Heart of the Secret: A Witches of Lane County Novella

by Jody A. Kessler

  Then I begin to construct the foundation for undoing a centuries-old spell. Crouching beneath the lean-to, I grab my lantern and look at the text and my notes for the hundredth time, assuring myself that I didn’t miss anything.

  Lay a fire on a bed of volcano stones. Bury a rose quartz pillow deep in its center and sprinkle with the waters of milk thistle and clover.

  The whitest fire with a heart of blue will burn away every pain that the wedding curse knew.

  When the tide comes in, and with circles crossed,

  The sea will erase all lines that bind and confuse the fates.

  Bestow upon the sea, the gifts of the bride of the sixteenth century.

  Add one measure of ash for the love that burned and let the tide carry it as it turns.

  In some ways my mother was a modern woman who adored the feminist movement, was independent and strong, but Goddess, she loved to write spells to her own rhyme and reason. Deciphering her directions is only slightly easier than translating Arabic upside down through frosted glass. Sometimes it makes perfect sense and other times I have to guess at her meanings and come up with my own.

  Personally, I prefer to write down exact recipes and painfully clear instructions. This isn’t exactly normal behavior for a witch. The traditional grimoires are all coded and poetic and leave a lot of room for misinterpretation. Aunt Jet and I like to keep things straightforward and simple. Non-magical people can’t work the spells anyway, so to me, it makes little sense to write them in flowery prose.

  Setting the journal aside, I stand and turn to the east and call the magic that is in my blood. It’s the essence of who I am and I let it rise to the surface of my being. Earth energies and inner strength hums through my body like I’ve suddenly been plugged into a source of power that no one can see. The magic rises and spreads until I have a field of energy around me and pulsing through the sand beneath my feet. Then I move to an old camping fire pit and dig out the sodden remains of the last fire, to begin from scratch. The lava rocks have to go on the bottom. For good measure I lay them out one by one in a clockwise direction until they form a tight energy spiral. I bury the piece of rose quartz in the exact center. Next I add the iron wood mixed with willow. I pour on the herbal concoction—like my fire needs any more water—but this is in the instructions, so I do it anyway. To make a damp fire blaze under a weeping sky, I squirt most of a can of starter fluid—something else I pilfered from Aunt Jet’s garage—onto the firewood. Spraying on copious amounts of highly combustible liquid and then lighting the fire with a not so careful flick of the wrist and snap of my fingers is probably not the smartest thing I have ever done, but at least the wind was blowing away from me. Note to self: Fumes from starter fluid are deadly flammable.

  A ball of flame whooshes into the air and catches the breeze. Fortunately my hair and eyelashes survive the explosion, but the fire ball hits my pop-up shelter and disintegrates the tent in a heartbeat. The wind takes the remains of the flaming synthetic fabric and blows it down the beach like wispy fire-winged fairies taking flight.

  “Oops,” I say, blinking at my mistake and wondering if I’m making a heinous error by attempting to break an ancient curse on about two hours of sleep. Now or never, I remind myself as I throw a small tarp over my remaining gear before it’s soaked through with rain. I place beach rocks on the corners to keep the tarp from blowing away and turn back to the fire.

  The whitest fire means adding magnesium salts to the flames and then adjusting the amount until it is glowing white like the sea froth under a full moon. I sprinkle on the salts in four doses until I see the desired effect. With the fire burning white, I begin to regain a little confidence after almost setting myself ablaze. Then I move on to the next step. I have to add the copper powder into the center of the fire so it appears to have a heart of blue. I’ve never done this before, so I’m forced to make it up as I work through the process. Along with many of the other things I needed for tonight, I confiscated a section of copper pipe from the house. I jab one end of the pipe into the center of the fire and work as fast as I can at uncorking the copper salts and pour them down the tube.

