by Eliza Grace
My time for that is long gone though.
I wrap the magic around me like a soothing blanket, hold it to me like medicine against my painful thoughts, and I reach for her again. She’s dabbing sunshine across a stroke of lavender. There are tears in her eyes, damp roads now showing down the fullness of her cheeks, the curve of her chin, the line of her soft-looking neck.
And then, mechanically, I am driving once more, turning down that road that leads to that house so near to where I was incarcerated for so long. I do not like that she is crying. So the thought of my prison is pushed to the back of my mind. The fear that I might get pulled back into that cage is rocketing around in a small, ignorable corner. It is pushed, forced, fenced into a little pocket and my heart beats manically within my chest. Thumping.
Thumping.
Because I am coming nearer to the artist, to Jen, who sets my pulse racing in such a fashion that I am truly young again; I am but a boy, enamored with the beautiful girl whose father would never accept my advances towards his daughter because of who I was and what I would become. Even then, it was obvious what I would become—following in my own father’s fanatical footsteps.
I don’t know if she hears when I pull the vehicle up behind her house, next to her own car and near the wheelchair ramp. I’m not reaching for her, not holding her in my mind. I am breathing more rapidly than I should be as I approach the back door. I hesitate before knocking. But then I do. I rap against the wood with my first, firmly and confidently, like I am not more nervous than a lad on his wedding night.
At first, I hear nothing, so I knock once more. Just as I am reaching out to her with my mind, my power, to see what she is doing, a crashing sound—muted by the walls of the home—greets my ears. She shouts something decidedly unladylike and then I hear footsteps padding towards the door quickly. “Two seconds!” She shouts, her voice sounding harried, but still pleasant and feminine. I see the knob shift as she’s fumbling to unlock and open the door. “This silly door!” She shouts again. “Sorry!”
I know what is happening; I can feel it like a bad drug sweeping through my body and numbing my abilities.
The girl is stealing back bits of her power to keep this door closed.
She’s trying to protect the woman she loves so dearly.
I push back.
Push.
I am iron and she is lesser. She will not keep me from what I most desire. That is already proven. I am free, whilst she is prisoner in my stead.
I push.
And finally, the wooden barrier keeping me from her swings open. I feel a twinge of magic, of something breaking from the door like an icicle from a roof gable in winter time. It is faint and fades fast. I take a moment to mentally smile at the idiot girl. She may have nearly bested me once, but she will not do so again.
“Mr. Hopkins, what a nice surprise…” Jen begins, her expression a bit confused, “can I help you?
We get lost in the talking. The back-forth-pleasantries.
I know she is speaking.
I know I am responding.
But all I can think is that ‘she is lovely’; ‘she is beautiful’… ‘I want her’.
“…Phone’s right in there.” She’s pointing at her studio door, just past the kitchen. “I’m afraid it’s not fancy and cordless, but it works.”
I can’t even recall what we’ve said. I can feel the muscle memory though, what to say next to keep the conversation moving.
“No worries. I much prefer older items. Like this.” I pull out the pocket watch I’m carrying. I’d seen a gentleman use it the other day, saying how it was his great-grandfather’s. I admired it and felt a kinship to it. We were things of other eras, stuck in the ‘now’ with happenings we do not understand swirling all around us. So I took it by compulsion, and I made it my own. “It keeps time just as well as any newfangled contraption, but it also holds something else. An appealing antiquity.” An antiquity that is now spelled to alter time whenever I wish, to make our meetings last longer as I will it. The watch could keep us together forever; if only I can do the spell correctly, she will be mine.
The satchel of herbs is in my pocket. They must go beneath her mattress. She must sleep on them, be near them whilst her brain is the most vulnerable, so it can work its magic and open her mind and heart to me.
“That’s a nice way of putting it.” She is trying to act interested and involved, but I can feel the longing within her, wanting to see if something, or someone, is arriving. I don’t like that. It makes me wish the spell was ready now, so I could trap us in this time loop. “I don’t mean to rush you, Mr. Hopkins, but someone will be here soon to pick me up.”
“Oh, my apologies!” I say quickly, bowing my head like I am wearing a headwear of yesteryear. “I often let my mouth run adrift.”
“It’s no problem. Really.” She pauses, her eyes a bit tight-looking around the edges. “It’s just…” She bites her lower lip and then lets words tumble out in a jumbled dance, “I’ve not been on a date with anyone in a really long time and I’m absolutely, totally, nauseatingly nervous. And on top of that is guilt. Loads of guilt because my beautiful niece is still out there somewhere, maybe suffering. And I’m going on a date. A date!” She crosses her arms protectively over her body and sighs. “I shouldn’t be doing anything other than trying to find Tilda.”
I hate her words.
I hate that she is waiting for someone to take her out, someone who will have romantic feelings and make romantic gestures. I want to be that someone. I’ve known her since she was a child. I’ve watched her body change into womanhood. I did not realize how deeply I craved her until my need for freedom was first satisfied. I swallow, feeling a knot of emotion stuck in my throat. “You can’t stop living your life simply because something has gone wrong, as horrible as that something might be. Life is about forward motion, not stagnation. Believe me,” my smile is small, wistful, my hand rests on the door frame of her studio’s entrance, “I’ve lived frozen in one spot for a long, long time. The body and soul need freedom.”
