by Cate Tiernan
The farther off the main road I got, the less prosperous the land felt. I went through several tiny, poor-looking towns, each with a petrol station that might or might not function. I also saw a lot of Canadian Indians, who called themselves First Nations people, and signs for First Nations crafts and displays.
I had no idea how far down this road I was supposed to go; after that first sign, I hadn’t seen any more indications that I was heading in the right direction. Finally, when it seemed that I had gone impossibly far, I gave up and pulled over to get petrol. After I had filled the tank, I went into the small store attached to the station to pay. The storekeeper had his back to me; he was on a small wooden ladder, stocking packages of sandpaper. I hoped he spoke English.
“Excuse me,” I said, and, when he turned around, I saw that he must be part Indian.
“Yes?”
“I put in ten dollars of regular petrol,” I said, laying the Canadian money on the counter.
“Okay.” The cash register was beautiful: an old, manually operated one.
A sudden thought struck me, and in desperation I said, “Do you by any chance know of any English or Irish people who live around here?”
He thought for a moment. “You mean the witch?” he said, and I gaped at him.
"Uh. .”
“The only English I know around here is the witch,” he said helpfully. “He moved here two, three months ago.”
“Um, all right.” My mind was spinning. It was unheard of to be known so casually in a community. Even witches who weren’t hiding from Amyranth were always very circumspect, very private. We never would have identified ourselves as witches to anyone. Why did this man know? What did that mean? And why did he only mention a “he”?
“Could you tell me where they live?” I asked, with a sense of dread. Surely if this man knew about them, knew where they lived, then Amyranth did, too. What would I find when I got there?
“Sure. Let me draw you a map.”
I watched in a daze as the man quickly sketched a rough map. I thanked him and headed back to my car. I didn’t know what to think, so I started the engine and set off. The crude but accurate map led me down back roads that were even more bumpy and ill kept than the access road had been. I wished I had rented an SUV and hated the thought of what my car’s undercarriage must look like.
I was hungry, thirsty, and exhausted. I began to wonder if this whole trip had been an unworkable spell. Then I came upon a little wooden shack, the first building I’d seen in ten minutes, set back from the road. A battered Ford Escort minus its wheels stood on cinder blocks in the yard. Dead ivy vines clung to it. The yard was a wintry mess—untidy, overgrown, littered with trash. It didn’t look like anyone lived here. Obviously this wasn’t my parents’ house, though it seemed to be in the correct place on the map. I must have gotten it wrong. No witch would live in a house in this condition, with this kind of general air of neglect and poverty. A glance around the back confirmed my suspicions: Even in Canada, in winter, I should have been able to detect a cleared plot for an herb garden. But there was nothing, no sign of one. I sighed and rubbed my cold hands together.
Finally I decided to at least knock and try to get directions. I climbed up onto the porch, pulling my coat around me. This close, I felt I could detect the presence of a person, though it wasn’t strong or clear, which was unusual. I knocked on the rough, unpainted door, wincing as my cold bare knuckles rasped the wood.
Inside, there was a slight shuffling, then silence, and I knocked again. Come on, I thought. I just want directions. With no warning I felt something touch my presence, as if someone had cast their senses to identify me. My eyes widened in surprise, and then the door slowly creaked open, admitting dim light into the dark interior. My eyes instantly adjusted, and I saw that I was standing before Daniel Niall, my father, for the first time in eleven years.
5. Grief
This morning I woke up, and yes, Hunter was still gone. My heart went thunk, and I thought of the days stretching before me without him, no Hunter to talk to or to see or hold. Gadga and I were pondering this bleak reality when Mom tapped on my door and asked if I was going to church with them. Spontaneously I said yes, knowing that services would take up two hours of Hunterless time and maybe distract me for a while. So I showered and dressed and went downstairs and got sent back upstairs by the parents because I looked like a schlub. I borrowed a dress from Mary K. that fortunately is too long for her.
It started when we stepped outside. At first I thought I was imagining things—it didn’t make sense. But then I thought, Oh, Goddess, and realized that Hunter must have crafted a spell before he left town yesterday.
