Seeker

6. Turloch-eigh

June 1997

Today my cottage seems filled by a cloud of sadness. I know that this isn't a day for sorrow; it should ne a day for happy memories, for quiet contemplation and reminiscing. Yet the sorrow comes along unbidden. Today is the fifth anniversary of Mama's death.

It seems so long ago that we lived in this house together, yet I remember so much about her-her intensity, her passion for learning, the way she strove to kindle in me an appreciation for the complexity of the world. And her morality. If they knew the truth of her beliefs, many witches who revere her today would not consider my mother a moral person. Yet her heart was large, her empathy complete. She taught me healing spells and did the utmost to help animals, children, anyone who was vulnerable. She has a strong sense of right and wrong, and she felt that our family had been wronged too many times. I miss her so terribly, even five years after her death. I would like to believe that somewhere, wherever her soul is on its journey, she is aware of the work I am doing, and she is proud.

Today I stayed away from the library. I did non want to be tempted; it would be so easy to hurt my mother in my nostalgia and my sadness. But tomorrow I will return to my work. I will continue compiling… continue learning.

I cannot think of a better gift that I could give to Mama.

— J.C.

“Sorcier.”

My head jerked at the French word, so casually spoken, as a man walked past Da and me. We were in the town proper of Saint Jérôme du Lac, which was basically one street, no stoplight. One petrol station. But at least there were sidewalks and some small shops that had a quaint, frontiersy charm. I had parked my car not far from the town’s only diner, which was right next to the town’s only grocer. It was dark and colder than an ice cave. I pulled my coat tighter around my neck and wondered that my father didn’t get knocked over by the stiff breeze. And then I’d heard it: “Sorcier.” Witch. I know the word witch in at least seventeen different languages: useful for a Seeker. Bruja in Spanish. Hexe in German. Italians call us strega. Polish people say wiedzma. In Dutch, I listen for toverheks. Once in Russia I had old potatoes thrown at me while kids yelled, “Koldunya!” Long story. In Hungary one says boszorkány. And in French Canada one says, “Sorcier.”

But why anyone from the town would identify my father as a witch was still a mystery. I resolved to ask him about it later, after we ate. Two more people greeted Da as we went into the diner. He acknowledged them with a bob of his head, an embarrassed nod. I scanned them with my senses: they were just townspeople.

I, for one, felt better after a dinner of sausage, potatoes, canned green beans, and four thick slices of a rough brown bread that was incredible. I felt self-conscious, sitting with Da; I felt eyes on me, speculation. Da introduced me to no one, never said my name aloud, and I wondered if he was being careful or if he had forgotten who I was.

“Eat that,” I encouraged him, gesturing at his plate with my fork. “I paid good money for it.”

He gave me a slight, wan smile, and I found myself hungrily looking for a trace of his old, broad grin. I didn’t see it.

“Your mother would be amazed to see my appetite so small,” he said, forcing a laugh that sounded more like a cough. “She used to tease me about being able to eat for three.”

“I remember,” I said.

Da picked his way through his meal and left so much on his plate that I was forced to finish it for him. He did seem a little less shaky afterward, though. I bet he would be a hundred percent better after I got a couple more good meals into him. Luckily the grocer’s was still open after dinner. I bought a cabbage, some potatoes, some apples. Da, not even pretending to take an interest, sank down into a rocking chair near the door, his head on his chest, while I shopped. I bought meat—missing the somewhat intimidating sterile American packaging—chicken, fresh fish, and staples: flour, rice, sugar, coffee, tea. Inspired, I bought laundry detergent, other cleaning supplies. I paid for everything, collected my dim ghost of a father, and loaded groceries and Da into the car.

By the time we got back down the road to the cabin, Da was a waxy shade of gray. Worriedly I helped him into the dark house, felt unsuccessfully for a light switch, gave up, and used witch sight to lead him to a tiny, bleak, horrid bedroom—the only one in the house. It was about the size of a walk-in freezer and had about as much charm. The walls were unpainted pine planks spotted with black, age-old sap. The rusty iron bed, like the furniture in the living room, looked like it had been saved from a garbage heap. Unwashed clothes were piled in small heaps on the floor. Next to the bed was a small, rickety table, covered with candles, dust, and old cups of tea. Da sank down onto dingy sheets and rested his arm across his eyes.

