Witch Season: Does she have what it takes to outsmart the craft?

by Larissa May

  “Inside,” my mom said, and tugged me into the building. I felt the apple-scented air rushing around my head. I could still see the clouds whizzing by.

  We burst into the foyer. It smelled of burned meat and mildew, and my stomach flipped, nausea catching in my throat. The air I could get in came out again in a burst of coughing.

  “It hurts,” I rasped.

  “I can help you to control it,” Mom said, taking my arm. “I don’t want you to worry.”

  The three of us sat on the stairs while I recovered my breath. “I had another vision,” I said, once I could manage the pain. “But I didn’t do any magic. Dad did. Why did that happen?”

  My father shared an uncomfortable glance with my mom. “Magic is unpredictable,” he said.

  “Something’s not right,” I said, a leaden feeling settling in the pit of my stomach. “You know what’s wrong, don’t you?”

  “We’ll be fine,” he said, dodging the question. “We really will.”

  “We?”

  My mom’s gaze shifted to the carpeted stairs. “It’s the apartment at the top.” She grasped the banister for support.

  “Can’t we just sit here for another minute?”

  “It’s safer upstairs.”

  “Mom—” My lungs protested and I coughed again, painfully. I had to stop talking.

  She twisted her arm under mine and grasped my hand, binding us together. “Dad will bring our stuff. We’ll make it if we help each other.”

  My mother never needed help with anything, but obviously things had changed. I nodded.

  “Breathe in and out slowly,” she explained. “I know it hurts, but try to use the pain to your advantage. Inhale during the worst of it, and you’ll see the exhale as a relief. Once you’re ready, take a step on an exhale.”

  Inhale—sharp, piercing pain—exhale. I didn’t feel anything even close to relief. I was able to get enough oxygen in, small bits of air going in and out as if through a sieve.

  “Better now?” she asked. Did she expect worse? But I managed a smile. “Better.”

  “My brave, beautiful witch,” she said, and tightened her grip on my arm. With a sigh, we trudged toward our new home.

  CHAPTER 3

  My dad barreled around the living room, testing light switches and running his hand under the radiators. Though the apartment was nearly empty, the effect was very bull-in-a-china-shop. “We’ll need at least one key,” he said. “I don’t want to tire you out with the locks every time.”

  “We’ll come up with something,” Mom said. She leaned against the tall windows and tilted her head toward the sun.

  Dad tugged at his messy ponytail. “We could ask for a spare.”

  “No,” Mom said weakly. “Not yet. I need to rest first, and so do you. Then we’ll ask around and see if—”

  “If what?” I said, my anger finally surfacing as my body calmed down. “If anyone else thought Evie was dead?”

  Mom and Dad looked at the floor and stayed silent.

  I trusted my parents. Witch kids usually did. We learned the language of witchcraft at their feet, after all—the rituals and ceremonies and spells, along with a respect for the natural forces binding us together. Witches believe in harmonious rings of community—nature, coven, family. They often overlapped but never crashed against one another. Choices affecting any of these were made after great consideration.

  That’s why I didn’t ask questions back in Portland when my dad walked into a rental-car office with an expired credit card and came out with the keys to a seafoam-green Ford Fiesta. Or earlier that day, when my mom’s low, soothing voice gently pulled me from a dream and into the gray shadows of my bedroom before dawn. I silently accepted my backpack, already full, and followed her down the dirt road leading away from our house. Excitement quickened my step. Maybe it was my time. My closest friend, Sonya, had left for Seaside, the witches’ training center, months before, and my boyfriend, Brandon, followed shortly afterward. When my sixteenth birthday passed, I had anxiously waited for my parents to tell me it was my turn to pack a bag.

  The others never snuck out in the dead of night, but then, no one had left during a time of mourning, so I didn’t question it. I could still smell traces of funeral incense in my mother’s hair. The girl who died, Greta, was older than me, but not by much. She was new to our coven, and I had just been getting to know her before she left for Seaside. Her sudden illness meant I never would have a chance to deepen our friendship.

