The Nature of Witches

by Rachel Griffin

  “I don’t want to forget this ever happened. Mr. Hart died because of me—I forced the tornado in his direction. It would have never hit the farm otherwise. You should report me.” My voice is pleading, begging him to turn me in.

  Begging for someone to sentence me to a life without magic.

  Please, forbid me from using it. Label me as a danger. Force me to get stripped.

  I don’t want it. I’ve never wanted it.

  I remind myself that all I have to do is make it to the eclipse this summer, and then I can be rid of my magic for good.

  “It was an accident, and we don’t report our students for accidents. Punishing you wouldn’t do any of us any good. What we need from you is progress. We need you to get stronger.”

  “Mr. Hart was an incredible teacher,” I say. “It wasn’t his fault I didn’t progress. I held myself back.” It takes everything I have to keep my voice from breaking.

  “Understood. But holding yourself back isn’t an option anymore, and I hope you fully dedicate yourself to this going forward. The tornado you saw is nothing.”

  Mr. Burrows waits as if he’s giving someone else the opportunity to speak, but no one does. “Sang will be working with you on day-to-day training. He’ll be following a plan laid out by Ms. Suntile and myself and will update me on your progress regularly.”

  “Why Sang?” The question is out of my mouth before I think better of it. He looks at me, and I look back. The person who helped me during the tornado has been replaced by the person sitting next to Mr. Burrows, across the large desk from me, and I realize he isn’t on my side—he’s on theirs.

  “Because Alice trained most successfully with her peers. Sang was at the top of his class at Western, which makes him the obvious choice. I’ve been mentoring him for several years and trust him implicitly. Your school counselor seems to think working with someone your own age will make you more comfortable and thus likelier to progress the way Alice did. If that turns out not to be the case, I’ll take over and train you full-time.”

  The trust I had in Sang disintegrates more and more each time he avoids my gaze, each time he nods along with what Mr. Burrows is saying. But I’d rather train with Sang than Mr. Burrows. I don’t know how he doesn’t suffocate beneath the weight of his own ego.

  “I understand,” I say.

  Mr. Burrows takes off his glasses and rubs his temples. “I know you were close to Mr. Hart, and I’m sorry about what happened. We all are. If you excel the way we know you can, he won’t have died for nothing.”

  I’m silent, horrified that he would use Mr. Hart’s death to motivate me.

  “Have they told you the risks?” I stare at Sang, practically spitting the words. I’m not sure what makes me say it. I’m angry and hurt and miss Mr. Hart so much my chest throbs.

  “He knows the risks,” Mr. Burrows says.

  “Can he not speak for himself?”

  Mr. Burrows nods at Sang. I cross my arms and wait.

  He clears his throat. “When your magic gets out of control, it only targets those you have an emotional connection to. It was the same for Alice. We don’t know each other; there’s no history between us. I’m not at risk.” Sang says the words as if he’s memorized them, stiff and unconvincing.

  I swallow hard. Images of Mom and Dad, of Nikki, threaten to overwhelm me. I was so young when my magic went after my parents, but it’s only been a year since Ms. Suntile pulled me away from Nikki’s broken body.

  The day is still so clear in my mind. I’d failed a basic drill in weather control in front of the whole class. Mr. Mendez looked disappointed, and people whispered about how I must be the only useless Everwitch in history.

  Nikki stood up for me in front of everyone, said that one day they’d all have to eat their words. And when everyone went to dinner, Nikki insisted we go back to the control field, just the two of us, to practice. To replace the events from earlier.

  So we did. We repeated the same drill, and I did it flawlessly. We laughed and danced beneath the setting sun, letting our magic roam around with no objective. It was a perfect evening. Until it wasn’t.

  I force the memory away and take a steadying breath.

  “Satisfied, Ms. Densmore?” Mr. Burrows looks at me expectantly, and it takes me a few seconds to come back to the present. I nod.

