An Unlikely Witch (19 page)

They were simple magic, or so people told Nat.  And they frustrated her daughter more than anything else on earth because playing with them required finesse.  Little bits of magic and lots of grounding.

Kenna was an adept of the lots-of-headlong-magic school of doing things. 

She did, however, seem to have more patience than usual this morning.  So they would play with little bits of light, for however long life left them in this place of simple happiness.

Or rather, the two small people with big magic would play.  Nat couldn’t lift her arms without a crane or a really good reason, and she had no firebug magic. 

Kenna careened into those arms a moment later, still intent on her orange lights.  Nat leaned down and kissed her battering ram of a daughter.  “Hey, sweetie.”

“Me catch pretties.  Mama help.”  Said in the imperious tones of a princess who expected minions to follow orders.

Nat grinned—the kiddo had picked the wrong family to join if she wanted minions.  “Can you think of a different way to try to catch the lights?” 

Aervyn snorted.  Quietly.  He was well familiar with his little cousin’s lack of flexibility.

Kenna stared, thinking hard.  “Okay.  I jump.  Mama help.”

Always on the attack.  But at least she was considering new ideas this morning.  Maybe time for a tiny lesson on centering.  Nat held out a finger and took a breath, grounding herself into the earth beneath her feet.  And then she began to sing quietly, trusting Aervyn would understand. 

Kenna stared, sensing the shift in her mama, but not understanding.

Nat simply centered more deeply, overjoyed it was coming so easily this morning.  Jamie said her serenity was a tangible thing to anyone with mind magic.  She let it shine, calling to the small orange glows.  The lights circled, listening.  The child in Nat’s arms took a breath of her own, curious.

The lights came closer.  Kenna took a wild swipe and they danced back again, a tumble of small firecrackers.  The little girl giggled, delighted.

“Sorry.”  Aervyn looked shamefaced.  “I forgot I spelled them to do that.”

“Never apologize for creating happiness,” said Nat, smiling at him quietly.  Then she kissed her daughter’s forehead and slid herself forward, reaching out her hands to make a small circle of three.  “Let’s see if we can ask the firebugs to come join our circle.  We’ll have to sit very quietly.”

Kenna wiggled and then eyed her cousin, who was sitting admirably still.  Nat waited for hero worship to have its usual effect.  The small girl settled, energy quieting.  Focusing.  Trying her very best to imitate the skilled, disciplined witchling who held her left hand and the mama who held her right.

Nat breathed into the stillness, helping the tiny circle to hold its center.

The lights floated down, dancing with motes of dust, and came to rest on Kenna’s knees.  The little girl freed her physical hands, but Nat could feel the bonds of circle, still unbroken.  Carefully, Kenna reached out her palms.  Asking, as nicely as the almost-two-year-old knew how.

Nat felt a flutter from Aervyn’s presence.  The lights shaped themselves into a butterfly and landed, wings fanning slowly, on the little girl’s hand.

“Ooooh.”  One daughter, entirely awed—and beautifully grounded in her center.

Aervyn grinned, one proud teacher to another.

Nat grinned back.  And took notes.  If Kenna could learn something that foreign to her nature, her mama could roll with some difficult life lessons too.

And maybe, eventually, the journey would bring butterflies.

-o0o-

Jamie sat on his couch, loving the quiet happiness oozing from the playroom.

And then crashed onto an entirely different planet as two women landed in his living room.  He loved them both, but he knew the look on Moira’s face.  The one that came when a witch shouldered heavy responsibility.

Oh, hell.

“We’d like to talk to you and Nat.”  Sophie took a seat, never looking away.  “Nell is baking more cookies, if you want to send Kenna home with Aervyn.”

“Nat’s happy this morning,” he said quietly.  But his heart tangled even as he said it.  The healers were done—that’s what his wife had said when she’d come home yesterday.  Even without looking, he could feel what beat in the two minds in his living room.

They weren’t done anymore.

“We would wait.”  Moira’s eyes held vats of love.  “But word traveled last night.”

It had.  There had been fierce sympathy on Devin’s cliffs, along with laughter and hijinks.  Jamie tried to think why that mattered—and then he knew, and it pulled all the blood right out of his head.  Ginia.  “You can’t ask her that.”

“Ask me what?” said Nat quietly, standing in the doorway.

