by Debora Geary
Moira sat at her kitchen table, watching the first hints of light sneak over the horizon.
She wrapped her fingers yet again around her lukewarm tea. It had been a long, solitary night. Sentry duty and vigil both. And sorrow for the terrible forces rending the hearts of some of their strongest.
She wouldn’t sit alone much longer.
The footsteps in the hallway didn’t surprise her. She knew they would come—she simply didn’t know in what order.
Jamie settled the kettle back on the stove as he came into the kitchen. The kiss he dropped on her forehead was gentle—the grip of his hands on the table, less so.
His face wore fierce exhaustion. Moira touched some of the deeper lines, heart aching. “How’s Nat?”
“Sleeping.”
Said in tones that suggested it had taken a lot of painful work to get her that way. Moira patted his hand. “Good. Sleep will help her heal.”
“How the hell does she heal from this?” His flailing hands nearly punched a hole in her wall. “She feels like she chose one child over the other. We said good-bye last night, but this isn’t nearly over.”
The knives that chopped up his heart sliced at Moira’s too. “Grieving isn’t a fast journey.” But it was very good news that they’d taken the first steps, however painful. “I yelled at the stars last night for you.”
That brought a touch of light to his eyes, and some of the jagged magic streaming off him eased. “Is that why it’s cloudy this morning?”
She was just an old woman with no power over the heavens. “It’s a fine thing to be angry. I imagine I’m not the only one carrying some of that.”
He nodded slowly. “Fury’s a hard one for Nat.”
“Aye. And peace will be a hard one for you.” She took his hand. “But you will help each other, just as you always do.”
“She’s worried about Ginia.”
That, at least, she could ease a little. “Children raised in love are very resilient. She sleeps, and Nell says she no longer clutches at guilt.” She ran her fingers over Jamie’s hands as they trembled. “Nat did a beautiful job of making sure of that.”
He looked down at the table, but she felt something settling. “It took me until two o’clock this morning to realize that Ginia’s answer wouldn’t have changed our decision.” Love moved across his face. “Nat knew that yesterday.”
So Moira had suspected. “You would never have let Ginia shoulder that weight. Either of you.” But the child would be far more whole today because she’d been allowed to try. “I think Nell knew that too.”
He managed a flicker of a smile. “Playing catch-up again, am I?”
She could see the words kicking around in his head and gut. “Natalia Sullivan knows how to take the hard steps of a journey as well as anyone. And the importance of finding the fullest stretch.”
“She walked through fire. And took Ginia with her.” His hands were shaking in hers again. “God. Always, she gives.” He paused, throat visibly knotting. “She woke up last night. She was having a dream. Where she chose one child over the other.”
Moira’s heart bled for them both. In a very real way, that’s exactly what Nat’s body had done. “She chose to protect Kenna.”
Jamie’s eyes were full of shards she couldn’t read.
She needed to know. He needed to know. Moira reached out and touched the cheeks of the man whose eyes had not yet closed this night, and asked him to look into the dark. “Are you angry with her? For choosing as she has?”
Jamie froze, every smidgen of color draining from his cheeks. “No.” His voice raked out over a thousand nails. “Of course not. No.”
His horror was balm to Moira’s soul—and it would be to Nat’s as well. “She needs to know that.”
Very slowly, his face came back from the dead. “I’ll make sure.”
So very gently, she led him to the next step. “I’ve always counted your wee boy as one as my own.”
Jamie’s hands covered hers. “But he isn’t real. And Kenna is.”
The Irish had a far more fluid definition of “real”, but she took his meaning. “Your daughter’s magic is fierce.”
“Yeah.” He nodded, following the cookie crumbs of her words. “And hard enough to keep under wraps as it is. Nat still keeps her safe.” Conviction, now.
Moira’s healer instincts quieted. Good. This would not come between them. “Kenna chose her parents incredibly well.”
