The Coven (2 page)

The Leapvaughns were mischief makers, joke players. The Burnhide clan focused on doing magick with gems, crystals, and metals, and the Brightendales were the medical clan, using the magick of plants to heal. Or . . . there was Woodbane. I shivered. There was no way I was of the dark clan, the ones who wanted power at any cost, the ones who battled and betrayed their fellow clans for control of land, of magickal power, of knowledge.

I considered it. Of the seven great clans, if I was in fact from one of them, I felt most like the Brightendales, the healers. I had discovered that I loved plants, that they spoke to me, that using their magickal powers came naturally to me. I hugged myself, smiling. A Brightendale. A real blood witch.

Which means my parents must also be blood witches, I thought. It was a stunning notion. It made me wonder why we’d been going to church every Sunday for as long as I could remember. I mean, I liked my church. I liked going to services.They seemed beautiful and traditional and comforting. But Wicca felt more natural.

I sat up in bed again. Two images kept coming at me: Cal leaning over me, his golden eyes locked on mine. And Bree, my best friend: the shock and pain on her face as she saw Cal and me together.The accusation, hurt, desire. Rage.

What have I done? I wondered.

I heard my parents downstairs in the kitchen, starting coffee, unloading the dishwasher. Flopping back down in bed, I listened to the familiar sounds: Not every single thing in my life had changed last night.

Someone opened the front door to get the paper. Today was Sunday, which meant church, followed by brunch at the Widow’s Diner. Seeing Cal later? Would I talk to him? Were we going out now, a couple? He had kissed me in front of everyone—what had it meant? Was Cal Blaire, beautiful Cal Blaire, really attracted to me, Morgan Rowlands? Me, with my flat chest and my assertive nose? Me, who guys never looked at twice?

I stared up at my ceiling as if the answers were written on the cracked plaster. When the door to my room burst open, I jumped.

“Can you explain this?” my mom asked. Her brown eyes were wide, her mouth tight, with deeply carved lines around it. She held up a small stack of books, tied with string. They were the books I had left at Bree’s house because I knew my parents didn’t want me to have them, my books on Wicca, the Seven Great Clans, the history of witchcraft. A note attached to the books said in big letters: “Morgan—You left these at my house. Thought you might need them.” Sitting up, I realized this was Bree’s revenge.

“I thought we had an understanding,” Mom said, her voice rising. She leaned out my bedroom door and yelled, “Sean!”

I swung my legs out of bed. The floor was cold, and I pushed my feet into my slippers.

“Well?” Mom’s voice was a decibel louder, and my dad came into my room, looking alarmed.

“Mary Grace?” he said. “What’s going on?”

Mom held up the books as if they were a dead rat. “These were on the front porch!” she said. “Look at the note!”

She turned back to me. “What do you think you’re doing?” she demanded, incredulous. “When I said I didn’t want these books in my house, that didn’t mean I wanted you reading them in someone else’s house! You knew what I meant, Morgan!”

“Mary Grace,” my dad soothed, taking the books from her. He read their titles silently.

My younger sister, Mary K., padded into the room, still in her plaid patchwork pajamas. “What’s going on?” she said, pushing her hair out of her eyes. No one answered.

I tried to think fast. “Those books aren’t dangerous or illegal. And I wanted to read them. I’m not a child—I’m sixteen. Anyway, I was respecting your wishes not to have them in the house.”

“Morgan,” my dad said, sounding uncharacteristically stern. “It’s not just having the books in the house, and you know it. We explained that as Catholics, we feel that witchcraft is wrong. It may not be illegal, but it’s blasphemous.”

“You are sixteen,” Mom put in. “Not eighteen.That means you are still a child.” Her face was flushed, her hair un-brushed. I could see silver strands among the red. It hit me that in four years she would be fifty. That suddenly seemed old.

“You live under our roof,” Mom continued tightly. “We support you. When you’re eighteen and you move out and get a job, you can have whatever books you want, read whatever you want. But while you’re in this house, what we say goes.”

I started to get angry.Why were they acting this way?

But before I said anything, a verse came into my head. Leash my anger, calm my words. Speak in love and do no hurt.

Where did that come from? I wondered vaguely. But whatever its origin, it felt right. I said it to myself three times and felt my emotions ratchet down.

