Your Magic or Mine?

by Ann Macela

  As for a need for companionship, he had friends. Evelyn, George, some colleagues, a few other authors. He dated from time to time. He had a dog. What more could a man ask for?

  As if in answer, his center seemed to sink in on itself and leave a gaping hole in the middle of his chest. He rubbed it—the friction seemed to help.

  All his conjecture was getting him nowhere. He was simply theorizing ahead of his data. He had to be patient, do the research, and hope Morgan’s talk with the old witch bore fruit. His chest settled down and didn’t seem so empty. Maybe he was hungry.

  The captain announced they were approaching the Austin airport, and he stowed his computer. He glanced over at Morgan, who smiled at him before hauling her bag out from under the seat and packing her journals. He tried to smile back, but didn’t think she’d seen him.

  After they landed, he followed her up the Jetway and into the terminal. In baggage claim her parents were there to greet her with big hugs. He ignored the hiccup his center made at the sight of family closeness and was about to slip by the Morgans with a wave, when Antonia called his name, and he walked over.

  After exchanging greetings, Antonia said, “Why don’t you come back to the farm with us for supper, Marcus. We have plenty and we’d love to hear how it went from both of you. What excitement! I’ve never seen a Sword in action.”

  Morgan looked a little stricken at the suggestion, and it was no hardship on him to decline. The less they were together, the better. Besides he had a good excuse. “Thank you, but I have to pick up Samson from George and Evelyn. I’d already arranged to have dinner with them.”

  While they waited for their luggage, Marcus walked with Alaric, answering questions about the debate. He could hear Morgan doing the same with her mother. Fortunately, his bag was among the first off the plane, and he was able to say good-bye and leave.

  As he was walking away, however, Morgan came running after him. “Wait,” she called, and he stopped. “I’m going to say the bare minimum to Mother and Daddy about those posters. I’d like to tell them nothing, but I don’t think that will work. A lot of people saw the things.”

  “You’re right. I’ll do the same for George and Evelyn, in case they compare notes with your parents. George might come up with the names of others in the math world who are candidates for the prankster.”

  “Good idea. My parents might have more information about the Horners and their supporters too. Okay, goodbye, until next weekend.”

  “Don’t forget to tell me what Mother Higgins says.”

  “I won’t.” She turned and walked back to her parents.

  He watched her go, and that damned hole opened up again in his chest. “Oh, stop this nonsense,” he told it as he headed for the parking lot.

  CHAPTER

  NINETEEN

  Gloriana called Mother Lulabelle Higgins on Monday and went to see the venerable witch on Wednesday. She liked Lulabelle a lot, had learned many spells and potion recipes from the healer, and trusted her to keep confidences. Please, let her be able to help them.

  In mid-morning, Gloriana pulled up to the simple frame house on an oak-tree-shaded street in LaGrange. The garden was filled with multicolored flowers, especially roses, daisies, and zinnias, and Gloriana smiled at the cheerful blossoms while she climbed the steps to the broad porch.

  “Hello, dear,” Lulabelle said, opening the door before Gloriana could knock. “Come on in. How are you and how is the family?”

  “We’re all fine, Lulabelle. How are you? You’re looking well. How was Vegas? Did you take those gamblers to the cleaners?” She gave Lulabelle a hug.

  Lulabelle grinned, patted her tightly curled, silver-white hair, and pointed to her T-shirt, which proclaimed “Poker Diva” in sparkling crystals. “I believe I taught a couple of them a lesson.”

  Gloriana followed the old witch to the kitchen. The house was immaculate as always, and the air was fragrant with the smell of freshly baked chocolate. Lulabelle moved fairly briskly, her slim body ramrod straight. A stranger would guess she was seventy, maybe seventy-five. Gloriana could only hope she looked so good when she was seventy, much less Lulabelle’s ninety-some-odd years.

  “I’ve made some brownies for us. My doctor says to indulge my tastes, and I’m following his orders. What would you like to drink with them?”

