Eclipse

by Cate Tiernan

  Roiseal always does are part as well.

  I stopped for a moment. Ròiseal? The Blessing of the Fleet I had heard about—a lot of fishing communities have it every year, where the priest comes out and sprinkles holy

  water on the bows of the fishing boats to protect them through the year and give them

  luck.

  Sam and I went down to Filbert’s today and got some orange soda pop. Mom would kill

  us if she knew. Mom and her “whole food, natural food” stuff. She thinks artificial

  flavours and taste are enough to dull your sense and abilities. I haven’t noticed any

  difference.

  Whoa, I thought. And I thought Hilary was bad, with her organic toilet paper. I mean, she thought sodas weren’t good for you, but I didn’t think she actually believed they would dull your senses. A glimmer of a memory went through my head, of my mom saying something to

  me, telling me a story about when she was a little girl. About how funny her mom had been about some stuff. But the memory was too vague to really remember—maybe I was getting mixed up. After all, my mom had died when I was three. This was an amazing coincidence, though. If it was a coincidence, a scared little voice inside me whispered. I am still trying to talk Mom and Dad into an out- of-state college. I figure I have another

  three years to work on them-who knows what could happen? They just don’t want me

  mixing with people who aren’t like us-like if I meet different people, I’ll leave and not

  come back.

  I frowned as I remembered Dad telling me about how Mom’s parents hadn’t wanted her to go away to college, either. Oh, God—what did this mean? This couldn’t just be a coincidence. But how was it possible—God! As if mesmerized, I turned back to the book for answers.

  The lilacs have been blooming for a couple of weeks now. When I go outside, the damp

  salt of the sea is overlain with their gorgeous, heavy perfume. Mom’s bushes are covered

  with bees in ecstasy. Seeing the lilacs in bloom breaks me out of my northeast winter

  blues every year. I know that warm weather is coming, that summer is almost here, that

  school will be out soon.

  My throat felt like it was closing. Once I had brought home a little bunch of lilacs from the grocery store, and Dad had looked at them and turned pale. Later he told me that they’d been Mom’s favorite flower, that she had carried them at their wedding, and that it still made him sad to see them. So I’d eighty-sixed the lilacs. Oh, Mom, I thought desperately. What’s going on?

  In the mean time, my asinine brother, Sam is still auditioning for the world’s biggest pain

  in the butt award. Last week he switched all of the copper plant labels in the garden

  around, so the chard has “carrots” written above it and the corn has “radishes”. Mom

  almost had a fit. And twice he has taken my bike and stored it up on the widow’s walk. It

  was a nightmare getting it down through the trap door, listening to him cackle in his

  room. But I am getting him back-this morning I sewed the toes of all his socks together.

  Insert wicked laugh here.

  I chuckled, feeling relief sweep through me. Thank God. This wasn’t my mom. This

  Sarah Curtis had a brother. My mom was an only child, and Dad had said by the time he met her, she was estranged from her family and never saw them. That’s so sad. It means I grew up with only one set of grand-parents and cousins. None from her side. But God, what a relief to hear this woman had a brother. I had been practically shaking with dread about this witch Sarah Curtis.

  Time to go. I have to practice the full moon rite that I’m suppose to do on Litha.

  I turned the page.

  Ok I am back. Mom is in the kitchen making a healing tea for Aunt Jess. Her tonsillitis is

  acting up. I can’t believe I have school tomorrow. I keep looking at the calendar: three

  more weeks until Litha. Litha and summer. Mom and I have been crafting a fertility spell

  for the last two months. Basically it is to make everything in the land and sea do well and

  multiply. A typical Rowanwand all-purpose spell. I can’t wait. At Litha all of Roiseal will

  be there and it will be the first big spell I’ve cast in public since my initiation last

  Samhain.

  With a thud all my sensations of fear and nervousness came back. This couldn’t be my mom—I knew that. But someone with my mom’s name had written this book. Hands trembling, I set it down.

  She had come from Gloucester, Massachusetts. Like my mom. Like my mom, she’d loved lilacs. It was too weird, too similar. But some things didn’t fit: her brother, Sam. The fact that this Sarah Curtis had been a Rowanwand witch.