  Mistake number two is exponentially more thrilling than the explosion. I’m so enthralled by the white flames with a ball of indigo in its center that I don’t notice at first the flames shooting out of the end of the pipe and burning the front of my coat. Orange and blue sparkles creep up the front of my chest like an invasion of hot technicolored parasites. They scurry over my clothes and into my hair. I shriek, drop the pipe, and realize my palms are hotter than they should ever be. The sparks are singeing my hair in patches and I frantically pat my head and clothes in an attempt to put myself out. I thought using my magical dry powder on myself was a good idea because of the weather, but apparently if I was more damp from the rain, I wouldn’t be moth eaten with burn holes. Being schooled in two life lessons simultaneously is always better than learning them separately, right?

  Glancing down at the discarded pipe I see that I’ve also scorched the tarp covering my supplies. I lift the corner which isn’t burned and check on the crow. He’s faring about as well as expected. I think the bird was not doing too badly under the cover, but now that I’m peeking at him, he resumes the panicked squawking and beating its wings inside the small cage.

  The sting of tears clouds my vision. I replace the tarp so I don’t have to think about avian murder and then walk over to the water and dip my throbbing hands into the ocean. How can I do this? I’ve only just begun and I’ve almost killed myself twice. Taking the heart of the crow and adding it to the ocean is the last part of the ceremony and I can’t even look at the animal without going all blurry-eyed with sorrow and guilt.

  I shake it off as I notice the tide has reached its peak before turning and receding. Too many factors are in alignment for this not to work. The phase of the moon in the correct month, of the correct year, and even the timing of the tide are all telling me I am chosen for this task, but it feels out of my realm of possibility. Auntie Jet always says, “If it doesn’t make you sweat and feel a little crazy in your head, it isn’t worth doing.”

  Goddess, I wish Aunt Jet were wrong about that.

  Motivation refreshed, I rush over to my gear and grab the willow branch that I set aside earlier. Crow feathers and lilies dangle from the stem as I watch for an opening between waves crashing against the shore. The crow feathers represent Rook and the lilies are the same ones from the small vase he left in my room. They’re also my favorite flower so they represent me well.

  I wait for a large wave to retreat back to the sea and then draw two large circles on the wet sand. They intersect leaving a section of the circles crossed. I place the willow branch on the fire and retrieve the pile of personal belongings from everyone in my family and also a shirt that belongs to Rook.

  Now the magic really begins. Once I drew the circles I could feel the rise of power connecting me, the fire, the circles, and the ancient spell. It rises like crackling fumes over the beach and encapsulates me and the magic. After feeling somewhat discouraged by the incidents with the fire, the increasing magic taking over the beach raises my confidence another half notch. The next three waves are much smaller and leave my circles untouched, which gives me just the right amount of time to place the objects down in the correct order.

  I start with herbs from Aunt Ivy’s collection. I place them on the eastern border and then sprinkle nail clippings from her bathroom trash can—I pray she never finds out I took them—over the herbs. On the south edge of the circle, I place Aunt Jet’s motorcycle emblem and the insole from one of her motorcycle boots. I figure her sweat would be on the insole, and as gross as that sounds, it will work beautifully in bringing her energy to the ceremony. On the north side, I place my mother’s hair clip. It hurts me to lay it on the sand. It’s a small but personal treasure from my mom that I’ve held onto since forever, but I can’t stop now to mourn the loss. The very next wave can erase my work before I’m finished.
On the western side, I put Tori’s credit card and a few strands of hair I found in her hairbrush.

  Where the circles cross, I place one scoop of ashes from the fire and then lay Rook’s t-shirt down over it. Then with a slap to my charred forehead, I realize I didn’t bring anything specific for myself. Having already singed half of my head, I’m more than a little reluctant to cut off a lock of hair. I glance at the pile of stuff underneath the tarp and draw a complete blank. It’s like the inside of my brain becomes a blank canvas. Looking down at the shirt and the other personal objects doesn’t bring inspiration, but I do notice how far back the water has pulled and even in the nearly pitch black night, I can see the swell of a giant wave rising.

