Rowan's Responsibility

by Terri Reid

Chapter Forty-nine

  “Close your eyes, Henry,” Cat said, her voice low and soothing.

  Henry complied. “Should I be picturing a white wall?” he asked.

  She chuckled. “Shut up, Henry,” she reprimanded softly. “I need to concentrate.”

  Cat placed her hands on Henry’s shoulder’s, sat back and closed her eyes. Her breathing was slow and steady as she entered Henry’s mind. She could see the images of the past few days swirling around his sensory memory. She smiled as she saw the interaction between Henry and Rowan, pleased that her sister was finally trusting someone enough to allow that physical attraction to occur and act on it.

  She moved back to the memory Henry just shared in the circle and then replayed it, watching which neurons in the back of his mind flared as he recalled the ancient memory. Focusing on that area of the brain, Cat traveled past other memories to retrieve the information from that area.

  “Have you found anything?”

  Henry’s thought was like someone shouting in an echoing chamber, ricocheting all around her. “I’m on my way,” she reassured him, keeping her thoughts low and gentle, hoping he would follow her example.

  “Sorry, didn’t realize I was yelling,” Henry responded.

  She chuckled softly. The professor was also a good student. “Do you want me to read the memories aloud when I get there?” she asked.

  “Sure,” Henry responded immediately. “We can all listen and learn at the same time.”

  Cat reached the memory swirling before her and entered it tentatively. There was no telling what she would find in such an old thought.

  “I’m back in Whitewater in the early 1900s,” she said as she walked down the wooden sidewalks that were just raised slightly above the dirt roads. “I am near the Pratt Institute of Spiritualism.”

  “Who are you?” Henry asked.

  Cat looked down. She was wearing a long skirt and carrying a book in her hands. “I’m a woman,” she said. “I’m assuming I’m your ancestor the witch, and I’m carrying my Grimoire in my hands.”

  Cat could feel tension and fear from the woman’s memory and a feeling of urgency. She crossed the road and headed to the front doors of the Institute. She pushed the doors open and stepped inside the large, wood-paneled lobby. A woman approached her and nodded, “He is expecting you.”

  Cat followed the woman down a hall that reminded her of an old college hallway. The doors were half-glass with professors’ names and specialties etched in the center. Spiritualism. Professor Schiffrin. Psychic Research. Professor Penfield.

  “Ah, Miss Goodfellow.”

  Cat turned toward the voice and saw a diminutive man, cleaning his round spectacles on a white linen handkerchief. “Mr. Pratt,” Cat heard herself speak. “Thank you for meeting with me.”

  Mr. Pratt put his glasses on and shook his head. “No, it is I who should thank you,” he replied soberly. “I understand the sacrifice you and others in your community have made because of our mistakes.”

  Cat shook her head. “You were only searching for knowledge,” she replied. “You had no idea what that would unleash.”

  “We were pompous fools, Miss Goodfellow,” he said. “Thinking that we could control and manipulate something with unlimited power.”

  Cat felt a lump in her throat and a sorrow that nearly overwhelmed her. “Obviously not unlimited, Mr. Pratt,” she replied softly. “But, certainly powerful.”

  “I am indeed so sorry for your loss,” he said, leading her towards his office.

  She pulled a well-used handkerchief from her own pocket and dabbed at the tears threatening. “Thank you,” she said, her voice thick and hoarse. “They understood the sacrifice, and they were willing.”

  He led her to a large, leather chair that stood in front of his desk, then turned and closed the office door behind them. “I understand there were children…” he began. “If I could—”

  “Only one, a daughter,” she replied, interrupting. “She is in the care of her grandmother, and they have left the area, for the safety of the child.”

  He nodded slowly. “I understand that word has spread,” he said.

  “Yes, and there already is a fervor growing in many of the churches,” she replied.

  “But you saved us,” he said, frustration in his voice. “You saved all of Whitewater.”

