Without another word, my chauffeur started the engine and hurtled us down an unpaved road that I couldnt even see, but she obviously knew by heart. By holding on to the door handle with one hand, I was still able to break off chunks of warm bread with the other and eat them. I was happyI had done a good days workand then I remembered that I had been there only because Da hadnt.
Daniel souvent il vous aidez? I said, butchering French grammar.
The womans dark eyes seemed to become more guarded.
I motioned back to the cabin. Comme ça? Like that?
Comme ça, et ne comme ça, she said unhelpfully.
Do you speak any English at all? I asked, frustrated.
She slanted a glance at me, and I thought I saw a glimmer of humor cross her face as I flinched, going over a pothole.
Un peu.
So Daniel helps you sometimes? I asked in my neutral Seeker voice. As if the answer didnt matter. I looked out my window at the dark trees that flashed past, lit momentarily by the trucks unaligned headlights.
A slight frown wrinkled the skin between her brows. Quelquefois. She hesitated, then seemed to make up her mind. Not so much maintenant. Not so much. Good people, only when so desperate. Like today.
Every Seeker instinct in me came to life. Good people?
She looked away, then said in a voice I could barely hear over the engine, People who dont walk in the lightthey go to le sorcier more often.
Oh, Goddess, I muttered to myself. That didnt sound good. We were both silent the rest of the ride. She pulled up in front of Das cabin but didnt shut off the engine.
Merci, she said quietly, not smiling. Elle est ma fille, vous aidez.
Soyez le bienvenue. Then I got out of the truck, knowing that I would probably never see her, her daughter, or her new granddaughter again. Her tires spun on the snowy dirt behind me as I went up the steps to the porch. Inside, my father was there, in the kitchen, eating some meat I had browned hours ago. He looked up as if surprised to see me still around.
We have to talk, I said.
8. Answers
In the time Ive been here, Ive come to fully appreciate the pristine and harsh beauty of winter. Five years ago it was spring that made me feel alive, the unstoppable power and bursting rawness of life renewed. Now that seems so naïve. For me, winter is the culmination of natures beauty, winter that shows the perfection, the bare bones of the world I live in.
Today I walked for miles, up to Drandfathers Knee. The air was sharp and cold, like a knife, and by the time I reached the top, every breath seared my lungs. I felt alive, completely connected to everybody around me. The sound of ice cracking in the sun, the rare, startled flight of a bird, the occasional wet drop of snow from a tree limball these things filled me, awoke my senses, until I felt almost painfully joyful, painfully ecstatic. I fell to my knees in the sun-softened snow and blessed the Goddess and the God. My entire life felt like a song, a song that was reaching a crescendo, right then.
through the crust to forage. As I knelt there, I was startled by a flash of dusty white-a winter hare, zigzagging crazily across the meadow, running so incredibly fast that I could hardly follow it with my eyes. It was beautiful, a slightly darker white than the snow, designed to run, its feet sure and strong. A second later I saw the reason for its flight: a red-tailed hawk, its wingspan more than four feet, was wooping toward it. In the time it took me to blink, the hawk had swung its feet down and up and was already beating the air with its wings, heading skyward with its prey.
I didn't think. There was no time. Instinctively I traced the sigil and cried, "srathtac! Srathtac!"
As if shot, the hawk faltered in midair, one shoulder dipping, its wings beating arrythmically. I sent the message, "Drop it. Release." And in the next moment the hare was falling like a soft-bodied stone toward the earth. I was already on my feet and running.
The hare lay stunned, near death, its eyes wide and yet unseeing. Its dusky fur was streaked with blood from the hawk's talons; I felt its labored breathing, its pain, the panic that went beyond fear. It blinked once, twice, and then its life began to ease away. "Sassen," I murmured, not touching it. Its little sides had quit heaving for breath. "Sassen," I said softly, tracing several sigils in the air above it, calling it back. "Sassen." I sang it coaxingly, and then the hare blinked, its eyes taking on a new awareness. It breathed deep, its velvet nose twitching. I watched as it rolled to its feet in a smooth movement and bounded, off to the brush.
