by J. Kowallis
I pull open the first and look inside. All the ingredients are organized by type, name, and purpose. The labels are all handwritten in a painfully familiar handwriting. I’ve only seen it a couple times. Once in another set of cupboards where a series of homemade teas were precisely stacked, and the second time in the university library as Coll wrote notes down on a piece of scrap paper.
“Did Coll label all of this?” I ask.
Angie looks up and smiles. “How did you know?”
“It’s his handwriting.” I finger one of the vials with an address label across it. Coll wrote lavender across it.
“He did all this about fifteen years ago. Drove him nuts that I used to just throw things up there in random containers. He was always a little obsessive with order.” She reaches up for one of the mortars and pestles tucked in the bottom corner. There are four all together in varying sizes. Hanging in the second cupboard are dried herbs and flowers. Sitting on the shelves are glass jars of pre-crushed minerals, bags of feathers, vials of labeled liquids and oils, incense, salt, and sage bundles.
I swallow slowly and continue to examine Coll’s handiwork. Admittedly, I kind of miss the jackass.
“Taran?”
“Sorry,” I say and grab the last of the tools and ingredients Angie wants. We pull it all out and place everything on the table. With the bundles, the jars, and the stoneware, it looks exactly like an ancient apothecary setup.
“Have you taken time to commune with the ancestors this morning?” Angie asks, brushing her hands on her striped pants.
“What do you mean?” I ask, straight faced.
Angie sighs and looks away from me, exasperated. “Every morning should be spent in meditation with the ancestors. How can you expect to properly wield the power they’ve given you if you don’t communicate with them?”
I nod, feeling the condemnation she’s throwing at me. “Well, is it really necessary? I’ve been doing just fine without meditation.”
She gives me a dead eye. “Not great,” she emphasizes with annoyance. “If you plan on being the one to fulfill the prophecy, grow to where you should be in your magic, and claim the birthright that is yours . . . then, yes. It’s really necessary.”
Any level of education or degree I attained over the years required the same amount of work, if not more. Why am I feeling a complaint coming on when I know all of this is going to put me—as Angie says—where I should be in my magic?
“Okay.” I shake my head. “How do I do that?”
Angie looks around. “Well, I don’t have photos of your family. That’s something you’ll have to provide.”
“I didn’t exactly prepare for this, but I do have some. Back at my apartment in Stanford. I noticed I have photos and paintings going back hundreds of years.”
She raises her eyebrows as if to ask, what are you waiting for?
“Áilleacré, teaghlien portráitter,” I whisper, thinking of the ones I can remember in my apartment. It takes a few seconds, but soon, an organized stack of framed portraits appears on the table amidst the herbs and oils. I smile at Angie.
“Weak,” she responds. “We need to get you to the point where you can summon things without having to voice your spell. A thought, a snap, and poof. There they are.”
I feel a bit defeated by her lack of praise, but then I start thinking about it. All I did was summon photo frames. A young hexen can do that at age ten.
Angie motions for me to set up the frames and I pick up the ten that I conjured, carrying them to the floor in the living room—which still hasn’t been rearranged since our practice last night. I set up the frames in a half circle around me, Angie watching while I cast my gaze for a mirror.
“Ah!’ I whisper, standing up to grab the small tabletop mirror across the room. It’s old, framed with oak and made with an intricate oak base. I set it at the crest of the half circle, along with three crest candles facing me, and kneel in front of the faces looking through their glass frames.
A quick snap of my fingers and the candles ignite.
“How did you know to do that?” Angie asks, softly. “Retrieve the mirror? I didn’t tell you to grab it.”
I pause, looking around at the things I set up so meticulously. “I . . . I don’t know. I suppose I may have seen Móraí perform something like this. The, uh, ancestral prayer she completed before I went to England.”
