Old Magic Page 7

  She holds the crystal up to my face. I’m not exactly sure what I’m supposed to be looking for and don’t see anything unusual. All the same, it might be my agitated senses, but I find it impossible to drag my eyes away. It seems to loom closer, grow larger even, but this perhaps is an illusion. I’m concentrating hard now. Vivid, shifting colours, like fancy silk scarves, move inside it for a minute, then nothing. I start wondering, is that it? And I’m glad in a way that nothing too amazing or outlandish happened. I mean, shifting colours of reds, oranges and blues. A good trick, sure. I wonder how she did it. As I’m about to ask something else happens, drawing my focus right into the centre of the ball. Something is moving inside and it’s more than colours. There are shapes. Odd grey shapes that shift and change. I adjust my glasses. Everything has a slight blur without them. I use them for reading mostly. Now I see people. Three of them. The first I make out is a man, his face filled with pain; then a woman with brown hair and mousy eyes, weary-looking; the last a child, about eight or nine, with hair like mine. It takes a full minute before it hits me. I’m looking at a miniature visual image of my parents, and little brother, Casey.

  It blows me out. For more than one reason. As far as I know Kate has never seen my family. How would she know what they looked like? My chest struggles for air; this is all too unreal. I physically pull back, and lift off my glasses.

  Kate gently slips the globe under her bed. ‘What did you see?’

  I stare at her, words stuck dry in my throat.

  ‘What did you see, Jarrod?’ she repeats insistently.

  ‘Don’t you know?’

  ‘I only saw the colours,’ she shocks me further by saying. ‘But you saw more.’

  ‘My family.’

  ‘Oh,’ she groans softly as if this explains everything. I wish she’d tell me. ‘Now I understand completely.’

  Her comment makes me want to scream. ‘So what do you mean by that?’

  ‘I suggested to the crystal it reveal to you your most worrying thoughts.’

  I feel my mouth sag open as I suck in a couple of good breaths. What happened just now? Did I really see my family in that glass ball? Did Kate somehow manipulate my thoughts to think that I saw them? She says she’s good at sensing moods and that sort of thing. I guess she is gifted in some ways. There are people who can sense things sometimes even before they happen. That’s not unusual. So what if Kate is capable of a little ESP? A little thought projection? Maybe she really was in my head the other day. I can handle that. With this thought in mind I calm a little. ‘Very interesting.’

  ‘That’s all?’ Disbelief.

  I shrug my shoulders. ‘What did you expect?’

  She shakes her head and drops it into her hands. Her words are muffled. ‘I thought that you would believe in the world of magic. That by showing you it exists, you would believe you have the gift.’

  I scoff really loudly. Her eyes peek out from her hands. ‘It was a great exhibition, Kate. I’m really impressed. Believe me, you blew my mind. But how is a little thought projection going to make me believe I can do magic? We’re talking about me here. You know, the idea alone is absurd. Don’t you pay attention at school? I do something stupid every day. I’m clumsy, OK? I’m a nobody. I don’t belong anywhere.’

  Her hands fly into the air. ‘Jarrod, you’re so wrong about yourself, it makes me cringe.’

  ‘I’m sorry I do that to you.’

  ‘You idiot.’ She strikes my knee with her knuckles. I grab her hand to stop her from doing it again. I don’t let go straight away. ‘I mean,’ she begins, and I swear her voice has become a little unsteady, ‘you say you don’t belong anywhere, yet you told me how your father has traced your ancestors back almost a thousand years. Now that’s really something.’

  I think about this. She’s right, of course. It makes me feel better, like maybe I do belong. At least this conversation feels safer. I like where it’s going. I decide to try and keep it there, leave the supernatural stuff behind. ‘I could bring Dad’s book around tomorrow, if you like.’

  Her eyes light up with excitement. ‘Could you? That’d be great.’

  It’s a timeless moment. I lace my fingers through hers and feel my pulse accelerate like crazy. ‘I want to thank you for getting me out of that cafe tonight, and for saving my life.’

  ‘I don’t think that old chandelier would have killed you, but that’s OK all the same.’

