by Alys West
Then all of his thoughts were on the road. Easing the bike into the corners, leaning with it, his knee inches from the tarmac. Passing every car in front of him. Riding for the next hill, the next bend.
Without much conscious thought he found himself on the road past the Stones of Stenness, the dig and the Ring of Brodgar. At the T-junction, he hesitated. Left would take him towards Stromness, right to Birsay. He turned right. Passing the top of Harray Loch, the landscape grew wilder. Perhaps it wouldn’t be too late to get down to Skipi Geo and he could still do something useful.
A motor caravan and a single car were parked where the narrow road ended. Swinging into the space between them, he removed his helmet. The wind instantly whipped his hair around his face. Pushing it back, he got off the bike and walked to the edge. The tide was in, covering the causeway to the small island called the Brough of Birsay. Turning he strode along the edge of the cliff, following the path he’d walked last week. A couple of tourists were hanging around, taking photographs. He ignored them, kept walking, the wind buffeting him.
Reaching the geo, he looked down. Sea, nothing but sea. He didn’t even know if it was important. If, all these years later, there’d be any clue at all in the place Nina’s body had been found. But if he didn’t manage to get here when the bloody tide was out he’d never find out. Behind the island, clouds swept across the sky, scurrying in from the Atlantic. The sea crashed against the brown rocks beneath, the sound filling his ears. He tilted his head back as he turned to face the wind.
She’d looked so fragile. And that was all wrong. Jenna wasn’t fragile. She was smart and prickly and unpredictable but not weak. And he’d wanted to take care of her.
Fuck! He didn’t do taking care of. That wasn’t his scene. After Amber he’d promised himself he’d never get caught in that trap again.
Striding a few paces he turned and looked again out to sea. Good job he was going to be busy with the dig for the next few days. Bit of distance would do the trick. It was only because she’d been hurt. Once she was better everything’d be fine. Had to be fine. He needed her help to find whoever had done this. She might not have inherited her mother’s gifts but her instincts had been bang on today. But, once they’d found this storm-creating lunatic and the dig was finished, he was out of here.
As he headed back to the bike, he realised he was hungry. In tracking the storm witch he’d missed lunch. There must be somewhere in this arse end of nowhere he could get a meal. He’d passed the Orkney Brewery on the way here and they had a café. With luck it’d be open and he could get a pint of Dark Island with his meal. Finn was right, he did need a drink.
There was something else he needed as well. Tugging his phone from his pocket, he scrolled down until he found the number for Suzie from the lab and called it. He needed to chase up the test results on the blood they’d found at Maeshowe. And if the conversation went somewhere else, then all to the good. She’d been dropping some pretty big hints before he left. He was fairly sure she’d want to hook up when he was back in civilisation. His mobile beeped and went black. He glanced at it. No signal. Bloody typical.
Chapter 14
Late in the evening, Rachel logged onto the Crystal Goddess website and clicked straight on to the forum. Someone else must have had a similar experience. Maybe not with such catastrophic consequences but she couldn’t be the only one. She scrolled down through the posts. When she got back to the beginning of the year and the closest was a query from Willowtastic, asking if spells had a time limit and if she should redo it on the next new moon, she tapped her finger on the edge of the keyboard and stared at the screen.
Dare she ask? If the others on the forum knew what she’d done they’d hate her. She’d broken one of the Tenets of Spellwork: not to use magic to harm. Her eyes were drawn to the top of the screen. “Bright Blessings Hamnowitch” it said. She’d chosen it because Hamnovoe was the old name for Stromness, the name the Vikings had used. And it was a lot more inventive than most folks’ user names on here. She’d lost count of how many called themselves something Harry Potter related or really predictable like Star. But it wasn’t her name. No one on the site knew she was Rachel Sinclair from Orkney.
She started to type. Deleted the words and began again. And again. In the end, the question she wanted to ask was very simple. “Has anyone started a spell and not been able to stop it?” She didn’t add she hadn’t wanted to stop it. That was something she wasn’t going to admit. Not to anyone.