  Crash! I jumped about a foot in the air. My wooden jewelry box had fallen off my dresser and was lying on its side on the floor. How the hell had that happened? This was all crazy. I closed the book without marking my place and went to my jewelry box. It was one of the very few things I had that had been my mom’s. I picked it up and cradled it in my arms.

  That Sarah Curtis had been a witch.

  My mom hadn’t been a witch. I searched my patchy, foggy memories. My mom, who smelled of lilacs. Her smile, her light brown hair, her laugh, the way it felt when she held me. There had been nothing about her that said witch. I didn’t remember spells or chants or circles or even candles. There were two Sarah Curtises. One of them had been a witch. One of them had been my mom. Just my mom.

  I took the box over to my bed, unlatched it, and dumped everything out on my comforter.

  My fingers brushed through the fake jewelry, the goofy pins I collected, the charm bracelet my dad had been adding to since I was six. There were a few pieces of my mom’s jewelry, too: her engagement ring, with its tiny sapphire. Some pearl earrings. Even an anklet with little bells on it. I looked at the empty box as if it would reassure me somehow. None of this could be real. There had to be some sort of explanation. A nonwitch explanation. My mom hadn’t even had a brother.

  Open me.

  I hadn’t heard the words—I had felt them. I stared down at the box as if it had turned into a snake. This was too creepy. But, compelled, I turned it upside down. I shook it, but nothing more came out. I opened and closed it a couple of times, looking for another latch somewhere, a hidden hinge. Nothing. Inside I ran my fingers around the lid and down the sides. Nothing.There was a small tray insert that I had dumped out onto my bed. The bottom of the box was lined with cushioned pink satin. I pressed it with my fingers, but there were no lumps or catches anywhere. I was imagining things. Then I saw the pale pink loop of thread sticking out from one side of the cushion. I hooked my finger into it and pulled gently, and the whole cushion came up in my hand. Beneath the cushion was the wooden bottom of the box. There was a tiny catch on one side, tarnished and almost impossible to see. I poked it with one fingernail, and nothing happened. I turned the box another way and held it in my lap and pushed at the latch again.

  With a tiny snick the bottom of the box swung upward. And I was staring at a yellowed pile of old letters, tied with a faded green ribbon. The ribbon was tattered and practically untied itself in my hands. The letters were written on a bunch of different kinds of paper—loose-leaf, stationery, printer paper. I picked one up and unfolded it, feeling like I was watching someone else do this. From downstairs I heard the thud of the front door closing, but I ignored it and began to read. Dear Sarah

  I’m so glad you finally contacted me. I can’t believe you have been gone six whole

  months. It feels like years. I miss you so much. After you left, there was nothing but bad

  scenes, and now no one even speaks your name. It’s like you died, and it makes me sad,

  all the time. I’m glad to hear you are ok. I have set up a PO box over in North Heights,

  and you can write me there. I know Mom and Dad would flip right now if they saw a

>   letter from you.

  I better go-I’ll write again soon. Take care,

  Your brother Sam

  Tap, tap. The knock on my bedroom door made me jerk.

  “Allie?” Oh, God. Not Hilary. Not now. How many times had I told her I hated to be

  called Allie? A thousand? More?

  “Yeah?”

  “I’m home.”

  I had a feeling, I thought, since you’re speaking to me. “Okay,” I called. “Do you want a snack? I have some dried fruit. Or maybe some yogurt?” “Oh, no thanks, Hilary. I’m not really hungry.” Pause. “You shouldn’t go too long without eating,” she said.“Your blood sugar will crash.”

  I felt like screaming. Why was I having this conversation? My past was unraveling before my eyes, and she was going on about my freaking blood sugar! “It’s okay,” I said, aware that some irritation had entered my voice.“I’ll deal with my blood sugar.”

  Silence. Then her footsteps retreating down the hall. I sighed. No doubt I would hear about that later. For some reason, neither Hilary nor Dad could understand why I might have some trouble getting used to having his pregnant, twenty-five-year-old girlfriend living with us.

