Halfway Dead (Halfway Witchy Book 1) Page 3

  Gran smiled over her cup again, less enigmatically. She was pleased at my identification, however tenuous. “White turtlehead. It’s quite the catalyst for hunger pangs. At least, it is when prepared properly.”

  “I’ve read of it as fever reducer, but not to instill hunger. Good to know.” I filed that tidbit away in my ever-growing recipe book. Witches aren’t omnipotent; we just learn from people who seem that way. I smiled back at Gran and told her about the man dying, and then added a mournful account of my own inability to regain my natural ebullience.

  “Was the man sickly looking?” Gran asked.

  I shook my head. “No, he seemed fine. Maybe middle years, well dressed. He was handsome.”

  Gran set her cup down with a pointed sort of kindness that told me to pay attention. “Carlie, dear. You’re a white witch. You rid the world of sickness, and you saw a man die inexplicably. Don’t you think it would be unusual for you not to feel lingering sadness at this strangers’ passing?”

  Put that way, I saw the logic. I didn’t expect the feelings to be so dogged. I can usually rebound from anything in a matter of minutes; it’s one of the reasons my spells are rarely off. I don’t take anything personally, except when someone tells me they hate my cooking. That particular iniquity can result in bodily harm. A girl’s gotta have a breaking point, and mine happens to be my skills in the diner. You insult my waffles, and you’ve just launched the first salvo in a war.

  Gran tapped my wrist lightly, one shapely brow raising in question. “Have you practiced with any new charms this week?” She constantly urged me to purify and strengthen my magic through imbuing items on my charm bracelet. It’s like a tiny arsenal of magical power that can be cocked and loaded; no witch in our family has ever gone without one. I don’t wear it to the diner for simple practicality. Cleaning cheese from a magically-charged silver bauble just seems disrespectful, so I leave the bracelet out of the kitchen.

  “I have, and I like the results.” I pointed my fingers, indicating forward motion. “A wind spell. Quite violent, but extremely focused. It took several tries to get the balance correct, but I think I can deploy it at will.”

  “Good. Elemental mastery is particularly suited to charms; the spells are among our most stable. Now”—she adopted the voice of a teacher—“have you followed the line of casting to the next spell in the grimoir?”

  My spell book is decades older than me, but still has ample room for new writing. The creamy vellum is charmed to welcome my new spells, and rejects any other attempts to write on the blank pages. I’ve steadily added to the lineage of magic, even though some of my efforts have taken weeks to perfect.

  When I shook my head to Gran’s question, she held up a finger and drew it through the air in a slow, even line. “What is the next logical direction for your learning, from the wind spell?”

  I thought about it. “Stability?”

  Gran smiled, and I knew I was at least partially right. “Of a sense. You’ll want to wed a spell of turmoil, like wind, with something to add balance to your mind. A spell of clarity is critical in the face of such explosive natural energy. Do you see the progression?”

  I began to tick the possibilities off on my small fingers. “First, clarity will protect me for my next casting.” When Gran stayed silent, I went on. “Then, I can use the clarity as a sort of shield against any reflective or counterspells, even though my body is subject to the natural laws of the wind.”

  “Exactly.” She beamed at me. “But what of your next spell, beyond clarity? Remember, we will not sow wanton discord without a plan to restore that which has been discommoded.”

  Our family is serious about keeping the peace. There is some history of violence, but not without a sincere effort to undo that damage. It’s a critical thread in our magical narrative.

  I leaned my head into my hands, thinking. I envisioned casting a wind spell—or any offensive magic, for that matter—in a small room, or a closed-in space. What would happen immediately after? What would be needed to assure that no additional damage was done? When I opened my eyes, Gran was regarding me patiently. “Silence. I’d cast silence to remove some of the terror, then I could begin correcting the chaos.”

  The smile deepened. “Your instincts do me proud. That’s one of the best possible answers. You could also place a sphere of slowness in the area, but the possibility for continued motion among the affected is still a cause for alarm. Better to quiet the scene first, then begin unravelling the troubles. But tell me, why would you focus on offensive magic, Carlie? Why now?”

