The Nature of Witches

by Rachel Griffin

  “I know her reasons a hell of a lot better than you do.” Paige’s tone is so biting that Josh closes his mouth and swallows the words he was about to say. Paige looks at me. “The game has changed, and if a few people have to die in order for you to help, it’s worth it.” She says it like a true winter, but the smallest hint of sadness softens her words.

  “I’m not sure Nikki would agree with you.” My voice is so quiet only Paige can hear, and I watch as the words slap her in the face. She recoils slightly and swallows hard.

  I want to take it back as soon as I say it. Nikki’s death hit Paige as hard as it hit me. The three of us had been inseparable, Nikki’s passion and spontaneity a perfect contrast to Paige’s candor and precision, both of their steadiness a perfect balance for me.

  When Paige and I started dating, Nikki was never weird about it. Paige and I spent hours planning how we’d tell her, agonizing over every word. When we finally told her, she burst out laughing and shrieked, “You both look terrified!”

  She was laughing so hard she started choking, tears streaming down her face, and soon I was laughing with her. It was the kind of laughter that was so unbridled, so utterly ridiculous, that even Paige couldn’t keep a straight face. And that was that. We never brought it up again, and Nikki never let herself feel like the third wheel because she never was.

  I blink the memory away and look at Paige. “I will not let you or anyone else tell me what I should be doing with my life.”

  Paige’s eyes turn from angry to sad. She shakes her head. “What a waste,” she says.

  Solar wind strikes the nitrogen atoms sixty miles up, bathing Paige’s back in a vibrant blue glow as she walks away.

  What a waste.

  I try to shake it off, but her words echo in my mind the way dripping water echoes in a cave.

  “Are you okay?” Josh asks me.

  “I’m fine,” I say, even though I’m not.

  “Okay, everyone, back to your rooms.” Mr. Donovan’s voice carries across the garden, and I’m able to pick out his tall frame in the crowd.

  Students walk back to their houses, but I feel stuck, the colors in the sky illuminating my guilt and fear, judging my choices the way Paige does.

  “Get some sleep, Clara,” Mr. Donovan says. He runs a hand through his thick brown hair and winces as another flash of light steals the darkness. He’s young, probably in his midthirties, but worry creases the skin around his eyes.

  “Is there anything we can do to help?” I ask.

  Mr. Donovan shakes his head. “We’re too far south; it’s up to the witches stationed at the pole. There’s nothing we can do from here.”

  I try to ignore the apprehension in his voice, but it stays with me as Josh and I walk back to my cabin. Josh packs his things and leaves his phone number and mailing address so I can contact him if I want to.

  “Just in case,” he says, even though we both know I won’t reach out.

  After he leaves, I stand at my window and stare outside. I pick up Nox and scratch his head, pull him close to my chest.

  If I devote my life to this the way Paige and Mr. Hart and the administration want, I’ll be giving in. I’ll be saying it’s okay that people have died and will die for my magic.

  But I’m not okay with any of it.

  Which is why in eleven months, as the rest of the witches flee from the total solar eclipse that’s coming, I will stay outside and stand in the shadow of the moon. I will lose my connection to the sun and be stripped of my magic. And no one will die because of my power ever again.

  I’ve been planning this as long as I’ve known it was coming. Total solar eclipses are rare, and to have one occur where I live during my lifetime is an opportunity I refuse to waste.

  There are only two ways for a witch to lose their magic: to be in the path of totality during a solar eclipse, or to be depleted. Most witches die from depletion, though, and other witches usually step in if they see it happening, which makes it a suboptimal plan.

  I’ve heard that being stripped is absolute agony, pain unlike any other. But it won’t be as painful as burying my parents was. Or burying my best friend.

  I’ll survive it, and then I’ll start over.

  Maybe I’ll go to a shader school and make real friends. Learn about things I’m interested in, no longer forced to practice a magic that takes and takes and takes.