  ‘I, ah, really should go. Mum’ll be worried by now.’

  ‘Hmm, if you have to.’

  She says the words so softly I have to lean forward to hear them. At least that’s my excuse. Honestly, the room is dead quiet except for the hammer pounding away in my chest. I lean down even further, our faces mere centimetres apart. My eyes drop to her mouth. The timing is perfect. If I don’t do it now, I doubt I’ll ever have the guts again. If anything, other than clumsy, I’m also a coward. I don’t know what’s come over me. I just know I have to give it one shot. So I lean into her face before my nerve deserts me completely. I can almost taste her lips, they’re so close.

  Maybe I really am cursed. I feel myself falling, and instead of the sensual kiss I imagined, I land, long bony limbs and all, directly in her lap! ‘God, Kate,’ I mutter, my face heating up like a Bunsen burner on full flame. ‘Sorry. What a mess. I hope I didn’t hurt you.’ Being careful where I put my hands, I climb awkwardly out of her lap, catch my foot on the corner of a rug I never even noticed before, eventually stumbling to my knees somewhere near the door. ‘Damn.’

  ‘Are you all right?’

  She isn’t laughing but it can’t be far. I decide I don’t want to hang around when it happens. So I nod, not trusting myself to make intelligent conversation and mumble, ‘Yeah … Fine … Gotta go … See myself out …’

  She escorts me to the front door anyway, probably just to make sure I don’t crash into anything on the way through the shop. But I don’t hang around. I tear down the road as if I truly am cursed. By the devil himself.

  A shiver rips up my spine causing every fine body hair to stand on end. OK, it’s cold and eerie considering it’s late and dark and isolated around here, but somehow I know it has nothing to do with all this. It has to do with Kate. Just how, and in what way, I have no idea. I just know it.

  Kate

  We make the city papers and the national news. Unbelievable. The earthquake at the Icehouse Cafe didn’t register apparently on any Richter scale, and this is causing a huge amount of confusion; but the destruction is real, as are the many eyewitnesses. The whole town is crawling with official-looking people and news crews. It’s Saturday morning and through the night the newshounds have been coming in from all over the country. Several theories have been put forward by scientific professionals but witnesses disagree. It was no bomb, or freak storm, like the one that hit the local high school a week earlier. Most swear it was an earthquake.

  It’s Sunday before two investigating police officers make their way to the Crystal Forest. They introduce themselves, briefly flashing ID. It’s just routine by now. I’m probably last on their interview list. Their faces tell me they’re not expecting I have anything new to tell them. I don’t disappoint, describing the tremor as it swept through the place with just the right amount of anxious excitement. I wonder how Jarrod handled the questioning. His recollections, though vague, are probably enough to satisfy the investigators. Any lack of memory could surely be excused as trauma, I assume, without suspicion.

  The police leave, apparently satisfied, though no wiser; and I decide I’d better do a little homework. But my mind isn’t on it. I’m expecting Jarrod, who doesn’t show. He mentioned coming over with his father’s heritage book but I guess he’s changed his mind, probably deciding to stay well away from all the officials, police and investigative scientists lurking around.

  I see him at school on Monday, but he ignores me. He’s sitting at a table in the quadrangle outside the canteen with his usual crowd – Pecs and Jessica, and
of course Her Highness, Tasha Daniels. It hurts, but I’m not about to let him know this. Realisation hits me, and makes me want to cringe. Jarrod may be incredibly gifted, but inside his soul, where it really matters, he’s nothing but a coward – pathetic and spineless. He would sooner hide than confront anything he doesn’t understand, or makes him uneasy, or doesn’t conform to his stupid set of rules.

