Fox and Birch (The Rowan Harbor Cycle Book 3)

by Sam Burns

  Isla nodded. “Which is how they saw the wrong magic so easily. They’re in tune with earth magic, which is what you use as a shape-shifter. This arcane stuff is different, and they don’t belong together.”

  “I thought witches did use earth magic?”

  For a moment that seemed to stump her. She bit one lip and narrowed her eyes, looking deep in concentration. After a while, she spoke again, hesitating as though she was putting a concept together as she said the words. “It’s earth magic like plastic is a natural product. It comes from natural things, but it’s made in a lab. A witch can take magic from the earth, but it’s processed through us. When it’s used like in the book, with wizardry, that’s another step of processing. Some of what it was gets lost in each step, so wizardry is hardly recognizable to someone like Oak.”

  They were both quiet for a while. Isla ate her cereal, and Fletcher went to rinse his empty bowl, just for something to do. The idea that the magic in him was some horribly mutated form of the magic that made the forest was even worse than the idea that they were different things. It made him want to take another shower.

  Finally, he set down the bowl and turned back to her. “So Oak sent you to check on me. You can tell them I’m fine.”

  Isla looked like she was considering chucking her bowl at him, but instead walked over and waved him out of her way so she could rinse it. “Don’t be stupid. Go put a shirt on. I’m taking you out to see them, and before you protest, they asked me to bring you. Oak wants to see you.”

  Fletcher wasn’t sure whether it was like being called to the principal’s office or being handed an award. Oak wanted to see him. Oak cared about Fletcher and his tiny problems. It didn’t matter if it was terrifying. There was no way he would ignore Oak’s wishes. He headed for the bedroom to grab a shirt while Isla cleaned her bowl.

  The whole walk to Oak’s grove was excruciating. Fletcher wanted to see Oak and talk to them. At least as much, he wanted to turn around, go home, and hide in bed with the blankets pulled over his head. For a person whose job was supposed to be putting himself in danger, he felt like a coward.

  January had been unusually warm so far, and the little snow that had fallen in December was already gone. The trees were still barren, but they almost hadn’t needed to wear their winter coats to head out into the woods.

  Isla talked as they walked, about everything and nothing. The weather in Scotland this time of year, the local flora—which she told him was unique—and how weird it was to be back in town. How it felt to be among people who’d known you as a child, who thought they still knew you, but didn’t really anymore.

  Fletcher sort of understood. He was sure most people in the Harbor thought they knew him. They knew his history and how hard it was for him to trust people, and they thought that alone defined him. They didn’t know how much he wanted to be like them, to be one of them—just a regular guy who had always lived in Rowan Harbor.

  Oak was sitting a dozen yards from the bottom of the waterfall, legs crossed, looking down at a pile of twigs sitting in front of them. For an insane moment, he thought they were trying to start a fire.

  “Isla MacKenzie,” they said, sounding pleased. “You have brought Fletcher Lane as I asked.”

  “Of course I did,” Isla agreed, heading straight over to sit to Oak’s left, looking down at the pile of twigs. “What’s this?”

  Oak continued to watch Fletcher, and it made him feel like a suspect in the interrogation room. “Will you come sit with us, Fletcher Lane?”

  He swallowed hard and nodded, taking a deep breath before going to seat himself on Oak’s right.

  “They are birch,” Oak said after Fletcher had seated himself. “Humans used to tie them together and use them to clean things.”

  Fletcher just stared at the pile, nonplussed.

  “Like a broom?” Isla asked after a minute. Oak nodded, a slow, graceful bend of their neck. “So what are you doing with them? I don’t think you need a broom.”

  “No, indeed I do not. I have never understood the human fear of soil. We all come from the earth.”

  Fletcher didn’t know how to respond to that. Oak was right. Dirt wasn’t dangerous, but he didn’t like to have it in his house either. Did that kind of cleanliness serve a purpose, or was it just something demanded by civilized society? Fletcher wasn’t a scholar; he didn’t have answers.