  She smiled. “That doesn’t matter,” she said. “What matters is that we are witches, and no one with any ounce of the blood of Merlin will be safe from the ignorant fear of the community.”

  “Are you going with the Willoughbys?” he asked.

  She shook her head. “No, I will travel back to England,” she replied. “I have family there.”

  “Then what can I do for you?” he asked. “No request is too great.”

  She lifted the large, leather-bound book and placed it on his desk. “I need you to keep this book safe,” she said. “This Grimoire holds the key to the spell the Willoughby sisters placed on the demon. In one hundred and twenty years they will need to have access to it in order to fight the demon again. This book cannot be destroyed. It must be secreted in a safe place.”

  “I can do that for you,” Mr. Pratt replied. “But why didn’t the Willoughby family take it with them?”

  “I stayed with the sisters to the end, recording every detail for their posterity,” she explained. “But the sisters insisted that their families leave long before they performed the spell. That way in case anything went wrong, the family would be safe. And that would ensure there would be progeny to fulfill the last portion of the spell.”

  “But if the book is here, how will the family know where to find it?” he asked, confused.

  “We have ways to share memories, Mr. Pratt,” she said. “At the right time, the messenger will bring this information to those who fight the demon. All I need from you is to ensure its safety.”

  “I promise you it will be safe,” he said, placing his hand on the top of the book.

  She placed her hand over his and met his eyes. “If you fail,” she said gravely, “you will have the blood of thousands, possibly millions, on your hands.”

  He nodded, equally somber. “You have my solemn oath. It will be safe.”

  Chapter Fifty

  Cat removed her hands from Henry’s face and slowly sat back, meeting Henry’s astonished eyes.

  “I want to deny this,” he whispered, shaking his head. “I want to deny it all, but I was there, walking with you.”

  Cat nodded. “You really are they key,” she said.

  “But why didn’t someone just let you know about the grimoire?” he asked. “You could have had it for years, been studying it.”

  “Grimoires can only be read by the person who wrote it or by a family member,” Rowan explained. “Or, in the case of some of the darker books, by its Master.”

  He turned to Rowan. “But I was able to read out of your great-grandmother’s grimoire the other day,” he protested.

  “Because I put a spell on the book that would allow you to read it while you were in my office,” Rowan explained.

  “A spell,” he said, shaking his head. “I had no idea.”

  An uncomfortable thought lodged in his head. Rowan put a spell on the book, and he was totally unaware. How many more spells had he been part of that he didn’t know about? How much of the Willoughby magic had influenced his life? Did they realize he was coming here the whole time? Had everything they’d said to him or done with him just been part of this whole grand plan?

  Then he turned to them. “Have I been under a spell this whole time? Have I been manipulated to come here and find this book? Has this inner thought process somehow eliminated my ability to make decisions and used me like a puppet?”

  “Henry, no,” Rowan said.

  He looked at her, then looked at all of them, and shook his head. “No, offense,” he said softly. “But… of course you’d say that. And perhaps it’s not you. Perhaps it’s not any of you, but there have defini
tely been some motivating forces in my life that have pushed me where they wanted to me go.”

  “Believe us,” Agnes said. “We were just as much in the dark about this as you have been.”

  Henry met her eyes and nodded. “I really have to think this through on my own,” he said, running his hand through his hair. “I’ve got to decide how I want to respond to all of this.”

  Agnes nodded. “Let us close the circle, Henry,” she said. “Then you are free to do what you wish.”

  He shook his head. “I’m sorry, Agnes,” he said. “But I don’t think that’s a true statement. I don’t think I’ve been free to do what I wish for a very long time.”

  Chapter Fifty-one

  Rowan sat in her bedroom, looking out the window at the barn. The large window facing the road had been boarded up, thanks to Hazel, and only the smaller windows that faced the house were visible. Henry had turned down her offer to heal his shoulder before he left the house. He had been polite, but so distant, and so suspicious. The only thing he’d taken were some pain pills and Hazel’s offer of protection for him when he walked over to the barn.

