by Laury Falter
“Mind if we use this table too?” Jameson asked.
“We promise not to cast on each other,” I added referencing our feuding predicament.
Kendra actually smiled. And Ian retorted with a smile, “Or us, right?”
“Can’t promise that. Sorry,” I said playfully.
That started a whole banter of teasing insults between the four of us and before long I’d forgotten that the rest of the Caldwells were probably glaring at my back.
By the time our humorous sarcasm dissipated, Jameson and I had laid out our tools across the table, grouping them by type.
“Incantatio adolebit,” Jameson said under his breath, quickly, as if he didn’t think it would actually work.
My guess turned out to be correct because when one of the candle’s wicks suddenly lit he stood back smugly, gesturing proudly toward it.
“I’ve been practicing that.” His excited declaration drew laughs from Kendra and Ian, both of whom had advanced far enough in their cast that each of their candles was already lit.
“Very nice,” I commented, impressed. I certainly couldn’t do that.
“Now you try,” he insisted.
I shrugged, knowing already that I’d fail since I had no idea what sparked his candle in the first place.
To appear as if I was making a good attempt at it, I bent down and stared at another, unlit, candle. “Incantatio adolebit,” I said quietly.
Nothing happened, of course.
“You’re worse than me,” Jameson said with a grin.
“Thanks…”
“Let’s move on. You might find something that works better for you,” he said hopeful.
We tried simple casts until the class was almost over, laughing at my failed attempts.
At the end, I stood back in a huff. “Jameson, this is the advanced class,” I reminded him. “You all have been practicing for years. You know the tricks.”
He sighed. “They’re not tricks, Jocelyn.”
“Casts,” I corrected hastily. “Casts, I meant.”
He thought for a moment, his lips curling in and accentuating the scar above his lip. I was temporarily mesmerized by its rugged appeal until he started talking again.
“Will you try something with me?” he asked tenuously, unsure of my answer.
I shrugged. “What have we got to lose?”
“Yes, good point,” he said through a laugh before growing serious again. “I’m wondering if we would have any progress if you were to use a skill you have already tapped. Your primary one.” He paused and waited for me to speak. “Which is…” he prompted.
“Oh, I’m sorry.” I never thought of myself as having a primary skill so I was puzzled for a second. “Uh, my family says it’s healing.”
He blinked at me, surprised. “Really?”
“Yes. Why?”
“That’s…That’s a very unique gift.”
It still didn’t mean much to me though.
I had no premonition that my opinion of it would change within the next few minutes.
“Well, we’ll need something to heal.” He glanced around the room and then leaned in to whisper, “Think anyone will admit to a disease?”
I belted out a laugh, receiving a few looks from the others. Dropping my voice to a whisper, I replied emphatically, “No.”
Containing our amusement, we thought further.
“We can’t use anything you have,” he muttered.
“No, I have nothing to cure.”
He shook his head. “You wouldn’t. Healers automatically heal themselves.”
It dawned on me then that this must be the reason why I’ve never been sick, never had a blemish, never suffered any ailments, until the scar. The scar - which I thought had been healed by Nurse Carol’s ointment. If Jameson was correct, she would have given me the ointment as a placebo when it was me healing the scar all along. And I discerned immediately why she would have kept this from me. Because she knew that had she’d told me the truth, I wouldn’t have believed her.
In the recesses of my mind I quickly pieced something together. Glancing at the other Caldwells, I dropped my voice so only Jameson could hear me. “So why do you block your family’s hexes against me than?”
He nodded absentmindedly, only half of his attention on my question and the other half on finding a test case. “Healers aren’t immune to hexes. They’re just capable of healing once they’re afflicted by one.” What he didn’t say specifically, but what I understood through his answer, was that he blocked the hexes because he didn’t want me to suffer for even a second.
He shrugged then, seeming to concede. “I guess it’ll have to be me.”
He pulled up his shirt sleeve, on the same arm where I’d seen his rash, and revealed that the affects of it were still visible. Only now there were fewer spots and they had transformed into pink circles.
“Jameson,” I breathed. “I’m so sorry.” I didn’t want to bring it up but the rash looked incredibly painful. And it had lasted longer than Charlotte’s hex which told me that Estelle was slightly more powerful - if, of course, it wasn’t just a rash he picked up somewhere.
He shrugged it off. “It’s healing…You’re just going to speed it up.”
“I am?” I asked, doubtful.
He was undeterred. “The incantation you’ll want to use is - incantatio sana.”
I nodded, feeling miserable already for failing, and I hadn’t even started.
Nonetheless, I closed my eyes and repeated with authority, “Incantatio sana.”
After hearing no sound from Jameson, I repeated it again…and again…and again.
“Stop,” he said and I opened my eyes to find him shaking his head. “You need to focus. And keep your eyes open. Your energy will direct to wherever it is you’re looking.”
“Got it.”
I was about to recite the incantation again when he interrupted my concentration.