“Da—are you ill?” I asked, suddenly wondering if he had cancer or a death spell on him or something else. “Can I get you something? Tea?”

“No, lad,” came his reedy voice. “Just tired. Leave me be; I’ll be fine in the morning.”

I doubted that but awkwardly pulled a thin coverlet over him and went out into the lounge. I still couldn’t find a light switch but brought in the groceries, lit some candles, and looked around. The cabin was freezing. As cold as outside. Shivering, I searched for a thermostat. Ten minutes later I came to the sinking realization that there was no thermostat because the cabin had no electricity.

Smothering a curse, I lit more candles. How had Da managed to live like this for any length of time? No wonder he looked so bad. I’d thought all the candles and lanterns had been witch gear—but they were his only light sources as well.

There was a fireplace with some handfuls of pale ashes scattered on its hearth. Of course there was no firewood inside—that would be too easy! I pulled on my coat and tramped around in the snow outside. I found some firewood, wet with snow. Inside I kindled a fire, and the flames leaped upward, the damp wood sizzling. Instantly the room seemed cheerier, more inviting. The fireplace was small but threw back an impressive heat into the frigid room.

Da was sleeping, and I was bone tired but filled with a frenetic energy that wouldn’t admit to fear. I had been on the road since morning; it had been a long, strange, awful, sad day. I was in a cabin in the backwoods of Canada with my unrecognizable, broken father. I heard wolves in the distance, thought of Morgan, and missed her with such a powerful ache that I felt my throat close. I wanted to sit down in one of the vinyl recliners and weep again but knew that if I started, I wouldn’t stop. So instead I rolled up my sleeves and went into the kitchen.

At midnight I sank down onto a couch I hadn’t even realized was there because it had been covered with litter. I pulled an ancient, ugly crocheted afghan over me and closed my eyes, trying to ignore the hot tears that burned my cheeks.

In the morning I was awakened by the sounds of my father shuffling out of his room. He walked through the lounge without noticing me on the couch, then stopped in the kitchen doorway. I waited for his response. Last night, after thanking the Goddess for the propane-run refrigerator, stove, and hot water heater, I had done a major clean of the kitchen. Da stood there, and then he seemed to remember that if the kitchen looked like this, someone else must be in the cabin, and he looked for me. I sat up, swinging my long legs over the side of the couch.

“Morning, Da,” I said, standing and stretching.

He managed a smile. “I’d almost forgotten you were here. It’s been too long since someone said good morning to me,” he said wistfully. He gestured at the kitchen. “You do all this?”

“Aye.”

“Ta. I just haven’t been up to much lately—I know I let the place get into a mess.” Then he went into the kitchen and sat down at the table, and suddenly I remembered how he used to do that in the morning, just come in and sit down, and Mum would make him a cup of tea. Grateful for any reminder of the old days, I filled the kettle with water and set it on the stove. I fixed him tea and toast with butter, which he managed to eat a little bit of. For myself I fried eggs and some rashers of bacon: fuel for the day’s labor ahead. I sat down across from Da and tucked in. I still had a thousand questions; he was still the only man who could answer them. I would have to choose my time.

After breakfast I set him to work, helping me clean the rest of the house. While I was piling papers and things neatly on the desk so I could wipe the surface, I couldn’t help noticing letters from people, crude notes written in broken languages, handwritten thank-you notes in English and French, praising my da, praising his skill as a sorcier. With shock I realized that Daniel Niall, Woodbane, formerly of Turloch-eigh, son of Brónagh Niall, high priestess of Turloch-eigh, was basically the local medicine man, the village witch. I couldn’t believe it. Surely this was incredibly dangerous. As far as I knew, Da hadn’t worked real magick for years because it would be one way for Amyranth to trace him. Was it now safe? Why, and how?

Burning with questions, I went to find Da and sighed when I found him asleep again, on the bare mattress in his room. It had only been about an hour since I’d started him on the candles and lanterns. Well, sleep was probably good for him. Sleep and food and someone looking out for him.

In the meantime, I couldn’t just sit around this place. I felt a need to get out, breathe fresh air. In the end I made Da a sandwich and left it covered on the kitchen table. Then I bundled up every piece of cloth in the place, threw it into the boot of my car, and headed for the laundromat in town.