“I understand,” I said. Suddenly I felt powerful and confident. I looked at my parents and my sister. “But Mom, it isn’t that easy,” I explained gently. “And you know why; I know you do. I’m a witch. I was born a witch. And if I was, then you were, too.”

December 14, 1976.

Circle last night at the currachdag on the west cliffs. Fifteen of us in all, including me, Angus, Mannannan, the rest of Belwicket, and two students, Tara and Cliff. It was cold, and a fine rain fell. Standing around the great heap of peat, we did some healing for old Mrs. Paxham, down to the village, who’s been ailing. I felt the cumhachd, the power, in my fingers, in my arms, and I was happy and danced for hours.—Bradhadair

 

My mother looked like she was about to have a stroke. Dad’s mouth dropped open. Mary K. stared at me, her brown eyes wide.

Mom’s mouth worked as if she was trying to speak but couldn’t form the words. Her face was pale, and I wanted to tell her to sit down, to take it easy. But I kept silent. I knew this was a turning point for us, and I couldn’t back down.

“What did you say?” Her voice was a raw whisper.

“I said I’m a witch,” I repeated calmly, though inside, my nerves were stretched and taut. “I’m a blood witch, a genetic witch.And if I am, you two must be also.”

“What are you talking about?” Mary K. said. “There’s no such thing as a genetic witch! God, next you’ll be telling us there are vampires and werewolves.” She looked at me in disbelief, her plaid pajamas seeming young and innocent. Suddenly I felt guilty, as if I had brought evil into the house. But that wasn’t true, was it? All I had brought into the house was me, a part of me.

I raised my hand, then let it fall, not knowing what to say.

“I can’t believe you,” Mary K. said. “What are you trying to do?” She gestured toward our parents.

Ignoring her, Mom said faintly, “You’re not a witch.”

I almost snorted. “Mom, please.That’s like saying I’m not a girl or I’m not human. Of course I’m a witch, and you know it.You’ve always known it.”

“Morgan, just stop it!” Mary K. pleaded. “You’re freaking me out. You want to read witch books? Fine. Read witch books, light candles, whatever. But quit saying you’re really a witch.That’s bullshit!”

Mom snapped her gaze to Mary K., startled.

“’Scuse me,” Mary K. muttered.

“I’m sorry, Mary K.,” I said. “It’s not something I wanted to happen. But it’s true.” A thought occurred to me. “You must be one, too,” I said, finding that idea fascinating. I looked up at her, excited. “Mary K., you must be a witch, too!”

“She is not a witch!”
my mom shrieked, and I stopped, frozen by the sound of her voice. She looked enraged, the veins in her neck standing out, her face flushed. “You leave her out of it!”

“But—,” I began.

“Mary K. is not a witch, Morgan,” my dad said harshly.

I shook my head. “But she has to be,” I said. “I mean, it’s genetic.And if I am, and you are, then . . .”

“Nobody is a witch,” my mom said shortly, not meeting my eyes. “Certainly not Mary Kathleen.”

They were in denial. But why?

“Mom, it’s okay. Really. More than okay. Being a witch is a wonderful thing,” I said, thinking back to the feelings I’d had last night. “It’s like being—”

“Will you stop?” Mom burst out. “Why are you doing this? Why can’t you just listen to us?” She sounded on the verge of tears, and I was getting angry again.

“I can’t listen to you because you’re wrong!” I said loudly. “Why are you denying all of this?”

“We’re not witches!”
my mom screeched, practically rattling my windows.

She glared at me. My dad’s mouth was open, and Mary K. looked miserable. I felt the first hint of fear.

“Oh,” I snapped. “I guess I’m a witch, but you’re not, right?” I snorted, furious at their stubbornness, their lies. “Then what?” I crossed my arms and looked at them. “Was I adopted?”

Silence. Long moments of the clock ticking, the thin, scratchy sound of elm twigs brushing my windowpanes. My heartbeat seemed to go into slow motion. Mom groped for my desk chair, then sank into it heavily. My dad shifted from foot to foot, looking over my left shoulder at nothing. Mary K. stared at all of us.

“What?” I tried to smile. “What? What are you saying? I’m
adopted
?”

“Of course you’re not adopted!” said Mary K., looking at Mom and Dad for their agreement.

Silence.