  She wore a deep purple dress to her going-away party, the color of blackberries. Her laugh, light and airy as the good-luck balloons filling the room, had me smiling from ear to ear. But now Greta had no future. As excited as I was that it might be my turn to go, the thought of celebrating while her body still warmed the green earth made me slightly nauseous. It was right to leave in the cover of darkness.

  Sensing my mood, my mother wrapped one arm around my shoulder and drew me as close as she could without breaking her stride. We walked for about an hour, the light of the moon providing a clear path to the desolate bus stop where my dad stood guarding two small suitcases. He shifted from foot to foot as we approached, and tugged on his gingery beard.

  “Were you seen?” he asked my mother.

  She shook her head. In the emerging light I could clearly see the anxiety pinching their features.

  I grasped the straps of my backpack, pulling it tight. “We’re going to Seaside, aren’t we?”

  They shared an uneasy glance. “Are you certain no one saw you leave?” my father asked again, ignoring my question.

  “I don’t think so,” my mother said. “Even if someone did, it would take Gavin more than an hour to get here. That gives us a good head start.”

  “But Gavin’s in Seaside,” I said, trying to work out what was going on. “I don’t—”

  Mom grabbed both my shoulders and turned me to face her. She softly brushed her hand against my cheek, though the tears were spilling down her face, not mine. “I’ll explain everything once we’re on our way,” she whispered. “I know it’s a lot to ask, but I need you to be patient.”

  “I’m not going to see Brandon and Sonya?”

  My father shifted his gaze to empty road, stretching indefinitely toward the east. “No, Breeda. I’m sorry.”

  “Then where are we going?”

  Silence. My mother finally placed a hand on my father’s arm, and some unspoken communication passed between them. “Home,” he said. “We need to go home.”

  “But this is our—”

  Mom pulled me into a tight hug. “Patience, Breeda,” she breathed into my ear. “Just give us some time.”

  On the long drive across the country I’d been more than patient, but there was a limit. We’d abandoned our coven, our closest friends. Evie was alive. My mother was not well. And still I wasn’t getting any answers. The anger I felt at being kept in the dark was barely tempered by the faith I had in them. I was ready to burst, caught in the few seconds between tripping the wire and the explosion that follows.

  What else were they hiding?

  “How is Aunt Evie alive, Dad? Aren’t you going to answer me?” I grabbed his hand and pulled him over to where Mom sat on the window ledge, slumped against the glass. “Enough is enough. I’ve been going nuts in the back seat of that car for three days! Don’t you care?”

  “Of course we do.” Dad sighed. “Let’s sit down and have a family talk.”

  “Family talks” usually meant negotiating my curfew or discussing who had laundry duty. I choked on a laugh.

  “Breeda.” My mom’s hand on my back felt so light, too light. I turned to her. Her eyes seemed set back in her head, the deep purple smudges underneath so dark they looked black.

  I bit my lip, ashamed by my tantrum. She folded me into her arms.

  “Did something go wrong?” I dug my head into her shoulder and thought of Greta. “Is that why we had to leave?”

  “My sweet girl,” Mom murmured, patting my
back. “The next few days will be confusing, but we’ll get through it.” She gently pulled away. When I looked up, my mother’s smile had reached her eyes, and I caught a glimpse of the warmth they usually held. “I need to sleep for a while,” she said. “After that, we’ll make a big pot of coffee and have a long talk. Okay?”

  I nodded, and she touched my shoulder before slipping into the dim hallway.

  My dad watched her, staring long after she disappeared into one of the bedrooms. He ran a shaky hand through his hair, knocking the leather cord to the floor. The sound made him jump.

  “Dad? Are you all right?”

  When he turned I saw how far from all right he really was. My dad, always pale, had turned ghostly. Dots of sweat covered his brow and upper lip. He didn’t answer my question, motioning for me to follow him instead. “Want the grand tour? There’s not much to see. You up for it?”