  I’ll do everything I can to succeed in my training so I don’t get stuck with him.

  “Neither of you will be even half the teacher Mr. Hart was.” The words sound childish and immature, but I don’t care. I want to stand up for him somehow, let him know that all I want is to train with him again. Tell him I’ll try harder. I’ll get better.

  “He sounds like an incredible person,” Sang says.

  “Ms. Densmore, here’s the truth,” Mr. Burrows says, ignoring Sang’s words. I’ve never hated anyone as much as I hate this man. “Witches are being depleted at a rate we’ve never seen before. The atmosphere is getting more erratic as the number of witches goes down, and the shaders are only just starting to take responsibility for the damage they’ve done. Whether you like it or not, you have a kind of power the world needs. It isn’t about me or Mr. Hart or the accidents you’ve had in the past. It’s about learning to harness the power you’ve been given. If you can learn to control your magic at its full strength, you’ll be unstoppable.”

  “What does that mean? You don’t even know enough about my magic to tell me what I should be capable of.”

  “It’s a learning process for us all, Ms. Densmore. We’re trying our best,” Ms. Suntile says.

  “That’s why we’re changing your training. We won’t be giving you exercises tailored to each season; we won’t be asking you to weave other witches’ magic in with your own.” I wince at the not-so-subtle reminder of the wildfire training as Mr. Burrows continues. “Every session from now on will be dedicated to learning to control your own magic. You must get stronger so that when it comes time to add others’ magic to your own again, you’ll be able to handle it.”

  “I don’t want to hurt anyone.” I curse myself when the words shake in my mouth, sounding so much weaker than I intend.

  “We’re doing everything we can to ensure that won’t happen. You’ll be in a controlled environment with someone you don’t have any connection to; your magic won’t gravitate toward him at all. Nobody will get hurt.”

  Flashes of light fill my mind. It was the same both times. Only the screams were different.

  I feel like the walls of this office are closing in on me, threatening to crush me at any moment. I need some air, some distance from all this. Everything is spinning. I stand and grab my crutches.

  I pause at the door. “I’ll do everything I can to strengthen my magic, and I’ll work harder than I ever have. But if it doesn’t work, I’ll get myself stripped before I let another person die because of me.”

  Ms. Suntile’s eyes widen, and Mr. Burrows opens his mouth to speak, but I cut him off.

  “I swear it.”

  Chapter Nine

  “Words are power. Use them.”

  —A Season for Everything

  I swear it.

  The words spilled from my mouth before I had time to consider their weight. I’ve shown them my hand, the one thing I always kept to myself. Most witches consider being stripped a fate worse than death.

  It was one thing when I told only myself that I’d do it, that I’d run toward the solar eclipse while everyone else ran away. But now the administration knows, too, and the secret I’ve kept hidden for so long is out in the open.

  Being stripped of one’s magic leaves a constant physical ache in every inch of the body. At least, that’s what they say. And even though the pain dulls over time, you become a walking memory, an echo of the power you once had—power you’re still drawn to but cannot access no matter how hard you try. You spend the rest of you
r life longing for something you can never get back.

  But I already live that way, longing for things I can never get back. I’ve been waiting for the solar eclipse for years, counting down the days until I’m free. I’m not afraid of being stripped. I don’t think it will feel like pain.

  I think it will feel like relief.

  It’s been almost a month since the tornado, and I’m still committed to the words I spoke.

  My ankle has finally healed enough for me to start training again. Ms. Suntile has been hovering like an anxious parent, impatient for me to be rid of my crutches so I can start working with Sang. I’ve been going to all my regular classes, but I haven’t done any hands-on magic since the storm.

  I sit on the edge of my bed and hold the unopened gift from Mr. Hart. My fingers trace the brown paper, and I hug it to my chest. Today is my first session with Sang, but I’d give anything to be meeting with Mr. Hart instead.

  I take in a breath and tear the paper off. It falls to the floor, and Nox bats at it.

