The Nature of Witches

by Rachel Griffin

  I slowly send my magic out, and this time, it grabs hold of Ms. Suntile’s. I pull and pull and pull. Ms. Suntile gets stiff and fights against me, every part of her resisting. But I keep pulling, going with the current.

  When I have a solid stream of autumn magic, I send it into the earth beneath us and wrap it around the seeds of winter squashes. I gently tell the seeds to grow, drenching them in magic that makes them sprout through the ground.

  The sprouts grow into vines, long and dense with large green leaves that cover the earth. The vines snake between us and wrap around our legs. The squashes grow and grow until they’re ripe for harvest. Even the early spring chill can’t contend with autumn magic.

  I open my eyes and slowly break my hold on Ms. Suntile’s power. It flows back to her in a steady stream, then it’s gone.

  Ms. Suntile is looking at the ground. She bends over and touches the leaves, runs her fingers over the variety of winter squashes that should be impossible to grow in spring. Her eyes glisten, and her hands shake.

  “The reason you were disappointed with my performance during the wildfire training is because I’m not supposed to hold the magic of witches who are in their season. They’re already doing what they were born to do; why take their magic away from them and give it to me?”

  I bend over and pull a small squash from the vine, then throw it to Sang. He catches it, his face full of wonder and adoration and awe, though I’m not sure if it’s for the squash or for me. Probably both.

  I grab another squash and hand it to Mr. Burrows, who gapes at it, then one more for Ms. Suntile. She takes it in her hands with care.

  “The witches who are waiting for their turn with the sun, whose magic is weak and ineffective because it isn’t the right season—that’s something I can help with.”

  “Clara, do you understand what this means?” I bristle at the sound of my first name in her mouth. “All of the witches dying from depletion, the atypical weather we’ve been powerless to deal with…” Her voice trails off.

  “I understand,” I say.

  “We never could have predicted this kind of magic,” Mr. Burrows says, staring at the ripe squash, his voice quiet. Reverent. Ms. Suntile startles when he speaks, as if she forgot he was here. “How did you discover it?”

  I think about fighting with Sang, throwing magic at each other and rolling around in the snow. How angry we were. How desperate we were. Heat rises to my cheeks, and I look down.

  “We got in a fight,” Sang says simply, and I look at him. His eyes lock on mine, and there’s something in them that makes me curse the fact that we aren’t alone. I want to tackle him right here in this field among the winter squashes and feel his mouth on mine. From the way he looks at me, I know he’s thinking the same thing.

  “A fight?” Ms. Suntile asks, interrupting our moment.

  “We were mad at each other,” I say, keeping my eyes on Sang. “I tried to throw a storm cell at him, and when I reached for my magic, I somehow ended up with his.”

  A shiver runs down my spine. I need Ms. Suntile and Mr. Burrows to leave.

  “Incredible,” she says, going back to studying the squash in her hands.

  “I’d like for you to demonstrate on me so I know how best to structure your training going forward,” Mr. Burrows says after we’ve been quiet for a while.

  I walk toward him to get started, but then I stop. I don’t have to do this for him. I step back. “No, I don’t think I will. It isn’t necessary for you to experience it firsthand to make effective lesson plans. I appreciate that you know more about Evers than anyone else at this school, and I will follow your plans when it comes to my training, but I don’t owe you this.” I say the words as evenly as possible. I don’t sound angry or upset, and my heart beats in its normal rhythm.

  It makes me feel as if my magic isn’t the only thing getting stronger.

  Ms. Suntile raises her eyebrows but says nothing. If I didn’t know her better, I’d say she looks proud. Mr. Burrows starts to say something, but Ms. Suntile speaks over him. “That sounds fair to me.”

  To his credit, he recovers quickly. “Maybe some other time,” he says. “Sang is a spring, so we’ll need to get you practicing with other seasons right away.” Mr. Burrows turns to Sang. “I want you to oversee as she begins training with other witches. There’s clearly something about working with you that has helped her reach her full potential.”

  Ms. Suntile nods. Mr. Burrows isn’t wrong, but something in the way he says it feels as if he’s invalidating all the effort I’ve put in.

  “I’m happy to oversee,” Sang says, “but she did all the work.”

  “Sang, if I’m going to practice with other witches, are you sure you don’t want to get back to your studies?” I turn to Mr. Burrows. “You brought him out here to study botany and do research, not train with me.”

  “I think I’ve got a few more sessions in me,” Sang says, and I give him a grateful look. I want him to do his research and study what he loves, but I’m not ready to train with someone new.

  “Then it’s settled,” Ms. Suntile says. “Mr. Park, come with us. We need to create a new training schedule. You know more about Ms. Densmore’s capabilities than we do.”

  Ms. Suntile drops her squash to the ground, as does Mr. Burrows, and they walk off the field together, talking over each other.

  But the memory of my fight with Sang—and what came after—has yet to fade, and we look at each other with the same need. The same want.

  “Later,” he whispers, kissing me softly before he follows Ms. Suntile.

  The squash I gave him is tucked safely beneath his arm, and the way the image undoes me lets me know I’m in deeper than I should be.

  Because if I’m wrong, if I’m not in total control of my magic, it will find him.

