Magical Weddings (78 page)

This Madeleine lady really knew how to screw over her family. My mom was totally right in her assessment of the lunatic. Yet, here I am, about to cast a spell that is equally dangerous. It seems to me that holding so tightly to pain and secrets only causes more pain and more secrets, and I’m unbelievably going along with this plan. Did my mom understand the dangers involved? I think she did, but she also thought she wouldn’t fail.

I pull up on the reins, bringing Snowdrop to a halt. Perry stops behind us and blows a warm puff of horsey breath. We’re loaded with my gear and everything I need to get through the night. I even packed dry firewood and fuel to keep the fire burning in the drizzle and rain. Perry is being a trouper about the hefty saddle bags, but he likes to keep moving.

“Wait, big guy. We’ll get going in just a second,” I tell him.

My focus on what I needed to accomplish before nightfall overshadowed the glaring slip-up that I’m letting my confidence drive me forward without really taking the time to consider all the consequences. With my mother’s instructions written down so precisely and carefully, I’m assuming that I can accomplish the magic and break the spell. The time constraint is the real reason I’m pushing to get this over with. The moon will be off by thirteen degrees tomorrow night and that’s too large of a difference for me to feel comfortable with all that I have to do. This has to happen tonight, or breaking the curse may have to wait another hundred or even five hundred more years. The Morgans can’t continue living this way.

I stare back at the house across the fields and wonder if my mom stood in this same spot twenty-five years ago and thought about leaving me behind forever. Did she consider the possibility that she wouldn’t see her sisters again? Did she hesitate? Aurora Morgan was confident that she could spend one night out on the beach and come home to her newborn baby the next morning knowing that her daughter would grow up and marry the man of her dreams. Instead she died in the waves of the Pacific.
Could the same fate be headed my way?
Is what I’m about to attempt worth risking my life for? Do I want Rook more than I want a life without him?

As if in answer, I feel the faint trace of magic humming from the journal tucked inside my coat.

“I’ll be careful,” I whisper as I stare at the faint outline of my house in the distance.

In the gloom of the drizzly evening I suddenly notice my multi-colored hound dog running at full speed toward me and the horses. I put Basil inside before I went to saddle the horses, but he obviously escaped the confines of the house. Before heading over the dunes to the water’s edge, I wait for him.

“Stop right there,” I command.

Basil’s an obedient boy and stops in his tracks, and then sits down on the grass.

“Go back and do not harass the aunts. I left you a bowl full of dinner and a special bone in your bed.”

He whimpers pathetically at me.

“Do it,” I say in my most firm voice. Like the way he knew I shouldn’t be tied up earlier, he also knows something’s afoot. He will do everything in his power to keep me out of trouble. While this is usually a good thing, tonight I need him to stay out of the way while I cast.

Basil lifts his muzzle and howls a long mournful bawl of rebellion.

“Go to the house, Basil.”

He lies down and presses his chin flat to the earth. The red skin of his saggy eyelids seems to hang extra low as every part of him droops with melancholy and stubbornness.

“If I have to tell you one more time, I will never make you the pumpkin and bacon cookies again.”

Basil grumbles as he rises and then turns for home. It’s nearly dark now and the house is fading into the condensing fog and fading twilight. I bring my attention back to Snowdrop and click my tongue. As his hooves meet the first sandy dune, I hear Basil howling a sad song in the distance.

“Don’t listen to him. He’ll be fine when we return in the morning.”

Perry knickers softly behind me, letting me know he’s ready to keep moving. Then the three of us head toward the waves of the Pacific.

****

I set up my pop-up wind shelter—no little feat in the blustering winds and the gaining storm—and finish unloading Perry. He’s more than happy to shed the weight I’ve packed on him and all but shivers with joy to be rid of it. After I place the supplies under the lean-to, I lead the horses away from where I will be working and hobble them near the dunes in a spot that is somewhat sheltered from the wind. The rocky cliff to the north should help keep some of the gusts from battering them through the long night ahead. Since the chance for increasing rain is about one hundred percent, I quickly rub them down with a second coat of a drying powder of my own magical devising. It will keep them mostly dry for about ten to twelve hours.

