Hexen's Binding

by J. Kowallis

  She stops and her face falls at the mention of Coll dying. “Are you sure?” she whispers.

  I sit back further in my chair, her panicked look making me feel uneasy. “Pretty sure. The setting is Bryden, on the same day Coll and I got the staff. I think I’m just feeling guilty. It’s my fault Garrit hit him with that memory hex and if it had been a tás, he would have died.”

  Angelica nods and sets the herbs on the table, reaching for her mortar and pestle. “Tell me more about your interactions with Hellia.”

  “Um,” I lift the tea mug, “often I see runes and images in the candle flames. That’s how I realized she was communicating with me. Trying to show me things. Lead me where she wanted me. Honestly, I wonder if this whole timeline change was part of her plan. Though, I haven’t yet been able to figure out how it plays to her advantage.”

  “You’re shaken. Unfamiliar in your new territory, and before the switch, you were beginning to pick things up. Better to have you unfamiliar in your day-to-day world while also stumbling around in the hexen world too.”

  Angie grinds up a small chunk of charcoal, adds some dried dill and rosemary, and continues to mix it all into a fine powder. She works without talking to us, so I lift the tea to my mouth and sip. Immediately, I set the cup down and clear my throat. It’s exactly like Coll’s. Not one bit different. Slowly pushing it away from myself, I watch the older woman pour the fine powder into a small silver bowl that’s tarnished with burn marks and then slide it over in front of me.

  With a snap of her fingers, she lights the powder on fire and then eases it down to a gentle ember for only a few moments before extinguishing the heat and leaving behind a lacing, curling smoke.

  “Breathe,” she says to me.

  “What is this for?”

  “Did your dad not bring you to me to block your mind?”

  “I thought we were going to try and retrieve my memories.”

  Angie sighs and gives Alaric a look of irritation. “We can’t retrieve memories that aren’t hers. They may be hers in this timeline, but you’re not from this timeline. Now, breathe, dammit.”

  I clear my throat before taking a breath or two in and out before she glares at me.

  “What? Are you an asthmatic? Breathe deeply!”

  I take one breath in and choke on the smell.

  “There we go. A few more like that, and we’ll have it circulating in your bloodstream. Again.”

  I inhale a second time, this time prepared for the burn of the spicy smoke in my throat and lungs. I hold onto it for a brief spell before exhaling.

  “Again. One more time. Just like that.”

  The third time, the smoke almost infiltrates my brain, making the room feel like it’s shifting from side to side.

  “Now, keep breathing in . . . and out. Steady. Rhythmic.” She moves behind me, placing her hands on my head, one just above each ear. “In, and out,” she says softly. “In, and out.”

  I close my eyes, concentrating on each inhalation.

  “Tor af jernainn. Boske af steiche. Tankte stroige gi núth. Blíde di aléin.” Angelica breathes in deep, saying the lines a second time. Her voice becomes feathery . . . deep, but atmospheric.

  “Tor af jernainn. Boske af steiche. Tankte stroige gi núth. Blíde di aléin.”

  The sensation in my head crushes down on my brain. As if there’s a vice slowly cranking, tightening against my head. Focus, I tell myself. Focus on the breathing. The smoke. The smell.

  “Tor af jernainn. Boske af steiche. Tankte stroige gi núth. Blíde di aléin,” she repeats the words again a third time. Something pulls around the inside of my skull, wrapping tightly. With the final word, a lock sets in place with an actual snap in my ears. That wall Alaric once set into place vanishes. It’s replaced by a warm tingling behind my eyes.

  Alaric leans forward from his seat. “Did it work?”

  Once, twice I nod. “I think so. I felt this incredible pressure in my brain, or around it. When the last words were spoken, there was almost this physical click, and now I feel normal. I mean,” I bob my head side to side a couple times, “things are a bit warmer than they used to be. Like I have a tiny heating pad on my brain, but otherwise normal.”

  “Good,” Angelica confirms, pulling the bowl away from me. The smoke died away for the most part and all that remains are bits of ash and black scorch marks. She sets it on the kitchen counter, a thick slab of what looks like wych elm.

