The Nature of Witches

by Rachel Griffin

  But something inside me tells me to stay present, to experience this infinite darkness even though it hurts, even though it feels like I’m breaking.

  Then, clarity. Perfect clarity.

  I love that I change with the seasons. I’ve lived my whole life believing change is bad, that I’m supposed to be only one thing. But why would I ever want to fit into one tiny box? I want to thrive and experience new things and love in different ways and use the magic of all four seasons.

  I want to live.

  Change makes me powerful, and finally, finally, I’m ready to claim that power.

  Here on the ground, under a black sky, my connection to the sun broken, all of my pieces fall into place. All of my insecurity and doubt fades into the darkness.

  I want to be an Ever, and that’s my choice. Not Mr. Burrows’s or Ms. Suntile’s or anyone else’s. It is fully and completely my own.

  Mosquitoes cluster in the air around me. Crickets chirp, and owls hoot in the distance, believing that night has fallen. Bats emerge from the trees and fly erratically overhead.

  It’s been two minutes and seventeen seconds without the sun, and my entire body is shaking, hurting, submerged in pain, as if I’m bathing in a tub of razors and needles and jagged edges.

  But still I keep my eyes on the sky, forcing my head back. It feels so heavy, too heavy. But still I stare, begging the star to come back, begging it to fill me with its light.

  The moon basks in its final moments between the Earth and the sun, and my heart aches. I shake from the cold and the darkness and the loss of myself, feeling the star’s absence in every part of me.

  Then the moon begins to move, beads of sunlight shining through its mountains and valleys, reaching out as if to touch me.

  It’s almost over.

  I force myself to stand, keeping my eyes trained on the grand finale.

  A thin ring of light appears, followed by a burst of brightness on top. It looks like a diamond ring in the dark sky, like the Sun is asking me a question.

  Yes. My answer is yes.

  This is who I am, who I am meant to be.

  And I know now that if given a choice, I’d choose my life as an Ever above all else.

  An inexplicable peace moves through me, like all my mismatched gears have finally slid into place.

  Relief.

  In one glorious burst of light, the Sun reclaims her place above me, and I am drenched in her warming rays. The sky brightens, and the most perfect shade of blue saturates the atmosphere. All the ice inside me melts away.

  The sun hasn’t reclaimed me, though, our connection still broken. I stand with my arms outstretched, my palms facing up, begging the sun to give me another chance, to choose me again.

  I don’t move my eyes from the star. Normally, it wouldn’t burn me the way it would a shader, but without my magic, it stings. And still I stare. I stare and stare and stare, an unspoken promise that I will do better, that I will trust the Sun and trust myself. But above all else, it’s a declaration of love. A pure, vibrant, all-consuming adoration for the Sun that’s free of the resentment I’ve held for so long. A love so strong it warms me from the inside out, even though my magic is gone.

  A love that is undeniably worth the risk. I will stand here forever if that’s what it takes.

  Chapter Forty

  “The shaders insist that seeing an eclipse can be life-changing. It seems they are correct.”

  —A Season for Everything

  I don’t know how long I’ve been standing here. Long enough for my neck to hurt and my eyes to burn, long enough for the birds to start chirping and the squirrels to start running and the bees to start humming.

  Long enough to reaffirm over and over and over again that this is the life I want.

  Suddenly, a shock runs through me, powerful and familiar. It’s a rush of gratitude, aggression, hopefulness, and passion—transition, ice, growth, and heat. Autumn, winter, spring, and summer.

  My eyes stop burning, and my body fills with the magic of the sun.

  Our connection is back.

  I laugh, fall to my knees next to the river, and thank the Sun for coming back to me. I put my palms in the grass, feel the individual blades and damp earth and tiny rocks from the riverbed.

  It’s so recognizable, the magic I’ve had my entire life. And yet there’s something different about it now, about the way it settles inside me, perfectly nestled in my core as if the space was made precisely for it. It’s comfortable and calm, the way Nox is when he’s curled into the tightest of balls, wholly content.

  And that’s when I know Mr. Hart was right. The eclipse offered a kind of reset, and my magic came back to me, totally under my control. It’s powerful and fierce, strong enough to help the atmosphere heal, and it’s mine. It listens to me, and I listen to it.

  I look across the river, desperate to see Sang, but he isn’t there. Most of the witches are gone, but Paige still stands on the other side, watching me.

  I wish we were close enough to talk, to hear each other’s voices, but the river is too wide and too loud. She points upstream, and I turn to look.

  Sang is running toward me, so far away I can barely make out his features, but I know it’s him. I look back to Paige, and she motions for me to go.

  So I do.

  I run toward him, run toward the person who has seen me in every season and loved me all the same. Run toward the person who has helped me see myself. Run toward what I want.

  I’m getting close, so close, and I force my legs to go as fast as they can.

  He’s finally here, and I don’t stop when I reach him. I run into him, his arms wrapping around my waist as I cling to his neck, and he picks me up and squeezes me tight.

  I wrap my legs around his waist, not caring that my clothes are drenched, that my hair is a total mess, that there’s dirt all over my skin. We cling to each other, tears streaming down my face, and I don’t care if he sees.