Angie’s lips hang open, but only slightly. She nods. “Of course. An ancestral link isn’t much different from the Ancestral Prayer itself. Though the words are quite different.” She looks at the floor, thinking something through. “Taran, I want to see if you already know the spell for the link. Can you give it a try?”
“You want me to just pull it out of thin air?”
Angie bobs her head back and forth. “More or less. I want to test something.”
“Test what?” I ask.
“I have a hunch about your craft. I just want to see if I’m right. Or, if I’m at least in the right ballpark.”
Unsure, and feeling completely overwhelmed, I take a deep breath and blow it out with puckered lips. I rest my hands on my knees, looking into each of the faces resting in front of me. Móraí’s mother, Imogene Grim, with her thinly-plucked black eyebrows, youthful face, and short hair pulled into finger waves, wears a look of near boredom—straight lips, dead set eyes, and angled shoulders. Then there’s her father, Tomas Grim. There was only one photo taken of him during his entire life. A simple side profile complete with a bushy mustache and close-cut, wavy black hair. Though his ears, on their own, look small they complement his head shape perfectly. The photos go on with my great-great-great móraí Agnes Grim, staunch and stern looking. Her black dress cinched at the neck with a cameo brooch and her hair slicked back into a tight headache-inducing bun. Erasmus Grim, a copy of an old portrait. Great-great-great-great-great-great móraí Elan. Great uncle Kemp. Johnathan Rayne, my tenth cousin, four times removed. As well as Iole Snowden, my second cousin, three times removed.
A knob forms in my throat.
I know all their names. Not only that, I know how they’re each related to me. How do I know that?
“Is there a problem?” Angie asks.
I shake my head, still taken back by the names and details rolling through my brain. Bensigne mi anut. The words shift in my brain like a book sitting on the cusp of a shelf, ready to fall to the floor. And the rest, it pops into place. I don’t know how, but like the names and relations of the people’s faces looking back at me, these words feel familiar as if I’ve said them every day of my life.
My eyes close and I take a deep breath in, sensing for the charge in the air surrounding me. Visualizing a circle of past relatives standing around me, I take a slight breath.
A feeling—a bit like a small fist knocking on a door in the recesses of my mind—enters my thoughts and my breath catches. Using my craft, I reach within myself with calm and balance to open the door.
First, the words enter my mind so softly, yet strongly. Just as the spells came to me the day I held onto Craniarann. That day with Coll in Bryden. This time, it’s different, though. Either Craniarann or some residual magic that inhabited in Bryden fed those spells to me somehow. But this, it’s like pulling up knowledge I already know.
“Bensigne mi anut, mo forsina. Telroinn de chear mi. Lerai mi ígenem a inag, uns lom méde agen di.”
One iteration. Simple. Submissive.
I swallow, waiting.
If I didn’t know any better, I’d think Imogene, Tomas, and Iole just looked at me from their frames. My head feels lighter, even with the seal on my mind, my chest expands wider with every breath, and I swear I taste the sweet essence of memory in the air. A gift of power—like each ancestor offered up just a sliver of their magic—soaks into my skin.
This time, I truly smile. There’s no denying I’ve done something amazing without a single ounce of help.
I look to Angie, and her eyes narrow. The woman who raised the Donovans stan
ds there with her right elbow propped against the forearm of her left—her fingers pinching her bottom lip.
“That was . . . good,” she finally responds. “Come, we have work to do.” She turns on her heel and drives into the kitchen.
“Wait,” I stand up, snapping my fingers to extinguish the flames of the pillar candles, “that’s it? I just pulled a spell out of thin air. I performed a link with my ancestors by myself. Now, I know I’m old enough to know how to do that, but this is big for me. Not only that, you claimed you had a theory about my craft. And,” I shake my head, “you’re not going to say anything?”
Angie moves some of the jars around on the broad kitchen table. Then, looks up at me. “Not right now I’m not. We have more important things to do. Get in here.” The beads around her neck clack together while she situates the table, creating space to work with. Together with the bangles at her wrists, she’s practically a one-woman band.
