The Coven Read online

  she was hiding being a witch herself, right?”

  "Yes. Not just her but my father and my sister.”I said "But

  my parents went crazy when I said that. I've never seen them

  so upset. And I said, so, what? I'm adopted? And they just

  these horrible expressions on their faces. They wouldn't

  answer me. And suddenly I had to know. So I ran downstairs

  and looked at my birth certificate"

  "And there was a different name."

  "Yeah, Maeve Riordan."

  Cal sat up straighten alert "Really?"

  I stared at him. "What? Do you recognize that name?*

  "It sounds familiar." He looked out the window, thinking

  frowning, then shook his head. "No, maybe not I can't place It”

  "Oh." I swallowed my disappointment.

  "What are you going to do now? Do you want to come to

  my house?” He smiled. "We could go swimming.”

  "No, thank you," I said, remembering when the circle had

  all gone skinny dipping in his pool. I was the only one who had

  kept her clothes on.

  Cal laughed. "I was disappointed that night, you know,”he

  said, looking at me.

  "No, you weren't," I replied, crossing my arms over my

  chest. He chuckled softly.

  "Seriously, do you want to come over? Or do you want me

  to come to your house, help you talk to your parents?"

  "Thanks," I said, touched by his offer. "But I think I

  should just go home by myself. With any luck, they all went to

  church, anyway. It's All Saints' Day." "What's that?" Cal asked.

  I remembered he wasn't Catholic—wasn't even Christian.

  "All Saints* Day," I said "It's the day after Halloween. It's a

  special day of observance tor Catholics. That's when we go

  tend our family graves in cemeteries. Trim the grass, put out

  fresh flowers."

  "Cool," said Cal. "That's a nice tradition. It's funny that

  it's the day after Samhain. But then, it seems like a lot of

  Christian holidays came out of Wiccan ones, way back when."

  I nodded. "I know. But do me a favor and don't mention

  that to my parents," I said. "Anyway, I'd better get home."

  "Okay. Can I call you later?"

  "Yes," I said. I couldn't stop myself from smiling.

  "I think I'll use the telephone," he said, grinning.

  I thought of how he had come when I had said my rhyme.

  I was still amazed that it had worked.

  He let himself out of Das Boot into the chilly, crisp

  November air. He walked to his car and took off as I waved.

  My world was flooded with sunlight Cal loved me.

  4. Maeve

  February 7, 1978

  Two nights ago someone sprayed “Bloody Witch” on the

  side of Morag Sheehan's shop. We've moved our circle to

  meeting out by the cliffs, down the coast a ways.

  Last night, late, Mathair and I went out to Morag's. Lucky

  it was a new moon—no light and a good time for spells.

  Rite of Healing, Protection from Evil, Cleansing

  1.Cast a circle completely around what you want to protect. (I

  had to include old Burdock's sweetshop since the two buildings

  are joined.”

  2.Purify the circle with salt. We used no lights or incense but

  salt, water, and earth.

  3.Call on the Goddess. I wore my copper bracelets and held a

  chunk of sulfur, a chunk of marble from the garden, a chunk of

  petrified wood, and a bit of shell.

  Then Ma and I said (quietly): “Goddess, hear us where we

  stand, with your protection bless this land, Morag is a servant

  true, protect her from those who mischief do.” Then we

  invoked the Goddess and the God and walked around the shop

  three times.

  No one saw us, that I could tell. Ma and I went home,

  felling strong. That should help protect Morag. --Bradhadair

  I drove slowly up my street, looking ahead anxiously as if

  my parents might still be standing on the front lawn of our

  house. When I was close enough, I saw that Dad's car was

  gone. I figured that they must have gone to church.

  Inside, the house was quiet and still, though I felt the

  shocked vibrations of this morning's events lingering In the air

  like a scent.

  "Mom? Dad? Mary K.?”I called. No answer. I wandered

  slowly through the house, seeing breakfast untouched on the

  kitchen table. I turned off the coffeemaker. The newspaper was

  folded neatly, obviously unread. Not at all a normal Sunday

  morning.

  Realizing this was my chance, I hurried to the office. But

  the torn birth certificate was gone, and my dad's files were

  locked for the first time that I could remember.

  Moving quickly, listening for sounds of their return, I

  searched the rest of the office. I found nothing and sat beck on

  my heels for a moment, thinking.

  My parents' room. I ran upstairs to their cluttered room.

  Feeling like a thief, I opened the top drawer of their dresser.

  Jewelry, cuff links, pens, bookmarks, old birthday cards—

  nothing incriminating, nothing that told me anything I needed

  to know.

  Tapping my lip with my finger, I looked around, framed

  baby pictures of me and Mary K. stood on top of their dresser,

  and I examined them. In one, my parents held me proudly, fat,

  nine-month-old Morgan, while I smiled and clapped. In

  another, Mom, in a hospital bed, held newborn Mary K., who

  looked like a hairless monkey. It occurred to me that I had

  never seen a newborn picture of me. Not a single one in the

  hospital, or looking tiny, or learning to sit up. My pictures

  started when I was about, what, eight months old? Nine

  months? Was that how old I was when I had been adopted?