  And I’ll be powerless to stop it.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  “When in doubt, plant something.”

  —A Season for Everything

  It’s six thirty in the morning. Early enough to have the campus to myself, late enough to hear the birds chirping and animals waking. Every day, there are new blooms to look at and different scents in the air, longer grass to step through and thicker hedges to walk around.

  Training is going well, and Ms. Suntile is beside herself with what I can do. It scares me, her belief that I can steady the atmosphere and keep witches from dying of depletion while we work with the shaders to heal the Earth.

  I think about Alice’s quote, about making sure her magic was worth something. And I know that I have made sure mine is.

  Each time I use it, each time I call out-of-season magic, the hope inside me grows that I’ve found my control. That my magic will never hurt another person ever again. The hope is so thick, so full, it’s as if my organs are wrapped in ivy, as if climbing hydrangeas have made their way up up up until my entire body blooms with it.

  But a new thought, a darker one, finds me in moments of fear and uncertainty: if I don’t have control over my power, if Sang will never be safe as long as I’m a witch, I could still stay for the eclipse. I could get stripped of my magic. And Sang and I could be together, knowing he would be safe.

  It’s a selfish thought, one I don’t dwell on, but it’s there, lurking in the back of my mind. And it brings with it a question that hurts so badly it steals my breath each time I think it: If I weren’t a witch anymore, would Sang still want me?

  I exhale. I need to outrun the thoughts that refuse to quiet.

  I follow the path in the woods, far from the center of campus. I have the trail to myself, though I’m sure Paige is out here somewhere, her feet pounding into the wet dirt, her breathing heavy. She’s been a runner as long as I’ve known her, waking up before the rest of campus and running for miles, regardless of the weather.

  A low layer of fog hangs in the trees. It’s un
even, giving way to tree trunks and brush in the distance. The fog is one of my favorite weather conditions. Most of the time, witches are the ones to greet the weather. We pull the clouds down closer to us or form our own. But fog is the atmosphere’s way of greeting us, getting low enough to the ground that we can touch it, feel it on our skin and breathe it in our lungs.

  Everything is calm. Peaceful.

  I run over roots and rocks, and ferns reach out and nip at my ankles. The trail begins to incline, and I climb with it, my breath coming faster than before. The higher I get, the colder the air becomes, a refreshing chill that pushes me farther. The fog gets dense, and I run through it until I’m higher than the clouds. Then the thick mist is replaced by sunlight that cuts through the branches and coats the air with lines of gold. The distinct sound of sighing carries on the breeze, the way flowers sound when they bloom. It gets louder and louder, and I run toward it until I see a clearing in the distance.

  The trail is poorly defined now, and I jump over branches and push through underbrush until I escape from the cover of the trees. The clearing is large, several acres, and the half closest to me is covered in wildflowers. Bull thistle and baby blue eyes, Woods’ rose and bloodroot, trillium and chicory cover the dirt like paint on a canvas. Pinks and blues and whites and reds float atop green grasses and damp earth. Sunlight drenches the field in yellow, drying the sweat from my skin. I stop and put my hands on my hips, letting my breath slow.

  In the middle of the field, a large white birch tree rises up from the sea of flowers. Bright-green leaves hang from its branches and rustle in the breeze, and I know without a doubt that this is our birch tree. Sang’s and mine—the one that grew when I used his magic for the very first time.

  It’s larger now and covered in leaves, but it’s ours.

  I knew he had uprooted the tree and replanted it somewhere else, but I can’t imagine how he possibly got it all the way up here.

  I want to go to the tree, touch it and prove that it’s real, but I’m stuck at the edge of the meadow. It’s so full of flowers that there’s nowhere for me to walk without crushing some. I feel inexplicably drawn to this place, as if the flowers were sighing just so I’d come. The air is cool and fragrant, and I sit down on the dirt, not caring that it’s damp enough to soak my running tights.

  I’ve been at Eastern for ten years, and while our gardens are lovely, this is something else entirely.

  The sound of humming startles me, and I quickly stand and step back toward the trees until I’m concealed in their shade. I stay perfectly still.

  The humming gets louder, and I recognize Sang’s voice moments before I see him. He took a different way up, and he steps into the clearing many yards to my right. He walks toward the side opposite where I’m standing, and I instinctively take another step back.

  I want to run to him and wrap my arms around his waist and kiss him beneath the branches of our tree, but something keeps me rooted in place. He walks in a way that tells me he knows this field, that it’s his.

  Sang drops his messenger bag on a boulder and sits on the grass. He looks so perfect here, surrounded by flowers and grasses and trees, and it makes me feel guilty, knowing he’s being pulled from something he loves so much just because his magic flows on a current of calm. He’s amazing with weather; his magic rivals that of everyone I know. But this is where he’s at home, and it fills him up in a way that nothing else does.

  I know I should say something, announce myself in some way, but curiosity keeps me from moving. He bends over and pushes his hands into the grass. Primroses rise up and bloom right in front of him. They cover the far edge of the clearing in delicate yellow petals that sit atop deep-green leaves.