  “Milk, of course,” Gloriana answered. “Here, let me get it. The same for you?”

  “What else? The glasses are in their usual place.”

  “The big news is, Daria’s going to have a baby,” Gloriana said as she poured the milk.

  “No, you don’t say! That’s wonderful. I’ll have to call her soon.”

  They each chose a brownie from the plate on the table and took their first bites.

  “Mmmmm,” they both hummed.

  They chitchatted about her family and Lulabelle’s until their first brownies were reduced to crumbs.

  Lulabelle wiped her lips after a swallow of milk and looked straight at Gloriana. “You said you had some soulmate

  questions, dear. Have you finally found yours?”

  Gloriana sighed, played with her napkin, took another sip of milk. She knew her inquisitor would not let her rise from the table without telling every detail. “I don’t know. I’ve met a man, a practitioner, and we’re attracted to each other, but he’s extremely different from me. We have practically nothing in common, we hardly speak the same language, we don’t understand each other’s magic, and it gets worse from there.”

  “Start at the beginning, Glori. Let’s take it a step at a time.”

  “You remember how I was involved in that debate over how to cast spells? Everything started there.” She proceeded to tell Lulabelle the entire story.

  When she came to the kisses, the first test portion of them, Lulabelle smiled. When she mentioned their idea of assuaging the SMI with the second kiss, Lulabelle started laughing.

  A little miffed at the old witch’s reaction, Gloriana waited until her laughter subsided and said, “So, that’s where we left it. What do you think? Did the imperative make a mistake? Can we change the SMI’s mind? Are we stuck? What happens if we don’t mate? Have you ever heard of practitioners who did reject their mates? Not legends or tales, but in reality, with facts that can be checked? We’re serious here.”

  “Oh, my dear, I’m sure you are. That particular tactic is a new one to me and quite startling.” Lulabelle grew serious. “Let me think out loud for a minute, starting with your last question. I’ve known, actually made the acquaintance of, only one practitioner who refused his soul mate. It was back in the nineteen-fifties. He belonged to a highfalutin New York City family, and his soul mate was the daughter of working-class parents. Oh, the horror and shame of having someone like her as their son’s mate! He came from a long line of very blue blood, and the imperative had always paired their members with others of the same sort. His family was outraged and threatened to disown him if he married her.

  “He, poor boy, did not have a very strong backbone and was greedy to boot, and he rejected her. I met him about ten years after the rejection. He was in terrible shape, had gone through two wives—non-practitioner, of course—and had taken to the bottle. He came to me for healing and told me his story. Although I helped him as much as I could, nothing was going to alleviate the pain and heartbreak the imperative was causing him.” Lulabelle stopped to take a sip of milk.

  “I saw him again about a year after that visit,” she continued, “and he was even worse off. He’d actually found his mate—she’d moved out of town after the rejection and never married—and he asked her to marry him. This time she didn’t want anything to do with him! Told him she’d come to terms with her life being without a mate, the imperative wasn’t bothering her at all, and he should crawl back into his hole and pull it in after him. I suggested he try to change her mind—it’s never too late if you’re both alive—but we lost touch after that. I never knew what happened to either of them.”

&nb
sp; “What a sad tale,” Gloriana said, her hopes for a happier ending plummeting. “What were their names? I’d like to look them up if possible. Ma—uh, Forscher and I want to check them out.”

  “William Robert Rhinedebeck was his name. I think hers was something like Gladys Kowalski or Kaminsky.”

  Gloriana pulled a piece of paper out of her purse and wrote down the names. “That’s the only actual instance of rejection you have personal knowledge of?”

  “Yes. I’ve heard the tales, of course, about horrible ends, suicides, even murders.”

  “Murders?”

  “Where the one rejected kills the one rejecting, or one of the rejected kinfolk takes on the task.”

  “Oh.” She wouldn’t have to worry about that, thank goodness. None of her family would go after Forscher with a shotgun. Although, come to think of it, Clay might consider his computers fair game. “Do you have an idea why there’s so little in the records about soulmate rejections?”