  Adopted. It was still such a bizarre thought, yet I was

  already eerily used to it. It explained everything, in a way. But

  in another way, it didn't It only raised more questions.

  I looked through my baby book, compared it to Mary K.'s.

  Mine listed my birth weight correctly and my birth date. Under

  First Impressions, Mom had written: "She's so incredibly

  beautiful. Everything I ever hoped for and dreamed about for

  so long."

  I closed the book. How could they have lied to me all this

  time? How could they have let me believe I was really their

  daughter? I felt unstable now, without a base. Everything I had

  believed now seemed like a lie. How could I ever forgive them?

  They had to give me some answers. I had the right to

  know. I dropped my head into my hands, feeling tired, old, and

  emotionally empty.

  It was noon. Would they all have lunch at the Widow's

  Diner after church? Would they go on to the cemetery

  afterward to put flowers around the Rowlandses' graves end

  the Donovans', my mom's family?

  Maybe they would. They probably would. I heeded beck

  into the kitchen, thinking that I should have some lunch

  myself. I hadn't eaten anything. But I was too upset to face

  food yet Instead I took a Diet Coke out of the fridge. Then I

  found myself wandering into the study, where the computer

  was.

  I decided to run a search. I frowned at the
screen. How

  had her name been spelled, exactly? Maive? Mave? Maeve? The

  last name was Riordan, I remembered that.

  I typed in Maeve Riordan. Twenty-seven listings popped

  up. Sighing, I started to scroll through them. A horse farm in

  western Massachusetts. A doctor in Dublin, specializing in ear

  problems. One by one I flipped through them, reading a few

  lines and closing their windows. I didn't know when my family

  would be home or what I would face when they arrived. My

  emotions felt flayed and yet distant, as (f this were ail

  happening to someone else.

  Click. Maeve Riordan. Best-selling romance author present

  My Highland Love.

  Click "Maeve Riordan" as part of an html. Frowning, I

  clicked on the link This was a genealogy site, with Inks to other

  genealogy sites. Cool. It looked like the name Maeve Riordan

  appeared on three sites. I clicked on the first one. A scanty

  family tree popped up, and after a few minutes I found the

  name Maeve Riordan. Unfortunately, this Maeve Riordan had

  died in 1874.

  I backtracked, and the next Maeve link took me to a site

  where there were no dates anywhere, as if they were still

  filling it in. I gritted my teeth in frustration.

  Third time lucky. I thought, and clicked on the last site.

  The words Belwicket and Ballynigel appeared at the top of the

  screen in fancy Irish-style lettering. This was another family

  tree but with many separate branches, as if it was more of a

  family forest or the people hadn't found the common link

  between these families.

  Quickly I scanned for Maeve Riordan. There were lots of

  Riordans. Then I saw It. Maeve Riordan. Born Imbolc, 1962,

  Ballynigel, Ireland. Died Litha, 1986, Meshomah Falls, New

  York, United States.

  My jaw dropped open as I stared at the screen, Imbolc.

  Lithe. Those were Wiccan sabbats. This Maeve Riordan had

  been a witch.

  A sudden wave of heat pulsed through my head, making

  my cheeks prickle. I shook my head and tried to think. 1986.

  She died the year after I was born. And she was born in 1962,

  Which would have made her the same age as the woman listed

  on my birth certificate.

  It's her, I thought It has to be.

  I clicked all over the screen, trying to find links. I felt

  almost frantic. I needed more information. More. But instead a

  message popped up: Connection timed out URL not responding.

  Frustrated, I shut down the computer. Then I sat tapping

  my lower lip with a pen. Thoughts raced through my head

  Meshomah Falls, New York. I knew that name. It was a little

  town not too far away from here, maybe two hours. I needed to

  see their town records. I needed to see their... newspapers. "

  Two minutes later I had grabbed my jacket and was in

  Das Boot heading for the library. Of Widow's Vale's three

  library branches, only the biggest one, downtown, was open on

  Sundays. I pushed through the glass door and immediately

  headed downstairs to the basement.

  No one else was down there. The basement was empty

  except for rows and rows of books, out-of-date periodicals,

  stacks of books to be mended, and four ugly black-and-wood-

  grain microfiche machines.

  Come on, come on, I thought, pawing through the

  microfiche files. It took twenty minutes to find the drawer

  containing past issues of the Meshomah Folk Herald. Another

  tedious fifteen minutes trying to figure dates, counting forward

  from my birthday to about eight months after it. Finally I pulled

  out an envelope, turned on a microfiche machine, and sat

  down.I slid the tiny film card under the light and began to turn

  the knob.

  Forty-five minutes later I rubbed the back of my neck. I

  now knew more about Meshomah Fails, New York, than anyone

  could possibly want to know. It was a farming community,

  smaller and even more boring than Widow's Vale.