  He continues to avoid me all week. At least nothing else crazy happens. I cop some cheap remarks from Pecs, who reckons it was witchcraft that caused the destruction at the Icehouse, but after a few days of this most people get bored with the idea and leave me alone. So I’m surprised to see Jarrod in the Crystal Forest the following Saturday. As usual on the weekends I help Jillian out, giving her time to do other things. Jarrod’s mother is with him. I watch quietly from my spot on the floor where I’m restocking a bottom shelf, as she lays a handful of unusually beaded and decorated skirts and jackets over the counter. There’s some jewellery too – dangle earrings, colourful matching necklets and bracelets. Jillian examines them with genuine interest. Some of the garments are denim, some linen or silk, but all have distinctive decorative trims of beads, rhinestones, or simply coloured gems and fringes. They’re not bad if you’re into country and western stuff, or just looking for something different. They’ve got style, but I don’t think they suit Jillian’s New Age line. She caters to the tourists with mostly novelty items. But she decides to give the trinkets and clothes a go, saying she will display samples on a rack near the front window.

  Jarrod’s mind is elsewhere, so I watch him for a few moments before he notices me. He seems particularly fascinated in the miniature pewter wizards. His fingers linger on one when he becomes aware I’m watching from across the room. His hand goes still as his eyes lower to mine. He smiles, an innocent boyish grin, and points to the book wedged in the crook of his arm. It’s his family heritage book. I have to stop myself from looking too keen. Sure, I want to see that book, it might be able to fill in a lot of blanks about Jarrod, but it isn’t just that.

  I try not to let it show how totally hung up I am on him. After all, he ignored me all week. Trying to look casual I get up and stroll across to where he’s standing. ‘So, you brought the book.’

  With his elbow he points at the counter where his mother and Jillian are trying to work out where best exactly to hang the garments and stuff. ‘Yeah, and Mum.’

  I look at Mrs Thornton and try not to probe. She would be an easy subject, her face is well-worn but trusting. She has light brown hair, with a fair bit of grey she apparently doesn’t try to cover as other women her age might. She’s wearing dark blue trousers that make her legs look really skinny and a pale yellow smock top that exaggerates a small roundish belly. ‘You didn’t bring your little brother?’

  ‘Nah, Dad promised he would take him fly-fishing in the creek that runs along the back of the farm.’

  Their business done, Mrs Thornton follows Jillian to where Jarrod and I are standing. Jillian introduces us as if the two of them are old friends. I smile and shake Mrs Thornton’s hand. It’s small and cold, yet surprisingly strong. She tells me to call her Ellen, which is nice and casual and explains a lot about the woman. I like her instantly, even as she passes an uneasy glance at Jarrod. They’ve been talking about me. The thought irritates. So I have to do it. Just once, I promise myself. One brief probe.

  She’s wary, a little fearful even, her senses sharply alert, which means Jarrod has told her I’m strange, or crazy or something similar. It disappoints me, but doesn’t change my opinion of the woman. After all, her wariness is based on the advice of her son. It’s Jarrod’s opinions that suck. How am I going to get through to him when he thinks I’m a head case?

  Jillian invites Ellen to a cup of tea, but she declines. ‘Next time perhaps,’ Ellen explains. ‘I have to check on my husband, Ian, and our other son, Casey. I dropped them off at the river that borders the back of our farm this morning, but Ian’s leg isn’t the best. His medication sees him dozing often.’

  She leaves and Jarrod follows me upstairs. We sit on the floor together with soya munchies for morning tea, the book sprawled between us. It’s thick and rich with history, beginning with the most recent families up front. Apparently Jarrod’s father, Ian Thornton, is an only child, whose father died several years ago at the age of sixty-six from a major stroke. His mother, who is still living, is in a suburban nursing home in Sydney with an older sister.

  Immersed in history, time soon disappears. We break for lunch, and go downstairs where I heat up some vegetarian sausage rolls. We finish these and talk for a while, sticking to safe subjects like teachers and homework and Jarrod’s little brother’s antics.

  We take our drinks up to my room but soon forget them as we sink back into the heritage book. It turns out Jarrod’s favourite subject is history, just like mine. We laugh about this and the feeling in the room is warm and relaxed.

  I’m not sure what I’m looking for. I guess it’s a sign that proves there is a curse on the Thornton family. It turns out to be quite an informative book, giving interesting tidbits on heaps of families from way into the past. There are the usual family skeletons in the closet, some more so than others. Eventually a trend starts to take shape. Accidents, tragedies, appear more prevalent in certain families I realise, the really large ones, where there are heaps of births. It keeps me riveted.