  Oak turned to look at Fletcher. “They are for you. Like all of us, birch holds magic from the earth. Their magic is cleansing.”

  He couldn’t look at Oak. “I need cleansing.” He hated the way saying it out loud made him feel.

  “I do not believe you are unclean, Fletcher Lane,” Oak said, as though they could read his mind. “But you carry two magics within you, and that is dangerous. They do not mix well. Each wishes to force the other out.”

  At the thought of the book destroying his ability to shift, his one tenuous tie to the memory of his mother, his stomach turned. The way his insides seemed to shift when the voice chanted felt much more sinister with that realization.

  Oak’s hand landed on his, and it was warm. “All will be well. I cannot remove the other magic. That is for users of other magic.” They glanced at Isla, who nodded.

  “We’re working on it,” she promised. “It’s complicated, because we still don’t know exactly how it happened, but we will figure it out. It’s ritual magic, and we don’t know which ritual it was yet.”

  Oak turned back to Fletcher, motioning toward the birch twigs. “What I can do is teach you focus. Strengthen your connection to your own magic, so that the danger to it is lessened.”

  The tension that had been building inside him eased a little, and he slumped forward. “Please, it’s all I have—”

  “I will not allow this accident to strip away your nature, Fletcher Lane. You are of the forest. You are ours.” Oak ran their hand through his hair as though petting him, the touch soft, like he was a wild animal they thought might spook and run.

  It was the second time in one morning someone had claimed him as a part of something bigger than himself, and it felt perfect, like he’d finally gotten the acceptance he’d been fighting for since the day he and his father had moved into Rowan Harbor. He wasn’t an outsider anymore. He was theirs.

  He hoped that made them his, too. Not in that creepy, old-fashioned, ownership-of-other-people way, but something deeper and more meaningful than that.

  After allowing Fletcher a moment to compose himself, Oak looked over at Isla. “You will stay and focus with us?”

  “Sure. I can’t use raw magic the way you two can, but I’m all in.” She flashed a bright smile in Fletcher’s direction, and while he knew she was partially staying for him, he also knew it was related to her insatiable curiosity. That made it feel a little less like she was babysitting him, and a little more like they were friends.

  His stomach stopped rolling, and he looked at Oak for guidance.

  They offered a serene half smile, like the Mona Lisa, and closed their eyes. “Do you feel the magic, when you summon the fox?”

  He stared at Oak for a moment, then hastened to close his own eyes and try to play along. He wouldn’t lie to Oak, though, however much he wanted to say yes. “No. It’s just like there’s a switch in my head that says ‘fox,’ and when I flip it, I shift.”

  “Ah,” Oak answered, and the same half smile was in their voice. “I believe this to be a situation that Isla is familiar with.”

  “Me?” Isla asked. She sounded dubious, and that blew Fletcher’s mind. How could she think Oak might be wrong? This was Oak.

  Oak reached over and took Fletcher’s hand. Somehow, he was certain they were doing the same with Isla on the other side. Instinctively, like a kindergartner in a circle, he reached out for Isla’s other hand.

  “Doing things has always come naturally to Isla. She channels magic from the earth with ease,” Oak explained. Isla made a sound like she wanted to protest, but Oak continued. “Doing and understan
ding are different, and without one, the other is often useless. She could channel all the magic that exists, burning herself up with the power, but if she does not understand how to control it, she has accomplished nothing.”

  “That, um, sounds terrifying,” Isla said, and her voice was a little strained. “Is that something we expect to happen?”

  “There is a reason I asked you to retrieve Fletcher Lane instead of the Rose-sprout. He may not have full control of his abilities, but he is of natural magic, as I am. He is less of a danger to himself.” Oak said it with such calm, it almost didn’t sound like they were saying that Isla might accidentally kill herself at any moment. Almost.

  Fletcher cleared his throat. “And that’s related to me because, what, both of us have powers but don’t know how they work?”

