by Cate Tiernan
she was hiding being a witch herself, right?”
"Yes. Not just her but my father and my sister.”I said "But
my parents went crazy when I said that. I've never seen them
so upset. And I said, so, what? I'm adopted? And they just
these horrible expressions on their faces. They wouldn't
answer me. And suddenly I had to know. So I ran downstairs
and looked at my birth certificate"
"And there was a different name."
"Yeah, Maeve Riordan."
Cal sat up straighten alert "Really?"
I stared at him. "What? Do you recognize that name?*
"It sounds familiar." He looked out the window, thinking
frowning, then shook his head. "No, maybe not I can't place It”
"Oh." I swallowed my disappointment.
"What are you going to do now? Do you want to come to
my house?” He smiled. "We could go swimming.”
"No, thank you," I said, remembering when the circle had
all gone skinny dipping in his pool. I was the only one who had
kept her clothes on.
Cal laughed. "I was disappointed that night, you know,”he
said, looking at me.
"No, you weren't," I replied, crossing my arms over my
chest. He chuckled softly.
"Seriously, do you want to come over? Or do you want me
to come to your house, help you talk to your parents?"
"Thanks," I said, touched by his offer. "But I think I
should just go home by myself. With any luck, they all went to
church, anyway. It's All Saints' Day." "What's that?" Cal asked.
I remembered he wasn't Catholic—wasn't even Christian.
"All Saints* Day," I said "It's the day after Halloween. It's a
special day of observance tor Catholics. That's when we go
tend our family graves in cemeteries. Trim the grass, put out
fresh flowers."
"Cool," said Cal. "That's a nice tradition. It's funny that
it's the day after Samhain. But then, it seems like a lot of
Christian holidays came out of Wiccan ones, way back when."
I nodded. "I know. But do me a favor and don't mention
that to my parents," I said. "Anyway, I'd better get home."
"Okay. Can I call you later?"
"Yes," I said. I couldn't stop myself from smiling.
"I think I'll use the telephone," he said, grinning.
I thought of how he had come when I had said my rhyme.
I was still amazed that it had worked.
He let himself out of Das Boot into the chilly, crisp
November air. He walked to his car and took off as I waved.
My world was flooded with sunlight Cal loved me.
4. Maeve
February 7, 1978
Two nights ago someone sprayed “Bloody Witch” on the
side of Morag Sheehan's shop. We've moved our circle to
meeting out by the cliffs, down the coast a ways.
Last night, late, Mathair and I went out to Morag's. Lucky
it was a new moon—no light and a good time for spells.
Rite of Healing, Protection from Evil, Cleansing
1.Cast a circle completely around what you want to protect. (I
had to include old Burdock's sweetshop since the two buildings
are joined.”
2.Purify the circle with salt. We used no lights or incense but
salt, water, and earth.
3.Call on the Goddess. I wore my copper bracelets and held a
chunk of sulfur, a chunk of marble from the garden, a chunk of
petrified wood, and a bit of shell.
Then Ma and I said (quietly): “Goddess, hear us where we
stand, with your protection bless this land, Morag is a servant
true, protect her from those who mischief do.” Then we
invoked the Goddess and the God and walked around the shop
three times.
No one saw us, that I could tell. Ma and I went home,
felling strong. That should help protect Morag. --Bradhadair
I drove slowly up my street, looking ahead anxiously as if
my parents might still be standing on the front lawn of our
house. When I was close enough, I saw that Dad's car was
gone. I figured that they must have gone to church.
Inside, the house was quiet and still, though I felt the
shocked vibrations of this morning's events lingering In the air
like a scent.
"Mom? Dad? Mary K.?”I called. No answer. I wandered
slowly through the house, seeing breakfast untouched on the
kitchen table. I turned off the coffeemaker. The newspaper was
folded neatly, obviously unread. Not at all a normal Sunday
morning.
Realizing this was my chance, I hurried to the office. But
the torn birth certificate was gone, and my dad's files were
locked for the first time that I could remember.
Moving quickly, listening for sounds of their return, I
searched the rest of the office. I found nothing and sat beck on
my heels for a moment, thinking.
My parents' room. I ran upstairs to their cluttered room.
Feeling like a thief, I opened the top drawer of their dresser.
Jewelry, cuff links, pens, bookmarks, old birthday cards—
nothing incriminating, nothing that told me anything I needed
to know.
Tapping my lip with my finger, I looked around, framed
baby pictures of me and Mary K. stood on top of their dresser,
and I examined them. In one, my parents held me proudly, fat,
nine-month-old Morgan, while I smiled and clapped. In
another, Mom, in a hospital bed, held newborn Mary K., who
looked like a hairless monkey. It occurred to me that I had
never seen a newborn picture of me. Not a single one in the
hospital, or looking tiny, or learning to sit up. My pictures
started when I was about, what, eight months old? Nine
months? Was that how old I was when I had been adopted?
