Wild is the Witch (12)
I tell myself I was overreacting, that I let a lonely owl frighten me so much I ran back home. But even as my muscles relax and I sink farther into my mattress, I can’t make myself believe it.
A gust of wind kicks up, howling through my old bedroom window, and I get out of bed to pull down the shades. Large shadows move in the distance, and even though I know it’s impossible, I’m sure I see the sacred owl in the branch of a tree, watching me through the glass.
***
When I wake up the next morning, I’m still feeling uneasy. A restless night of sleep did nothing to calm my worries, and as I walk down the stairs and into the kitchen, I know I need a release before work. I leave Mom a note telling her I’m heading out early, and when my tea is ready, I pour it in a travel mug and walk into the chilly morning air.
It rained overnight, a fresh spring rain that covers the forest in an earthy smell that fills my lungs, the scent calming me from the inside out. I learned a long time ago that nature has a way of easing the wound-up gears in my chest, of loosening the knots I’ve tied tighter and tighter over the years.
The smell of rain is one of my salves. The sound of rushing water is another.
And when those things don’t work, when the worry becomes too much, I give it to the earth, just like my grandma taught me.
The world is starting to brighten, dawn giving way to the light. The soil is damp beneath me, and the trees rustle in the early-morning breeze. A layer of fog hangs heavy in the sky, shrouding the treetops in a veil of mist, and house finches sing in the distance.
The herbs and sticks I gathered last night were scattered by the wind, and I pick them up and set them back in the same circle I used for Amy’s spell, and for all the spells that came before it. I take a long sip of tea, the warmth sliding down my throat and fighting off the morning chill.
I’ve never left a spell unfinished before, and that combined with a night of playing Pike’s words over and over has left me even more tense. I want to let it go like Mom says, release the fear and worry, and this is the only way I know how.
I get started.
Everything around me is peaceful, and when I call the magic toward me, it slides into place as if it has been waiting for me to return since last night. It surrounds me in a layer of warmth, and an energetic buzz dances over my skin.
When I picture Pike Alder, the magic shifts in response, heavy with the intent to turn him into a witch. Or, more precisely, turn him into a mage.
Witches are born of the earth, entering the world blood-slick and silent, halting their cries to marvel at the feel of magic on their skin for the very first time. Anyone who acquires the ability to direct magic later in life is a mage, and there aren’t many of them.
Witches are forbidden from turning other people, and the mages who exist today almost entirely consist of people who were turned illegally or who were drenched in magic by accident when a witches’ power spun out of control.
Either way, intentional or not, the overwhelming presence of magic makes them aware of that sixth sense, that switch inside us that recognizes the fragments of the universe. But mages are dangerous—they gain access to the magic around them in a single instant, and if there isn’t a witch present to teach them how to control it, the consequences can be dire.
That’s what happened to Alex Newport—he grabbed all the magic he could, engulfing himself in it, and Amy wasn’t strong enough to help. She couldn’t stop him from pulling more and more until the reaction was fatal.
But I needn’t worry about that. The beauty of what my grandmother taught me is that I can write a spell that will never be put to use. I can let it hold all of the feelings that are building inside me like a brewing storm, acknowledge the fears and hurts that would otherwise be all-consuming, and do it in a way that respects the world around me.
I may not like Pike, but I appreciate the order of the universe. I have no wish to change it, and while turning Pike into a mage might make him see that magic isn’t bad, that witches aren’t deserving of the animosity he has toward us, I would never actually do it. Still, it’s comforting to go through the motions, to let myself imagine doing something to Pike that he would view as truly awful—even though it isn’t awful at all.
Magic is a gift, one that Pike Alder is wholly undeserving of.
But the point of a curse is to deliver a consequence that is unimaginable to the victim, and being turned to a witch would be unimaginable to Pike.
It’s the perfect curse for him.
I speak my intentions as the particles of magic shift in the air, following my voice and transforming into a curse. Once it’s formed, I focus on the herbs in the stone circle. A spell of this nature has to bind to something powerful in order to stay intact, which is why the herbs are the perfect vessel—they’re strong enough to hold it, but once I burn them, the curse will disperse on the wind as if it never even existed, taking my fears along with it.
A ritual almost as perfect as the woman who taught it.
The curse gets clearer, and when a dense mass of magic radiates in the space in front of me, I know it’s ready. I inhale, filling my lungs with all my worries, with all my too-big feelings and painful vulnerability, and on my exhale, I release them along with the curse.
The curse rushes toward the herbs, but before it can bind to them, a solid stream of air blows into my face as a brown object enters my peripheral vision and flies past me in a blur.
I watch in horror as the northern spotted owl comes into focus, directly between me and the stone circle, the curse slamming into his chest. He lets out a rough bark before flying upward and stopping in a nearby tree, watching me from above.