  “You have both learned by doing but struggled with understanding. There is nothing wrong with this. Sometimes, observing is just as important as doing.” Oak squeezed his hand and lowered their voice. “Now, we observe. Eyes closed, hands clasped, we focus.”

  Isla cleared her throat. “On something specific, or—”

  “The mystics are always difficult,” Oak whispered, and Fletcher could tell without opening his eyes that the words were directed at him. “Never able to simply take and accept. Like the youngest of sproutlings, they must know why, and where, and when, and all right now. Sometimes, you must wait.”

  Fletcher’s mind focused on the warmth of Oak’s hand and traveled down the burned half of their body. It reminded him of his father’s scars, and what he knew of the burns told him that they’d happened in a similar way. Frightened men who saw something different, and instead of wanting to learn or understand, they had tried to destroy.

  For a second, his thoughts wandered to the man, the murderer, and how he could keep his father safe from him. It was important that he warn his father, and soon—but no, that wasn’t why Fletcher was there. He was supposed to have lunch with his father, and he would tell him then.

  Right now, he was supposed to be focusing, observing.

  A chill breeze blew through the trees, and it carried the scent of salt, wood smoke, and decaying leaves. The smell of Rowan Harbor in the winter: ocean, town, and forest, all combined. The mist from the nearby waterfall hung heavy in the air, and the pile of twigs in the middle of their circle was— It felt like an empty space. He didn’t smell the birch twigs, couldn’t feel them or see them with his eyes closed.

  Part of him wanted to move his knee and touch them to confirm that they were still there, or just open his eyes and look. He still didn’t know why the stupid sticks were important. They were supposed to, what, clean his evil-magic-filled brain? His mind clung to that idea, and it made him want to throw himself into the pile and damned well roll around in it. His body went taut from the effort not to do exactly that. While he held his body back, his mind broke free, flinging itself into the pile of birch twigs and clinging to them. They were silent. He couldn’t hear the book, the breeze, the rustling of branches, or Isla breathing—it was like being locked in a sound-proof room. There was nothing.

  Can you feel the fox? His mother’s voice asked from nowhere. He’s right there in your heart. He’s the biggest part of you.

  But what about a wolf, Mom? Or a bear? His own whiny, preteen voice asked in return. God, if only he’d made more effort to listen to her when he’d had her. He could have learned so much more if only he’d been listening.

  She laughed that low, throaty laugh that had made her sound like a lifelong smoker. They’ll come, Fletch baby, but they’re not yours. The fox is yours. He’s just for you. The way the owl is mine. He’s what’s in your heart, and he has to be first.

  Fletcher had been underwhelmed by the fox. It was like being a Chihuahua shifter. It was cute and lovable, but was anyone going to take a fox seriously? He’d wanted his heart to be something big and impressive, not something known for being sneaky. Fletcher was a lot of things, but sneaky wasn’t even close to one of them.

  The fox whimpered sadly in his head. It knew it hadn’t been what he wanted—that on some fucked up level, Fletcher hadn’t been what Fletcher wanted. It was something most people dealt with, not being what they hoped they would be. Fletcher, though, he had it right there in physical form. His psyche was a fox, and he was ashamed of it.

  His eyes opened, and Isla was still sitting across from him, eyes squeezed shut and expression more annoyed than focused. When he turned to look at Oak, they were watching him with those uncanny glowing eyes.

  “My mother was an owl,” he told them. “A hawk owl. She was so proud of it. She knew everything about them. Studied them. Surnia ulula.”

  Oak watched him impassively for a moment before nodding. “And you do not have a name for your fox. Either from human science or from your heart.”

  “They’re just, like, foxes, right? It’s not like there’s more than one kind, unless you count the white ones, and I’m not that. Just a plain red fox. The kind that’s always the bad guy in cartoons.”

  “No way,” Isla interrupted. “There’s the adorable kind that’s all over the internet. Fennec foxes, right? With the giant ears.”

  Fletcher rolled his eyes. “Great. So there’s another kind of cute fox, and I’m not it. I’m just a fox.”