“What do you do with your trash?” I asked Da at dinner. There was quite a mound of black plastic trash bags in the front yard. Sadly, they actually didn’t make the yard look that much worse.

He looked up from his boiled potato. “Take it to the dump, outside town.”

I groaned silently. Great. Now I’d have to haul it all in my car. After we ate for a few more minutes, I said, “Da, all I know is what Uncle Beck told me, what I’ve heard whispers of from other people through the years. But now I’m here, across from you, and you’ve got the answers. I need to know: Why did you and Mum leave us? Why did you disappear? And why is it now all right for me to know where you are?”

He didn’t look at me. His bony fingers plucked restlessly at the cuff of the clean flannel shirt I had given him to put on. “It’s ancient history, lad,” he said in a voice like a dry leaf. “It was probably all a mistake. Won’t bring your mother back, anyway.” A spasm of pain crossed his face.

“I know it won’t bring Mum back,” I said. I took a swig of beer, watching him across the table as though he might disappear in a puff of smoke to avoid my questions. “That doesn’t mean I shouldn’t know the answers. Look, Da, I’ve waited eleven years. You took my life apart when you left, and Linden’s, and Alwyn’s. Now I need to know. Why did you and Mum leave?”

Though I’m only nineteen, I’m a Seeker. Which means I make my living by asking people questions. I’ve grown used to waiting for answers, asking over and over until I find out what I want to know. I’m very good at my job, so I said again, very gently, “Why did you and Mum leave? It’s almost unheard of for a coven to split up if trouble’s coming.”

Da shifted in his seat. He held his fork and patted a piece of cabbage on his plate, pushing it this way and that. I waited. I can be very patient.

“I don’t want to talk about it,” he said at last. His eyes flicked up at mine, and I noticed again how their color had faded, had clouded. But there was a hint of sharpness in his gaze, and in an instant I knew that my father still had some kind of power and that I needed to remember that. “But you always were like a bulldog—once you got your teeth in something, you didn’t let it go. You were like that as a lad.”

I met his eyes squarely. “I’m like that still, Da,” I said. “Actually, I’ve made a career of it. I’m a Seeker for the council. I investigate people for a living.”

I watched Da’s eyes, waiting for his reaction. Would he be proud of me? I had always imagined he would be, but then, so many of my imaginings had been proven hopelessly wrong in the last twenty-four hours. My father looked at me considering, and then his face broke into a sudden smile.

“So you are,” he said softly. “Well, that’s quite an accomplishment, son. Right, then, bulldog, if you’ll have it out of me—Selene sent the dark wave after us, at Turloch-eigh.”

I frowned, my brain kicking into gear.

“Us who?” I asked.

He cleared his throat. “Your mother and me. Both of us. Your mother felt it that night, felt it coming, knew who it was aimed at. Knew who it was from.”

“Was Selene finally getting you back for leaving her? The dark wave that killed the entire village was about Selene’s jealousy?”

He gave a short bark of a laugh. “Yes. She’d always said that I would need to look over my shoulder the rest of my life. And she was right. Well, until now.” He paused. “At least they were able to come together again safely.”

“How’s that?” I wasn’t sure if I had heard him correctly. “Who came together again?”

Da was looking at me, frowning. “Gìomanach, what have you been thinking all these years? That we were gone, along with everyone else, and we never came back for you and you didn’t know why?” He shook his head. “Oh, Goddess, forgive me. And I ask your forgiveness, too, son.” He swallowed, then went on. “No. That night Fiona felt the dark wave coming. We knew it was for us, and us alone, but that Selene and Amyranth would be happy to destroy the whole village if it included us. So, taking a chance, the only chance we could, we fled, leaving you three there, spelled with protection circles. We thought if we left, we would draw the dark wave away from the village. That it would follow us, instead of concerning itself with Turloch-eigh. Later, when I scried and saw the village gone, I was devastated—our flight hadn’t saved anything. But years later Brian Entwhistle found me. You remember Brian, right?”

I searched my memory and came up with a big, ruddy bear of a man. I nodded.

“It wasn’t safe to contact you kids or Beck. Too risky. But once or twice we were contacted by older witches, powerful ones who could protect themselves. Brian was one. I was astonished when he found us—thought he’d been dead all those years.”

