An hour later, Violet’s dad Louis came home, and he cheerfully pulled up a chair and sat with them, knocking back two bowls of soup and several pieces of toast, and listening to his wife and daughter speak with the most contented look on his face. When the last crumbs had been eaten, Rose made a big pot of tea and retired to the lounge room with Louis, while the girls washed the dishes, then sat down again at the kitchen table and drank their tea.
Violet told her friend she wanted to study to be a social worker after she left school, and for a moment Beth feared that was why she was being so nice to her – she was practising for her future career. But she managed to talk herself out of that particular thread of insecurity, and finally confided her own long-held dream.
“I’ve always wanted to teach, but Mother said it was beneath me, and so I felt I had to escape this village, to run as far away from my parents as possible so they wouldn’t have any power over me, and wouldn’t be able to control me or my decisions. And yet, in doing that, they had the power anyway. They did influence all of my decisions, from where I lived to what I did,” she confessed.
Violet smiled at her as she lifted her mug of tea. “You can stop running now Beth,” she said, eyes friendly, and sure. “You’re home.”
Chapter 16
Storm Witch
Rhiannon... Today…
Her face flushed red and her body sweated from the heat, before she suddenly switched to icy cold, then started burning up again... And so the cycle went. Restless and feverish, Rhiannon tossed and turned, limbs twisting her sheets as she thrashed around in panic. Reality and nightmare blurred, and she couldn’t work out what was true and what was imagined, what was real and what was dream. Some part of her was aware she’d forced her father out of her bedroom, and it pierced her heart when she recalled the look on his face as he’d backed away from her – there was love, as always, but also confusion, and fear. He must think she was breaking down, so strange would her behaviour seem.
Then the knowledge that she’d hurt her brother sliced through her, and all concern about her father spun off into the background. She broke out in a cold sweat as the memory of Brodie’s face, contorted with pain, flashed before her eyes. Was he okay? What must he think of her? What had she done?
She was too scared to find out, yet the more she worried about it, the more frantic she became. Her dad had said her brother was fine, and had seemed puzzled by her declaration that she was dangerous, yet her palms tingled as she remembered the flood of hatred and the intensity of the anger that had swamped her just before the sparks had flown from her fingertips across the table towards Brodie, igniting on his homework, then landing on his face.
Desperately she sorted through her memories, in an attempt to discover what was true. After she’d fled from the house, from her brother, there was the flight up the tor, panicked and terrified, and a woman in a long red cloak who sat up there with her, comforting her, and doing her best to convince her that she wasn’t dangerous, that she hadn’t hurt anyone.
Was the woman real? She hoped so, because if she was, maybe that meant Brodie was okay. But when she tried to picture the woman’s face as she’d spoken to her, she couldn’t – she just drew a blank. And when she made an effort to recall the sensation of the woman’s hand on her forehead, it seemed it had been warm and dry, untouched by the pouring rain, which was impossible. Anyone up there on the summit with her would have been as drenched by the storm as she was.
Blocking her fear from her mind with an extreme act of will, she buried her head under her pillow again, wanting to disappear from this house, from this village, from this world. Should she run away? What if she set the whole kitchen on fire next time? Wouldn’t Brodie be safer without her in the house? Wouldn’t everyone be better off without her?
A soft knock on her door startled her, and she sighed. Why couldn’t she be left alone? Didn’t they understand how traitorous her body and her mind had become? Didn’t they know that she was influencing the weather, and the elements? What other explanation was there for the black clouds that formed instantly overhead whenever she thought about her mother? How else had she ignited a childhood toy – and shot sparks at her brother’s face? She was a danger to people, and they should all just leave her alone.
“I’m busy,” she called out. “I’ll be down later.” She wouldn’t, of course. A few hours from now she would cautiously open her door, and discover the plate of sandwiches or bowl of salad that her dad had left for her so she wouldn’t starve. She had to admit that he was pretty good about not hassling her – so she was shocked when she heard the door handle turning. Instantly she felt the fury building in her chest, and the tingling in her fingers beginning to increase. Oh god, not again.
“Dad!” she exploded. “I don’t want to talk! Don’t come in!” she screamed. She could hear the anger in her voice, feel it thickening and growing in power, but she couldn’t bring herself to care enough to soften it. She was losing control, and she didn’t know how to stop it. Or didn’t want to know, she couldn’t tell which.
“That’s okay Rhiannon, you can just listen,” said a gentle voice. The door cracked open, and Rose walked in.
“What are you doing here?” she demanded, panicked, as she quickly sat up in her bed and wedged her hands under her legs. Grimacing and anxious, she hoped she wouldn’t burn a hole in her pyjama pants or the mattress.
“You know how worried your dad is about you, so I won’t bore you with that,” Rose began, tone less judgemental than Rhiannon had expected. She was relieved – until the older woman continued. “But he sensed that you’re going through something you don’t understand, something he can’t help you with. So he’s hoping that I can, if you’ll trust me enough to tell me, and let me try.”
Suspicion flashed through her eyes as she gazed at the priestess, then she shrugged. “I don’t know what you mean.”