It was beautiful magick. I had no idea how he had done it, but I knew that he had, and I almost started crying. It was almost everywhere I looked, all morning, in the shapes of the branches, in the plume of smoke from Dad’s car’s exhaust, in the curve of Mom’s scarf as it lay over her shoulder. Somehow Hunter had woven letters and symbols and runes into almost everything I saw: crossed branches made an H, for Hunter. A crooked line of leaves in the street made an M, for Morgan. I was the rune Kor, for fire and passion, and blushed, remembering Friday night. My heart lightened when I saw Geofw. One of its uses is for strengthening relationships. And in the line of pale gray clouds floating about us I saw Peorth: hidden thing revealed and also female sexuality. Oh, Goddess, I love him so much.
— Morgan
I’ve read books where people are “struck speechless,” and to me it always sounded like they just couldn’t think on their feet. The ability to think on my feet has always been one of my strengths, but it deserted me now as I gazed at the man before me.
I knew what my father looked like: Though I had brought no photographs with me to America, I had my memories, and they had always seemed accurate and consistent and full. But they didn’t match this person in the doorway. This couldn’t be Da. It was an incredibly bad Da imitation, a hollowed-out husk of what once had been my father. My gaze darted restlessly over him, taking in the sparse gray hair, the hollow cheeks with their deep lines, the thin, almost emaciated body. His clothes were shabby, his face unshaven, and there was a dank smell of stale air emanating from the dark house. My father is only forty-six. This person looked about sixty.
He frowned at me consideringly but without wonder: He didn’t recognize me. I had a sudden, irrational urge to turn and run—something in me didn’t want to know how he had come to be in this state. I was afraid. Then, slowly, as I stood there, a dim light entered his eyes; he looked at me more closely; he measured me up and down, trying to calculate how much his son would have grown in eleven years.
A vague disbelief replaced the suspicion in his eyes, and then we were hugging wordlessly, enfolded in each other’s lanky arms like tall spiders. In my memories, my father was tall, huge. In real life I had an inch or two on him and outweighed him by maybe two stone. And I’m not hefty.
My father pulled back and held me at arm’s length, his hands on my shoulders. His eyes seemed to memorize me, to memorize my pattern, my imprint. Then he said, “Oh, Gìomanach. My son.” His voice sounded like a thin, sharp piece of slate.
“Yes,” I said, looking behind him for Mum. Goddess, if Da looked like this, what would she look like? Again I was afraid. In all my thoughts and wishes and dreams and hopes and expectations about this meeting, it had never occurred to me that I would be hurt emotionally. Physically, yes, depending on what happened with Amyranth. But not emotionally. Not feeling pain because of who my parents had become.
“You’re here alone?” Da rasped, and looked around me to examine the yard.
“Yes,” I said, feeling incapable of intelligent speech.
“Come in, then.”
I stepped through the doorway into the darkness. It was daylight outside, but every window was shuttered or curtained. The air was stale and unpleasant. I saw dusty herbs hanging from nails on the wall, a cloth that looked like an altar cloth, and candles everyw
here, their wax spilling over, their wicks guttered and untrimmed. Those were the only signs I could see that a witch lived in this house.
It was filthy. Old newspapers littered the floor, which was black with dirt. Dust was thick on everything. The furniture was old, shabby, all castoffs, put out on the junk heap and rescued—but not fixed up. The one table I saw was covered with piles of paper, dried and crumbling plants, some Canadian coins, and unsteady stacks of plates with bits of crusts and dried food.
This house was shocking. It would have been shocking to find anyone living in it, but to find a witch living in it was almost unfathomable. Though witches are notorious pack rats—mostly related to their ongoing studies of the craft— just about all of us instinctively create order and cleanliness around us. It’s easier to make magick in an ordered, purified environment. I looked around to find Da shuffling his feet awkwardly, glancing down as if embarrassed for me to be seeing this.
