The Thickety: A Path Begins

by J. A. White

  I don’t want Taff to see this.

  “There’s nothing you can do. Just keep them safe.”

  “Kara.”

  “Please. For me.”

  Lucas took another step. Then he nodded once and ran off in the opposite direction. He passed Grace, who was stumbling through the chaotic crowd, screaming: “Where is it? Where is it?”

  Something brushed past Kara’s face.

  She watched it vanish into the distance: a bird made of flames. But that wasn’t exactly right. It was a bird, but its body lacked the fluidity of flesh; it was rigid, almost mechanical.

  A page from the grimoire, folded into a winged creature.

  As though inspired by Kara’s epiphany, a dozen page-birds burst from the flames and sailed into the night. Another dozen. Fifty. They did not travel together but shot off in all directions, leaving trails of light in their wake. With the passage of each bird, the tunnel of flame shrank. Finally it was only the size of a campfire—and then, four birds later, a flame so small, it could barely light a candle. From this a tiny glowworm emerged and burrowed into the ground.

  And then there was nothing. Her mother’s grimoire was gone.

  Kara remained.

  What just happened? She ran her hands over her body, amazed at its wholeness. I cast the Last Spell—why didn’t the grimoire take me like Constance said it would? Could she have been wrong? Kara stared at the charred ground.

  How am I still alive?

  She didn’t even feel particularly weak. If anything, she felt . . . restored.

  “It didn’t even let you cast your Last Spell, did it?” Grace asked. “You weren’t worthy. Pathetic.” She opened her grimoire. “Let me show you the power of a true witch.”

  Grace’s eyes widened as a spell filled the page before her. “Yes,” she said. “This is the one. This will be forever.” Grace read the first word, and a thimbleful of blood spilled from her lips. She paused for a moment and continued anyway, louder this time. Beneath Kara’s feet the earth moaned, as though beasts dormant for thousands of years were awakening from their slumber.

  Suddenly, Grace stopped.

  A feeble-looking creature sat before her, its fur matted with age and filth. It tottered forward on bent-back paws, emitting a short, piteous moan with each agonizing step.

  Grace burst out laughing.

  “This is what you summoned?” she asked. “A dog? For what purpose? Did you think I might play nicer if I had a pet?”

  “It’s not a dog.”

  The creature looked up at Grace with violet eyes that were quite beautiful in their way and growled deep in its throat. With a sharp series of cracking noises, its paws unfolded and straightened. Just before the creature leaped, Grace was blessed with a moment of recognition, but by then it was too late; she was pinned beneath the nightseeker’s now muscular frame, unable to move.

  “I don’t blame you for not remembering,” Kara said. “You’re not the one who saw your mother murdered before your eyes. If you had, perhaps you would have remembered the pet your father brought from the World—and its very peculiar talent.”

  A long, translucent needle extended from the nightseeker’s paw. Grace screamed and then screamed louder as the needle was plunged into her forearm with brisk efficiency. She jerked in pain, and the grimoire slid from her fingers, landing open on the ground. Grace reached out, screeching. She clawed at the last page, trying to pull the book closer, but before she could the nightseeker swept its paw across the grimoire and slammed it shut on her hand. Grace screamed again, and it wasn’t the scream of a powerful witch but the terrified plea of a thirteen-year-old girl. Kara turned away. She had thought that revenge might bring her some satisfaction, but there was no pleasure in this.

  The nightseeker inserted the needle into its nostril and inhaled deeply. Years ago—when Kara had been in Grace’s position—there had been a long hesitation. On this day, however, judgment came instantaneously. Keeping its quarry in place with one paw, the nightseeker lined its needle claw with Grace’s right eye.

  “No!” she shouted. “Kara! Please!”

  The fearsome creature rose up on its haunches. Kara could feel its fury surge through her own blood. It wasn’t just going to blind the witch. It was going to kill her.

  Before it could, Kara sent it away.

