Strife

16. Letting

October 14, 1971

I couldn’t hide it from them forever. Even though I tried.

My parents wanted to take me to see John Walter, the best healer in our coven. I knew he’d tell them the truth, so finally I had to admit what I’d done. My mother cried for two days, and my father stopped speaking to me altogether. My parents had always told me that there was nothing I could do that would made them stop loving me.

But I guess I found that one thing.

There’s nothing I can do about it now. I couldn’t bring my magick back even if I wanted to. And I don’t want to. Even though I’m still weak from the ceremony, I would rather feel pain myself than run the risk of putting someone else in danger. I know that Wicca is dangerous. Beautiful, but dangerous. I just wish that someone would talk to me, would try to understand why I did what I did. Don’t they understand that I’ve lost even more than they have?

I write this from a Greyhound bus bound for Houston. It was the farthest place from Gloucester for the smallest amount of money. Even so, it took most of my cash—I’ve only got twenty-three dollars and thirty-seven cents in my pocket… what’s lest of my life savings. With that, and a small bag of clothing, and the Harris Stonghton book wrapped in a black cloth (it’s no danger to me any longer, and how could I leave such an evil book with my family?), I begin a new life.

I keep trying to tell myself that this kind of change is exactly what I need. That nothing has changed in my family for centuries and that I’m a pioneer, off to explore new worlds. I’m not really buying it, though.

It might be easier if I had some idea of where all if this would lead. But I don’t.

I guess no one ever really does.

— Sarah Curtis

“Morgan?” Mary K.’s voice echoed up the stairway. I put my book aside and stood up. I had been lying on my bed, reading my English assignment, with Dagda curled comfortably in the curve of my waist.

Mary K. called up again, with more urgency this time. “Morgan!”

“What? What is it?” I stepped out of my room and peered down the stairs. Mary K. was standing at the bottom with a huge grin. “What’s going on?”

“There’s somebody here that you might like to see.”

“Who?” I started walking down the stairs. Hunter? I thought hopefully. But no, I would have sensed his coming. Who else could she be talking about?

When I got to the bottom of the stairs, Mary K. was alone in the foyer. Was she playing a trick on me? “Well, who—”

I broke off. Alisa was sitting on the couch in the living room, looking small and pale. Her hair was pulled back in a ponytail, emphasizing her gaunt, delicate face. She looked up at me nervously. “Hi, Morgan.”

“Wow, Alisa.” She looked like she was still weak, but she was there,sitting in my living room, talking to me. I walked over to the couch and perched beside her. “I’m so glad you’re okay. How do you feel?”

Alisa shrugged. “Depends when you ask me, I guess.” She pulled her hands into her lap, and I could see that she was holding the red-and-white teddy bear that Mary K. had brought to her hospital room. “I still feel weak, and I still have aches and dizziness every once in a while.” She smiled a wan smile. “But I’m getting better. I’m well enough to leave my house, and that feels great.”

Mary K. perched on my dad’s armchair. “Do they know what made you sick?”

Alisa shook her head a little sadly. “Nobody seems to have any idea,” she said. “After you two left, I got really bad, and the doctors were pretty worried. They told my father to start preparing for the worst. But after a few hours I just seemed to get better. And around midnight, I woke up really thirsty and asked the nurse for a glass of juice. I mean”—she gave a little laugh—“I’d been unconscious for, like, days, and I just up and asked for some apple juice out of the blue. The nurse was in shock.”

“Wow.” Mary K. looked at me as if to say, “Isn’t that crazy?”

“I know,” Alisa went on. “The doctors say it was a really bad virus and that the worst of it just had to pass through my system before I could start getting better.” She looked at me meaningfully. “But the fact is, they don’t really know what made me sick—and now they don’t have any idea what made me better.”

The way she was staring at me made me uncomfortable, and I looked away, out the window. Did she and Mary K. think that I’d cured her? But I hadn’t. “Alisa, I—”

“Anyway,” Alisa interrupted me, “I just wanted to say thank you. For coming to visit me in the hospital, I mean.” She looked down into her lap and stroked the tiny red-and-white bear. Even though she was better, I still sensed a sadness in Alisa. I wondered about the family problems Mary K. had mentioned before.

“You’re welcome,” I said softly. I reached over to squeeze her arm. She seemed so down, and I still felt this weird protectiveness toward her. I wondered if I was starting to get maternal urges or something.

As I touched Alisa’s arm, there was a crash. Alisa jumped. We all looked up to see that a framed photo had fallen off the mantel across the room. Frowning, Mary K. jumped up and picked it off the floor. “That’s weird,” she murmured, holding up a photo of our family around the tree last Christmas. “Must have been a draft.”

