Not Just Voodoo

by Rebecca Hamilton

Goose bumps cover my arms, and I rub them, shivering. Why it’s so cold all of a sudden, I’m not sure. I mean, it’s Florida! The fire’s out, but that shouldn’t matter.

  It’s when I exhale and can see my breath that I decide to relight the fire. Gathering a few more branches doesn’t help to warm me any, so I dump them onto the barely smoldering pile. Dad’s old-fashioned—no lighters for us—so I go about using every trick in the book to get the flames going. I’m generally really good at it—Natalie hates starting fires, so I sometimes will cover for her and light it when it’s her turn.

  But, for whatever reason, this time, nothing works. If I do get a spark, my breath is too hard and blows it out, but if I don’t blow, there’s not enough oxygen for the fire to really catch.

  By now, my teeth are chattering. It’s so unnerving that I don’t dare give up, but my thoughts do begin to wander to keep my mind from the cold. The witches in my dream, every time they chanted or cursed Dad or hexed him or whatever it was… they always said things in threes. Did they really curse him? Are curses even possible?

  My flint just isn’t sparking, so even though it’s much harder to start a fire this way, it’s time for some good old hand rubbing.

  I shift the branches and first remove one that has a depression and then another one. Then I reform the branches into a pile and add some dry grass to the mound—my tinder nest.

  Another branch is my spindle, and I place the tip into the depression of the other bark, which rests on top of the tinder nest. While using force and pressure on the bark, I roll the spindle between my hands, slow at first and gaining speed. Some smoke rises, but no spark. I keep going, hoping to see a glowing ember…

  Nothing.

  “Heat, flames, fire,” I mutter, willing myself to keep trying. I swear, my fingertips are turning blue. My teeth chatter so much I’m stuttering, “H-Heat, flames, f-fire. H-H-Heat, f-flames, f-fire. Come on!”

  A huge spark flies out, and another. The sparks easily transfer to the tinder nest. Gently, so gently, I blow to feed the fire…

  …and it catches this time!

  I add my spindle to the pile and hold out my hands, seeking the warmth from the fire. Gradually, my fingers regain some feeling, my breath isn’t visible, and my goose bumps go away. My palms are a little sore—all right, a lot sore, considering it took me five minutes straight if not longer of rubbing wood between my hands to get the fire started—but I’ll take the pain because this warmth is glorious.

  The sun shines down, and all of a sudden, I’m way too hot. I’m not sure what we’re doing for breakfast, so I keep the fire going, but I move away. Sweat drips from me. Now that’s the Florida heat I’m used to.

  With a groan, Dad exits the tent, the material flapping behind him. “You’re up early.”

  “Couldn’t sleep,” I mutter.

  He eyes the fire.

  Not wanting to look at him, I glance around and realize I might be standing near a spot where a witch died—no, was murdered. “When are we heading back?” I ask sharply.

  “In a rush to get back to your meaningless existence?” he scoffs cruelly.

  “My life isn’t meaningless!”

  “It can be a fulfilling life, one with purpose, if you’ll only—“

  “If I only help you kill witches. How many did you kill here, Dad? Because you did, didn’t you? Ugh, don’t your realize how crazy this is? I should…”

  “Should what?” Dad doesn’t leave his spot near the tent.

  I appreciate the distance between us, but I backpedal to increase it. My mouth goes dry. Should hand you over to the authorities.

  The thought’s crossed my mind before, right after Dad killed that first witch in front of me. But he burned the body, got rid of the evidence, and I’m not sure the police would’ve believed me. Dad would’ve convinced them I’m insane, I know he would’ve. I would’ve been the one to get locked up, in a mental institution.

  “How many did you kill this time?” I ask. My dream. It’s just a nightmare. It’s not real. Not a bit of it. Not that crazy wind, not the flying…

  Not the three red-haired witches with their curses.

  Dad’s dark eyes drill a hole through me, and I have to break eye contact first. When I have the courage to look back, he’s adjusting his black shirt. You know, he wears a lot of dark clothing… to hide blood stains? To mirror his soul?