I know that some would say that what I did today was wrong, that it is interfering with nature's will, which should be held sacred. But I believe that as witches we should have the ability to use our own judgement. Nothing I have done today will throw off the balance of the universe. The hawk will catch more prey, the hare will die sooner or later. Both will go on with their lives, unaware of what I've done.
Animals are innocent. People never are.
J.C.
I told Da about helping the First Nation girl give birth. He seemed interested, his eyes on me, as he finished eating. I gave him the tiny piece of bread I had left, and he ate that, too, though it seemed to take effort.
It sounds like you handled it well, son, he said in his odd, raspy voice. Good for you.
My heart flared, and I became humiliatingly aware that part of me still longed to impress him. Impress him, this pale imitation of my father.
Da, I began, leaning forward. I need to talk to you about how youve been helping people around here. Im a Seeker, and you must know that some of the things Ive seen and heard concern me. I need to understand what you do, what role you play, how youve made it safe to be known openly as a witch.
For a moment I thought he might actually try to answer, but then he raised one hand in a defeated gesture and let it fall again. He glanced at me, gave a faintly embarrassed half smile, then stood and headed to his room, just like that.
I sat back in my chair, unreasonably stunnedwhy had I expected anything different? Maybe because when I was a child, my da had never turned away from answering a question, no matter how hard, how painful. He had given it to me straight, whether I really wanted the answer or not. I had to let go of that dahe was gone forever. In his place was this new man. He was what I had to work with.
That night I lay on the lumpy couch, unable to sleep and unwilling to do a calming spell until I had thought things through. I was a Seeker. Every instinct I had was on alert. I needed to find out what my father was up to. I needed some answers. If Da couldnt give them to me, I would find their answers myself. Then I would have a decision to make: whether to notify the International Council of Witches or not.
On Wednesday, I awoke early with renewed determination. I was going to follow Da today. All I had to do was wait for him to get up, then track him, something I was particularly good at.
Within moments of waking up, however, my senses told me the cabin was empty except for me. I frowned and swung my legs off the couch. A stronger scan revealed no other human around. How could that be? It would have been impossible for Da to wake and leave without my knowing. I was a light sleeper to begin with, and the couch of torture had only increased that. Then it occurred to me: it was impossible for Da to have left without my knowing. Which meant that my father had spelled me to keep me asleep. I sprang up, my hands clenching with anger. How dare he? Hed spelled me without my knowledge. There was no excuse for that, and it only emphasized how shady his business must be.
Swearing to myself, I shoved my feet into my boots and tied them with jerky movements. I pulled on the flannel shirt Id earned, grabbed my coat, and stomped outside.
Outside, I saw that it was still early, and the air smelled like coming snow. The big pile of black garbage bags filled a corner of the front yard, and the thin, half-melted snow was tracked with my footprints. There were no tracks leading away from the house; none headed into the woods. Obviously Da had covered his trail.
I stomped a small circle into the snow and stepped into it. It took several minutes for me to release my anger, to summon patience, to center myself and open myself to the universe. At last I was in a decent state, and I began to craft revealing spells.
I had to say this for him, Da still knew his spells. His concealing spells were in several layers and included some variations that took work and thought on my part to break through. Either he was a naturally gifted and innovative spellcrafter, or he had considered me a real threat. Or both.
When I was done, I felt cold and drained and wanted nothing more than a cup of tea and a warm fire. Instead I got up and retraced my steps around the cabin. I saw the repeated tracks of my feet leading to the woodpile, but this time I also saw a set of new footprints, one that definitely hadnt been there earlier: tracks leading from a corner of the porch into the woods. My mouth set in a firm line, I followed them.
How had my emaciated, malnourished father been able to hike this far the last couple of days, I wondered some forty minutes later. Granted, it was taking me longer because the tracks doubled back on themselves, I had to clear away other concealing and illusion spells, and I had to watch out for trapsbut still, it had to be something desperately important to compel Da to trek this far every day in his weakened state.
