Page 36 of Witchlore
“Nice shiny ring!” one of them calls.
“Witches have such cool tricks, man,” another says.
“Naw, mate,” a third says, unimpressed. “Just science dressed up, innit?”
This makes Bastian smirk and he stops, dropping his hand to rest on the edge of the canal.
“Another Nimue spell?” I ask. He shakes his head.
“Pépé taught me,” he says. His right hand is near my thigh and I can feel the heat off it, the power of the witchcraft he just did like it was nothing at all. All these historical family spells he’s sharing with me with absolutely no fear of retribution from judgmental parents. There’s an envy bubbling up inside me that I can’t quite push down.
“You just do what you want, don’t you?” I say. If he catches the jealous edge to my voice he doesn’t show it, just shrugging casually.
“Witchcraft is bigger than we think it is,” he says. “Most British witches seem content making themselves smaller to fit in or stay out of trouble, but I won’t be that way.”
“Most witches don’t have the kind of power you have.”
“You have it, too. I’ve seen your shifts, you’re full of magic,” he says, fixing his eyes on me. They’re so eager, like he’s expecting me to be the same as him, and all I can imagine is the furious voice of my father scolding me.
“Yeah, and witches hate me for it,” I say, thinking of what everyone said after Elizabeth’s death.Magical discharge. No control. Shapeshifters need to be vigilant.“Even if I could control it, I’d still need to think about safety.”
“You think I don’t?” His voice is harsh all of a sudden. “You said it yesterday: this is still the world with all its shitty prejudice, and no amount of witchcraft makesmesafe in it.”
I think about the way he hurried me past the two drunks last night: the tension in his shoulders, being the young Black man escorting a seemingly drunk white girl home. It’s like he sees my remembrance in my face, and he nods firmly.
“So I’m not going to shrink my power down, waiting until I get into the Merlin Foundation or to find another coven or until someone tells me it’s safe to be myself, the world isn’tsafe.” His voice is thick and bleak as he looks down the canal. “Witchcraft might not fix it, but it’s something, at least. It’s power.”
I feel the uncomfortable tingle of having misjudged someone’s motives. Bastian isn’t showing off his power because he’s too comfortable or unaware, but because like me, he feels the pressure of being unwanted by the world, of not fitting in. Since he’s been so truthful, I feel the urge to at least match his honesty.
“Every witch I’ve ever met says I’m too powerful, I’m too much, I’m not safe,” I say. “Not safe to be anyone’s friend, to study with anyone, to be trusted.”
To be loved by anyone,I add silently, kicking my Doc Martens against the wall of the canal. When I’ve got control of my grief, soaring through my chest like a bird with feathers made of sorrow, I go on.
“Maybe if I could actually shift it would be different, but my power doesn’t make me feel safer,” I admit, not letting my voice rise above a whisper, too ashamed to speak loudly. “Mostly, I just feel… fucking lonely.”
Bastian doesn’t say anything for a while. I wonder if I spoke too quietly for him to hear. A goose flaps its wings and slides into the water, gently paddling upstream. Then he speaks.
“We could study together,” he says.
He doesn’t phrase it like a question, but a statement. It’s funny,because in it I hear something different.You don’t have to be aloneis what I hear. I’ve not felt that in a while now, like someone believes I’m safe to be around. That someone wants my company. Bastian might treat witchcraft differently to any witch I’ve ever met, but he’s here and he’s not afraid of me.
“Yeah, okay,” I say.
CHAPTERTHIRTEEN
Over the next two weeks, I find myself reading the diary inThe Witchlore of Bodieswhenever I have a spare minute. It’s becoming an old friend. It feels miraculous to read the story of someone like me, and they are so honest about their feelings, the agonies of their life, and the terror of not being accepted. Seeing it down on paper makes me feel less alone. Bastian and I also start studying together. He mercifully doesn’t question the way I try to avoid being inside college apart from classes, and we meet up to write essays in coffee shops or book the music rooms in the Manchester Central Library so he can practice witchcraft and I can practice pointless hand waving. I love working in there, the anonymity of being just one of thousands of students and visitors in the city sitting in the beautiful paneled circular reading room with its dynamic domed ceiling and the way the smallest movement of someone’s chair echoes all the way around the stone. It’s nicer, however, to have someone to sit beside, to watch my laptop while I go to the loo, to share crisps with and guard the rare, coveted plug sockets with. In my weekly call with Counselor Cooper, she even says that it seems my mood is improving. I think it might be. I tell myself over and over that it’s not real, it’s notfriendship,it’s just companionship. It’s still better than being alone all the time.
“We need to make a plan for the next stage of the spell,” Bastian says on Thursday, when we are in one of the small music rooms. It’s toasty warm, despite the cooling autumnal air outside, because Bastian’s been trying to teach me his grandfather’s Haitian heating spell. The power of his has left him sweaty, standing in just his T-shirt.
“Okay.” I fruitlessly move my hands into a few forms. Nothing happens.
“You need to lift your thumb up higher on the Logi’s Spear,” he says, lifting the edge of his baggy T-shirt to wipe his sweaty forehead. I’m grateful for this, that he offers correction on my form even if it yields no results, unlike everyone else, who just make me feel useless. “The bone from Kilgrimol, you said it’s near Blackpool. I looked it up and it’s on the coast, a town called… Lytham?”
“Yeah, I know it,” I say lightly, trying not to sound like Ireallyknow it. I perform the movement again with my thumb more rigid and Bastian nods approvingly.
“I thought we could go on Sunday.”
“I have to work on Sunday.” I pause. “But I have a whole weekend off next week, we could go then. Or you could go on your own, I guess.”
