Chapter Thirty-Seven #2
“For years neighboring tribes believed that the forest ate those that ventured in too deep. That it was full of monsters. They weren’t wrong.
The forest was full of monsters, just as ours is.
But there was a reason why it lured the creatures.
Devoured those that went missing. You see, the forest sat above the Celestial Cusp, a well where the ley lines intersect, where the power pools. Where it waits.
“And the Cusp was hungry.”
It’s not until my jaw begins to ache that I realize I’m grinding my teeth.
“The blood of the Twelve sank down deep, each drop a gift to the stars.
This sacrifice, this act of selflessness, of love for all that has come before us and all that will come to pass, the intention to do good will, was rewarded abundantly.
For when the sun crested the horizon the next morning, our tribe was imbued with powerful new abilities.
“And from that generation on, new witches of our kind come into their magic during their alignment, when their age matches the date of their birth. This astrological synchronicity brings the witch to a powerful spiritual intersection, where your mortal life and the lives of your ancestors, and the stars, reunite.”
“Is that why Gigi left me the letter on my birthday? I was turning sixteen on the sixteenth?”
“Yes, she wanted to ease you into all this as best she could.”
“But I didn’t wake up with my powers that day. Or at least, I don’t think I did.”
I try to remember what I felt besides earth-shattering grief between my birthday and that day at Dawson’s, but it’s all so blurry now.
So dark. If I concentrate, I can conjure the feeling of an electric current gently buzzing within me, but I figured I was dehydrated and so stressed, I could barely eat.
And yet I remember begging the stars for any amount of help saving my grandmother, and nothing happened.
I relay all this to Maureen.
“That’s interesting,” she mutters, her eyes distant with thought.
“You know, as a Cancer you’re ruled so heavily by your emotions.
I imagine it’s possible your fear and stress were so great that there was no room for your magic to bud.
But when that boiled over into anger, you broke wide open, and that sliver of space allowed your power to reveal itself. ”
I guess that makes sense. At least in a world where nothing makes sense anymore.
While I’ve always been emotional, and I’ve also known that—according to Gigi, at least—this was in part due to my astrological placement, since her stroke and my birthday, my emotions have been so uncontrollable, I’ve been drowning in them.
“If my heightened emotions are part of my magic because I’m a Cancer… what about the lightning? The rain? Why do I constantly feel like I’m on the verge of combustion?”
“I’m sorry,” she says, “I’ve been getting ahead of myself…
” She takes a sip of her drink. “Like many things that were once great and powerful, over time our magic has been reduced to a fairytale. A fantasy. Astrology is divination from the stars, and while there are plenty of us with this gift, the gift of knowing, there are also plenty of people who have twisted it into something that it’s not.
Weekly horoscopes in the newspaper, apps run by charlatans claiming they can predict the future based on star placements,” she huffs.
My cheeks heat with embarrassment. I rest my elbows against the table and cup my face in my palms.
“The stars are the most ancient and divine, but their stories are not exclusive to us. Many cultures have their versions, their myths, their history with the twelve signs and their meanings. But no one has what we have. No one but the descendants of the Twelve can wield our magic without repercussion. Without bloodshed.”
Maureen’s eyes shine with passion as she speaks. Maybe it’s just me and my anxiety, but it feels like she’s not alone in telling me this. Like the room is full of energy, of spirit. I wonder if Gigi is here, too. Sitting between us, guiding us through this conversation.
“The gift bestowed upon us by the stars was splintered into four streams of power derived from the elements that dominate the signs: earth, fire, air, and water.
“Those were further divided into the twelve subsects of power, each taking on a unique property depending on which sign the witch was born under. In the beginning we used the old names, but when our mother tongue was stolen, we evolved with what culture we had left. Ultimately though, it doesn’t matter what you call it, the power works just the same. ”
“Elemental magic,” I murmur. “That’s so cool. I guess that explains the rain and the storms, the electricity like lightning in my veins—because I’m a water sign?”
“Yes, you’re exactly right,” she says. “As you might expect, powers rooted in the four elements have significant differences in abilities, and each division also has a range of strengths, which is why we tend to be led by cardinal signs, followed by our fixed signs, and then our mutable.”
Maureen stands and retrieves a piece of paper with flowers along the border and a pen to write with. Sitting down, she begins, “First we have those born of the earth, who are gifted with enhanced strength and have the ability to manipulate things like dirt, stone, metal, even plants.”
She draws symbols on the paper as she speaks. “Like the rest of the signs, the Sea-goat, the Bull, and the Virgin are also strong of mind, their manipulations going far beyond the physical.”
Beside each, she writes their unique abilities.
Capricorn: telepathy
Taurus: telekinesis
Virgo: psychometry
“Next we have air signs: They can rob the oxygen from another’s lungs, move with enhanced speed, and cast blades of compressed air.”
The Scales, the Water Carrier, the Twins.
Libra: projection
Aquarius: emotional influence
Gemini: splitting
“Then there are our fire signs, able to wield the flame, calling it to themselves at a moment’s notice. They can alter the way their opponents think and control their moves steps in advance. They are our warriors.” She continues her diagram. Ram, Lion, Archer.
Aries: mind-control
Leo: charisma
Sagittarius: divination
My mind is a jumble of symbols and strengths and powers. No amount of horoscope apps or stargazing on the observation deck or pages-long natal chart explanations could have prepared me for this.
“Though they are our best in battle, those with fire in their heart often find their passion getting the best of them. But the universe requires balance, so those who are powered by water were created.”
This time when she writes down the signs and their symbols, I feel something catch in my chest. The Crab, the Scorpion, the Fish.
“They have the power to control the rain and sea, static and lightning, and even snow and ice. They’re our spiritual leaders, the signs that bind our people together.”
Cancer: psychic-medium
Scorpio: truth-seer
Pisces: memory-walker
I think about the storms that follow me everywhere, the lightning that simmers just under my skin, how it burns and sizzles when I feel overwhelmed. The sprinklers in the corner store, the lights in the cafeteria, the bursting, incredible energy that was stifled that night in the hedge maze.
But the ability listed beside my sign makes my heart drop.
“Psychic-medium?” I breathe. “I—”
Maureen leans forward, her voice dropping with reverence. “Have you experienced this ability yet?”
I nod. “I think so…” The dream, the whispers, the ghost of the old woman that has been following me. “In the woods there was this… this thing, a ghost—she spoke to me.”
Maureen sits up straighter. “A spirit spoke to you?”
“I don’t know what she was, but she was terrifying…” I close my eyes against the vision of her, flesh half rotted but facial expression somehow always disapproving. Disappointed.
“Well, what did she say?”
I pause for a second, more from discomfort than trying to remember. There’s no way I could ever forget.
I take a breath. “She said, ‘Three gone by, four are foretold, the Cardinals are coming, and they will not be controlled.’”
Maureen gasps, her shaky hands covering her lips.
“She tried to warn me,” she mutters to herself as she stands, eyes glassy and distant, the sound of her voice less intelligible as a slew of curses or incantations leak out of her.
She leans over the sink, filling her palms with water before splashing her face.
When she turns back around, she’s unnaturally pale.
“What is it?” I ask, growing uneasy. “What does it mean?”
Hesitation clouds her face as she regards me.
“War is on the horizon.”
“War?” I grip the mug between my hands so hard, I’m afraid it’s going to crack.
She nods, eyes dark. “With the hunters.”