by J. A. White
She placed the grimoire on the bed and smoothed the first blank leaf with a trembling hand.
This is going to work. The other grimoire only let me conjure creatures, but this is different. This is Mother’s—and Mother was a healer.
Taff’s breathing had become even weaker since she had last seen him. There was a fresh spot of blood on his pillow, where he had turned and coughed in his sleep. Thin blue veins pressed against his skin.
He already looked more dead than alive.
She laid her hand over the notebook. Unlike Aunt Abby’s grimoire, this one did not call to her; there were no seductive promises of power. On the one hand, this was encouraging. Maybe a grimoire could be good or evil, and if so this one was definitely good. That meant it would be more likely to grant her a healing spell.
On the other hand, some kind of sign would have been nice. When Kara touched the page of the grimoire, she felt nothing. Summoning animals had become second nature to Kara, and although she had not used magic in over a week, she had little doubt she could still do it with ease. Casting a healing spell was not the same thing. Conjuring was a language she spoke. Healing wasn’t.
With no idea what to do, Kara wished for Taff to be well again.
Nothing happened.
She commanded him to be well, and when that didn’t work, she said it out loud. “Taff Westfall, let your wounds heal and your body be whole again!”
For a moment she thought the page might have moved slightly, but she decided that it was just a wisp of breeze playing a trick on her.
Kara strained harder, visualizing a Taff shed of his illness. His cheeks no longer wan but rosy with health. His laugh, bursting with life. Kara bent forward until her forehead pressed against the notebook. She reached out and took Taff’s cold hand in her own, willing him to health with feverish intensity until her clothes were soaked with sweat and the room’s last remaining candle burned away.
Taff’s hand remained motionless.
Kara picked up her chair and hurled it across the room. “Why isn’t this working?” she screamed. “Am I a witch or not?” There was a concerned knock at the door, but Kara ignored it and eventually it stopped. “What do I do? Will someone please tell me what to do?” She touched her locket for strength, then climbed into bed and cradled Taff in her arms. It was like holding fire—except flames, at least, flickered with life. The only sign that Taff remained in this world was a vague flutter in his chest.
Nothing so fragile could ever survive the journey to the World. Her magic had been his last, desperate hope.
If Kara could have taken his illness as her own, she would have done so without hesitation. However, there was no spell for such an act of redemption, so she simply held Taff close, allowing guilt to envelop her like a black cocoon. None of this would have happened if I had followed the Path and listened to the lessons of my people. They had been right the entire time: Magic was a corrupting force, an evil temptation that could lead only to darkness and death. She had been a fool, and her brother had paid the price.
The night grew dark and quiet. Eventually the heat of Taff’s body against her own became so unbearable that she slid a little to her right, and in doing so felt something unusual beneath the blankets. A book. At first Kara thought it was the useless spellbook, but no—this new book had fewer pages, not all the same size. Kara turned to the first page and, squinting through the darkness, was able to make out a child’s drawing. There was a boy and, judging from the length of hair, a girl. . . .
With a thrill of recognition, Kara realized that it was the book she and Taff had created together. Father said that Taff had still been able to speak earlier in the week—he must have insisted that they bring it here. Kara wondered if Father had actually read it to him. A mere week ago, he would have burned the book after the first mention of magic, but she supposed that in this new world a small bit of comfort was worth far more than superstition.
But had it just been for comfort? Or is Taff trying to send me a message?
An idea burst to life, a swarm of glow-wings in her head.
“That’s insane,” Kara said. “That can’t possibly work.”
And yet . . . would it hurt to try?
Resting the grimoire on her lap, Kara closed her eyes. Without a live example to work from, she was forced to envision the Jabenhook in her mind, in much the same way she had pictured a healthy Taff. The results, at first, were dishearteningly similar. But then she felt something. A vague sensation of pulling, as though the spell were a lost memory just out of reach but right there, right within her grasp, if only she could find the clues to lead her there.
And so Kara told the story.
“Long before the remembrance of the oldest man on earth, there was a boy called Samuel. He and his sister liked to play with tadpoles and climb tall trees and dance to the music of the river, until one day Samuel was visited by a dread sickness and could not play any longer.”
The words, so often repeated, came easily. As is always the case with the best stories, the mere telling of it was a comfort, and by the time Samuel and his sister spoke to the Spider Lady, Kara’s mind had been primed to embrace the impossible. Her fingertips drifted toward the open grimoire, and strange new sigils rose to the surface. Golden light, brighter than the sun, speared the cracks between window boards.
“As Samuel lay in bed shivering, the Jabenhook drifted across the room. . . .”
Kara opened her eyes. There was no need to finish the story.
The Jabenhook had arrived.
It was different than she’d imagined it. Kara had no idea how this was possible—the creature was, after all, a figment of her imagination—but so it was. Its wings were the same golden hue she had pictured in her head, but their span was so much greater, even greater than the room itself, the wing tips (flecked with green, another new detail) forced to bend against the walls, giving the impression that, instead of hovering above Taff, the Jabenhook was holding itself up. Its eyes—a gentle amber that spoke of sleepy summer days and long naps in the shade—gazed down at Taff like a new mother.