Adopted. It was still such a bizarre thought, yet I was
already eerily used to it. It explained everything, in a way. But
in another way, it didn't It only raised more questions.
I looked through my baby book, compared it to Mary K.'s.
Mine listed my birth weight correctly and my birth date. Under
First Impressions, Mom had written: "She's so incredibly
beautiful. Everything I ever hoped for and dreamed about for
so long."
I closed the book. How could they have lied to me all this
time? How could they have let me believe I was really their
daughter? I felt unstable now, without a base. Everything I had
believed now seemed like a lie. How could I ever forgive them?
They had to give me some answers. I had the right to
know. I dropped my head into my hands, feeling tired, old, and
emotionally empty.
It was noon. Would they all have lunch at the Widow's
Diner after church? Would they go on to the cemetery
afterward to put flowers around the Rowlandses' graves end
the Donovans', my mom's family?
Maybe they would. They probably would. I heeded beck
into the kitchen, thinking that I should have some lunch
myself. I hadn't eaten anything. But I was too upset to face
food yet Instead I took a Diet Coke out of the fridge. Then I
found myself wandering into the study, where the computer
was.
I decided to run a search. I frowned at the
screen. How
had her name been spelled, exactly? Maive? Mave? Maeve? The
last name was Riordan, I remembered that.
I typed in Maeve Riordan. Twenty-seven listings popped
up. Sighing, I started to scroll through them. A horse farm in
western Massachusetts. A doctor in Dublin, specializing in ear
problems. One by one I flipped through them, reading a few
lines and closing their windows. I didn't know when my family
would be home or what I would face when they arrived. My
emotions felt flayed and yet distant, as (f this were ail
happening to someone else.
Click. Maeve Riordan. Best-selling romance author present
My Highland Love.
Click "Maeve Riordan" as part of an html. Frowning, I
clicked on the link This was a genealogy site, with Inks to other
genealogy sites. Cool. It looked like the name Maeve Riordan
appeared on three sites. I clicked on the first one. A scanty
family tree popped up, and after a few minutes I found the
name Maeve Riordan. Unfortunately, this Maeve Riordan had
died in 1874.
I backtracked, and the next Maeve link took me to a site
where there were no dates anywhere, as if they were still
filling it in. I gritted my teeth in frustration.
Third time lucky. I thought, and clicked on the last site.
The words Belwicket and Ballynigel appeared at the top of the
screen in fancy Irish-style lettering. This was another family
tree but with many separate branches, as if it was more of a
family forest or the people hadn't found the common link
between these families.
Quickly I scanned for Maeve Riordan. There were lots of
Riordans. Then I saw It. Maeve Riordan. Born Imbolc, 1962,
Ballynigel, Ireland. Died Litha, 1986, Meshomah Falls, New
York, United States.
My jaw dropped open as I stared at the screen, Imbolc.
Lithe. Those were Wiccan sabbats. This Maeve Riordan had
been a witch.
A sudden wave of heat pulsed through my head, making
my cheeks prickle. I shook my head and tried to think. 1986.
She died the year after I was born. And she was born in 1962,
Which would have made her the same age as the woman listed
on my birth certificate.
It's her, I thought It has to be.
I clicked all over the screen, trying to find links. I felt
almost frantic. I needed more information. More. But instead a
message popped up: Connection timed out URL not responding.
Frustrated, I shut down the computer. Then I sat tapping
my lower lip with a pen. Thoughts raced through my head
Meshomah Falls, New York. I knew that name. It was a little
town not too far away from here, maybe two hours. I needed to
see their town records. I needed to see their... newspapers. "
Two minutes later I had grabbed my jacket and was in
Das Boot heading for the library. Of Widow's Vale's three
library branches, only the biggest one, downtown, was open on
Sundays. I pushed through the glass door and immediately
headed downstairs to the basement.
No one else was down there. The basement was empty
except for rows and rows of books, out-of-date periodicals,
stacks of books to be mended, and four ugly black-and-wood-
grain microfiche machines.
Come on, come on, I thought, pawing through the
microfiche files. It took twenty minutes to find the drawer
containing past issues of the Meshomah Folk Herald. Another
tedious fifteen minutes trying to figure dates, counting forward
from my birthday to about eight months after it. Finally I pulled
out an envelope, turned on a microfiche machine, and sat
down.I slid the tiny film card under the light and began to turn
the knob.
Forty-five minutes later I rubbed the back of my neck. I
now knew more about Meshomah Fails, New York, than anyone
could possibly want to know. It was a farming community,
smaller and even more boring than Widow's Vale.
