Seeker - Кейт Тирнан 3 стр.


5. Grief

This morning I woke up, and yes, Hunter was still gone. My heart went thunk, and I thought of the days stretching before me without him, no Hunter to talk to or to see or hold. Gadga and I were pondering this bleak reality when Mom tapped on my door and asked if I was going to church with them. Spontaneously I said yes, knowing that services would take up two hours of Hunterless time and maybe distract me for a while. So I showered and dressed and went downstairs and got sent back upstairs by the parents because I looked like a schlub. I borrowed a dress from Mary K. that fortunately is too long for her.

It started when we stepped outside. At first I thought I was imagining thingsit didnt make sense. But then I thought, Oh, Goddess, and realized that Hunter must have crafted a spell before he left town yesterday.

It was beautiful magick. I had no idea how he had done it, but I knew that he had, and I almost started crying. It was almost everywhere I looked, all morning, in the shapes of the branches, in the plume of smoke from Dads cars exhaust, in the curve of Moms scarf as it lay over her shoulder. Somehow Hunter had woven letters and symbols and runes into almost everything I saw: crossed branches made an H, for Hunter. A crooked line of leaves in the street made an M, for Morgan. I was the rune Kor, for fire and passion, and blushed, remembering Friday night. My heart lightened when I saw Geofw. One of its uses is for strengthening relationships. And in the line of pale gray clouds floating about us I saw Peorth: hidden thing revealed and also female sexuality. Oh, Goddess, I love him so much.

 Morgan

Ive read books where people are struck speechless, and to me it always sounded like they just couldnt think on their feet. The ability to think on my feet has always been one of my strengths, but it deserted me now as I gazed at the man before me.

I knew what my father looked like: Though I had brought no photographs with me to America, I had my memories, and they had always seemed accurate and consistent and full. But they didnt match this person in the doorway. This couldnt be Da. It was an incredibly bad Da imitation, a hollowed-out husk of what once had been my father. My gaze darted restlessly over him, taking in the sparse gray hair, the hollow cheeks with their deep lines, the thin, almost emaciated body. His clothes were shabby, his face unshaven, and there was a dank smell of stale air emanating from the dark house. My father is only forty-six. This person looked about sixty.

He frowned at me consideringly but without wonder: He didnt recognize me. I had a sudden, irrational urge to turn and runsomething in me didnt want to know how he had come to be in this state. I was afraid. Then, slowly, as I stood there, a dim light entered his eyes; he looked at me more closely; he measured me up and down, trying to calculate how much his son would have grown in eleven years.

A vague disbelief replaced the suspicion in his eyes, and then we were hugging wordlessly, enfolded in each others lanky arms like tall spiders. In my memories, my father was tall, huge. In real life I had an inch or two on him and outweighed him by maybe two stone. And Im not hefty.

My father pulled back and held me at arms length, his hands on my shoulders. His eyes seemed to memorize me, to memorize my pattern, my imprint. Then he said, Oh, Gìomanach. My son. His voice sounded like a thin, sharp piece of slate.

Yes, I said, looking behind him for Mum. Goddess, if Da looked like this, what would she look like? Again I was afraid. In all my thoughts and wishes and dreams and hopes and expectations about this meeting, it had never occurred to me that I would be hurt emotionally. Physically, yes, depending on what happened with Amyranth. But not emotionally. Not feeling pain because of who my parents had become.

Youre here alone? Da rasped, and looked around me to examine the yard.

Yes, I said, feeling incapable of intelligent speech.

Come in, then.

I stepped through the doorway into the darkness. It was daylight outside, but every window was shuttered or curtained. The air was stale and unpleasant. I saw dusty herbs hanging from nails on the wall, a cloth that looked like an altar cloth, and candles everywhere, their wax spilling over, their wicks guttered and untrimmed. Those were the only signs I could see that a witch lived in this house.

It was filthy. Old newspapers littered the floor, which was black with dirt. Dust was thick on everything. The furniture was old, shabby, all castoffs, put out on the junk heap and rescuedbut not fixed up. The one table I saw was covered with piles of paper, dried and crumbling plants, some Canadian coins, and unsteady stacks of plates with bits of crusts and dried food.