  Grace lay there shivering, unwilling to open her eyes. “It’s over,” Kara said. She stepped quickly to her side and kicked the grimoire away with her bootless foot. Grace’s hand, clenched in a bloody fist, fell to the ground.

  “You saved me,” Grace mumbled.

  “Yes.”

  “Why?”

  “I don’t want anyone else to die.”

  “Not even me.”

  “No.”

  Grace chuckled. “A good witch. Can there be such a thing?”

  Kara sat on the ground next to Grace. Evening was starting to settle in, and the colors of the setting sun were their own kind of magic.

  “You won’t be able to save me from the villagers. When they return they’re going to kill me.”

  “Maybe both of us.”

  “No. They know the truth. You saved them.”

  “With magic. The greatest sin.”

  “They will speak of your great deeds for years to come. They will throw flowers at your feet and trade hard-earned seeds for your wisdom. They will worship you and dream of your attention. Just like him.” Her eyes sought out the swaying treetops of the Thickety, and she tilted her head to one side, as though listening. “After all I’ve done to prove myself, it is still you he covets. The world is not a fair place, Kara Westfall. And not even magic can change that.”

  Grace mumbled three words—only three—but Kara recognized a spell when she heard one.

  “What did you do?” Kara asked.

  Grace turned her head. Her beautiful eyes focused on something unseen.

  “I gave him what he wanted,” she said.

  Blond leeched from Grace’s hair as it turned its original shade of white. With a grotesque snap, the bones of her leg twisted into their familiar crippled form.

  “No! That’s impossible!” Kara shouted. “You couldn’t have cast a spell! I have the grimoire!”

  Grace smirked, a little of the old arrogance returning—Won’t you ever learn?—before opening her bloodied hand. A piece of torn, crumpled paper rolled out.

  Cold dread nestled in Kara’s stomach. She really did it. She cast her Last Spell. With no grimoire of her own, Kara was helpless to defend herself—to defend anyone. She had failed.

  She scanned the skies, listening carefully for the sound of an approaching apocalypse. All was quiet.

  “What did you do?” she asked again.

  “You’ll thank me,” Grace replied. “In the end. Once you learn to accept the true nature of his love.”

  Grace’s grimoire was torn from Kara’s hands by an invisible force. It sailed high in the air before landing on the ground between them. Kara stepped back, expecting it to burst into flames. Instead the pages flipped to the precise center of the book, where there were no longer spells but a gaping hole that led into absolute darkness.

  “That’s new,” Grace said.

  A woman’s arm shot out of the hole and grabbed Grace’s ankle. By the time Grace tried to pry off the fingers, they had melted into her flesh like wax and there was nothing to disengage. The second arm, this one thinner—the arm of a child—grasped Grace’s other leg and became part of it, and it yanked her toward the hole, which by this point had expanded well past the confines of the grimoire. Another hand rose from the darkness, this one wearing a familiar wedding band (Abby! That’s Abby!), and Grace managed to slap it away, but then there were three more, four, half a dozen—all eager to do their part. Kara held Grace’s hands and pulled as hard as she could, but it was no use; it was one against many, and they were legion. From below—deep within the impossible recesses of the grimoire—she heard cackling, screams of pain, the singsong chant of the
damned:

  One of us! One of us! One of us!

  Kara fell backward as Grace’s fingers slipped from her hands. The white-haired girl slid into darkness, brilliant blue eyes watching Kara until the very end.

  Satisfied at last, the grimoire slammed shut.

  It was Kara’s first time on a ship, and she feared that the swaying motion would make her ill. Lucas did not share that problem. As he stared out at the great blue horizon his expression was peaceful, like a young man who had found his home at last.

  “This far enough?” he asked.

  “Yes,” Kara said. Even if it wasn’t, it was as far as she was willing to go. The island was still visible in the distance, but it was fading fast, and the idea of no land in sight—of being swallowed whole by all this vastness—terrified her.

  From her satchel she withdrew Grace’s grimoire. Although its pages were once again white and pristine, it did not call to her as it once did. Kara liked to think that it had given up.