  “I . . . I’m not sure. It just seems like that’s the weakest area of my magic. I’ve spent these years learning the natural aspects, and then the internal focus. I mean, when I get spell requests, they’re always so polite and tidy. There’s no sense of danger, so I can proceed carefully.”

  “As well you should,” Gran admitted. “But your cognition of needing to affect the outside world is spot on. A good witch can practice magic in a deliberate manner and never make a mistake. A great witch can do the same under extreme duress. The latter is often when success is needed most.”

  Grans’ house began to settle with the pops and creaks of the golden hour, so I knew it was time to walk the three blocks to my own home and enjoy the sunset. I kissed her cheek, inhaling deeply to make a memory. She smelled of club moss, and blackberry, and a powder that might have been French.

  My boots thumped pleasantly down the street, and I lingered a bit to watch three evening grosbeaks flitter about in a complicated dance of feathers and beaks; it appeared to me that there was a lover’s quarrel, and the plainest of the three birds was going to win. Attagirl, I thought to the female as she flicked her tail and flew off, telling the boys to come find her. Sometimes, you have to make them come to you; that’s my general policy about men, customers for potions or spells, and life in general. But it isn’t because I’m aloof; I just happen to love where I am, and see no reason to go over the mountains seeking that which is already underneath my tiny boots. Gus seemed actually happy to see me when I walked in the living room. He was alert and following me with an intensity that would have been awkward if he hadn’t been a cat. That’s true of most things cats do, though—their behaviors verge on stalking no matter how happy they seem to be. It’s in their nature.

  “I missed you, too.” I began to undress, sitting on the edge of my red couch. There isn’t anything special about the couch, other than the fact that it is gloriously red, low enough that my legs feel just right, and the perfect length for me to stretch out on. “I saw a man die today.”

  “Mrowt?” Gus queried. His eyes glowed with interest.

  “He was in a car, and I guess he had a blood vessel burst in his brain. It was very fast.” I slipped my boots off as I reported this to Gus, who leapt down from the mantel and put his paws on my leg. He butted his head against me twice, then gave my hand a gentle lick. He might not understand everything I said, but there were times that I swore he could have been a psychiatrist. Gus understands me. A tear slid down from the corner of my eye, unwelcome, and I decided that maybe Gran was right. I would mourn the stranger quietly, have some wine, and let the subtle suffocation of accrued grief pass from me as I slept. I didn’t know the man’s name, but I had seen his face. That was good enough for me.

  I stretched out to my full length on the couch, contemplating a few candles I’d lit. After sips of wine that tasted of dark berries and a faraway place, I found myself watching the moon through the kitchen window. Actually, I was watching a patch of moonlight that shines onto the hardwood of the kitchen floor. It’s my favorite part of the house, and I’ve spent countless hours absorbing the gentle orbit of that heavenly body, using the friendly white light to help me construct spells both simple and Gordian. I felt myself slipping away into sleep, hearing the honking of car horns and watching the people crowd around a dying man, wondering why it was important to me.

  I awoke to Gus placing a meaningful paw on my chee
k. He doesn’t slap at me; he leans into me with one of his giant mitts. It’s a silent means to wake me, and I let my eyes come open to the candles burned low and that particular silence of two hours before dawn. The moon had fled from the kitchen; it had business elsewhere, and I stroked Gus once in thanks, listening for all I was worth.

  The brass mail slot in the front door creaked slowly inward, and a light shush revealed that an envelope had come through to rest on the rug. A spell request. They always seemed to come at this time; it was never during the day, but always when my house was most silent. I don’t advertise—Gran never did, either—so I knew that whatever the envelope might hold, it wasn’t anything harmful. My rules for spells are quite simple. The envelope must be handmade, and plain. The request is written on a sheet of handmade paper, and the ink must be from the forest or natural world. It can be the juice of berries, natural dye, or even the stain from a walnut—those are popular in the fall. All that matters is that whoever asks for my help does so in a way that speaks to their honesty.

