Ennah

Sentisse, 66 years after the Rise

I’m staring at my measuring cup and not really seeing anything. Numbers twirl through my head as if I’ve had a bit too much of the good wine, but I haven’t had even a sip for days. I need to get this right if I want to keep Uncle Aniol happy, and more importantly, out of my hair and convinced that I’m worthy to stay. Besides, we have this fragile peace going on, and I don’t want to break it.

Well, the word peace might be stretching it. It’s more like a delicate, awkward balance born from a certain shame that Uncle Aniol must be carrying about showing me his true feelings — both the shouting and the crying afterward, and my resolve to show I can handle him without flying off the handle — both literally and figuratively.

The truce means that he’s polite. I’m doing my best not to annoy him, so I’m equally as polite.

Oh feathers, thinking about this has made me forget my calculations again. I rub my brow to try and remove the headache coming on.

It’s ridiculous. I know exactly how to make the brew. A normal portion is no trouble at all. But now I’m making it two and one-third times as large, and my mind goes blank trying to multiply and add and get an outcome.

One more time. If I normally need six of something, now I need fourteen. So eight bars in the measuring cup would now be…

Ugh. I drop onto the bench and barely resist the urge to just throw the measuring cup far, far away, but I know that won’t be satisfying the way I’d like it to be. Instead, I kind of smash it onto the table, with a thud that’s… Equally dissatisfying.

I shake my head. It’s just math, just a bit of logical thinking. Yet my mind hurts, and the fact that I’m constantly worried that I’m doing this all wrong doesn’t help at all. Why did I choose to make the absolute most I possibly can? Why not just double the normal amounts, it would be so much easier — and safer. And Uncle Aniol would need me again sooner…

That thought makes it even more annoying that perfectionist Ennah has made this decision. And I cannot go back now, for I have already started the process. If I try to change things now, I won’t have any potion at all.

Right. That’s it. This may very well be the worst decision I’ve ever made, and I’m including the time I was about six years old and thought it would be funny to scare Granny by hovering several feet above the ground and letting myself drop when she entered our room. I’ll never forget the force of the slap she gave me, but the way she broke down and cried because she was so relieved I was fine made an even deeper impression — I think I cried ten times as long as she did because I really felt I’d hurt her with my silly prank. I learned a lot about my abilities that day, and also about what it was like to love someone dearly.

Turns out that both of those lessons scratched little more than the surface of their respective subjects. If I had known the sting of losing someone I loved earlier, I’d have treasured my time with both Granny and Aunt Carme a lot more. And somehow, I feel I have to cherish the time with Uncle Aniol a bit more too. I don’t want to let my mind wander that way, but he’s already paved the path for me by requesting I make the brew ‘just in case’.

What if something happens to him? I cannot run this vineyard on my own. Could I get Amador to help me? The thought of him warms me from the inside. What would it be like to live with Amador, to marry him, and have his children? What would my life be like if the Mage finally gives up his search, and I am free?

I draw in a deep breath. Live with Amador, in Sentisse, with a bunch of children running around. Not floating, I hope. Now my breath falters. I have no way of knowing if I pass on my Magic to my children. I’ve always imagined my future with kids, but now is the first time I think about what that might actually look like, and it’s scary.

No. No, no, no, I’m not going to go down this rabbit hole. It’s like my brain is trying everything in its might to keep me from doing the math I need to do, and my window of opportunity is dwindling. If I don’t add the lifdom extract in time, all of this has been for naught.

How much time do I have left? I turn to the window and freeze instantly. Was that a shadow? There are no trees directly in front of the shack, it’s impossible for a shadow to be cast here. What was it?

I run — I explicitly touch my feet to the floor — to the window and peer out. Nothing. No trace of anything that could cast a shadow. It must have been my imagination.

