Reckoning

10. Charlie

June 23, 1951

I woke up this morning to the sound of a great tearing. When I opened my eyes, I saw that Oona had torn the front of my bridal robe—right from the collar down to within six inches of the bottom hem. My beautiful robe!

I couldn’t help myself. I started weeping uncontrollably. Mother ran upstairs and came right into my room. I felt so hopeless, but she knew just what to do. She sewed up the great jagged rip with lasting stitch. It looked like a Frankenstein robe, with ugly scars. Then she put me in a hot bath filled with rosemary and lavender and instructed me to stay there for one hour, repeating the wedding day blessing. When I emerged and returned to my room, the gown was as good as new. In fact, it looked more beautiful than before. Mother had cast a glamour that concealed the tear. I am ready now, and we will be leaving soon. There is no more time for me to write.

— Aoibheann

I instantly figured out which car was Charlie’s. It was a small green Volkswagen, obviously a few years old. There was a near like of stickers on the back for different Irish and Celtic bands, including the Fianna. The thing that really gave it away though, was the one that read, 2 + 2 = 5…for Extremely Large Values of 2. I just knew that was his. Don’t ask me why.

We drove around the harbor, looking at the fishing boats and the activity on the docks. He told me all about Ròiseal, how they worked a lot with the energy of the sea, and how they often had circles on the beach in the moonlight. He also explained how the coven was set up and how they worked. Because they were all experienced blood witches, they did a lot more complicated things than we did at Kithic circles. I began to wonder if Hunter found it frustrating to work with us. In comparison, running Kithic must be like watching a bunch of kindergartners, trying to make sure they don’t eat the crayons.

“We each have a general background in magick,” Charlie explained, "and we each have an area of expertise to help balance out the coven. We're all lifelong students, of course, because we're Rowanwand. This way we split up the burden of studying. Ruth does a lot of healing work. Brigid is being trained to do the same. Evelyn works divination. Kate and James work with defensive and deflective magick."

"What about you?"

"Spellcraft," he said. "How they're written, how they're broken, how they're restricted. My dad works in the same area but on a less practical level than I do. I usually work with everyday magick. He works with mathematical stuff relating to astronomy, sigil drawing, the Key of Solomon, things like that—right into the realm of abstract math, where numbers turn into sounds and colors and shapes… really hard stuff, and he also studies some very dark stuff for reference. Academic magick."

He parked the car, and we walked down Western Avenue, along the water, then up into the shopping area. As we walked, I saw that I was passing by many of the places my mother had described in her Book of Shadows. There was the chocolate shop where she used to get chocolate turtles and peanut butter fudge. There was town hall, with the library across the street where Sam had found Harris Stoughton's book. I smelled the delicious aroma coming from Rocconi's Pizzeria on Middle Street, where she used to meet her friends after school. And at the old floral shop on Main Street, the window was filled with lilacs—her favorite flower. It was all so strange, so unreal. I felt so close to her. For the first time in a long while, I missed her with a physical ache.

It began to rain again, catching us completely off guard. It wasn't a warning trickle that lead to a bigger downpour—it was like thousands of buckets had been kicked over at once, sudden and freezing. Charlie grabbed my elbow and steered my down the street through the rain into a nearby coffee bar. We squished up to the counter and surveyed the offerings. When I reached for my purse, Charlie held up his hand.

"Please," he said. "It's on me. What do you like?"

"Thanks," I said. "Just coffee. Lots of milk and sugar."

"Got it," he said.

I snagged a cozy table by the window with two plush seats and sat down to consider the significance of his action. No guy I knew had ever just bought things for me. I didn't even know that many people who where bought things on dates. What was this about? You don't buy coffees for someone you don't like, right? Charlie must like me. Not like me, like me—but he could tolerate me. Or so it seemed.

I occupied myself with this stupid internal dialogue until he came over with two grotesquely large mugs of frothy something and two biscotti wrapped into a napkin.

"What are these?" I said, accepting one of the heaping cups with a smile of thanks.

"I have no idea," he said, poking suspiciously at the foam, as if he was testing to see if it was alive. "Grande cappufrappes or something. I told them to make something big and steamy, with lots of milk. They gave me these. I'm assuming they are coffees."

He held up his foamy stirrer and grimaced theatrically. I had to laugh.

We sat at the coffee shop for hours, talking. Usually I'm not great around people I don't know very well. I'm that shy girl, the one who goes through a crisis every time she even has to ask someone where the ladies' room is in a restaurant. So my ease around Charlie was odd. For some reason, I felt like I could talk to him about anything. I loved the way he could be so serious, and then something funny would occur to him, and he'd jump from his seat and lean forward in excitement, his whole face bursting. During one story he became so animated that he knocked the sugar canister off the table three times.