  I don’t know what I’ll choose to do, but that’s the point: I’ll have a choice.

  Chapter Four

  “The calm before the storm is a myth. It’s simply the moment in time when you’re most certain nothing will happen.”

  —A Season for Everything

  I still see the colors of the aurora even though it happened weeks ago. Greens and blues and violets flash across the lids of my eyes the way lightning flashes through clouds.

  It was all over social media, the shaders posting picture after picture. They thought it was beautiful, a wonder of nature, instead of an indication that the atmosphere is becoming erratic. The shaders trust us, but a consequence of that trust is their complacency. It hasn’t occurred to them that something might be wrong.

  And as hard as it is to admit, we need their trust.

  We’ve told them things are getting harder for us, but they reply the same way every time: “We know you’ll figure it out. You always do.” And we have always figured it out. When they wanted to expand, to industrialize the most unforgiving places on Earth, we warned them against it, said there was only so much magic to go around. But they didn’t listen, certain we were being overly cautious, and when the terrain we told them was inhospitable turned out to be just that, we stepped in so no one would die. We figured it out.

  But these events, the wildfires and the aurora, they’re like drops in a bucket. We see the bucket filling, we watch it closely, and we try to control the rising water as best we can. But at some point, it’s going to spill over, and we won’t be able to stop it.

  We’ve lived peacefully with the shaders for so long, protected them for so long, that they thought we were giving them a brilliant show with the aurora. But we can’t keep protecting them at the cost of our home. We won’t. And if they want to survive, they’ll have to make the same choice.

  Assembly let out ten minutes ago, a tense, strained hour of announcements that was hard to get through. The aurora has covered our campus in a fog of anxiety that’s difficult to see past. Everyone, even the faculty, is stressed.

  I’m sweating beneath my assembly robe, the satin resting heavily on my shoulders. The dark navy makes my red hair stand out more than normal, and I pull several strays from the material. Orange, crimson, emerald, and sky-blue silk line the shawl around my neck and weigh me down with crushing expectation.

  Mine is the only striped shawl the Eastern School of Solar Magic has ever issued.

  I take my time walking to the farm. Rays of sunlight reach through the trees and reflect off the old brick buildings and pathways, drenching the stone in bright-yellow light the color of daffodils.

  A group of autumns is in the orchard harvesting apples. They talk among themselves, dropping their apples into burlap sacks that hang from their shoulders. Part of me wants to join them, to give in to the pull and harvest alongside them. But it’s too risky.

  Magic is deeply personal, intertwining itself with all the emotions of its wielder. And because mine is so fierce, so powerful, my training isn’t enough of an outlet for it. It builds and builds and builds, and when the pressure is too great, it searches for another means of escape, gravitating toward the people I’m closest to because it recognizes the emotional connection I have with them. It’s the same connection it has to me.

  But none of those people can handle the force of it. Either they don’t have magic at all, like my parents, or their magic isn’t nearly strong enough to contend with it, like Nikki.

>   Either way, it kills them.

  That’s why I can never get too close to anyone, can never develop emotions strong enough for my magic to sense.

  Realizing you love someone is like noticing you have a sunburn—you don’t know exactly when it happened, just that you were too exposed for too long.

  So I minimize my exposure.

  To everyone.

  When the farm comes into view, I slow my steps. Ms. Suntile is waiting next to Mr. Hart, along with a man I’ve never seen before. It takes all my energy not to turn around and go back the way I came. Ms. Suntile has been the head of school since I enrolled here twelve years ago, when I was five. The last thing I want is her watching over my training as if she can scare me into doing better.

  Rows of green stalks stretch out before me, all the way to the woods that border the farm. The soil is soft and loose, and the sun drenches the wheat field to my right, making it look golden. Mountains rise in the distance, and for a moment I let the peacefulness wash over me.

  I walk onto the field and drop my bag to the ground in between rows of celery. I take off my striped shawl and robe and place them on top of my bag. My pale skin is flushed, pink splotches running up my arms. My T-shirt is damp with sweat.