  Wych. Huh. She has a punny sense of humor.

  Brushing her hands on her jeans, she turns around, leans on the counter, and folds her arms. “You shouldn’t have any more issues with Hellia getting in your mind. Our job, now, is to find out exactly what she wants, why she picked you, and how we’re going to set things right.”

  “I know why she picked me. I’m part of the prophecy.”

  Angelica holds up a finger. “Part of. There are two of you. And for some reason, she went after you. Not Coll.” She tilts her head, those dark eyes hinting they already know the answer.

  Resigned, I sit back in my chair, tugging the handle of my mug from left to right. “Because I was the only one of the two of us unpracticed enough to let her in.”

  “No. She could have gotten into Coll’s mind just as easily.” Angie coughs, breathing in some of the lingering smoke. “Though your inexperience may have attracted her to you. The good news is that while you may not exactly have the memories of this timeline, in this reality, you actually developed your skills. You focused your energies into both the craft and your profession. So, you won’t remember learning it, but . . .” she points at my head, “perhaps we can tap into some of the knowledge you acquired.”

  I purse my lips, pivoting the mug to the left again. “How do we do that?”

  “We teach it to you. All over again.”

  I look at Angelica under my eyelashes. “You’re kidding.”

  “There’s no quick fix to this. However, with mind and muscle memory, they should come to you rather quickly. You don’t have to get back to work, do you?” she asks.

  I shake my head. “No. I’m on sabbatical this semester.”

  “We planned ahead,” Alaric adds.

  “Good.” Angelica smiles. “Well, let’s get started.” She pushes away from the counter and leaves the kitchen.

  Eyes wide, I swivel in my chair. “What? We’re starting right now?”

  “We’ve got nearly thirty years of makeup work to do. Come on, Grim!” she shouts from the living room.

  I look at Alaric, disbelieving. All I get from him is an apologetic smirk and a shrug.

  “You’ve got to be kidding me,” I sigh, looking at the pendulum wall clock at the other end of the kitchen. “It’s eleven o’clock.”

  “Right,” Angelica says, setting up a circle of Ravn crest candles in the living room—the symbol of the Ravn clan imprinted into the sides of the tall pillars. Two ravens seemingly joined at the hip, one looking right, one looking left. Their right and left wings, respectively, are lifted to the side and the joint tail feathers point to the ground as if forming one large cross. In the center, between the two birds are two runes. Uruz, or “strength of will” which looks like an upside-down lopsided V, and eolh, “defense of that which one loves” which looks like a Christian cross whose arms are reaching for the sky.

  She hexes back the furniture to make space and stands to look at her handiwork. “All right,” she twists around to lock eyes with me, “come.”

  I stand out of my seat and join her in the living room. This is her classroom, so I don’t say a word.

  “Right, first thing’s first. Basics. Light the candles.”

  My jaw goes slack and I nearly roll my eyes. “Light the candles? That’s all?”

  “Unless you can’t.”

  I snap my fingers and every single one of the candle wicks burst into flame, licking, dancing, and communing with the air.

  Angelica smiles. “Good. Next lesson, I want you to summon my grimoire for me.�
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  “Where is it?”

  “Doesn’t matter. Just summon it.”

  “Áilleacré,” I pause, thinking of how to summon the book from somewhere I don’t know, “leor afen Angelica.” Angelica’s grimoire.

  The moment I say the words, I know they’re wrong. They reform in my mind, and quickly. “Áilleacré Ravn litriboch.” I hold my hands out and a large book, weighing nearly thirty pounds appears in my hands. I stumble with it a little before I smile and hand it off to Angelica.

  “Perfect,” she smiles. “How did you know which words to use the second time?”

  I shake my head. “I don’t know. They just came to me.”

  She hums. “Hopefully the rest will ‘come’ just as easily. Now, have a seat at the east end of the circle, right over there. You’re going to be up late, so Alaric?” she turns to my dad.

  “Yup?”

  “Will you make us something strong? Coffee, and a little whorla mix.”

  “Whorla?” I ask, stumbling back a step.