Replies appeared almost immediately. “OMG, that SO happened to me!” said Paganlily. “I did a spell to find the crystal I’d lost. I got the crystal back and found another two I’d lost as well. But now everyone keeps giving me crystals as presents. I must have over a hundred. My house is like a crystal healing shop! If anyone can tell me how to stop them coming I’d love to know.”
Rachel scanned through another couple of replies which were on a similar vein to Paganlily’s. Then one from Bosjack flashed up. Rachel blinked. Bosjack sounded like he’d been practising spellwork for years and he could be prickly with novices. “What was your intention when you did the spell, Hamnowitch?”
Rachel’s fingers hovered over the keyboard. How could she answer this without explaining she’d wanted to disrupt Amy’s wedding? “I wanted to create energy for a certain purpose but once that purpose was over the energy kept building and I couldn’t stop it.” Once she’d pressed send, she immediately regretted it. Bosjack was bound to see through her half-truth and if he lectured her on the forum where everyone else could see, she wasn’t sure she could handle it.
It seemed to take ages before the reply flashed up. “You must focus your intention more precisely Hamnowitch,” Bosjack’s reply read. “Try visualising more clearly. Photographs and other visual clues can help with that.”
Rachel was typing a reply to thank Bosjack when a response appeared from Sarahdipity. Quickly, she clicked on it. She’d been kind of hoping Sarahdipity would respond. She was pretty much always on the forum and was really good about helping beginners. “Did the spell simply continue for longer than you’d anticipated or did the energy intensify as well?”
Rachel’s eyes widened and her fingers tapped out a quick reply. “It wasn’t only that it went on for longer than I’d intended. It got stronger and stronger and I didn’t know what to do about it.”
The answer came quickly. “What was your intention at that point? Did you try to stop the spell?”
Rachel twisted her ring round and round. How could she explain that the energy she’d created had swept her into a cyclone of emotions as powerful as the storm going on around her?
Her little finger returned again and again to the delete button as she typed and then changed her mind. In the end, she settled on the shortest version. “Not at first. The spell kind of took me with it and it was a while before I realised I had to stop it.” Rubbing her forearms, she watched the screen. Would they read between the lines and realise what a total screw up she was? That, after what she’d done today, she had no right at all to call herself a spellworker?
“Don’t worry,” Sarahdipity’s response said. “It’s happened to all of us at one time or another. The important thing is that you managed to stop it. I’m guessing you stopped it or you’d have asked how to do that, and that’s a whole different answer!”
Rachel blew out a long breath as she typed again. “Yes, I did stop it. In the end! And thanks. I was starting to think I was the only one this had happened to!”
A second later, another message flashed up. This one was from Bosjack explaining to her the importance of focusing her mind and holding on to her intention. He recommended that she went back to visualisation exercises and didn’t do any more spellwork until she was sure she could retain her intention with absolute clarity. If she didn’t, he warned, she was in danger of harming herself and others as she couldn’t control what she sent out into the world.
She winced. The reassurance she’d felt on reading Sarahdipit
y’s response vanished. Her shoulders hunched. Bosjack was right. She had to go back to the beginner’s exercises.
She rubbed her eyes, and behind the lids, the scene outside the Cathedral re-formed. The falling stone, the crash as it went through the window and then the scream which went on and on. She had to stop doing magic. She’d hurt folk today and whether she’d wanted to or not didn’t matter. BBC Radio Orkney had been tweeting updates. Duncan had been transferred by air ambulance to Aberdeen and Amy was in the Balfour overnight for observation. Another eight folk who’d attended the wedding had been treated for serious cuts. That was her fault. She wasn’t only bad at spellwork, she was dangerous.
She was about to log off when a direct message flashed onto the screen. Automatically, she clicked on to it. It was from Sarahdipity.
