Spellweaver

by Tamara Grantham

  “Check on me?” Mom asked, her brow creased. “I’m fine. Why on earth did he call you? He should have known better. I’m okay. Just a little head cold.” She rubbed her temples.

  Her eyes were sunken, and the wrinkles in her skin had deepened. She wasn’t just in pain, she was suffering. With the amount of time she’d spent in Faythander, the erased memories had to be overwhelming.

  I had to help her. But first, I had to get through the door. If she suspected I were here to be charitable, she would never let me in, so maybe I needed to turn the tables.

  “The truth is,” I said, “I’m sort of hungry. And I’m sort of out of money, too.”

  “Oh, Olive.” Her voice took on a completely different tone. “Why didn’t you say so? Come inside. I can make sandwiches if you’d like. Or something else? There’s leftover takeout, or I’ve got some chicken breasts that I’ve been meaning to broil… ”

  She continued listing off food choices as I followed her through the house. I felt like a complete moron for begging at my mother’s doorstep. I also felt like a complete moron because my sad story of hunger and poverty was partially true.

  Mom busied herself in the kitchen while I took a seat on the barstool. I’d settled on a ham and cheese sandwich, but she’d decided it wasn’t enough and had to cook a broiled chicken dinner with a garden salad and rolls. We chitchatted for a while. She wanted to know about my breakup with Brent. She didn’t act too surprised that I’d dumped him, but I did get the inevitable you’re-not-getting-any-younger speech. And the he-was-a-great-guy-blah-blah.

  Mom sat at the island counter with me in front of plates of steaming-hot food. As we ate, I almost forgot why I’d come here in the first place.

  “Mom,” I finally spoke up after a lull in the conversation. “Please tell me truthfully, are you feeling depressed?”

  She grew very still and pinched her lips shut. It seemed that if she moved, she would break her composure. “Did the sweatpants give it away?” she finally asked quietly, not meeting my eyes.

  “That and a few other things.”

  Her shoulders sagged. “I can’t…” Her voice wavered, and she took a deep breath. “I can’t for the life of me figure out what’s wrong. I don’t know why I’m down. I shouldn’t be. I’ve got a lovely home. A beautiful daughter. I’ve got enough savings to keep me financially secure. I have hobbies that I love. I don’t know what’s happening to me. A couple of weeks ago, I was fine, but now… ”

  Tears formed in her eyes. I found the tissue box and handed it to her. I’d only seen my mom cry a few times, and seeing it now came as a shock. I wasn’t sure how to handle it.

  “Mom,” I said gently. “Let me help.”

  She shook her head. “How?”

  “It’s what I do for a living. You know that, right?”

  She looked up at me, her sea-green eyes damp with tears. “You think I qualify as one of your patients?”

  Yes, I do. On so many levels. “It’s possible.”

  “But I’ve never been to that fairy world you talk about. I’m normal. I don’t have compulsions or delusions. I’m usually fine. I’m not… depressed. Not normally.” Her breathing came out in choking sobs. “Oh no, no, no. It’s not true. It can’t be true.” She stood abruptly and stumbled toward Father’s old office.

  I hated to see my mom like this. I’d sworn the spellcasting would be my last resort; it could possibly do more harm than good. But how much longer could she hold out?

  I grabbed the mirror case out of my backpack before entering Father’s office. As I stepped through the arched doorway, I noticed that Mom’s collection of fairy-world memorabilia had grown, if that were possible.

  Mom sat in the office chair, facing the windows. Beyond the glass was her garden. The water fountain, trellises, and stone walkways gave her backyard the ethereal feel of a fairy tale. The evening sun turned the sky a deep amethyst as it sank beyond the horizon. The sunlight glinted through the window and fell over her shoulders. Even tangled and unwashed, her hair was a deep copper that matched the sunlight. I sat on the window seat and faced her.

  She attempted a smile as she held a tissue to her nose. “I’m sorry, Olive. I’m fine—really, I am. I just need some rest, and I’m sure…” She sobbed, her shoulders shaking, then closed her eyes. “I just need some rest.”