“Your dad said you’ve been having terrible nightmares,” Rose began, voice patient, soothing. “That you’re worried you’ll hurt your brother, inflict some kind of pain on him.”
“I already did.”
“You did what sweet girl?”
“I hurt Brodie.”
Electricity fizzed through the room, and Rhiannon’s hair started crackling, while outside the house, thunder rumbled overhead. Her face flamed red with embarrassment.
“What is it?” she implored, terror clutching at her heart. No longer could she pretend it had nothing to do with her. Panic and dread were swallowing her whole. She felt as though she was drowning in it, but she wasn’t sure she wanted to be rescued. That she should be rescued.
Rose sat down next to her on the bed, moving slowly, as if to let the scared young girl know that she could stop her at any moment. That she still had some control. The priestess smiled at her and pulled one of her hands out from under her thigh, squeezing it reassuringly.
“There’s no need to fear, sweet girl. You didn’t hurt Brodie.”
“So it was all just a dream?” she croaked. Of course she hoped that was the case, prayed with all her heart, but it just didn’t make sense. It had been so vivid, so real, such a tangible sensation. First the teddy bear, then her brother’s sweet but horror-struck face. Even as she recalled it she felt her skin growing hot, and her palms start to burn. She stared down at them, expecting to see flames leaping upward, leaping at Rose, yet there was nothing there.
“Your feelings were real, and powerful, even if the flames were not,” Rose said, and leaned forward to stroke her cheek, to show her she wasn’t afraid. But Rhiannon jumped in fright, and worry, scared that she would set her alight.
“Oh my dear, you are not dangerous, or destructive,” the priestess added, echoing the words of that red-clad woman on the tor. “You are simply hurting, and devastated by loss. And you are allowed to be. It would be strange if you were not.”
“But what’s happening to me?” she cried. “My anger is destroying me, destroying those around me. It’s causing chaos i
n the heavens, shooting sparks from my fingers, bringing down rain and thunder, and causing lightning to tear the world apart. And I burned my bear, even if I didn’t hurt Brodie,” she insisted, eyes glancing to where she’d thrown him after she’d extinguished the tiny flame.
“You are tuning in to the power of the storms, like all pagans, or witches, or whatever you want to call us, and amplifying them with your energetic disturbance,” Rose explained. “But you are not starting fires or burning things. And you will not hurt your brother, or anyone else.”
Rhiannon felt her body hunch over, slump down, in relief, she assumed, or exhaustion. “But –”
“Breathe child, breathe, and try to relax. The most violent of your memories – the burning of your bear, the scalding of your brother – surely they were just dreams,” she suggested. “Well, nightmares,” she conceded, at a black look from the girl on the bed.
“Perhaps they are a key of sorts, a way for you to express your anger safely, to lash out in the way you feel you need to, without harming anyone. And maybe you’re not causing the storms, they’re just reflecting your turmoil back to you so you can see it and become aware of your emotions.”
Rhiannon stared at her, uncomprehending.
“Your dreams can be a powerful way to vent your anger and express yourself without danger or consequence. It’s your subconscious clearing your conscious mind, discarding what doesn’t serve you. So you could be dreaming of fire to purge away all you can’t process in your waking hours, playing it out as a way to manifest your fury into a safe way of expression.”
A jumble of thoughts ran through Rhiannon’s mind – denial, confusion, a sense of futility. It still didn’t explain how she’d managed to transport herself outside into the storm the night before her mum died, or out into the woods to confront Evan, and nor did it shed any light on the strange red-robed woman she’d spoken to atop the tor. But if she hadn’t hurt Brodie, and Rose still had faith in her and thought she was a good person, could there be a rational explanation for all the craziness?
She was very grateful that her brother was unharmed, yet she still felt unsettled. She couldn’t wrap her head around what had been happening to her, or what hadn’t. “So I’m just some weird, power-mad fool, imagining I can control the weather and create storms, who dreams of hurting her brother, and was deluded into thinking I have super powers?”
Rose took her hand again. “Sweet girl, you are grieving. And you are trying to make sense of a world in which you feel powerless. Of course your dreams have been disturbed, have been violent and fearful, and have felt real to you as your whole world has turned upside down.”
“I feel so stupid,” Rhiannon whispered. “What do I tell Dad, that I’m an ego-maniac on some kind of power trip?”
Rose laughed, but there was kindness in it. “Not at all. In a reality where you have no control, it makes perfect sense that you would dream that you do.”
“But if I was going to dream up a power, surely it wouldn’t be as a Storm Witch,” she complained, then shivered as she recalled those voices up on the tor, baiting her, accusing her. Storm Caller. Storm Witch. Destroyer.
“Surely I would imagine myself more like you, a healer who does energy work and ritual and makes people better? Who grows things, and makes things, and heals things. That sounds like a much preferable power to me,” she grumbled. “Yours actually helps people. Mine just destroys them. I’m like Carrie in that horror movie.”
Trying hard to hide her smile, Rose reached out her hand to the vulnerable girl and lifted her chin.