  “Probably because they’re rare. Except for the one I am personally acquainted with, all the rest of the stories are older than I am and seem to be more like cautionary fables. I don’t think we even bother with them anymore when telling you children about the imperative. You and Marcus are the first people I’ve ever heard of to resist because you think you’re incompatible. I will see what I can find out about this Rhinedebeck fellow, though. There may be more to the story.”

  “Thanks. But to get back to my other questions, has the SMI, or more correctly the phenomenon, ever made a mistake? Ever changed its mind?”

  “I don’t think so. Not where the two mates are concerned. Rhinedebeck and the woman were, in fact, soul mates. I’ve witnessed many matches between different classes, races, religions. I’m sure there have been other outraged or disappointed or upset families because people will act like jackasses, given an excuse. I’ve seen mates intensely attracted to each other and those who hardly appear to be mates at all. I’ve never heard of two potential mates being attracted one day and having no connection the next, as though the imperative took it all back.” Lulabelle reached for another brownie.

  Gloriana poured them both more milk. “Forscher says that he doesn’t want a soul mate, ever. He has nothing against me, per se. He simply decided long ago it wasn’t for him. He wouldn’t discuss why he feels that way.”

  “What are his parents like? That’s usually where our conclusions about mates come from.”

  “Stiff, formal, both professors, very proper, immaculately dressed. They seem well suited to each other. At their request, he calls them by their first names. His mother’s proud of him, I could see that when she looked at him. I couldn’t tell how his father felt. My parents got along with them okay, but they get along with everybody.” She took a bite of another brownie. At this rate, she wouldn’t need lunch.

  Lulabelle stared into the distance for a minute before saying, “Glori, I think you have to get to the bottom of Marcus’s refusal to accept a mate. He has to have a reason, and a very good one, to fight the imperative. You’re never going to be able to be together until you do. That brings up other questions. Do you like the man? Can you see yourselves together? Do you want to be together, to be his soul mate and have him for yours?”

  Gloriana moved her glass in circles on the table while she considered her answer. That really was the question, wasn’t it? Such a jumble of ideas, notions, and impressions ran through her head that she couldn’t settle on a decision.

  Finally she said, “I honestly don’t know. I like him, but I can’t tell you why—probably the phenomenon at work. He’s so perfect, always looking like a magazine ad. I guess he can’t help that. When we’re together, I feel like that character in the comics who always has a dirt cloud surrounding him.

  “He’s certainly smart, both about his profession and his magic. He can be charming. I wish he would loosen up a little. On the other hand, given his parents, he probably hasn’t had much experience with ‘going with the flow.’ There’s a part of me that wants to try to penetrate that wall he has around him, but that may be my perverse nature—much stimulated in my formative years by my big brother.”

  “Speaking of loosening up, are you aware that Marcus Forscher is a fiction writer besides being a professor?” Lulabelle asked.

  “No. What does he write?”

  “Science fiction. A couple of my grandsons and great grandsons are fans of his. He writes under the name Frederik Russell. From what they’ve said, the books are good space adventures, lots of intergalactic wars, and the like.”

  “I never would have guessed it. I’ll ask Clay if he’s heard of him. He and Daddy read that stuff.”

  “Surely there’s more you can say about the man, Glori. What have you been able to agree on?”

  She took a thinking break to finish off her milk before speaking. “We’ve complemented each other in our negotiations with Ed over the staging and during the events themselves. Like a man, of course, he often tries to speak first and for me, and I’m holding my own there. We’re agreed upon the need for a study of magic education and seem to have arrived at a mutual consensus that encompasses both our views.

  “I’m still confused. I am attracted to him, of course. The imperative’s stirring up emotions and thoughts I never knew I had, while down at bedrock, I can’t see spending the rest of my life with someone with very little in common between us and especially with a man who, except for an outside force, doesn’t want to be there in any way, shape, or manner.” She had to twist in her seat at the thought of that.

