Ineffable (32 page)

Bastien snapped and snapped and snapped until his fingers cramped up. But no flame appeared, and he convinced himself it was a hallucination, the result of too much sugar and not enough sleep, or whatever nonsense he concocted to explain the incident away. Then other things began to happen.

While sitting in class his stomach growled, and he thought about the madeleine cakes and hot chocolate he’d had for breakfast while visiting his aunt in Paris last summer. A second later both appeared on his desk. It wouldn’t have been so bad had the homemade offering not materialized on his aunt’s china, the hot chocolate steaming in a porcelain cup complete with saucer.

The only thing that saved him was a childhood returning spell that had popped into his head like a specter. For reasons unknown his father had insisted he learn it as a boy, drumming the rhyme into his head as a nursery tale long before he’d ever dreamed he might be a witch. A classmate had perked up, curious about the pastries, now sans dishes, but he managed to allay his suspicions by offering one of the little treats. The boy had been too busy chewing enthusiastically to query why they were suddenly there on top of Bastien’s text book. He quickly gave all of the pastries away, his appetite vanishing in the turmoil rioting in his belly.

One incident was an aberration, something easily explained away. Flowered china was harder to ignore, especially since he’d said a few words and made said china disappear as quickly as it appeared. He’d thought those silly spells were just stories his father had made up to tease him as a child. But they were real. His brain had reached back effortlessly, his mouth recited a memory, and poof, random hallucinations undone.

After that it was as if the flood gates had opened. Every related memory surged forward in his mind. Scenes he hadn’t recalled or even remembered in a dozen years played themselves before his minds’ eye like a film. Only this was a show filled with lessons he was able to access as easily as one changed a channel with a remote.

You must be grateful, my boy, otherwise magic will play tricks on you,
he recalled his father saying.
The powers that be see everything done, everything you need, everything you think you may want. And if you don’t appreciate your gifts, they have a way of turning them against you.

Vanishing flowered porcelain during Spanish was a pretty mean trick if you were a 17-year-old boy.

Then there was the time he thought of the pierogi their Polish housekeeper had made for him in Prague two summers past. Stuffed with potato and bacon, the little dumplings had been served with just a touch of butter and sprinkled with cheese, delicious. Five had appeared in the same earthenware bowl Ramine had used to serve them to him. That one he’d had to play off, too many people saw him, sitting in the lunch room as though it wasn’t strange to be eating food not served in the cafeteria with silver flatware edged in gold.

His reputation as an eccentric had been firmly set after that, and he quickly learned to control his thoughts by focusing intently on whatever he was doing. At least then if something popped in unexpectedly it wouldn’t be out of context.

Are we not feeding you enough?
His father asked after the pierogi incident. Bastien felt a pang of sadness as his sire’s laughter echoed pleasantly in his ear, sending tingles down his neck and shoulders.

So much culinary magic, my boy. One would think you were starving! But then I suppose what they say about teenagers and their hollow legs is true.

His father had begun speaking in his mind not long after the madeleine incident. It had taken some getting used to, and at first Bastien had been certain he was going crazy. Now, sarcastic as his sire often was, having him mentally close by was comforting.

Very funny, dad. This was completely unintentional, I assure you.

That’s your problem. You must always intend, otherwise your mind will make decisions for you based on the strength of your inner most desires and wants, not what you need and request.

Easy for the old man to say from wherever the hell he was.

Swearing,
his father had said absently, and faded in a way that signaled to Bastien he wouldn’t return again that day.

Now, staring at his latest catastrophe, he realized it was just like his father to be concerned with proprieties inside his own head, yet be nowhere around now that his inheritance was going up in smoke before his eyes.

Bastien stared morosely into the flames. This fire was much larger than that first tiny flame sprouting from his fingers. It had started the same, but it had quickly grown bigger than a bonfire. Actually, now it was bigger than a frickin’ house fire. He’d tried everything he could to put it out. At this point all he could do was watch as it devoured the woods behind his house.

It would be nice if you put that out. Some of these trees are quite old.

“And just how do you suggest I do that, father?” He didn’t even bother to hide his sarcasm. With this inferno raging before him the last thing he needed was endless mind prattling. He needed a bloody big fire extinguisher and post haste!

Will it so.

Bastien threw his hands up in fury and actually stomped in a circle. “You think I haven’t done everything I can think of to douse this bloody blaze?” he roared, and was aghast when the flames devouring his family forest blazed even hotter.

The flames seeming to snarl as they stretched toward the sky, moving unreasonably fast like wild, freed animals racing for a distant gate. Their home was fairly isolated, but it was only a matter of time before someone saw the smoke and called the fire department, if they hadn’t already.

Begging and pleading, you ridiculous boy. Thinking only of the humiliation in admitting that you accidentally set your own forest ablaze. Fear of jail, by God. You are a witch descendant from a long and proud line. You are Suirre!
Order
the flames to die.

Bastien shook his head in anguish. “Stop!” he cried. “Stop now! I order you to extinguish immediately! God help me, stop!”

The flames continued to burn, but the flame seemed to snarl less angrily.

Is that all you’ve got? Once you sense the advantage, press forward. Go hard! Isn’t that what you young people say?

Bastien narrowed his eyes and walked toward the flames with his hands out, fingers spread like a magical boxer.

“I said end!” He roared.

The flames immediately responded, became sluggish, snapping sullenly lower and lower to the earth.

Almost there.

“End this, now, completely.”

The last flame sputtered and reluctantly died with an audible snap of extinguished fury.

