Cate Tiernan - Strife

The words went on, and the magick that welled up in me was like cool, clear water, fluid and bracing. I waited for Erin to pull out Harris Stoughton’s book, and I was surprised to realize that she wasn’t going to. She didn’t even seem to have the book with her. Instead, she reached for a large white dish and a white teapot. With a steady hand she filled the dish with steaming liquid. My nostrils were filled with the scent of mint and rosemary, and I nearly laughed to realize that my connection with Hunter was so strong that I could actually smell what he smelled. Reaching into a green velvet pouch beside her, Erin pulled out a handful of something and crumbled it into the water. The water shimmered for a moment, like the ocean in the setting sun. There was a light hissing sound and the scent of lavender, then Erin looked up and smiled.

“We have released the witch from his own restraints.” Erin sounded as happy and relieved as I felt. “He will no longer be his own victim.”

I inhaled deeply, still taking pleasure in the beautiful smells that lingered around me. Undoing the deflection spell had been as beautiful and easy as putting it on had been ugly and horrible. I felt wonderful now, even though the magick hadn’t been directed at me. I was safe now—Ciaran couldn’t threaten me any longer, and my magick was intact.

Morgan, thank you, Hunter’s voice echoed in my mind.

For what?

There was a moment before he replied. For everything, he said finally. For everything, he repeated, soft as the sound of water flowing over smooth stones. In the next moment he was gone.

The lapis lazuli made a slight click as I placed it back on the nightstand and turned off the lamp. I love you, Hunter Niall, I thought as I pulled the comforter up to my chin. I looked out my window, into the depths of the starry sky.

“I did it.” Bree leaned against a bank of lockers, clutching her books to her chest. There were dark circles under her eyes, as if she hadn’t slept well.

“You talked to Robbie?”

Bree gave a faint nod.

“How did it go?” I asked. It was five minutes to the first bell.

“Badly,” Bree said. “But better than I thought it would.”

“So are you. .” I didn’t know how to finish the sentence.

“We’re still together,” Bree replied, tucking her silky hair behind one ear. “He was hurt, though. Really hurt about the stuff with Matt.” She looked at me, her eyes rimmed with red. “That was the worst part. I’ve never—”

“I know,” I said. “It’s okay.”

“He said that he loved me.” Bree’s voice was small and fragile, like a little girl’s teacup. “I’m glad I told him, even though it wasn’t easy.”

We stood there a moment, not saying anything.

“I guess I’m afraid,” Bree said finally.

I thought about Bree—about all the nights she ate dinner alone because her father was out of town on business. I thought about the brother she hadn’t spoken to in over a month, the mother she hadn’t seen in years. Bree knew about difficult love. No wonder she was afraid. “Robbie is special,” I told her. “And you’re strong.”

Bree nodded, as if what I’d said was something she knew already—something she’d forgotten. She squeezed my hand, then let it go. “You’re strong, too.”

The bell rang, and we were swept down the hall toward homeroom in a churning sea of students. Neither one of us said anything more. Neither one of us had to.

October 14, 1971

I couldn’t hide it from them forever. Even though I tried.

My parents wanted to take me to see John Walter, the best healer in our coven. I knew he’d tell them the truth, so finally I had to admit what I’d done. My mother cried for two days, and my father stopped speaking to me altogether. My parents had always told me that there was nothing I could do that would made them stop loving me.

But I guess I found that one thing.

There’s nothing I can do about it now. I couldn’t bring my magick back even if I wanted to. And I don’t want to. Even though I’m still weak from the ceremony, I would rather feel pain myself than run the risk of putting someone else in danger. I know that Wicca is dangerous. Beautiful, but dangerous. I just wish that someone would talk to me, would try to understand why I did what I did. Don’t they understand that I’ve lost even more than they have?

I write this from a Greyhound bus bound for Houston. It was the farthest place from Gloucester for the smallest amount of money. Even so, it took most of my cash—I’ve only got twenty-three dollars and thirty-seven cents in my pocket… what’s lest of my life savings. With that, and a small bag of clothing, and the Harris Stonghton book wrapped in a black cloth (it’s no danger to me any longer, and how could I leave such an evil book with my family?), I begin a new life.

I keep trying to tell myself that this kind of change is exactly what I need. That nothing has changed in my family for centuries and that I’m a pioneer, off to explore new worlds. I’m not really buying it, though.

It might be easier if I had some idea of where all if this would lead. But I don’t.

I guess no one ever really does.

— Sarah Curtis

“Morgan?” Mary K.’s voice echoed up the stairway. I put my book aside and stood up. I had been lying on my bed, reading my English assignment, with Dagda curled comfortably in the curve of my waist.

Mary K. called up again, with more urgency this time. “Morgan!”

“What? What is it?” I stepped out of my room and peered down the stairs. Mary K. was standing at the bottom with a huge grin. “What’s going on?”

“There’s somebody here that you might like to see.”

“Who?” I started walking down the stairs. Hunter? I thought hopefully. But no, I would have sensed his coming. Who else could she be talking about?

When I got to the bottom of the stairs, Mary K. was alone in the foyer. Was she playing a trick on me? “Well, who—”

I broke off. Alisa was sitting on the couch in the living room, looking small and pale. Her hair was pulled back in a ponytail, emphasizing her gaunt, delicate face. She looked up at me nervously. “Hi, Morgan.”

“Wow, Alisa.” She looked like she was still weak, but she was there, sitting in my living room, talking to me. I walked over to the couch and perched beside her. “I’m so glad you’re okay. How do you feel?”

Alisa shrugged. “Depends when you ask me, I guess.” She pulled her hands into her lap, and I could see that she was holding the red-and-white teddy bear that Mary K. had brought to her hospital room. “I still feel weak, and I still have aches and dizziness every once in a while.” She smiled a wan smile. “But I’m getting better. I’m well enough to leave my house, and that feels great.”

Mary K. perched on my dad’s armchair. “Do they know what made you sick?”

Alisa shook her head a little sadly. “Nobody seems to have any idea,” she said. “After you two left, I got really bad, and the doctors were pretty worried. They told my father to start preparing for the worst. But after a few hours I just seemed to get better. And around midnight, I woke up really thirsty and asked the nurse for a glass of juice. I mean”—she gave a little laugh—“I’d been unconscious for, like, days, and I just up and asked for some apple juice out of the blue. The nurse was in shock.”