I was sitting on the edge of my seat, my hands gripping the arms. Here it was, the whole story, after so long. It wasn’t what I’d thought it would be.

“Brian told us that you kids were safe, that Beck had gotten you. He told me the village had actually been spared.”

“But wait a minute,” I said, remembering something. “I went back there, not three years ago. The place is deserted and has been for years. No one lives there. I saw it.”

“Yes, they all returned a short time after the dark wave left—trickled back in one family at a time. They tried to make another go at it there, but apparently the dark wave came too close. It left a destructive spell in its wake. After everyone had come home and settled down, things started happening. Accidents, unexplained illnesses. Crops failed, gardens died, spells went wrong. It took a year of that before the whole village up and moved closer to the coast. They made a new town there, thirty miles away, and Brian told me they had prospered.”

I was dumbfounded. “So everyone left and no one bothered to look for us? They left me and Linden and Alwyn to die?”

“They didn’t know you were there, lad. Susan Forest knocked on our door that night. Mum and I had already fled. You kids slept like the dead and were spelled besides. Fiona and I wanted you to sleep soundly, not to wake up in the middle of the night and find us missing and be afraid.” Da’s voice caught there, and he shook his head as if to clear it. “Anyway, when she got no answer, she figured we’d all taken off.”

I shook my head, frowning in disbelief. “All this time I’ve been mourning not only my parents, but everyone I knew, everyone in our village. And now you’re telling me they’re hale and hearty, living thirty miles from home. I don’t believe this!” I said. “Why didn’t anyone contact us at Beck’s? Why hasn’t anyone told me this before?”

Da shrugged. “I don’t know. I guess Beck probably knows. Maybe he thought that if you knew, you’d leave him and go back to the village.”

“Why didn’t Brian Entwhistle bother to tell us that our parents were alive?” I was feeling a growing sense of indignation. All those years of tears, of pain. . so much of it could have been avoided. It made me ill to think about it.

Da met my eyes. “What would you have done if you’d known?”

“Come to find you!” I said.

“Right.”

Oh.

“Your mum and I thought that if we sacrificed ourselves, we could save our children, save our coven. When I scried and saw the village gone, it was a hard blow. I thought it had been for nothing. I was relieved when I found out my vision had been wrong.”

“But after you learned that the coven was safe, why didn’t you come back?”

“The dark wave was still after us. I’m not sure if it was always Selene, but at the time we reckoned it was. No one’s ever hated me like that. Goddess willing, no one ever will. At the time, it seemed that if we kept Selene occupied with finding us, she’d have less time to go after other covens, other witches. It seemed worth it.” He shrugged, as if that were no longer so clear.

“Why aren’t you in hiding now?” I asked. “Are you not in danger anymore?”

My father let out a deep breath, and again I was struck by how old he seemed, how frail. He looked like my grandfather. “You know why. Selene’s dead. So’s Cal.”

I nodded. So he did know. I figured the council must have told him when they’d found him with Sky’s lead. I drank my tea, trying to digest this story. It was light-years away from anything I had imagined.

“So now you work magick, now that you’re not hiding from Amyranth?”

Da shrugged, his thin shoulders rising like a coat hanger in his shirt. “Like I said, Fiona’s dead,” he said. “No point in hiding, in keeping safe. The one thing I wanted to protect is gone. What’s the point in fighting anymore? It was for her I kept moving, kept finding new sanctuaries. She wanted us to stick to this plan; I wanted to do what she wanted. But she’s gone now. There’s nothing left to protect.” He spoke like an automaton, his words expressionless, his eyes focused on the table in front of him.

By the time he finished talking, my face was burning. On the one hand, I was glad that he and Mum had had some noble cause behind their disappearance, glad they had acted unselfishly, glad they had been trying to protect others. But it was also incredibly hurtful to listen to my own father basically negate my existence, my dead brother’s, my sister’s. Obviously staying alive now for our sakes hadn’t occurred to him. I was glad he had been loyal to my mother; I was angry that he had not been loyal to his children.

Abruptly I got up and went into the living room. I undid the huge bundle of washing in the lounge, then made up Da’s bed with clean sheets and blankets. He was in the same position when I got back to the kitchen.