  “Is she in there, do you think?” Lucas asked.

  “Maybe. But I don’t know if that . . . place . . . is in the book itself, or if the book just provided the passageway.”

  “Either one is impossible. So it’s impossible to know which is true.”

  Kara nodded and watched the water pass. In one quick motion, she dropped the grimoire. It hovered on the surface for a few moments and then vanished beneath the waves.

  “It wasn’t your fault,” Lucas said. “She made her own decision.”

  “I just don’t understand why I was spared the same fate.”

  “Maybe the grimoire can sense intentions. You used magic to try to help people. So you didn’t need to be punished.”

  Kara nodded, but she knew that wasn’t the right answer. What happened to Grace had been payment, not punishment. Just like Aunt Abby, the grimoire had granted her unearthly powers—but when the time came, it demanded a steep price in return. Kara should have been relieved that her Last Spell produced a completely different result, but this apparent exemption made her nervous. No power came without sacrifice, and her time would come. She was sure of it.

  Maybe when you finally discover what Grace’s Last Spell was . . .

  This was a happy day, however, and Kara refused to get distracted by such dark thoughts. She pulled at Lucas’s new sailor’s cap.

  “This suits you,” she said.

  “I’m glad you think so,” Lucas said. “All it does is make my head itch.”

  Lucas wore tan trousers and a fitted knit shirt. That morning he had gone to the Burning Place—along with the other Clearers making the journey to the World—and set his old clothes aflame.

  “Are you surprised that so many Clearers are staying behind?” Kara asked.

  “This is all they’ve known,” Lucas said. “It’s a scary thing, to give that up for a strange world they’ve been cautioned about their entire lives.”

  “How about you? Are you scared?”

  Lucas shook his head. “I feel like my life is finally beginning.”

  They walked in silence to the other side of the deck, where a rope ladder led to a small boat bobbing cheerfully in the waves. Kara turned to Lucas but did not look into his eyes. It had taken her two weeks to convince him to go. If he saw how much she wanted him to stay, he might still change his mind.

  This is best for him. This is what he needs.

  “Kara . . . ,” he started, but one of his shipmates called his name, and although Lucas held one finger up—Give me a moment—Kara waited until his back was turned and then climbed down the ladder and into the boat. By the time Lucas returned, Kara had already halved the distance to shore. He waved to her, and Kara waved back, glad he was too far away to see her tears. Lucas had promised to return next season, but Kara couldn’t help thinking that she would never see him again.

  The people of De’Noran had worked quickly to repair their ruined village. Windows had been replaced. Roofs patched. Debris collected. And perhaps most impressive, almost all the sitting stones had been located and moved back to their original positions. Only those caught by webbing remained where they were, as neither steel nor fire could free them. The Elders had discussed cutting down the trees that held them suspended, but Father refused. He thought the hanging stones would serve as a reminder to future generations, of how magic—and people—could both save and destroy.

  Kara was the last to arrive at the Fenroot tree. Heads turned to note her appearance, and a hush fell over the crowd. As usual most people stared down at their laps as she passed, refusing to meet her eyes. Father assured her this was no longer due to fear, however. It was reverence. Maybe even love.

  Kara felt a blush warm her face. She wasn’t sure if she was ever going to get used to this.

  Taff had saved her a stone in the first row. His cheeks were bright and healthy and covered with crumbs.

  “Widow Miller made us a whole tray of apple fritters! I meant to save you one, but you were late, and I got hungry.”

  Laughing, Kara wiped away the crumbs. Widow Miller had been spending a lot of time at their house lately. Kara heard her and Father talking out on the porch when they thought she was asleep, the sounds of their laughter. She liked Rachel—as Widow Miller insisted she call her—but she wasn’t sure how she felt about this new development. Her real father had only recently been returned to her, and she wasn’t quite ready to share him yet.