He played with the fringes of a napkin, a smile tickling the edges of his mouth. “Ginia says that what Nat did for Kenna—it was magic. That for one, tiny moment, my wife was a witch.”
So had gone the quiet theories spoken in her pool in the dead of night. “Perhaps.” Moira paused, and then added a dollop of good healer intuition. “Or perhaps Natalia Sullivan knows things about the power of love that the rest of us are just beginning to discover.”
“Yeah.” His face was losing some of the awful pallor he’d arrived with. “It fits her, you know.”
Now it was an old Irish witch trying to catch up.
He took the lukewarm tea out of her hands. “Standing on the cusp of Kenna’s power and meeting it with love. She’s spent her whole life learning how to balance. If anyone could pull that off, it would be her.”
Moira had seen the graceful joy of Nat upside down, standing on her hands as easily as most people walked. But she had also seen the adaptable, energetic boy grow into the man across the table. “She’s not the only one who knows how to balance.”
He nodded slowly. “Witch Central is already rallying around us.”
As they should. There were Solstice celebrations and birthdays and life to get on with. But the Irish knew that grief could walk hand in hand with life. “There will still be tears. Seek them out and honor them.”
He would. They all would.
She imagined that when it came to the face of the boy they all loved, even the snowman wept.
-o0o-
Nell knocked quietly at the door to her daughter’s room.
Healing had begun—but there was a long road ahead yet. And they were all doing the careful dance of allowing Ginia enough space, but not too much.
“Hi, Mama.” Said by a girl curled up in a window seat, eyes on something far away.
But it was welcome enough. Nell crossed over to the nest of comfy pillows. “Hi, yourself. Want some of Lizard’s eggnog?” It was a true measure of her siblings’ love that there was any left.
“Maybe later. I’m not very thirsty right now.”
Yeah. Still a long road. Nell set down the glass on a low bookshelf. Sometimes mamas knew better than to take “no” for an answer. “I’ll leave it here. I bet it tastes a lot better than one of Sophie’s green smoothies.”
Ginia managed a decent eye roll. Threat received, loud and clear.
Smart kiddo. Nell found herself a spot on the window seat and cuddled a shiny red cushion to her chest. “You guys have some new pillows in here.”
“Mia sewed that one. Helga showed her how, from this cool old dress with a hole that we found at the thrift store.”
That was news. The girls’ world was expanding, and their mama didn’t have tabs on all of it anymore. “I didn’t know Helga knew how to sew.”
“She can do everything.” Ginia grinned, momentarily distracted. “She even jumped out of an airplane once.”
Only in Witch Central could an eighty-one-year-old woman be a source of maternal terror. “If you guys decide to try that, do me a favor and make Uncle Devin go first.” Right after he duct-taped her children to the plane.
It was a good line—and nobody heard it. One preteen girl, sunk back into her funk as fast as she’d come out.
That was okay. The words would come when they were ready.
“Auntie Nat had to say good-bye to one baby so she could keep her other baby safe.” Ginia’s eyes were lost in deep, sad thought.
“Yes.” Nell tried to keep her tremors internal. “She’s one of th
e bravest people I know.”
Ginia’s arms hugged her knees. “Being a grown-up is really hard.”
Fury sparked in a mother’s veins. Nat wasn’t the person who’d thought she held the power in her hands to fix the impossible. The universe had tried to use her daughter for cannon fodder. “Sometimes it’s not very easy to be an eleven-year-old girl, either.”
Ginia’s soft smile could have melted half of Antarctica. “Or that girl’s mama, I bet.”
Nell gathered her wise, fierce daughter into her arms, wanting to lock her into a bubble of safe forever. And knew that neither the universe nor her daughter would permit that to happen. “I’ll be okay. Just like you will, and Auntie Nat will.”
“She said I helped her.” A pink lip quavered. “When I was sitting right beside her, I kind of believed it.”
Nell wished furiously for a target and a really sharp weapon. And hated that in this moment, she had neither. “A lot harder now, huh?”