  Inside is a bound book with the title The Unpublished Memoir of Alice Hall. My breath catches. I open the front cover, and a note from Mr. Hart falls out.

  Dear Clara,

  It took me years to get this. The Hall family is famously private and has never shared the manuscript with anyone. They were kind enough to meet with me on my last trip to California, and when I told them I was training you, they agreed to let me make a copy of the manuscript. I had it bound and printed by a local press, but other than the handwritten copy the Hall family has, this is the only version in existence. One of the conditions under which they let me have this is that only you can see it; I haven’t even read it myself. I hope it gives you some comfort, knowing you aren’t alone.

  With admiration,

  Mr. Hart

  I’ve known that Alice Hall wrote a memoir ever since one of her distant relatives went to publishers, trying to get bids on it. The attempt to publish it was ultimately unsuccessful, as the rest of the Hall family stepped in, but it’s been public knowledge since then. I knew Mr. Hart had tried to get them to share a copy with me, and I can’t believe he finally succeeded.

  My eyes burn with tears, and I hug the book close to my body.

  All he wanted was for me to love my magic, to give myself over to it, and my chest tightens with the knowledge that I’m disappointing him. But I hate my magic more now than ever before. If the eclipse were tomorrow, I’d stand beneath it without a second thought and let it drain me of my magic until every last drop was gone.

  Nothing left.

  Nox jumps up on my bed, and I scratch his head as I flip to the first page of Alice’s memoir. She weaves together words that could have been taken straight from my own heart, and I’m caught completely off guard. It’s like reading a transcript of my thoughts, and it makes me feel exposed. Vulnerable.

  Being an Ever feels like my body is made of heavy gears instead of organs. Each change in season makes the gears grind and move, winding my insides tighter and tighter. By the time the gears settle in their new positions and relief floods me, the season changes again, and I change with it. I ache for consistency and routine. Normalcy and quiet.

  I ache to be understood.

  My entire life, I’ve been asked why I change so much, and it has created a certainty within me that something went very wrong when I was born. That certainty has become a permanent pang in the pit of my stomach that I cannot soothe. I’d give anything to feel whole and normal and right, just for a single day.

  Alice thrived. Eventually. She dedicated her life to her magic and loved it deeply. She felt powerful and truly herself when the world around her bent to her commands.

  But she also isolated herself. I shudder when I read that she accidentally killed three witches and two shaders, then turned to extreme isolation to keep others safe. She chose magic over all else, and an intense loneliness settles inside me, knowing I don’t have the same love for magic that Alice did. I feel broken in some critical way.

  I have loved magic more deeply, more wholly than I could ever hope to love another person, and magic has loved me back. The sacrifice is great, but the bounty is greater.

  Reading those words makes me angry, but more than that, it makes me feel alone. How could she love something that took so much from her? I want to understand, but maybe I never will.

  I’m so lost in my reading that I don’t realize how late it is until Nox runs out through his door and I check my phone. I pull myself away from Alice’s book and quickly get dressed before rushing outside. I sprint the entire way to the control field, and Sang is there waiting when I arrive. I’ve only seen him in passing since the meeting where I learned I’d be training with him. His eyebrows rise when he sees me.

  “I almost thought you weren’t going to show up.”

  “I’m sorry,” I say, out of breath. “I got caught up in some reading and didn’t notice the time.”

  “No worries,” he says. “It looks like you’re all healed up.” He sounds hesitant and unsure.

  I’m about to say the same to him, but then I remember that he’s reporting to Ms. Suntile and Mr. Burrows, and I no longer want to respond. It’s hard to remember the witch who rescued Nox and ran from a tornado with me when all I can see is the witch whose job it is to take notes and talk about me behind my back.

  I feel an invisible barrier rise between us, tall and strong and impassable.

  Sang kneels next to his bag and pulls out a piece of paper with the Eastern School of Solar Magic letterhead on top.