  Angie’s mouth slowly pulls up into a smile. “Is there a problem with that?”

  “Whorla is like speed. Times ten.”

  “Angie . . .” Alaric’s voice sounds cautionary.

  “What? We have a lot to learn.” She hefts the book onto her hip. “It’s time we tighten the noose a bit.”

  Four

  The smell of fresh bread, spices, and potatoes fills my senses. I groan and roll over, my legs tangled in some thin sheets while a beam of light pierces my eyes. I flinch and knock my head against the wood bed post. This is all followed by another groan. I rub my head and open my eyes.

  I hardly remember making it to bed this morning. Or sleeping at all for that matter. Angelica, or “Angie” as Alaric calls her, kept me up long after five. I performed the three basic spells at least three thousand times. Peace and central clarity, healing—a spell for which she kept slicing my finger open—and, of course, summoning. I summoned bowls, oils, powders, herbs, stones, water for me to drink, and so many pieces of chocolate for Angie that I finally lost count.

  I don’t know what time it is, but I can already tell it’s too early.

  “Taran! Time to wake up. You’ve got lessons waiting for you!” Alaric shouts from downstairs.

  I roll over, eyes still closed, and reach below my bed for my cell phone. Angie didn’t have any plug-in outlets in the small upstairs bedroom, so I turned it off to conserve battery life before setting it on the floor. My fingers drag along the wood floor, searching, looking, and finding nothing. I finally make myself open my eyes and peer over the bed.

  “Taran!”

  “Oh, the ancestors,” I mutter under my breath, head pounding. “I’m coming!” I finish with a yell. But when I look, the cell phone is gone.

  “Áilleacré . . .” I wave my dangling hand around trying to think of a word that can work since phones have never been a part of the hexen language, “phone!” I finally blurt out.

  Unsurprisingly, nothing happens. If that witch took it, I’m going to be pissed.

  I kick the blankets off and take a deep breath. I was so tired, I didn’t even shower last night. I sit on the edge of the bed, looking around the room. White walls, bare wooden beams. Ivory curtains featuring delicate floral embroidery dangle like a skirt from the single window that sits relatively close to the floor. The only other decorations in the room are a plain, woven ivory rug, a vanity with a chair and mirror, and a wall hanging of the moon cycles.

  A few minutes, possibly seconds, tick by before I feel like standing up. The large t-shirt Angie gave me to sleep in last night falls against my upper thighs. I look down at the front of it, pulling the hem down and away from me so I can see it better. Adidas, and the brand logo. Simple. Retro.

  Then, I feel deflated. I release the shirt and my arms drop to my sides. The idea of starting all over again today with training makes me feel queasy. Of course, that could also be the two strong cups of black tea mixed with whorla Angie made me consume last night.

  My bare feet shuffle along the woven rugs that cover the wood floors. Floors that are easily a couple centuries old. Down the stairs, I drag my fingers along the wall and drop to the bottom. In the kitchen, Alaric sits at the table, a cup of coffee in hand with a large plate nearly scraped clean. Helpings of bacon, sausages, puddings, scrambled eggs, and potatoes spread out across the table. The smell of the meats curls the hairs in my nose, and I grimace. But those potatoes . . ..

  I grab an empty plate and pile up the potatoes along with a healthy chunk of fresh soda bread. Alaric watches me with amused ridicule, sipping from his coffee.

  “You still avoid meat?”

  My lips press together in annoyance. “Years ago, Móraí butchered a lamb in front of me. That’s not something you easily forget.”

  “I remember,” he smiles.

  I perk up at that, setting my plate on the table. “You do?”

  “I saw it. I wasn’t there, but I saw it. You were seven. Mamor,” he pauses, “took you out and let you pick out the lamb for the Ostara feast, not telling you why. Then she slit its throat and made you stay while she skinned it, gutted it, and prepared it for the spit.”

  I pick up a fork and jab it into one of the boiled potatoes. “The smell of meat still makes me sick.”

  Alaric laughs through his nose. “You know, I used to think that you were Druw because of that. You always were a little more connected to the spirit of creatures rather than the physical benefits of them.”