Bastien fell to the ground on his butt and looked at the devastation he’d caused. “Good grief,” he whispered.

Good,
his father said, his pride tangible even in his mind, but Bastien only shook his head. His father wisely kept silent, no doubt sensing his son was near the breaking point.

Looking at the ruins of what had formerly been a majestic and beautiful wood Bastien felt utterly deflated. He was exhausted from worrying about what might happen next. He was getting tired of watching every thought, of devouring old magic texts until his eyes felt like sandpaper, and his jaws were sore from yawning.

Just the other day in the hallway, he’d heard a girl’s thoughts. She thought his lack of sleep and resulting gauntness poetically lovely. She’d wondered if there was anything she could do to make him feel better. He’d had to force himself not to roll his eyes, the silly twit. Yes, he was suffering, but it wasn’t the least romantic, and what could the girl possibly do to help him? She had no idea someone like him even existed.

Then his films classmate Peada had walked by. She’d smiled at him like she always did, and the little frisson that tickled him each time he saw her had been more aggressive that day. The other girl melted away as though she had never been.

His eyes narrowed as he watched Peada walk by; her hunger had been palpable. Was she on a diet, and if so what for? She was already quite slender…

Now, faced with endless stalks of charred trees and blackened earth, ash and gently smoking rock where lush greenery had once thrived, Bastien wished for his father with all his heart. “Come home,” he whispered, voice cracking.

Would that I could, my boy, but I cannot. There is nothing I would like more than to guide you through your transition in person, but I dare not come near you right now. To do so might lead to your death. I cannot explain why at present, but chin up old fellow! We must wait to meet again, until you are strong enough to defend yourself. Know that I am proud of the strength you’ve shown dealing with this life change alone.

But I need you. Bastien barely bit back the words, nodding as he pushed himself to his feet. He wasn’t sure his father could see him where ever he was, but he dashed a hand across his face to remove any tears that might have fallen without his permission and stood scowling with hands on hips.

“Now to fix this mess,” he muttered, eyeing the charred husks that had once been his forest.

He began to recite the simple growth and renewal spell he’d learned from one of his first storybooks as a child. It turned out to be a grammar school primer for fledgling witches, one his father had claimed was lost one day when he’d turned five. He remembered being heartbroken. It had been his favorite book, and with good reason. Each time he read from it wonderful things happened. His toys had come to life and marched around the room. Or his cocker spaniel had talked instead of barked.

Now he grinned when grass began to shoot up from the charred earth and the knarled, blackened trees began to painfully but certainly right themselves and regrow their bark. It felt good to do something restorative with this new power. But he wished things would go faster. This rate of growth wasn’t much faster than what might have occurred naturally.

As though his mind had telegraphed his desire, which it had, the grass grew in thicker, faster, the trees snapped upright with vigor, and the earth rumbled softly as the black of the burn flaked off and melted into the ground.

He watched for a while, then turned to go back inside. He had to go to school, and he was already running late.

“Please,” he prayed quietly. “Don’t let anything else happen today.”

*********

“Please,” Peada prayed quietly. “Let me make it through today.”

She felt like boo-boo. She’d been feeling worse and worse for months. Most days she felt as tired as a woman three times her age, and she had just turned seventeen.

She sighed looking at the circles under her eyes. Everything ached. Even her gums felt sensitive, like her formerly strong, white teeth might be getting shaky. She was getting really thin, too. And she hadn’t been fat to begin with. Her father had scowled watching her push the food around on her plate at dinner last night.

“I hope you’re not getting that skinny women’s disease,” he remarked. “You’ve been off your food for some time now. Are you feeling alright?”

She’d smiled and assured him she was fine, that a big lunch was the reason she wasn’t hungry now. But the truth was, she was starving! She just couldn’t seem to stomach food anymore. Nothing satisfied her, and most things actively made her sick. The only things she’d been able to ingest recently were red wine – once a month her father allowed her one glass with dinner if she finished her homework because he was educating her about different wines – and very rare meat, which was hard for her to get. Her father was not a big meat person and rarely bought it, and he had a sensitive nose. If he smelled it in the house he’d give her a talking to about the dangers of red meat, especially if he saw her stuffing it into her mouth as bloody as she now craved it. He’d think she was crazy, likely insist she stop eating it, and then she’d really starve.

Once her father had told her that eating too much meat changed a person’s natural body chemistry, that everything you eat contributes to your natural smell. She’d been sniffing herself to see if she smelled worse since adopting an all meat diet, but she didn’t. Just the other day her father had smiled and said he loved her new perfume, that it reminded him of her mother. Only Peada hadn’t been wearing perfume. She didn’t even own any, her last bottle, a scent he’d made for her, had run out weeks ago.

People at school had commented on her new perfume too. More than one girl had asked her what it was and where she’d gotten it. She’d put them off, telling them it was a gift from her father, one made especially for her. They’d rolled their eyes but believed her since everyone knew her dad made his living from homemade beauty products.

She sighed tiredly and picked up her backpack. She tried not to think about the hunger that had become her constant companion. She could make it. Just a few more hours and she could sneak off to the butcher and buy herself a steak.

She could only get one twice a week when the regular butcher was off and his replacement was in, a surly older man who her father had not formed a relationship with, thus there was little chance the man would comment innocently on her purchases the next time her dad came in to shop. Then if she was lucky, her father would still be at work. She could cook it fast and clean up, stuff her face, and by that time it would be dark. She always felt better at night. Thank goodness winter approached, and with it shorter days. Her sun allergy had been playing up more than usual too.