  It turns out Jarrod’s descendants go far back into English history to the Middle Ages, long before proper records were officially kept, so the early information is stuff that’s probably been handed down from parent to child. In that respect it’s hard to decide what’s fact and what’s elaborated fiction, exaggerated for entertainment value, perhaps retold around a hungry fire on a cold winter’s night.

  I try to keep this in mind, especially when reading in the back of the book about the oldest family which is steeped in controversy. There’s a kidnapping of a newly-married bride by the bridegroom’s illegitimate half-brother on their wedding night, followed by the disappearance of the newly-married couple a while after. It was rumoured that the young bride carried the illegitimate half-brother’s child in her womb, and that he used some form of sorcery on her; but as the young married couple was never seen again, it couldn’t be proved. Yet the controversy continued when their eldest child, a son, returned to the family home on his twenty-eighth birthday to claim his inheritance. His identity was rejected, and a bloody battle followed. I wonder how much of this is true? No matter what I read after this my mind keeps zeroing back to this memorable family.

  And though it’s all fascinating, especially the mention of magic, I force myself not to dwell too long in one place. By late afternoon I recognise a definite pattern, adding credence to the story of the oldest recorded family. ‘It has to be it,’ I announce, sitting back on my heels, folding my arms, quietly satisfied. ‘I think I know who the sorcerer is.’

  Jarrod’s head swings up. ‘What did you say?’

  I flick the pages back to the first family. ‘The illegitimate half-brother used sorcery. It must’ve been something extraordinary to have passed down through those early generations. I’m guessing – ’

  ‘Yeah, right,’ Jarrod scoffs, interrupting me.

  ‘It’s all there, Jarrod. All you have to do is look.’

  ‘Sounds like a matter of interpretation. Didn’t you say the information in those early registers could be suspect?’

  I groan. He’s impossible. Totally negative. ‘I admit the information’s a little scattered, and sure, some of it could be exaggerated, but you have to look at the book as a whole. There’s a definite trend of bad luck, disasters and deaths in the larger families. This is evidence, Jarrod. It stands for itself. All these things happened mostly to families with at least seven male births. And that first family was shrouded in sorcery. Don’t you see? This is when it must have started.’

  ‘So there’s been a lot of bad luck,’ Jarrod concedes. ‘But sorcery? You’re kidding, righ
t?’ He still can’t see the reality, and goes on to add, ‘The fact that all these families are unfortunate has nothing to do with how many births are in their families, and especially doesn’t mean they’re cursed.’ He’s trying to rationalise my theory. In fact, he’s trying to rationalise everything. An annoying habit.

  ‘How can you say that?’ I argue. ‘Every family with seven or more male births is jinxed.’

  ‘That’s ridiculous. Besides, most people experience difficulties at some time or other. Especially, I would imagine, in those medieval days. Even more so the families with seven or more kids. Your family’s just so small you haven’t had the benefit of experience.’

  I stare at him and even though it hurts, I try to ignore his last comment. My main concern is Jarrod’s lack of faith. Why can’t he just let himself believe? Why does he hold himself back from the obvious? ‘What would you call hard times, Jarrod? Bankruptcy? Lost limbs? Unexplained deaths? Kidnapping? Murder? It’s all there, in every family that gave birth to seven or more sons.’

  Frowning, he glances across the top of my head to the window. When his eyes come back he looks uncertain. I have an inner battle to stop myself from probing his mind. Finally he shrugs and stands, apparently deciding it’s time to leave. ‘Look,’ he begins, ‘it’s an interesting theory, but it has no substance with me. My only brother is Casey. I’m the first-born, not the seventh. So try explaining that.’

  Of course he’s right, and suddenly I feel so stupid. All this talk of ancient evil curses and sorcery. It’s ludicrous. At least that’s how Jarrod must see it. How he must see me. I shake my head, stand and hand him the heritage book. But I can’t meet his eyes.

  ‘Keep the book if you like, Dad won’t miss it for a few days. But I’d better go. Mum should have been here hours ago. She must have forgotten she said she’d pick me up. I’ll start walking.’

  ‘Jillian could drive you home,’ I mumble.