  “Ms. Suntile wants to watch our lesson today,” Mr. Hart says. I can tell by his tone that he isn’t thrilled about it either. “Mr. Burrows is from the Western School of Solar Magic, and he’ll be watching as well.”

  Mr. Burrows nods in my direction but doesn’t extend his hand or otherwise greet me.

  “We were disappointed with your performance during the wildfire training.” Ms. Suntile looks at me like I’m a problem to be solved instead of a person. Her bun is so tight that it pulls at her dark-brown skin. Ribbons of gray weave through her black hair. Her eyes are tired, outlined with wrinkles, but they sparkle more today than they did in summer. She’s as thankful to be back in her season as the rest of the autumns.

  “I did my best.”

  “We both know that’s a lie, Ms. Densmore. If you had done your best, you would have been able to hold the summers’ magic and extinguish the fire yourself.”

  “It didn’t feel right,” I start to explain, but Mr. Hart jumps in.

  “Why don’t we start our training for today?” He gives me an apologetic look and motions me over to where he’s standing. “We’re going to work on getting more of your power out in a controlled environment so you can feel more comfortable—”

  “No,” Ms. Suntile says, holding up her hand. “I want you to ripen the celery, using my magic, Mr. Hart’s, and your own.”

  I look from Mr. Hart to Ms. Suntile. They’re both autumns, but I don’t know if I can do it. “I’ve never worked with anyone as experienced as you. I’ve only ever tried it with other students.”

  “You aren’t being pushed enough, Ms. Densmore. This is the only way to learn.” Mr. Burrows nods along with her words, and it makes me inexplicably angry.

  Mr. Hart clenches his jaw and looks away, as if he’s trying to decide if he wants to argue with Ms. Suntile in front of me. He chooses not to.

  “Okay, Clara, you heard her. We’ll warn you before combining our power with yours. Do you have any questions?”

  “No.”

  I turn my back to them and get started. Bunches of celery line the soil in front of me, and if left alone, they would be ready to harvest in a month.

  I’m relieved to be back in the calm that comes with autumn. Summer magic is big and bold, taking advantage of the heavy dose of sunlight. It feels like a flood, one I’m constantly worried I’ll drown in.

  But in autumn, magic is slower. I send out a small pulse of energy, a test to make sure I know what the crop needs. That’s how it works in autumn: I ask a question, and the world answers.

  Magic swells inside me, and I release it into the soil. It crawls through the dirt and picks up water as it goes, then wraps around the celery in tight circles. I do it over and over until the thread is full of the cool, calming weight of water.

  I’m just about to release it to the crop when a heavy pulse of energy collides with my own.

  “I’m not ready yet,” I say, trying to keep my focus.

  “You won’t always be ready. You have to learn to work with the environment around you.” Ms. Suntile’s voice is sharp. “Autumn magic is transitional—use it to your advantage.”

  “You can do this, Clara.” I calm at the sound of Mr. Hart’s voice and refocus my energy.

  In one swift motion, I turn away from the water and focus on the sunlight, a quick change in magic that’s only possible in autumn. I punch through the fog and pull sunlight from the sky in controlled streaks that illuminate the stream until it’s glowing. This time I’m ready when Ms. Suntile sends her magic to me, but something’s off. Instead of trying to weave hers in with my own, it feels like she’s trying to wrap hers around mine and crush it.

  It’s too heavy.

  “Combine it with the water,” Ms. Suntile says. I steal a glance at her, and she squeezes her outstretched hand. Her power closes around mine, threatening to undo it.

  Sunlight pulses in the stream of magic, responding to Ms. Suntile’s force.

  She isn’t releasing herself to me; she’s fighting me. And that’s when I realize what she’s doing. She knows I’m not using all my power, and she’s trying to force me to free the rest of it.

  “We’re here,” Mr. Hart says. “You’re safe. We won’t let anything happen.”