This house was shocking. It would have been shocking to find anyone living in it, but to find a witch living in it was almost unfathomable. Though witches are notorious pack ratsmostly related to their ongoing studies of the craft just about all of us instinctively create order and cleanliness around us. Its easier to make magick in an ordered, purified environment. I looked around to find Da shuffling his feet awkwardly, glancing down as if embarrassed for me to be seeing this.

Da, wheres 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. Ive 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.

Ill make it, I said, and started rolling up my sleeves.

Twenty minutes later Da and I were seated in the rooms 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. Id 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? Whats happened?but instead sipped my tea and tried not to grimace. I hadnt known what to expectId had images, thoughts, but no solid way of knowing what my reunion with my parents would be like. However, this scene, this reality, hadnt come close to being on the board.

Wheres 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 couldnt 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 chairs arm and onto his raggedy brown corduroys.

Your mums 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 mothers love, ever again in my life.

I couldnt 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 didnt 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 waveyou 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 didnt 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 didntnot quite. Anyway. This past winter was hard. I knew the end was coming, and so did she. She was tired, so tired, Gìomanach. She didnt 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, devastatednot just at the news of my mothers 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 mothers 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 Widows 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 Id had since I was eight years old.

I tried again. Da, what made you and Mum leave in the first place? How could youhow could you leave us behind? My voice cracked and splinteredthis 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. Das 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 didnt answer, I went on, the questions spilling out like an unchecked riveronce started, impossible to stop. Why didnt 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 fathers 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 oclock, and dark.

Come on, Da, lets 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 eats turnips? 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, lets go out. I saw a diner in town. Come on, my treat.

6. Turloch-eigh

June 1997

Today my cottage seems filled by a cloud of sadness. I know that this isn't a day for sorrow; it should ne a day for happy memories, for quiet contemplation and reminiscing. Yet the sorrow comes along unbidden. Today is the fifth anniversary of Mama's death.

It seems so long ago that we lived in this house together, yet I remember so much about her-her intensity, her passion for learning, the way she strove to kindle in me an appreciation for the complexity of the world. And her morality. If they knew the truth of her beliefs, many witches who revere her today would not consider my mother a moral person. Yet her heart was large, her empathy complete. She taught me healing spells and did the utmost to help animals, children, anyone who was vulnerable. She has a strong sense of right and wrong, and she felt that our family had been wronged too many times. I miss her so terribly, even five years after her death. I would like to believe that somewhere, wherever her soul is on its journey, she is aware of the work I am doing, and she is proud.

Today I stayed away from the library. I did non want to be tempted; it would be so easy to hurt my mother in my nostalgia and my sadness. But tomorrow I will return to my work. I will continue compiling continue learning.

I cannot think of a better gift that I could give to Mama.

 J.C.

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, no 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 towns only diner, which was right next to the towns only grocer. It was dark and colder than an ice cave. I pulled my coat tighter around my neck and wondered that my father didnt get knocked over by the stiff breeze. And then Id heard it: Sorcier. Witch. I know the word witch in at least seventeen different languages: useful for a Seeker. Bruja in Spanish. Hexe in German. Italians call us strega. Polish people say wiedzma. In Dutch, I listen for toverheks. Once in Russia I had old potatoes thrown at me while kids yelled, Koldunya! Long story. In Hungary one says boszorkány. 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 didnt 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 grocers 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 meatmissing the somewhat intimidating sterile American packagingchicken, 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 bedroomthe 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.

Daare 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; Ill be fine in the morning.

I doubted that but awkwardly pulled a thin coverlet over him and went out into the lounge. I still couldnt 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. Id thought all the candles and lanterns had been witch gearbut 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 insidethat 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 wouldnt 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 wouldnt stop. So instead I rolled up my sleeves and went into the kitchen.