  “Three,” he says when I’ve given up hope that he’ll answer. Then again, do I really want to know all of this?

  “Three lives you’ve snuffed out for no reason.”

  “Not no reason,” he explodes, throwing out his hands. “Life is precious—“

  “All life, including theirs!”

  “No, boy.” He wags a finger at me. “Human life. You hunt to eat. Animal lives aren’t precious. Neither are witches. They—“

  “What gives you the right to kill three redheaded witches?” I yell.

  Dad lowers his arms. “What did you say?”

  “What gives you the right to kill three witches?” I swallow hard. My dream…

  A vision?

  No. It’s not possible.

  It’s a coincidence…

  It has to be.

  6

  A moment of silence follows. The dream… and the fire, too. Why did I feel so cold in the first place? It’s not until I was muttering about heat and fire that the flame sparked. Another coincidence. It has to be. Seriously. I mean, what are the chances that some random nonsense is the trigger to create fire? No. It’s nothing. It’s just me being freaked out because my dad’s a homicidal maniac.

  Nothing more.

  No magic to see here.

  Oh, man. A witch can’t have a witch hunter for a father.

  I’m not a witch!

  “Did I hear you correctly?” Dad asks, his voice low, with a dark undercurrent. “Did you say redheaded?”

  “What? No.” I think fast and blurt out, “I asked you what gives you the right to kill three hardheaded witches. I mean, seriously, not all of them are evil. I’m sure some are good. They might even be doctors and help heal—“

  “Why hardheaded?” His eyes seem to suck in light, the opposite of sparkling. Natalie would hate it if any of her designs turn out that way.

  Again, I think fast, hoping he can’t hear how fast and frantic my heart is beating because if he suspects anything about me… not that there is anything to suspect…

  And I shrug. “I misspoke. You’re the hardheaded one. Too stubborn and stupid and—“

  My dad’s face reddens with every word I’m saying, but now that I’ve picked this route, I have to keep going down it, even if it leads me straight off a cliff.

  “—and reckless. If they came after Mom once, what’s to stop them from coming after her again? Wouldn’t it be better to just stop and give it up and—“

  “You’re ignorant as well as foolish. You’re the stupid one, not me. The word you meant to use is pigheaded, not hardheaded. Hardheaded is practical and realistic, and that actually is exactly what I am. Magic is evil. It’s too powerful. It corrupts. The world can’t survive as long as magic thrives. You’re the pigheaded one because you won’t be hardheaded. You won’t see reason; you’re the one who isn’t practical. Go ahead and cling to what you think is morally correct, but in the end, you’ll see my point of view. Mark my words, boy, before you die, you will have killed at least one witch.”

  I’m speechless. It seems he’s bought my flimsy cover-up, but there’s an undercurrent to his words that makes my skin crawl. He doesn’t have magic, I’m certain, but it still feels like there’s some kind of power within his words.

  We’re silent for a few moments, and it’s awkward, and I just want to get away from him.

  “Are you hungry?” Dad says suddenly. Obviously, he’s given up on converting me to the dark side… for now.

  “I’m homesick.” With my sneaker, I shove dirt onto the fire I worked so hard to create and, without another word, begin to take down
the tent.

  After a moment, Dad helps me, and we work in silence. It’s not until he shoves the tent into the bed of the truck that he says, “You don’t have a home.”

  “Because of you,” I snap. “Always shuffling us around—“

  “Home is what you make of it. Home is peace.”

  Look who’s trying to be a Jedi.

  “Do you have peace?” I counter. “How can you when you have blood on your hands?” I enter the truck and slam my door shut.

  He climbs behind the steering wheel but faces me, his palms out for me to see their supposed cleanliness. And, yeah, they do look clean, but they’re blood there. Just like Lady Macbeth from the only Shakespearean play I’ve ever read.

  “There is no blood on my hands,” he says, his voice chilling me as much as the strange frost earlier. “I’ve found peace in two places—with your mom and with…” Dad inhales deeply. “…with killing witches.”

  “How can you find peace with murder?”