  I was up for getting answers, but it was clear I’d have to wait. I picked up my backpack. “Yeah.”

  As we walked down the narrow hallway my mom had just gone down, he pointed to three doors lining one side of the hall. “Bedroom, bedroom, bedroom,” he whispered. “Bathroom and closet on the other side. Kitchen in the back, leading to a balcony.” He turned into the bathroom and pulled on a string hanging from the ceiling. The light was almost too bright, and bounced off a white, claw-foot tub sitting like a fat Buddha in the middle of the room. The sink and toilet looked ancient but appeared clean. Spotless, even. Someone had recently scrubbed this place down. On the sill of a recessed, oversized window, a tower of white, fluffy towels obscured the view and offered some privacy.

  I thought about easing my tired body into the comfort of warm, scented water. “Is it okay if I take a bath?”

  My dad seemed relieved I’d asked a question he could answer. “Of course. It’ll be good for you,” he said, backing into the hallway. “Do you, uh, have everything you need?”

  I nodded, and closed the door on his worried face.

  For the first time in three days, I was alone. I almost didn’t know what to do with myself—unease made me restless— but then I drew my backpack onto my lap and pulled the things I’d been using to keep myself clean on the road out of the front pocket. A wedge of lavender soap, toothpaste and a toothbrush, lemongrass deodorant, a comb. I lined them up on the rim of the tub, then fished through the bag for a fresh T-shirt, careful to avoid the sentimental objects at the bottom. The pale pink seashell Brandon found on our coven’s trip to Catalina. The friendship bracelet Sonya gave me for my twelfth birthday. It hurt to look at them. I missed my friends so much.

  Water poured from the faucet and I held the lavender soap under the gushing stream, filling the air with the scent of my mom’s garden. Then I held my palms over the tub and said:

  Lavare, lavare

  Wash the sadness from my door,

  Leave it clean forevermore.

  A schoolgirl chant, but it couldn’t hurt. Spells like that were meant for everyone—even witches who hadn’t yet gotten their gifts. They addressed general wants and needs, whereas a grown witch’s gifts were individualized and much more powerful. And hereditary. Soon I’d have my dad’s gift—his talent for numbers allowed him to solve any equation, or change numbers in a sequence at will. Or my mom’s—the ability to open anything from a space, to a door, to something as simple as a jar of mayonnaise. The process was pretty straightforward. Once I began to show signs of coming into my magic, I would leave for Seaside to learn to best use my gift, come back, and live the rest of my happy days in our small community. So, what happened?

  It was unfathomable to think of my parents or anyone in our coven in serious trouble, and it had to be serious if my parents stole away in the middle of the night. Had they fought with Gavin? It didn’t make sense. Our coven leader hadn’t even been around much now that most of the older kids had left for training. He’d been in Seaside for most of the past month, helping out.

  Gavin stood nearly seven feet tall, a mountain of a man with a soft-spoken, thoughtful manner—a gentle giant. Sometimes he could be emotionally distant and moody— my mother called those times his blue periods—but I couldn’t imagine him ever raising his voice. Our coven, sequestered in the rolling hills of Northwest Oregon, was tight knit and insular—if something was going on, wouldn’t I know about it?

  I ached with the need to speak with Brandon. I hadn’t had any contact with him since he left, since we weren’t allowed to contact each other. I didn’t know which gift he’d received. His father’s gift was simple and useful—creating light. Gavin could call forth a glowing virtual candle to light the darkness. Brandon would have been delighted to get it. His mother left the family long ago—so long he’d grown up without even the slightest acknowledgment of her presence. His father never talked about her, so Brandon didn’t even know what her gift was. And in his mind, she wasn’t worthy of any.

  Regardless of the gift, magic changed a person. My parents always said as much, but they were vague when it came to how the change actually worked. Rumors flew among the coven’s witches around my age, but no one had a firm grasp on how magic came to us when we were ready. We weren’t an ancient coven, like so many others, but a makeshift one. None of my friends had returned from Seaside yet, so there was no one to ask. The only thing we knew for sure was that the process took time. And, as I knew now, made a witch feel sick and see strange visions.

