Book of Shadows (16 page)

I shrugged. “There was a storm.” I didn’t want to talk about the candles going out or the crack of thunder that had been so amazingly loud.

“So now you control the weather?” Bree said, hurt in her voice.

I winced. “I wasn’t saying that.”

“Obviously it’s just some sort of weird coincidence,” Bree said. “There’s no way you could fix Robbie’s skin, for God’s sake. Cal, tell her. None of us could do something like that.
You
couldn’t do something like that.”

“No, I could,” Cal contradicted mildly. “A lot of people could, with enough training. Even if they weren’t blood witches.”

“But Morgan hasn’t had
any
training,” Bree said, her voice strained. “Have you?” she asked me.

“No, of course not,” I said quietly.

“What we have here is an unusually gifted amateur,” Cal said thoughtfully. “I’m actually glad this came up because we should talk about this stuff.” He put his hand on my shoulder. “You’re not allowed to perform a spell for someone without his or her knowledge,” he said. “It’s not a good idea, and it isn’t safe. It isn’t fair.”

He looked uncharacteristically solemn, and I nodded, embarrassed.

“I’m really sorry, Robbie,” I said. “I don’t even know how to undo it. It was stupid.”

“Jesus, I don’t want you to undo it,” Robbie said, alarmed. “It’s just, I wish you had told me first. It kind of spooked me.”

“Morgan, I really think you need to study more before you start doing spells,” Cal went on. “It would be better if you saw the big picture instead of just little parts of it. It’s all connected, you know, everything is connected, and everything you do affects everything else, so you’ve got to know what you’re doing.”

I nodded again, feeling horrible. I had been so impressed that my spell had worked, I hadn’t even thought through all the far-reaching consequences.

“I’m not a high priest,” Cal said, “but I can teach you what I know, and then you can go on to learn from someone else. If you want to.”

“Yes, I want to,” I said quickly. I glanced at Bree’s face and wanted to take back the speed and certainty of my words.

“Samhain, Halloween, is eight days away,” Cal said, dropping his hand. “Try to start coming to circles if you can.Think about it at least.”

“Pretty intense, Rowlands.” Robbie shook his head. “You’re like the Tiger Woods of Wicca.”

I couldn’t help grinning. Bree’s face was stiff.

My mom tapped on the window to tell me dinner was ready, and I nodded and waved.

“I’m sorry, Robbie,” I said again. “I won’t ever do anything like that again.”

“Just ask me first,” Robbie said, without anger.

We walked across the yard, and I led my three friends through the house and out the front door. “See you,” I called to them as Cal met my eyes again.

Halloween was eight days away.

That night Aunt Eileen showed up unexpectedly for dinner. Afterward she hung out with me in the kitchen and helped me clean up.

Out of nowhere, as I was scraping plates into the disposal, I found myself blurting out: “How did you know you were gay?”

She looked as surprised as I felt. “I’m sorry,” I rushed to add. “Forget I asked. It’s none of my business.”

“No, it’s okay,” she said, thinking. “That’s a fair question.” She considered her answer for a few moments. “I guess when I was growing up, I always felt kind of
different
somehow. I didn’t feel like a boy or anything. I knew I was a girl, and that was fine with me. But I just didn’t get the whole point of boys existing.” Her nose wrinkled, and I laughed.

“But I don’t think I really figured out I was gay until about eighth grade,” she went on, “when I got a crush on someone.”

I looked up. “A girl?”

“Yes. Of course the girl didn’t feel the same way about me—and I never told her about it or acted on it. I was so embarrassed. I felt like a freak. I felt there was something terribly wrong with me, that I needed counseling or help. Even medicine.”

“How awful,” I said.

“It wasn’t until college that I came to terms with it and finally admitted to myself and everyone else that I was gay. I had been seeing a therapist, and he helped me see that there really wasn’t anything wrong with me. It’s just how I was made.”

Aunt Eileen made a wry face. “It wasn’t easy. My parents—your grammy and pop-pop—were so horrified and upset. They just couldn’t deal with it. They were so disappointed in me. It’s hard, you know, when the way you are, the way you were born, just totally bewilders and embarrasses your own parents.”

I didn’t say anything but felt a spark of recognition at what she was saying.

“Anyway, they gave me a really hard time. Not to be mean or because they didn’t love me but because they didn’t know how else to react. They’re a lot better now, but I’m still not at all what they want me to be. They don’t ever want to talk about my being gay or people I’m involved with. Denial.” She shrugged. “I can’t help that. I’ve found that the more I accept it and accept myself, the less friction I have in the rest of my life and the less stressed and unhappy I am.”

I looked at her in admiration. “You’ve come a long way, baby,” I said, and she laughed. She put her arm around my shoulders and squeezed.

“Thank God for your mom and dad and you and Mary K.,” she said with feeling. “I don’t know what I would do without you guys.”

For the rest of the night I sat on the carpet of my room, thinking. I knew I wasn’t gay, but I understood how my aunt felt. I was beginning to feel different from my family and even my friends, strongly drawn to something they couldn’t accept.

Part of me felt if I allowed myself to become a witch, I’d be more relaxed, more natural, more powerful, more confident than I’d ever felt in my life. Part of me knew that if I did, I’d cause pain to the people I loved most.

 

That night I had a terrifying dream.

It was nighttime.The sky was streaked with broad bands of moonlight, highlighting clouds in shades of eggplant, dove gray, and indigo.The air was cold and I felt the chilly breeze on my face and bare arms as I flew over Widow’s Vale. It was beautiful up there, calm and peaceful, with the wind rushing in my ears, my long hair streaming out behind me, my dress whipping around my legs and molding to the outline of my body.

