by C. L. Bush
Not everyone in the coven shared Cathy’s view of magic. In fact, Sam had heard her mother call Cathy a liberal herbal hippie several types, which Cathy would laugh off by calling her best friend a slave to the elements. Sam agreed lately with few things Damen had said that night at the coven meeting, but saying that magic had its own web of politics was painfully obvious. At any other time, Sam might have found Cathy’s teaching interesting, maybe even fascinating. In any other occasion, she probably would - but that wasn’t true now.
However, it wasn’t hard to feel gratitude toward Cathy. If she hadn’t offered to share her knowledge, Sam’s training probably would’ve stopped completely. She could perform only the pitiful bit of magic, barely enough to light up a candle or stir emerging leaves.
Today, everything felt worse. The awakening of nature, the first day of spring and the budding magic around her made her suspended state almost unbearable. Cathy gave her a menial task today, pounding Xhosa roots for what felt like ages. Sam was unsure if the high level of comfort Cathy had in complete silence was making her feel better or worse. On one hand, she was too agitated to speak to anyone. On the other hand, she desperately needed to vent.
Normally, her go-to person would be Damen, but in the previous weeks, Damen and she had struggled more than ever. For JJ, her erratic emotions fueled by the absence of magic, Clara and Damen, as well as the fractured situation at home, were too much to face on a constant schedule. His uncle had surprised everyone by giving signs of lucidity, which in turn made everyone in JJ’s home cautiously optimistic. Considering all of that, JJ kept a distance, even at school.
That distance made everything worse, and Samantha vehemently pounded the roots in front of Cathy, smashing them as though her life depended on it. Cathy, on the other hand, tackled venomous thorns off a plant Sam had never seen before. She couldn’t recall the intricate name but remembered Cathy’s words of caution. A nick off the thorn would be enough to drop you into a coma-like state for most of the night. Ingest the poison and you’d never wake up - never dying but never fully living.
Cathy’s fingers were skillful and delicate, and the flower surrendered without any hostility. It was annoyingly beautiful, and Sam was envious. Cathy was in control of her every movement and reaction, the kind of control Sam never managed.
“How do you do that?” Sam asked, dropping the mortar in defeat. Cathy’s brow arched, but she kept her eyes on her work, her fingers undisturbed. “How do you focus so well? How do you keep it all out?”
Cathy remained silent until she plucked the last thorn, placed it into a hermetically sealed jar and gently dropped the now-hazard-free flower in a vase.
“I don’t keep it out,” Cathy eventually said. “We don’t get to decide what will disturb or distract us, but we do get to decide how to react to it. For some it’s easier to master, for others harder.”
“How did you learn it?”
“My life depended on it. My child’s life depended on it,” Cathy explained with a sad smile. “Once it’s not just your survival in question, you’d be surprised what you’re able to master.”
“It seems those situations only bring out the worst in me,” Sam confessed, shuffling uncomfortably in the well-cushioned chair. “Knowing other people depend on me just makes everything worse.”
“There are more than one ways to handle your emotions, Samantha.” Clara’s mother’s gentle voice soothed her. and Sam’s eyes teared up once again. “There’s also more than one way to lead people. Some people do it through facts and logic. Others lead with an empty authoritarian tone. How did you manage people at school all these years?”
“I didn’t,” Sam said, her words surprisingly confessional. “I never had to do anything. I’d just tell people what I was planning on doing or what I thought was the best option, and people would just do the same. Or the majority usually would.”
“How did you know what was the best option?”
“Most of the time, I just knew.”
“That, my dear, is what we call instinct,” Cathy said with a smile.
Samantha smiled. It had been quite a long time since she had such a normal conversation. Most of the time JJ avoided her and her volatile emotions, while Damen just grunted in an effort to evade anything that would lead to an argument. She kept her conversations at school to a minimum, not seeking out anything and keeping to herself.
“How are you handling your ring?” Cathy asked.
“I’m not,” Sam answered honestly and laughed as she waved her hand.