  “What about the fact that we’re really different about our philosophies of casting spells and working magic? He had a look of sheer horror—or maybe it was distaste—when he saw me give a growth spurt to a poinsettia. He showed me how he plays with these theoretical math proofs, and I couldn’t even formulate an intelligent question. Our dogs may like each other, but you can’t build a life on that. I feel in my bones we have other differences than the ones we know about—music, politics, and the fact that he doesn’t have a single plant in his house. I have no idea what he thinks about children, except that he probably doesn’t want them or he’d want a wife. How do you live with someone like that, much less be their helpmate, their soul mate?”

  Lulabelle patted her hand. “Dear, that’s where I think you’re worrying about something that doesn’t really matter. I’ve seen mates who were wildly different from each other on the surface, yet got along wonderfully and built strong, healthy families.” She paused, a shrewd gleam showed in her eyes, and she asked, “How are you taking the news of Daria’s baby?”

  “Fine.” When Lulabelle shot her one of those “oh, come on” looks, Gloriana shrugged. “I’m willing to admit the news threw me for a loop at first, and it has made me wonder about a family of my own. Yes, I’d like one. All of a sudden, I’m thinking of it at least once a day, where before all our problems, the notion never crossed my mind once a year. The question has become, how can I have one when my soul mate says no? I have no idea what it would take to change his mind.”

  “Meanwhile the imperative is pestering you, and you’re both trying to keep it at bay with a kiss from time to time. Is your method of appeasement working?”

  “So far it seems to be. No pain since I came home.” She put her hand on her center. Nothing, not a hum, not an ache, not a twinge.

  “How far do you plan on taking your pacification attempt?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I’ll bet the imperative is going to up the ante, raise the stakes, make you more miserable in its attempts to bring you together. It’s also probably going to intensify your ‘interactions.’ How far into the first mating are you expecting to go?”

  “How far?” Gloriana blinked at Lulabelle. “You lost me. What are you talking about?”

  “You’re aware that the first mating is a process. It’s not wham, bam, and you’re bonded.” She waited until Gloriana nodded before continuing. “Be very careful if you two de
cide to make love with the idea of convincing the imperative to leave you alone. You may find yourself bonded.”

  “I did ask Daria about the process, and she said they made love a bunch of times before being bonded, like six or seven.”

  “I believe the average these days is between five and seven. In the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries, it was four to five, and records say fewer still if you look farther back in time. Remember, those are averages.”

  “I don’t think I have to worry about an accidental bonding,” Gloriana said. “Neither Forscher nor I want to take it that far. We already rejected that test. The SMI’s quiet. Maybe we fooled it.”

  “You may be more alike than you realize. You’re both intellectualizing the process, when it’s all about emotion and passion, the heart, not the brain. I’d like to be able to tell you simply to relax and enjoy the mate and the mating, but I do understand your difficulties. Be careful, dear.”

  “We will,” Gloriana answered, wishing profoundly the whole disaster would simply go away. She had nothing against emotion; however, when it wasn’t reciprocated? Disaster.

  “All our talk reminds me of my mate,” Lulabelle said with a sigh. “Jimmy’s been gone for twenty years and I still miss him.”

  “Oh, I didn’t mean to make you sad with my questions,”

  “None of my memories make me sad, Glori, especially those of Jimmy. They’ve become old friends. I’m looking forward to you and your mate, Marcus or not, sitting here in my kitchen eating brownies. By the way, before you leave, I have a transplanting problem.”

  Gloriana stayed to help repot a large ficus tree, thanked Lulabelle for all her help, and headed home. Big & Rich were singing “Save a Horse (Ride a Cowboy)” and she was congratulating herself on finally having some facts to deal with, even if she didn’t like the idea of the SMI upping the stakes. When she reached the farm boundary, her center started itching.

  She glanced down at her chest. “You be good and stop that. We’re doing the best we can. You simply have to accept the fact that you made a mistake.”