  I hadn't found anything about Maeve Riordan. No

  obituary, nothing. Well, that wasn't really surprising. I should

  probably get used to the idea that I would never know about

  my past

  There were two more film cards to look at. With a sigh I

  sat down again, hating the machine.

  This time I found the article almost immediately. The little

  hairs on the back of my neck prickled, and there it was: Maeve

  Riordan. Stiffening In my chair, I scrolled back to center the

  page and peered into the viewer. A body burned almost beyond

  recognition has been identified as that of Maeve Riordan,

  formerly of Ballynigel, Ireland....

  My breath caught in my throat, and I stared at the screen.

  Was this her? I wondered again. My birth mother? I'd never

  been to Meshomah Falls. I'd never heard my parents talk about

  it But Maeve Riordan had lived there. And somehow, in

  Meshomah Falls, Maeve Riordan had died in a fire.

  I surprised myself by shaking uncontrollably as I gazed

  blankly at the screen. Quickly I scanned the short news

  dipping.

  On June 21, 1986, the body of an unidentified young

  woman had been found in the ruins of a charred and

  smoldering barn on an abandoned farm in Meshomah Falls.

  After an examination of dental x rays, the body had been

  identified as belonging to one Maeve Riordan, who had been

  renting a small house in Meshomah Falls and working at the

  local cafe downtown. Mave Riordan, twenty-three years old,

  formerly of Ballynigel, Ireland, was not well known in the town.

  Another body found in the fire had been identified as Angus

  Bramson, twenty-fire years old, also of Ballynigel. It was

  unknown why they were in the barn. The cause of the fire

  seemed unclear.

  June 21 might have been Litha in that year—it varied

  according to exactly when the equinox was. But what about a

  baby? It didn't say anything about a baby.

  My heart was thudding painfully inside my chest Images

  of a recent dream I'd had, of being in a rough sort of room

  while a woman held me and called me her baby, flashed

  through my head. What did this all mean?

  Abruptly I shut off the machine. I stood up so fast I felt

  dizzy and had to clutch the back of my chair.

  I was almost certain that this Maeve Riordan had given

  birth to me. Why had she given me up for adoption? Or was I

  only adopted after she died? Was Angus Bramson my father?

  How had that barn caught on fire?

  Moving slowly, I put all the microfiche files where I had

  found them. Then, my hands to my temples, I went upstairs

  and walked out of the library. Outside it was gray and overcast,

  and the library's lawn was covered with bright yellow maple

  leaves. It was autumn, and winter was on the way.

  The seasons changed with such a gradual grace, easing

  you gently from one to the next But my life, my whole life, had

  changed in a bare moment.

  5. Reasons

  Samhain, October 31, 1978

  Ma and Da just went over this Book of Shadows and said

 
it was poor indeed. I need to write more often; I need to

  explain spells more; I need to explain the workings of the

  moon, the sun, the tides, the stars. I said, Why? Everybody

  knows that stuff. Ma said it's for my children, the witches who

  come after me. Like how she and Da show me their books—

  they're got five of them now, those big think black books by the

  fireplace. When I was little, I thought they were photo albums.

  It makes me laugh now—photos of witches.

  But you know, my spells and stuff are in my head. There's

  time to put them down later. Plenty of time. Mostly I want to

  write about my feelings and thoughts. But then, I don't want

  my folks to read that—when they got to the parts when I was

  kissing Angus, they blew up! But they know Angus, and they

  like him. They see him often enough, know that I've settled on

  him. Angus is good, and who else is there for me here? It's not

  like I can be with just anyone, not if I want to live my life and

  have kids and all. Lucky for me Angus is as sweet as he is.

  Here's a good spell for making love fade: During a waning

  moon, gather four hairs from a black cat, a cat that has no

  white anywhere on her. Take a white candle, the dried petals of

  three red roses, and a piece of string. Write your name and the

  name of the person you want to push away on two pieces of

  paper, and tie one to each end of the string.

  Go outside. (This works best under a new moon or a moon

  the day before the new moon.) Set up your alter; purify your

  circle; invoke the Goddess. Set up your white candle. Sprinkle

  the rose petals around the candle. Take each of the cat's hairs

  and set them at four points of the compass: N,S,E and W. (Hold

  them down with rocks if the night's windy.” Light the candle

  and hold the middle of the string taut over the candle, about

  five inches up. Then say:

  As the moon wanes, so wanes your love;

  I an an eagle, no more your dove.

  Another face, more fair than mine,

  Will surly win your love in time.

  Say that over and over until the string burns through and

  the two names are separated forever. Don't do this in anger

  because your love will no more be yours. You have to want to

  truly get rid of someone forever.

  P.S. The cat hairs don't do anything. I just put them in to

  sound mysterious.

  --Bradhadair

  I was in the kitchen, eating some warmed-up lasagna,

  when my parents and Mary K. came home late that afternoon.