Witchtown

by Cory Putman Oakes

  Maire approached the pyre. She opened a small jar, and there was just enough of a breeze to bring a whiff of cypress oil to my nose. Maire dipped her fingers in it and touched the top of the cloth-wrapped head.

  “We bless your head. May you carry the wisdom you have gathered here to the next life and beyond.”

  “She’s not going to be buried?” I whispered to Kellen. Most witches preferred a natural burial. No casket, just a cloth wrapping. No muss, no fuss. As close to the earth as possible.

  “It’s casket or cremation here,” Kellen explained. “Most people choose cremation. The urn can be buried directly in the earth.”

  “We bless your eyes, all that you have seen and have yet to see,” Maire continued.

  I flinched. I still had Pendle’s wallet tucked somewhere in our apartment. Could she see that, now that she was presumably free of the dementia that had clouded her vision in life?

  I fidgeted uncomfortably, and Kellen must have noticed because he looked over at me strangely.

  “I’ve never been to a funeral before,” I admitted.

  “I have,” he said dryly, and I knew he was thinking about his mom.

  Whatever suspicions I still harbored about him, this was not play-acting. There was real pain on his face.

  I slipped my hand into his. He did not look at me, but he gave my fingers a warm squeeze, just as Maire raised a hand slightly to the other side of the altar, to where my mother was standing.

  My mother closed her eyes and a ball of flames engulfed the pyre.

  The new town Natural burning the old. There was something comfortingly circular about it.

  And something profoundly unsettling, too.

  Kellen disappeared quickly, almost the second Maire closed the circle and dismissed us. I wasn’t sure quite what to do or where to go myself, so I followed the group that headed to Odin’s Tavern.

  Witchtown’s one and only drinking establishment was all polished wood. The back wall was dominated by a carving of a topless woman with flowing hair, which looked like it had been pried off the bow of a ship.

  The man behind the bar was wearing a Viking helmet, and he was so enormous that I dismissed him at first as just another oversize decoration. But when my entrance caused the little bells attached to the door to jingle, the helmet turned in my direction and the horns swung slowly from side to side.

  “No minors,” he growled.

  “It’s okay, Uncle O, she’s with me.”

  Talya was waving at me from a table next to the window.

  I glanced back toward the bar. The horns dipped forward slightly, in what I assumed was permission, so I walked over to join her.

  “Odin, I presume?” I asked, referring to the formidable bartender.

  “My uncle,” Talya confirmed. “Aimee’s dad.”

  “You live with them, right?” I had heard that Talya’s parents were not in Witchtown.

  “Yeah,” Talya said, playing with the straw in her drink. “Once my parents figured out the witch thing wasn’t a phase, they shipped me off so that I could be with ‘my own kind,’ to use their words.”

  “Nice,” I said sarcastically.

  A bowl of nuts crashed down onto our table, and I jumped. When I looked up to find Odin standing over me, I jumped a second time.

  “What else can I get you?” he rumbled, then gestured to Talya’s drink. “You want the ginger ale too?”

  I was about to say yes, since it seemed the polite thing to do, but the smallest of warning headshakes from Talya made me reconsider.

  “Um, I think I’ll start with water. Thanks,” I squeaked. Then, because my stomach had woken up at the sight of the nuts, I pointed to the bowl. “Um, are those raw?”

  “I sure as hell didn’t cook them. I’ll be right back with your water.”

  Good enough. I took a handful.

  “Wise choice,” Talya said, making a face at her ginger ale and pushing it away. “He makes it himself. He tries. But it tastes like socks.”

  I stifled a laugh as more black-clad funeralgoers streamed into the tavern.

  “Did you watch the funeral from here?” I asked Talya.

  “Yes. Rituals are a problem for me,” she admitted. When I said nothing, she sighed. “If I concentrate really hard, I can usually prevent myself from saying the things I see out loud. Except in ritual. Being around channeled power just makes me blurt things out.”

  “Oh,” I said. “I can see how that would be a problem.”

