The Coven (7 page)

“Where will you go?” he asks me. “Who will you be with? Someone not your kind, like David O’Hearn? A human?”

Of course not. If I want children, I can’t be with a human. But maybe I don’t want children. I don’t know. There aren’t that many of our clan.To go outside our clan to another would be disloyal. But to seal my fate at eighteen seems disloyal, too—disloyal to me.

And after all that’s been happening—Morag’s murder, the bad-luck spells, the bespelled runes (Mathair calls them sigils) we’ve found—I just don’t know. I want to get away. Only three more weeks and I’ll take my A levels and be done with school. I can’t wait.

Now it’s late, and I have to do a warding spell before I sleep, to keep away evil. We all do, nowadays.—Bradhadair

 

I waited while Alyce cast back her mind. There was a tall stool nearby, battered and blotched with multicolored paint spills. I perched on it, my eyes on Alyce’s face.

“I never knew Maeve Riordan,” Alyce said at last. “I never met her. I was living in Manhattan at the time all of this happened. I really only learned of it years later, when I moved here. But it was big news in the Wiccan community, and most witches around here know about it.”

It was shocking to me that many people knew the story of what had happened to my mother while I knew virtually nothing. I waited, not wanting to disturb Alyce’s thoughts.

“The way I heard the story is this,” Alyce said, and it was as if her voice were coming to me from a distance. “Maeve Riordan was a blood witch, from one of the Seven Great Clans, but we aren’t sure which one. Her local coven was called Belwicket, and she was from Ballynigel, Ireland.”

I nodded. I had seen the words Belwicket and Ballynigel on Maeve’s genealogy site, the one that had shut down.

“Belwicket was very insular and didn’t interact with other clans or covens much,” Alyce continued. “They were quite secretive, and maybe they had cause to be. Anyway, back in the late seventies, early eighties, as I understand it, Belwicket was persecuted. The members were taunted in the streets by the townspeople; their children were ostracized at school. Ballynigel was a small town, mind you, small and close to the coast of western Ireland. The people there were mainly farmers or fishermen. Not worldly, not overly educated. Very conservative,” Alyce explained. She paused, thinking.

In my mind I saw rolling hills as deep a green as a peridot. Salt air seemed to kiss my skin. I smelled tangy, brackish seaweed, fish, and an almost unpleasant yet comfortable odor my brain identified as peat, whatever that was.

“The villagers had probably always lived among witches in peace, but for some reason, every so often, a town gets stirred up; people get scared. After months of persecution a local witch was murdered, burned to death and thrown from a cliff.”

I swallowed hard. I knew from my reading that burning was the traditional method of killing witches.

“There was some talk that it had been another witch, not a human, who had done it,” continued Alyce.

“What about Maeve Riordan?” I asked.

“She was the daughter of the local high priestess, a woman named Mackenna Riordan. At fourteen Maeve joined Belwicket under the name Bradhadair: fire starter. Apparently she was very powerful, very, very powerful.”

My mother.

“Anyway, things in Ballynigel grew more and more intolerable for the witches. They had to shop in other towns, leases expired and weren’t renewed, but they could deal with all that somehow.”

“Why didn’t they leave?” I asked.

“Ballynigel was a place of power,” Alyce explained. “At least it was for that coven. There was something about that area, perhaps just because magick had been worked there for centuries—but it was a very good place to be for a witch. Most of Belwicket had roots in the land going back more generations than they could count. Their people had always lived there. I imagine it was hard to fathom living anywhere else.”

It was hard for an American, with family roots going back only a hundred years or so, to comprehend. Taking a deep breath, I looked around for Robbie. I could hear him still talking to the girl on the other side of the store. I glanced at my watch. Five-thirty. I had to get home soon. But I was finally learning about my past, my history, and I couldn’t pull myself away.

“How do you know all this?” I asked.

“People have talked of it over the years,” Alyce said. “You see, it could so easily happen to any of us.”

A chill went through me, and I stared at her. To me, magick was beautiful and joyful. She was reminding me that countless women and men had died because of it.