“It’s a bit annoying, isn’t it?” Cathy’s tone was sympathetic. “I had hoped to find my old bracelet for you, but I can’t find it anywhere. It’s ridiculous how easily things get lost in that attic.”
“I still can’t believe your parents made you wear a limiting bracelet,” Sam mumbled. Cathy offered an understanding grin. “At least they didn’t cut you off from your magic, like mine were planning to do.”
“Your parents are just worried about you,” Cathy explained with a sigh. “We grew up in a different time. Sure, there were dangers, but we trained as we were growing up. Magic was part of our daily life, and we learned how to navigate it the same way we learned how to walk or talk. Your generation... has to train and learn faster than we ever had to, and it takes a toll. A terrible toll.”
They sat in silence for a second until Sam gathered a smidge of courage.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered.
Cathy shook her head. “No.”
“I was- I was so stupid, and arrogant. I was sure I could reach him. Xander. I was so sure. I kept dreaming of talking to him, of him talking to me... and with Clara... When she said all those things, I knew she was right.”
Cathy watched her without anger or incrimination, just what seemed like limitless patience.
“We must all trust our instincts, Samantha, but we also have to be aware of the tools we choose to follow those instincts and the timing.” She turned her head toward the window, narrowing her eyes and frowning before turning back to Sam. “Clara’s instinct was to enter the Arch. I can cry over it or I can trust my daughter’s instincts. Besides, nature and magic always work with a purpose, Sam. Life and death are two sides of the same coin.”
“So... you believe me?” Samantha’s eyes widened as hope slowly flared to life. “You believe me that Clara’s alive?”
“Of course, I do. She’s my daughter,” Cathy said with iron confidence. “I’m sure that, wherever she is, she’s fighting a battle that will soon come to our doorstep and we must be ready for it.”
Sam shivered violently, feeling nothing short of a battle cry rising in her body.
“So, what will happen to the Arch?” she asked quietly. “When will it be torn down?”
“There’s only one sure way to tear it down that we know of. I know it seems like we’ve been making this decision for too long, but three months is nothing if the whole existence is at stake.”
“You sound just like Zoey.”
“You have a wise mentor,” Cathy retorted before continuing somewhat unsettled. “Forgive your parents, Samantha. They’re doing their best to keep you safe, and they’re doing quite a good job as far as I can see. Much better than I have.”
“You’re a great mom,” Samantha disagreed before daring to continue. “Was it worth it?”
“Giving you the ring?”
“No, I mean all of it. Placing the Arch. Losing Clara’s dad.”
Cathy didn’t answer immediately. Instead, she took the jar of thorns, placed it on a mantle, and breathed in deeply.
“Yes, it was,” she replied shortly and nodded toward Sam’s mortar. “Do you need anything else to smash or are you feeling well enough to try and cast some actual spells?”
Samantha raised her eyes in surprise before slumping in her chair.
“I can’t,” she admitted in defeat. “The ring blocks almost all my magic. It took me two hours to light a candle last week.”
“Hmh,” C
athy murmured but gave no explanation.
“Can you take it off? So I can at least practice right now?” Samantha was hopeful, but her hopes were in vain. Cathy just winked playfully and ignored her request. It was hard to fight the annoyance. “Can you at least talk with-”
A swift opening of the main doors interrupted Sam’s words as Richard Gaskill trod into the Smith living room. His clothing was matted with burrs, his coat that dusted the ground covered in mud. One look at him and you could tell he was more than just normal. His magic radiated from him in a soft glow, that showed his strength. He didn’t need the coven he had left so many years ago. He was a force unto himself. Whether living in the Whispering Woods all these years had done that, or it was just his normal being, Sam didn’t know.
“Richard?” Cathy started, confused and then scared. “What’s happening?”
“Exactly what I told you would happen,” he said in his old, brash tone. He ignored Samantha completely, but she observed every inch of the man. She hadn’t seen him since the day Clara disappeared into the Arch. Although there was a protective barrier, where he had lived for the previous decade and a half, no one had an idea of his whereabouts during the past three months, except Cathy obviously.