  “I’m going to miss Lucas,” Taff said. “But he promised he’d bring me some new tools from the World, tools I’ve never even seen before. And he said when I’m older, I can come with him and see—” He stopped, noticing the way she was trying to smile but failing.

  “Oh,” he said. “You’re really going to miss him.”

  “I’ll be fine,” Kara said. “As long as I have you.”

  Sudden applause filled the air as Father made his way through the crowd, wearing a crisp white shirt that Kara had starched herself. The Elders had wanted him to don the crimson robes, but Father refused. He would be their fen’de but under his conditions.

  “Work hard. Want nothing,” Father said.

  “Stay vigilant,” the congregation replied.

  Kara smiled, remembering him in the days after the battle. How he had taken charge so effortlessly: organizing search parties and healing stations, delegating the various tasks of rebuilding. He barely slept that week, leading with a firm kindness that bound villagers and Clearers together. Years ago the people of De’Noran had loved him; they fell in love with him again. By the end of the week, children stopped their play when he passed. A coterie of followers trailed him about the village, awaiting orders. When it was time to choose a new fen’de, no other names entered the discussion.

  “I’ve never been much of a good talker,” Father said. “And I don’t seem to be getting any better with age. But I can accept that. Words can be pretty things, but they can’t hoe a field or patch a roof in the thick of winter. They can’t make everything better again. Only people can do that.”

  He shifted his feet uncomfortably, tucked his hands into his pockets. The congregation watched him, lingering on every word, every pause. Hypnotized.

  “You’ll notice that, since the tragedy, things have been good for us. Everyone getting along like we’re supposed to. That’s because we’ve had a common goal. A desire to fix our home, make things right again. There’s nothing that bonds people together more than the same dream.”

  Kara thought it was a nice speech, but she was anxious for it to be over so things could return to normal. Since that night in the stable, she had barely spoken to Father. He had been so busy, and even when he came home there were the visitors, knocking on the door at all hours, asking his advice or sometimes just wanting the touch of his hand on their forehead. She had woken one night to find a pregnant young farm woman in their kitchen kneeling before Father. Kara had thought it strange, but Father laughed it off, saying the woman was simply overenthusiastic and worried about the health of her child.<
br />
  “But now that our village is once again whole,” Father continued, “I do not want to fall back into the old ways. We have to remain united. We have to remain true to our original dream—the one true dream. The complete and utter absolution of magic.”

  What? What did he say?

  “Every life lost—mother, father, son, daughter—can be traced back to magic. Recent events have only proven what the Fold has known for hundreds of years: There can be no good through witchcraft, only evil and death. Now, it would be easy, even tempting, to absolve Grace Stone of her actions. She was just a simple girl, as much a victim of magic as anyone else standing here this fine morning. But as Children of the Fold, we know better, don’t we? Anyone who uses magic is not one of us. Anyone who uses magic does not deserve to live.

  “Which brings us, unfortunately, to my daughter.”

  Kara looked around the congregation, but their faces were blank with acceptance. Only Taff had begun to look nervous and confused.

  “Rise, Kara Westfall. Face your judgment.”

  Why is he saying these things? This can’t be happening.

  She got to her feet.

  “Are you a witch?” he asked.

  “I’m your daughter.”

  “That wasn’t the question.”

  “Why are you doing this?”

  “A simple yes or no will suffice.”

  “You know the answer.”

  “Yes. Or no.”

  “Yes!” she exclaimed. “I’m a witch! Just like my mother!”

  A rumble of hatred flowed through the crowd. It was hard to make out the specific words, but occasionally a few broke through: evil . . . heathen . . . witch . . . fault . . . die! Taff stood on his stone seat and screamed back at them: “What’s wrong with you! She saved your lives!” He was just a boy, however, and his words were easily ignored.

  Father held one hand aloft, and silence filled the air. It was unnatural, how instantly and completely the villagers obeyed him, and Kara noticed, for the first time, that his eyes were a slightly different hue than before, a wet-sand shade of brown. As she gazed into his eyes she felt her desire to resist fade away. . . .