Gradually I became aware of a voice calling me, a frightened voice. I circled the town, wheeling lower like a hawk, circling and diving and floating on great strong currents of air that buoyed my body. In the woods at the north edge of town, the voice was louder. I went lower still until the tops of the trees practically grazed my skin. At a clearing in the middle of the woods I sank down, landing gracefully on one foot.

The voice belonged to Bree. I followed it into the woods until I came to a boggy area, a place where an underground spring seeped sullenly up through the earth, not flowing strongly enough to make a creek but not drying, either. It provided just enough moisture for breeding mosquitoes, for fungus, for soft green molds glowing emerald in the moonlight.

Bree was stuck in the bog, her ankle trapped by a gnarled root. Gradually she was sinking, being sucked under inch by inch. By the time the sun rose, she would drown.

I held out my hand. My arm looked smooth and strong, defined by muscles and covered with silvery, moonlit skin. I clasped her outstretched hand, slippery with foul-smelling mud, and I heard the suck of the bog around her ankle.

Bree gasped in pain as the root gripped her ankle. “I can’t!” she cried. “It hurts!”

I made waving motions with my free hand, my brow furrowed with concentration. I felt the ache in my chest that signaled magickal workings. I began to breathe hard, and my sweat felt cold in the night air. Bree was crying and asking me to let her go.

I waved my hand at the bog, willing the roots to set Bree loose, to uncoil themselves, to stretch and open and relax and set her free. All the while I pulled steadily on her hand, easing her out as if I were a midwife and Bree was being born out of the bog.

Then she cried out, her face alight, and we rose gracefully, effortlessly in the air together. Her dress and legs were covered in dark slime, and through our hands’ contact I felt the throbbing pain of her ankle. But she was free. I flew with her to the edge of the woods and set her down. Rising into the air, I left her there, weeping with relief, watching me as I rose higher in the sky, higher and higher, until I was just a speck and dawn began to break.

Then I was in a dark, rough room, like a barn. I was an infant. Baby Morgan. A woman was sitting on a bale of straw, holding me in her arms. It wasn’t my mom, but she was rocking me and saying, “My baby,” over and over. I watched her with my round baby eyes, and I loved her and felt how she loved me.

I woke up, shaking and exhausted. I felt like I was battling the flu, as if I could lie down and sleep for a hundred years.

 

“You feeling better?” Mary K. asked that afternoon. I had gotten up and dressed around noon and had puttered around the house, doing laundry, taking out the recycling.

I thought about Cal and Bree and everyone having a circle tonight, and I was aching to go. Cal probably expected me to go after what had happened yesterday. In fact, I really
had
to go.

“Yeah,” I answered Mary K. I picked up the phone to call Bree. “I just didn’t sleep well, woke up all headachy.”

Mary K. mixed herself some chocolate milk and zapped it in the microwave. “Yeah? So everything’s okay?”

“Sure.Why?”

She leaned against the countertop and sipped her hot chocolate. “I feel like there’s something going on lately,” she said.

I cradled the undialed phone on my shoulder.“Like what?”

“Well, like all of a sudden I feel like you’re doing stuff that I don’t know about,” Mary K. said. “Not that I have to know all about your life,” she added hastily. “You’re older; you’ve always done other stuff. I just mean—” She stopped and rubbed her forehead with her hand. “You’re not doing drugs, are you?” she blurted out.

I suddenly saw how things looked from her fourteen-year-old perspective. True, she was an
old
fourteen-year-old, but still. I was her big sister, she had picked up on my tension, and she was worried.

“Oh, Mary K., for God’s sake,” I said, hugging her. “No, I’m not doing drugs. And I’m not having sex or shoplifting or anything like that. Promise.”

She pulled back. “What were those books about that Mom got so upset over?” she asked point-blank.

“I told you.Wicca. Crunchy tree-hugger stuff,” I said.

“Then why was she so upset?” Mary K. pressed.

I took a deep breath, then turned to face her. “Wicca is the religion of witches,” I explained.

Her beautiful brown eyes, so like Mom’s, widened. “Really?”

“It’s just, like, living in tune with nature. Picking up on stuff that already exists all around you. The power of nature. Life forces.”

“Morgan, isn’t witchcraft like Satan worshipping?” Mary K. asked, horrified.

“It really, really isn’t,” I said urgently, looking her in the eyes. “There’s no Satan at all in Wicca. And it’s completely forbidden to work black magic or to try to cause harm to anyone. Everything you send out into the world comes back to you threefold, so everyone tries to do good, always.”

Mary K. still looked worried, but she was paying close attention.

“Look, in Wicca you basically just try to be a good person and live in harmony with nature and with other people,” I said.

“And dance naked,” she said, her eyes narrowing.

I rolled my eyes. “Not everyone does that, and for your info, I would rather be torn apart by wild animals. Wicca is all about what you are comfortable with, how much you want to participate. There’s no animal sacrifice, no Satan worshipping, no dancing naked if you don’t want to. No taking drugs, no pushing pins into voodoo dolls.”

“Then why is Mom so freaked?” she countered.

I thought for a moment. “I think it’s partly that she just doesn’t know a lot about it. Partly it’s that we’re Catholic already, and she doesn’t want me to change my religion. Other than that, I don’t know. Her reaction was a lot stronger than I could believe. It just really pushes her buttons.”

“Poor Mom,” Mary K. murmured.

I frowned. “Look, I’ve been trying to respect Mom’s feelings, but the more I know about Wicca, the more I know that it’s not a bad thing. It’s nothing to be afraid of. Mom will just have to believe me.”

“This sucks,” Mary K. said. “What should I do if they ask me?”

“Whatever you need to say is all right,” I said. “I won’t ask you to lie.”

“Crap,” she said. She shook her head, then rinsed out her mug and put it in the sink. “We’re going to dinner at Aunt Margaret’s, you know. She called this morning before you were up.”