Then I begin to construct the foundation for undoing a centuries-old spell. Crouching beneath the lean-to, I grab my lantern and look at the text and my notes for the hundredth time, assuring myself that I didn’t miss anything.

Lay a fire on a bed of volcano stones. Bury a rose quartz pillow deep in its center and sprinkle with the waters of milk thistle and clover.

The whitest fire with a heart of blue will burn away every pain that the wedding curse knew.

When the tide comes in, and with circles crossed,

The sea will erase all lines that bind and confuse the fates.

Bestow upon the sea, the gifts of the bride of the sixteenth century.

Add one measure of ash for the love that burned and let the tide carry it as it turns.

In some ways my mother was a modern woman who adored the feminist movement, was independent and strong, but Goddess, she loved to write spells to her own rhyme and reason. Deciphering her directions is only slightly easier than translating Arabic upside down through frosted glass. Sometimes it makes perfect sense and other times I have to guess at her meanings and come up with my own.

Personally, I prefer to write down exact recipes and painfully clear instructions. This isn’t exactly normal behavior for a witch. The traditional grimoires are all coded and poetic and leave a lot of room for misinterpretation. Aunt Jet and I like to keep things straightforward and simple. Non-magical people can’t work the spells anyway, so to me, it makes little sense to write them in flowery prose.

Setting the journal aside, I stand and turn to the east and call the magic that is in my blood. It’s the essence of who I am and I let it rise to the surface of my being. Earth energies and inner strength hums through my body like I’ve suddenly been plugged into a source of power that no one can see. The magic rises and spreads until I have a field of energy around me and pulsing through the sand beneath my feet. Then I move to an old camping fire pit and dig out the sodden remains of the last fire, to begin from scratch. The lava rocks have to go on the bottom. For good measure I lay them out one by one in a clockwise direction until they form a tight energy spiral. I bury the piece of rose quartz in the exact center. Next I add the iron wood mixed with willow. I pour on the herbal concoction—like my fire needs any more water—but this is in the instructions, so I do it anyway. To make a damp fire blaze under a weeping sky, I squirt most of a can of starter fluid—something else I pilfered from Aunt Jet’s garage—onto the firewood. Spraying on copious amounts of highly combustible liquid and then lighting the fire with a not so careful flick of the wrist and snap of my fingers is probably not the smartest thing I have ever done, but at least the wind was blowing away from me.
Note to self: Fumes from starter fluid are deadly flammable.

A ball of flame whooshes into the air and catches the breeze. Fortunately my hair and eyelashes survive the explosion, but the fire ball hits my pop-up shelter and disintegrates the tent in a heartbeat. The wind takes the remains of the flaming synthetic fabric and blows it down the beach like wispy fire-winged fairies taking flight.

“Oops,” I say, blinking at my mistake and wondering if I’m making a heinous error by attempting to break an ancient curse on about two hours of sleep.
Now or never
, I remind myself as I throw a small tarp over my remaining gear before it’s soaked through with rain. I place beach rocks on the corners to keep the tarp from blowing away and turn back to the fire.

The whitest fire means adding magnesium salts to the flames and then adjusting the amount until it is glowing white like the sea froth under a full moon. I sprinkle on the salts in four doses until I see the desired effect. With the fire burning white, I begin to regain a little confidence after almost setting myself ablaze. Then I move on to the next step. I have to add the copper powder into the center of the fire so it appears to have a heart of blue. I’ve never done this before, so I’m forced to make it up as I work through the process. Along with many of the other things I needed for tonight, I confiscated a section of copper pipe from the house. I jab one end of the pipe into the center of the fire and work as fast as I can at uncorking the copper salts and pour them down the tube.

Mistake number two is exponentially more thrilling than the explosion. I’m so enthralled by the white flames with a ball of indigo in its center that I don’t notice at first the flames shooting out of the end of the pipe and burning the front of my coat. Orange and blue sparkles creep up the front of my chest like an invasion of hot technicolored parasites. They scurry over my clothes and into my hair. I shriek, drop the pipe, and realize that my palms are hotter than they should ever be. The sparks are singeing my hair in patches and I frantically pat my head and clothes in an attempt to put myself out. I thought using my magical dry powder on myself was a good idea because of the weather, but apparently if I was more damp from the rain, I wouldn’t be moth eaten with burn holes.
Being schooled in two life lessons simultaneously is always better than learning them separately, right?