As I walk away from her, I will her to think on my words. I will her to stay where she is, to feel the absolute prison that is being trapped in one spot for a period of time that feels never-ending. I know, by softly touching her mind, that she does stay still, staring at the doorway to her studio. I can feel the tension in her body as she realizes that she’s immobile, and that immobility is not of her doing.
Whilst I am gone from her, pretending to phone a towing service, I push little pulses of energy into her soul, heart, muscles. I give her the potential to see me as something more than just a stranger. Before I leave the studio, I spy the couch with its pillows and blankets. Everything is tousled. She sleeps here often, I muse, before lifting one of the cushions and tucking the satchel into the darkness beneath.
Step one.
Step one onto forever.
When I return, our eyes meet. Jen can feel me. And I can feel her.
I listen to her thoughts; I listen to her mental talk of butterflies. And I give her those.
Thousands.
Millions.
Flitting about her stomach in such a way to make her insides dance and coil.
Our connection is broken, fast and cruel, by the honking of a horn outside.
My borrowed magic rushes out of the house in angry waves to see who has arrived. It’s that man, the same officer who’d captured her attention after our brief interlude at the café. Rage.
I feel rage.
And I feel the girl witch poking at me once again, trying to find weakness to exploit.
I cannot even focus properly on what happens next. I go through the motions of meeting Archie. At some point, I speak, telling him to take care of her. Then I go through the pain of watching him escort her gently back into the house. I use my magic and mind to watch them as I walk away. He leads her to the table. He helps her to sit. I feel I am already fading from her.
So I make myself fade completely. I
steal the memories of my face, the memories of our meetings, from her, the same way I stole the idea of the ‘it’ she feared in the forest. Until I am a nothingness that tiptoes in the corners of her psyche. Next we meet, will be perfect. Next we meet, she will feel she has known me before, but in a way that is otherworldly, transcending whatever story I feed her.
Next we meet, she will be mine. And that girl… that girl… will not interfere. I care too much to do to Jen what I have done to Hoyt, to subject him to the whims of that original witch who ruined me, but I will make a holding place, so perfect. She will love me.
Protect her
-Tilda-
I’ve been in the forest thirteen days now.
Thirteen.
Thirteen.
I remember that birthday.
My parents ordered a clown.
He was… obscene looking and smelled of beer.
My brother…
No, I don’t want to think about that.
I’ve been in the forest for thirteen days.
Again, that is what Mom has said. I don’t know how she keeps up with the passing of real time. To me, it feels like millennia.
I see Jon randomly throughout the day, whenever he decides he’s ‘bored enough’ to warrant a visit.
He always acts like he’s there because he has nothing better to do.
But I think he craves the company as badly as I do.
When he is around, he and Mom exchange glances.
He’d said she’s taken care of him while she’s been trapped here. He cares about her.
I assume she must care about him.
They whisper sometimes, whilst I’m practicing something Mom is trying to teach me.
I get the impression they are hiding something from me.
That could be my paranoia talking though.
I’ve been worried ever since Toady made his second appearance.
I’ve tried to push out, several times, beyond the forest to find Hoyt, sending tendrils of magic like unseen numerous spyglasses.
But I cannot, and that makes me so afraid. I know Jen is there. Her I can feel. But not Hoyt. Not Hoyt…
He has to be okay. He has to be.
Mother says I shouldn’t watch the witchfinder, that I do not know when I am projecting and when I am simply seeing his time linear to time here. She says it is a risk. It is one I must take. Whatever time I am reaching backwards or forwards to, I have to protect Jen.
I am watching him from the moment he leaves his car by the side of the road and begins his slow, leisurely walk to our house. He’s not parked far away. As he moves away from the vehicle, a flick of his wrists causes the car to become camouflaged against the backdrop of roadside bushes and flowers. The only reason I can see it is because I am inside of his mind, clinging ever so lightly to him so that he cannot feel me. At least not yet.
Arianna has appeared again. She’s flying lazily though, unlike herself… or what I think is like herself, as I’ve only known her a short while. Something has happened, something has weakened her. I feel it has, at least…
“Are you okay?” I whisper up at the fairy. She nods slowly. I cannot keep my attention on her for long, not and keep up my delicate hold on M.H. So I go back to him as he moves away from the hidden vehicle.
I wonder why he bothers with the illusion. Anyone passing would just assume the car ran out of gas or the owner was taking a stroll through the popular, dense wood not too far away. Jen’s never minded the hikers. She says it gives the land life. Maybe he hides the car because it’s stolen. I can still see the elderly woman’s face, warped in confusion, as she gave away her husband’s prized convertible whilst standing in front of the grocery story, juggling heavy-looking bags of food.