Just to be sure, I listen for any cat sounds. It could have been Amador, of course, looking for me. The time is off, it’s well past midday slumbers, but who knows. I haven’t seen him for a while, so…

No, no cat sounds. No sounds at all — which probably means that Uncle Aniol chased the birds away again. I think he likes the way they scatter when he releases the skeet from the crossbow, and he likes the way it allows him to vent. He’s been doing it so often lately, that I’ve almost grown accustomed to the sharp pang it sends through the air. And I’m fine with it, of course. Better he releases his anger into the crossbow than toward me.

I didn’t hear anything this morning, though. Scanning the air — the windows in the shack are tall so that a lot of light can come in — I’m quite sure he fired skeets today. There’s not a bird in sight.

Nice, brain. I wasn’t disturbed by a sound like all hell was breaking loose, but one thought about Amador and I’m off dreaming about floating babies, forgetting my numbers instantly.

Numbers. Six makes fourteen. Eigh makes…

I have to write this down somewhere. For the first time in my life, I wish we’d have some dust on the floor so I could write in it. But maybe… There should be a bit of powdered ingram left. Working out the math on paper is too dangerous, but I can simply blow any powder away after I’ve finished my calculations.

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This time I don’t mind my feet when I make for the counter. The sack of ingram is almost empty, but there ought to be enough to sprinkle a fine dusting onto the countertop. It glistens like a blank canvas and a smile creeps to my lips.

Yes, this is going to work. I should have thought of this sooner. Now that I have a way to make the numbers visible, I’m done in no time. I measure the amount of lifdom extract I need — eightteen and two thirds — and pour the liquid into the kettle.

The unfinished brew turns a bright yellow, just like it’s supposed to, and relief washes over me. There are some calculations that need to be done later on, but for now, all is well. Time to cast the spell. I look up at the chest high up in the wall and for the first time, the loving memories of how I used to take it down for Granny are stronger than how much I miss her. The sting is still there, but in doing the motions and making our brew, I feel closer to her. As if I can feel Granny’s essence in what I’m doing here.

Smiling, I unlock my ankle bracelets and this time it’s physical relief washing over me. I am free again! But I cannot allow myself to fly around the shack just for the fun of it just yet. I’ll do that after I’m done for the day — as soon as the incantation is said, the brew needs to rest for half a day anyway. Half a day of relaxing, for Uncle Aniol doesn’t know that there’s nothing I can do for twelve hours — that doing anything might ruin the whole thing, even. This is a part of the process I am particularly keen on keeping a secret.

The chest is fetched quickly enough and I hover down again, keeping it close to me. The heart in the jar will have to stay inside until I’ve finished the spell too, sad as that makes me. But I’m really bent on finishing swiftly now that I’ve wasted so much time on the darned calculations.

This spell has been used most out of all the spells in the book. The page is stained and there’s a fold in one of the corners — I think I did that once — and yet again I can feel Granny’s essence in what I’m doing. It warms my heart and against my prior intention, I pull out the jar and watch as the light heart softly bounces against the glass. I whisper the spell to make a heart of my own, allow my fingers to dance a heart into life.

Now two hearts bounce against the glass and though it pains me that they cannot reach each other, I know they’re both there. Just like Granny and me, divided by something invisible that doesn’t mean that the both of us aren’t here, and that the love has gone.

I swallow away the sudden tears and quickly place the jar in the chest again. My heart now flutters against the wood of the chest and I cannot bear to leave it like that. If I let it enter the box, will it survive just like the one inside the bottle does? Oh, I hope it does. I won’t open the bottle, for if Granny’s Magic escapes I’ll be heartbroken, but maybe the chest will act as something to keep the heart safe in as well.

Carefully, I scoop up the heart in the chest and close the lid before quickly stepping away from it.

Right. Now I just need to be mindful when I go near the chest again — though I can probably catch the heart easily should it—

Again my gaze is drawn to the window, and again there’s nothing to be seen. No trace of the shadow I thought I saw from the corner of my eye. Am I going mad? Is it just my hope that Amador will come and find me, or… I suck in a deep breath, listening and watching intently, but there’s nothing but silence greeting me, nothing but the clearest blue sky and some raggedy vines barely swaying in the wind.