“Now you listen to me Rhiannon Stark. There is nothing wrong with you – no reason to be scared, and no reason for anyone to fear you. It can be dangerous to start thinking that you’re more powerful than you are – but that goes both ways. Don’t you dare ever think you are less powerful than you truly are either. Don’t doubt yourself or your ability to make a difference. You have the power to heal within you too – the power to help your brother get through this, and to help your dad. And in doing that, you will help yourself too. Got it?”
Reluctantly she nodded, and made an effort to smile, to look like she agreed with the priestess. But she was mortified. It was very humbling, to discover that the control she’d thought she had, the control she’d secretly liked, was a lie. And there were still so many unexplained things, feelings, actions – things she was too scared to ask about, or even ponder. God, maybe all this solitude was making her crazy, was making her hallucinate, yet she wasn’t sure she could face anyone again. Certainly not right now.
Rose hadn’t finished with her though. “Why don’t you come to our rituals, and learn all about this? You could study like your mum did, take your place in our circle, and start to understand the magic you have access to, that we all have access to, and start to unlock all the potential within you.”
Rather than being a calming option though, she recoiled at the thought. She didn’t want to unlock anything, didn’t want to develop even more that she could lose control of.
“You can work with the element of fire to banish your fear,” the priestess said softly, and Rhiannon winced that she’d read her thoughts, even as the woman in red flashed into her mind. Was she someone from Rose’s magical circle?
“We can help you to focus, to purge, to cleanse – to let go of what does not serve you. And later, when you have dealt with all of this, you can use the passion and heat of fire to reignite your self-belief, and your self-love.”
Rhiannon must have looked overwhelmed, because Rose stopped, and smiled self-consciously. “I’m sorry, we can talk about this later, when you’re ready. There is no rush.”
She nodded, but suddenly she was so desperate to be out from under the shrewd gaze of the priestess, that she could barely stay civil. She mumbled non-committally, knowing she would never go to a ritual, but not wanting to explain how she felt. Gratitude swept over her when her visitor picked up on her cues, hugged her goodbye, and left her to her own miserable company.
Chapter 17
And Life Goes On
Rhiannon…
If her dad had expected Rose’s visit to return her to normal, whatever that was, and make her want to rejoin their family, he was sorely disappointed. While Rhiannon was relieved to know she hadn’t hurt her brother, Rose’s revelations hadn’t magically cured her misery. She was still angry, still wanting to be alone, and still feeling she should be ostracised.
She was also still unwilling to return to school. Her dad had been fine with her not going for the first week after her mum’s death, unable as he was to cope with his own job and responsibilities, and okay with a second week. But he thought that was long enough, so he brought in reinforcements.
After another broken-hearted phone call, his mother Anne became so concerned for the bereaved family’s welfare that she drove back down and moved in with them, taking over the guest room, and the whole house, and trying to keep some semblance of normality alive for her son and grandchildren.
For the month of October she stayed, cooking and cleaning, comforting her son as best she could, and spending lots of time with Brodie, who was still bewildered by the sudden change to his formerly so reliable family unit. When Rhiannon tearfully said she still couldn’t face school, Anne let her stay home for a third week – then informed her that she was going back, no discussion. Surprised, Rhiannon appealed to her dad, but his mother had forced him back to work, so while he sympathised with his daughter, he told her he believed it would help her, and insisted she do as her gran had instructed.
And so every morning Rhiannon dragged herself out of bed and threw on some clothes, wrapping herself in long black skirts and thick black woollen jumpers, and walked off in the direction of school. She did try a few times to force her feet up the front steps, but she hadn’t been able to do it.
Instead she’d taken to wandering around the countryside, spending hours at a time meandering down country lanes, revelling in the bleakness of the landscape as the
earth circled from the colours of autumn to the cold chill of winter, and feeling deep satisfaction when the weather turned and the heavens poured down on her, which usually happened when she was spiralling back down into her own pit of despair. The storms still broke in time with her bursts of anger, but she forced herself to see it as a coincidence and nothing more.
Other days she headed off towards school but jumped on the bus to the nearby town of Smithfield instead, losing herself in the cobbled streets and green leafy parks where no one knew her, or wondered what she was doing when she raised her arms to the sky as thunder rumbled overhead. She didn’t even really know what she was doing herself, except trying to outwalk her pain, outwalk her grief.
And always she would get home at the right time, mutter that she had homework to do, and hurry upstairs and collapse onto her bed. Some afternoons she would cry herself to sleep, others she would wear herself out with wondering what she was going to do with herself, with her life, with her pain. And as often as possible she skipped dinner with her family, not wanting to talk to anyone, even them. Especially them.
It was getting awkward though, because Anne had been asking more and more questions about school, and Rhiannon was starting to worry that her continued truancy would be discovered. She was also getting tired of being lectured by her gran about her black clothes. It was all she felt comfortable in – they made her feel invisible, and safe in some way, while the sight of brighter, cheerier clothes made her feel even worse than she already did. And that was saying something.
A few days after her mum had died, Rhiannon had gone through her wardrobe and snatched out every yellow, orange or blue dress, every red, purple or green top, every white or multi-coloured skirt or vivid pair of tights, leaving only the black clothes, and a few dark navy things that she still hadn’t worn, but wasn’t too offended by.
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