A few minutes more and I became aware of a growing uneasiness, a bad taste in my mouth. I felt nervous; the back of my neck was tingling; all my senses were on alert. It was unnatural for the forest to be this quiet, this still. There were no animals, no birds, no movement or life of any kind. Instead, a feeling of dread and disturbing silence pervaded the area. If I hadnt been on a mission, if I hadnt known I was tracking a witchmy fatherI would have fled. Again and again, every minute, my senses told me to bolt, to get the hell out of there, to run as fast as I could through the thick forest, to not stop until I was home. It took all my self-control to ignore them, to push those feelings ruthlessly down. Goddess, what had he done?
I pressed forward and came at last to a smallish clearing. To one side of the clearing stood an old, round-roofed hut, made of sticks and covered with big strips of birch bark, like an Indian house. A fire burned unenthusiastically outside the hut. It was surrounded by huge logs, easily two feet in diameter, that looked like benches.
I felt ill. Nausea rose in my throat; my skin felt clammy, cold, and damp with sweat. From the strong pulls on my senses I could tell I was at a huge power sink, much like the one in the cemetery in Widows Vale. But this one was made up of crossed lines, light and darkit would be easy to work dark magick here, I realized, and my heart clenched.
I approached the hut. Every sense in me was screaming for me to get away from this place, to leave, that I was about to die, that I was suffocating. Dimly I was able to understand that these feelings were the effects of spells designed to ward off anyone who stumbled upon this place by accident, and I forced myself to ignore them. Taking a deep breath, I ducked down and pushed myself into the hut through its low doorway.
Immediately I was assaulted with feelings of out-and-out terror. My mouth went dry; my eyes were wild; my breath caught in my throat. Fighting for control, I looked around the hut with magesight. There was Da, crouched on the floor in a deep trance, his face alight with an unearthly eagerness. He was leaning over a dark. . hole? Then it came to me, and my throat closed as if a fist were squeezing my windpipe shut. Dear Goddess. I had never seen one of these before, though of course I had read about them. My father was in front of a bith dearc, a literal opening into the netherworld, the world of the dead. My brain scrambled to understand, but nothing came to me except a horrified recognition. A bith dearc. . if the council knew about this. .
Da was oblivious to my presence, deeply entrenched in the shadow world. The atmosphere inside the hut was wretched, oppressive. I was reeling from shock and horror, wondering with panic how the hell this had become part of my life. Then, vaguely, my tortured senses picked up on the presence of a person outside. I stumbled back out through the opening, toward the clearing, to see a woman sitting on one of the log benches. She was poking listlessly at the fire with a stick, apparently used to having to wait and not seeming to feel the same terror and dread that was shredding my self-control.
I must have looked crazy, with my face white, my eyes wild, but she didnt seem to think anything of it, nor was she surprised to find someone here besides herself.
Bonjour, she said, after a quick glance at me.
I sat down on a log across from her, my head between my knees so I wouldnt throw up. Bonjour, I muttered. I sucked in cold air, trying to clear my head, but the air here felt poisoned. How could my da be doing this? What to do, what to do?
"Cest ma troisième visite à le sorcier, the woman confided. It took me a moment to translate. Her third visit to the witch. I wished I had thought to brush up on my French before I had come to this hateful place.
Il maide de parler avec mon cher Jules, she went on, a stranger chatting in a doctors waiting room. Jules mourut lannée dernière.
My stomach roiled as I took in this information. My father helped this woman talk to her dear Jules, who died last year. Bloody hell. My father was helping people talk to their dearly departed. He had opened a bith dearc into the netherworld and was selling this service to his neighbors. It was appalling on so many levels, I didnt know what to react to first.
Apparently not bothered by my lack of response, the woman mused, Le sorcier, il est très compatissant. Le dernier fois, moi, je ne peut pas payer. Mais aujourdhui, pour lui jai deux poules grosses.
