by Cate Tiernan
Da’s eyes were focused intently on me now, and his ashen cheeks were splotched pale red with anger. “I’ve tried to resist—” he began, but I cut him off.
“You haven’t tried bloody hard enough!” I shouted, getting to my feet. My stomach roiled, but I stood, looming over him like a bully. “You just keep giving in! Is that what you want to teach me, your son? You want to teach me how to give in, give up, think only about myself? That’s what you’re showing me. You never would have been this way eleven years ago. Back then you were a real father. Back then you were a real witch. Now look at you,” I concluded bitterly. I could count on one hand the number of times I had been this hateful, this mean to someone I cared about. I hated the words coming out of my mouth but couldn’t stop them once I started.
“You have no idea how hard it is,” my father said, his voice scraped raw.
I snorted and paced around the spent fire in the middle of the log benches. I felt ill, exhausted; I needed to get out of there. I knew I had to bring Da back to the cabin, but I had to talk myself out of leaving him there to freeze. Minutes passed, and I wondered what the hell I was going to do with myself. Everything in my life right now was miserable. The only person who could make me feel at all better wasn’t here, and I couldn’t seem to reach her. Bloody hell, why did I ever come here?
At last, after a long time, Da said, “You’re right.” He sounded impossibly old and broken down.
I looked over at him, and he went on, struggling to find the words.
“You’re right. I’m being selfish, thinking only of myself. Your mother would have been stronger. She should have been the one to live.”
My eyes narrowed as I readied to nip his self-pity in the bud.
“But it was me who lived, and I’m making a hash of it, aren’t I, lad?” He gave a crooked, fleeting smile, then looked away. “It’s just—I can’t let her go, son. She was my life. I gave up my firstborn son for her.”
I gave a short nod. Cal.
“And then,” he went on, “for the past eleven years it’s been only me and Fiona, Fiona and me, everywhere we went, every day. We were alone; we didn’t dare make friends; we went for months without seeing another human, much less another witch. I don’t even know how to be with other people anymore.”
I looked away and let out a long breath. When Da sounded like this, somewhat rational, somewhat familiar, it was impossible to hold on to my anger. Mum had reminded me that he was just a man, in mourning for his wife, and I needed to cut him a huge swath of slack.
I raised my hands and let them fall. “Da, you could learn how—”
“Maybe I could,” he said. “I guess I’ll have to. But right now there’s no way I can give up the bith dearc, no way I can give up Fiona. The only thing that will stop me is to be stripped of my powers. If I have no power, I can’t make a bith dearc; I won’t be able to. So that’s what I need from you. You’re a Seeker; you know how. Take my powers from me, and save me from myself.”
My eyebrows rose, and I searched his eyes, hoping to find any trace of sanity left. Was he joking about such a terrible thing? “Have you ever seen anyone stripped of their powers? ” I asked. “Do you have any idea how incredibly horrible it is, how painful, how you feel as though your very soul has been ripped from you?”
“It would be better than this!” Da said, his voice stronger. “Better than this half existence. It’s the only way. As long as I have power, I’ll be drawn to the bith dearc.”
“That’s not true!” I said, pacing again. “It’s been only two months. You need more time to heal—anyone would. We just need to come up with a plan, that’s all. We need to think.”
He made no answer but allowed me to pull him to his feet. It took almost forty minutes for us to get back to the cabin, with our slow, awkward pace. Inside, I stoked up a fire. A dense chill permeated my bones, and I felt like I would never get rid of it. Keeping my coat on, I lowered myself to the couch. Da was sitting, small and gray and crumpled, in his chair. I felt exhausted, ill, near tears. Frustrated, pained, joyful at seeing my mother. Horrified and shocked at my father’s demand that I strip him of his powers. I had too many emotions inside me. Too many to name, too many to express. I was so overwhelmed that I felt numb. Where to start? All at once I felt like a nineteen-year-old kid—not like a mighty Seeker, not like the older, more experienced witch that Morgan saw me as. Not like an equal, like Alyce felt. Just a kid, without any answers.