  I chew slowly on the potatoes, the delicious herbs and seasonings jolting my salivary glands. “I didn’t even know about the Druws until Coll told me,” I finally reply swallowing my first bite.

  “That’s because I made sure he knew everything he needed,” Angie says, walking in the front door with a small bundle of firewood. The collection of beaded necklaces around her neck—at least eight of them, some made with multiple strands—clatters against the firewood. Her gray roots and maroon hair are stark against the mint green bandana she wrapped around her forehead. The best part of the outfit? The striped, wide-leg pants, complete with olive green, strawberry, black, and white colors. “At least, I did in this timeline. You look good in that shirt, by the way,” she adds.

  I smile in return. “Oh, you made sure he knew everything in my timeline too. You know,” I pop another chunk of potato in my mouth, talking with my mouth full, “that’s another question I have. Why did you train Coll and not Emilia and Sera?” I swallow. “They told me Coll gave them a power binding potion. Or something like that.”

  Angie rolls her eyes, then continues into the living room where she drops open the hatch to the simple wood-burning cast iron stove. “Oh, that boy. He was so insistent that they have a normal life. After the murder of their parents, which was an event he was forced to watch, he—”

  “Forced?” If blood could actually chill, I’m sure mine would be doing it right now. “He watched his parents’ murders?” I look from Angie, to my dad, and back to her. His face is still, while she wears a look of weariness.

  She sighs, nods. “Yes. He was only seven when it happened. His father threw him and the two girls into the closet and performed a sealing hex on the lock. Though, Collens still saw plenty through the crack under the door. Took me about six hours to break through that hex and get them out. Powerful little bugger.”

  Thrown in a closet. Not much different than a cupboard. Chills tickle my skin. It’s like our histories got swapped. Him watching his parents’ deaths from a closet. Me watching my own father’s from a cupboard.

  “Wait,” I skewer my fork into the air, a potato stuck to the end of it. “You already knew the Donovans?”

  “Of course. Their home was just north of here. In Wexford. Michael pegged me as a hexen the moment I moved here in ‘79. I was trying to sell potions, lotions, and body products from the back of my van at the time. He and Cait were newlyweds. Before they had the kids. But, before they were murdered,” she struggles with th
e word, looking at Alaric, “that night, Cait called me. Told me ‘it’s here’ and the line cut.”

  “That was almost exactly what Michael said to me,” Alaric replies softly.

  He and Angie fall silent. Even I start to think about what that moment must have been like. A moment the Coll I know never had to go through.

  “That was 1987, right?” I ask.

  Angie nods and clears her throat, “Anyway, Coll thought he was enough to protect his sisters. That’s why he buried himself in the craft and did what he could to keep them out of it.”

  I frown. “Are you not close to them anymore?”

  “Oh,” she smiles, “I see them on holidays, and Emilia, the youngest, calls me weekly.”

  A thought enters my mind. One that I have a hard time pushing away. While it pesters and pokes at me, I try my best to ignore it. Coll tried to call me. Over and over. Why wouldn’t he call Angie?

  “Are you not as close with Coll and Sera?”

  Angie’s eyes narrow, her lips purse. “Oh, you know adult children. Some continue to invest in you, some push away wanting their own space. Sera and Coll are more the latter. I try to tell myself they still care.”

  I realize she’s talking about the Coll from this time line. The Coll that had a relatively better childhood, despite witnessing his parents’ murders. Then again, the Coll from this timeline is now the Coll from my timeline with his memory wiped.

  “Come on.” Angie nods her head toward the kitchen table. “Eat up, get changed, and then we’ve got to get this cleared off. We’ll need the table for today’s lessons.”

  After shoveling the rest of my breakfast into my mouth—and admittedly, taking a bit more time to enjoy the soda bread—Angie and I clear off the table. Alaric excuses himself to go for a hike across the village, and I rush upstairs to slip on yesterday’s jeans and an old, worn sweater of Angie’s that practically hangs off my shoulder. All dressed, with my hair whipped up into a messy knot, I slink down the stairs once more. Angie nods toward a particular set of cabinets and beckons for me to help.