  My price is neither high nor low. In fact, I rarely accept money; payment for my services is more personal than writing a check or reaching into a wallet. I have no need of money that has no real meaning. Rather, I accept kind acts done for strangers, a promise kept, or a small thing of value from the person who is seeking my craft. These things require some thought, and a degree of existential justification; for that reason, I don’t get many casual requests.

  I stood, careful not to dislodge Gus with any great upset, then padded to the oval rug in the hall. The envelope gleamed in the dark. It was rough cut and handmade, just as I demand, and there was no writing on the exterior. I clicked on a lamp and settled in to read the note. The envelope was a heavy, cleverly-folded shape in which the corners were tucked in to hold everything together without glue or tape. Inside, there were three things. A small, flat dog collar that was stiff with age. On it hung a metal tag that read Cowboy. There was a picture of a teenage boy on the cusp of manhood. He was stretched across a tattered couch in a basement that had the comfortable trappings of a middle-class home. Across the boy, a large, mixed-breed shepherd with a graying muzzle and kind eyes looked adoringly at him. The boy’s hand was placed casually on the nape of Cowboy’s neck, with a familiarity that could only come from long years together. Tears sprang to my eyes for the second time in one night, and I looked at the third thing, a letter written on linen-colored card stock. In blue ink that was clearly made from berries, the smeared words read, “Fifteen of my son’s sixteen years were with him; please help him with the pain.”

  I couldn’t help it, I cried. I mean, hard. Gus comforted me with head butts and a deep rumbling purr, but it was some time before I could get it together enough to look at the picture again. I’ve gotten requests like this before; they’re totally selfless, and usually all I’m being asked to do is short-circuit time. Time heals, it’s true, but the endurance needed during healing can be too much, and that’s why people come to me. I carefully folded the envelope back together, keeping the collar out, and went to the kitchen. I had two hours before the sun rose, and I wasn’t going to waste it.

  My cellar is dry, earthy, and dark. It’s perfect for growing mushrooms, casting spells, and breeding spiders of various types; Gus has refused to keep them under control, and I can’t bring chemicals into my workspace. For now, the arachnid population and I have a gentle sort of détente. For now.

  The walls are stone, and I have small alcoves in which I place candles for light. There is no electricity down there. I keep as much of the modern world at bay as possible. I like the sense of closeness between me and the earth; it brings my spells into focus in ways that I cannot live without. I’m a better witch because of the silence, and I moved unerringly between the two heavy wooden tables where I keep all of the things I need to perfect my art.

  Yes, I said perfect. I don’t practice anything. My Gran taught me that. I strive to be the best witch I can, pure of spirit and intention. In turn, I hope that my spells reflect that freedom from any toxic influences of the dark world. With that in mind, I turned the collar over in my hands, feeling the slight nicks and stretching that had occurred during the years of its use. It hadn’t been Cowboy’s last collar, only his first. In fact, I suspected that it was the only collar Cowboy had ever worn. He was a dog well loved, and his relationship would have surpassed the need of collars. Whoever his family was, they belonged to each other equally. The need for restraint faded with the last vestiges of puppyhood. As a dog, he was a friend. As a friend, I imagined that Cowboy was without peer. I let my hands move over the table, selecting items that mirrored such a spirit, and in an hour, I was ready to begin.

  I wrapped the collar carefully around a clay bowl that had so many cracks it could not possibly hold a liquid. That was fine, because the only things going into the bowl were jasmine, hairs from Cowboy that had been stuck in the buckle of the collar, and three colored lumps of beeswax.

  “Te le cheile,” I commanded, and the wax began to obediently soften before my eyes. My Gaelic sounded robust in the muffled dark of my cellar, and I watched as the orange, blue, and black waxes began to braid together sinuously. I placed three dog hairs into the swirling mass, letting the wax climb toward my fingers as it spun. Twirling about the hairs, the three colors wove together, forming a small, thin candle with a wick that was nearly invisible.

