Eclipse s-12 Read online

  — Clyda Rockpell, Albertswyth, Wales, 1964

  This is it, I thought, staring at the green book that lay before me on my bed. This is the beginning of my complete and total slide toward hell. Now I am a thief.

  I had never stolen anything in my life, yet when I saw that stupid green book of Morgan’s, I had been taken over by my evil twin. My stupid evil twin. Only the three of us were in their kitchen. If Morgan noticed the book was gone, she’d ask Mary K. Mary K. wouldn’t know, and by a lightning-swift process of elimination, one name would come up: Alisa Soto. Sticky Fingers Soto. Which is why I’d pretty much avoided both of them at school today. But neither of them had acted funny when I’d seen them, so maybe Morgan hadn’t missed the book yet.

  The only thing I had going for me was that Dad was at work, of course, and Hilary must be at her Mama Yoga class since it was Tuesday. Yay. I had no witnesses to my crime.

  It was hard—no, impossible—to explain. But when I had seen that book fall out of Morgan’s backpack, it was like it was my book that I had lost a long time ago, and here it was. So I took it back.

  Just in case Hilary popped in anytime soon, I locked my bedroom door. I felt strange—maybe some of Morgan’s weirdness was rubbing off on me. I almost felt like I was dreaming—watching myself do stuff without knowing why.

  I ran my fingers over the cloth cover and felt a very faint tingle. I flipped open the cover, and the first thing I saw was a handwritten name. My eyes widened—it was Sarah Curtis, which was my own mother’s maiden name! “Oh my God,” I whispered, not believing what I was seeing. Was this why I had been so drawn to it?

  I began to read. It was a diary, a journal, that Sarah started keeping in 1968, when she was fifteen, my age. Flipping through to the back, I saw that the book ended in 1971. I leaned back against my pillows and pulled my grandmother’s flowery crocheted afghan over my feet. Ever since Hilary had moved in, our thermostat had been set to “Ice Age.”

  From the very first page I was totally hooked, but the book only got stranger. My jaw dropped by the second page, when I saw that Sarah Curtis lived in Gloucester, Massachusetts—just like my mom. How many Curtises could there be in one Massachusetts town? Maybe a lot. Maybe Curtises had lived there so long the name was really common. But if it wasn’t, what did that mean? Could I be sitting here reading my mom’s diary? It was impossible! I had gotten this book from Morgan! Then a chill went down my spine: Morgan had said this was a witch book. My eyes opened wider, and the back of my neck tightened.

  On Saturday will be the annual Blessing of the fleet. It’s funny how today people still rely on the old traditions. Mom says the fleet has been blessed every year for over a hundrend years. Of course, it’s the Catholics who run it and make the big show. But I know that Roiseal always does are part as well.

  I stopped for a moment. Ròiseal? The Blessing of the Fleet I had heard about—a lot of fishing communities have it every year, where the priest comes out and sprinkles holy water on the bows of the fishing boats to protect them through the year and give them luck.

  Sam and I went down to Filbert’s today and got some orange soda pop. Mom would kill us if she knew. Mom and her “whole food, natural food” stuff. She thinks artificial flavours and taste are enough to dull your sense and abilities. I haven’t noticed any difference.

  Whoa, I thought. And I thought Hilary was bad, with her organic toilet paper. I mean, she thought sodas weren’t good for you, but I didn’t think she actually believed they would dull your senses. A glimmer of a memory went through my head, of my mom saying something to me, telling me a story about when she was a little girl. About how funny her mom had been about some stuff. But the memory was too vague to really remember—maybe I was getting mixed up. After all, my mom had died when I was three. This was an amazing coincidence, though. If it was a coincidence, a scared little voice inside me whispered.

  I am still trying to talk Mom and Dad into an out-of-state college. I figure I have another three years to work on them—who knows what could happen? They just don’t want me mixing with people who aren’t like us—like if I meet different people, I’ll leave and not come back.

  I frowned as I remembered Dad telling me about how Mom’s parents hadn’t wanted her to go away to college, either. Oh, God—what did this mean? This couldn’t just be a coincidence. But how was it possible—God! As if mesmerized, I turned back to the book for answers.

