by Dani Harper
Everything was normal, as if nothing had ever happened. Maybe nothing had happened, Brooke reasoned. The fire pit got used a lot. Hell, Tina’s dad burned trash in it regularly, and last year, Lissy had burned her diary in it (along with photos of her cheating ex-boyfriend and six stuffed animals he had given her over the course of their rocky relationship). Maybe something had been buried, some leftover piece of garbage that had flared into life just as Brooke reached towards the ashes. Maybe it was all just coincidence…
She tried to shake it off, joining in the conversation and helping herself to a bowl of Fruity-O’s. But it was hard to ignore the cold spot in the pit of her stomach that said there were no coincidences.
When the tents were struck and everyone had packed up and was heading for the house to coordinate who was riding with whom, Brooke was left alone to stare at the fire. Having volunteered to put it out, she stood ready to “pour and stir” with a five-gallon bucket of water and a stick. She had no idea what instinct prompted her next move. Brooke stretched her hand in the direction of the campfire and clenched her fingers into a fist. At once, the flames died down and vanished as if they had never been. Shocked, she poked at the pit with the stick, and then finally with her fingers.
The ashes were stone cold.
“Pretty good trick.” The voice that had her jumping belonged to her very best friend, George Santiago-Callahan. His hair was platinum blond and flat-topped that day, his fingernails painted black.
“What the hell are you doing here?”
George rolled his eyes. “Duh, I’m here to pick up my sister. Good morning to you too, sunshine. Say, any good ghost stories keep you awake? I could use some ideas for a new comic.”
She’d stared at him. “Didn’t you just see what happened?”
“Sure I did. It was really cool. So?”
“Did that look normal to you?”
“My grandmamma used to do it all the time. She tried to teach my mom when I was little, but it never worked for her.”
“Yeah, but G, I didn’t mean to do it. It just happened.”
Her voice was strained and pitched a little too high, with a fine thread of hysteria bordering it. Later she thought she must have been in some sort of shock. All she remembered was that a few minutes later, George was escorting her up the front steps and into the vibrantly colored kitchen of the Santiago-Callahan home. “Mamá!” he shouted. “Mamá, come quick!” An older woman barely half his height hurried in. She compensated for her stature by piling her naturally curly brunette hair high on top of her head, in the only style Brooke had ever seen her wear. Tendrils were forever escaping, however, and they cascaded wildly down the sides of her face and her neck like springs, giving a tantalizing hint of just how long Olivia Santiago-Callahan’s hair really was. Brooke often thought Olivia must have been breathtaking in her youth. Her oval face had few lines even now, and her dark brown eyes—so much like George’s—were exotic. Fortunately, her gaze was also ever-friendly, and she loved Brooke just as fiercely as she loved her own children. She beamed at Brooke and swatted George with a dish towel.
“Why do you yell in our house like a street vendor?” she demanded. “And where is your sister?”
“Lissy’s coming home with Sharon. This is important, Mamá. Brooke called fire today, just like Grandmamma.”
Almost before she had time to blink, Brooke found herself in an overstuffed armchair with a cup of tea and her feet up, while Olivia Santiago-Callahan was telling her how wonderful it was that she’d been blessed with magic. “Although mi madre was a very, very powerful bruja, and she taught me all that she could, I only inherited a handful of the skills. The full power of the Gift passed me by, and also passed by my children.”
“What’s a bruja?”
“A witch, honey. And it is a good thing, not an evil thing, and not like these silly Halloween witches they tell stories about here. The bruja is to be respected. She is the wise woman, the shaman, the healer of the village.”
“I’m not wise. I haven’t even gone to college yet.”
Olivia patted her hand reassuringly. “You are nervous, but you do not need to fear this, m’ija. The Gift itself will teach you much, especially since you have received its full expression.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means you got the whole enchilada,” answered George. “The complete package with all the bells and whistles included.”
She looked at them blankly.
“M’ija, I cannot call fire. My children cannot call fire. Only those with the fullest manifestation of the Gift, like mi madre, can do such a thing,” explained Olivia. “That is how I know what you can do. What you will be able to do.”
“Why didn’t you get the whole package if your mom was a witch—I mean, a bruja? It doesn’t seem fair. She must have been disappointed, and you must have been as well. Can’t I just give it to you? What about George?”
“That’s very sweet, m’ija, and rare. Most people would never be willing to let go of the power once they have it. As for George, the Gift rarely goes to men.”
“Thanking my lucky stars on that one,” he said. “I got other things I want to do with my life.”
His mother made a face at him. “The Gift can and does go to sons, occasionally, but usually it rests upon the daughters. But although my mother would have liked for me or any of my children to inherit the complete Gift, she knew all too well that it goes to whomever it will, wherever it will. She was the only one in her family to hold it. Many times, it appears in a family with no history of such things.”