  Panic seems to have two major effects on me. One: I react with ninja like reflexes. And two: Although my reactions are quick, my sense of logic and interpretation become grossly distorted. With the wave building, I know this is the one chance I will have to work the circle properly. Thinking that I will need my coat because of the increasingly bad weather, and that I don’t have time to sacrifice my undies, I decide my bra is the best I can do. I’m sure the bra has been in close contact to Rook’s shirt before so maybe it will have a little extra oomph in the magic department. And, I rationalize on the fly that I need my boots because of the last part of the ceremony. Of course there’s no reasoning with a woman on the verge of pressure induced insanity so the bra wins all rounds.

  I yank my arms inside my sleeves and shimmy out of my lacy bra as quickly and awkwardly as I can. If someone is watching me, I’m sure I appear as graceful as someone trying to escape from their straightjacket while being timed and attempting to escape from being drowned. I’m freaking Houdini, I decide, as I manage to wedge my favorite and most comfortable bra out from under the hem of my shirt and throw it down on top of Rook’s T-shirt. I scramble out of the way in time to watch the wave crash down and gobble up the enchanted circle like a hungry beast.

  Blinking at how quickly everything disappears into the Pacific, I don’t notice the dip in the sand until my foot catches it and I crash onto my shoulder, my arms and hands neatly encased inside my clothes.

  “Ouff!” Marrying Rook better be worth this.

  I roll over and work my hands back down the sleeves of my shirt and jacket and stare up at the cloud-darkened sky. Appreciating that all will go wrong if given the opportunity, the heavens decide that now is the time to crash down on Aspen Milan Morgan.

  Drizzle turns to pelting rain and thunder booms out over the sea. The drying powder on my head, face, and neck has apparently burnt off because I’m suddenly soaked to the skin.

  “If it isn’t hard, it probably isn’t worth doing,” I grumble again the sentiment I grew up hearing from Aunt Jet. It suddenly seems more pertinent than ever before. Gritting my teeth, I rise from the sand and retrieve the backpack and the bird cage in preparation for the final part of breaking the spell.

  I thought I knew where the most western edge of the shore in Lane County was, but as I head toward the rocky section of beach jutting out into the ocean, I remember the old jetty stretching into the water twenty meters farther. With the tide now going out, the jetty will be the only place to complete what I came to do.

  ∞

  The words to follow, will be your guide,

  As you give the gifts to the receding tide.

  Five times chant the verse.

  Let it consume you, as you break the curse.

  Then honor Madeleine’s need to be a wife,

  By sacrificing a corvid’s life.

  Its heart will be given beneath the waning moon,

  In the month of Taurus, and beyond the sandy dunes.

  At the edge of the shore of the deepest sea,

  Where the depths of love stretch to infinity.

  Let the tears of lost love crash over the stars,

  And ask that the curse leave no scars.

  I repeat all the words as I approach the end of the rocky breakwater. My mom didn’t clarify if it was only part of what she wrote or the entire last page, so to be thorough, I memorized the whole thing.

  Digging deep into my emotions to explore my feelings and open myself to the pain of centuries of Morgan women, while trying not to break my ankle or fall and shatter my skull, is a wee bit more challenging than I anticipated. The energy of the night helps keep me upright on the broken and crumbling stones and old concrete. I have to find my balance with every slippery seaweed and algae-covered step while holding the cage, but it only reminds me of every carefully placed caution I’ve put around my heart and my life. I didn’t want to fall in love. I knew all the warnings and the dangers involved since I was a little girl. I grew up constructing excuses to stay away from love like building a shield made of bricks. With each step I remove a brick and try to see what lies on the other side. I picture Rook standing there holding out his offer of lilies in a grove of aspen trees on a carpet of forget-me-nots waiting for my acceptance of marriage. As the tears collect, I let all the images of lost loves from my ancestors come to me. My Uncle Grant, Jet’s mysterious Bryant, Tori and her string of commitment phobic boyfriends, my long lost grandfather who I have only seen a picture of. Images of my many times great-grandmother, Madeleine, and her lost love, Henri, invade my mind and fill me with wretchedness and broken hearts. Then finally, my father and mother pour into my memories.