  “Your heart is a fox,” Oak corrected, and it held the echo of his mother’s words from so long ago. “Your magic is anything you want it to be. The magic of nature is not filtered and shaped like the magic of mystics. It can be whatever you need it to be.”

  “That’s kind of beautiful,” Isla said, a dreamy half smile playing across her lips. “I wish my magic was whatever I needed it to be. But in witchcraft, there are all these annoying rules.”

  “You are a conduit,” Oak told her, their tone almost apologetic. “You are not made of magic, but able to take the magic of the earth into yourself and shape it as you have been taught. Fletcher is the magic. It makes him what he is.”

  Isla sat there staring at Oak, blinking, before she responded. “You should be the one teaching the kids in town about magic. No one ever explained it like that before. My mother used to talk about ‘being the empty vessel,’ and other arcane crap that’s mostly meaningless. But that makes sense. I’m the glass that can hold the water. Fletcher is the water.”

  Fletcher quirked an eyebrow at her, and she glared and waved him off.

  Oak considered, but then shrugged. “The magic of mystics is not for me. I only understand it in this basic way. As you say, I am like Fletcher Lane. I am the water. I do not know what it means to be the glass.”

  Turning her attention back on Fletcher, Isla appraised him for a moment. He could almost see the million questions buzzing through her head, and he was grateful she didn’t ask them. He didn’t have a lot of answers, and he didn’t want to get dragged into a conversation about his abilities. Isla probably understood them at least as well as he did.

  A noise got Fletcher’s attention, and he looked down to find Oak tying the birch twigs into a bundle with some twine. At his confused look, they held the bundle out to him. “For your focus. I would like for you to return and focus with me again, but I do not know that it will be enough. You should learn to focus when you need to, not just when you are here. It must be second nature.”

  For a second, Fletcher had the wild hope that someday he could be the wolf, the bear, the mouse, the hawk owl. If only he could learn to focus. But if that were true, he’d have shown the inclination before, wouldn’t he?

  He took the bundle from Oak, inclining his head. “Thank you. Not just for the”—he waved his free hand at the bundle—“but you know, for helping me. For caring.”

  “You must return when you need aid, Fletcher Lane,” Oak told him. “You are ours. You belong with the forest, and we will always care for you.”

  Fletcher smiled, and it felt like it was going to break his face. Last time someone had told him they would always care about him, it had been his mother. In the inte
rvening years, his father had been very careful not to make promises. He loved Fletcher, but he didn’t know that he would be there. The murderers had taken promises away from the Lane family.

  “Thank you,” he told Oak, voice a little gruffer than usual. He gave them a nod but didn’t look up to meet their eyes as he turned to leave the grove. Isla followed along, and bless her for being the best kind of friend, she was silent on the walk back to his apartment.

  3

  Just Us

  Isla left him at his place with a bundle of twigs and less than an hour to get down to the Half Moon to meet his father. He loved lunch with his father, but he wasn’t looking forward to it this time.

  With more care than sticks probably required, Fletcher set the tight bundle in the middle of his kitchen table. It made him glad he’d never gotten a cat or a dog, as he’d often considered. No way would a pet leave them alone while he went out for lunch.

  He still wasn’t sold on twigs being what he needed, or magically cleansing, but if his fox was at stake, he was willing to entertain anything. Besides, Oak had given them to him. That had to mean something.

  He didn’t change into better clothes; he figured his father and the townsfolk having lunch at the Half Moon could live through seeing him in sweats and an ancient Pink Floyd t-shirt. No, he hadn’t ever seen them in concert. It was a cool logo, okay?

  As he only lived a few blocks from the diner, Fletcher walked. That was what he did most of the time. Evie sometimes told him that his poor car was the most neglected thing she’d ever seen. It was a decade-old sedan, though, so it wasn’t like there was a reason to show it off. It wasn’t a shiny, expensive SUV with heated seats like Jesse drove, or a vintage muscle car like Devon’s. His car was just a car.

  So Fletcher’s plain, boring sedan sat in its designated parking space, and no one took any notice of it.