Debora Geary: A Nomadic Witch

The four points complete, Elorie held her arms to the sky, pendant clasped in her right hand.

“I call the power that lives as mine

A web unending, living vine

That holds us all, woven as one,

Dark and shadows, mists and sun.

Touch the magic most like self

Form a bridge, a flying shelf.

Carry deep and carry back

The soul joined to this magic’s track.

Hold him thus to me and four times three,

As I will, so mote it be.”

He had a moment of surprise-it was a new call, and the imagery reached deep into his ribcage.

And then she poured power his direction, and all he could do was grab the lightning strike. It blasted through him, water through a sieve, punching holes in his magical skin as it went. He was a flea riding a fire hose, all sense of direction lost in the tumult. Bloody hell-flying through space like a damn rocket, and no idea if he was even headed the right direction.

We know which way east is , sent Lauren, humor not entirely masking the strain in her mental voice. When the rocket ride ends, have your snorkel and fins ready.

He struggled to figure out what part of the torrent was actually his power-and then decided it didn’t matter. He gave over to the magic, reaching for the soul that was twin to his.

And ran headlong into the freezing mists of hell.

Marcus opened his eyes to a halo of light and a woman’s dulcet voice singing a strange kind of lullaby.

Gods. If this was heaven, he’d taken a rather large wrong turn. He strained his brain to remember. A rocket ride, and then… nothing.

“Awake now, are you?” A face bent down closer to his. “I think he’s conscious. You better come on over before he tries to pop me one.”

Marcus was pretty sure Aunt Moira’s rules about not hitting girls extended to heaven. Or wherever he was.

A young face swam into view. And this time, even in the shadow and light, he knew who it was. With all the longing of forty-three years, Marcus reached out to touch his brother.

And discovered he couldn’t move at all.

“Nimwit. Hang on a minute.” The boy with Evan’s face waved his hand a couple of times. “Sorry, I had to hit you with a stasis spell when you panicked in the mists.”

He hadn’t panicked. He’d worked very, very hard not to panic.

Gingerly, expecting to shatter into a thousand pieces at any moment, Marcus sat up. And then did the thing he’d waited an eternity to do.

He grabbed his brother in a stranglehold of a hug and let the maelstrom he’d contained every day of those forty-three years go. Guilt and longing, love and rage, and the murderous need of a small boy who’d felt half his soul ripped away, all collided in the raging storm that had once been Marcus Buchanan.

He had no idea how long he sat there holding Evan. He knew only that when he let go, the cells of his body all had new neighbors-and a lake of tears dried on the ground around them.

If Evan’s face spoke true, the tears weren’t all his.

For a while longer, Marcus just looked, drained of the feelings that had always been his skeleton. “Funny.” His voice sounded like it hadn’t been used in a decade. And his nose was in desperate need of a hanky. “I spent so much of my life wishing for this moment. And not once did I think about what would happen next.”

Evan rested his head on his knees, a simple movement that nearly drowned Marcus in memory again. “We have some time. And you have some questions.”

The first leaked out of its own accord. “Why are you still here? In this place, whatever it is?” This place of gray and shadows and odd light.

Evan stared off into the distance. “I take care of the souls who come here.”

Marcus looked at the sunny small boy beside him in horror. “But you’re only a child.”

Evan smiled, at once sad and amused. “That’s how you see me-how you remember me. Physical appearances are mutable here. They reflect the hearts of those who look, or sometimes, how we see ourselves.”

Marcus blinked. “How do you see yourself?”

Evan grinned, his eyes twinkling in that way they always had just before he got the both of them into a heap of trouble. “A blond-haired, blue-eyed version of you. We’re getting old, bro.”

We. A single word that arrowed straight for the bottomless pit of lonely he carried in his chest-forty-three years of “I”-and lightened it. Just a little.

A small hand joined with his.

Marcus looked around, willing the shakes away, and sensed movement in the shadows. There had been someone with Evan when he’d awakened. Voices. “Who are the others?”

“We’re kind of like a way station for departed souls. Some stay here only moments. Others, for months or years.”

Marcus watched as a beautiful woman floated out of the shadows, her feet moving in an intricate and beautiful dance. Light shone from her face.

“That’s Margie.” Evan smiled. “She got here after twenty years in a wheelchair and said she couldn’t wait for heaven to try on her dancing shoes.”

Her joy was palpable. “When did she arrive?”

“Just a few days ago. She’ll be leaving us soon.” A tinge of sadness leaked into his brother’s voice. “The happiest ones generally have the shortest stays.”

Marcus didn’t want to ask what that meant about a man who’d stayed forty-three years.

Two more of the shadows drew closer, the taller one singing the odd, tuneless lullaby Marcus remembered. Evan waved. “That’s Victoria and Davey. He’s our lost little waif. Vicki takes good care of him.”

Marcus studied the sad little boy clutching a stuffed Kermit the Frog nearly as big as he was. “What’s wrong with him?”

Evan shook his head. “We don’t know. He lost his magic crossing the mists-he’s a fire witchling, and fire can’t withstand the cold and wet of the journey here. He threw a three-day tantrum when he arrived and hasn’t said a word since. He just rocks and makes that high-pitched whining sound.”

Marcus could hear the sound now-manic bees laced with a little nails-on-chalkboard. An hour of it would drive a man to drink. “How long has he been here?”

“Seventeen years.”

The insanity of it nearly struck Marcus dumb. “You’ve been listening to that for seventeen years?”

“Nope.” Evan laughed and reached into his pocket for two odd yellow cylinders. “Earplugs.” He grinned. “And Vicki’s really, really hard of hearing.”

Thank the gods for small mercies.

“Come on.” Evan hopped to his feet. “Let’s take a walk.”

Marcus rose more slowly, surveying the unending gray. “Does it ever look any different than this?”

“No.”

It was a single word-but the longing that rose up in his brother’s soul nearly knocked Marcus flat. Evan had lived here forty-three years-and home was still a beach in Nova Scotia.

“Why?” The word was ripped from Marcus’s throat. “Why did you leave?”

“I don’t know.” His brother stopped, eyes infinitely sad. “I can’t ever remember. I only know that one day I was here, and I couldn’t go home.”

Horror iced Marcus’s veins. He slid down to the ground, reaching for a small boy to hold.

“Please.” Evan squirmed out of reach, a plea in his eyes. “Don’t think about that-it will drain the magic keeping you here.”

He couldn’t leave yet-too many questions unanswered. Marcus gulped air and tried to push away the heartrending image of a lost little boy alone in this unending abyss.

“It’s gotten better,” said Evan softly. “The last year has been a great gift. I’ve been able to come visit a little.”