“I have reached the edge of my skills.”  Sophie stepped forward, the aura of healer power wrapped thick around her.  “I told you that yesterday, and I meant it.  But I felt a tiny edge of something.”  She held up a hand.  “Not disease, not illness.  Of that, I’m certain.”

The screaming terror in Jamie’s gut subsided.  A little.

The healer’s eyes saddened.  “I can’t treat what I can’t see.  And it’s entirely possible that I can’t treat whatever this is, even if I could see it.”

“You want to use Ginia.”  Nat sank to a seat, her words stark, her eyes more so.

“Yes.”  Sophie knelt at Nat’s knees.  “On this, her skills exceed mine.”

“No.”  Nat’s head was already shaking.  “I won’t ask that of her.”

“It is possible,” said Moira gently, “that you will hurt her more by not asking.”

“No.”  Now all of his wife was shaking.  “We just tell her it’s not possible.  Nothing about tiny edges of anything.  I don’t care what her skills are—she’s eleven years old, and I won’t make her responsible for this.”

Jamie’s mind wasn’t so sure.  He, too, had a student who surpassed him.  And every day with Aervyn was a balance between protecting him and allowing him to use his gifts.  Training him for what he would one day be asked to do, over and over again.

Life would demand much of Ginia Walker, too.

And the two healers wouldn’t be here if Nell and Daniel had said no.

He met Sophie’s eyes.  If they wanted any other answer to have a chance, it wasn’t the two of them who needed to act now.  He knew his wife.  She might be learning how to throw a punch, but that would never be her greatest strength.  She needed a chance to look deep into the heart of things and find balance.

As gently as he could, he took the arms of the two wisest women he knew and smiled at Nat.  “Why don’t you take Moira to the studio?  Have some tea, show her some of your best pretzel moves.  Sit with this for a while.”

Her eyes never left his.  “This is your decision too.”

He knew, in his heart, that it wasn’t.  He would choose what she chose.  And his wife had a journey to walk before she could do that.  He was sending her to do that with the best damn guide he knew.  “I know.  Come back when you’re ready to make it.”

The sadness in her eyes totally undid him.

The pride in Moira’s finished the job.

-o0o-

“It’s such a lovely place you’ve made here.”  Moira walked slowly around Spirit Yoga’s main studio, observing.  Marveling.

Trying to put aside why she’d come long enough to just be.  To appreciate.

It was a master gardener who had created such a space.  Attention to the tiniest detail, wooing of all the senses.  Light touches of vanilla and sandalwood and the slightest hint of deep forests.  A flute playing in the distance, the music of the faeries.  A small bench holding wee bowls of roasted chestnuts and sprigs of holly and two very cute felted wood mice.

A harmonious whole with notes of whimsy and wonder, all meant to tease and entice, and then to hold.  A place that offered sturdy rooting to those who wished.

It would take someone far duller than an old witch to underestimate the creator of such a gift.  “You do magic within these walls.  The kind that changes lives.  I can feel it in the very air.”

Nat smiled.  This place settled her—Jamie had been very wise.  “You’re in a mystical mood.”

“I’m Irish—we rarely leave that mood entirely behind us.”  And this time of year provided rather more shadows to stir the mysteries.  “Tell me what you need, sweet girl.  In my home, I would offer you some tea and conversation.”  She looked around at the candles and bits of festive holly.  “But your space speaks of something different than words.”

“In the house I grew up in, my family sometimes sat down to dinner and never said anything.  I learned that conversation is something my soul will never have enough of.”  Nat laid her hands gently over an old granny’s.  “And I have a small kitchen, if you’d like some tea.”

It was a lovely invitation, and one that seemed to be coming from a soul that had found at least temporary firm ground to stand on.  Moira cast her eyes around once more at the softly burning candles, the shiny green leaves and red berries.  “Perhaps we might stay in here.  It’s a space that calls to me today.”

“Okay.”  Nat fetched two round, firm pillows from the corner.  “I won’t insult you by asking if you’d like a chair.”

“Ha.  Issuing a dare, are you?”  Moira settled herself on one of the pillows, finding it very comfortable.  If she needed a wee bit of assistance getting up later, there was no shame in that.

Two glasses smelling delightfully of lemon were set onto the floor between them.  “I can go put the kettle on, if you’d prefer.”