  I searched her face, knowing the spellcasting was inevitable, but I didn’t want to do it. It was complete selfishness on my part. Mom and I had never been close, but at least we’d tolerated one another. After I released her memories, would we even do that?

  “Mom,” I said gently, “there’s something I have to tell you.”

  She opened her eyes.

  “You may have already started to suspect it, but Father wasn’t an officer. In fact, he wasn’t even human.”

  Between sobs, she let out a muffled laugh. “Oh, really?”

  “Yes. He was an elf from Faythander.” I pushed back my hair to reveal my slightly pointed ears. She’d been spellcasted to believe I had a slight birth defect, but I wasn’t sure if she’d ever really believed it. “And I’m not completely human, either.”

  “Oh, Olive. I appreciate your humor. You always did know how to make me laugh.”

  “I’m not joking this time.”

  “I know.” But her tone told me she didn’t.

  “I’m serious. You’ve had your memories erased, but because the magic is failing, the dragons’ spell that was meant to keep you protected is also failing. That’s why you started collecting. That’s why you’re suffering.”

  She stared at me with wide eyes. “You’re serious, aren’t you?”

  I nodded.

  “But I thought all this fairy stuff you went on about was just a joke. I mean—people don’t really believe in those things. Sure, they like to be amused, to pretend. But it’s all a fantasy. That’s all it’s ever been. Those people who give you money aren’t looking for a cure, they’re looking for a diversion—something to get their mind off their problems.”

  “That’s what you really think?”

  “What else could I think? That it’s real?”

  “Yes. Because it is real.”

  She shook her head. Her voice grew panicky. “It’s not true. It can’t be. If it’s true, then what does that make me? What does that mean? My whole life is a lie?”

  She was partially right. She’d lived for years in Faythander and had no memory of it. I wasn’t sure how long she’d been there, but it had been long enough to fall in love. It had been long enough to join the Caxon. It had been long enough to give birth to me.

  “Will you at least let me try to help you?”

  “Let me go to a therapist. Or a psychiatrist. They make medicine for chemical imbalances. I can beat this. I know I can.”

  “But I am a psychiatrist! Going to someone else won’t help,” I said, my voice desperate. “If you were suffering with typical depression, then I would be all for it. But you’re not.”

  “Olive, how can you be serious about this?”

  I pulled out my mirror and clicked the lid open. For half a second, I expected the Faythander magic to appear, but the glass remained empty. A feeling of unease settled inside as I turned the mirror to face her.

  “I am serious,” I said. “You just have to let me show you.”

  She studied my case, particularly the five figurines that lay atop the red velvet lining. The dragon, elf, Wult, pixie, and goblin must have triggered some sort of memories. She’d seen them all before.

  “Why do you think you’ve been collecting so many figurines?” I asked. “It’s because you’re trying to remember a part of your life that you’ve forgotten.”

  She pressed the tissue to her mouth. Her eyes grew wide as she stared at the statuettes. “You have an elf,” she said quietly.

  “Yes.” The last rays of sun glinted off the pewter, turning it bright silver.

  “It’s beautiful.”

  My fingers brushed the soft velvet a
s I removed the elf from my case. I held it out to her. “When you touch this, look into the mirror and your memories will return.”

  At least, I hoped so.

  She stared at the figurine with one part hope and another part fear. “What sort of memories?”

  I cringed at her question. Why did she have to ask? “You’ll remember Father—the way he really was. You’ll remember the… groups you were associated with, and your time spent helping those you believed were oppressed. You’ll remember giving birth to me.”

  “I already remember that.”

  “No. You were given false memories. They were meant to help you be a better parent to me—but they aren’t the truth.”

  She shook her head. “You realize how hard this is for me to believe?”

  “Actually, I have no idea. Being told that half your life is a lie has to come as a major shock. But there’s only one way for you to remember the truth.”