I stared, frozen. There was no reason for that picture to fall off the mantel. No reason, that is, except the strange telekinetic incidents that had been following me. But that was Ciaran, I told myself. And Ciaran’s in custody. He can’t be doing this to me.

Was it possible that it was just a weird accident? Maybe I was making something out of nothing. If it had happened anytime before the past couple of weeks, I wouldn’t have thought twice about it. It was just that so much had been happening lately. . anything even vaguely out of the ordinary seemed suspicious.

Mary K. gingerly picked up the broken glass that surrounded the picture. As I watched her, I had a more frightening thought: What if it wasn’t Ciaran who had been behind those incidents? What if it was someone else— someone else who was after me, and still on the loose?

“Um, I’d better get back to my homework,” I blurted, standing up. “Alisa, I’m really glad you’re feeling better. I hope I’ll see you back at school soon.”

“Thanks.”

As I left the room, my eyes fell on the photo. Mary K. had propped it, still in the broken frame, on an end table while she picked up the glass. I shuddered when I saw how it had broken. Deep cracks had formed that set Mary K., my mom, and my dad in one section. In the other section was me, alone.

I sprinted back up to my room.

But before I even had time to think about what had happened, Mom knocked on my bedroom door. “Do you have a minute?” she called.

“Sure,” I said as my mom opened the door and walked in, holding a sheaf of papers in her hand. I sighed. I could smell a lecture coming on. I knew what the papers were—it was the extra-credit assignment I’d written for Mr. Powell. He’d just handed it back that morning, with an A—that meant the full twenty points of extra credit. I’d been so excited about it that I’d left it out on the kitchen table for my mom to see, but now I remembered. She hadn’t been so thrilled that I’d chosen to write about the persecution of witches. No doubt she wanted to tell me that this wouldn’t be an appropriate application essay for Saint Anne’s.

“Morgan,” my mom said as she settled at the edge of my bed, "I like to think I’m a reasonable person.”

Usually, I said mentally. But I didn’t say anything out loud; I just nodded.

“That’s why I—” But she couldn’t finish. She just looked at the paper and shook her head.

“Look, I didn’t mean to upset you,” I said finally. “I just left it out because I thought you’d be glad that my grades are coming up.”

“I know,” my mom said slowly. “And you were right—I am glad.” She flipped through the paper. “This is very well written, Morgan. You must have done a lot of research for it.”

“A lot,” I agreed. “But it’s not hard when you’re researching something you’re really interested in.”

My mom nodded and pursed her lips. “I always told you girls that I’d never stand in the way of things you were interested in,” she said. “At the time, I thought that was such an easy promise to make.” She looked down at the paper again. “Morgan, I think your father and I made a mistake when we considered sending you to Catholic school.”

For a moment I thought I’d misheard her or hallucinated or something.

“That was the wrong solution,” my mom went on. “I guess we—or I guess I—just overreacted. I. .” My mom stopped to take a deep breath. “I hope you know that I’m just afraid for you, Morgan. I love you, that’s all,” she finished in a whisper.

I felt a wave of relief wash over me. She was serious—no Catholic school! Thank the Goddess! And with that wave of relief came a rush of love and gratitude for my mom, who was putting aside her fear and allowing me to explore something she didn’t understand. I leaned over and took the paper from her hand. “Thank you so much,” I said softly. “I know Wicca frightens you. But it’s part of me, Mom. I can’t change it.”

My mother was silent for so long that I thought perhaps I’d upset her. But finally she said, “You’re right.” She sighed and shook her head. “Morgan, I’m your mother, and I want you to be happy. I was concerned when I saw your grades suffering. But now you’ve shown me that you’re bringing them up. You’ve even proved that your interests and your academics can peacefully coexist.” She looked at me. “I don’t want to be the kind of mother who tells you what to believe. I swore to myself that I’d never be like that, and I intend to keep that promise. No matter how hard it is.”

I leaned over and hugged her, breathing in the light, sweet smell of her perfume. It occurred to me how much I had missed her—how much I had missed my whole family—in the last few weeks. Now I was safe, Ciaran was in custody, and I had my family around me. I felt warm and happy. My mom kissed me on the forehead. “I think that this hard work deserves a little reward,” she said. “What do you suggest?”

I lifted my eyebrows and grinned. “The end of my grounding period?”

“How about a phone call?”

“Good enough,” I said quickly, scrambling out of bed. Dagda let out a mew of complaint.

“Where are you going?” my mom asked.

I turned and grinned at her. “To go call Hunter.”

“Ah,” she said with a smile. “Well, tell him I said hello.”

“I will,” I called over my shoulder as I practically ran down the stairs. I couldn’t wait to tell him the good news about Alisa—I couldn’t wait to tell him everything. I was in such a hurry as I punched in Hunter’s number on the cordless phone that I messed up twice. I took a deep breath and tried again.