Boy, is that an understatement…Holy crap, her parents gave her a hard enough time over her complete disinterest in the family’s church activities. Her younger brothers, Sterling and Lucas, already teased her about being a heathen. Imagine if she tried to explain what just happened to her. Hey! Mom, Dad, guess what I learned to do today…
“Like mine,” she said aloud and took a long drink from her cup, suddenly wishing for something a lot stronger.
“Like yours,” nodded Olivia, understanding exactly what she meant. “So it is a good thing that George brought you here, is it not? It is such a shame my mother is no longer alive to help us. But even though I did not inherit very much of the Gift, she fully prepared me to teach it in case one of my grandchildren was born with the power. I can answer your questions about magic.”
“That’s typical of the superhero’s mentor—you see it all the time in the comics. Those who can’t do, teach,” added George. “It’s like Giles coaching Buffy—he couldn’t go out and kill vampires, but he could coach her on how to do it.”
“You are not helping,” said George’s mother.
“What? I’m translating all this into the highly accessible language of pop culture.”
She sighed and turned her attention back to Brooke: “One thing you must know, first and always, is that you do not own the Gift. The Gift belongs to the earth, and it is the earth who permits you to hold this power. It is to be used to help people, to serve others, to do good in the world. That is your calling now, your responsibility, just as it was my mother’s.”
“Um—I’m not sure this is going to work out. I’m not really the Mother Teresa type.”
Olivia only laughed. “Neither was Mother Teresa at first! Besides, you’re not going to be a nun, m’ija, just a witch. You will still go to college in September, get a job, travel, get married, do whatever it is you want to do with your life.”
“She means no vows of poverty or chastity required. Even Spiderman can still have sex,” added George, who ducked too late as his mother smacked the back of his head. “Hey, I’m just saying that all superheroes are allowed to have ordinary lives on the side. It’s like a rule.”
Rules aside, Brooke didn’t feel like a superhero in the least. Her parents would be far from reassured in any way by George’s argument or his mother’s. Even knowing that witches must follow a strict code of ethics (which Olivia insisted was the case) woul
d not soothe her mom’s and dad’s feelings on the subject. They’d be certain she was going to hell on a greased skateboard, and they would pressure her brothers into starting up an online prayer circle for their wayward sister. Crap, they might even shop around for an exorcist.
Fortunately, there was no glaring neon sign on her forehead announcing her strange new state of being. She felt different, but the only physical evidence of the campfire experience was that her left eyebrow grew back white and so did a little lock of hair above it, about the width of a finger. The doctor had reassured her mother that the lack of coloration “sometimes happens with burns” and that Brooke was completely healthy otherwise. To keep her mom from fussing about it, Brooke dyed the hair and penciled over the brow for her remaining months at home. Out of sight, out of mind.
As for her magic, she didn’t have to make any effort at all to hide it from her folks. Not then. Most people saw what they wanted and expected to see, and what they saw was a daughter aiming for a respectable degree in business administration (not at the university of their choice, mind you, but that was kids for you) who currently had a responsible summer job managing the local garden center. And while they also saw a daughter with a decade-old lack of interest in church activity, her parents still viewed that as just a phase.
Thankfully, Brooke’s brothers had gone off to football camp for the summer, so they weren’t there to notice anything at all. It didn’t hurt that she was an older sister and affectionately considered “weird.” If Lucas and Sterling had spotted anything odd about her, chances were good they wouldn’t take it seriously. Chances were even better they’d make a joke about it, or several jokes.
There was no hiding her newly awakened magic from herself, however. Like a hatchling that instinctively seeks to try its wings, Brooke was constantly beset with urges to test the strange new power. She firmly squashed all of them—then learned that she also had to be careful with her words and wishes. The garden center had a bargain corner where wilted plants went to die, and she’d always felt sorry for the hopeless things. There were three leafless apple trees, a spruce that was almost completely brown, and a tabletop of various bedding plants that looked like a Saint Bernard had rolled over them. As she watered them just before closing, R.E.M. was playing over the sound system and she found herself singing along to the classic “Shiny Happy People”—only she sang “shiny happy flowers” and “shiny happy trees,” making up lyrics with a botanical theme. She was just having fun, glad it was closing time, and looking forward to going out with her friends.
In the morning, Brooke was grateful she was the manager, because it meant she got to the garden center a half hour before anyone else. And she was the first one to see that the bargain corner was crammed with tall healthy plants! The spruce was as green and lush as if it had come out of a Pacific rain forest—and it was a foot taller. The apple trees had grown as well, and not only did they have abundant healthy leaves; there were even blossoms and tiny developing fruits on the branches. The tabletop was completely hidden, the mostly dead bedding plants having erupted into a riot of greenery and color. Brooke stood and stared for a long, long minute—then two. Then she sprang into action.
When the staff arrived, she’d already moved all of the magically enhanced plants, incorporating them amongst the regular stock as best as she could, considering the bargain corner residents now looked better than the very best she had on hand. Delivery this morning. That was all she would dare to say to any staff or customers who noticed them.