Still, I can’t shake the feeling that something weird is going on here. Let’s cast the spell and be done with it for today. Maybe I’ll even go into the house, cold and empty as it is, and risk Uncle Aniol loading me with chores again.

“Meres áylon a humm áylon, festegraz n’ay humm áylon. Mig daranum mess varlor, humm spidar, meres áylon.”

Even on my tongue, the words taste sweet. The Magic tickles my nose, my tastebuds, and I am struck by the difference between the casting of the spell just over a month ago and how it feels to speak the words now. I know the last batch was good, but somehow I know this batch feels better. The words take on more meaning, as if the taste they create urges me to dig even deeper, and pour even more life into the spell than I ever have before. Granny always said Magic was part ingredients, part spell and part love, or emotion, and somehow I know she’s right.

“Meres áylon,” I whisper, and the sweetness of the spell makes me smile. “Humm áylon.” This is what love must taste like.

The moment I think that, I think of how Amador’s kisses taste, I let my memories float to how his skin always has a hint of salt on it. My tastebuds react immediately and now the whole spell turns more savory than sweet.

This is amazing! I never realized I could influence the taste of…

But stop. I cannot make the wine taste salty. It needs sweetness, it needs a flowery pallet, a taste that has the tongue tingle lightly with the essence of dreams and sunlight. I cannot have it taste like Amador.

Not that I’m certain it works that way, but I cannot run the risk.

So I think of sunlight, like Granny instructed me. I think of sweetness, of apples and strawberries, cherries and laughter.

It’s as if the words are getting me drunk. Louder and louder I chant, more cheerful with every round, until I’m practically singing the spell toward the kettle.

“Humm spidar, meres áylon.”

It has to be enough. I can just feel it, and the yellow of the brew now shimmers with a golden gleam. I did well. It’s enough.

I make my way to the chest and open the lid just a crack, to make sure Granny’s heart won’t fly off. But my worries prove unnecessary — the heart is still bouncing gently around in the glass bottle, the heart in the reflection mirroring its movements, and both are undeterred by my weightlessness. Carefully, I place Granny’s book inside, on top of the small pouch with coins and the writing gear I used to use for copying spells almost every day. One of Granny’s rules: practice Magic on a regular basis. Maybe it’s time to pick up that habit again. I close the lid feeling a bit sad, and a bit agry with myself. I made promises, I followed rules, and now I’m slipping. That’s not alright.

But today, I did well. I’m done.

I fly up to the recess in the wall and place the chest there, making sure it’s safe and sound before I widen the distance, only letting go when I know for sure that gravity has firmly gripped the chest again before I descend. I’ve had too many instances where I thought something was safely sitting somewhere, only to turn my back and have it fly off, and crash down. Hard.

The chest doesn’t so much as shiver. Good.

I turn around, and then I spot him.

Uncle Aniol.

Crouching below the window sill. I presume he thinks he’s ducked away deep enough, and when I’m on the floor I cannot see him, but from up here I can see his balding head ever so clearly, and the black cloak he’s wearing.

I can’t believe it! He’s been spying on me!

I drop to the floor faster than I’ve ever done, my rage a storm in my belly and heart. The nerve, the sheer nerve! Did he really think—

The spell. I turn pale. He must have heard it. There’s no way around it — I sang it, shouted it for crying out loud. Not that he can do anything with it. Not as long as he hasn’t written it down, that is. And his spelling qualities are poor at best, even with words he knows, but…

Oh no, what have I done?

But this is not my fault. I cannot believe Uncle Aniol betrayed me like this!

Before I know it, I’m at the door, throwing it wide open.

He startles, his wide eyes fixed on me for a second before he squints. I open my mouth to start yelling at him, when an enormous bang makes us both flinch.