  The pain is visceral and all consuming. It’s downright unbearable as I embrace it to the full extent of my capability. Then I say the verses for the final time. I pull my pack off my shoulder and let the strap hang on my arm as I reach inside and grab for the wedding gifts. I toss the assortment of foods, wine, coins, gloves, and other traditional gifts into the ocean as I call out over the crashing of waves against stone, “The curse leaves no scars!” I turn to the young crow inside the cage and close my eyes for a blessed moment of blackness without guilt. Rain drenches us both, but I appear to be affected worse by it as the wet runs over my scalp and down my neck soaking my back and working its way into my pants. I reach for the kitchen knife tucked into my pack.

  “What are you doing out here!”

  “Go away, Rook!” I yell without looking through the mist and fog toward the sound of his voice.

  The wind lashes at me as I perch on the rocks. It’s taking all of my concentration not to fall into the ocean. Rook screaming behind me is not helping.

  “Aspen! Get off those rocks. This storm is getting worse by the second.”

  “I know! It’s the perfect time for a midnight swim and you’re not invited.”

  “This is not the time for joking around!”

  “Then get away from here, Rook. You’re distracting me and I’m going to slip!”

  “I bloody know you are. Come off there,” he says as he begins to climb across the jagged stones of the jetty, heading straight for me.

  As I turn to face Rook, the poor bird spreads his wings and tries to steady himself as the cage tips. The toe of my boot sticks in a crack between stones and I stumble. The bottom of the cage hits the rocks with a jolt. The crow panics and begins to beat itself against the bars. I want to cry and scream and get this over with before my window is closed for another five hundred years.

  “I broke up with you, remember? Please, leave! I need to be alone,” I scream over the wind, thunder, and the pounding of the waves. A surge of water hits the side of the jetty near Rook and sends a massive spray of sea water over him.

  “Rook!” I gasp, and take another bumbling step toward him.

  He’s braced for the assault and as the water collapses back to its source, I see him continue down the length of the jetty.

  “Don’t come any closer,” I yell, and turn back to my captive.

  “I don’t care who you are. I wouldn’t let anyone stand out here. Have you lost your good sense? Come off of there immediately!”

  “I can’t!” Determination fuels my efforts and I squat down and wedge the cage next to a rock and unlatch the door.

&nbs
p; The bird fights me, snapping its beak and clawing at anything in a panicked and useless attempt at freedom. I swallow my reluctance and shame and betrayal for what I’m about to do and manage to pin its wings against its back and lift it out of the cage without hurting it. The irony that I still care about its well-being even though I’m about to split its chest open doesn’t escape me.

  I grab the handle of Aunt Ivy’s knife from the side pocket of my little backpack. The handle feels cold and hard in my hand just like my heart for what I’m about to do. The fear from the bird penetrates my senses and I’m instantly overcome with the shakes. My entire body begins to tremble and I fumble the knife. It slides down the slanted stone next to my feet and I’m sure it’s headed straight into the waves, but it catches in a crack and sits there like a temptation straight from the devil.

  Reaching for the knife, I underestimate how much more algae is at the edge of the jetty closest to the water. My boot hits a slipperier than snot patch and skids out from under me. To save myself from going in, I release the bird and grab the rocks.

  This isn’t the part of the story where the majestic crow flutters away, disappearing into the preternatural night sky, its wings catching the moonlight like a glimpse into the netherworlds. Nope. With all my grace that the magical evening hasn’t given me, I more or less toss the helpless bird right into the sea.

  “Noooo!” I scream, and almost topple into the water after it.

  It’s a smudge of pitch on top of the undulating, swelling ocean. A flash of light glances across the jetty and momentarily makes me think more lightning is on top of us. I brace myself for the thunder and then realize the light is coming from Rook. I scramble closer to the edge of the jagged stones, my boots disappearing beneath the swells.