  I watched soundlessly as the spell completed, the surface of the heated beeswax cooling visibly. I took an ordinary match, struck it to the bowl, and lit the hairs aflame. They vanished instantly, burning into the new candle with a small sizzle as the tiny spark penetrated downward into the pencil-thin column of wax. In a flash, the candle collapsed, sending small colorful waves against the lip of the bowl before drying into a charmless gray dust. I lifted the collar gently, feeling the spell alive under my fingers. With economical motions, I replaced the collar and picture into the envelope, smeared the dust across the exterior, and closed my eyes in a silent moment of thanks for the generosity granted me during the casting. I felt light, even giddy, knowing that the spell would work. A boy would move on, his grief consumed by the spirit of the very animal who he loved, and who loved him in return no matter how many states of matter might be between them. For difficult loss, the easiest spell to cast invoked a visitation. There’s a difference between the physical world and our dream state; in that same vein, there’s a clear division between a dream and a visit. A visitation has all of the hallmarks of a waking moment; you experience the person, event, or in this case, animal, with all five senses. They are for all intent as real as you are, lying in your bed. There is no fear from a visitation, only relief. Joy, too. There is some mild sadness, but that fades as it becomes clear that the departed is in no pain, merely separated by states of being, and that too will seem temporary, because it is.

  As I ascended the stairs to put the envelope back on the porch, the sky was pinking in the east. A chickadee called from the roof as the town began to rise, announcing the morning, along with the low purr of warming car engines and the odd enthusiastic bark of a dog. The air was fresh and a bit cool, and, after a deep inhalation, I decided that today was going to be good.

  Chapter Three: A Tree Grows in the Forest. Duh.

  “Look at this,” I said to Glynna, who was busily slicing lemons. She’s one of the servers, and an unrepentant owner of the world’s largest sweet tooth. At fifty-years-old, she was on her fourth or fifth set of teeth, we assumed, because she consumed exactly two food groups. Coffee with sugar, and sugar combined with other ingredients that we call baked goods. Aside from those two items or varieties thereof, I think she draws her sustenance from the air. She’s remarkably calm for someone who can drink two pots of coffee by herself during a shift. That much java would have me twitching like a tuning fork held by nervous weasel. I held out a slice of what we call bug toast, known to the rest of the universe as raisin bread. There were at least two dozen raisins crammed into this one humble sl
ice, meaning that Louis had intentionally loaded that particular part of the loaf with extra goodies for Glynna. How he knew exactly when she would be slicing bug toast for early orders was beyond me; it was as if he was the Cassandra of dried fruit encased in bread, the difference being that we all believed he could see the future, since Glynna invariably was awarded the jackpot slices. With a cheery wave, she hailed Louis and began to methodically shove the first slice into her mouth, despite standing at the counter amongst her customers. When someone had the temerity to call for more coffee, she gave them a baleful stare over her own mug before shoving the second slice into her mouth with a defiant flick of the wrist. Her brown eyes settled into something like fevered joy as she washed down the treats with wincing sips of coffee, then turned to her tables while patting her mouth delicately with a pilfered napkin. I smirked and began to walk back into the kitchen when I heard a voice, low but distinct, call my name.

  “Carlie, right?”

  I fixed on the origin of the question, and found myself looking at a man comfortably placed at the end of the counter. How I missed him, I still don’t know. He was in his late twenties, blonde, ropy like a runner, and dressed in the functional manner of all outdoorsmen who are more interested in actually being outside than talking about it. His eyes were dark brown, he had a mild tan, and his hair was cut short in what seemed to be a practical and damn-the-consequences sort of manner. He smiled at me half-heartedly, until I raised a brow and acknowledged him. His big hands were curled around a coffee cup with a light touch, and he seemed to be taking my measure, but I wasn’t offended. The candor in his eyes was refreshing. I get stared at occasionally. This was being recognized. Big difference.