  Odin brought me my water, and I told Talya about finding the angelica. She seemed to believe me, even without evidence. I offered to show her where it was and in return, she promised to lead me to some of her favorite herb-hunting spots around town.

  After that, a strange silence fell over us.

  “So why do you hang around the rituals?” I asked her, after a while. “Why take the chance?”

  “I like to watch,” Talya mumbled. And to my surprise, she colored slightly.

  I raised an eyebrow.

  “Like to watch who?” I baited her.

  Oh Gods, don’t let it be Kellen.

  But honestly, Kellen didn’t seem like her type. And he hadn’t been a part of the group sweeping the square. He hadn’t been the one she was staring at . . .

  “Royce?” I ventured hesitantly. “Is it Royce?”

  Talya’s blush deepened.

  “It is Royce!” I exclaimed, triumphantly.

  “He has nice shoulders,” she admitted.

  I started to giggle, and she glared at me for a second before laughing herself.

  “He’s also attached at the hip to Autumn,” I pointed out gently.

  Talya stopped laughing and eyed me gravely.

  “Don’t be so sure about that,” she muttered.

  I raised an eyebrow. I was about to ask her again what she had seen about Royce when my mother breezed through the door of the tavern.

  “Hello, girls.” My mother swooped down on us and kissed me on the cheek before I could duck. “Fancy meeting you here.”

  “Mother, this is Talya,” I mumbled. “Talya, my mother. Aubra.”

  “Delighted to meet you, Talya,” my mother gushed, sticking her hand out.

  Talya reached out a lacey, black-gloved hand, her eyes wide.

  “Talya?” I asked.

  She did not respond. She was staring at my mother, the same way she had stared at Royce. Frozen, slack-jawed, and looking a little bit beyond her. Her lips twitched like she was about to speak, but she clapped a hand over her mouth before she could make a sound.

  She stood up and had to grab the table to keep from stumbling backwards.

  “I’m fine,” she said, when I jumped up to help her. “I’m . . . um . . . late for work.”

  She ran for the door. My mother stared after her.

  “What’s her problem?” she asked me.

  I shrugged my shoulders and returned to my seat, like I hadn’t noticed anything strange. But I could feel my heartbeat quickening. What had she seen about my mother?

  “Um,” I started, then bit my lip. I would rather have had this conversation in private.

  “Yes, dear?” my mother asked, turning slightly to scan the bar.

  “You . . . You didn’t have anything to do with Pendle Bishop’s death, did you?”

  My mother whipped her head around to face me.

  “Of course I didn’t!” she snapped. “The mayor said that Pendle Bishop died of a heart attack. Even I can’t make that just happen.”

  “Okay . . .” I said guardedly.

  My mother made a face and sank gracefully into the chair that Talya had just vacated. She folded her hands and looked at me primly across the table.

  “Why would I harm that old woman?”

  Why would you steal Rafe’s jacket?

  “I don’t know,” I said honestly, answering both questions. I wanted to believe that she wasn’t capable of murder. There was a time where I would have believed it without a second thought. But no
w . . .

  I had seen too much to rule it out. I wasn’t entirely sure where my mother would draw the line anymore.

  Or if she would draw the line at all.

  “How’s the vault coming?” I asked, mostly to change the subject.

  “Slowly. I’ve been too busy drawing up the fake financials for the investors to make much headway on anything else. But the books are all done now, so Percy and I are going to put in some serious time at the bank later today,” she said, waving at something over my shoulder. I craned my neck and saw the mayor’s rodent-faced husband waiting eagerly at the bar.

  Great. Just great.

  My mother stood up.

  “Have a lovely day, darling,” she said, beaming wildly at me as she flitted across the room toward Percy.

  With a sigh, I took a handful of nuts for the road and started for the door.

  “Hey,” came a gruff voice from behind me.

