Cate Tiernan - The Calling

“Are you all right?” I felt someone gently shaking my shoulder.

My eyes flew open. The man from the courtyard was standing over me, his eyes shadowed with concern.

“What happened?” he asked.

“I–I must have fallen asleep,” I said, feeling shaken and embarrassed. I was soaked with sweat. “I had a dream.”

“What sort of dream?”

“Just a bad one.” Even though I felt sick and disoriented, I knew I couldn’t risk saying more. Especially if the council was right about what the dream meant.

“Dreams are funny,” the man said thoughtfully. “They have their own internal logic. They mix past and present and future and then some things that I believe belong to our collective unconscious. Things that may have nothing to do with you specifically.”

“Maybe this wasn’t specific to me,” I agreed. After all, no one had ever explained why I was the one who had this dream, but the fact that I’d had it twice now unnerved me.

I drew in several deep breaths, then got to my feet. So far, so good; walking seemed possible. I glanced at my watch. It was after one. “I’d better find my friend,” I said. “Thanks for all your help.”

“You’re sure you’re all right?”

“Yes.”

As I started to walk away, he touched me lightly on my arm. “I’m sorry. I haven’t even had the manners to ask. What’s your name?”

“Morgan,” I answered without thinking.

He held out his hand to me. “Well, Morgan, may your magick always bring you joy.”

I found Bree on the first floor, holding a tarot deck in a bag. “I was going to send out a search party for you,” she said. “We’re supposed to meet everyone for lunch in forty-five minutes, remember?”

I bought the book on scrying, and we left the store and headed for the subway station on Spring Street. It was only later, as we emerged from the subway on the Upper West Side, that I thought about the fact that I’d given the man my name. Had I committed some sort of breach of security?

No, I decided. After all, I’d only given him my first name. But I wished I’d thought to ask what his name was.

August 19, 1981

Maeve and I have pledged our souls to each other. We left the village just after dark and went out beneath the cliffs. She and I share an affinity for fire, so it was child’s play to kindle a raging bonfire with our minds—the concrete expression of the all-consuming nature of our love. Dancing and licking at the night like an animal, it was a thing of beauty, red and yellow and orange, with a dazzling white-blue heat at its heart. I am so happy, I am nearly delirious. At last I am fully alive.

I even gave her the watch that Da gave to Ma, the one I’ve carried with me all these years. Funny that I never thought to give it to Grania. But then, I never loved Grania.

There is only one thing more to do. I haven’t yet made love to Maeve, though Goddess knows, I want it more than I’ve ever wanted anything on this earth. But I want no lies between us, so first I must tell her about Grania and the children. It will be difficult. But our love will get us through. I have no fear. Nothing can quench our fire.

— Neimhidh

Murray’s was a crowded deli on Columbus Avenue, sandwiched between a shop selling computer accessories and a flower stand. The spicy smells of corned beef, pastrami, and sauerkraut suddenly made me realize that I was starving.

Bree and I made our way over to the small, square table where Raven and Robbie sat. Seconds after we pulled up chairs a waitress dropped four huge menus on the table.

“No Sky or Hunter,” Raven announced.

“They never showed up at the apartment?” I asked her, starting to worry all over again. I knew Hunter and Sky could take care of themselves, but having the dream a second time had left me with a feeling of dread. Was he just late now, or was he not going to show at all?

“No,” Raven answered, “but I recorded a message for them on Bree’s dad’s answering machine, telling them to get their witchy butts up here.”

Bree looked both amused and horrified. “Great. I’m just imagining one of my father’s clients calling and getting that message.”

The waitress returned. “What’ll you have?” she asked.

“Uh—we’re waiting for friends,” Robbie said. “Could you come back in ten minutes?”

She gestured at the line that had formed near the door. “I got people waiting for tables,” she told us. “Either you’re ready to order or you should let someone else sit down.”

“Let’s just order,” Bree decided.

So we ordered corned beef and pastrami sandwiches and sodas. Raven got a Reuben. The food came immediately, and I’d eaten half my sandwich when I felt Hunter and Sky nearby. I turned around to see them walking through the door.

Hunter was wearing his leather jacket and a bottle-green scarf. His cheeks were red from the cold. “Sorry we’re late,” he said as they reached the table.

Raven rolled her eyes. “Nice of you to show up.”

Robbie, ever the gentleman, managed to round up two more chairs and bring them over to the table. Sky sat down next to Raven.

“Are you hungry?” I offered Hunter the uneaten half of my sandwich.

“No. Thanks,” he said, sounding distracted. He didn’t take the chair Robbie had brought for him. Instead, he knelt by my side. “There’s something I need to talk to you about,” he said in a low voice. “How about if you wrap up your sandwich and we take a walk?”

“I’m full,” I said. I was glad of the chance to talk—I wanted to tell him about having the dream again.

I left money for the check and made arrangements to meet the others back at Murray’s in half an hour. Then Hunter and I set off. By unspoken agreement we headed toward Central Park, stopping only to buy two takeout coffees, defense against the cold.

We walked down a side street lined with gracious brownstones, past the Dakota, where John Lennon had lived, and finally stopped to sit on a low wall overlooking Strawberry Fields, Lennon’s memorial. Because it was so cold, there weren’t many visitors to the teardrop-shaped garden that day. But on the circular mosaic imprinted with the wordImagine someone had left a bouquet of white and yellow daisies.

“Did you know that Strawberry Field was actually the name of an orphanage next door to John Lennon’s boyhood home?” Hunter asked. “His aunt, who raised him, used to threaten to send him there whenever he misbehaved.”

“I’ll have to remember that tidbit for my dad,” I said. “He’s still a big fan.”

“My parents had all the Beatles’ albums,” Hunter remembered. “My mum used to play the second side ofAbbey Road on Sunday mornings. ‘Here Comes the Sun.’” He hummed the tune softly for a moment. “Goddess, it’s been ages since I thought about that.” He shook his head as though trying to shake off the pain of memory.

“At least you know they’re alive now,” I said, trying to sound positive. The dark wave had demolished Hunter’s parents’ coven when he was only eight, and his mother and father had been in hiding ever since. For years he hadn’t even known for sure whether they were dead or alive. Right before Yule, Hunter’s father had actually contacted him through his lueg . But the dark wave had overwhelmed the vision, cutting it off before Hunter heard what his father was trying to tell him. Since then we hadn’t dared try to contact them again, for fear that it would lead the darkness to them.

“I know they were alive three weeks ago,” Hunter corrected, his voice tight. “Or at least Dad was. But anything could have happened since then, and I wouldn’t know. That’s what kills me—not knowing.”