The Nature of Witches

by Rachel Griffin

  Sang stops and wipes my forehead with the hem of his shirt. “We’ll never make it to Autumn House at this rate.”

  “I’m going as fast as I can,” I say dryly. “And I don’t live in the dorms. I live in a small cabin behind Autumn House, just beyond the tree line.”

  “Well, we’ll never make it there either.” Sang crouches in front of me. He reaches over his shoulder and pats his back. “Hop on.”

  “Absolutely not.” Sang looks back at me, and I hope my expression reflects the mortification I feel at his suggestion.

  “I’m serious. Hop on.”

  “I don’t even know you. You’re not going to give me a piggyback ride across campus.”

  “I don’t see why not,” he says. “Besides, we just survived a tornado together. That’s got to count for something.”

  I exhale, weighing my options. Sang gives me an expectant look.

  “Fine, but this is ridiculous.”

  “Yet much more efficient,” he says.

  I wrap my arms around his neck and crawl onto his back. He loops my legs through his arms, being especially careful of my ankle, and weaves his way through campus.

  “Are you new here?” I ask, keeping my grip on him tight.

  “Sort of. I’m an advanced studies student in botany.”

  That explains a lot. His kind demeanor, his patience. He’s a spring.

  “I just graduated from Western and jumped at the opportunity to study somewhere that experiences the full range of the seasons. I’ll be doing an independent study here for a year or two with my mentor.” Western School of Solar Magic is our sister school in California. Witches graduate at eighteen, so he’s just a year ahead of me.

  I don’t say anything more and try not to focus on the embarrassment I feel at being on the back of someone I just met.

  When I see my cabin, I push myself off Sang and hop the rest of the way. He doesn’t say anything and instead shoves the door open. I sit down on the edge of my bed.

  “You need to get those cuts cleaned up. I’ll be right back.”

  “You don’t have to do that,” I call after him, but he’s already out the door.

  There’s a large crack in my window, and the roof is covered in branches and pine needles, but otherwise the cabin is exactly as I left it. Several minutes go by before Sang knocks on the door and pokes his head back in.

  “You have a visitor,” he says.

  Nox bounds into the cabin and launches himself onto the bed. He’s shaking, and his black fur stands on end. He looks both happy to see me and angry, as though this is somehow my fault.

  I guess in a way, it is.

  “Where did you find him?”

  “Kevin was on his way here looking for you. He said there’s an all-school debrief at seven tonight.”

  I take Nox’s bowl to the sink and fill it with water. I scratch his head and thank the Sun he’s safe.

  Sang is carrying towels, a big bowl of ice, plastic bags, and a bottle of hydrogen peroxide. He sets everything down on the bed next to the bundle of yarrow leaves.

  “No,” I say. “I just want to rest for a while.”

  “You’re covered in cuts, and some are pretty deep. You don’t want them to get infected.”

  I sigh. “Let me change first.”

  “I’ll be right outside.” Sang gives Nox a quick pet and steps out the door, closing it behind him.

  I peel off my shirt and wince when the fabric moves over my forehead. It comes away bloody, and I put it in the hamper before throwing on my Eastern sweats and a clean T-shirt.

  “Okay,” I say, opening the door. “I’m done.”

  “Sit,” he says, motioning to the bed. I do as I’m told, too tired to argue. Sang pulls over my desk chair and faces me. The cabin feels small with another person in it, the wooden walls and low ceiling making it seem tighter than it is. The floor creaks when Sang leans toward me. He opens the bottle of hydrogen peroxide and pours some on a towel.

  “I can do it myself,” I say.

  “You can’t see all your cuts.”

  “I’ll stand in front of the mirror.”

  “On your ankle the size of a tree trunk?”

  I sigh. He’s right. I don’t want to stand up. He must sense my defeat because he asks, “Ready?”

  I nod. He places the towel on my forehead, and I cringe as it bubbles and stings.

  “You okay?”

  “Great.” I keep my eyes closed. Sang goes over the gash on my forehead several times, then moves to the cuts below my collarbone.