“The barrier?” Cathy asked, the tone suddenly warrior-like and Richard just shook his head. “The Arch?”
“Still standing as I can tell, lot of good it did us,” he spat. “I told him, I told him it was a bad idea. The barrier’s magic isn’t feeding the Arch. It’s feeding the water wraiths. You can’t reinforce the Arch with wind and herbs. It needs blood. All this magic in the air... Cathy, it’s a matter of days now. If the Arch collapses from their side, there won’t be any hope for-”
“Just tell me what happened,” Cathy interrupted him as Samantha leapt suspiciously to her feet. If Richard had come out of the woods, then something big was happening – and she wanted in on it.
“I saw one of them. Shadow-men. On the far reach of the woods,” he said, suddenly seeming overwhelmingly tired. “This’s the first one in a long time, Cathy”
“Shadow-men?” Samantha asked. “What are Shadow-men?”
“We believe they’re the remains of our ancestors,” Cathy started, but Richard cut in.
“Nobody bloody knows,” he corrected.
Cathy shot him a warning look. “They’re more than ghosts, stronger and able to influence the reality on our plain. We don’t know if they’re remains of people who existed here, or if they’re remnants of the demons closed out of our world by the Arch.”
“Why are they important?” Sam frowned.
Cathy and Richard exchanged looks.
“Because, the last time they showed up, the Arch wasn’t fully closed,” Cathy said.
Samantha’s eyes widened. “That means we can get in!”
Richard Gaskill turned around impatiently, his trench coat flapping around him, emphasizing every annoyed movement he made. “No, it doesn’t! We don’t know what these things are, but we do know they’re where evil is, and we do know we can’t kill them, so rushing into a world that might be infested with those beings and where we might not even be able to breathe, let alone use magic, would be idiotic.”
Samantha furiously clenched her jaw, defiantly staring back at the raggedy man before her.
Cathy was deep in thought, seemingly ignoring them both. She walked over to a dead candle, lighting it in a matter of seconds with a few simple words. Cathy wrote a short letter, let it burn over the candle’s flame until it disappeared and then went to the closet. She picked her ashy coat and took one of the smaller jars from the top shelf.
“The coven has been notified. There’s no time to lose. We have to go to the woods immediately,” Cathy said. Samantha managed to take a few steps toward the entrance doors before she placed her hand on Sam’s shoulder. “I’m sorry, Samantha, but you can’t leave the house.”
“What do you mean?” Sam asked, offended by the mere idea of what they were suggesting. “I have to go with you. You can’t just leave me here without any news!”
“I’ll burn you a message as soon as we have something,” Cathy said, sympathy shining in her eyes. Richard absentmindedly nodded. “I can’t let you come. You can’t defend yourself and you can’t help anyone, just stay here and stay safe.”
“Just take the damn ring off!” Samantha yelled. “I promise I won’t do anything stupid. Just let me come.”
“This is way over your league, kid,” Richard said compassionately.
Cathy whispered a spell and spread dust over the knob before leaving and the doors closed with a hollow bang. Samantha charged the doors, but they were locked. She kicked the doors in frustration and ran to the window just in time to see Richard and Cathy rush away in the shadows of the street.
She turned her attention to her ring, trying in vain to get rid of it once again. But the ring didn’t budge. The silver only burned her skin, and she gave up eventually. Her skin was singed, but it was just another scar, bruise, cut she’d have to joke about at school.
She tried the doors once more and they remained solidly closed. She slid down to the floor. There, she breathed heavily, overwhelmed by panic for a couple minutes.
She wished Clara was there. She was the one who always had a plan or a plan B or a plan Z. Clara was the quick thinker, the problem solver, the first responder. Herself?
Sam wiped her tears in frustration. She just knew how to get people to do what was best for everyone, she thought dismissively. Sam breathed in deeply and sprung up, fixing her hair and straightening her clothes.
“Okay, okay,” Sam whispered to herself. “What would Clara do? What would Clara do?”