“Don’t mind Bosjack. He’s always critical of anyone with potential and you have great potential, Hamnowitch. Most people have trouble getting a spell to work at all. It takes real talent to make it work so effectively you can’t get it to stop. But that kind of power requires control. You must learn to channel your power or you’ll either hurt yourself or others. I run a mentoring programme for spellworkers with real potential. And you’d fit right in, Hamnowitch. If fact, you’re one of the brightest I’ve seen in a long time. Don’t get me wrong, it’ll take hard work and determination to succeed so if you’re not serious about learning spellwork then this isn’t for you. I only take six at a time and, you’re lucky, I’ve got a space right now. I do charge for my time but it’s based on income so that no one is left out because of what they earn. But we can talk about that later. What I need to know is whether you’re ready to embrace your potential and step into your future as a spellworker? S x”
Sarahdipity thought she had potential! A smile spread across Rachel’s face. She clicked to reply to the message but then her fingers stilled. Could she afford it? She’d joined the Crystal Goddess site because it was free. Even if this mentoring programme was income based that didn’t help because she had next to nothing left each month.
Frowning, she glanced out of the window. It was nearly eleven and the sun was setting. The mountains of the island of Hoy were silhouetted against a sky of hot pink and glowing orange. It was a picture postcard scene of beauty and serenity and she could change it in an instant. She had to get help. Not only for herself but for the folk around her. What if she lost it when she was at work? How many people would get hurt then? No, she needed to listen to the experts. Both Sarahdipity and Bosjack said she needed to learn better control. How else was she going to do it? Nina couldn’t help her anymore.
She’d have to explain her circumstances to Sarahdipity and hope she understood. When she finally got the extra funding through from the Council it should get easier. Perhaps she’d agree to let her pay then. Clicking back on Sarahdipity’s message, Rachel began to type.
Chapter 15
On Wednesday morning Jenna woke up in her single bed in the bungalow in Birsay. She’d tried to avoid coming home. It felt like a huge backward step. But her dad had insisted and, by last night, she was tired of trying to be brave and had given in. The hospital had given her a sick note which signed her off work for a week. She had, of course, ignored it and gone into work on Monday morning, getting a lift with Paul as she wasn’t allowed to drive until the stitches came out. It’d been a mistake as she’d admitted herself when she’d burst into tears in her office two hours later overwhelmed by tasks she normally handled effortlessly. Paul had driven her home in his lunchbreak and the other duty managers were covering her shifts until the weekend. The stitches would come out on Friday and she was hoping to be well enough to return to work after that.
Hal had been to see her every day. On Sunday he’d brought a casserole cooked by his gran, on Monday he’d brought DVDs and yesterday he’d stopped for a chat on his way home from work. He was hugely excited about the Atlantis Project and he’d told her far more than she had any hope of understanding about the turbines which would be used to generate energy from the waves.
Winston had rung twice. He’d been almost surly on the phone on Sunday. When he rang on Monday he was chattier but, once he found out she was on sick leave, had promptly given her a list of things to do. She’d spent most of yesterday researching storm witches and sea witches on the internet. So far with little that was helpful but she’d tell him that when she saw him. Whenever that turned out to be.
After taking a shower, her arm wrapped in clingfilm to keep the bandage dry, and washing her hair for the first time since Saturday, she ate breakfast in the kitchen with only Jet for company. Dad was next door in the tearooms but had promised to return for a late lunch. With Jet by her side, she walked around the side of the bungalow to Mum’s room. As usual, it smelt stuffy and unused. She opened a couple of windows to let some air circulate.
It was impossible to come in here without thinking of Zoe’s picture. Was that really going to happen? The fire, the birds, the injured woman? After what’d happened at the Cathedral she wouldn’t discount anything but that kind of magic; the impossible birds, the fire, didn’t seem like something conjured by a storm witch.
If they were right about that. A folk tale wasn’t much to base a theory on.
Stopping by the CD player, she scanned the selection. Bowie, Nick Drake, Carole King, Kate Bush and, in a single nod to the twenty-first century, Paolo Nutini, for whom Mum had a rather embarrassing passion. She put Carole King’s Tapestry on and waited until the opening bars of I Feel the Earth Move flooded the room.
Stopping in front of Mum’s desk, she sat down. She’d been through everything in the days after her death but was there something else, something she’d missed which would have significance now she suspected there was a storm witch on the islands? Jenna opened the top drawer and took out the stack of papers inside. She worked systematically through each drawer, sorting the papers into piles. By the time she’d finished there were three large stacks and six smaller ones. The large ones were for The Order, Nina’s herbalism business and the Nethertown protest.