  “So, why do you live here instead of one of the houses?”

  I’m not ready for the question, and I take in a sharp breath. Sang must think I’m reacting to the stinging, though, and he mouths an apology.

  “I used to live in the houses.” Sang waits for me to elaborate, but I don’t say anything else. I’m thankful when he doesn’t push.

  “All done,” he says, setting the towel down. “Do you have a coffee mug somewhere?”

  I point to my desk. “You can take the pens out of it.”

  Sang takes the pile of yarrow to the desk and dumps a small amount of water over the green leaves, then grinds them down with the bottom of the mug. Then he scoops the grounds inside and adds more water until it gets thick. It smells fresh and spicy, masking the mustiness of the cabin.

  The edge of Sang’s hand is stained with green and pink and brown, and I want to ask what it’s from, but I stay quiet.

  “Head back,” he says. I tilt my chin to the ceiling, and he applies the yarrow paste to the gash on my forehead, then puts a bandage over the top. “That’ll help stop the bleeding,” he says.

  “Thank you.”

  “Now, let’s get that leg propped up.”

  “Why are you being so nice to me? You don’t even know me.” The words come out laced with annoyance, but I genuinely want to know.

  “Because I’m a decent human being who just watched you try to save this school from a tornado?”

  I don’t respond. I raise my legs onto the bed, and Sang moves a pillow under my ankle. He pulls my pant leg up and winces.

  “That’s one hell of a bruise,” he says.

  He puts some ice in a plastic bag, then sets it on my ankle. “You may want to put some crushed lavender on there for the swelling.”

  “Thanks.”

  Sang starts cleaning up his supplies, but I stop him. “Not so fast,” I say.

  “What?”

  “I’m not the only one who got hurt.” I don’t know why I say it, but he was nice enough to help me. I should do the same. “Sit,” I say, motioning to the chair.

  “I’m fine,” he says. “Arbors fall on me all the time.”

  “Is that so?”

  Sang nods. “I hardly notice when it happens.”

  “Your eye is swelling shut,” I point out.

  He sits.

  I dump a bunch of ice into the remaining plastic bag and wrap it in a towel. I hand it to him, and he puts it against his swollen eye.

  “Are you okay?” he asks me.

  “I’m fine.” I know he’s asking about the storm, but I haven’t had time to think about it. Process what it means.

  “You were so close,” Sang says, shaking his head. “The storm bent to you, almost like it wanted you to control it.”

  “And what good did it do? I wasn’t strong enough.”

  “What you did out there was extraordinary,” Sang says.

  “It doesn’t matter. Getting close didn’t do a damn thing,” I say.

  I jump when there’s a frantic knock on my door. I nod at Sang, and he opens it.

  “Oh, I’m so happy to see you both,” Mrs. Temperly says, her words so fast I can barely decipher them. She clutches her chest, and I notice my messenger bag hangi
ng from her shoulder. She drops it on the ground and pulls out her cell phone.

  “They’re okay,” she says to whoever is on the other end of the line. “Yes, they’re both here. Will do.”

  There haven’t been this many people in my cabin since I moved here, and it feels wrong, like the tiny room knows I’m supposed to be isolating myself. If Mrs. Temperly, Sang, and I were to stand side by side and stretch out our arms, we would span the entire cabin.

  I ask Sang to open the windows.

  Mrs. Temperly ends the call and puts on her best guidance counselor look. Her bright-blond bun is messy on top of her head, and some of her pink lipstick has migrated down to her chin.

  “You were both unaccounted for in the basement. Where were you?” Her pale skin is flushed, and she fans herself with a stack of papers she takes from my desk.

  I’m too tired to lie. “I tried to dissipate the storm.”

  Mrs. Temperly covers her mouth with her hand.

  “What happened?” she asks as her eyes find the gash on my forehead and my swollen ankle.

  “It obviously didn’t work, and we had to take cover in Spring House. I rolled my ankle, and I was cut by some glass when the windows blew out.”