  “It’s not—“

  “It is, Dad, and if you can’t realize that, you’re gone. You’re the devil, you know that? Look. Just take me back to the house.”

  The ride home is uncomfortable, but at least Dad does respect me enough to keep his mouth shut.

  As soon as we arrive, I jump out of the truck, shove my hands into my jeans, and take off for a walk. Calder, Dad’s dog, tears after me, forcing me to go back to grab his leash. Calder’s a karelian bear dog, black with white streaks. A big brute of a dog, he goes with Dad to “work,” and it’s not until I attach his leash that I notice a small patch of matted fur near his neck.

  Stomach churning, I lean down and touch it. It’s… dried blood.

  Maybe it’s naïve, but I’ve never put two and two together before. Dad’s still getting stuff out of the truck, and I whistle to Calder, so he trots beside me as we rush over to Dad.

  “Does he hunt witches?” I hiss.

  “Who?” Dad’s smirk infuriates me.

  “Calder!”

  “Of course.”

  “But… but… if anything happens to him…” I can’t believe Dad would endanger our dog!

  Dad’s smirk turns into a scowl. “I’m so glad you’re more concerned about his safety than that of your father’s. Don’t worry. He has some enhancements and spells to keep him safe.”

  “Fight fire with fire,” I spit out.

  “Yes.” Dad grabs a bag of supplies but leaves it in the bed of the truck, his gaze shifting to me. “Do you really care more about the dog than your old man?”

  It’s terrible of me, I know, but I do care about Calder more than my dad, and even worse, I kinda care more about nameless witches than my dad, too.

  Dad jerks the bag toward him. “If a witch comes after you, what would you do? Run and hide? Try to talk your way out of it? They’ll incinerate you with a fire ball. Believe me. You need training. When you were younger, I had to lick my wounds. It takes skill and finesse to do what I do.“

  “To kill witches, you mean,” I say coldly.

  Calder nuzzles against Dad’s legs. Our dog. Hunts witches. I can’t believe it. Calder’s an awesome dog. Fiercely loyal to all of us.

  He’s protection. To Dad. His backup.

  Because I won’t be his backup?

  But, yeah, Dad’s not lying. I remember back when I was younger, before I knew what Dad really did for his job, he’d come home with broken bones or huge cuts. Mom would patch him up—she’s a nurse.

  Now that I think about it, Dad hasn’t been hurt in a long while. Not since… Not since after he brought me along that time when I was ten.

  “You use spells and enchantments on yourself, too, don’t you?” I demand. “Doesn’t that make you a hypocrite?”

  “It enables me to fulfill my goal.”

  “Goal?” My eyes widen. “You want to kill every single witch in the entire—“

  The front door opens. “There you are. I didn’t think you’ll be back already.” Mom hurries over, hugging Dad and me at the same time. “I thought I heard you two come in. Gavin, aren’t you going to help your father bring in the—“

  “He’s gonna take Calder for a walk,” Dad says gruffly.

  “Don’t be gone too long.” Mom kisses my cheek. She’s too short to kiss my forehead like she used to when I was a boy.

  “I won’t.” I whistle. “Come on, boy.”

  Calder trots beside me. If he could talk with words instead of bark, what would he be able to tell me? How many he killed? How many witches Dad fought?

  Dad’s claim that a witch went after Mom frightens me, but slowly, as we walk down the blocks, my fear turns into anger. Maybe I’m thinking of the fire from earlier, but my hands feel hot, and I almost smell smoke. Must be my imagination.

  If a witch went after Mom, does she know about magic? Does she know what Dad does after all? I mean, what excuse would Dad give her for being hurt? He told me and Natalie it was from work, but Mom would’ve needed more details.

  May she does know, and if she does…

  I swallow hard. Mom’s a nurse. There’s no way she would be okay with Dad going off and killing people, witches or not! Didn’t she take an oath about doing no harm when she became a nurse?

  Dad… he’s horrible. Terrible. Evil. He has enchantments on himself, but does he on Mom? To protect her from the witches she doesn’t know about? And what about Natalie? Is there an enchantment on her, too?

  On me?

  Do I even want enchantments?