  I desperately hold on to my magic. Ms. Suntile squeezes again, and I groan under the pressure. It hurts, a physical pain that follows the stream from the sun into my body, like she’s squeezing each individual organ with hands made of fire.

  I try to find the water I wrapped around the crops, but I can’t get back to it.

  Ms. Suntile clenches her hand, and I cry out from the pain. Sunlight surges into my body and burns beneath my skin. I lose the thread and collapse to the ground.

  “Enough!” Mr. Hart shouts.

  “Why are you doing this?” I look up at Ms. Suntile, who is standing over me.

  “Because things are worse than you can possibly imagine. Do you know how many witches died of depletion trying to deal with the aurora?”

  I shake my head.

  “Four. Four witches in one night. Before this, the most witches we’ve ever lost to depletion was thirteen in an entire year.” She levels her stare at me. “You’re more powerful than you realize, but if you can’t learn, you’re useless to us. We’ll try again tomorrow.”

  Ms. Suntile walks away from the farm without looking back, but her words stay with me, a cruel echo of what Paige said during the aurora.

  I wish it didn’t hurt.

  I wish I didn’t wonder if she’s right.

  Mr. Burrows remains still, watching me, saying nothing. He cups his jaw with his hand as he studies me. Then he shakes his head and follows Ms. Suntile.

  Mr. Hart kneels on the ground next to me. “That was unfair of her to say, and I’m sorry you had to hear it. Are you okay?”

  I don’t answer his question. “Is she telling me the truth? Can I actually make that big of a difference?”

  Mr. Hart is quiet for a few moments. “Yes,” he finally says. “She’s telling the truth.”

  “How bad is it?”

  “Bad,” Mr. Hart says. “We’re losing witches to depletion at a startling rate. If it keeps up, there won’t be enough of us to manage the basics, let alone the anomalies we’re facing.” He pauses and straightens his glasses. “For now, try to forget about that and listen to me. I know you wish you were like the rest of us and didn’t have to deal with all the expectations that come with being an Ever, but change is what makes you powerful. Don’t be afraid to claim that power.”

  Mr. Hart helps me to my feet and walks to his bag. He pulls out an ob
ject wrapped in brown paper. “I have something for you,” he says, handing me the package. It feels like a book.

  “What is it?” As soon as I ask the question, there’s a change in the air above me. Goose bumps rise along my skin, and I shiver.

  “It’s something I’ve worked for years to get you,” he says. His eyes sparkle with excitement, but I barely hear him. He doesn’t feel it yet.

  I want to open the gift, but something isn’t right. My hand hovers over the brown paper. I close my eyes and listen. Feel the gradients and shifts. The warm air. The cold air.

  Now I’m sure of it. Everyone needs to get inside.

  “Clara? What is it?”

  “Something’s happening,” I say.

  “What do you mean?”

  I look toward the sky. “We need to get inside.”

  Mr. Hart tilts his head up.

  I sense it before I see it: a change in atmosphere. Pressure. The fog burns away, revealing clouds so dark they suck up the daylight. Wind picks up in the distance, violent gusts that none of us summoned.

  “You’re right,” he says.

  Then we hear it: five short, loud rings screaming from the speakers.

  One long ring: class is over.

  Two short rings: class is about to start.

  Five short rings: emergency.

  “Get to the assembly hall,” Mr. Hart says. The sky is getting darker by the second. It churns above us, the clouds like waves in a roaring sea.

  I shove the unopened package into my bag and sling it over my shoulder. “What about you?”

  “I’m right behind you. Now, go!” Mr. Hart’s voice is full of alarm.

  A storm is coming.

  A storm we had no hand in making, one we’re totally unprepared for.

  And it’s big.

  Chapter Five

  “You’re a witch, for Sun’s sake. You should have a cat.”

  —A Season for Everything

  The assembly hall is loud, people calling to one another, frantic voices and chaos.