore.” His voice broke, and I winced. “Right before Yule she gave up. Gave me one last beautiful smile and slipped away, away from the pain, the fear.” His head dropped nearly to his chest; he was trying to not cry in front of me. I was upset, angry, devastated—not just at the news of my mother’s death, but at the haggard condition of this man who appeared to be my father. Tense with inaction, I jumped up and began throwing open curtains, opening shutters. Pale, watery wintry sunlight seemed to consider streaming in, then decide against it as too much trouble. What light did enter only illuminated the pitiable condition of the house. I could see now why Da kept it dark. This wreck of a man, this shell with his caved-in chest, his head bowed in pain and defeat, this was my da! This was the man whose anger I had feared! Whose love I had craved, whose approval I had worked for. He seemed pathetic, heartbreaking. I could only imagine what he had been going through, and going through alone, all this time. Had my mother’s death done this to him? Had Amyranth? Had years of running done it? I sank back into my chair in frustration. Two months my mother had been dead. Two months. She had died just before Yule, a Yule I had celebrated back in Widow’s Vale, with Kithic. If I had come here before Yule, I would have seen
my mother alive.
“What about since then?” I asked. “What have you been doing since then?” He looked up, seeming bewildered at my words. “Since then?” He looked around the room as if the answer was contained there. “Since then?” Oh, this was bad. Why had he agreed to talk to the council? What was the point in all this? Maybe Da knew what bad shape he was in. Maybe he was hoping for help. He was my father. And he had the answers to a thousand questions I’d had since I was eight years old. I tried again. “Da, what made you and Mum leave in the first place? How could you—how could you leave us behind?” My voice cracked and splintered—this was the question that had tormented me for more than half my life. How many times had I cried it aloud? How many times had I shouted it, screamed it, whispered it? Now here was the one person who could answer it, or so I hoped. Mum no longer could. Da’s eyes, once deep brown, now looked like dim pools of brackish water. They focused on me with surprising sharpness, as if he had just realized I was there.
When he didn’t answer, I went on, the questions spilling out like an unchecked river—once started, impossible to stop. “Why didn’t you contact me before Mum died? How did you know Linden died? How could you not have contacted us when each of us was initiated?” With each question my father’s head sank lower and lower. He made no reply, and I realized with frustration that I would get no answers, at least not today. My stomach rumbled with alarming fierceness, and I remembered I had eaten nothing since that morning. It was now five o’clock, and dark.
“Come on, Da, let’s get something to eat. We could both use it.” Without waiting for a reply, I went into the kitchen and began opening cupboards. I found a tin of tomatoes, a tin of sardines, and some half-eaten, stale crackers. The refrigerator offered no joy, either: nothing but a lone turnip, whose shriveled, lonely form increased my confusion, my concern. Why was there no food in the house? What had he been eating? Who the hell eatsturnips? I went back out to the living room, seeing again how thin Da was, how fragile he seemed. Well, I was here, and I was the only son he had left, and I would take care of him. “On second thought, let’s go out. I saw a diner in town. Come on, my treat.” Turloch-eigh
“Sorcier.”
My head jerked at the French word, so casually spoken, as a man walked past Da and me. We were in the town proper of Saint Jérôme du Lac, which was basically one street, n
o stoplight. One petrol station. But at least there were sidewalks and some small shops that had a quaint, frontiersy charm. I had parked my car not far from the town’s only diner, which was right next to the town’s only grocer. It was dark and colder than an ice cave. I pulled my coat tighter around my neck and wondered that my father didn’t get knocked over by the stiff breeze. And then I’d heard it:“Sorcier.”Witch. I know the wordwitchin at least seventeen different languages: useful for a Seeker.Brujain Spanish.Hexein German. Italians call usstrega.Polish people saywiedzma.In Dutch, I listen fortoverheks.Once in Russia I had old potatoes thrown at me while kids yelled,“Koldunya!”Long story. In Hungary one saysboszorkány.And in French Canada one says,“Sorcier.”
But why anyone from the town would identify my father as a witch was still a mystery. I resolved to ask him about it later, after we ate. Two more people greeted Da as we went into the diner. He acknowledged them with a bob of his head, an embarrassed nod. I scanned them with my senses: they were just townspeople.