By closing time, all of the “new” stock had been sold, and Brooke had reached a decision: it was past time to take Mrs. Santiago-Callahan up on her offer of instruction. It was either live in fear that the magic would leak out and cause something to happen in front of witnesses or learn to control the Gift that had inexplicably chosen her.
The first lesson had been memorizing El Código—the Code. She might not be a card-carrying witch herself, but George’s mom certainly knew the lengthy creed by heart, having heard it firsthand from her own mother for many, many years. Olivia shared it patiently, over and over, as her son translated it from the original Spanish and smoothed the words into the nine lines that Brooke committed to memory.
The Code looked simple at first glance, but the more she studied it, the more profound it appeared. Olivia reassured her that it took a lifetime to comprehend El Código. But even if she didn’t fully understand all the nuances, Brooke could feel the positive energy each line held, and she recited them before each and every formal spellcasting:
To hold the Gift is to be both a student and a teacher, ever learning and yet wise.
To hold the Gift is to be a seeker of truth and a revealer of that which is hidden.
To hold the Gift is to give without condition and to receive with gratitude.
To hold the Gift is to give hope to the innocent and to uphold the cause of the wronged.
To hold the Gift is to guard the helpless and to remove power from the cruel.
To hold the Gift is to strengthen the just and to turn greed upon itself.
To hold the Gift is to protect the balance in all things and to restore harmony.
To hold the Gift is to comfort the mind and spirit, and to heal both heart and body.
To hold the Gift is to be a bridge between worlds and to be a bearer of light.
Twelve years had passed since she’d first memorized the Code, and tonight, as always, Brooke tried to be one with the words. In the vast second story above Handcastings, she sat on the old hardwood floor with her hands open and resting on her knees as if she were meditating. Her stillness, however, was forced. Restlessness vibrated through her, and she was sorely tempted to jump up and start pacing. She’d already cleaned the entire place within an inch of its life—and then some.
Sighing, she tried to distract herself by studying the immense space around her and allowing herself to feel the satisfaction of what she had created here. Except for the paint and new upholstery, she’d left the downstairs pretty much as it was: a retro fifties diner that turned out to be both charming and practical for her unique business.
Upstairs was a different story—literally. Talk about a total do-over. Sure, the space was immense now, made more so by the eighteen-foot ceiling and the large skylight overhead which was situated towards the front of the building. But even the real estate agent hadn’t held out much hope for its potential at first. Several walls and half walls had been added over the decades (each one uglier than the last) to divide up the long and narrow space into a warren of rooms without regard to the original design. Fortunately, Brooke hadn’t needed magic in order to have vision. She could see not only how the floor had once looked but also what it could be. A lot of weekends had been devoted to demolition, until only the original layout was left.
The north half of the floor had been intended for open storage, spanned and supported by enormous beams in the ceiling and between the floors. The south half had been walled off as office space, but only eight feet up. Above the beautiful oak crown molding, the spacious rooms were wide open to the high ceiling above, where a pair of vintage fans turned lazily under ornate tin tiles. Brooke loved this glorious openness and happily converted the area to living quarters. Her feline roommates, Bouncer, Rory, and Jade, appeared to like the new digs too, but she wasn’t fooled. Their favorite part was being able to walk around the tops of the walls like the superior beings they believed themselves to be. Rory (of course it was Rory) even attempted to use Brooke as a trampoline while she was still sound asleep in her bed one morning, leaping from the top of the wall to land squarely on her middle. Her resulting yell had echoed through the second-floor space, and the small black cat had run for his life. Brooke didn’t know where he had hidden, but it was hours before he finally reappeared. Thankfully for both of them, he hadn’t tried that particular method of ambush again.
If her living quarters were ideal, then the area outside them was absolutely inspired for magical purposes. Th
e element of air was present by virtue of the wide-open space alone. The east and west walls were rustic exposed brick, framing all with the element of earth. Two of the tall narrow windows still possessed their original stained-glass borders, as did the enormous skylight overhead. It was not in the exact center of the roof, but rather centered over the open area where she drew her circles. Abundant light flooded the area in the daytime, interspersed with a dappling of colors that radiated both whimsy and pure pleasure. At night, the moon and stars often gleamed through the glass. By drawing the front blinds, Brooke even had complete privacy to work sky clad—it was traditional to work naked whenever possible—while still able to actually see the sky high above. A witch could not have asked for a more ideal setting in which to practice her craft.
Today, however, none of it seemed to be helping Brooke one bit.
Earlier she’d drawn a circle with pure sea salt and dried lavender blossoms on the aged hardwood floor. Beyond it, east of the sacred circle, her round altar table held flickering amethyst-colored candles with runes inscribed upon them. She’d set the stage, prepared herself spiritually, and finally removed her clothing in order not to impede the energy in any way. But the magic simply refused to come at her call no matter how much she entreated it. How on earth was she going to help Rina Carter relax and enjoy her pregnancy, if she couldn’t even conjure a simple spell of peace and well-being? By now, she should be able to do it standing on her head. What was she doing wrong? Obviously, she wasn’t focusing hard enough, or maybe…