"So," I said, continuing our conversation from the walk, "your dad's some kind of genius?"

"More or less," he said. "He's a number theorist. He's your classic absentminded professor. Brilliant beyond belief, but he literally forgets himself."

"And you ended up finishing high school early? You must be pretty smart yourself."

"It's not a big deal," he said, stirring what was left of his coffee. "I did really well, but it was nothing exciting. And my dad's been a really, really good math tutor."

"What about your mom?" I asked.

"Oh"—he shrugged uncomfortably—"she died a few years ago."

"Sorry," I said, understanding his reaction. "My mom died, too, and I hate having to explain it to people. They always give you the look. It's kind of sympathetic, but mostly it's really nervous. It's like they think they've torn open an wound, and you're going to start screaming or something."

"That's the one," he said, grinning thankfully.

"So you spend a lot of time alone, then," I said.

"No." He shook his head. "I spend a lot if time with Brigid and her family. I have a standing invitation to dinner every single night, which is nice."

He put his feet up on the empty chair at our table and leaned back to look at me.

"So," he said, "what about you? Your dad doesn't know anything about Wicca at all?"

"He knows that it freaks him out," I said. "That's about it. I'm sure he just thinks it's some kind of phase I'm going through. A better-Wicca-than-drugs kind of thing, I guess."

"If he doesn't like Wicca, why did he let you come here?"

"Um… my dad doesn't exactly know where I am," I confessed.

"What does that mean?" he asked, one eyebrow arching.

"It means I ran away."

Okay. There. Someone knew. I twirled my biscotti in the dregs of coffee foam as nonchalantly as I could, wondering if Charlie was going to jump up and start yelling for the cops. Instead he exhaled and leaned back into the red velvet seat.

"Why?" he asked calmly.

"A lot of reasons. Mostly because things were happening to me—I was having dreams about this place. My mother's Book of Shadows appeared out of nowhere. Sam's letters fell out of a broken box. So I wrote to you, and I made contact. It all felt like it was meant to be."

"And, of course, you couldn't tell your dad about any of it."

"Right," I said, running my hands through my hair. "There were other reasons, too…"

"Like what?"

"I have powers," I said. "They came on me all of a sudden and kind of freaked me out."

He dropped his feet down to the floor and leaned in to me.

"How's that possible?" he said, his eyes glowing with wonder. "Your father's not a witch, and your mother…" He stopped himself and shook his head. "Wow... I'm an ass. I can't believe I just said that. Sorry."

"It's all right," I said, waving my hands dismissively. "I know it's weird. My coven leader's father thinks it might be that since my mother stripped herself of her powers, they were all somehow concentrated in me. I definitely have more than I can handle. They tend to do things on their own. The last thing I did before running away was cause some kind of water explosion in my coven leader's house. We were doing a release spell to get rid of negative emotions, and…"

I hung my head. Charlie was so experienced—I was a moron. Still, he was listening attentively, and I knew I could tell him what had happened to me. Again, don't ask me why.

"…I almost flooded his house. It was awful. It was the most embarrassing moment of my life, and that's saying something. I started crying, and just couldn't stop."

He was quiet for a minute. I couldn't raise my head. I just stared to the table.

"Trust me," he said, "I know how difficult and embarrassing it can be when you're first trying to use your power. Everyone screws up. All witches know this."

"I can't imagine the people who run my coven screwing up," I replied, envisioning all of the experienced blood witches I knew—Hunter, Sky, Mr. Naill. They were probably born cool, calm, and talented. And sure, Morgan was erratic, but she was also superpowerful, and I'd seen some of the wonders she was capable of when we'd put our minds together. I was just regular and inept.

"They did," he said with conviction. "I promise you. I know I was a master at it."

He could see I doubted him.

"I'll give you an example," he offered. "A lot of covens get together to hold circles and lessons for preinitiates. Our assignment one week was a simple nochd. A nochd is a revealing spell. Our teachers would hide something, and we would each use the spell to find it. When I was a kid, I always used to try and prove to everyone how smart I was. I wanted to do the most amazing and complicated nochd in the group. I searched through all of our books for a whole week. I finally found one that was hundreds of years old that I was sure no one else would have. I can still remember it. It was very long and involved. Everyone was impressed. Unfortunately, what I didn't realize is that not all nochds are alike. The term has many meanings, and the spells have many purposes. I wasn't smart enough to figure out that until it was too late."

