“On second thought, let’s go out. I saw a diner in town. Come on, my treat.”
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.