  “Henry,” she said softly. “Please, just trust me.”

  “He needs to decide his own path,” Patience said, appearing in the room beside her bed.

  “Why didn’t you tell me?” Rowan asked.

  “Tell you what, dear?”

  Rowan turned to the spirit. “That you were Henry’s great-great-grandmother,” she said. “Patience Goodfellow. I knew it as soon as Cat mentioned your name.”

  Patience shrugged. “There are things I can reveal and things I cannot,” she said. “That was one of the things I could not.”

  Rowan shook her head. “But when Henry finds out that you are my spirit guide, don’t you think he’s going to feel even more manipulated? Even more deceived?”

  “Did you deceive him?” Patience asked.

  Rowan shook her head. “No, I didn’t,” she replied. “But will he believe it?”

  “Does it matter?” Patience asked. “We both know that Henry will get the book for you, no matter what.”

  Rowan stood up and paced across the floor. “Do you really think the incantation and the binding is all I care about?” she asked. “Henry is hurting, not just physically, but emotionally.”

  “What would you have me do?” Patience asked.

  “Nothing,” Rowan said, shaking her head. “Because right now, Henry doesn’t trust our motives. What is done in charity might be construed as manipulation.”

  “If it wasn’t construed as manipulation,” Patience offered again, “what gift would you offer Henry?”

  Rowan looked out the window and saw Henry pacing back and forth in his apartment. She knew his shoulder must be killing him, and the added burden of what he’d just learned was probably racing through his mind.

  “Pleasant dreams,” Rowan finally said. “I would offer him some sleep with pleasant dreams.”

  Patience smiled at Rowan. “Let me see what I can do,” she said.

  The throbbing pain in his shoulder was nearly driving him crazy. Henry glanced at the pain pills on the counter and shook his head. “I can’t trust them,” he whispered, but as the words came out of his mouth, he knew they weren’t true. They were just as much in the dark as he had been. They were just as surprised by his memory as he was.

  He picked up the small, white pills and swallowed them, hoping a respite from the discomfort would come soon.

  He walked over to the couch and sat down. A sudden shift in the wind outside brought the scent of lavender into the apartment. He inhaled it and felt the calm the scent always brought him. Suddenly his eyes were heavy. “No small wonder,” he mumbled. “Considering the night I just had.”

  He looked across the room at the stairs going up to the bedroom. “I really should go to bed,” he muttered as he kicked his shoes off and settled back onto the couch. “And I will, as soon as I take a little nap on the couch.”

  He placed a pillow on one end of the sofa, pulled a soft, wool afghan over his body and laid down. “Ten minutes,” he promised himself. “Ten minutes tops.”

  Patience stared down at the sleeping man and smiled. She leaned forward and placed a tender kiss on his forehead. “It’s time to remember, Henry,” she whispered. “It’s been far too long.”

  He murmured in his sleep and burrowed deeper into the pillow.

  “Pleasant dreams,” Patience whispered, and then she faded away.

  Chapter Fifty-two

  The sun was shining, and the smell of lavender surrounded him. The little boy lay in the grass, his eyes closed, and a feeling of complete contentment washed over him.

  “Come now dear, stop being a lazy boy.”

  The mother’s soft laughter brought a smile to the boy’s face, and he opened his eyes to see her sitting next to him on the lawn.

  “What should I do next, mother?” he asked.

  “Bring me a butterfly,” she requested.

  He sat up, looked around and then spied a butterfly a little way off, fluttering above the lavender blooms. He focused on insect and then guided it back to them with his mind. A moment later, the butterfly was on his mother’s hand and she was stroking its wings gently. “Well done, my brave young witch,” she said. “You did that with gentleness and kindness. Both very powerful emotions.”

  “But being a witch is our secret, right, Mommie?” the child asked.