  “I love you, witch or not,” he whispers into my hair, and I cry harder, because I know he does, because he has never once given me a reason to doubt it, not in any season.

  We turn slowly, holding each other beneath the partially eclipsed sun, and when I’ve clung to him as tightly as I can, let him know he’s all I wanted to see, I slowly release my grip, and he sets me on the ground.

  Then we look at each other for the first time.

  He stares at me as if he’s never seen me before, uncertainty and awe etched on his face.

  “Clara?” he asks, his thumbs gently tracing the skin around my eyes. “Can you see me okay?”

  “I see you perfectly,” I say. “Why?”

  “Your eyes. They’re different.” He grabs his phone and takes a picture, holding it out for me to see.

  I look at the screen. My eyes are no longer the deep blue of the ocean. They’re bright, a marbled gold that’s almost illuminated, like a star has taken up residence in my irises.

  I breathe out, unable to stop looking at the photo.

  Sang tips my chin up and studies me, that same intense stare that’s made me wild since we first met. “You feel okay? You aren’t hurt?”

  “I feel amazing,” I whisper.

  I close my eyes and summon a small bit of magic, just enough to form a breeze and send it dancing around him. He laughs, shaking his head in disbelief.

  “You weren’t stripped,” he says, still searching my eyes, his hands on either side of my face.

  “I wasn’t stripped.”

  “How is that possible?” His voice is quiet and reverent, waking up every trace of longing I’ve tried to bury since summer began.

  “If you kiss me right now,” I say, keeping my eyes on his, “I promise I’ll explain later.”

  His eyes move down to my mouth. “Deal,” he says.

  His lips meet mine,
and I kiss him without hesitation or fear or worry. He weaves his hands through my hair, and his breaths are heavy, matching my own. I open my mouth and tangle my tongue with his, kiss him deeply, kiss him with greed and desire and longing.

  He pulls me into him, closer still, wrapping his arms around my ribs, igniting every inch of me as if he is fire and I am wood.

  We share breaths and kisses and touches next to the river our magic met across not thirty minutes ago. Music drifts toward us from the festival, the world continuing on as if something extraordinary didn’t just happen.

  I spot someone running toward us out of the corner of my eye and give Sang one more kiss before reluctantly pulling away. “If Mr. Burrows weren’t right over there, I’d be pulling you someplace a little more private.”

  Sang groans. “That man has been the cause of a lot of torment this year.”

  “Tell me about it,” I say.

  Mr. Burrows reaches us, and Ms. Suntile is right behind him. I’m shocked when I look up the riverbank and see the rest of my class in the distance.

  “Are they all coming to see me?” I ask, my voice unsteady.

  “Yes,” Ms. Suntile answers. “What you did—” But she cuts herself off. “My Sun, what happened to your eyes?”

  I had already forgotten about them, and I look down. “I don’t know. It must have happened during the eclipse.”

  “Are you hurt?” she asks.

  “More importantly, were you stripped?” Mr. Burrows interjects.

  “No,” I say. “I’m not hurt. And I wasn’t stripped.”

  They let out sighs of relief in unison, and Mr. Burrows shakes his head as he looks at me. “You never should have taken that risk. It was irresponsible, reckless, and shows an utter lack of regard for what’s happening in our world right now.” His words are mean and stern, but I don’t care anymore.

  Then Ms. Suntile starts to speak, and they talk over each other until she gives him a warning look and he defers. “Mr. Burrows is right—that was not a risk you should have taken. Had you been stripped, the consequences…” She trails off, letting her unfinished sentence hang heavily in the air. “But it was also exceptional. Do you realize what you did?”

  I look at her and shake my head.

  “During the cloudburst, you weren’t only pulling off-season magic. You were amplifying magic—everyone’s. You made us all stronger. We were able to use our own magic to help.” Her voice shakes, and her eyes tear up.

  Mr. Burrows sighs. “It was phenomenal,” he says. “The truth is that I could never have taken the risk you did, Clara. And what came out of it is beyond anything we could have imagined.”

  “I wish you could have seen it.” Sang laces his fingers with mine. “Witches were crying and hugging, completely overwhelmed at being able to use their magic that way. It was an unprecedented moment for all of us.”

  “Clara, you have such a gift.” Ms. Suntile looks at me with wonder and pride, and it makes me uncomfortable, in a way. I can hear the undertones of pressure and expectation, but it doesn’t make me want to run. It makes me want to exceed them, soar right past them as I figure out the expectations I have for myself.

  “I could feel it,” I say, remembering the distinct magic of each season rising to greet me. “All four seasons.” I look to the sun. “I don’t know what to say.” Amplifying everyone’s magic all at once, every season, is something I never could have dreamed of doing a few months ago. I would have said it was impossible.

  The rest of my classmates reach us, forming a circle around me, dozens of voices talking over each other. I laugh and answer questions and listen as people describe what it felt like to use their magic in the off-season. Some of them cry when they explain it, and my heart fills with their words, their facial expressions, their excitement and joy and awe.

  I don’t know that I’ve ever felt better about anything in my entire life than I do knowing that my magic enables the witches around me to use their own.