I carry myself into the kitchen, sliding my irritation under the metaphorical rug and place my hands on my hips, waiting.
“All right. Today, we’re going to work primarily with herbs and oils. I have everything else out as well so that we can cross over into intermediate spells as the days goes on. We have a lot to cover, and you’ll have a lot you need to remember. So . . .” she takes a deep breath, considering me for a while before turning around. Laying on its side next to the stovetop is a large leather-bound book. Imprinted on the cover is an intricate image of the mythic Tree of Life. The Himilæsa. Around the edges are stamped runes, branches, and similar imprints to the carvings that decorated Woden’s staff. The back cover reaches around to the front and latches with a hand-forged clasp.
Angie picks up the book and brings it back to me. “Open it,” she directs, handing it over.
I look her in the eye before bearing the bulk weight of it in my left arm while unfastening it with my right. When I get it open and let the pages fall open, I frown. “Nothing’s in here.”
“Exactly. The you from this timeline may have built up a world of magical knowledge, but she no longer exists. Not like she did. What we have, is you.”
I wrinkle my nose at that obvious barbed remark but let her continue.
“And you need your own collection of spells. You need a true grimoire. From what I gather, you only had a spiral bound notebook before? In your previous life? Written in gel ink?”
I run my hand over the leather cover. “Angie, I can’t—I can’t believe you did this.”
Her face softens and she glances at the leather-bound book once again before taking me in. “I did the same for Coll when he turned fifteen. I would have done the same for Sera and Emilia if they’d let me. You’re no different.”
I hold her gaze and grip the book to me. “Thank you,” I say softly.
“You’re welcome. Now, get one of those felt pens from that jar over there and let’s get started.”
Five
I curl the tip of the felt tip pen carefully around the page in delicate swirls. My lettering is getting slightly better after writing down spell after spell. The real hope is that one day I might actually have the time to sit down and perfect my line drawings as well. I squint, sitting back and examining the drawing I just attempted.
“The ginger still looks like a piece of poo,” I mutter.
I cap the felt-tipped pen and drop it on the table. It rolls a few times to the side and stops between the wooden slats.
Ginger.
I sigh, rubbing my face and digging the heels of my hands into my sockets. Dark hair falls around my face, cutting off the light beginning to filter in through the windows.
Ginger. Coll. He called me, and I ignored him. Over and over. Why did he insist on making this harder?
Pushing my hair back, I rest my chin in my hand and look at Angelica’s house. The house Coll and his sisters grew up in. It makes me wonder about the stories these walls could tell me about his childhood. Small trinkets, toys, books. Anything that would—I shake my head. Of course, there wouldn’t be. The Coll I know didn’t actually grow up here. The Coll I know, the one who forgot me, was beaten by his father, ran away from home at the age of fifteen, and only found his way to Angelica after attacking one of his own clan members. All of those experiences made him who he was—for better or worse—and who’s to say what the Coll of this timeline ended up like?
“Good. You’re up,” a voice breaks through my thoughts and I sit up straight. Angie wraps a billowing floral robe around herself. Before coming down, she wound her wild gray and maroon hair up into a disheveled bun. Her face sags a bit with exhaustion.
“I couldn’t sleep,” I admit, shutting the leather book.
“Oh?” She reaches for the kettle and fills it with water, peeking at me over her shoulder. “How come?”
Coll’s hand grips mine, both of us holding tightly to Craniarann. A thrust of magic pelts his body, sending him flying in another direction. I cringe every time at the sound he makes crunching against the wall of the stone cottage. Every time. Every time I get to him, it’s only to find he’s dead. This time, it’s no different. He has no pulse. No color.
Again. Always the same.
I clear my throat. “I had a nightmare last night.”
“About Coll?” she asks, snapping her fingers. The kettle on the stove starts to boil and a high-pitched note whistles through the kitchen.
