Chapter 57
CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN
“Dear old world,” Anne murmured, “you are very lovely and I am happy to be alive in you.”
—L. M. Montgomery, Anne of Green Gables
THREE MONTHS LATER
I was just leaving Dr. Perez’s lab. “Cella, when do you think you’ll have the notes on object personalization done?”
I smiled and handed him a manila folder. “Last night.”*
He shook his head. “This is not what I meant when I said we’d return to work gradually.”
I grinned. “You can thank me later! I’m off for the weekend.”
“Say hi to Max, and take a break this time—I mean it. Oh, and if his mother has some of that red pepper jelly?”
“I’ll grab some. See ya Monday!”
Dr. Perez’s lab shared an adjoining wall with the Ecology lab and the newly created Mycoforestry Department.
Luce popped her head over and made a series of smooching noises. “Bring me some too, if his mom has extra!” she yelled.
“You got it. See y’all Monday!”
I raced out of the building, a trail of mushrooms following me as I went—Luce’s Magic, sending me off.
It turned out that not only had she found the fungi she needed in the world of Being, but she came out changed somehow.
There was a glimmer to her eye that wasn’t there before, a new brown-gold shimmer in her eye, in the exact shape of a mushroom’s cap.
I kicked up red clay with my boots as I ran, tying my hair back with a sunflower ribbon, and stopped to take a long look at the sun setting over the canyon. The burst of red and orange and purple lighting up the sky felt like a gift, one I wasn’t going to squander.
Max, in his truck, pulled up beside me and did a wolf whistle. Bear popped his head out the window and barked happily. “Wooh-wee, now where would a pretty lady like you be heading on a Friday night?”
“Oh, you know, just spending a romantic weekend with my boyfriend.”
He grinned. “Must be some guy.”
I climbed into the car, and we shared a kiss. “Must be.”
The aftermath of everything wasn’t clean or tidy.
Basile and a few of his most loyal followers, Paul excluded, had disappeared.
Dr. Robetresse was with the Arbiters trying to find them.
Paul and a few of the other brothers worked on a rehabilitation program at the school in which people learned to cast with only two objects.
A lot of the people involved in the spell had given up their Magic entirely.
What they’d seen had scared them off it for good.
But others kept at it, keeping in mind what they knew could happen.
We entered a new age of appreciation for Magic—part fear, part respect, but always careful practice.
Rumors of what happened even convinced Britton Arcane to start a Three Arts program, for students who were interested in learning a safer form of practice.
If there ever really could be a safe way to perform Magic.
And many of the people found new objects to replace the ones they had lost, as they made new memories, forged new bonds and relationships with people.
Letters, a cherished memento from an experience or time together.
Kind moments sprung up new objects, new things to love, and our relationship with Magic grew into something different, something more respectful and more inclusive of our own boundaries.
I worked on the farm with Max all that summer, mucking out the horse stalls and brushing the horses, and for a while, we ignored Magic.
We did small tasks around the house, restitching his mother’s quilt, caring for his father’s tomato plants, working at his family’s farmer’s market stand.
We harvested the honey from the bees and placed it into jars.
We made candles from the beeswax. There was so much Magic in those memories we made, in those little things.
I visited Vern and Sonia often, bringing a beeswax candle or a jar of red pepper jelly.
I went to pottery class with my mom. I left flowers at my brother’s grave.
I spoke to him daily, about all the things I’d noticed now, the simple gestures that brought me so much joy.
The time I spent with Max. Even my newfound friendship with Luce.
There was so much to appreciate about this world, I told him. It was so, so alive.
Max drove to a far spot on the farm overlooking the lake, where the grass was long and the sun was warm, and pulled out a couple of beers and a blanket.
In time, the Magic began to find us again.
It latched onto little objects that we found near and dear; a piece of fence that we’d built over the summer splintered off and became something Max carried with him everywhere.
A horseshoe from my favorite mare in the barn became something I carried for luck.
A hairclip, a torn piece of a blanket we shared at night.
A million little things, a million little memories that we made.
Max lay down on the blanket and patted the spot beside him. Bear gave me several slobbery kisses before running off into the grass.
We camped out beneath the stars so many nights that summer, tangled up in each other. Our lips kissing all those pieces of us that had always belonged to each other, finding their way back once more.
He ran a finger over my dress and down to my thigh, and I playfully slapped it away. I threw the dress over my head and ran toward the water.
“Woman, you’re gonna kill me,” he yelled. “Where are you going?”
I looked out at the swaying grasses, the sun beating down on the backs of my legs, the sweet smell of honeysuckle in the air and the cicadas buzzing in the grass. And all I could think was: I wish you were here, Aaron. You would’ve loved it.
And I remembered there was one thing in all of this that I’d nearly forgotten.
Anthropology wasn’t just the study of humanity; it was the study of what it means to be human.
And maybe, sometimes, disillusionment is a part of that.
Maybe it’s natural to doubt, to take a step back, to retreat. To heal. What matters is coming back.
Because it’s easy to lose your faith in people.
It’s easy to see the bad when we miss plans or we lie or hurt each other.
What’s harder is to hold on. To see the good, to remember what we can do.
But if you look, it’s there. And if you’re lucky, there will be a community of people who will help show it to you, who won’t give up on you, even when you give up on yourself.
Who will remind you that humanity isn’t perfect, that people aren’t perfect, but, goddamn, are they something special. *