  “And you?” she asks, turning to Sang.

  “An arbor fell on me.”

  “Apparently, it happens all the time,” I say.

  Sang tries to keep a straight face, but the corners of his mouth pull up, giving him away. A dimple appears on either side of his mouth, and he clears his throat.

  “Clara, we should get you to the nurse for that ankle,” says Mrs. Temperly. “You’ll need to go to the hospital if it’s broken.”

  I nod.

  “Sang, if you’re feeling up to it, would you check in with Mr. Donovan in the gymnasium? He wants to do a preliminary survey of the damage before the debrief.”

  “Sure thing,” he says.

  I want to thank him. For staying to make sure I wasn’t depleted. For holding his hand to my forehead. For blocking me from the arbor.

  But more than anything, I want to thank him for letting me make my own decision. Letting me decide if I wanted to try to stop the storm or not.

  “It was nice meeting you, Clara,” he says, and I have to laugh. What a ridiculous thing to say after being chased by a tornado together.

  He leaves before I have a chance to respond.

  Mrs. Temperly looks frazzled and exhausted. She fans her face with the papers once more, then sets them back on my desk. “Neither of you should have been out there in the first place. What were you thinking?”

  “I had to try.”

  Mrs. Temperly sighs, but her eyes soften. “I’m going to call Mr. Donovan and see if we can get a cart out here to take you to the nurse’s office.”

  “Thank you.” I pause before asking the question that’s lodged in my mind. Part of me wants to know, and the other part is terrified. I swallow hard. I’m going to find out eventually, so I ask.

  “Mrs. Temperly? Have there been any reports on the storm yet? Do we know if it moved beyond our campus?”

  Mrs. Temperly sits down in my desk chair and looks at me. Her gaze drops to the floor, and for a moment I think she might cry. She’s a summer, so that wouldn’t be out of character, but it still causes my insides to tighten into knots.

  “The tornado only traveled four miles beyond campus.”

  I sink back in my bed, and relief washes over me. But Mrs. Temperly continues.

  “There are two reported fatalities so far. Neither from Eastern. At least one witch was depleted during the storm.” She pauses and looks at me, sending a shiver down my spine. “But Mr. Hart hasn’t checked in with us yet. He’s the only person on campus who is unaccounted for.”

  “What do you mean he’s unaccounted for? I saw him right before the storm, and he said he was on his way to the assembly hall.”

  “I’m sure he’ll check in. He probably got caught up trying to secure some part of the farm. You know how he is. For now, let’s get that ankle taken care of.”

  My breath stops when she mentions the farm. That’s where I pushed the tornado to give Sang and me time to run. If Mr. Hart was on the farm, I sent it right to him.

  Mrs. Temperly must notice the look on my face because she pats my shoulder and says, “It’s still early, and the campus is a bit chaotic. Give him some time.”

  I nod, and Mrs. Temperly goes outside to find a cart. But uneasiness spreads through my body and stirs in my stomach.

  I’m taken to the nurse’s office. My ankle is wrapped, and I’m sent back to my cabin.

  Mr. Hart never checks in.

  Chapter Eight

  “The only thing harder than gaining control is giving it up.”

  —A Season for Everything

  Mr. Hart was looking for Nox when the tornado touched down. It turns out he did go to the assembly hall, and someone told him they saw me running out, looking for my cat. Mr. Hart was on the farm, and when I pushed the tornado back, it swept across the field and picked up a plow. The airborne plow struck Mr. Hart, crushing his skull on impact.

  He wasn’t out there for Nox though. He was out there for me. Mr. Hart had always been uncomfortable with how isolated I am, even though he understood the necessity. He probably thought I wouldn’t be able to cope if Nox died.

  What he didn’t factor in was how I’d cope if he died.

  But he probably mapped the trajectory of the tornado and knew it was headed away from the farm. He thought he was safe where he was, and had I not tried to intervene, he would still be alive.

  When I first found out, I was sure my heart would never beat again, would never be able to pump with the thick layer of grief and guilt clinging to it. But I’m still here, destined to live with all the absences I’ve created.