  Primroses grow from contentment, and I realize with a rush that this field was built entirely from Sang’s magic, planting his emotions in the dirt and watching them grow into wildflowers.

  I think of all the trips he must have taken up here to cover the clearing so completely. His flowers range from love to loneliness, happiness to anger, desire to frustration. I’m overwhelmed looking at them, this map of Sang’s heart plotted before me like stars in the sky.

  Heat rises up my neck, and I step back as noiselessly as possible. This place is undeniably his, every flower, every sigh, every color representing a hidden part of himself. I want so badly to know what prompted each flower—what he loves, what he’s mad about, what makes him happy and frustrated. I want to know it all.

  But none of this is for me, and if I knew all the emotions that brought this field to life, I could never pull back from him. This meadow is Sang when he’s all alone, when he’s sure no one else is watching, and the beauty of it takes my breath away.

  I shouldn’t be here anymore. Every motion he makes—the way he plants his feelings in the dirt like seeds, the way his eyes brighten with every new flower that blooms, the way he sighs when he looks out over the field—is too much.

  It’s everything.

  He stands and pulls a thermos, sketchpad, and plastic container from his bag, then slowly makes his way to the birch. He steps carefully over flowers and sits at the base of the tree. He leans back against it, takes a sip of what I’m sure is black tea, and closes his eyes. After several moments, he flips open his sketchbook, grabs a pencil from the container, and begins to draw. I wonder what species he’s illustrating today, what plant will come alive with the strokes of his hand.

  As quietly as possible, I step farther into the woods and begin my descent. And when I’m sure Sang won’t hear me, I start to run. I run hard and fast, fighting against my aching muscles and burning chest, fighting against my own desires, my own frustrations, my own fears. I run down the trail and through the center of campus, all the way to my tiny cabin in the woods, the place that was supposed to prevent something like this from happening.

  This feeling is entirely new to me. All I’ve ever known of romance is racing pulses and passionate nights, high highs and low lows, restlessness and impatience and anxiety. Everything I had with Paige.

  Everything I’ve only ever had in summer.

  And that’s when I’m hit with a new fear, one that’s completely separate from my magic. I’ll fall even harder for Sang come summer—that’s what the season has always been for me. But the first day of autumn sucks those feelings up and tosses them aside as if they’re leaves on the wind.

  Gone.

  The dread that moves through my body feels a lot like the dread of falling for him and not being able to do anything about it.

  Even if I have my magic under control, even if it never goes after him, never hurts him, my feelings are something else entirely.

  And come autumn, I’ll have no control at all.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  “People, shader and witch alike, will surprise you if you let them. Some surprises will be bad, but some…some will be brilliant.”

  —A Season for Everything

  A week later, I’m walking to the control field for my first test using my new magic. It’s a perfect spring day, bright sunshine drenching the field and the earth damp with recent rain. Color is everywhere, greens and blues and pinks and yellows. Winter has been all but forgotten.

  Sang is waiting on the field when I get there, but Mr. Burrows and Ms. Suntile aren’t with him.

  “Hi,” I say, dropping my bag and reaching for him. He takes my hand, but he’s tense and distracted. “What’s wrong?”

  He kisses my knuckles and gives me an apologetic look. “Mr. Burrows thought it was time for you to do another off-site test. He’s waiting for you with Ms. Suntile; we’re supposed to meet them there.”

  Dread stirs in my stomach, but I force it down. Sang will be there. Ms. Suntile will be there. And I’m more in control of my magic now than I’ve ever been.

  “Where is it?”

  “I mapped it out—the whole area is farmland.”

&
nbsp; “Great,” I say, grabbing my bag from the ground. “Let’s get this over with.”

  Sang laces his fingers with mine, and we walk to the parking lot. It’s such a simple thing, walking through campus holding hands with the boy I like, but it feels monumental, significant in a way I can’t explain.

  He doesn’t mind holding my hand in front of everyone because he believes he’ll get to keep holding it. Even as our connection gets stronger and my magic recognizes what we have. Even as the seasons change and the eclipse grows nearer.

  I swallow hard and tighten my grip on his hand. He must think I’m worried about the test, because he stops and looks at me. “You’re going to do great,” he says, and I nod, because I don’t want him to know I’m distracted by what the future—what my magic—has in store for us.

  I’m distracted by a decision I don’t feel ready to make.

  But I know I’m getting stronger. And I’m demonstrating a level of control that would have been unthinkable a year ago. Maybe I won’t have to choose after all.

  Today is the perfect opportunity to prove to myself that the hope I feel rising within me is justified.

  We get in Sang’s truck and drive to the farmlands east of us. Sunlight reflects off the windshield and bathes the surrounding fields in its warmth, coaxing the crops from the earth.

  Sang pulls off the highway and onto a narrow dirt road where Ms. Suntile and Mr. Burrows are waiting. There’s a small red house in the distance and infinite rows of barley stretching out to each side. Mountains border the northern edge of the farm, the last of winter’s snow dusting their peaks.

  Sang turns off the engine and squeezes my hand. “You’ve got this. They’ll be blown away, just like I am.”

  I raise an eyebrow. “I hope not just like you are.”

  He laughs. “You never can keep it strictly business, can you?”