The Rules of Magic (Practical Magic 0)(8)
“It’s summer and we’re free. Let’s live a little,” Franny said, grabbing hold of Jet’s arm to pull her past the cemetery gates.
“Let’s live a lot,” Vincent suggested. “Or at least as much as we can in this hick town.”
They ordered ice cream sodas at the linoleum counter of the old pharmacy, lingered on leafy lanes, and sprawled on the grass in the park to watch the territorial swans chase badly behaved children through the grass, which left them in gales of laughter. Their favorite activity on especially hot days was a hike to Leech Lake, a spot most people avoided, for if a swimmer waded into the murky depths past the reeds, scores of leeches awaited. Franny kept a packet of salt in her backpack to disperse any of the leeches that attached themselves, but for some reason none even came close.
“Be gone,” she cried, and they were.
The Owens siblings spent hours sunbathing, then they dared each other to dive off the high rock ledges and take the plunge into the ice-cold, green water. No matter how deeply they dove, they immediately popped back up to the surface, shivering and sputtering, unable to sink or even keep their heads underwater.
“We’re oddly buoyant,” Jet said cheerfully, floating on her back, splashing water into the air. Even in her old black bathing suit she was gorgeous, the sort of young woman in bloom who often incites jealousy or lust.
“You know who can’t be drowned,” Vincent remarked from his perch on a flat rock. He had learned all about this in The Magus, with illustrations of women being tied to stools and sunk into ponds. He shoved his long hair back with one hand, knowing his father would pitch a fit when he arrived back in the city with this thick mop. When his sisters didn’t respond and merely looked at him with confused expressions, he provided the answer. “Witches.”
“Everything can be explained with scientific evidence,” Franny said in her blunt, forthright manner. “I don’t believe in fairy tales.”
“Franny,” Vincent said in a firm tone. “You know who we are.”
She didn’t like her brother’s implication. Were they subhuman beings, among those creatures to be feared and chased by mobs through the streets? Was that why the neighbors avoided them, and why, on that odd day in the kitchen when they had tested themselves, the table had risen?
“I love fairy tales,” Jet said dreamily. She felt like a water nymph when she floated in the lake, a pure elemental spirit. She toweled off before placing a lace cloth over a table-shaped rock, where she set out a lunch of egg-salad sandwiches and celery sticks. She’d filled the thermos with Frustration Tea from a recipe she’d found in Aunt Isabelle’s kitchen. Anyone partaking of this drink would be granted good humor and cheerfulness, attributes of which Jet believed Franny was sorely in need.
A grin spread across Vincent’s face as they discussed their inability to sink. “I think what we are is pretty clear.” He raised his arms and the finches in the thickets took flight in a single swirling cloud. “See what I mean? We’re not normal.”
“Normal is not a scientific term,” Franny said dismissively. “And anyone can frighten a finch. A cat could do that. Try calling them to you.” She held out one hand and several finches alit, chattering in her palm until she blew on them to shoo them away. She was quite proud of this particular ability.
“You’re proving my point!” Vincent laughed. He jumped into the lake, and then all but bounced, as if repelled. “Check it out!” he cried cheerfully as he floated just above the water.
That night at supper, Vincent gave his sisters a look, then turned to their aunt and asked if the stories he’d heard about the Owens family were true.
“You know who you are,” Isabelle responded. “And I suggest you never deny it.”
She told them of an Owens cousin named Maggie, who had come to stay one summer, and tried her best to befriend the locals, telling tales about her own family. How they danced naked in the garden, and took revenge on innocent people, and called to the heavens for hail and storms. She went so far as to write an opinion piece for the local newspaper, defaming the Owens name, suggesting they all be incarcerated.
The family locked the door and told Maggie to go back to Boston. The outside world being against them was one thing, but one of their own? That was another matter entirely.
Maggie Owens was so enraged when she was cast onto the sidewalk with her suitcase that she took up cursing, and with every curse she grew smaller and smaller. Some spells work against you, or perhaps the Owens cousins inside the house threw up a black reversing mirror. Each wicked word Maggie spoke was turned back upon her. She couldn’t even unlatch the lock on the door. Whatever magic ran through her blood had evaporated. She’d denied who she was, and when that happens it’s easy enough to become something else entirely, most likely the first creature you see, which in her case was a rabbit darting through the garden. Maggie went to sleep in the grass a woman, and awoke as a rabbit. Now she ate weeds and drank milk that was left to her in a saucer.
“Keep your eyes open,” Isabelle told the siblings. “You may see her in the yard. This is what happens when you repudiate who you are. Once you do that, life works against you, and your fate is no longer your own.”
Jet’s favorite place to be was the garden. She adored the shady pools of greenery where azaleas and lily of the valley grew wild, but ever since they’d been told their cousin’s story, she was anxious when rabbits came to eat parsley and mint and the curly Boston lettuce that was planted in neat rows.