“Think…Think of a child who needs surgery. He’s scared. He’s hurting. He’s floating in and out of consciousness because of the pain. He’s sick from the drugs they’ve given him. His body is shaking from the stress. He’s vulnerable, helpless…”
As Jameson continued describing the example, I sensed desperation, a need to help the child, this fictitious child. And then something stirred in me, something deep and powerful, something that had been locked inside, sleeping, but was now rousing.
It was a palpable thing, stretching, expanding, and then suddenly coursing its way up until I felt it in my chest, pressing at my insides. Then it was emitting from my torso, a strong, unstoppable flow of energy releasing outward into the room.
Instinctually, I seized Jameson’s arm, drawing it closer, my eyes locking on his ailment.
I didn’t notice the gasps or the fact that the class was now watching us. I was only aware of the force emanating from within me.
This lasted several seconds until the feeling ran out, like it had run on a tank of gas that was now empty.
Exhausted, I dropped my hand from his to brace it on the table and took in deep breaths, recovering.
The room was silent. No one was working on their castings in hushed whispers. There was no scuffing of tools against the wooden tables. There was nothing.
I looked up and found the remnants of the rash Estelle had cast were gone completely from Jameson’s arm. But something else had happened. The scar above his lip had lessened too. Lifting my head farther, I found Karin’s hair had turned from blonde to brown, her natural shade judging from the color of her eyebrows. Ms. Boudreaux stood straighter. A girl near the door was staring in amazement at her palm muttering, “It’s gone.” The Caldwells no longer had any signs of a rash ever having occurred.
“What…What just happened?” I asked tentatively.
Jameson, who had been holding his breath, let it out in a rush. “That wasn’t me, Jocelyn. It was you. It came from you.”
“It was both of you,” Ms. Boudreaux corrected, suddenly standing next to us. �
��Jameson channeled your core ability, Jocelyn. He enhanced the energy but it was you who produced it.” She was about to turn and head back to her spot in the corner but hesitated. “Thank you.” Then she loosened her limbs and strolled to her seat.
Only then did I understand what had taken place. Jameson and I, together, had healed the entire class.
9 ACCEPTANCE
I’m a witch.
I…am…a…witch. The realization repeated in my head like a constant, blinking light as I lay in bed, unable to sleep.
The house was silent now, Miss Mabelle being the last to make any noise and that had been over an hour ago. Even the soothing blues music someone had been playing in a nearby house had ended.
I was alone with my thoughts now, or just one to be precise.
I am a witch.
Images of pointy hats, black cats, and broomsticks entered my mind but I hadn’t seen a single one of these since arriving in New Orleans, making it more difficult to accept this new found understanding of who I really am. Maybe a cauldron on the stove or a wand stowed away in a drawer would have made it easier on me. There were none of these things here.
The witch world had been hard to swallow because they didn’t appear to be anything other than normal. There was nothing in their clothes or overt behavior that would identify them as having any kind of supernatural ability or sharing a lineage with those who do. As Jameson had told me on the first day I’d arrived, they attempted to hide this secret culture that I unknowingly hailed from.
But it was undeniable to me now. I’d snubbed this fact, the truth about my ability and my ancestry, because there had always been an explanation for the unexplainable. It was an illusion…a hoax…a magic trick.
Tonight had changed all that…
Not only had I seen the results, I’d felt the source of it and it had come from inside me.
And still that rational part in me struggled with its acceptance of this new fate, uttering alternate reasons, contesting the reality of it until I concluded that the truest test, the greatest confirmation, would be to repeat it.
I kicked off the covers and headed downstairs and out to the garden. The moon was full. The crickets chirped a melody broken only by the bellow of a frog. Most importantly, I was alone.
Settling the screen door back in place quietly, I stepped down to the grass and surveyed the backyard. The grass was lush, without a single patch of dryness. The trees were strong and full of leaves. The herb patch was abundant and growing. On the bushes a multitude of fragrant flowers hung, proving their health. There seemed to be only one place that might offer a good test subject…Miss Mabelle’s potting shed.
Crossing the yard left blades of dewy grass on the bottoms of my feet, uncomfortable adhesions that I paid little attention to. There was something of far greater consequence on my mind.
The door was unlocked, thankfully, so I stepped inside and found the light switch. Clay pots, both filled and empty, lined the counter. Gardening tools, all of which were pathetically familiar to me, hung from the walls and were stowed beneath the workbench. But in the back corner, where the light didn’t reach so well, were containers of dying, withered plants.
Drawing a deep, unsteady breath, I moved into the shadow and lifted my hand.
“Please…” I said under my breath, hoping this worked because it would prove that I wasn’t insane, that my family and those I’d met in this city weren’t completely off their rocker.
“Please…”
My hand seemed to move by its self toward the bare, hard branches, stopping when it’s sharp, wrinkled edges met my skin. I had to steady my hand because its shaking kept the branch from remaining in contact with my fingers but a few deep breaths later I was ready.
Focusing on that place deep inside, where the power had stirred, I drew it toward me, conjured it, called to it, coaxed it upwards.
The branches turned first. Slowly, the putrid brown changed to a fertile, dark auburn. Then the leaves sprouted, reaching out and uncurling as if I were watching a time delayed recording. Lastly, the blooms emerged, hundreds of them in a stunning bright blue.