Hunter answered on the first ring. “Morgan, I’m so glad you called,” he said.

I laughed for what seemed like the first time in weeks. I hadn’t spoken to Hunter in days, and his voice seemed delicious to me. It was true that the mind melds we’d been having were great, but there was something so comforting about hearing his voice on the phone, so normal, that it almost made me giddy. “I guess there’s no point in trying to surprise you with a phone call,” I said lightly. “Guess what! No Catholic school!”

There was a moment of quiet on the other end of the line. For a second I wondered whether he’d heard me. “Morgan, love, that’s brilliant. Is it because you’ve brought your grades up?”

“It is,” I said happily. “Oh, and Alisa’s okay! She stopped by earlier.”

“Oh, excellent.”

I paused, thinking about Alisa’s visit and the picture falling. Should I tell Hunter about that? Or would he just think I was paranoid?

“Morgan—” Hunter began. There was something in his tone. What was it? Concern? Fear?

“What is it?” A feeling of dread spread through the pit of my stomach.

“I’ve heard from Sky.”

It took a moment for the news to sink in. “What did she—”

“She’s found some leads,” Hunter went on. “In fact, she believes my parents are not in France.”

“No?” I felt a sudden, horribly selfish wave of relief. Did that mean Hunter wouldn’t have to go to Europe to search for them?

“No,” Hunter replied. “She believes they’re in Canada. Quebec. It would explain the French. I’m going to head up there myself, as soon as possible.”

The room started to tilt crazily, and I had to hold on to the counter for support. “But—but—the council—”

“I’ve spoken with the council,” Hunter said. “Morgan, Ciaran is in custody. Selene and Cal are gone.” He paused. “I’ve asked permission to investigate the Canada leads. There’s no reason for me to be here now.” He sighed. “Don’t you see? You’re safe now. There isn’t anything left for me to do in Widow’s Vale.”

Had he really just said that? “Thanks a lot,” I said bitterly, swallowing the tears that were welling up in my throat.

“That isn’t what I meant, and you know it,” Hunter said quietly.

I did know. But it hurt anyway. “How long will you be gone?” I asked.

“It’s hard to be sure,” Hunter replied. “It could be a few days or a few weeks. Or longer. It depends on what I find.”

Of course. That was what I was afraid of. The image I’d seen when I scried, the image of Hunter waving farewell, entered my mind, along with the feeling of dread I’d felt when I first saw it. Was it possible. . was it possible that he might never come back? Don’t think that way, I commanded myself, but it was too late. I thought of the picture falling earlier, how frightened I had been. Had something so small really seemed so important just a few minutes ago?

“Just how reliable is Sky’s information?” I demanded. The moment the words were out of my mouth, I hated myself for saying them. But I couldn’t stop. “What if you’re heading into some kind of trap?”

Hunter didn’t reply. He didn’t have to. We both knew that Sky would never have told Hunter he should go to Canada unless she had some overwhelming evidence.

I pulled out a chair and sat down at the breakfast table, my forehead in my palm. This can’t be happening, I thought dizzily. Now that I was safe, Hunter was leaving. I tried to focus on my breathing, on pulling the fresh air into my lungs and letting the old air go. For a crazy moment I wished that I could be in some sort of horrible danger. It was a very strange thing, to realize that I would rather have my life in jeopardy with Hunter than to be safe. . without him.

“Morgan,” Hunter said. His voice grew quieter. “We’re mùirn beatha dàns. You know I love you completely. But you also know how I feel about my parents. You wouldn’t want me to pass up this chance, would you?”

Yes, I thought. I opened my mouth to say it, but I couldn’t. How could I tell him that? What would it do to our love?

“No,” I whispered. “I want you to find them.”

“I knew that was what you would say.” Hunter’s voice was a caress.

I inhaled. I exhaled. I ran my fingers over the ridges of the cotton place mat. It felt impossibly normal to me, incongruously simple.

Out of nowhere, the words Alisa had spoken over a week ago echoed in my mind. I wish things could stay the way they are. For a brief moment I’d been safe, my family had been happy, and I’d known who my mùirn beatha dàn truly was. And now he was leaving me. I remembered the vision I’d had, the one in which Hunter had waved good-bye, and I tried not to think that this separation was permanent.

Trust me. The words hadn’t been spoken, yet they seemed to be all around me, spinning lazily like dandelion fluff on a summer wind. I looked out the kitchen window. The night was dark, and the moon was out. I couldn’t see any stars, but I knew they were there. I could picture them, waiting patiently, their light cutting through the infinite darkness. Fire had never looked so cold to me.

Trust me.

What choice did I have?

“I do,” I said.