I, for one, felt better after a dinner of sausage, potatoes, canned green beans, and four thick slices of a rough brown bread that was incredible. I felt self-conscious, sitting with Da; I felt eyes on me, speculation. Da introduced me to no one, never said my name aloud, and I wondered if he was being careful or if he had forgotten who I was. “Eat that,” I encouraged him, gesturing at his plate with my fork. “I paid good money for it.” He gave me a slight, wan smile, and I found myself hungrily looking for a trace of his old, broad grin. I didn’t see it.
“Your mother would be amazed to see my appetite so small,” he said, forcing a laugh that sounded more like a cough. “She used to tease me about being able to eat for three.” “I remember,” I said.
Da picked his way through his meal and left so much on his plate that I was forced to finish it for him. He did seem a little less shaky afterward, though. I bet he would be a hundred percent better after I got a couple more good meals into him. Luckily the grocer’s was still open after dinner. I bought a cabbage, some potatoes, some apples. Da, not even pretending to take an interest, sank down into a rocking chair near the door, his head on his chest, while I shopped. I bought meat—missing the somewhat intimidating sterile American packaging—chicken, fresh fish, and staples: flour, rice, sugar, coffee, tea. Inspired, I bought laundry detergent, other cleaning supplies. I paid for everything, collected my dim ghost of a father, and loaded groceries and Da into the car.
By the time we got back down the road to the cabin, Da was a waxy shade of gray. Worriedly I helped him into the dark house, felt unsuccessfully for a light switch, gave up, and used witch sight to lead him to a tiny, bleak, horrid bedroom—the only one in the house. It was about the size of a walk-in freezer and had about as much charm. The walls were unpainted pine planks spotted with black, age-old sap. The rusty iron bed, like the furniture in the living room, looked like it had been saved from a garbage heap. Unwashed clothes were piled in small heaps on the floor. Next to the bed was a small, rickety table, covered with candles, dust, and old cups of tea. Da sank down onto dingy sheets and rested his arm across his eyes. “Da—are you ill?” I asked, suddenly wondering if he had cancer or a death spell on him or something else. “Can I get you something? Tea?” “No, lad,” came his reedy voice. “Just tired. Leave me be; I’ll be fine in the morning.”
I doubted that but awkwardly pulled a thin coverlet over him and went out into the lounge. I still
couldn’t find a light switch but brought in the groceries, lit some candles, and looked around. The cabin was freezing. As cold as outside. Shivering, I searched for a thermostat. Ten minutes later I came to the sinking realization that there was no thermostat because the cabin had no electricity.
Smothering a curse, I lit more candles. How had Da managed to live like this for any length of time? No wonder he looked so bad. I’d thought all the candles and lanterns had been witch gear—but they were his only light sources as well. There was a fireplace with some handfuls of pale ashes scattered on its hearth. Of course there was no firewood inside—that would be too easy! I pulled on my coat and tramped around in the snow outside. I found some firewood, wet with snow. Inside I kindled a fire, and the flames leaped upward, the damp wood sizzling. Instantly the room seemed cheerier, more inviting. The fireplace was small but threw back an impressive heat into the frigid room. Da was sleeping, and I was bone tired but filled with a frenetic energy that wouldn’t admit to fear. I had been on the road since morning; it had been a long, strange, awful, sad day. I was in a cabin in the backwoods of Canada with my unrecognizable, broken father. I heard wolves in the distance, thought of Morgan, and missed her with such a powerful ache that I felt my throat close. I wanted to sit down in one of the vinyl recliners and weep again but knew that if I started, I wouldn’t stop. So instead I rolled up my sleeves and went into the kitchen. At midnight I sank down onto a couch I hadn’t even realized was there because it had been covered with litter. I pulled an ancient, ugly crocheted afghan over me and closed my eyes, trying to ignore the hot tears that burned my cheeks. In the morning I was awakened by the sounds of my father shuffling out of his room. He walked through the lounge without noticing me on the couch, then stopped in the kitchen doorway. I waited for his response. Last night, after thanking the Goddess for the propane-run refrigerator, stove, and hot water heater, I had done a major clean of the kitchen. Da stood there, and then he seemed to remember that if the kitchen looked like this, someone else must be in the cabin, and he looked for me. I sat up, swinging my long legs over the side of the couch. “Morning, Da,” I said, standing and stretching. He managed a smile. “I’d almost forgotten you were here. It’s been too long since someone said good morning to me,” he said wistfully. He gestured at the kitchen. “You do all this?” “Aye.”