She surely didn’t.  “Your lemonade is as legendary in December as it is in June, my dear.”  Made by a hand that entirely understood the right balance between astringent and sweet.  Moira took a sip and looked at the holly on the window ledge, and pondered. 

Nat’s eyes followed hers.  “I like how it shines.”

Perhaps it was that simple a choice.  Or perhaps not.  “In my gran’s day, holly was used for those who needed a good, hard sweat.  She said it was the best way to clear out things stuck inside a soul.”  Moira smiled and raised her cheery tumbler.  “She made a mean glass of lemonade, too.”

“Good for toxin clearing.”  Nat’s voice trailed off, her mind percolating.  “I asked Ginia for the holly.  She had some sitting on the table when we went for dinner a couple of nights ago.”

A very tricky young healer.  Moira didn’t try to hide her proud smile.  “And what else did she have on the table?”

“A basket of pretty wildflowers.  And something very pungent—it smelled a bit like rotten onions.”

The healer versions of comfort and a kick in the pants.  Three options, and the patient had chosen the path up the middle.  “She tries to support your journey.”

“It feels more like a battle.”  Nat sat up a little straighter, but dodged the hardest direction the conversation could have headed.  “Lately, it’s helped me to think of it as one.”

An Irish witch could handle a meander or two.  “That’s a different pair of glasses for you.”

“It is.  And not ones I ever wanted to wear, really.”  The smile was wistful and sad.  “But I’ve had a lot of years to practice serenity in the face of turmoil, and it didn’t do me a damn bit of good this time.”

It was so very tempting to bat down the harsh judgments and lay comforting words in their place.  Moira refrained.  “You know how to receive better than almost anyone I know.  To open, and to wait in a place of uncertainty.”  She paused.  “And it serves you, even now.  But perhaps this time, you are called to a different journey as well.”

Nat’s eyes cleared.  “That’s what the crystal ball is about, I think.  It’s calling people to journeys.”

So Moira had long suspected.  It didn’t surprise her that their wise yogini was the next to work that out.  “It called me across the waters as a young woman.  The one and only time it ever spoke to me.”

“How did that feel?” asked Nat quietly.

“They were some of the most awful days of my existence.”  Moira ached, even now, remembering the turmoil of her younger self.  “But it led to the rest of my life.”

A smile now.  “You’re one of the most content people I know.  You’ve lived the life it brought you to fully and well.”

“Yes.”  Moira nodded slowly, and knew she stood on a precipice.  One where no step might be right and she still had to choose.  Very carefully, with the steadiness of more than seventy years, she cast her lot.  “You know of two the orb has called.  And you know of their outcomes.  You are the third.”

Nat’s eyes slid slowly closed.  “You’re telling me there is hope.”

She truly didn’t know.  But two red mittens were almost finished.  “I’m telling you there might be reason to fight.”  And forced herself to add the whole truth.  “Even if we lose.”

“I’m not a fighter.  Never was.”  Nat quietly shrank into the floor.  “Even my mother used to tell me so.”

Well. 
That
, an old witch could handle.  “Your mother is an idiot, my dear.  And she hasn’t the slightest insight on where your strength lies.  But on this, she is right.  You aren’t a fighter.”

Astonished eyes stared out of a face gone white. 

Moira shook her head.  “Your strength is holding the very center, Natalia Sullivan, and in seeing the true light that shines from the center of everyone else.”  And now, perhaps, it was time for why they’d really come to this beautiful space.  “Tell me—when you look at Sophie’s center, what do you see?”

Nat frowned.  “She seeks to know.  To understand.“   She paused, finding words.  “And to help what she finds be the very best it can be.”

Moira tucked away the gorgeous words—Sophie might well have need of them soon.  “And when you look at Ginia?”

Nat’s breath sucked in, sharp and hoarse.  “I see a child.”

This was far too important to accept the answer they both wanted to be true.  “Beyond that.”

A head bowed, shaking.  “A fighter.  She’s a warrior, just like her mama.”

“Yes.”  Moira waited a long, terrible moment, not sure she was brave enough to do this.  “And given the choice between accepting a thing as too hard or trying and failing, what would our warrior girl choose?”

The silence between them lasted long enough for the candles on the windowsills to begin to splutter.

But when she looked up again, Nat had found her answer.  “I’ll go talk to Jamie.  And then I’ll go talk to Ginia.”