"What happened?" I asked, looking up with interest.

"Just as I came to the end, silence. Everyone just stared at me. I mean, stared. And then they all started to laugh. The I realized that the room had gotten really cold."

"Did you do some kind of weather spell?" I asked.

"A nochd," he said with a grin, "is also a spell for nakedness, a complete revealing of self."

I gasped with sudden laughter and put my hand over my mouth.

"Well," Charlie went on, "because I was yound and dumb, I didn't realize right away that I was standing in front of my friends completely naked. I was so busy looking around to see what I had revealed that it took me a second to look down at myself to see what people were staring at."

"But aren't Wiccans okay with that?" I asked, still laughing. "I mean, being naked?"

"Sure," he said. "It won't get you in trouble. But we were still just a bunch of thirteen-year-olds. And being thirteen and naked in front of all your friends, both male and female—that's the same for everyone."

"What did you do?" I asked.

"I froze," he said. "I had no idea what to do. One of the teachers quickly undid the spell, but I was standing there long enough for everyone to get a nice long look at me. There I was: brilliant, naked Charlie."

He didn't seem to mind that I was rolling with laughter over the stories of his childhood trauma's. He even took a little bow.

"So messing up is one thing. The real trouble comes when you're just trying to impress people with magick you don't know how to control. Like what Brigid was trying to do back at the restaurant," he said, looking directly into my eyes, "before you stopped her."

I almost fell of my chair. Even though it happened again and again, sometimes I just couldn't get used to the fact that other witches always seemed to know what you where doing and thinking.

"I–I didn't…" I stammered. "I mean, I did, but I wasn't trying to embarrass her…"

"No," he said, waving his hand. "It's all right. It was a good thing that you did. It could have been dangerous."

"How did you know?" I said.

"I felt your energy coming out. I could sense it redirecting hers."

Funny. He and I could both sense energy, but Brigid didn't appear to be able to. I wondered if something was wrong with her powers. Maybe they were weak. Maybe that was why she was trying to prove herself so much.

"How did you do it, exactly?" Charlie asked. "What spell was that?"

"I don't know," I replied, shaking my head. "It just kind of came to me. I did this thing about a week ago… a tàth meànma…something… I kind of locked minds with someone, a very powerful witch."

"A tàth meànma brach?" he said, his eyes wide.

"That was it. I didn't realize it at the time, but I just kind of… learned things, I guess. When I saw what Brigid was doing, I was afraid, and I wanted to stop her. Suddenly it was if I heard my friend's voice somewhere deep in my mind. I just knew what to do."

Charlie was staring at me ad if I had just sprouted wings and a beak.

"What?" I asked anxiously, looking myself over. "What did I do?"

"You did a brach?" he repeated.

"Is that weird?" I asked, feeling myself hunch down in my chair.

"No…," he said, pulling absently at a handful of his loopy curls, "Well, not in a bad way. It's rare. And difficult. And dangerous. Why did you do a brach?"

"Oh. It wasn't my idea—it was my coven leader's, and he's crazy careful. He's a Seeker."

"Your coven leader is a Seeker?"

"Yeah," I nodded vigorously. "He's the youngest Seeker. He's nineteen."

Charlie stopped speaking. His mouth just hung open slightly. He waited for me to go on.

"There was an emergency," I said. "Something really bad had happened, and they needed me too help with a spell. The only way I could do it was by getting information from my friend. So we did a tàth meànma brach."

Charlie sat silently contemplating this for a moment. I glanced up at the clock. It was six-ten.

"We're late," I said, alarmed. "It's after six."

He nodded, still deep in thought, and we grabbed our things and ran out towards his car. The rain was coming down hard, and the streets were full of foggy mist. After we slithered, soaking, disgusting wet into the car, I turned to him. His hair was very dark, and one or two curls clung to his face very attractively. I wanted to ask something, but the sight of him made my tongue go all numb.

"What's up?" he said, immediately sensing my question. He brushed some of the water from his face and rummaged around in the glove compartment. He produces a handful of tissues, which we used to dry off.

"Are you coming tonight, or are you just dropping me off?" I asked quickly. He looked up with interest.

"I could come," he said. "Why? Can't get enough of my amazing company?"

"Sort of," I laughed. "It's just that Evelyn… my grandmother… she doesn't seem to like me. She seems angry that I'm there. It would be nice to have a friendly face."

This didn't seem to shock Charlie.

"Sure," he said, "I'd be happy to come. I'll help you get through it."

Though I must have looked like hell, I felt about a million times better as we headed back toward the house.