Ginia nodded, one very forlorn kiddo. “I think maybe she was just trying to make me feel better.”
“She was.” But Auntie Nat didn’t lie. Ever. And her girls knew it. “But I bet that wasn’t all she was trying to do.”
Blue eyes pondered a scrap of thread sticking out of a well-loved pillow. “She was trying to make herself feel better, too.”
Yeah. Trying to find the good in a deep ocean of crap. Nell’s desire for something to break wasn’t only on behalf of her daughter. “Sometimes, when really big, hard things happen, it takes a while for people to feel better.”
Ginia only looked sadder. “Aunt Moira says we all have journeys. Sometimes they’re pretty ones with flowers.”
And sometimes they were down through the lava flows of a really angry volcano. “This one’s going to be pretty hard for Auntie Nat.” Nell reached for her daughter’s hand. “And for the people she thought were brave enough and smart enough to walk beside her.”
It took a while for that to sink in. But when it did, small shoulders sat up a little straighter. “I promised her I could handle this part.”
A very big promise from a girl who had meant every word—and had no idea what it really meant. “Yup, you did.” Nell squeezed her girlchild a little tighter, so very proud of those small shoulders. “But trying to do it all by yourself would just be dumb.”
She stroked blonde curls, remembering when they had belonged to someone much tinier. “Your sisters are downstairs, making glitter snowflakes.”
Ginia cuddled in, considering. “I bet they drank the rest of the eggnog.”
“Probably.” Not a chance. “But I bet you guys could trade Lizard some snowflakes for more.” She gave the shoulders one last hug and let go. Mission accomplished.
The child who slid off her lap wasn’t smiling yet. But she would be.
-o0o-
So many things still frothing in her soul. And no amount of breathing or tongue-twisting asanas was quieting them down.
So Nat had come to wisdom’s source.
She wrapped herself in layers of wooly warmth and took a seat on a bench in Moira’s dormant garden, trusting that the presence of a thin-blooded Californian wouldn’t go unnoticed for long.
Moments later, a soft green blanket descended over the ones she already wore.
She looked over at the old witch who had brought it. “We can go inside if you like.” The wind was snappy. Biting. A little bit like her insides.
“Not at all.” Moira took a seat beside her. “Winter comes to balance the warm glow of summer and to teach us to cherish it. A few minutes outside in the cold helps me to remember that.”
They weren’t just talking about the weather. Nat tried to stem the twist of bitterness rising in her throat. “I thought cherishing things was a lesson I already knew.” Not one that needed to be beat into her heart again.
Oh, how she felt the absence of her small boy this morning. It was somehow all the more piercing for having let him go.
“Much is demanded of you on this journey. And it began back with the courage you used to tie Kenna to your heart.” Two weathered, strong hands reached for hers. “Hold on to that courage now, if you can.”
She laid her head on the offered shoulder. “I only did what every mother tries to do.”
“Aye. But you had more to give than many do. You did something quite miraculous for your daughter, you know.” Moira smiled, her eyes a place of warmth in the brisk day. “In that moment, some would have called you a witch.”
Somehow, that tickled Nat’s sense of humor. “I’m an awfully unlikely witch.”
“Oh, we’ve given the name to those with less.” Moira held up a hand as Nat’s breath began to protest. “I know it’s not a label you wish for yourself. And you do great good in our community by refusing to wear it.”
Nat blinked—and felt annoyance spurt. “That’s an interesting accusation.”
Moira’s chuckles held the lilt of Ireland. “It’s a high compliment, my dear. It’s only your inner turmoil that hears it as anything but.”
Words Nat had said a thousand times in yoga classes over the years. She raised one eyebrow at the woman she’d come to visit, amused despite herself.
Moira’s hands touched the blanket she’d laid around Nat’s arms. “The witching community is richer because you stand in our midst and insist with every breath that you are important and needed and true.”