Finally I just started talking, my head resting against the back of the couch, my eyes closed. “Mum was right, you know,” I said without accusation. His request that I strip him of his powers had blown my anger apart. “I understand how you felt about her, I really do. She was your mùirn beatha dàn, your other half. You only get the one, and now she’s gone. But you were a whole person before you met Mum, and you can be a whole person now that she’s gone.”
My father kept silent.
“I don’t know how I would feel if I lost my mùirn beatha dàn,” I said, thinking of Morgan, the unbelievable horror of Morgan being dead. “I can’t really say if I would have the strength to behave any differently. I just don’t know. But surely you can see how this is going down the dark path. Ignoring life in favor of death isn’t something you would have taught us kids. This is the path that killed Linden. But two of your children are still alive, and we need you.” Looking at him, I saw his shoulders shake, perhaps with just exhaustion.
I made up my mind. The council wanted me to head west, to go interview Justine Courceau. I decided to take Da with me, whether he wanted to go or not. Mum was right— if Da stayed here, he would keep using the bith dearc and eventually kill himself. It wasn’t a great plan, a long-term fix, but it was all I had.
Standing up, I went and threw clothes for both of us into a duffel. Da didn’t look up, showed no interest. I made tea, packed some food and drinks for the three-hour drive, and loaded the car. Then I knelt by his chair, looking up at him.
“Da. I need to go west for a few days on council business. You’re going with me,” I said.
“No,” he weakly, not looking up. “That’s impossible. I need to rest. I’m staying here.”
“Sorry—can’t let you do that. You’ll end up killing yourself. You’re coming with me.”
In the old days, Da could have lifted me up and thrown me like a sack of potatoes. These days, I was the strong one. In the end, pathetically, he didn’t have much choice.
Half an hour later he was buckled into the front seat next to me, his mouth set in a defeated line, his hands twitching at the knees of his corduroys, as if waiting for the day when he would be strong enough to fasten them around my neck. I had no idea whether that day would ever come, whether my da would ever resemble the father I had known before. All I knew was that we were headed for Foxton, a small town in Ontario, and after my job there was done—I didn’t know what I was going to do.
Justine Courceau lived at the very edge of the Quebec-Ontario province border. I endured three and a half hours of stony silence on the way. Fortunately the scenery was incredible: rocky, hilly, full of small rivers and lakes. In springtime it would be stunning, but here, at the tail end of winter, it still had a striking and imposing beauty.
The small town Kennet had directed me to, Foxton, had one bed-and-breakfast. First I got Da and me settled there and brought up our lone duffel. Da seemed completely spent, his face cloud-colored, his hands shaky, and he seemed relieved enough to curl up on one of the twin beds in our room. I felt both guilty and angry about his misery. Since he seemed dead asleep, I performed a few quick healing spells, not knowing whether they were strong enough to have any effect on a man in my da’s condition. Then I put a watch sigil on one of his shoes, figuring he couldn’t go anywhere without it and that he would be less likely to feel it than if it was on his body. This way I could stay in contact with him, be more or less aware of what he was doing, be aware if he tried to do something stupid, like harm himself. Then I grabbed my
coat and car keys and locked the door behind me. Regretting it, I spelled the door so it would be hard for him to get out. In any other circumstance, such a thing would be unthinkable, but I didn’t trust Da to be making the best decisions right now.
This was never how I’d thought I’d be using my magick. It left a bad taste in my mouth.
Kennet had told me Justine Courceau was a Rowanwand, and I had to deliberately put aside my personal feelings about the clan before I got to her house. Frankly, I’ve often found Rowanwands to be rather full of themselves. They make such a production of their dedication to good, of their fight against dark, evil Woodbanes. It just seems a bit much.
Kennet had been able to give me very accurate directions, and, barely twenty minutes after I had left Da, I was bumping down a long driveway bordered on both sides with hardwoods: oaks, maples, hickories. It was a pretty spot, and again I imagined how it would look in springtime. I hoped I wouldn’t be here to see it.