He is planning his approach, thinking over their last interaction at the café. He wants to have her undivided attention this time and he’s worked up a spell to satisfy that end. He also carries a soft bag of something in his pocket. I only know this because he thinks of it for a moment and pats his hand across the pants material to ensure it is still there. I’m afraid if I dig deeper into his psyche, then I will be discovered. I am trying, ever so hard, to focus on him only enough to see and feel, but not interfere. Mother is coaching me. On the other side of this traveler’s veil, I can hear her whispers.
“Hold lightly, my love. As lightly as if you will crush the most delicate of bird’s eggs in your palm if you apply even the slightest of pressures.”
So I am the holder of a feather, light as air, and I walk within his mind with careful footsteps over already-shattered egg shells.
When he gets to the house, I hold my breath. I want to fight him now. I want to lasso my power and pull it to me so fast and hard that he is instantly shoved back into his prison. I am not strong enough yet though, mother has made that infinitely clear.
He knocks. Jen doesn’t respond. He knocks again.
And then a crashing sound, followed by a curse word, and I find that I am smiling despite the situation because I miss Jen. I miss her so much. I may not be able to fight M.H., but I can do something else to keep him from Jen.
Leaving his mind, I focus on the back door. I try and pull only enough of my magic back that he will not notice, but of course he does. Almost instantly, when Jen cannot immediately open the door. She apologizes, bends back a little to use her body weight to pull the door open. I yank more of my stolen magic back to me. I magically glue the door in place. I can feel sweat building on my physical body, beginning to trail down my skin and dampen my ruined dress. I’m not strong enough. I worry I will never be strong enough.
I’ve done this before, I remind myself; I’ve taken my power back and saved Jon. I can do this.
But there’s something different here, about this situation. M.H.’s will is stronger than mine here. I don’t understand that. I don’t. How can my desire to save Jon outweigh my desire to protect Jen? It’s not possible.
***
I try. I try so hard to cling to my power.
But I fail.
And Jen opens the door to reveal M.H.
It is like his twisted, blackened soul smiles at my corporeal form. He is taunting me, making sure I know that he has won. He has won.
This time.
I fall back into the woods; the ethereal shadow of my traveling essence melts back into my body which is lying upon the soft blankets across the bed of the forest room. It takes me a few moments to reorient myself. When I do, I see that Jon is sitting nearby, watching me. He smiles when I first notice him, but then his face crumples back into its normal polite boredom. We barely know one another, but I already find that I wish he’d stop the act and be truthful. He likes me. And I like him.
As a friend of course.
Mom is stood on the other side of me; I turn my head to find her. Her face is a pale sadness. “It’s alright, My Little Witch. We will find a way.”
“I’m not strong enough, mom. You keep teaching me new things, but I’m not strong enough. I can’t protect her.”
“You are strong enough. You just need time. A little more time.”
I shake my head hard, tears building in the corners of my eyes. “I can’t do this.” I feel like I am curled into a ball again, dead legs yanked towards my chest because they will never work properly again. I feel like I am a cripple again, a wheelchair-bound burden. Legs or no legs, I’m helpless.
“Stop it, Tilda. Stop beating yourself up. This burden is not only on your shoulders. It is on mine as well. I should have been honest with you, with Jen. I should have prepared you somehow. I knew the threat that waited in this forest. I knew and I did not warn anyone. Jen is my sister. I should have told her. She never thought she belonged, never thought I loved her as much as she loved me. We fought so many times.”
“Mom, what if he takes Jen’s power too? What if he… what if he kills her or finds a way to lock her in here too? What can we do?”
Mom actually smiles then, her whole demeanor shifting. “I told you
that this burden is not only on you, my love. I have protected her in another way, shielded her. Trust me when I say that the witchfinder does not even realize that there is power to steal.” She brushes her fingers through my hair then, swiping away sweaty, wispy strands.
I do not know what Mom has done. I do not know if we can protect Jen. I fear she is a fly flitting too close to his dangerous web. I fear she will be caught in the sticky threads he has woven so carefully. We will keep trying though. We have to keep trying.
Mortal Tether
-Hoyt-
Eleven days since Tilda’s disappearance.
Three days wandering the Neverwhere. At least, that is how long I think it has been, by the rising and falling of light in this place.
Has it been fourteen days then? Fourteen… fading into forever.
I feel I can move no further into these woods.
And I’ve only been walking for a short while. There is something here, clinging to the bark and leaves, that creates an effect like walking through waist-high water. Yet, it is not water at all. It is mud, thick and dark. It is a resistance that is alive and cognizant of the world around it.
But I keep moving. I keep moving, because I have to.
***
I am still walking. I stumble, reaching for the trunk of a nearby tree, and I gasp when it moves beneath my touch and begins to walk away.
Two trees. Two trunks.
Two legs.
The creature is so tall that I cannot see its arms or its face, or even if it possesses these bodily features. The thing strides with ease through the dense woods. From that moment, I resolve to touch nothing save for the ground beneath my shoes. And, I fear, even that is a risk.
***
I am still walking.
I feel it has been days, but the sky above me has not lightened or darkened. I do not know if it is day or night. I am caught in perpetual twilight.