“Da, where’s Mum?” I asked outright, as tendrils of fear began to coil around my heart. My father staggered as if hit and bumped against the doorway leading into what I guessed was the kitchen. I reached out to steady him, but he pulled away and ran his bony hand through his unkempt hair. He looked at me thoughtfully.
“Sit down, son,” came his thin, stony voice. “I’ve imagined this conversation a thousand times. More. Fancy a cuppa?”
Through the doorway I saw that the kitchen was, if anything, even more filthy than the lounge. Unwashed pots and crockery covered every surface; the tiny cooker was black with burned grease; packages of opened food bore unmistakable signs of having been shared by mice. I felt ill.
“I’ll make it,” I said, and started rolling up my sleeves.
Twenty minutes later Da and I were seated in the room’s two armchairs; mine wobbled, and the vinyl seat was held together with silver duct tape. The tea was hot, and that was all I could say for it. I’d run the water in the sink till the rusty hue had gone and scrubbed the kettle and two mugs. That was the best I could do.
I wanted to cry, “What the hell is going on? What’s happened? ” but instead sipped my tea and tried not to grimace. I hadn’t known what to expect—I’d had images, thoughts, but no solid way of knowing what my reunion with my parents would be like. However, this scene, this reality, hadn’t come close to being on the board.
“Where’s Mum, Da?” I repeated, since no answer seemed forthcoming. Something deep inside me was afraid I already knew the answer, but there was no way I couldn’t ask it.
Da visibly flinched again, as if I had struck him. The hand holding his tea mug trembled almost uncontrollably, and tea splashed over the rim onto the chair’s arm and onto his raggedy brown corduroys.
“Your mum’s dead, son,” he said, not looking at me.
I gazed at him unwaveringly as my brain painfully processed the words one by one. They made no sense to me, yet they also made a horrible kind of sense. My mother, Fiona, was dead. In our coven some people had called her Fiona the Bright because being around her, with her flaming red hair, was like raising your face to a ray of sun. Da had called her Fiona the Beautiful. Us kids, when we were little and childishly angry, sometimes called her Fiona the Mean. And giving no respectful weight to our words, our anger, she would laugh at us: Fiona the Bright. Da was telling me she was dead, that her body was dead and gone. I had no mother and so no future chance of experiencing a mother’s love, ever again in my life.
I couldn’t cry in that house, that horrible, dark, lifeless house, in front of this person who was not the father I had known. Instead, I rose, put down my tea, and staggered out the door to my car. I climbed in, coatless, and stayed out there until I was half frozen and my tears were under control. It was a long time, and Da didn’t come after me.
When I went back in, Da was in exactly the same place I had left him, his cold, undrunk tea by his hand. I sat down again and shoved my hair off my forehead and said, "How? Why?”
He looked at me with sympathy, knowing all too well what I was feeling. “Fiona had battled ill health for years— since right after we left. Year after year we went from place to place, searching for safety. Sometimes she would do a little better, mostly she did worse. In Mexico, seven years ago, we had another close call with the dark wave—you know what that is?”
I nodded. As a Seeker, I had all too much experience with the dark wave.
“And after that it was pretty much downhill.” He paused, and I stayed silent. “Your mother was so beautiful, Gìomanach,” he said softly. “She was beautiful, but more than that, she was good, truly good, in a way few witches are. She was light itself, goodness itself. Do you remember what she looked like?” His eyes on me, suddenly sharp.
I nodded again, not trusting myself to speak.
“She didn’t look like that anymore,” he said abruptly. “It was impossible for her not to be beautiful, but every year that passed took its toll on her. Her hair was white, white as a cloud, when she died. She was thin, too thin, and her skin was like. . like paper, like fine paper: just as thin, just as white, as brittle.” He shrugged, his shoulders pointed beneath his threadbare flannel shirt. “I thought she would die when we found out about Linden.”
My head jerked up. “You know?”