  Ms. Suntile takes charge as if I’m a celebrity, telling everyone I’ve had a long day and that I probably want some rest. I’m thankful when we get back to the hotel and the only thing I’m supposed to do is nap.

  Paige stays in the lobby with some of the other winters, and Sang walks me to my room, never letting go of my hand. When the door closes behind us, he pulls me into him and exhales, a strong, heavy sigh that rustles my hair. He pulls away and searches my face, but I remember my discolored eyes, and self-consciousness drives my gaze to the floor.

  He tips my chin up so I have no choice but to look at him.

  “Clara,” he says, watching me, and I’m sure his next words will be as serious and genuine as the tone of his voice. Then he says, “They make you look pretty badass.”

  We watch each other for several seconds before bursting into laughter—wild, unrestrained laughter that feels so good after the events of the day.

  I lie down on my bed, and he lies down beside me. We’re both on our backs, quiet, and he runs his fingers up and down my arm.

  “I want to write a book,” I finally say.

  “What kind of book?”

  “More like a letter. A really long letter to the Everwitch who comes after me, so they don’t have to figure all this out on their own. So they don’t have to see their loved ones die or be confused about how to use their magic. So they can feel understood.” Alice’s memoir has been an enormous comfort to me, but I lived without it for seventeen years, and it doesn’t detail the kind of magic she had. I had to figure it out for myself, and having a place to go for information would have been so helpful. But more than that, I thought I was alone for so long. I don’t want that for the next Ever.

  “I love that idea,” Sang says, his fingers still moving up and down and up and down. We’re both quiet for a few minutes, minds wandering to different places, or maybe the same one. We’re so close, but it doesn’t feel close enough. Maybe it never will.

  Wind blows through the open window, carrying the best parts of summer, and I breathe in deep, holding the season in my lungs. It fills me with longing, a relentless squeeze in the pit of my stomach that I can no longer resist.

  I roll onto my side and look down at him, his eyes moving to my lips, lingering.

  I close my eyes, bend down, and kiss him.

  He puts his hands on either side of my face and opens his mouth, and I get lost in him, lost in the way his fingers feel on my skin, the way his hair tickles my face, the way his lips are soft and taste like black tea and honey.

  I get lost in the certainty of what I want, what I’ve wanted for so long, and when he pulls away just slightly, I look him in the eye and ask for more.

  He rolls me to my back, one hand behind my head, the other following the lines of my jaw, my neck, my collarbone.

  I reach for him, and his lips are back on mine before his smile fades.

  Chapter Forty-One

  “Our Earth is tired—let her rest.”

  —A Season for Everything

  Everything is burning, so many flames it looks as if we set the sky on fire. The sun looks hazy and distorted through all the heat that’s rising, a shimmery mass that reminds me of the sunbar Mr. Burrows created in winter.

  Once again, witches have come to Eastern from all over the world to take part in our wildfire training. The control field is packed with bodies, sweating and dirty from all the heat and ash. Ms. Suntile stands off to the side with the other teachers, as well as officials from the Solar Magic Association and shaders from the National Center for Atmospheric Research.

  It’s the first time shaders have come to one of our training sessions, a result of the conversations we’re starting to have. They’re listening to us, they’re asking questions, and they’re putting in the work to reverse some of the damage they’ve done.

  We aren’t in this alone and shouldn’t act like we are;
the atmosphere is hurting, and that’s a problem for all of us, witches and shaders alike. The challenge is great, and we have a lot of work ahead of us. But we’re in this together, and if there’s anything I’ve learned this past year, it’s that together is where the magic lies.

  An enormous fire rises from the center of the field, smoke billowing high above us, reaching toward the sky. It’s our final day of training, and the summers, springs, and autumns have already had their turns.

  Now, it’s time for winter.

  I close my eyes and send my magic through the group, recognizing the bite of winter right away. It’s cool and sharp, sending a chill throughout my body. It feels so good in the summer heat.

  My power weaves through them, dancing around the winters, inviting their magic out to play. I slowly raise my hands, and a few of them gasp as their magic gets stronger inside them, growing to its full intensity in the middle of summer.

  I will never tire of this, of magnifying a sleeping season, of waking it up and coaxing it back to life.

  Wake up, winter. There is fun to be had.

  Winters can’t harness the sun or deal with the heat—that magic is reserved for summers. But they can sure as hell make it rain.

  “Okay, winters, get to work,” Mr. Donovan says over a loudspeaker.

  I keep my magic wrapped around them, an invisible magnet that lures their power to the surface, getting stronger and stronger with each passing second. I remain steady behind the group. Even. Calm.

  I’m giving Sang a run for his money.

  Winter magic dives into the ground in search of moisture, darting every which way, aggressive and quick. The winters work together, pulling water from the earth and combining it until a large, dark cloud hangs in the air above them.

  Mr. Donovan instructs them as they work to put out the fire, and I smile when a single raindrop hits my forehead. Here we go.

  The sky opens up and drenches us in seconds. Cheers rise up from the crowd—from the winters participating and the witches watching, from the officials at the SMA and the shaders from NCAR.