“Yeah,” I shake my head, “and I don’t know why. He’s not dead, but I keep seeing it.”
Angelica pulls a mug down from the cupboard above and drops a small homemade teabag in it. After pouring the water into her mug, she turns to join me at the table. After taking a sip, she taps her fingernail on the leather book in front of me.
“Open it.”
Without asking why, I open it to the most recent entry—a spell for prosperity—and look at her.
“Nightmares,” she begins, “are only a small portion of the dream state. They, like the rest of your dreams, have the power to give you messages in a variety of ways.” She stops and stares at me. “Why aren’t you writing this down?”
I jump, reaching for the felt pen. Once it’s uncapped and ready, she continues.
“Some are precognitive. They give insight into either your future or someone else’s. Some hexens are rather gifted in this area and have learned to tap into their dream state while they’re awake. It’s what makes them truly powerful oracles.”
“Fortune tellers?” I ask, writing furiously.
“Oracles,” she corrects me. “Some covens or clans refer to them as medicine men or diviners. It all depends on the culture. Now, other types of dreams are symbolic and can help you to unlock secrets, and messages buried within your unconscious mind so that when you wake up, you can apply what the dream was trying to tell you.”
I smile. “You mean ‘subconscious’ mind?”
Angie goes silent and I stop writing long enough to look up at her.
“No,” she says sternly. “‘Subconscious’ thoughts can be retrieved if you focus and think hard about them. What the dream state does is unlock things your conscious mind can’t do on its own. But, whatever the dream state reveals, whether negative or positive, the things you learn are things you need to know. Or at least, things your unconscious mind is telling you, you need to know.”
I continue to write down the things she says and when I finish, I look at the words scrawling across the rough page. “I don’t think these nightmares are precognitive, though. They don’t feel like that type of a warning.”
Angie’s eyebrow lifts after she takes a sip of her tea. “So, you think they are a warning.”
“Yes, but symbolic, perhaps.” I click the end of the pen against my teeth. “I just can’t figure out what they are.”
“May I make a suggestion?” She leans forward.
I brace myself, sliding my eyes to her.
“You need to contact Collens.”
I close my eyes and shake my head.
“Why not
?” she asks.
“Why not? Aside from the fact that Sera told me to stay away?” I sit back in my chair, thinking of my final conversation with her at the front step of her apartment. “That family has been through enough. They need a break.”
“You think you’re qualified enough to make that kind of decision?” Angie takes a sip of her tea. She doesn’t sound accusatory or confrontational, just curious.
I meet her eyes and take a deep breath, letting it out slowly. “I don’t know. I doubt it would be a good time to contact him, though.”
“Why’s that?”
I hesitate, anticipating Angie’s reaction when I tell her Coll’s tried to call me repeatedly over the last few months.
“Taran?” she sets the mug down on the table and leans in.
“Well, he might have tried contacting me a couple times since I got back from England.”
Angie frowns. “How many times?”
After a resolve-strengthening breath, I admit, “Eight.”
Angie goes quiet and I swear I can actually see a furious spark in her eyes. “You and Collens are prophesied to save our race, and you ignored his calls?”
“Sera told me to leave them alone.”
“Screw Sera,” she barks. “You have a responsibility.”
Guilt washes over me and I avert my eyes. If I’m being completely honest, both with Angie and myself, the biggest reason I didn’t answer his calls is because . . . I’ve been scared. During my time with him, I felt things I never felt with any other man in my life. To reach out to him, open that door again, and risk—
I stop. Risk what? I had nothing. I lost nothing. Only some twisted hope that maybe he and I were fated in more than one way.
“I know you’re scared,” Angie answers.
My eyes dart toward her. “Scared? Of what?”
Instead of answering me, she sips her own tea and lifts her brows. “I’ll make a deal with you. Instead of making you call him right this minute, we’ll train for the day. Then tonight . . . then you call him. Understand?”