At midnight I sank down onto a couch I hadnt 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. Id almost forgotten you were here. Its 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 havent been up to much latelyI 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 days 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 couldnt 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 a sorcier. 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 couldnt believe it. Surely this was incredibly dangerous. As far as I knew, Da hadnt 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 Id 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 couldnt 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 didnt 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 Id 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 Ive heard whispers of from other people through the years. But now Im here, across from you, and youve 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 didnt look at me. His bony fingers plucked restlessly at the cuff of the clean flannel shirt I had given him to put on. Its ancient history, lad, he said in a voice like a dry leaf. It was probably all a mistake. Wont bring your mother back, anyway. A spasm of pain crossed his face.

I know it wont 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 doesnt mean I shouldnt know the answers. Look, Da, Ive waited eleven years. You took my life apart when you left, and Lindens, and Alwyns. Now I need to know. Why did you and Mum leave?

Though Im only nineteen, Im a Seeker. Which means I make my living by asking people questions. Ive grown used to waiting for answers, asking over and over until I find out what I want to know. Im very good at my job, so I said again, very gently, Why did you and Mum leave? Its almost unheard of for a coven to split up if troubles 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 dont 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 bulldogonce you got your teeth in something, you didnt let it go. You were like that as a lad.

I met his eyes squarely. Im like that still, Da, I said. Actually, Ive made a career of it. Im a Seeker for the council. I investigate people for a living.

I watched Das eyes, waiting for his reaction. Would he be proud of me? I had always imagined he would be, but then, so many of my imaginings had been proven hopelessly wrong in the last twenty-four hours. My father looked at me considering, and then his face broke into a sudden smile.

So you are, he said softly. Well, thats quite an accomplishment, son. Right, then, bulldog, if youll have it out of meSelene sent the dark wave after us, at Turloch-eigh.

I frowned, my brain kicking into gear.

Us who? I asked.

He cleared his throat. Your mother and me. Both of us. Your mother felt it that night, felt it coming, knew who it was aimed at. Knew who it was from.

Was Selene finally getting you back for leaving her? The dark wave that killed the entire village was about Selenes jealousy?

He gave a short bark of a laugh. Yes. Shed always said that I would need to look over my shoulder the rest of my life. And she was right. Well, until now. He paused. At least they were able to come together again safely.

Hows that? I wasnt sure if I had heard him correctly. Who came together again?

Da was looking at me, frowning. Gìomanach, what have you been thinking all these years? That we were gone, along with everyone else, and we never came back for you and you didnt know why? He shook his head. Oh, Goddess, forgive me. And I ask your forgiveness, too, son. He swallowed, then went on. No. That night Fiona felt the dark wave coming. We knew it was for us, and us alone, but that Selene and Amyranth would be happy to destroy the whole village if it included us. So, taking a chance, the only chance we could, we fled, leaving you three there, spelled with protection circles. We thought if we left, we would draw the dark wave away from the village. That it would follow us, instead of concerning itself with Turloch-eigh. Later, when I scried and saw the village gone, I was devastatedour flight hadnt saved anything. But years later Brian Entwhistle found me. You remember Brian, right?

I searched my memory and came up with a big, ruddy bear of a man. I nodded.

It wasnt safe to contact you kids or Beck. Too risky. But once or twice we were contacted by older witches, powerful ones who could protect themselves. Brian was one. I was astonished when he found usthought hed been dead all those years.

I was sitting on the edge of my seat, my hands gripping the arms. Here it was, the whole story, after so long. It wasnt what Id thought it would be.

Brian told us that you kids were safe, that Beck had gotten you. He told me the village had actually been spared.

But wait a minute, I said, remembering something. I went back there, not three years ago. The place is deserted and has been for years. No one lives there. I saw it.

Yes, they all returned a short time after the dark wave lefttrickled back in one family at a time. They tried to make another go at it there, but apparently the dark wave came too close. It left a destructive spell in its wake. After everyone had come home and settled down, things started happening. Accidents, unexplained illnesses. Crops failed, gardens died, spells went wrong. It took a year of that before the whole village up and moved closer to the coast. They made a new town there, thirty miles away, and Brian told me they had prospered.

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