  What I want, more than anything, is to have a different dad.

  7

  Calder sniffs at my hand and then nips me. Hard.

  “Hey, easy, boy!” Strange. He’s never bitten me before, not even when he was a puppy.

  I shake my hand, which is tingling with a strange warmth. Maybe that’s why Calder reacted.

  But he only acts like that around…

  Up the street is a man exiting a store. He sports a strange scar near his right eye. For some reason, I feel like I’ve seen him before, but I know I haven’t. Even more bizarrely, a feeling of haunting sadness comes over me.

  This isn’t the first time I’ve experienced this—kinda recognizing a stranger I’ve never seen or interacted before associated with a strong feeling. I’ve always brushed it off as nonsense, but with that dream or vision type thing, and the way the fire started and Calder right now…

  It’s possible I might’ve forgotten meeting a guy or a girl once or twice, but this has happened so many times… twenty or more, even.

  Maybe I dreamed about him. Saw him there. And the dream was a sad one.

  Like that dream about the dead witches that might not have been a dream after all?

  The man is heading my way. He makes eye contact and scowls. “Stop staring,” he mutters.

  “I’m sorry.” I urge Calder to step aside for me so the man can pass.

  But the dog growls at him.

  The man smirks. “Not a people dog, huh?”

  I can’t quite smile. “No,” I say even though it’s more like not a witch dog.

  Is this man a witch? He can’t be. Dad wouldn’t let a witch live here. We wouldn’t be leaving if a witch resides nearby.

  Unless Dad’s missed him somehow…

  The man skirts around us, and that’s it. He’s gone. I’ll never know if he really is a witch or not, how he got that scar, why I felt that sadness.

  Man, I’m getting to be as weird as my dad is evil.

  It takes some convincing for Calder to walk beside me, away from the path the man took. He does want to go after him, but eventually, we’re on the move again.

  I wish I could just take Calder and go. Run away. Be rid of Dad.

  But I can’t. Not without Natalie and my mom. And Mom will never leave Dad, and Natalie has got to stay ignorant about Dad’s “business.”

  I’m stuck with no way out, but that doesn’t mean that I’ll do what Dad wants. I’m his son, not his slave.

  “Come
on, Calder. Let’s go back to the house.”

  8

  That night, after dinner, I corner Natalie. “Come on. Let’s convince Dad to let us stay here,” I plead.

  “Why? Dad has to go to work.”

  I narrow my eyes. She’s basically ignoring me in favor of reading the manual to her new bribe.

  “Don’t you realize that he’s bought you?” I demand.

  “So?” She brushes her dark blond hair back. “You’re just jealous because I’m Dad’s favorite.”

  I gape at her. Is that the truth? Dad would never try to recruit Natalie since I’m refusing to join him. Never. Right? That would be insane!

  “Look.” Natalie sighs. “I’m sorry I said that. I’m sure Dad would get you anything you want if you ask—“

  “As long as it’s materialistic.” I grimace and flop onto my bed.

  “I know. It sucks.” Natalie drops her manual. “I would rather Dad not work so hard, that we could go out Christmas tree shopping together instead of him bringing home crappy trees every year days before Christmas.”

  “Remember the year when he forgot to get one?”

  “Yeah.” Natalie blows out a breath. She’s normally so happy, working on her dresses and skirts and designs, but maybe she’s kinda like Dad—a workaholic when it comes to fashion. Maybe she’s pouring so much energy into clothes because she’s more upset with Dad being so distant than she’s letting on.

  “Let’s go talk to him, the two of us. If we let him know—“

  “You know he’s gonna take the transfer. He always does.” And she goes back to reading.

  She’s not an ally, and I doubt Mom will be, but still, I gotta try. If anyone can get through to Dad, maybe it’s her.

  I find Mom in the kitchen. She’s on the computer, and I peek over her shoulder. Applying for a transfer.

  Mom glances up. “Why the long face, Gavin?”

  “Don’t you hate this? The constant moving? Transferring all the time?”

  “I know it’s hard for you. It’s hard for us, too, but… here.” She clicks on another tab, and a picture of a house pops up.