  I shuffled the letters randomly and picked up another one. Dear Sarah

  I’m sorry I couldn’t make the wedding. You know October is one of our busiest time. I

  have to tell you: You’re my sister, and I love you, but I can’t help feeling disappointed

  you married an outsider. I know you turned your back on your magick, but can you turn

  your back on your entire heritage? What if you, by some miracle, have a child with this

  outsider? Can you stand to not raise this child Rowanwand? I don’t get it.

  A few paragraphs down it was signed Sam. I felt hot and a little dizzy. The truth kept trying to break into my consciousness, but I held it back. Just one more letter.

  Dear Sarah

  Blessing on your good news. Since you moved to Texas, I have been worried about you. It

  seems so far away. I hope you and my new niece, Alisa, will be happy there. Dad has

  been sick again this spring- his heart-but no one thinks it’s as series as it was two years

  ago. I’ll keep you posted.

  The letter fluttered from my fingers like an ungainly butterfly. Oh, God. Oh, God. I swallowed convulsively, pressing my hand to my mouth. I had been born in Texas. My

  name was Alisa. Reality crashed down on me like a breaker at the shore, and like a shell,

  I felt tumbled about, rolled, torn away from land. I, Alisa Soto, was the daughter of a witch and a nonwitch. I was half witch. Half witch. Everything I had always thought about my mom my whole life had been a lie. A rough cry escaped my throat, and I quickly smothered it in a pillow. Everything I had known about me my whole life was a lie, too. It was all lies, and none of it made sense. Suddenly furious, I picked up the damn witch’s box and threw it across my room as hard as I could. It smashed against one wall and shattered into dozens of sharp pieces. Just like my heart. “Honey, are you all right?” My dad’s voice sounded tentative, worried. I’m fine, Dad. Except for the fact that you married a witch and now I have witch blood in me, just like all the people who freak me out. “Can I come in?” Of course the door was locked, but it was one of those useless dinky locks where a little metal key pops it open in about a second. Dad, assuming his parental right, unlocked the door and came in.

  I was curled up on my bed, under all my covers, with my grandmother’s afghan bunched around my neck. I felt cold and miserable and hadn’t gone down to dinner, which had been a chickpea casserole. As if I didn’t feel bad enough. My brain had been in chaos all afternoon. Dad must not have known Mom was a witch. I think she had hidden it from him—and who wouldn’t—and he had never figured it out. He’d never been thrilled about my going to Kithic circles, but he hadn’t acted paranoid. Surely he would have said something if he’d known my mom had been a witch. “I brought you some soup,” he said, looking for a place to put down the tray. “Don’t tell me. Tofu soup with organic vegetables who willingly gave their lives for the greater good.” Spread the misery around. He gave me a Look and set the tray at the bottom of the bed. “Campbell’s chicken noodle,” he said dryly. “I found some in the pantry. It’s not even Healthy Request.” I sniffed warily. Real soup. Suddenly I was a little hungry. I sat up and dipped a saltine (okay, it was whole wheat) into the soup and ate it. “What’s wrong, honey?” Dad asked. “Do you feel like you’re getting sick again? Like last month?”

  I wish. This was so much worse. Then tears were rolling down my face and into my bowl.

  “Nothing’s wrong,” I said convincingly. Sniff, sniff. “Hilary says you seemed upset when she came home.” Translation: you’ve been being a jerk again, haven’t you?

  I didn’t know what to say. Part of me wanted to blurt out everything, show Dad the

  letters, confide in him. Another part of me didn’t want to ruin whatever memories he had of my mom. And another part didn’t want him to look at me, for the rest of my life, and think, “Witch,” which he definitely would once he read the letters and understood about blood witches. My shoulders shook silently as I dipped another cracker and tried to eat it. “Honey, if you can’t tell me, maybe Hilary—I mean, if it’s a girl thing . . .” As if. My soggy cracker broke off in the soup and started to dissolve. “Or me. You can tell me anything,” he said awkwardly. I wished that either one of us thought that was true. “I mean, I’m just an old guy, but I know a lot.” “That’s not true,” I said without meaning to.“There’s a lot you don’t know.” I started crying again, thinking about my mom, about how my whole childhood had been a lie. “So tell me.”