  I spun around to see Odin coming around the bar, walking purposefully toward me, his face unreadable beneath the fierce Viking helmet. It took real effort for me to take a deep breath and stand my ground, planting my feet into the wooden floor beneath me. But I was glad that I didn’t give in to the urge to flee when he stopped in front of me and put out a meaty hand.

  I took it, and he nearly shook my arm off.

  “It’s nice to see Talya with a friend,” he said, still growling slightly despite a hint of a pleasant tone. “It’s Macie, right?”

  “Right.”

  “You come back anytime, Macie. Okay?”

  “Okay,” I agreed.

  Chapter Fourteen

  The next morning, I had my first magic lesson with Kellen.

  Kellen lived just north of downtown, in a neighborhood made up of cute little homes with thatched roofs, picket fences, and large gardens. The streets in this area were all roughly cobbled and had names like Evening Primrose Lane and Meadowsweet Way.

  Of course Witchtown’s Prince Charming would live in a place right out of a fairy tale.

  Kellen let me in the front door and led me into the kitchen by way of a snug living room. He introduced me to a man with his same firm jaw, blue eyes, and floppy brown hair.

  “My dad,” Kellen said.

  “Just leaving,” his dad assured us, and he shook my hand and gave Kellen an amused smile. “You kids have fun.”

  After his dad left, Kellen motioned for me to sit. I pulled out a chair from the cozy kitchen table, sniffing the air as I did. The scent of juniper was there, of course, because Kellen was. But the dominant scent in the room was a sweet, doughy, slightly charred aroma, which meant Kellen had eaten partially burnt pancakes for breakfast.

  My craving from that first morning in Witchtown came back with a vengeance. I sat down quickly in the chair, trying not to breathe through my nose.

  Kellen set two pewter candleholders on the table of front of me and wedged a white taper candle into each of them.

  “Since you seem pretty dead set on this ‘I can’t channel’ business,” he said, with only a touch of mockery in his voice, “I’m not even going to bother taking you through the summoning, accepting, and channeling of power, the way I would with someone normal.”

  “Gee, thanks,” I said, and I had just enough wounded pride to add, “I did it once, you know.”

  “Really?”

  He sat down across from me.

  “Sort of,” I hedged. Seattle was kind of hard to explain. I didn’t remember much about it. And strangely, thinking of it always made me wonder about my father. Or maybe I was thinking about him because I had just met Kellen’s dad? “I mean, I was little. But I’m pretty sure I channeled.”

  “That should make it easier for you to do it again,” Kellen said, moving the candles so that they were between us on the table. “Still, given your issues, I’m going to try to come at it from a different angle.”

  With a flick of his fingers, a tiny ball of flame appeared, lighting the candle on the right.

  “Showoff,” I scoffed.

  “Look at the flame,” he said, in the same teacher voice I had heard him use on the six-year-olds. “Take a good, hard look at it. Notice all the details. Then I want you to close your eyes and picture the flame in your mind.”

  I stared at him in disbelief.

  “Candle meditation? This is kid stuff!”

  “Humor me,” he said. When I continued to glower at him, he added, “You promised you would do what I say, no questions asked.”

  I blew out a lungful of air, causing the flame to dance but not go out.

  “Fine.”

  Dutifully, I stared at the candle flame. It was your basic, orangey yellow flame that faded to blue the closer it got to the wick. It wasn’t long before my eyes started to hurt. I closed them, and brought up an image of an identical candle in my mind’s eye.

  “Got it?” Kellen asked. His voice was quiet, gentle so as not to distract me.

  “Yes,” I said. I still felt like an overgrown six-year-old. But the part of my brain that was not absorbed with fueling the candle image was aware that while my eyes were closed, Kellen was free to stare at me at his leisure. Was he staring? I would probably never know. Unless I peeked, which would ruin the exercise.

  Did I want him to stare? I wasn’t sure of that either.

  “Okay,” he said. “Now that you have a clear image, I want you to manipulate it. First, make the entire flame yellow. Go.”

  I concentrated, and the orange and blue parts of the flame in my mind melted away, leaving only the yellow behind.

  “Now orange. Go.”