Great. My father was a prince. She couldnt pay last time, but today she had two nice chickens for him. My father was breaking some of the most seminal laws of the craft and being paid in chickens for it. I felt like I was losing my mind.
There had been times in history where it had been necessary, even imperative, to contact souls on the other side, times when it was sanctioned. But to commune with the dead on a regular basis, for paymentit was an affront to nature. It would never be allowed. This was exactly the kind of thing a Seeker would be sent to investigate, to shut down. This realization caused a sickening drop of my stomach.
Eventually, I wasnt sure how much later, Daniel came out, ashen-faced. When he saw me sitting there, white with illness and misery, he staggered. His dull eyes went from me to the woman, who was still waiting patiently. Ignoring me, he went over to her and spoke gently to her in French, telling her today wasnt a good day, that she must return at another time. The look of utter disappointment on her face was heartbreaking. But she dutifully stood, offered my father her chickens, which he refused, smiling, and left. Leaving us alone, father and son, witch and Seeker.
9. Fiona the Bright
I havent heard a thing from Hunter, besides his phone message on Tuesday. (Why did he call while I was at school? Was he trying not to talk to me?) Im starting to get worried. Either hes run into trouble and hasnt been able to contact anyone, or hes having a great time, doesnt want to come home, and hasnt been able to contact anyone. Either way, Im scared.
I finally sent him a witch message last night, but I have no idea whether it reached him since I havent heard anything back. Its getting harder and harder for me to concentrate on the rest of life. I think about Hunter all the time. I think about last Friday night, how close we came, and wonder if well ever finally go all the way.
I went to Bethanys apartment yesterday after school. Im comfortable with her. We talked some about healing herbs. I told her about the research I had done online, and she lent me one of her own books: A Healers Herb Companion. I cant wait to get into it.
Bethany asked me about my plans for this years garden, and I admitted I hadnt gotten far with them. She told me that she has a plot in the Ninth Street Community Garden, two blocks from her apartment. Without being pushy or making me feel guilty, she helped me think about mine a little more, and now Im excited all over again about my first one.
Right now, though, I would give anything to hear the phone ring. Hunter, where are you? What are you doing? Are you coming back to me?
Morgan
Youve got to talk to me! I shouted. My father turned away and paced into the kitchen, his shoulders stiff, his gaunt face set with anger.
I followed him, crossing the tiny lounge in four big paces. A bleak sunshine was trying to stream through the newly washed windows, but it was weak and seemed incapable of entering this house of darkness, death, and despair.
How could you possibly think its all right? I demanded, pursuing him. Ever since we had gotten home, I had been trying to get answers from him. He had retreated into cold silence, regarding me as from a distance, as if I were nothing more than an annoying insect. I had spent most of the night awake, pacing in front of the fireplace, sitting on the couch, rubbing the back of my neck. Da had been in his roomif he slept, I didnt know it. I would bet he did. Nothing much seemed to get to him. Certainly not my revolted reaction to his bith dearc.
The next morning I jolted awake, slumped against the back of the couch, unaware of when I had fallen asleep. Our ugly fight started again. He looked, several times, as though he wanted to say something, to explain himself, but couldnt. I was alternately cajoling, supportive, angry, insistent. I never let down my guard, never left him alone.
Seeing him in the kitchen, hunting through the cabinets for something to eat, through food I had supplied, filled me with fresh anger. I had been here five days, five awful, disappointing, shocking days. Id had enough.
When I got here, you could hardly walk, I pointed out, coming closer. My anger was starting to spiral out of control, but for once I didnt rigidly clamp it down. Now youre stronger because Ive been taking care of you. And youre going out into the woods, to your bith dearc. Are you mad?
Daniel turned and looked at me, his eyes narrowed. I almost wanted him to explode, to show me a side of my old father, any side, even anger. He paused, his hand on a cupboard shelf, then looked away.
What would Alwyn say if she saw you, if she knew about this? I demanded. This is what killed her brother.
He looked at me, something flickering behind his dull brown eyes. Answer me, just answer me, I thought. Please, stop, he said, sounding helpless. You just dont understand.