  I just cried harder. There was no way I could possibly tell him about this. It was like I had spent fifteen years being one person and suddenly found out I was someone completely different. My whole world was dissolving. “I can’t. Just leave me alone, please.”

  He sat for a few more minutes but didn’t come up with a plan that would suddenly make everything all right, make up for our not being close, for my not having a mom, for his marrying Hilary next month. After a while I felt his weight leave my bed, and then the door closed behind him. If only I could talk to him, I thought miserably. If only I could talk to someone. Anyone who would understand. And then I thought of Morgan.

  “Morgan?” I called on Wednesday morning. I had been lurking in the parking lot, waiting for her and Mary K. to arrive. Mary K. had popped out of the car, looking cute and fresh, the way she always did. I’d waited till she’d gone off to hang with our other friends; then Morgan had wearily swung herself out of her humongous white car and I called to her. I’d seen Morgan in the morning before and wasn’t sure it was smart to talk to her this early. Besides her usual non-morning-person vibe, today she looked a little haggard, like she hadn’t been sleeping.

  She turned her head, and I stepped forward and waved. I saw the faint surprise in her eyes—she knew I tried to avoid her sometimes. As I got closer, I saw that she was drinking a small bottle of orange juice, trying to slug it down before the bell rang. Hilary would be glad that at least Morgan was paying attention to her blood sugar. “Hey, Alisa,” Morgan said. “Mary K. went thataway.” She pointed to the main building of Widow’s Vale High, then glanced around us, as if to assure herself she was actually at school.

  “Uh, okay. But actually I wanted to talk to you,” I said quickly.

  She slurped her drink.

  “Are you okay?” I couldn’t help asking. She nodded and wiped her mouth on her jacket sleeve. “Yeah. I just . . . didn’t get much sleep last night. Maybe I’m coming down with something.” She gave another sideways glance, and I wondered if she was supposed to meet someone. “Well, I have to tell you—I took your book on Monday.” There. I’d gotten it out. She gave me a blank look.

  “Your green book. That you had Monday in your backpack. Well, I took it.” Morgan’s brows creased: The rusty gea
rs of her brain were slowly creaking to a start as the OJ flowed into her system. She gave a quick glance over her shoulder to her backpack—the scene of the crime—as if clues would still be there. “Oh, that green book? The Book of Shadows? You took it? Why?”

  “Yes. I took it on Monday. And I read it. And I need to talk to you about it.” Suddenly she looked more alert. “Okay. Do you still have it?” “Yeah. I want to keep it. It’s . . . it’s about a woman named Sarah Curtis, who lived in in Gloucester, Massachusetts, in the seventies.” “Uh-huh.” Go on, and feel free to start making sense, Alisa. I gulped down some chilly air, hating what was about to come out. “Sarah Curtis, from that book, the witch, was my mother. I’m pretty sure.” Like, positive. Morgan blinked and shifted her weight. “Why do you think that?” she said finally. “My mom’s name was Sarah Curtis, and she lived in Gloucester, Massachusetts. There were things in the diary that reminded me of things about my mom and that my dad has told me about her.And then, after I had read it, I went to the jewelry box she left me and found a secret compartment underneath. I opened it, and there were letters inside from an uncle I didn’t know about, and he talked about magick. In one of the letters he said congratulations about your new daughter, Alisa. In Texas. Which is where I was born.” I took a a deep breath.“Sarah Curtis was a Rowanwand witch.” Now I had her complete attention. Her eyebrows raised up in pointy arches, and she seemed to stare right into my brain. “But your dad isn’t, is he?” I shook my head. “So you think you’re half witch?”

  “Yes,” I said stiffly.

  She shifted her weight and glanced around again. What was with her? “Half witch. You. Jeez, how do you feel about it? It’s kind of a shock.” I gave a dry laugh.“Shock doesn’t cover it. I’m so . . . worried. Really, really upset. I never knew any of this. I don’t think my dad knew about it, either. But all of a sudden I’m something I didn’t know, and I’m just . . . freaking. I don’t think my dad knew about

  it, either. But all of a sudden I’m something I didn’t know, and I’m just . . . freaking. I

  don’t want to be a witch.”