Wild is the Witch (5)

I sit on the cold ground and stroke her silver fur, resting my head against hers. She leans into me, and I think that maybe Mom is right, that maybe the universe meant for us to be here all along.

There is magic in my blood, but this place has its own kind of magic. I feel it every time the evergreens sway in the wind and whenever the treetops are swallowed by fog. I can feel it in the salty air and the fern-covered ground.

This is my home, and I know it as sure as I know how Winter is feeling just by looking at her.

This is where I’m meant to be.

I sit with Winter for several minutes before giving her one final pet good night. I stand and let myself out through the gate, beginning the walk home, but a chill rushes down my spine and I stop.

Slowly, I turn. I have to squint to see him, his shape nothing more than a shadow in the dusty twilight, but sitting in an old spruce tree is the northern spotted owl.

Silent, still, and watching.

Always watching.





Two


Most people think magic is created, that it goes from nonexistent to existent in the span of a moment.

That isn’t true.

Magic is always present, always close. It exists along with all the atoms and particles of the universe, and when enough of it is brought together, it produces a reaction most would call extraordinary. But the reaction itself isn’t the magic; it’s the existence of it in the first place that is.

Witches are able to recognize the energy around us and reorder it in ways to produce certain outcomes. It’s a sixth sense that most people don’t have. We can harness all the chaotic particles and bring them together into something brilliant.

And because magic is born of the universe, of the same stars that created everything on Earth, it can be used in three ways: on plants, on animals, and on humans. For every witch, one of the three forms comes most easily to them. Mom and I are both Lunars—our magic is strongest on animals.

It’s that sixth sense, that innate connection to the world around us, that gives us our power. It’s why I’m able to soothe animals and feel their needs, why I know their history just by touching them.

It’s also why I have to work so hard to hide who I am, because being a witch isn’t just casting an occasional spell. It’s seeing the world differently than the way others see it. It’s living in the same space but experiencing it in a totally singular way.

It isn’t that witches have to hide. We don’t. Once it became common knowledge that it’s impossible for magic to be used on a person without their knowing about it, witches have been welcomed into society. And magic is highly regulated, especially for Stellars, whose power gravitates toward people.

The combination of those two things led to less fear and more trust, to witches being open about their magic and respected in their fields. It’s been that way for generations now, and magic has become wholly intertwined with society, from Stellars who specialize in pain management to Solars who work with farmers around the globe.

But I’ve seen firsthand what a fragile acceptance it is, and I don’t trust it. After the trial, I wasn’t Iris anymore. I was a witch, and when the word was sprayed in black paint across the home my father had worked so hard to build, he no longer felt up to the task of raising a girl with magic in her blood.

And I had it easy compared to Amy. The way she was treated made me certain that what is best for me is to hide the magic I love.

So I do.

Mom and I are lucky, though. Our home borders the wildlife refuge, and since so much of the work we do is with animals, we’re able to use our magic regularly. It’s a quiet, invisible kind of magic that will never get us shunned. It will never require us to start over, to move to a different town where whispers and sidelong glances and spray-painted words don’t follow us.

Foggy Mountain Wildlife Refuge gave me my life back, just as we try to do for the animals that come here, and I’m thankful every single day that this is where we ended up.

I check my watch. I only have fifteen minutes before I need to be at work, but fifteen minutes is enough. The news of Amy’s release has me feeling exposed and vulnerable, and the memories I’ve tried so hard to forget are all I see when I close my eyes. I still haven’t forgiven her for begging me to go to the lake house with her, for not telling me what she and Alex had planned. I thought we trusted each other with everything, but it turns out I was wrong.

Give it to the earth.

That’s what my grandmother used to say, when my feelings felt bigger than the whole world, when I was sure I’d collapse from the weight of them all. She taught me to cast spells I would never use, as if I was writing a letter I would never send. I’ve been doing it since I was young, and at times, it’s the only thing that calms me, that anchors me to this place.

I gather dried herbs from the cottage behind our house—mugwort, lavender, and lemon balm—and put them in a small pile on the ground. They’re surrounded by a circle of stones and rest on top of ashes from all the other spells I’ve written but never used, all that’s left of my worries and frustrations and fears.

I sit down on the dirt, facing the circle, and begin. I’m not a Stellar, but I know how to write a spell that would sear into Amy’s mind and expose all the messy feelings I have about that night. I know how to rearrange the magic around me to let Amy understand I want the best for her, even though I don’t know how to show it. Even though I’m still upset.