I hadn't found anything about Maeve Riordan. No
obituary, nothing. Well, that wasn't really surprising. I should
probably get used to the idea that I would never know about
my past
There were two more film cards to look at. With a sigh I
sat down again, hating the machine.
This time I found the article almost immediately. The little
hairs on the back of my neck prickled, and there it was: Maeve
Riordan. Stiffening In my chair, I scrolled back to center the
page and peered into the viewer. A body burned almost beyond
recognition has been identified as that of Maeve Riordan,
formerly of Ballynigel, Ireland....
My breath caught in my throat, and I stared at the screen.
Was this her? I wondered again. My birth mother? I'd never
been to Meshomah Falls. I'd never heard my parents talk about
it But Maeve Riordan had lived there. And somehow, in
Meshomah Falls, Maeve Riordan had died in a fire.
I surprised myself by shaking uncontrollably as I gazed
blankly at the screen. Quickly I scanned the short news
dipping.
On June 21, 1986, the body of an unidentified young
woman had been found in the ruins of a charred and
smoldering barn on an abandoned farm in Meshomah Falls.
After an examination of dental x rays, the body had been
identified as belonging to one Maeve Riordan, who had been
renting a small house in Meshomah Falls and working at the
local cafe downtown. Mave Riordan, twenty-three years old,
formerly of Ballynigel, Ireland, was not well known in the town.
Another body found in the fire had been identified as Angus
Bramson, twenty-fire years old, also of Ballynigel. It was
unknown why they were in the barn. The cause of the fire
seemed unclear.
June 21 might have been Litha in that year—it varied
according to exactly when the equinox was. But what about a
baby? It didn't say anything about a baby.
My heart was thudding painfully inside my chest Images
of a recent dream I'd had, of being in a rough sort of room
while a woman held me and called me her baby, flashed
through my head. What did this all mean?
Abruptly I shut off the machine. I stood up so fast I felt
dizzy and had to clutch the back of my chair.
I was almost certain that this Maeve Riordan had given
birth to me. Why had she given me up for adoption? Or was I
only adopted after she died? Was Angus Bramson my father?
How had that barn caught on fire?
Moving slowly, I put all the microfiche files where I had
found them. Then, my hands to my temples, I went upstairs
and walked out of the library. Outside it was gray and overcast,
and the library's lawn was covered with bright yellow maple
leaves. It was autumn, and winter was on the way.
The seasons changed with such a gradual grace, easing
you gently from one to the next But my life, my whole life, had
changed in a bare moment.
5. Reasons
Samhain, October 31, 1978
Ma and Da just went over this Book of Shadows and said
it was poor indeed. I need to write more often; I need to
explain spells more; I need to explain the workings of the
moon, the sun, the tides, the stars. I said, Why? Everybody
knows that stuff. Ma said it's for my children, the witches who
come after me. Like how she and Da show me their books—
they're got five of them now, those big think black books by the
fireplace. When I was little, I thought they were photo albums.
It makes me laugh now—photos of witches.
But you know, my spells and stuff are in my head. There's
time to put them down later. Plenty of time. Mostly I want to
write about my feelings and thoughts. But then, I don't want
my folks to read that—when they got to the parts when I was
kissing Angus, they blew up! But they know Angus, and they
like him. They see him often enough, know that I've settled on
him. Angus is good, and who else is there for me here? It's not
like I can be with just anyone, not if I want to live my life and
have kids and all. Lucky for me Angus is as sweet as he is.
Here's a good spell for making love fade: During a waning
moon, gather four hairs from a black cat, a cat that has no
white anywhere on her. Take a white candle, the dried petals of
three red roses, and a piece of string. Write your name and the
name of the person you want to push away on two pieces of
paper, and tie one to each end of the string.
Go outside. (This works best under a new moon or a moon
the day before the new moon.) Set up your alter; purify your
circle; invoke the Goddess. Set up your white candle. Sprinkle
the rose petals around the candle. Take each of the cat's hairs
and set them at four points of the compass: N,S,E and W. (Hold
them down with rocks if the night's windy.” Light the candle
and hold the middle of the string taut over the candle, about
five inches up. Then say:
As the moon wanes, so wanes your love;
I an an eagle, no more your dove.
Another face, more fair than mine,
Will surly win your love in time.
Say that over and over until the string burns through and
the two names are separated forever. Don't do this in anger
because your love will no more be yours. You have to want to
truly get rid of someone forever.
P.S. The cat hairs don't do anything. I just put them in to
sound mysterious.
--Bradhadair
I was in the kitchen, eating some warmed-up lasagna,
when my parents and Mary K. came home late that afternoon.