  I think of the wrapped gift sitting on my bedside table, the gift I can’t bring myself to open. He was so excited to give it to me, and I don’t think I can handle never getting the chance to say thank you. I’ve been in a fog ever since I found out about his death, and at the worst moments, it feels as if I might never emerge from it. Maybe I won’t.

  “Clara, they’re ready for you now,” Ms. Beverly says.

  I grab my crutches and slowly make my way into Ms. Suntile’s office. She is sitting behind her desk with Sang and Mr. Burrows, the man who was at my last training session with Mr. Hart. I feel sick to my stomach. I give Sang a questioning glance, but he doesn’t meet my gaze. The bruise around his eye has gotten darker, and I remember how steadily he held my forehead after I was cut, how he didn’t shy away from the blood.

  “Have a seat, Ms. Densmore,” Ms. Suntile says, banishing the memory. “This is Allen Burrows, whom you met briefly, and you already know our advanced botany student, Sang Park. They both come to us from the Western School of Solar Magic.”

  Knots form in my stomach when I remember Sang telling me he’s here to study under his mentor. I haven’t forgotten the way Mr. Burrows didn’t introduce himself to me, the way he studied me after I failed to hold Ms. Suntile’s magic. The way he looked at Mr. Hart with disrespect and impatience.

  I wipe my palms on my jeans and try to stay calm.

  “We understand that you tried to intervene during the tornado,” Mr. Burrows says. His short brown hair is parted down the side and kept in place with gel, and he wears thick black glasses that stand out against his fair skin. He’s middle-aged, and his chin is tilted up slightly, making it seem as if he’s talking down to me.

  “I thought I could help,” I say. I look to Sang for reassurance, but he keeps his eyes on the desk between us.

  Mr. Burrows nods. “That’s precisely the problem. You should have been able to.”

  That’s not the answer I was expecting. “I’m sorry?”

  “You should have been able to dissipate that tornado. We
’re concerned that an Everwitch who has been training at a highly regarded school for solar magic was unable to stop an F2 tornado.” Mr. Burrows looks at me as though he’s annoyed.

  “I tried—”

  “I’d like to finish, Ms. Densmore. This is more an implication of your training than it is of you.”

  Ms. Suntile shifts in her chair.

  “The point is that you should have been able to prevent that tornado from forming. It never should have gotten to the farm. It never should have moved beyond campus. No one should have died from this.”

  His words collide with my guilt, and I can’t breathe. No one should have died from this.

  Mr. Hart should not have died from this.

  “How do you know what I should be capable of?”

  Mr. Burrows looks at me over the top of his glasses. “Because we trained Alice Hall.”

  I jump at the sound of her name, and everything inside me stills. “Alice Hall, the last Everwitch?” I say the words slowly, carefully, as if they’re sacred.

  “Of course.”

  I’ve wanted to know more about Alice Hall since I first heard her name, since I first learned there was an Ever who lived before me. But Alice is an enigma, more legend than fact at this point. I wish that wasn’t the case. I don’t think I’d feel as alone if I knew more about her. “I don’t understand. She was alive in the late eighteen hundreds.”

  “It’s true that a poor job was done of documenting her—your—kind of magic, which is regrettable. But her training was cataloged, and since we had the most contact with the last Ever, Ms. Suntile felt it made sense to involve us in your training going forward. And she’s right to do so; we know more about this solely because we’ve done it before.”

  Anger flares inside me, heating my center and rising up my chest and neck. Even before Mr. Hart died, Ms. Suntile was going to replace him, pull him away from my training. My hands squeeze into fists, and I say a silent prayer to the Sun that he didn’t know. The room feels tight, as if it’s filled with something heavier than air. I stay silent.

  “We will not be reporting your involvement with the tornado, nor will it go on your record. I will be replacing Mr. Hart as primary overseer of your education. If, at the end of the school year, I’m satisfied with the progress you’ve made, we’ll forget this ever happened.”