Cate Tiernan - A Chalice of Wind

I know I wanted another margarita and instead received a 7-Up, which made me fall even more in love with him. I could trust him.

And I know that by the time we finally said goodbye, he walked me to my car and made sure I was straight enough to drive, which I truly was-especially since I did a silent dissipation spell as soon as I was behind the wheel. Tonight's alcohol would dampen my abilities tomorrow, but right now the magick sang through my veins. Losing every bit of the margaritas effect was sad, but I also knew if I drove impaired and killed myself, my grandmother would pull me back from the dead so she could kill me all over again.

I rolled down my window, the engine of my battered little Camry humming.

"I had a good time tonight" I said. Major understatement.

He brushed his fingers along my cheek, rubbing his thumb over my birthmark, "So did I" he said seriously; then leaned in the window and kissed me long and hard, "Its okay if I call you?' I had given him my cell phone number,

"Yes," I said, surpassing the first understatement.

"Drive carefully." His look made me feel like we were already joined, one, forever.

I nodded, put the car in gear, and pulled out. He was in my rearview mirror until I turned the corner.

I knew better than to roll my eyes or act impatient. Nan always said little spells when she planted things, and of course her garden, the whole yard, was the most perfectly balanced, beautiful garden for blocks. "Yet there was a part of me that was thinking, It's just okra.

She patted the earth down firmly around the okra seed, a little smile on her face. She looked perfectly calm, at ease. I was dying. It was a thousand degrees outside, and my T-shirt was already damp with sweat. I felt totally gross. At least no one but Nan would see me like this.

Nan looked up at me in that way that felt like she was seeing right through my eyes into the back of my skull. "Not your cup of tea, is it?" she asked with humor.

I showed her my dirty, broken fingernails and the blister beginning on my thumb. She laughed.

"Thank you for your sympathy," I muttered.

"How are you going to be a witch without a garden?" she asked.

“I’ll hire someone," I said.

"Will you hire someone to study for you?" she asked, more seriously. "Or maybe you should hire someone to do your drinking for you."

I looked up in alarm, "I haven't been drinking,"

She gave me an "oh, come on" face. "Clio-your magick is very strong." She brushed my damp hair off my cheek, "It was strong in your mother also. But she died before she could come into her full power." Her eyes had a faraway, sad look in them, "I want to see you come into your full power. Unfortunately, the only way to get there is actually to study, to learn, to practice. The only way to practice meaningfully is to not have dulled your senses. You can be a strong witch or you can be a weak witch. Its up to you."

"Its summertime," I said, hating how whiny and childish I sounded, "I want to have fun."

'All right, have fun," she said. "But you'll be eighteen in November. And I'm telling you now, you're nowhere near ready for your rite of ascension"

Now she had my full and undivided attention. "What? Really? I didn't know it was that bad"

She nodded, looking sad and wise and somehow older than usual. "It's that bad, honey. If you work your butt off, you might be able to pass it. Or you can wait a year, when you turn nineteen"

"Oh, I'm so sure" I sputtered, thinking of all the other kids who'd made their rites of ascension when they were eighteen. No one had ever failed and had to wait till they were nineteen. I would never live it down. I would embarrass my grandmother, who everyone considered one of the best teachers. I would look like a total loser, when really, I should be impressing the hell out of everyone. Damn it! All I wanted to do was see Andre. I didn't want to study, didn't want to practice, didn't want to stop ingesting fan things like margaritas.

"It's just that sometimes, studying seems a little, well, boring," I said delicately.'! always feel like I want lightning and sparks and big magick, you know?" I held my arms out to the sides to demonstrate "big magick"

Nan looked at me sharply. "Big magick is dangerous magick," she said. "Even if it's for good. Remember, what has a front has a back, and the bigger the front, the bigger the back"

I nodded, thinking, Whatever the hell that means, "Okay, I'll try to study more."

Nan stood and brushed her hands off on her old-fashioned apron. "Like I said, it's up to-" She stopped, her words trailing away. She stood very still, her hands frozen, while she looked all around us. Up at the sky, where the usual afternoon storm clouds were gathering, down the street, across the street, at our house and side yard.

"What's the matter?" I stood up also.

Nan looked at me, as if surprised to see me-I mean, really looked at me, like she was actually trying to tell who I was. It was creepy, and I wondered for a second if she'd had a stroke or something.

"What's the matter?" I said. " Nan, are you all right? Let's go into the house-I'll get you some cold lemonade, okay?"

She blinked then and glanced around us once more. "No, I'm all right, honey. It's just-a storm is coming,"

"It always comes in the afternoon in the summer," I said, still gently tugging her toward the front steps. "Every day, around three, a storm. But they always blow over fast…

"No," she said. "No." Her voice sounded stronger, more like her. "Not a rainstorm. I mean a bigger storm, one that will…" Her words trailed off again, and she looked at the ground, lost in thought.

'’A hurricane?" I asked, trying to understand. She was totally creeping me out.

She didn't answer.

I looked around and sighed. Great One of these dreams. Just what I need.

I'd always had incredibly realistic, Technicolor, all-senses-on dreams my whole life. I'd tried telling Dad about them, but though he was sympathetic, he didn't really get what I was talking about. It wasn't every single night, of course. But maybe 65 percent of the time. In my dreams I felt cold and hot, could smell things, taste things, feel the texture of something in my mouth.

Once, after a shop downtown had been held up, I'd dreamed I'd been in that shop and had gotten shot. I'd felt the burning heat of the bullet as it bored through my chest, felt the impact from the blow knock me off my feet. Tasted the warm blood that rose up in my mouth. Felt myself staring at the shop ceiling, old-fashioned tin, while I slowly lost consciousness, bleeding to death. But it had been just a dream.

The really annoying thing was, even though I almost always knew I was dreaming, I was powerless to stop them. Only a few times I had called, "Cut!" and managed to get myself out of some situation. Mostly I just had to suck it up.

Which explained why I was standing in the middle of this swamp-jungle place, thinking, Damn it.

This would teach me to buy touristy postcards to send to my friends back home. At the time I'd thought they were funny-pictures of a Louisiana swamp, or a huge plantation house, or the front of a strip joint on Bourbon Street — all with a tiny picture of myself pasted on them. But apparently the images had sunk into my subconscious too well.

Hence the swamp. Okay, I need to release any feelings about this place, I thought, and just see what happens, what the dream needs to show me. I looked around. My bare feet were ankle-deep in reddish-green-brownish water, surprisingly warm. Beneath my feet the bottom was super-slick clay, fine silt that squished up between my toes. The air was thick and heavy and wet, and my skin was covered with sweat that couldn't evaporate. Hardly any sunlight penetrated to the ground, and I tried to convince myself it was a fascinating example of a rain-forestlike habitat.