After about a quarter mile, the driveway stopped in front of a cottage that to my eyes screamed “witch.” It was small, picturesque, and made of local stone. Surrounding it was the winter version of a garden that must, in summer, be astounding. Even now, dormant and dusted with snow, it was well tended, tidy, pleasing.
Before I left my car, I went through my usual preparations. When a Seeker approaches someone she or he is investigating, anything can happen. An unprepared Seeker can soon be a dead Seeker. I took a moment to focus my thoughts, sharpen different defenses, physical and magickal, that were in place, and did the usual ward-evil, protection, and clarity spells. At last I felt sufficiently Seekerish, and I got out of my car and locked it.
I walked up a meandering stone path toward the bright red front door, wondering what Ms. Courceau would be like. Judging by the cottage, I was already picturing her as something like Alyce, perhaps. Gentle, kindly, with three or four cats. I hoped it would be as easy as it seemed. Unfortunately, I’ve learned that isn’t always the case.
While I had been sitting in my car, no face had peered out through the thick-paned, old-fashioned windows, bordered with dark green shutters, and I hoped Ms. Courceau was home. I didn’t see a car. Glancing toward the back, I saw a small greenhouse attached to the cottage, plus quite a few well-ordered squares of garden behind. Maybe there was a garage back there as well.
At the front door I put all my senses on alert and rapped the shining brass door knocker. I felt someone casting their senses toward me and instinctively blocked them. The door opened hesitantly, and a woman stepped forward. I was momentarily taken aback.
“Justine Courceau?” I asked.
She nodded. “Yes. Can I help you?”
My first, instantaneous impression was that she was much younger than I had assumed. I realized Kennet hadn’t mentioned her age, but this woman couldn’t have been more than twenty-two or twenty-three. She was strikingly pretty, with shoulder-length dark red hair. Her skin was clear and ivory-toned, and her eyes were wide and brown, kind of like Mary K.’s.
“I’m Hunter Niall,” I said. “The council sent me here to talk to you.” This sentence can create any number of different reactions, from defiance, to fear, to curiosity or confusion. This was the first time someone had laughed at me outright.
“I’m sorry,” Justine said, stifling her laughter but still smiling widely. “Goodness. A Seeker? I had no idea I was so scary. Come in and have some tea. You must be frozen.”
Inside, her cottage was charming. I cast my senses and picked up on nothing but the usual frissons of lingering magick, regular magick—nothing odd or out of place. I detected faint traces of mild spellcraft, the pleasing scents of herbs and oil, and a quiet sense of joy and accomplishment. I could feel nothing dark, nothing that set off my radar. Instead I felt more comfortable in this room than I had in most of the places I had been in the last six months.
“Please, sit down,” said Justine, and I processed the musical notes of her voice, wondering if she sang. “The kettle’s already on—I won’t be half a minute.” She spoke perfect English but with a soft French accent. I was just glad she spoke English. It would have been hard going, doing all this in French.
The sofa in the lounge was oversize, chintz-covered, and comfortably worn. On the table before it rested a circular arrangement of pinecones, dried winter berries, some pressed oak leaves. It was unpretentious and artistic, and the whole cottage struck me that way. I wondered if this was all her taste or whether she had lived here with her parents and then inherited all their decor.
As soon as I sank onto the couch, two cats of undistinguished breed approached me and determinedly climbed into my lap, curling up, kneading my legs with their paws, trying to both fit into a limited space. I stroked their soft, winter-thick fur and again picked up nothing except well-fed contentment, health, safety.
“Here we go,” said Justine, coming in with a laden tea tray. There was a pot of steaming Darjeeling tea, some sliced cake, some fruit, and a small plate of cut sandwiches. After the past week of my doing all the cooking, it was nice to have someone feed me for a change.
Holding my tea over the cats on my lap, I said, “Obviously you know why I’m here. The council sent you a letter that you didn’t respond to. Do you want to tell me what’s going on, in your own words?”