Inside me, a wall came crashing down, and I saw what lay behind it: a whole world I had never dreamed of, a world in which I was adopted, not biologically related to my family. My throat closed and my stomach clenched, and I was afraid I was going to throw up. But I had to know.

I pushed past Mary K. into the hallway, then thundered down the steps two at a time. I tore around the corner, hearing my parents on the steps behind me. In the family office I yanked open my dad’s files, where he keeps things like insurance papers, our passports, their marriage license . . . birth certificates.

Breathing hard, I flipped through files on car insurance, the house’s AC system, our new water heater. My file read
Morgan.
I pulled it out just as my parents came into the office.

“Morgan! Stop it!” said Dad.

Ignoring him, I rifled through immunization records, school reports, my social security card.

There it was. My birth certificate. I picked it up and scanned it.
Birthday, November 23.
Correct.
Weight, eight pounds, ten ounces.

My mom reached around me and snatched the birth certificate out of my hand. As if in a slapstick movie, I snatched it back. She held tight with both hands, and the paper ripped.

Dropping to my knees, I hunched over my half on the floor, protecting it till I could read it.
Age of mother: 23.
No. That was wrong because Mom had been thirty before she had me.

Then the edges of the paper grew cloudy as my eyes locked onto four words:
Mother’s name: Maeve Riordan.

I blinked, reading it again and again at the speed of light.
Maeve Riordan. Mother’s name: Maeve Riordan.

Mechanically I read down to the bottom of my torn page, expecting to see my mom’s real name, Mary Grace Rowlands, somewhere.Anywhere.

Shocked, I looked up at my mother. She seemed to have aged ten years in the last half hour. My dad, behind her, was tight-lipped and silent.

I held up the paper, my brain misfiring. “What does this mean?” I asked stupidly.

My parents didn’t answer, and I stared at them. My fears came crashing down on me in hard waves. Suddenly I couldn’t bear to be with them. I had to get away. Scrambling to my feet, I rushed from the room, colliding with Mary K., almost knocking her down.The torn scrap of paper fluttered from my fingers as I pushed through the kitchen door and grabbed the keys to my car. I raced outside as if the devil were chasing me.

May 14, 1977

Going to school is more a bother these days than anything else. It’s spring, everything’s blooming, I’m out gathering luibh—plants—for my spells, and then I have to get to school and learn English. What for? I live in Ireland. Anyway, I’m fifteen now, old enough to quit. Tonight’s a full moon, so I’ll do a scrying spell to see the future. I hope it will tell me whether I should stay in school or no. Scrying is hard to control, though.

There’s something else I want to scry for: Angus. Is he my mùirn beatha dàn? On Beltane he pulled me behind the straw man and kissed me and said he loves me. I don’t know how I feel about him. I thought I liked David O’Hearn. But he’s not one of us—not a blood witch—and Angus is. For each of us there’s only one other they should be with: their mùirn beatha dàn. For Ma, it was Da. Who is mine? Angus says it’s him. If it’s him, I have no choice, do I?

To scry: I don’t use water overmuch—water is the easiest but also the least reliable. You know, a shallow bowl of clear water, gaze at it under the open sky or near a window. You’ll see things easily enough, but it’s wrong so often, I think it’s just asking for trouble.

The best way to scry is with an enchanted leug, like bloodstone or hematite, or a crystal, but these are hard to lay your hands on. They give the most truth, but brace yourself for things you might not want to see or know. Stone scrying is good for seeing things as they are happening someplace else, like checking on a loved one or an enemy in battle.

I scry with fire, usually. Fire is unpredictable. But I’m made of fire, we are one, and so she speaks to me. With fire scrying, if I see something, it can be past, present, or future. Of course the future stuff is only one possible future. But what I see in fire is true, as true as can be.

I love the fire.

—BradhadairY

 

I ran across the frost-stiffened grass, which crunched lightly under my slippers. The front door opened behind me, but I was already sliding onto the freezing vinyl front seat of my white ’71 Valiant, Das Boot, and cranking the engine.

“Morgan!” my dad yelled as I squealed out of our driveway, the car lurching like a boat on rough waters. Then I roared forward, watching my parents on our front lawn in my rearview mirror. Mom was sinking to the ground; Dad was trying to hold her up. I burst into tears as I wheeled too fast onto Riverdale.