Jenna picked up the ones for The Order and moved to sit on the rug. Jet nudged her uninjured arm and she rubbed his head. “What am I missing?” she asked the dog as she stroked his ears. “I bet you know, don’t you? I just wish you could tell me.” Then, as Jet settled down, his head resting on her leg she went through the papers about The Order, reading every word, turning over each scrap to make sure she didn’t miss anything.
An hour later she knew what The Order had discussed at their meetings in the six months before their deaths; knew that Maeve Blackwell from Glastonbury had been talked about and it’d been decided to keep an eye on her activities with Eve due to report back at a future meeting; knew there’d been tensions between Tamara and Harry in the last few months. It was clear in the email exchanges Nina had printed off that she’d been acting as peacemaker. Whatever the problem was it’d been serious enough to warrant debate at the next meeting at Imbolc. There was an email sent by Harry to all of the other members of The Order which tabled a discussion of Tamara’s business interests at that meeting but infuriatingly no more details were given. What had Tamara been up to?
Moving back to Mum’s desk, she collected up the other piles. There was no point keeping these. Whatever Dad said, it was time to let things go. Mum’s room couldn’t be kept like this forever. It wasn’t healthy. As she moved her left hand to steady the pile of papers, pain shot up her arm and a catalogue from an herbal supplier slipped onto the floor. Bending, she picked it up and a card with a picture of freesias fell out. Opening it, she didn’t need to read the scrawled signature to know it was from Grace Fenwick. She’d seen this handwriting on birthday and Christmas cards all her life. The cards continued to come, even after she’d blocked Grace’s number.
Clutching the pile of papers, she moved to the window to try to decipher the wild, spiky handwriting.
“Dearest Nina,
Such a pleasure to get your letter. I could
feel your excitement as I read it. It’s wonderful that you’ve found a novice to pass your knowledge on to. I hope she realises how lucky she is to have a teacher as inspirational and wise as you. Probably not, the young are never as grateful as they should be. Luke is in trouble again. This time it’s drugs. He’s been growing pot and selling it. The police seem to turn a blind eye if you’re only using it yourself but not if you’re selling it. And from what I can tell, although Liz doesn’t give a whole lot away, he was doing it on a pretty big scale. She’s hoping he’ll get away with a caution. I did a little spell today to make sure he knows he’s always got a home here. So far, no luck, but I’ll keep hoping. He needs to get away from London and from Liz’s influence as she’ll never see what he can do rather than what he can’t. I’ve tried the new herbs that you sent and they’ve helped. The pain has eased over the past few days and I’ve been able to walk a little better. Thank you for keeping trying, my dear friend. I don’t know what I’d do without your faith in my body’s ability to heal itself. I’ll look forward to hearing more about your young friend.
Much love Grace x”
Jenna blinked back tears as she sank into the nearest chair. She could almost hear Grace’s Northumberland accent speaking the words. She couldn’t remember how many times the spellworker had come to stay. She had a big laugh that filled the bungalow, a delight in the beauty of Orkney that never faded even as the rheumatoid arthritis she suffered from made it increasingly difficult to do the walks she loved. And Jenna had cut her out after Nina died. The old guilt resurfaced like a punch in the gut.
She turned to stare out of the window. Pictures formed in her head, ones she usually pushed away, but as Carole King sang, assuring her You’ve Got a Friend, she let the memories come. A policewoman at the front door, the cold hand of panic as the woman made her sit down, spoke calmly, repeated the words when she couldn’t take them in. The world shifting, everything becoming distant as the woman offered to ring someone to be with her, helped her to book a flight home and made tea in their kitchen. Leaving a note for Rosie and a voicemail for Hal before she went to the airport. The cold clutch around her heart as the plane descended. Pippa Lloyd, of all people, being there to meet her; filling her in on the details as they crossed the Mainland in Pippa’s Mini. The impossibility of computing that Mum was gone.