She focused on the situation at hand. She was locked in the house by a spell she couldn’t break. So, she needed someone to break it for her. But her phone wasn’t working. It had been practically useless for months. She wondered for a second why she even had it before darting to the kitchen and ripping a takeout menu from under a New York City magnet. She grabbed a nearby pen and practically ran to the living room.
She scribbled the words as fast as she could, but hesitated before addressing it. Sure, it wasn’t necessary, but it helped focus on the person you wanted to send the message to. And for the first time, Sam wasn’t sure who her emergency contact was. Who could she depend on to break the rules for her sake?
She scribbled a name quickly and folded the menu. She sat in front of one of Cathy’s candles and breathed in deeply. Her tries to use magic had been frustrating to say the least. It could take her hours before she managed to light the candle, but giving up wouldn’t be what Clara would do.
Sam held the candle stand with her left hand, and firmly grasped the takeout menu in her right. The ring glistened. The light above her buzzed and flickered. Sam slowly started her incantations, insecurity crippling the words.
“Verba ignis, verba ignis, verba ignis...”
She slammed her hand on the mantle, annoyed. The last time she was so infuriated, she was twelve and her volleyball coach benched her because her “serve was too weak.” She ended up doing a week worth of practices just slamming serves into the wall until the paint started falling off. After that, she served balls for a year with her team winning more games than any team in their division. The thought glued a satisfied smile on Sam’s face and she defiantly stared at the candle.
This was just like that ball and the wall, she decided. There would be nothing else - no coaches, no limits, no panic, guilty or fear - just repetition until she succeeds.
Verba ignis, verba ignis, verba ignis...
The flame appeared and disappeared in the flicker of an eye, but she carried on until a blue light remained cautiously wavering. She smiled victoriously and put the takeout menu to the flame, watched it burn and disappear, and hoped it would be read in time for something to be done.
The blue flame flickered and burned out, and Sam turned around the room, pondering her next step. What would Clara do? What would Clar
a do? Go to the library.
Sam smiled sourly checking the books on the shelves around the living room. Nothing useful. She would’ve probably found more information in one of Clara’s notebooks. With the thought, Sam turned quickly on heel and ran up to Clara’s room. There were papers and books everywhere - like always.
Sam tossed and turned things, searching for the damn notebook Clara carried around for months. The one that started like a school report and ended up in basically Clara singlehandedly discovering the whole magical world. Sam shuffled the hangers in Clara’s closet, missing her friend more with each touch. She slammed the doors and turned around, noticing the messy bed and disheveled sheets. Sam lifted the mattress, and the notebook finally revealed itself. Next to it, a leathery, red notebook lay as well, and Sam’s curiosity got the better of her. She tucked the Richmond Reaper research notebook under her arm and carefully opened the red notebook.
The first page read “Diary” in Clara’s neat handwriting. Swallowing heavily, Sam turned the next page, and then the next, and then she flickered through the notebook. The pages were crumbled and yellow from age, but there was nothing written on them.
Of course, Sam thought as she put Clara’s diary back in its place. That was so like Clara. To have her inner world seem like an open book, but end up with less knowledge than before you even asked the question.
Sam sat on the bed, flicking through Clara’s color-coded notes on the Richmond Reaper. Sam wished she had listened more from the beginning. Sure, they all found out the truth in the end, but maybe if she’d paid more attention, her friends would’ve felt less lonely. Maybe Xander would’ve been alive.
Sam closed the notebook decisively, jumping to her feet and marching to the attic. She knew bits and pieces of what Clara found in her frenzy, but Sam had her own ideas of what the Smiths’ attic could hold. And even though she was pretty sure it wasn’t going to help get out of the house, it would help diminish the impatience over what was happening in the woods.
Sam climbed to the attic and shuffled around until her hand found the light bulb. It flickered and swayed, coloring the vast space in a yellowish glow that told her only the past was buried there. Sam cast a look at a stack of photographs in rich frames, heavy wooden cabinets and overturned boxes. It seemed she wasn’t the only one who wanted to go through the past, but Sam couldn’t believe Clara would ever leave such a mess in a space that was basically the library of her family’s history. It must’ve been Cathy who’d left the mess.