  “Is that the lesson plan?”

  “Yeah.” He stands, and his tone is short. Distracted.

  “Don’t sound so excited.”

  Sang puts the paper back in his bag and sighs. “I’m sorry, it’s just—” He pauses and meets my gaze. “I moved twenty-five hundred miles across the country, away from my family, to study botany. I was supposed to go to Korea with my parents and spend an entire month there visiting family, and I gave that up because Mr. Burrows insisted this was such a great opportunity. But instead of doing my research, I’m helping you train. He didn’t tell me this would be part of the deal.” He motions around the control field.

  It makes me feel better, in a way, knowing he doesn’t want to be here any more than I do. He pushes his hand through his hair and gives me an apologetic look. “I’m sorry, I know this isn’t your fault. I shouldn’t take it out on you.”

  “I didn’t realize they’d pulled you away from your research. I’m sorry.”

  He shakes his head. “I didn’t ask to get involved. I didn’t even know about it until Mr. Burrows and Ms. Suntile called me into the office twenty minutes before you showed up.”

  “That makes two of us. You’d think Mr. Burrows would have mentioned something to you before you gave up your trip and moved all the way out here.”

  “He didn’t know Mr. Hart was going to die,” Sang says.

  But he did know he’d be taking over my education. He knew his focus would be on me instead of Sang.

  I think back to how Mr. Burrows was at my last session with Mr. Hart, and it’s so clear that Ms. Suntile brought him out here to take over my training. She always meant for Mr. Burrows to replace Mr. Hart—his death just made it easier.

  The ache in my chest returns.

  Sang looks at the paper peeking out of his bag. “I know he seems a little rough around the edges, but he’s brilliant. And even though my time here isn’t going exactly as I thought, I’m glad I get to keep learning from him. You’ll get to know him, and you’ll see it too.”

  “He seems like a total jerk,” I say.

  Sang’s jaw clenches, tiny muscles pulsing beneath his skin. He’s angry. “Maybe we should just get started.”

  I drop my bag to the ground. “Sure.” The word comes out sour, and I catch Sang shaking his head out of the corn
er of my eye. I silently scold myself, then soften my tone and ask, “What’s on the agenda?”

  “A drill that’s repeatable in every season. It’s going to become our home base while we’re training together—by the end of the year, you will have done it so many times, you’ll never want to do it again. Today, we’ll use it to establish your baseline. Mr. Burrows needs to know your starting point so he can properly gauge the progress you make.”

  Even the mention of his name puts me on edge; it’ll be impossible for me to get stronger if I’m constantly worried about Mr. Burrows looming over me, about having to train with him full-time if I don’t improve.

  “Let’s make a deal: you try not to mention your mentor’s name unless it’s totally necessary, and I’ll try not to respond with unwelcome comments about what a jackass he is. Fair?” I’m trying to make a joke, but it comes out harsh. Too far, Clara, I reprimand myself, but Sang doesn’t shake his head or tighten his jaw. Instead, the corner of his mouth tugs up just slightly, and he swallows—he’s trying not to laugh.

  “Fair,” he agrees.

  “So, how are we going to establish my baseline?”

  “We’re going to work with the wind, since that’s something every season is comfortable with. See that tree line?” He points to the end of the field, where acres of evergreens and towering pines stretch out toward the mountains beyond. “It’s a calm day. We’re going to see how far through the trees you can send a gust of wind. Then we’ll mark that tree and have our baseline. Pretty simple.”

  “That’s the drill? Sounds easy enough.”

  “That’s the point. The best way for you to learn to control your magic is by making it approachable and routine. A habit. The theory is that eventually, by performing the same drill over and over without the distraction of anyone else, it will become second nature to you, and you’ll no longer tense up when you do it. You’ll grow comfortable with what it feels like to channel your own power, and once that happens, you can start working with other witches again. But you have to learn to control your own magic before you can learn to control that of others. Make sense?”