My jaw dropped when I realized what I was seeing. Then I grasped the pot and spun it toward the light for a better look.
It was no wonder the gardeners at the academy had told me that I had a green thumb but I’d never done anything like this before. But then, I’d never put forth the same effort either.
It was breathtaking. Not just the plant but the veracity of this talent I’d denied for so long…Yet, here it was, to its due credit. Evidently it was still in its infancy because a glance back at the rest of the pots told me that I hadn’t healed them all, as I’d done in class. Those still remained shriveled and clinging to life.
What was the difference, I wondered. Then it came to me. The explanation Ms. Boudreaux had given in class.
“Jameson,” I whispered to myself.
He was the key. He was the channel to enhancing this ability.
Still, I had done it. This was my confirmation…
I am a witch. And a descendant of powerful practitioners. Aunt Lizzy had told me the truth on the plane. I just wasn’t ready to hear it. Now, though, I found new respect for my family.
The next few minutes were spent healing the remaining plants so that when I left the far corner overflowed with lush green leaves and colorful blooms. My body was finally growing tired so I left the potting shed and crossed the lawn back to the house. Then my feet stopped and I focused in on the porch without really seeing it.
A realization came to me, a feeling actually.
I felt shame for not having acknowledged the ability to heal sooner. Instead of using it, I ignored it, gave it no respect and definitely no room to grow. All that time it could have helped so many…
There, in that moment, with the full moon overhead, the crickets stopped suddenly as if they sensed a life-altering change had taken place. One had. I made the decision to accept this fate, to develop it, and to use it to its fullest capacity.
Standing there, feet sinking into the moist earth, my mind locked on this new sense of purpose, I realized I’d already accomplished the first step.
Now I needed to develop it. And I knew exactly who to turn to. With a plan in place, I went back to my room, crawled into bed, and fell right to sleep.
The next morning arrived with Miss Mabelle’s traditional shout but I was already awake, eager to get the day started. After slipping on a patterned dress, leggings, and black boots, I headed for the kitchen and found only Miss Mabelle, Aunt Lizzy having decided it wasn’t worth the effort to attempt another batch of fritters.
Somehow she knew it was me without having to look. “Found some plants in my shed come back to life last night.” She was fishing for the truth and wasn’t bothering to hide it. Yet, I had an inclination she already knew what it was.
I could have allowed her to assume without confirmation but to what end? Instead, I took a seat at the table and replied, “They weren’t completely dead.”
“Don’t go touchin’ my things now, ya hear?” she said and only then did she turn her head toward me. She waited several seconds, staring coolly as she was prone to do, before replying, “’Bout time ya embraced it.”
We both knew what she meant and that it didn’t require a response. So all I did was smile but her attention was back on the stove by then anyways.
For the rest of the morning, and up until second period, I had a difficult time paying attention. My focus was almost entirely on a constant search of my surroundings for something to heal. On the pathway to the main entrance a bush beside the door was drying so as I waited for my turn to enter I reached out a hand to it. A glance back told me that by the time I was stepping inside it had begun to recover, fresh green sprouts already budding. In my first period, Mr. Treme kept a potted plant on his desk, a small cactus that he playfully threatened as a tool for punishment should anyone disobey during his class. As I passed by it, I brushed my fingers against
the pot and by the time I’d sat down it had flowered. I didn’t even immediately detect the sweltering temperature on my way to second period until a bead of perspiration dripped from my elbow. A Caldwell was nearby but I ignored it and continued to class, where it disappeared.
“You doing okay?” Jameson asked, genuinely concerned as I took a seat beside him.
Ms. Wizner had been caught in the hallway and wrapped up in a discussion with another teacher, which gave Jameson and me a few minutes alone.
“Yes, I’m still thinking about what happened last night…” Although I was now torn between it and the fact that Jameson’s arm muscles were carving shadows in his shirt.
He didn’t seem to notice my distraction because he replied, “What we did in class was impressive.” Then he glanced toward the door to ensure we had privacy before continuing. “I’ve never seen anything channel at that frequency before. It’ll affect one, maybe two objects in the vicinity but you never see the reach you did last night. It-It’s unheard of…”
“Huh,” I muttered contemplating it. Then I said something under my breath that I hadn’t really intended which brought out a smile in Jameson. “We work well together.”
“Yes…we do.” His voice was soft, serious. “Talking about Wednesday night, interested in partnering again?” he asked evidently without thought to how his family might react this time.
That, I was going to leave up to him.
“Can’t get enough of me?” I asked, teasing instead.
He leaned forward and his voice dipped but the sincerity of it took my breath away. “Not really…”
I stifled a smile at his flirtation and he leaned back, proud he’d gotten a response from me. I ignored his intentions and said, “Actually, I was wondering if we could meet sooner? Do you have anything planned after school?”
His grin turned arrogant before he replied, “Now who can’t get enough of whom?”
I sighed in frustration at him and he chuckled. “All right. What did you have in mind?”
“Well…how do you feel about hospitals?”
His eyebrows creased. “Not exactly the most romantic spot I can think of…”