Explain it to me, I said, trying to calm down. Explain why youve done this terrible thing.
It is terrible, he agreed sadly. I know that.
Then why do you do it? I asked. How could you take payment for contacting the dead?
We were face-to-face in that cramped kitchen. I was taller than he and outweighed him; I was a young, strong, healthy man, and he was a broken wreck far older than his years. But there was something latent in him, a reserve of ancient power lying coiled within him, awaiting his need for it. I sensed this; Im not sure if he did.
His face twisted. I have to, he said.
Its making you ill. And you know its wrong, I said, as if talking to a child. Da, youve got to stop this.
His shoulders hunched, he looked away. Then, stiffly, as if holding back a cry, he nodded. I know, lad. I know.
Let me help you, I said, calming down more. Just stay here todaydont go. Ill make you some lunch.
He gave another short nod and sat abruptly in his armchair, staring at the fire. His fingers twitched, a muscle in his jaw jumpedhe looked like an addict facing withdrawal.
Tell me about your town, Da said at lunch. It was the first question he had asked of me, the first interest he had shown in my life. I answered him, though I suspected he was only trying to change the subject.
Ive only been there about four months, I said, not mentioning the reason I had first gone there: to investigate his first wife, his first son. But Ive stayed and kept it my base in America. Its a little town, and it reminds me of England more than a lot of other American towns Ive seen. Its kind of old-fashioned and quaint.
He bit into his BLT and almost looked like he enjoyed it for a second. Every once in a while he glanced at a window or the door, as if he would somehow escape if I let him. He was trying not to go to the bith dearc. He was trying to let me help him.
Do you have a girl there?
Aye, I admitted, taking a huge bite of my own sandwich. The thought of Morgan sent a tremor through my body. Goddess, I missed her.
Who is she?
Her name is Morgan Rowlands, I said, wondering how to broach the topic of her parentage. Shes a blood witch, a Woodbane.
Oh? Good or bad? At his little joke he gave a small cough and took a sip of his juice.
Good, I said wryly. How could I tell him what Morgan meant to me, who she was? That I believed she was my mùirn beatha dàn?
Whats her background? Tell me about her.
My pulse quickened. He sounded almost like a real father, the father I had always wanted. Shes amazing. Shes only just found out about being a blood witch. But shes the strongest uninitiated witch Ive ever seen or heard of. Shes really special. Id like you to meet her.
Da nodded with a vague smile. Perhaps. How did she just find out about her powers? Who are her parents?
My jaw tensed. I had no idea how my father would react to this. Actually. .
Da looked up, sensing my hesitation. What is it, lad?
I sighed. The truth is, shes the biological child of Maeve Riordan of Belwicket. . and Ciaran MacEwan. Of Amyranth.
All expression seemed to drain from Das face. Really.
Yes. But she was put up for adoption. . Its a long story, but Ciaran killed her mother, and Morgan just learned the truth about her heritage recently. She was adopted by a Catholic family in Widows Vale.
My das eyes flicked up at me. They were full of suspicion. My father had been fleeing Amyranth and their destruction for eleven years, and now his son was involved with the leaders daughter. It had to be hard to take. Does she. . has she met Ciaran?
Yes, I admitted, remembering Ciarans odd recent reunion with his daughter. But shes very different from him. She wants to work for good, like her mother worked for good. She helped the council find him. You know that hes in custody now.
Da nodded and went on eating. I had no idea what he was thinking.
Did you know Cal? he asked.
My jaw almost dropped. When I was young, Selene and Cal were never, ever mentioned in our house. In fact, I hadnt found out about them until right before I had come to Widows Vale. I still remember how stunned I had been by the news.
Only a bit, I said.
Da put down his sandwich, took a sip of beer. What was he like?
He was a bloody criminal, I wanted to say, letting out my still white-hot anger at the person who almost destroyed Morgan. He was evil personified. But this was Das sonmy half brother. And I suppose, deep down, I knew that Cal hadnt really had a chance, not with Selene Belltower for a mother.