  The lilacs have been blooming for a couple of weeks now. When I go outside, the damp salt of the sea is overlain with their gorgeous, heavy perfume. Mom’s bushes are covered with bees in ecstasy. Seeing the lilacs in bloom breaks me out of my northeast winter blues every year. I know that warm weather is coming, that summer is almost here, that school will be out soon.

  My throat felt like it was closing. Once I had brought home a little bunch of lilacs from the grocery store, and Dad had looked at them and turned pale. Later he told me that they’d been Mom’s favorite flower, that she had carried them at their wedding, and that it still made him sad to see them. So I’d eighty-sixed the lilacs. Oh, Mom, I thought desperately. What’s going on?

  In the mean time, my asinine brother, Sam is still auditioning for the world’s biggest pain in the butt award. Last week he switched all of the copper plant labels in the garden around, so the chard has “carrots” written above it and the corn has “radishes”. Mom almost had a fit. And twice he has taken my bike and stored it up on the widow’s walk. It was a nightmare getting it down through the trap door, listening to him cackle in his room. But I am getting him back—this morning I sewed the toes of all his socks together. Insert wicked laugh here.

  I chuckled, feeling relief sweep through me. Thank God. This wasn’t my mom. This Sarah Curtis had a brother. My mom was an only child, and Dad had said by the time he met her, she was estranged from her family and never saw them. That’s so sad. It means I grew up with only one set of grand-parents and cousins. None from her side. But God, what a relief to hear this woman had a brother. I had been practically shaking with dread about this witch Sarah Curtis.

  Time to go. I have to practice the full moon rite that I’m supposed to do on Litha.

  I turned the page.

  Ok I am back. Mom is in the kitchen making a healing tea for Aunt Jess. Her tonsillitis is acting up. I can’t believe I have school tomorrow. I keep looking at the calendar: three more weeks until Litha. Litha and summer. Mom and I have been crafting a fertility spell for the last two months. Basically it is to make everything in the land and sea do well and multiply. A typical Rowanwand all-purpose spell. I can’t wait. At Litha all of Roiseal will be there and it will be the first big spell I’ve cast in public since my initiation last Samhain.

  With a thud all my sensations of fear and nervousness came back. This couldn’t be my mom—I knew that. But someone with my mom’s name had written this book. Hands trembling, I set it down.

  She had come from Gloucester, Massachusetts. Like my mom.

  Like my mom, she’d loved lilacs. It was too weird, too similar.

  But some things didn’t fit: her brother, Sam. The fact that this Sarah Curtis had been a Rowanwand witch.

  Crash! I jumped about a foot in the air. My wooden jewelry box had fallen off my dresser and was lying on its side on the floor. How the hell had that happened?

  This was all crazy. I closed the book without marking my place and went to my jewelry box. It was one of the very few things I had that had been my mom’s. I picked it up and cradled it in my arms.

  That Sarah Curtis had been a witch.

  My mom hadn’t been a witch. I searched my patchy, foggy memories. My mom, who smelled of lilacs. Her smile, her light brown hair, her laugh, the way it felt when she held me. There had been nothing about her that said witch. I didn’t remember spells or chants or circles or even candles. There were two Sarah Curtises. One of them had been a witch. One of them had been my mom. Just my mom.

  I took the box over to my bed, unlatched it, an
d dumped everything out on my comforter. My fingers brushed through the fake jewelry, the goofy pins I collected, the charm bracelet my dad had been adding to since I was six. There were a few pieces of my mom’s jewelry, too: her engagement ring, with its tiny sapphire. Some pearl earrings. Even an anklet with little bells on it.

  I looked at the empty box as if it would reassure me somehow. None of this could be real. There had to be some sort of explanation. A nonwitch explanation. My mom hadn’t even had a brother.

  Open me.

  I hadn’t heard the words—I had felt them. I stared down at the box as if it had turned into a snake. This was too creepy. But, compelled, I turned it upside down. I shook it, but nothing more came out. I opened and closed it a couple of times, looking for another latch somewhere, a hidden hinge. Nothing. Inside I ran my fingers around the lid and down the sides. Nothing. There was a small tray insert that I had dumped out onto my bed. The bottom of the box was lined with cushioned pink satin. I pressed it with my fingers, but there were no lumps or catches anywhere. I was imagining things.