Her brown eyes regarded me frankly over her Belleek teacup. “Now that I look at you, you seem quite young for a Seeker. Is this your first job?”
“No,” I said, unable to keep the weariness out of my voice. “Do you want to tell me what’s going on, in your own words?” Witches tended to prevaricate and avoid a Seeker’s questions. I had seen it before.
“Well,” she said thoughtfully, “I assume you’re here because I collect the true names of things.” She took a sip of tea, then curled one leg underneath her on her chair.
“Yes. Every witch uses them to some degree, but I hear you’re collecting the names of living beings and writing them down. Is that true?”
“You know it’s true,” she said with easy humor, “or you wouldn’t be here.”
I took a bite of sandwich: cucumber and country butter on white bread. My mouth was very happy. I swallowed and looked up at her. “Talk to me, Ms. Courceau. Tell me what you’re doing.”
“Justine, please.” She shrugged. “I collect the true names of things. I write them down because to learn and remember all of them would take me a lifetime. I don’t do anything with them; I don’t misuse them. It’s knowledge. I’m Rowanwand. We gather knowledge. Of any kind. Of every kind. This is what I’m focusing on right now, but it’s only one of many areas that interest me. Frankly, it doesn’t seem like the council’s business.” She leaned back in her chair, and another cat leaped up on the back of it and rubbed its head against her red hair.
I was aware that there was, if not exactly a lie, then a half-truth in what she had just told me. I continued to question her, to explore her motives.
“Many clans gather knowledge,” I said mildly, breaking off a piece of cake with my fingers. “It’s the very nature of a witch to gather knowledge. As Feargus the Bright said, ‘To know something is to shed light on darkness.’ But it makes a difference what kind of knowledge you collect.”
“But it doesn’t, don’t you see?” Justine asked earnestly, leaning forward. “Knowledge in and of itself cannot be inherently evil. It’s only what a person chooses to do with that knowledge that makes it part of good or evil. Do we want to take the chance that something precious and beautiful will be lost forever? I don’t have children. What if I never have children? How will I impart what I’ve learned? Who knows what later generations might be able to do with it? Knowledge is just knowledge: it’s pure; it’s neutral. I know that I won’t misuse it; I know that what I’m doing is going to be hugely beneficial one day.”
Again I had just the slightest twinge of something on the edge of my consciousness about what she had said, but I would look at it later. Anyway, I could see her point of view so far. Many
witches would agree with her. It wasn’t my job to agree or disagree with her.
We talked for another hour. Sometimes Justine pressed her beliefs, sometimes we just chatted, learning about each other, sizing each other up. At the end of my visit I knew that Justine was very bright, extremely well educated (which she would be: I had recognized her mother’s name as one of the foremost modern scholars of the craft), funny, self-deprecating, and strong. She was wary; she didn’t trust me any more than I trusted her. But she wanted to trust me; she wanted me to understand. I felt all that.
Finally, almost reluctantly, I needed to go. It had been a nice afternoon and such a great change from the hellish disappointment the last week had been. It was nice to talk to an ordinary witch instead of someone hell-bent on his own destruction, someone mired in grief and pain.
“I’d like to meet with you again before I make my report to the council,” I said. I carefully dislodged the cats in my lap and stood, brushing fur off my jeans. Justine watched me with amusement, making no apologies.
“You’re welcome here anytime,” she said. “There aren’t any other witches around here for me to talk to. It’s nice to have company I can really be myself with.” She had a nice smile, with full lips and straight white teeth. I put on my coat.
“Right, then, I’ll be in touch,” I said, opening the front door. As I started down the stone path, I became suddenly aware of Justine’s strong interest in me. I was surprised; she hadn’t given a sign of it inside. But now I felt it: her physical attraction to me, the fact that she liked me and felt comfortable with me. I didn’t acknowledge it but got into my car, started the engine, and waved a casual good-bye.
11. The Rowanwand