  The yellow flame darkened into a bristling burnt orange.

  “Now expand the flame; make it fatter. Go.”

  “Shrink it; make it tall and skinny. Go.”

  “Make it green.”

  “Pink with yellow polka dots.”

  I obeyed all of his commands, smirking a little at the last one.

  “Okay,” he said, and his voice took on a slightly more serious tone. “Now picture another candle in the background. Unlit. Just like the real one on the table in front of you. Got it?”

  “Got it.”

  “Now make the flame jump from the lit candle to the unlit one. Go.”

  I tried, really I did. But the tiny flame in my head, which had so obligingly changed colors and shapes, stubbornly refused to jump. It didn’t matter how much I commanded it, threatened it, sweet-talked it, or even begged. It wouldn’t go near the second candle.

  The problem was I knew what was supposed to happen. Or, at least, I knew what Kellen wanted to have happen. His plan was for me to make my mental candle flame jump, then I would open my eyes, and both of the candles on the table would be lit. Boom, channeling, without thinking about it. But the wall, that damned wall, was sitting stubbornly between the two candles. Mocking me.

  The frustration must have been showing on my face, because I suddenly felt Kellen’s hand on mine.

  “Open your eyes,” he said.

  I did. Only the candle on the right was lit.

  I looked over the candles at Kellen. He looked disappointed. And he was looking at me the way one might look at a puzzle.

  “You see?” I said. “It won’t work. I can’t channel.”

  “That was only our first try,” he reminded me. His hand was still on mine.

  He has such nice eyes.

  I hadn’t noticed his eyes since initiation night, immediately after he had tried to kiss me. The candle’s flame was reflected in them now, making them look even bluer than they had then.

  Stop it.

  “Did the real flame ever change?” I asked him. I was annoyed to detect a hint of hope in my voice. “With the visualizations? Did it change colors or size?”

  Kellen smiled apologetically, and I sat back in my chair, defeated.

  “What does it feel like to channel?” I asked him.

  Before Kellen could answer, I heard the echo of my own voice in my head. I had asked that question before.r />
  I sat up straighter and extracted my hand from his.

  “I should go.”

  He stood up.

  “I’ll walk you back downtown.”

  As we made our way down the cobblestone streets of Kellen’s neighborhood, I put a hand to my stomach and stifled a belch, wincing slightly at the sudden taste of garlic in my mouth. Last night, completely and totally unable to face another salad, I had unearthed my copy of The Art of Raw Vegan Cooking, which I had bought the first time my mother had forced us to “go raw” (several Havens back). My attempt at the featured cover recipe of carrot pasta with raw marinara sauce had come out remarkably edible, I thought, if a little heavy on the raw garlic. But my mother hadn’t been quite as impressed.

  “You know,” she had said, throwing down her fork, “we don’t have to eat this crap when it’s just us.”

  “Yes, we do,” I had replied firmly. Then, choosing to ignore her having just called the meal I had made for her “crap,” I added, “It’s too easy to slip up if we act differently in public than we do in private. You taught me that yourself.”

  I had met her gaze then, and tried to tell her with my eyes that I knew exactly what she was hiding in her bottom drawer.

  She hadn’t said anything. She just marched into the bedroom, leaving me to finish my meal in silence.

  At least she was probably burping up garlic today too. The thought cheered me as we reached the outermost circle of buildings of downtown and passed by an old Victorian house.

  I paused. The house would have fit in perfectly in the Victorian Village, which was just south of downtown. But here, among all of the identical, whitewashed commercial buildings, it looked very out of place.

  “That was Pendle Bishop’s house,” Kellen explained.

  “Really?” I wasn’t surprised. The peeling paint, the shabby shutters, and the slightly leaning porch looked exactly how I would have pictured the batty old Natural’s house.

  “This whole area used to be housing, back when Witchtown was smaller,” Kellen told me. “When downtown expanded, they built another neighborhood in the south, with bigger and nicer houses. Everybody agreed to move except Pendle.”