Glancing down at the discarded pipe I see that I’ve also scorched the tarp covering my supplies. I lift the corner that isn’t burned and check on the crow. He’s faring about as well as expected. I think the bird was not doing too badly under the cover, but now that I’m peeking at him, he resumes the panicked squawking and beating its wings inside the small cage.

The sting of tears clouds my vision. I replace the tarp so I don’t have to think about avian murder and then walk over to the water and dip my throbbing hands into the ocean.
How can I do this?
I’ve only just begun and I’ve almost killed myself twice. Taking the heart of the crow and adding it to the ocean is the last part of the ceremony and I can’t even look at the animal without going all blurry-eyed with sorrow and guilt.

I shake it off as I notice the tide has reached its peak before turning and receding. Too many factors are in alignment for this not to work. The phase of the moon in the correct month, of the correct year, and even the timing of the tide are all telling me that I am chosen for this task, but it feels out of my realm of possibility. Auntie Jet always says, “If it doesn’t make you sweat and feel a little crazy in your head, it isn’t worth doing.”

Goddess, I wish Aunt Jet were wrong about that.

Motivation refreshed, I rush over to my gear and grab the willow branch that I set aside earlier. Crow feathers and lilies dangle from the stem as I watch for an opening between waves crashing against the shore. The crow feathers represent Rook and the lilies are the same ones from the small vase he left in my room. They’re also my favorite flower so they represent me well.

I wait for a large wave to retreat back to the sea and then draw two large circles on the wet sand. They intersect leaving a section of the circles crossed. I place the willow branch on the fire and retrieve the pile of personal belongings from everyone in my family and also a shirt that belongs to Rook.

Now the magic really begins. Once I drew the circles I could feel the rise of power connecting me, the fire, the circles, and the ancient spell. It rises like crackling fumes over the beach and encapsulates me and the magic. After feeling somewhat discouraged by the incidents with the fire, the increasing magic taking over the beach raises my confidence another half notch. The next three waves are much smaller and leave my circles untouched, which gives me just the right amount of time to place the objects down in the correct order.

I start with herbs from Aunt Ivy’s collection. I place them on the eastern border and then sprinkle nail clippings from her bathroom trash can—I pray she never finds out I took them—over the herbs. On the south edge of the circle, I place Aunt Jet’s motorcycle emblem and the insole from one of her motorcycle boots. I figure her sweat would be on the insole, and as gross as that sounds, it will work beautifully in bringing her energy to the ceremony. On the north side, I place my mother’s hair clip. It hurts me to lay it on the sand. It’s a small but personal treasure from my mom that I’ve held onto since forever, but I can’t stop now to mourn the loss. The very next wave can erase my work before I’m finished. On the western side, I put Tori’s credit card and a few strands of hair I found in her hairbrush.

Where the circles cross, I place one scoop of ashes from the fire and then lay Rook’s t-shirt down over it. Then with a slap to my charred forehead, I realize that I didn’t bring anything specific for myself. Having already singed half of my head, I’m more than a little reluctant to cut off a lock of hair. I glance at the pile of stuff underneath the tarp and draw a complete blank. It’s like the inside of my brain becomes a blank canvas. Looking down at the shirt and the other personal objects doesn’t bring inspiration, but I do notice how far back the water has pulled and even in the nearly pitch black night, I can see the swell of a giant wave rising.

Panic seems to have two major effects on me. One: I react with ninja like reflexes. And two: Although my reactions are quick, my sense of logic and interpretation become grossly distorted. With the wave building, I know that this is the one chance I will have to work the circle properly. Thinking that I will need my coat because of the increasingly bad weather, and that I don’t have time to sacrifice my undies, I decide that my bra is the best I can do. I’m sure that the bra has been in close contact to Rook’s shirt before so maybe it will have a little extra oomph in the magic department. And, I rationalize on the fly that I need my boots because of the last part of the ceremony. Of course there’s no reasoning with a woman on the verge of pressure induced insanity so the bra wins all rounds.