  Then I saw the pale pink loop of thread sticking out from one side of the cushion. I hooked my finger into it and pulled gently, and the whole cushion came up in my hand. Beneath the cushion was the wooden bottom of the box. There was a tiny catch on one side, tarnished and almost impossible to see. I poked it with one fingernail, and nothing happened. I turned the box another way and held it in my lap and pushed at the latch again.

  With a tiny snick the bottom of the box swung upward. And I was staring at a yellowed pile of old letters, tied with a faded green ribbon.

  The ribbon was tattered and practically untied itself in my hands. The letters were written on a bunch of different kinds of paper—loose-leaf, stationery, printer paper. I picked one up and unfolded it, feeling like I was watching someone else do this. From downstairs I heard the thud of the front door closing, but I ignored it and began to read.

  Dear Sarah

  I’m so glad you finally contacted me. I can’t believe you have been gone six whole months. It feels like years. I miss you so much. After you left, there was nothing but bad scenes, and now no one even speaks your name. It’s like you died, and it makes me sad, all the time. I’m glad to hear you are ok. I have set up a PO box over in North Heights, and you can write me there. I know Mom and Dad would flip right now if they saw a letter from you.

  I better go—I’ll write again soon. Take care,

  Your brother Sam

  Tap, tap. The knock on my bedroom door made me jerk.

  “Allie?” Oh, God. Not Hilary. Not now. How many times had I told her I hated to be called Allie? A thousand? More?

  “Yeah?”

  “I’m home.”

  I had a feeling, I thought, since you’re speaking to me. “Okay,” I called.

  “Do you want a snack? I have some dried fruit. Or maybe some yogurt?”

  “Oh, no thanks, Hilary. I’m not really hungry.”

  Pause. “You shouldn’t go too long without eating,” she said. “Your blood sugar will crash.”

  I felt like screaming. Why was I having this conversation? My past was unraveling before my eyes, and she was going on about my freaking blood sugar!

  “It’s okay,” I said, aware that some irritation had entered my voice. “I’ll deal with my blood sugar.”

  Silence. Then her footsteps retreating down the hall. I sighed. No doubt I would hear about that later. For some reason, neither Hilary nor Dad could understand why I might have some trouble getting used to having his pregnant, twenty-five-year-old girlfriend living with us.

  I shuffled the letters randomly and picked up another one.

  Dear Sarah

  I’m sorry I couldn’t make the wedding. You know October is one of our busiest time. I have to tell you: You’re my sister, and I love you, but I can’t help feeling disappointed you married an outsider. I know you turned your back on your magick, but can you turn your back on your entire heritage? What if you, by some miracle, have a child with this outsider? Can you stand to not raise this child Rowanwand? I don’t get it.

  A few paragraphs down it was signed Sam.

  I felt hot and a little dizzy. The truth kept trying to break into my consciousness, but I held it back. Just one more letter.

  Dear Sarah

  Blessing on your good news. Since you moved to Texas, I have been worried about you. It seems so far away. I hope you and my new niece, Alisa, will be happy there. Dad has been sick again this spring—his heart—but no one thinks it’s as series as it was two years ago. I’ll keep you posted.

  The letter fluttered from my fingers like an ungainly butterfly. Oh, God. Oh, God. I swallowed convulsively, pressing my hand to my mouth. I had been born in Texas. My name was Alisa. Reality crashed down on me like a breaker at the shore, and like a shell, I felt tumbled about, rolled, torn away from land.

  I, Alisa Soto, was the daughter of a witch and a nonwitch. I was half witch. Half witch. Everything I had always thought about my mom my whole life had been a lie. A rough cry escaped my throat, and I quickly smothered it in a pillow. Everything I had known about me my whole life was a lie, too. It was all lies, and none of it made sense. Suddenly furious, I picked up the damn witch’s box and threw it across my room as hard as I could. It smashed against one wall and shattered into dozens of sharp pieces. Just like my heart.