“Ta. I just haven’t been up to much lately—I know I let the place get into a mess.” Then he went into the kitchen and sat down at the table, and suddenly I remembered how he used to do that in the morning, just come in and sit down, and Mum would make him a cup of tea. Grateful for any reminder of the old days, I filled the kettle with water and set it on the stove. I fixed him tea and toast with butter, which he managed to eat a little bit of. For myself I fried eggs and some rashers of bacon: fuel for the day’s labor ahead. I sat down across from Da and tucked in. I still had a thousand questions; he was still the only man who could answer them. I would have to choose my time.
After breakfast I set him to work, helping me clean the rest of the house. While I was piling papers and things neatly on the desk so I could wipe the surface, I couldn’t help noticing letters from people, crude notes written in broken languages, handwritten thank-you notes in English and French, praising my da, praising his skill as asorcier.With shock I realized that Daniel Niall, Woodbane, formerly of Turloch-eigh, son of Brónagh Niall, high priestess of Turloch-eigh, was basically the local medicine man, the village witch. I couldn’t believe it. Surely this was
incredibly dangerous. As far as I knew, Da hadn’t worked real magick for years because it would
be one way for Amyranth to trace him. Was it now safe? Why, and how? Burning with questions, I went to find Da and sighed when I found him asleep again, on the bare mattress in his room. It had only been about an hour since I’d started him on the candles and lanterns. Well, sleep was probably good for him. Sleep and food and someone looking out for him.
In the meantime, I couldn’t just sit around this place. I felt a need to get out, breathe fresh air. In the end I made Da a sandwich and left it covered on the kitchen table. Then I bundled up every piece of cloth in the place, threw it into the boot of my car, and headed for the laundromat in town.
“What do you do with your trash?” I asked Da at dinner. There was quite a mound of black plastic trash bags in the front yard. Sadly, they actually didn’t make the yard look that much worse.
He looked up from his boiled potato. “Take it to the dump, outside town.” I groaned silently. Great. Now I??
?d have to haul it all in my car. After we ate for a few more minutes, I said, “Da, all I know is what Uncle Beck told me, what I’ve heard whispers of from other people through the years. But now I’m here, across from you, and you’ve got the answers. I need to know: Why did you and Mum leave us? Why did you disappear? And why is it now all right for me to know where you are?”
He didn’t look at me. His bony fingers plucked restlessly at the cuff of the clean flannel shirt I had given him to put on. “It’s ancient history, lad,” he said in a voice like a dry leaf. “It was probably all a mistake. Won’t bring your mother back, anyway.” A spasm of pain crossed his face.
“I know it won’t bring Mum back,” I said. I took a swig of beer, watching him across the table as though he might disappear in a puff of smoke to avoid my questions. “That doesn’t mean I shouldn’t know the answers. Look, Da, I’ve waited eleven years. You took my life apart when you left, and Linden’s, and Alwyn’s. Now I need to know. Why did you and Mum leave?” Though I’m only nineteen, I’m a Seeker. Which means I make my living by asking people questions. I’ve grown used to waiting for answers, asking over and over until I find out what I want to know. I’m very good at my job, so I said again, very gently, “Why did you and Mum leave? It’s almost unheard of for a coven to split up if trouble’s coming.” Da shifted in his seat. He held his fork and patted a piece of cabbage on his plate, pushing it this way and that. I waited. I can be very patient. “I don’t want to talk about it,” he said at last. His eyes flicked up at mine, and I noticed again how their color had faded, had clouded. But there was a hint of sharpness in his gaze, and in an instant I knew that my father still had some kind of power and that I needed to remember that. “But you always were like a bulldog—once you got your teeth in something, you didn’t let it go. You were like that as a lad.”