“I’m so sorry, son,” he said in a thin voice. “We thought we were acting for the best. Maybe we helped some—I hope we did. It’s hard to see clearly now what would have been best.”

“Yes. I see that. Well, it’s late,” I said, not looking at him. It was only eight-thirty. “Maybe we should turn in.”

“Aye. I’m knackered,” Da said. He got up and shuffled with his old man’s walk toward the one bedroom. I sat down at the kitchen table, had another cup of tea, and listened to the deep silence of the house. Again I missed Morgan fiercely. If she were here, I would feel so much better, so much stronger. I imagined her arms coming around me, her long hair falling over my shoulder like a heavy, maple-colored curtain. I imagined us locked together, kissing, rolling around on my bed. I remembered her wanting to make love with me and my saying no. What an idiot I’d been. I resolved to call her the next day as soon as I could get into town.

I washed up the few dishes and cleaned the kitchen. By ten o’clock I felt physically exhausted enough to try to sleep. I wrapped myself up in a scratchy wool blanket and the ugly afghan. After being washed, the afghan was only about half as big as it had been. Oops.

From the couch I extinguished the lanterns and candles with my mind, and after they were snuffed, I lay in the darkness that is never really darkness, not for a witch. I thought about my unrecognizable da. When I was younger, he’d seemed like a bear of a man, huge, powerful, an inevitable force to be reckoned with. Once when I was about six, I had been playing near an icy river that ran by our house. Of course I fell in, got carried downstream, and only barely managed to grab a low-hanging branch. I clung to it with all my strength while I frantically sent Da a witch message. It was long minutes before he came leaping down the bank toward me and splashed into the strong current. With one hand he grabbed my arm and hauled me out, flinging me toward the bank like a dead cat. I was shaking with cold, blue and numb, and mainly he felt I’d gotten what I’d deserved for being so stupid as to play near the river.

“Thanks, Da,” I gasped, my teeth chattering so hard, I almost bit my lip. He nodded at me abruptly, then gestured to my wet clothes. “Don’t let your mum see you like that.” I watched him stride up the bank and out of sight, like a giant, then I crawled to my knees and made my way home.

But he could be so patient, teaching us spells. He’d begun on me when I was four, simple little spells to keep me from burning my mouth on my tea, to help me relax and concentrate, to track our dogs, Judy and Floss. It’s true I caught on quickly; I was a good student. But it’s also true that Da was an incredibly good teacher, organized in his thoughts, able to impart information, able to give pertinent examples. He was kind when I messed up, and while he made it clear he expected a lot from me, still, he also made me feel that I was special, smart, quick, and satisfying to teach. I used to swell like a sponge when he praised me, almost bursting in the glow of his approval.

I turned on my side, trying to find a position that coordinated the old couch’s lumps with my rib cage. I heard Da sleeping restlessly in the other room, as if he didn’t even know how to do a soothing spell. Like yourself, idiot, said my critical inner voice. I rubbed the bridge of my nose with two fingers, trying to dispel a tension headache, then quickly sketched a few runes and sigils in the air, muttering words I’d know since childhood. Where I am is safe and calm, I am hidden from the storm, I can close my eyes and breathe, now my worries will all leave. What second-year student doesn’t know that? I said it, and instantly my eyes felt heavier, my breathing slowed, and I felt less stressed.

Just before I fell asleep, I remembered one last scene with my father. I had been seven and full of myself, leagues ahead of the other third-year students in our coven. To show off, I had crafted a spell to put on our cat, Mrs. Wilkie. It was to make her think a canary was dipping about her head so she would rear up on her hind paws and swat at it over and over again. Of course, nothing was there, and we kids were hysterical with laughter, watching her pointlessly swipe at the air.

Da hadn’t found it so funny. He came down on us like the wrath of heaven, and of course my companions instantly gave me up, their fingers pointing at me silently. He hauled me up by my collar, undid the spell on poor Mrs. Wilkie, and then marched me to the woodshed (a real woodshed) and tanned my bum. I ate standing up for three days. Americans seem to be much more skittish about spanking, but I know that after that, I never again put a spell on an animal for fun. His approval was like the sun, his disapproval like a storm. I got love and affection from Mum, but it was being in Da’s good stead that mattered.

Today his approval or disapproval would mean little to me. With that last sad thought, I fell asleep.