That was a compliment—and one Nat would treasure. She tucked away the beautiful words and let them balm her abraded heart. “I don’t stand alone.” Witch Central embraced those without magic flowing in their veins.
Moira touched a dormant flower head and smiled gently. “No, you don’t. You’ll often hear me say that I am a weak witch, one of very small powers.”
“Yes.” Another tangent that likely wasn’t. “And every time you do it, the witches with small magics feel represented and valued.”
“Aye.” Green eyes twinkled. “And some days I pretend that’s the only reason I do it.”
There were very few people in the world who understood themselves better than Moira Doonan. Nat waited, still a little lost.
Moira caressed the flower again. Ever so slowly, it began to come to life under her fingers. “As a child, I wanted to be one of the greatest witches the world had ever seen. I would do magics that would be talked of for centuries.”
That ran so counter to the image of the old woman they all knew and loved. Nat decided it was time the compliments flowed both ways. “When did you decide that being small and persistent was as great a power as any?”
Moira plucked the single pink flower bud and held it to her cheek. “I believe it’s a lesson I’m still learning.”
Nat smiled. She knew a fib when she heard one. “I don’t believe that. You know exactly why you matter.”
The old witch chuckled. “Aye, my dear—and so do you. Don’t let that faith waver.” Green eyes grew solemn. “You have a rare, beautiful, and courageous heart. And you know how to wield it.”
Nat was pretty sure her face wore a pout that would have done a teenager proud. Nothing about this felt strong or brave.
The old witch chuckled. “We all have our weapons, my dear. And you may not feel the truth of it today, but you use yours beautifully.”
Nat stared, caught by Moira’s choice of words. Ones of power. Agency. Intent.
Her power. Her choice.
A choice made by her body, her very cells, to protect her daughter and her family. A woman walking her journey, not being dragged kicking and screaming down the road. On the mat, there were always choices.
In life, too.
Nat’s heart spilled over. “Thank you.”
Moira slipped a bright pink flower into Nat’s fingers. “You have let go of something very dear to you, and it’s left a gaping space in that glorious heart of yours. I don’t know what will fill it.” The flower petals gently unfurled. “But I trust it will be magnificent.”
Nat looked down at the fragil
e petals, braving life in the dead of winter.
And drew strength from their courage.
-o0o-
So much sadness. The orb wished mightily for the days when it had easily been able to block out the petty, troublesome emotions of the pitiful humans.
It was messenger only, not one of their kind.
But it could not help but be impressed by the way they chose to do battle with such sweeping currents of grief. By how each of them tended most to the heart of someone else. And by their depth of feeling for something not real.
A figment, a brief image—less a part of this world than even a cranky orb.
The last time the orb had been pressured to send a message, at least there had been a happy ending.
Not that tools of magic concerned themselves with such things. Managing the energies of the universe trumped puny human emotions. Nudging the world in the direction of the greater good. The forces didn’t yield to the protests of cracking hearts.
The forces didn’t have to live amongst those hearts.
Feeling something akin to that gloriousness the small girlchild did, the thing they called “temper tantrum”, the orb kicked in annoyance at the great global energies who owned its existence. It didn’t expect them to listen—they cared no more for an oversized marble than they did for a puny human heart.
And then it caught the edge of a ripple, disappearing into the edges of infinity.
An event of the past-that-had-not-happened. Outside the caring of the forces now. They looked only to the future.
Very carefully, the orb collected up the ripple’s remnants.
It thought of the old woman of ancient lineage, sobbing into her flowers. Of the wrenching, tear-soaked fury of the young girl with the magic hands who had tried to find the small boy into existence.
The faint, fading ripple was very clear—she had almost succeeded.
And that would have been very bad.
The orb thought back to the words of the one who listened. Find something that doesn’t seem important to the powers that be. Give me that.
It considered, well aware that the forces were not overly permissive. And then something akin to peace settled on its milky waters. The orb sent up a gentle signal to awaken the one who listened.