Um. He was very good-looking, I said objectively. He was very charismatic.
You hated him. It was a statement.
Yes.
I dont know what I was thinking, leaving him with her, Da said, his voice dry and aged. All I knew was I was in love with your mother; shed already had you. I wanted to be with her. I didnt want Selene and her evil tendrils wrapping around my life. At the time, I told myself that a child that young should stay with his mother. And Selene always said there was no way I could take him from her. Ever. But now I wonder if I could haveif Id tried hard enough. And I wonder if I didnt try because I hated Selene so much, I didnt want any part of her near menot even our son.
Crikey. Id never heard Da talk like this. It made him seem so much more human somehow.
Well, anyway. Old days, he said blithely, seeming embarrassed to reveal so much. Yet it was just this that allowed me to get past my new vision of himthe disappointing fatherand see him as the man I remembered. A good man, who had loved, made mistakes, had regrets. It was a side of him I liked.
Im knackered, he said, sounding shaky. He stood up and walked past me with hesitant steps. I followed him to his bedroom, where he lay down on clean sheets. I guessed that the pull of the bith dearc was still working on him.
Da, let me help, I said, coming to stand by the side of the bed. He looked up at me with uncomprehending weariness, and gently I laid my fingers on his temple, the way I had with the First Nation girl. I sent waves of soothing calmness, feelings of safety, of relaxation. In moments his eyes had fluttered closed, and his breathing changed to that of a man asleep. I stayed for a moment, making another spell of deep rest. If I could just keep him away from the bith dearc, if he would rest, I knew that I could help him get stronger. And perhaps then. . when he was back to his old self. . perhaps then I could get him away from this place, back home with me in Widows Vale.
He would be out for hours, I figured, watching his sunken chest rise and fall. I went into the lounge, got my coat, and headed to town.
In town I was startled by how normal things seemed. I checked my watchit was after three. Please be there, I thought, punching in my phone card number, then Morgans number. Mary K.s bright voice answered the phone.
Hunter! she said happily. Where are you? Morgans been so awful lately because she hasnt talked to you.
Im sorry, I said. My mobile cant get a signal here, my father doesnt have a phone, and its hard for me to get to town sometimes. Is she there? Can I speak to her?
No, she hasnt gotten home yet. Jaycees mom gave me a ride from school. I dont know if Morgans with Bree or what. You want Brees cell phone number?
Yes, thanks. Its been too long since I talked to her.
I know she thinks so, said Mary K. primly, and I smiled to myself, wondering how grumpy Morgan had been all week.
Mary K. gave me Brees number, and I called it as soon as we hung up. But a recorded voice told me that the mobile customer I was calling was not available. I wanted to smash the phone receiver against the booth wall. Dammit. I needed to talk to Morgan, needed to hear her voice, her comforting, encouraging reactions to my horrible situation. I called Brees cell phone again and left a message, asking her to tell Morgan that I had tried to call her and really missed her and hoped we could talk soon.
Next I tried calling Sky. I didnt even bother to calculate what time it would be in FranceI needed to hear a semi-friendly voice. No one was home. I was starting to feel desperate. Talking to my father was full of emotional highs and lows. I needed some medium.
In the end I talked to Kennet. Kennet had been my mentor, had taught me much about being a Seeker. But I didnt mention any of my fears about Da, didnt talk about the bith dearc or Das transgressions. Kennet, however, had news for me.
Its convenient youre up there, actually, he said.
I leaned into the phone booth, watching my breath come out in little puffs. Yeah? Whys that?
The council has a job for you to do, he said.
All right, I said with unusual eagerness. Anything to take my mind off the situation with my father. Tell me whats going on.
About three hours west from where you are, a Rowanwand witch named Justine Courceau is collecting the true names of things.
Yes? I said, meaning, so what? Most witches make a point of learning as many true names of things as they can.
Not just things. Living creatures. People. Shes writing them down, said Kennet.