  Holding the elven statuette in the palm of my hand, the Earth magic came slowly, making me wonder if it would work at all. I’d only ever used my Faythander magic in the past. But as the power swelled within me—amber mixed with gold and warmth—I knew I had to trust it. Magic trickled through my veins and into the figurine, warming the metal.

  Mom fidgeted with the tissue. “Are you sure about this?”

  “Don’t worry, Mom,” I tried saying with confidence, “I’ve done this lots of times before.” But never without my fairy magic.

  “You’re certain it won’t hurt me?”

  “You’ll be fine.” I hoped I wasn’t lying to her.

  “And you’re absolutely sure this is the only way? The other doctors can’t help me?”

  “In your case—no. Studies have shown that antidepressants can actually make healthy people more depressed, and your brand of depression isn’t caused by traditional means. You’ll never get better unless you confront the past.” I held the figurine a little closer to her. “Please, Mom. I want you to get better. Just give me a chance.”

  My pleading must have struck a chord with her, because she nodded and then reached for the statuette.

  As I stared into the mirror, I expected to see my mother’s memories replayed. Instead, a jolt of energy shocked us with the sensation of a sledgehammer ramming into my gut. I gasped for breath. Mom cried out.

  The room vanished. An inky blackness engulfed my body. This was all wrong. What was happening?

  Voices came from somewhere, but I couldn’t make out the words. Lights bobbed in and out of view until they coalesced into a whirlpool of swirling colors.

  Something was very wrong. This wasn’t supposed to happen.

  The lights kept swirling, faster and faster, until I thought my body would rip apart. My thoughts became disconnected, and the churning whirlpool squeezed around me, tightening against my lungs. I gasped for air, but none came. Suddenly, a woman’s voice came to me.

  Marked by death from the beginning—she will come in flame and ash, wielding the fire gifted to her of her fathers. She will cross worlds and mend the rift. She will bring death to the unbelievers, life to those marked by the ancient one. Her life will bring death, for she is the Deathbringer.

  Pain exploded in my chest. The lights brightened, searing me with white-hot heat, stealing my vision. I tried to cry out, but the rush of the magic compressed my lungs in a deathly embrace. My head spun. I was suffocating in a sea of blackness.

  A woman’s face formed in my vision. Her eyes were closed, yet I recognized her strange, orange, scale-like skin and the thick hair that fell in waves over her shoulders. Panic made my heart beat with a wild cadence. Theht.

  The one being I feared more than any other.

  The goddess opened her eyes. She had not one pupil, but three. The oblong spheres connected in the middle, then fanned away from each other like an asterisk. She stared straight into my soul, past all my inhibitions, past my fears and weaknesses. She found the secret desires of my heart. A slight smile creased her mouth.

  “Deathbringer,” she whispered, “I see you.”

  I wanted to cry out. I would do anything just to hide from her gaze. The pain in my chest increased until I felt sure I would die.

  Time passed. I didn’t know how long.

  A sound came from somewhere. Ticking. Father’s old clock. I realized that I lay on the office floor. My head pounded, and the bitter taste of bile was in my mouth.

  The smell of something burning caught my attention. I focused and found my elven figurine lying on the rug. Glowing a faint, dull orange, it singed a hole in the carpet fibers surrounding it. I tried to sit up but found my body uncooperative.

  What had happened? Where was Mom?

  I searched the room and found her lying motionless not far from me. Her face was pale white, almost gray, as if all her blood had been drained, and her normally rosy lips matched her skin. I looked for the rise and fall of her chest, or some indication that she was alive, but saw no movements.

  My breathing came out in ragged gasps as I forced my body to crawl toward her. Each movement sent fresh waves of pain through my head, but I pushed past it. Fear clenched my heart as I neared my mom.

  I never should’ve done the spellcasting. It was such a stupid idea to try it on her without Faythander magic. I should’ve known better. I should’ve known better!

  Panic made time slow to a crawl. The pain was almost too much, but I managed to make it to her side. I reached for her with shaking hands, praying I hadn’t killed my own mother.