“Maeve Riordan finally did leave,” Alyce went on, her face sad. “One night there was a huge . . . decimation, for want of a better word.”

I shivered, feeling an icy breeze float over me, settling at my feet.

“The Belwicket coven was virtually destroyed,” Alyce continued, sounding like the words were hard to say. “It’s unclear whether it was the townspeople or a dark, powerful, magickal source that swept through the coven, but that night homes were burned to the ground, cars were set on fire, fields of crops were laid to waste, boats were sunk . . . and twenty-three men, women, and children were killed.”

I realized I was panting, my stomach in knots. I felt ill and dizzy and panicky. I couldn’t bear hearing about this.

“But not Maeve,” Alyce whispered, looking off at some far-away sight. “Maeve escaped that night, and so did young Angus Bramson, her lover. Maeve was twenty, Angus twenty-two, and together they fled, caught a bus to Dublin and a plane to England. From there they landed in New York, and from New York City they made their way to Meshomah Falls.”

“Did they get married?” I said hoarsely.

“There’s no record of it,” Alyce replied. “They settled in Meshomah Falls, got jobs, and renounced witchcraft entirely. Apparently for two years they practiced no Wicca, called upon no power, created no magick.” She shook her head sadly. “It must have been like living in a straitjacket. Like smothering inside a box. And then they had a baby in the local hospital. We think the persecution began right after that.”

My throat felt like it was closing. I pulled my sweater away from my neck because it was choking me.

“It was little things at first—finding runes of danger and threat painted on the side of their little house. Evil sigils, runes bespelled for some magickal purpose, scratched into their car doors. One day a dead cat hanging from their porch. If they had come to the local coven, they could have been helped. But they wanted nothing to do with witchcraft. After Belwicket had been destroyed, Maeve wanted nothing more to do with it. Though, of course, it was in her blood.There’s no point in denying what you are.”

Terror threatened to overwhelm me. I wanted to run screaming from the store.

Alyce looked at me. “Maeve’s Book of Shadows was found after the fire. People read it and passed on the stories of what was written there.”

“Where is it now?” I demanded, and Alyce shook her head.

“I don’t know,” she said gently. “Maeve’s story ends with her and Angus burned in a barn.”

Tears ran slowly down my cheeks.

“What happened to the baby?” I choked out.

Alyce gazed at me sympathetically, years of wisdom written on her face. She reached up one soft, flower-scented hand and touched my cheek. “I don’t know that, either, my dear,” she said so quietly, I could barely hear her. “What did happen to the baby?”

A mist swam over my eyes, and I needed to lie down or fall over or run screaming down the street.

“Hey, Morgan!” Robbie’s voice broke in. “Are you ready? I should get home.”

“Good-bye,” I whispered. I turned and raced out the door, with Robbie following me, concern radiating from him in waves.

Behind me I felt rather than heard Alyce’s words: “Not good-bye, my dear.You’ll be back.”

November 1, 1980

What a glorious Samhain we had last night! After a powerful circle that Ma let me lead, we danced, played music, watched the stars, and hoped for better times ahead. It was a night full of cider, laughter, and hope. Things have been so quiet lately—has the evil moved on? Has it found another home? Goddess, I pray not, for I don’t wish others to suffer as we have. But I’m thankful that we no longer have to jump at every noise.

Angus gave me a darling kitten—a tiny white tom I’ve named Dagda. He has a lot to live up to with that name! He’s a wee thing and sweet. I love him, and it was just like Angus to come up with the idea. Today my world is blessed and full of peace.

—Bradhadair

Now Dagda is mewing to go out!

 

“What’s wrong?” Robbie demanded in the car.

I sniffled and wiped my hand over my face. “Oh, Alyce was telling me a sad story about some witches who died.”

His eyes narrowed. “And you’re crying because . . . ,” he prompted.

“It just got to me,” I said, trying to sound light. “I’m so tenderhearted.”

“Okay, don’t tell me,” he said, sounding irritated. He started the car and began the drive back to Widow’s Vale.

“It’s just . . . I can’t talk about it yet, okay, Robbie?” I almost whispered.