  He saw the joy dim from her eyes for just a moment, then she lifted her hand up, so the butterfly would flutter away and then ran her hand through his golden curls. “Yes, darling,” she said. “Being a witch is our secret.” She smiled indulgently at him. “But it’s a lovely secret, isn’t it?”

  She waved her hand and several bunnies appeared next to them, wriggling their noses and slowly hopping to get closer to him. He stroked their soft fur and sighed happily. “Yes, it truly is a lovely secret,” he agreed.

  He stopped petting the bunnies and looked up at the mother he adored. “Is Daddy a witch?” he asked simply.

  His mother’s hand gently glided over his cheek and cradled his face. “No, my darling,” she said with a sad sigh. “Your daddy is not a witch, but he’s a very good man.”

  “Does he not like witches?”

  She smiled sadly. “I don’t think he understand them,” she explained. “And sometimes when people don’t understand something, they fear it.”

  “I’m not afraid,” he said, in the sure tones of a child. “I’ll never be afraid of witchcraft.”

  Henry murmured in his sleep and tossed a little on the couch, the afghan slipping off his shoulders. The dream changed, and the child he had watched who had just been so content was now hiding on the staircase, terrified as he listened to the voice of his father raised in anger.

  “I should have you brought up on charges, child endangerment,” his father screamed. “I should have you institutionalized, put away forever with your crazy ideas of witchcraft.”

  “Giles, please, just listen,” the mother pleaded.

  “No, this conversation is over,” the father had said. “I’m sending him to boarding school.”

  The child stood up on the steps and shook his head.

  “Please, don’t take him away from me,” the mother cried. “He’s just a child. He needs me.”

  “No one needs you, Beatrice,” the man growled. “Least of all my son.”

  “No Giles, please,” the mother was crying, he could hear it.

  The crack of a hand against skin was an unmistakable sound and the child was running down the stairs to protect his beloved mother before he even realized what he was doing. The door burst open on its own as he ran towards the study.

  He saw the mother, collapsed on the leather chair, an angry red mark on her cheek and he saw the father, poised to slap her again.

  “Leave my mother alone,” the child cried, waving his hand and sending his father flying across the room.

  “Darling, no,” the
mother cried out. But the little boy was too incensed to pay attention. He ran across the room to face his father, the man that dared to make his mother cry.

  “You won’t hurt my mother again,” he cried out, fat tears running down his face. He focused on his father and lifted him up in the air, past the second-floor library loft and let him dangle there.

  His face, his face pale and frightened, shook his head. “Son, you listen to me,” he said, though his voice was trembling and unsure.

  “No!” the child cried. “You won’t hurt my mother ever, ever again.”

  He looked around the room and saw the two longswords hanging above the hearth, across the shield that bore the family crest. “I’m going to hurt you,” he cried.

  He started to move his father in the direction of the swords.

  “What?” his father cried. “No! Stop! Stop this instant!”

  Suddenly, the swords lifted from their position against the wall and repositioned themselves, so their points were now sticking out. The father’s eyes widened as he got closer to becoming impaled on the swords.

  “Darling,” the mother said, coming up behind him and placing her hands on his shoulders. “Remember, an harm it none.”

  His father paused mid-air and the little boy looked up at his mother.

  “But he hurt you,” he said.

  She stroked his tears away and nodded. “Yes, he did,” she agreed. “But that doesn’t mean we need to be like him, does it? We are witches, so we are held to a higher law.”

  The child sighed. “I shouldn’t hurt him?”

  She shook her head. “No, darling, you shouldn’t,” she said. “You should let him down gently.”

  Giles landed, feet first, on the floor of the study. But the child could see that his father was still angry. “I can have you both institutionalized,” he threatened. “The boy should be sedated, constantly, he’s a danger to himself and to others around him.”

  “Giles, no,” his mother exclaimed, pulling her son close to her and wrapping her arms around him. “He’s your son.”

  “He’s a witch. He’s insane,” his father yelled.