“Thank you,” Kara said. If it happened the same way it did in the story, it was going to be fast, and she wanted to make sure she had a chance to say it.
In this most important aspect, at least, the story proved true. Opening its fleshy beak, the Jabenhook cawed, the sound monstrously loud in such a confined area. Taff’s bedpan clattered to the floor, and the walls shook in response, jarring loose what little glass remained in the window frames. Kara heard pounding at the door, but the Jabenhook’s left wing held it firmly shut.
From Taff’s mouth something was rising.
It was black and viscous and alive, a shapeless lump of cruelty and hopelessness. The cough that comes with a wet morning and never leaves. The mad crush of stone and earth. A baby’s cry, cut off in the middle of the night.
It was death itself, cold and calculating and implacable.
The Jabenhook ate it.
If Kara had blinked, she would have missed the feeding entirely. The Jabenhook was fast, impossibly fast, snatching her brother’s Death from the air as easily as a bird plucking a worm. There were no sounds of swallowing; its beak clacked shut, and that was all. For a brief moment, the Jabenhook regarded her with what might have been bemusement, then blinked out of existence. In the story it had left Samuel a feather, but here the only proof of the Jabenhook’s visit was the faint smells of pinecones and honeysuckle.
The door crashed open. Father and Lucas burst into the room.
“Are you all right?” Lucas asked. “We heard strange noises, but no matter how hard we tried, we couldn’t break down . . .”
Lucas’s words trailed off when he saw Taff sitting on the edge of his bed, swinging his legs back and forth.
“Is it dinnertime yet?” Taff asked.
Once Taff had eaten his fill of sodden potatoes and barley soup, he fell back asleep. At first Kara refused to leave his side, fearing that the cure was
a temporary one and that another visit from the Jabenhook might be required. But after an hour of listening to his steady breathing, Kara finally felt comfortable enough to make her way downstairs.
The Lamb house was packed with people. Father, figuring there was safety in numbers, had decided they should gather together now so they could leave for the ferry at the crack of dawn. Many had already laid claim to a section of floor space, making it difficult for Kara to navigate her way to the front door without stepping on an outstretched hand or a curled-up child. They watched Kara as she passed, and there was something different in their eyes. Not fear or hatred—though there was still a little of that to go around as well—but something . . . different. Kara avoided looking at them as she made a twisting passage toward the front door.
An old woman blocked her path.
She wore the brown vest of a tanner and had hazel eyes, a rarity in their village. The woman’s frame was slight and wizened, but her arms were sinewy with earned muscle. When she spoke it was with the certainty of one who demands respect.
“We heard what you did, Witch Girl. How you called forth a creature of smoke and shadows to heal your brother. Magic can bring only misfortune, we all know that. And yet . . . to heal is to walk the Path. This complicates things.”
The woman picked at the skin of her hand, dyed a permanent brown from her work. Her next words were spoken hesitantly.
“My grandson has been missing for two days,” she said. “He lives just outside the village, in the barracks. He was training to be a graycloak, though I never encouraged such foolishness, training for a war that may never come. Perhaps there is pride in such a calling, but not for Ethan. His disposition is far too gentle.”
The woman cleared her throat and looked straight into Kara’s eyes.
“It would please me to see him again,” she said.
As though the old woman’s words had opened some sort of floodgate, the silent room erupted into a deluge of shouts and entreaties.
“My daughter! She’s only five . . .”
“My family holed up in the schoolhouse, and we got separated. . . .”
“Save my husband. . . .”
“. . . wife . . .”
“. . . father . . .”
“. . . son . . .”
“We don’t deserve this!”
They began to touch her, then, their hands clawing at her dress, her arms, her legs, forcing her to bear witness to their demands. Kara tried to push her way to the front door, but there were so many of them, all shouting now, fighting to be heard. Unable to keep her balance against a sea of swirling faces, Kara pushed her way in what she hoped was the right direction.
“Help us! Help us! Help us!”
She made it through the front door and onto the porch, past their outstretched hands. Kara backed away, expecting the villagers to pursue her. Instead one brave hand reached out and shut the door.
Their need for her might have been great, but they wouldn’t go outside at night. Not anymore.
A thousand stars stared down at her like bright, impassive eyes. She made her way around the back of the farmhouse, where she found Father loading a wagon with supplies. His shirt, soaked with sweat, was rolled up at the sleeves. He looked happy for the first time in years.
“Have you seen Lucas?” Kara asked.
“He set out with a lantern some time ago,” replied her father. “Said he had a small errand to attend to before we left.”
“By himself?”
Father nodded. “I told him it wasn’t a good idea, but he was persistent. I wouldn’t worry none though. He said he’d be back shortly, and I get the sense that boy can take care of himself.”
“He can,” Kara replied, but worry gnawed at her regardless.
“Taff asleep?”
“Yes. I suspect he’ll need a lot of rest in the coming days.”
“He’ll have it. Once we’re out at sea.”
“You still think that’s the best plan?”