  I knew it was unfair, but I mentally cursed Brandon for not finding a way to fill me in from Seaside. Maybe he thought I’d be there soon enough.

  What would he think when he realized I wasn’t coming?

  An ugly part of my mind spat its usual questions at me at me. Did it matter? Was I already a distant memory for him?

  I pulled my phone from the back pocket of my jeans. His Snapchat was disabled--I couldn't find him anywhere. No Insta. Nothing. A simple text didn't seem like enough this time. I hit Brandon’s name and waited until his voice told me he wasn’t available but would call back when he felt like it. “I miss you,” was all I said. I didn’t know if he’d hear it, but just saying the words made me feel better.

  I knew they weren’t allowed to respond, but I’d been trying to get in contact with Brandon and Sonya for weeks. Just the act kept me from growing desperate with loneliness, especially when I was on the road. I’d stared at their Insta posts, checked Snapchat, and texted them from gas-station bathrooms and rest stops, hiding my phone from my mom and dad, who didn’t know I’d brought it with. The deception bothered me, but it was more important my friends understood that I hadn’t deserted them.

  I thought about this as I stripped and lowered myself into the fragrant bathwater. The heat liquefied my bones, the stress of the past few days pouring out of my pores and evaporating into the air. I held my breath and went under, my hair fanning over the surface of the water, my body floating peacefully.

  Until one thought pierced through my mind. I bolted upright, water streaming into my eyes. My hands caught the side of the tub and I stood, dizzily grabbing for a towel. In record speed, I dried myself, dressed, and threaded my hair into a makeshift braid.

  When I walked into the kitchen, my father was pouring some milk into a steaming mug of tea.

  “Feel better?” he asked. “I think there are a few edible things in the fridge.”

  “I’m not hungry,” I said, the words catching in my throat. He turned then and gave me his full attention.

  “What is it, Breeda?”

  “Did you break the oath with Gavin?”

  Dad paused, and I knew he was trying to decide what to tell me. In those few seconds, I knew things would never go back to the way they were before.

  “Life can get kind of complicated sometimes,” he finally mumbled, turning to set the cup back on the counter.

  “I can understand complex things,” I said, trying to keep my voice under control. “And you didn’t answer my question. Did you break the oath?” A witch’s oath to her coven was sacred. If
my parents broke ours, I would never see Brandon again. Or Sonya. Or my home. My life before this apartment would be gone, erased.

  “We lost faith in Gavin. He wasn’t what we thought.”

  My patience, already thin, wore to nothing. “Dad, just tell me. Did you break the oath?”

  His broad shoulders straightened and he waved his large hand through the air, as if to bat away the question. “No,” he said, anger in his voice. “There wasn’t time.”

  “But why—”

  “Ryan . . .” my mom moaned from the far bedroom.

  “What’s wrong with Mom?” I asked, panicked. “Is she going to be okay?”

  Dad’s expression softened. “She’ll be fine, Bree. The trip was just hard on her.”

  Hard on her? My mom routinely outran me in 5Ks. She dug up half our backyard last year and single-handedly built a twenty-foot retaining wall for our garden. Sitting in a car for three days might be boring, but why would it make my mom so ill?

  Before I could ask any more questions, my dad dashed to the bedroom, shutting the door softly behind him. I heard the lock turn and the low, singsongy voice of someone soothing the sick.

  I took the mug of tea from the counter and headed for the bedroom farthest from my parents. It was as spare as the rest of the apartment. A plainly dressed twin bed was flush against one wall. A dresser made of blond wood stood directly opposite. A great deal of space lay in between.

  I sat on the bed and sipped my tea.

  Alone.

  CHAPTER 4

  I woke up with a crick in my neck. Security lights from the apartment building next door kept the room from fully darkening, and everything seemed covered in a cool gray film, including me. I tossed around in the bed for a few minutes, trying to get back to sleep, but only managed to tangle the sheets.