  Please, God, let her be alive.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Tears burned my eyes as I reached my mother’s side. I knelt over her and listened for breathing. Except for the ticking clock, the room remained silent. I reached for her neck to feel for a pulse. Her cold skin alarmed me. There was no pulse.

  I moved from her neck to her wrists. She had to have a pulse. I squeezed her wrist tighter than I’d intended as I searched for her pulse. More than anything, I wanted to see her eyes open.

  No, no, no. This can’t be happening. I can’t watch my own mother die.

  “Mom,” I pleaded, “please, wake up!”

  All my training from med school vanished as I sat over my mother. What was I supposed to do? My hands shook as I felt for her pulse once again.

  Please, please, please…

  I’d killed her. I’d killed my own mother. I’d told her to trust me, and I’d killed her. My heart turned to a dead weight. What had I done?

  Control your breathing. Inhale. Exhale.

  Compressions. Yes, that came next. Kneeling over her with interlocked fingers, I placed my hands in line with her breastbone, locked my elbows, and started pumping.

  One, two, three…

  I repeated the compressions several times, stopped to listen for breathing, then started again. If this didn’t work, what more could I do?

  Suddenly, Mom inhaled. Her eyes popped open to reveal dilated pupils. Gasping, she grabbed my shirt collar.

  At first, relief washed over me. She’s alive. I didn’t kill her. Then, I took a closer look. My mother didn’t look like herself. Her eyes reminded me of a wolf’s—hungry and wild—and I had to pry her fingers away from my shirt.

  “Mom, it’s me.”

  Her eyes darted past me, as if seeing the room for the first time.

  “You’re at home, remember?”

  She tightened her fists. With her eyes wide and her teeth clenched, she looked ready to rip my throat out.

  “Mom, calm down. It’s okay.”

  She crawled backwards, away from me, until her back hit the wall.

  “I’m here to help you. Just listen to my voice.”

  What had happened to her? I’d never seen a patient react like this. Had she relived her memories? Or had something else happened?

  “Mom, it’s me—Olive, your daughter. You can hear me, right?”

  Finally, she seemed to focus on me. “Olive,” she whispered, and then she collapsed.

  **
*

  I sat in Methodist Hospital’s waiting room. Sterile smells of antiseptic clung to the vinyl chairs. I’d been waiting for almost two hours to hear any word. After Mom had collapsed, I’d had enough sense to call an ambulance. Since then, I’d been playing the waiting game. Mom hadn’t woken up, though she was breathing, which was better than the alternative.

  Trying to keep my mind occupied, I’d pulled out my Faythander texts, but they had done no good. My mind wanted to replay the last couple of hours over and over again. Blaming myself came naturally. What had I been thinking? I’d almost killed her.

  I looked up from my book as my mom’s doctor approached. His coarse, graying hair stuck up in patches, and his thick-rimmed glasses sat atop a large nose that didn’t seem to fit his face. He smiled and extended his hand.

  “Dr. Kennedy?” he asked. He spoke with an accent. Russian, perhaps?

  “Yes, that’s me.”

  “My name is Dr. Markov. Your mother is Kasandra Kennedy, correct?”

  “That’s correct.”

  He took a seat in the chair across from me. “Can you tell me what happened to her?”

  I cleared my throat. I’d already come up with the story in my head, but I wasn’t sure how believable it would be now that I prepared to say it out loud. “We were in the study, when she tripped and hit her head. She blacked out after that. She didn’t have a pulse, so I gave her compressions. As soon as she regained consciousness, I called the ambulance.”

  He adjusted his glasses. “She fell. Is that all?”

  “That’s all.”

  He stared at me a second longer than necessary. “I see. Well, she’s definitely suffered a concussion. However, she also seems to be in a delusional state. I cannot imagine how a concussion could cause this. Disorientation, yes, but delusions of this magnitude? Are you sure nothing else happened?”

  I shifted. I’m sure he noticed how uncomfortable I’d become. “She was considering taking medication for her depression. It’s possible she was suffering other symptoms as well, although she never told me.”

  He narrowed his eyes. “You are a therapist, correct?”

  “That’s right.”