“I do.”
“It’s just—the people still in the village. What’s going to happen to them?”
Father hefted a barrel onto the wagon. “I’m not sure that bears thinking about. It’s a hard thing, but we need to take care of our own right now.”
Kara nodded. He was right, of course. There was nothing she could do, and it was foolish to think otherwise. Besides, if the situations were reversed, they wouldn’t spare a moment’s thought for me.
“There’s something I have to tell you,” Kara said. “About Mother.”
Father stiffened, but instead of saying it wasn’t the right time, he leaned against the wagon and waited. In that moment Kara began to love him anew.
“When I was in the Well, I saw the past. I know what happened that night. Abigail Smythe was a witch, but she lost control.”
“Yes,” Father said. If he thought it strange that she had seen these things in a vision, he did not say so. “I warned your mother from the beginning that Abby was not to be trusted, but she didn’t listen. It was going to be your time to learn magic soon, and I think Helena was nervous.” He gave a small smile. “Though of course she wouldn’t admit it. It seems cruel, but Abigail was just practice, a way to hone her teaching skills. Her first choice was Constance, a far better—”
“—but Constance didn’t possess the talent.”
“Right.”
“Why didn’t Constance tell me the truth?”
“Because then you would have known that Helena was not evil at all. Instead of being frightened by magic, you would have thought, ‘If my mother can control her powers, then I can too!’ And you would not have been so cautious when you used the grimoire.” Father picked up a small crate, eager to continue with his work. “Now what was it you wanted to tell me?”
Kara placed a hand gently on his arm. “Stop, Father. Listen.”
He lowered the crate to the ground and met her eyes.
“Mother gave me a message for you.”
“Kara. Don’t.”
“Shh. Mother said, ‘It’s not your fault, William. You were a true husband to the end. You don’t need to beg for my forgiveness, because there is nothing to forgive. Just honor my memory by living your life.’”
Father did not cry or sob, but Kara folded him into her arms anyway. As they held each other, Kara Westfall, the Witch Girl, thought about Constance’s words: These are not bad people, Kara. They may do bad things out of fear or foolishness, but most of them want to live simple lives with their families. They are no different from anyone else, even you. She thought of her mother, who risked everything to save her friend. And finally she thought of the mysterious looks in the villagers’ eyes and understood, at last, the responsibility her magic conveyed.
Within an hour everyone had fallen asleep. Kara did not blame them. The trek to the ferry was not a short one, and they would need their rest. Before leaving she took one last look at her family. Taff had kicked off the blankets and lay sideways, nestled into the crook of his father’s arm. Both slept soundly. On Father’s face was the slightest hint of a smile.
As far as parting memories were concerned, she could do worse.
Kara took what she needed from the supply wagon: a lantern to light her way until morning, a canteen of fresh water, a black cloak to keep her warm. These would make her journey more convenient, but in the end they were unimportant. All she really needed was the tattered notebook in her pocket and its five (four!) blank pages.
By foot, the village was almost an hour’s trek from here.
Kara did not intend to walk.
The stable doors creaked as she pulled them apart. Most stalls were empty, but the few horses that remained shied away from the sudden starlight. The floor had not been swept or mopped in weeks, and the smell of feces and mold was overpowering.
She made her way to the last stall.
“Good evening, Shadowdancer,” Kara said.
The mare looked thinner, as did they all, but the true hunger in her
eyes was for freedom. The moment Kara reached for the latch, Shadowdancer bucked, her powerful hind legs slapping against the wood behind her.
“Are you sure that’s a good idea?” a familiar voice asked. Kara twisted around to find Lucas peeking over the wall of the next stall. His eyes were sunken but alert.
“You’re back!” Kara exclaimed. Despite her father’s reassuring words, she had been very worried about him.
“Floor space was hard to come by, so I found an empty stall.” He gave her an impish grin. “Or maybe I’ve just become more comfortable sleeping in stables.”
“I’ve always suspected you were part horse,” Kara teased.
“Maybe that’s why you like me so much.”
The words were just playthings, their usual banter. Nonetheless Kara found herself looking away. There was a heaviness in the air tonight.
“I have something for you,” Lucas said. “I planned to give it to you on the ship, but now’s as good a time as ever.” He dipped down beneath the wall. “I’m sorry I didn’t have a chance to wash it first.”
He handed her a carefully folded bundle tied neatly together with straw. Her mother’s dress.
“You went back and got this?” Kara asked. “For me?”
“I saw it in the maze that night, and I knew you might want it. We’re never coming back to this place, so . . .”
Kara traced one of the golden swirls with her finger. She remembered her mother sitting by the fireplace, sewing these very lines into the fine red cloth. It had taken her many months.
“Thank you,” Kara said. “This is the kindest thing anyone has ever done for me.”
She led Shadowdancer out of the stable, and Lucas fell into step beside her.
“There’s another reason I’m out here,” he said, swatting at a few persistent mosquitoes. “I suspected you might do something foolish. Like you’re doing. Right now.”
“They need my help,” she said. The words sounded strange on her lips.