Da nodded slowly, as if acknowledging it created fresh waves of pain that he could hardly bear. “We knew. I thought that would kill her. But it didn’t—not quite. Anyway. This past winter was hard. I knew the end was coming, and so did she. She was tired, so tired, Gìomanach. She didn’t want to try anymore.” His voice broke, and I winced. “Right before Yule she gave up. Gave me one last beautiful smile and slipped away, away from the pain, the fear.” His head dropped nearly to his chest; he was trying to not cry in front of me.
I was upset, angry, devastated—not just at the news of my mother’s death, but at the haggard condition of this man who appeared to be my father. Tense with inaction, I jumped up and began throwing open curtains, opening shutters. Pale, watery wintry sunlight seemed to consider streaming in, then decide against it as too much trouble. What light did enter only illuminated the pitiable condition of the house. I could see now why Da kept it dark.
This wreck of a man, this shell with his caved-in chest, his head bowed in pain and defeat, this was my da! This was the man whose anger I had feared! Whose love I had craved, whose approval I had worked for. He seemed pathetic, heartbreaking. I could only imagine what he had been going through, and going through alone, all this time. Had my mother’s death done this to him? Had Amyranth? Had years of running done it? I sank back into my chair in frustration. Two months my mother had been dead. Two months. She had died just before Yule, a Yule I had celebrated back in Widow’s Vale, with Kithic. If I had come here before Yule, I would have seen my mother alive.
“What about since then?” I asked. “What have you been doing since then?”
He looked up, seeming bewildered at my words. “Since then?” He looked around the room as if the answer was contained there. “Since then?”
Oh, this was bad. Why had he agreed to talk to the council? What was the point in all this? Maybe Da knew what bad shape he was in. Maybe he was hoping for help. He was my father. And he had the answers to a thousand questions I’d had since I was eight years old.
I tried again. “Da, what made you and Mum leave in the first place? How could you—how could you leave us behind?” My voice cracked and splintered—this was the question that had tormented me for more than half my life. How many times had I cried it aloud? How many times had I shouted it, screamed it, whispered it? Now here was the one person who could answer it, or so I hoped. Mum no longer could. Da’s eyes, once deep brown, now looked like dim pools of brackish water. They focused on me with surprising sharpness, as if he had just realized I was there.
When he didn’t answer, I went on, the questions spilling out like an unchecked river—once started, impossible to stop. “Why didn’t you contact me before Mum died? How did you know Linden died? How could
you not have contacted us when each of us was initiated?”
With each question my father’s head sank lower and lower. He made no reply, and I realized with frustration that I would get no answers, at least not today. My stomach rumbled with alarming fierceness, and I remembered I had eaten nothing since that morning. It was now five o’clock, and dark.
“Come on, Da, let’s get something to eat. We could both use it.” Without waiting for a reply, I went into the kitchen and began opening cupboards. I found a tin of tomatoes, a tin of sardines, and some half-eaten, stale crackers. The refrigerator offered no joy, either: nothing but a lone turnip, whose shriveled, lonely form increased my confusion, my concern. Why was there no food in the house? What had he been eating? Who the hell eats turnips? I went back out to the living room, seeing again how thin Da was, how fragile he seemed. Well, I was here, and I was the only son he had left, and I would take care of him.
“On second thought, let’s go out. I saw a diner in town. Come on, my treat.”
6. Turloch-eigh
June 1997
Today my cottage seems filled by a cloud of sadness. I know that this isn't a day for sorrow; it should ne a day for happy memories, for quiet contemplation and reminiscing. Yet the sorrow comes along unbidden. Today is the fifth anniversary of Mama's death.
It seems so long ago that we lived in this house together, yet I remember so much about her-her intensity, her passion for learning, the way she strove to kindle in me an appreciation for the complexity of the world. And her morality. If they knew the truth of her beliefs, many witches who revere her today would not consider my mother a moral person. Yet her heart was large, her empathy complete. She taught me healing spells and did the utmost to help animals, children, anyone who was vulnerable. She has a strong sense of right and wrong, and she felt that our family had been wronged too many times. I miss her so terribly, even five years after her death. I would like to believe that somewhere, wherever her soul is on its journey, she is aware of the work I am doing, and she is proud.