He was quiet for a few moments, then nodded. “Okay. But if you ever need a shoulder, I’m here.”

It was so sweet of him that a wave of warmth rushed over me. I reached out to pat his shoulder. “Thanks. That helps. Really.”

Darkness fell as we drove, and by the time we got back to school, streetlights were on. My thoughts had been churning around my birth mother’s fate, and I was surprised to recognize the school building when Robbie stopped and I saw my car sitting by itself on the street.

“Thanks for the ride,” I said. It was dark, and leaves were blowing off trees, flitting through the air. One brushed against me, and I flinched.

“You okay?” he asked.

“I think so. Thanks again. I’ll see you tomorrow,” I said, and got in Das Boot.

I felt like I had lived through my birth mother’s story. She had to be the same Maeve Riordan on my birth certificate. She had to be. I tried to remember if I had seen the place of birth—if it had been Meshomah Falls or Widow’s Vale. I couldn’t remember. Did my parents know any of this story? How had they found me? How had I been adopted? The same old questions.

I started my car, feeling anger come over me again. They had the answers, and they were going to tell me. Tonight. I couldn’t go through another day without knowing.

At home I parked and stormed up the front walk, already forming the words I was going to say, the questions I would ask. I pushed through the front door—

And found Aunt Eileen and her girlfriend, Paula Steen, sitting on the couch.

“Morgan!” said Aunt Eileen, holding out her arms. “How’s my favorite niece?”

I hugged her as Mary K. said, “She said the exact same thing to me.”

Aunt Eileen laughed. “You’re both my favorite nieces.”

I smiled, trying to mentally switch gears. A confrontation with my parents was out for now. And then—it was only then that I realized that Aunt Eileen knew I was adopted. Of course she did. She’s my mom’s sister. In fact, all of my parents’ friends must know. They had always lived here in Widow’s Vale, and unless my mom had faked a pregnancy, which I couldn’t see her doing, they would all know that I had just turned up out of nowhere.And then two years later she really had had a baby: Mary K. Oh my God, I thought, appalled. I was utterly, utterly humiliated and embarrassed.

“Listen, we brought Chinese food,” said Aunt Eileen, standing up.

“It’s ready!” Mom called from the dining room. I would have given anything not to have to go in, but there was no way to get out of it. We all swarmed in. White cartons and plastic foam containers filled the center of the table.

“Hi,” Mom said to me, scanning my face. “You got back in time.”

“Uh-huh,” I said, not meeting her gaze. “I was with Robbie.”

“Robbie looks amazing lately,” said Mary K., helping herself to some orange beef. “Has he been seeing a new dermatologist?”

“Um, I don’t know,” I said vaguely. “His skin has gotten a lot better.”

“Maybe he’s just grown out of it,” suggested my mom. I couldn’t believe she was making polite chitchat. Frustration started to boil in me as I tried to choke down my dinner.

“Can you pass the pork?” my dad asked.

For a while we all ate. If Aunt Eileen and Paula noticed that things were a bit weird, if we were stilted and less talkative, they didn’t show it. But even Mary K., as naturally perky as she is, was holding back.

“Oh, Morgan, Janice called,” said my dad. I could tell he was striving for a normal tone. “She wants you to call her back. I said you would, after dinner.”

“Okay, thanks,” I said. I stuffed a big bite of scallion pancake in my mouth so it wouldn’t seem weird that I was being so quiet.

After dinner Aunt Eileen stood up and went into the kitchen, returning with a bottle of sparkling cider and a tray of glasses.

“What’s all this?” my mom asked with a surprised smile.

“Well,” Aunt Eileen said shyly as Paula got up to stand next to her. “We have some very exciting news.”

Mary K. and I exchanged glances.

“We’re moving in together,” Eileen announced, her face full of happiness. She smiled at Paula, and Paula gave her a hug.

“I’ve already put my apartment on the market, and we’re looking for a house,” said Paula.

“Oh, awesome,” said Mary K., getting up to hug Aunt Eileen and Paula.They beamed. I stood up and hugged them, too, and so did Mom. Dad hugged Eileen and shook Paula’s hand.