  “Honey, are you all right?” My dad’s voice sounded tentative, worried.

  I’m fine, Dad. Except for the fact that you married a witch and now I have witch blood in me, just like all the people who freak me out.

  “Can I come in?” Of course the door was locked, but it was one of those useless dinky locks where a little metal key pops it open in about a second. Dad, assuming his parental right, unlocked the door and came in.

  I was curled up on my bed, under all my covers, with my grandmother’s afghan bunched around my neck. I felt cold and miserable and hadn’t gone down to dinner, which had been a chickpea casserole. As if I didn’t feel bad enough.

  My brain had been in chaos all afternoon. Dad must not have known Mom was a witch. I think she had hidden it from him—and who wouldn’t—and he had never figured it out. He’d never been thrilled about my going to Kithic circles, but he hadn’t acted paranoid. Surely he would have said something if he’d known my mom had been a witch.

  “I brought you some soup,” he said, looking for a place to put down the tray.

  “Don’t tell me. Tofu soup with organic vegetables who willingly gave their lives for the greater good.” Spread the misery around.

  He gave me a Look and set the tray at the bottom of the bed. “Campbell’s chicken noodle,” he said dryly. “I found some in the pantry. It’s not even Healthy Request.”

  I sniffed warily. Real soup. Suddenly I was a little hungry. I sat up and dipped a saltine (okay, it was whole wheat) into the soup and ate it.

  “What’s wrong, honey?” Dad asked. “Do you feel like you’re getting sick again? Like last month?”

  I wish. This was so much worse. Then tears were rolling down my face and into my bowl.

  “Nothing’s wrong,” I said convincingly. Sniff, sniff.

  “Hilary says you seemed upset when she came home.” Translation: you’ve been being a jerk again, haven’t you?

  I didn’t know what to say. Part of me wanted to blurt out everything, show Dad the letters, confide in him. Another part of me didn’t want to ruin whatever memories he had of my mom. And another part didn’t want him to look at me, for the rest of my life, and think, “Witch,” which he definitely would once he read the letters and understood about blood witches. My shoulders shook silently as I dipped another cracker and tried to eat it.

  “Honey, if you can’t tell me, maybe Hilary—I mean, if it’s a girl thing...”

  As if. My soggy cracker broke off in the soup and started to dissolve.

  “Or me. You can tell me anything,” he said awkwardly. I wished that either one of us thought th
at was true. “I mean, I’m just an old guy, but I know a lot.”

  “That’s not true,” I said without meaning to. “There’s a lot you don’t know.” I started crying again, thinking about my mom, about how my whole childhood had been a lie.

  “So tell me.”

  I just cried harder. There was no way I could possibly tell him about this. It was like I had spent fifteen years being one person and suddenly found out I was someone completely different. My whole world was dissolving. “I can’t. Just leave me alone, please.”

  He sat for a few more minutes but didn’t come up with a plan that would suddenly make everything all right, make up for our not being close, for my not having a mom, for his marrying Hilary next month. After a while I felt his weight leave my bed, and then the door closed behind him. If only I could talk to him, I thought miserably. If only I could talk to someone. Anyone who would understand.

  And then I thought of Morgan.

  “Morgan?” I called on Wednesday morning. I had been lurking in the parking lot, waiting for her and Mary K. to arrive. Mary K. had popped out of the car, looking cute and fresh, the way she always did. I’d waited till she’d gone off to hang with our other friends; then Morgan had wearily swung herself out of her humongous white car and I called to her. I’d seen Morgan in the morning before and wasn’t sure it was smart to talk to her this early. Besides her usual non-morning-person vibe, today she looked a little haggard, like she hadn’t been sleeping.

  She turned her head, and I stepped forward and waved. I saw the faint surprise in her eyes—she knew I tried to avoid her sometimes. As I got closer, I saw that she was drinking a small bottle of orange juice, trying to slug it down before the bell rang. Hilary would be glad that at least Morgan was paying attention to her blood sugar.

  “Hey, Alisa,” Morgan said. “Mary K. went thataway.” She pointed to the main building of Widow’s Vale High, then glanced around us, as if to assure herself she was actually at school.