Carolyn MacCullough

Once a Witch - Excerpt

I was born on the night of Samhain when the barrier between the worlds is whisper thin and when magic, old magic, sings its heady and sweet song to anyone who cares to hear it. All night my mother struggled, and when she finally heaved me into this world, my grandmother hovered over me, twisting her fingers in arcane shapes, murmuring in a language only she knew.

“What is it?” my mother gasped, turning her face against the lavender scented pillow. “What’s wrong?”

Finally my grandmother answered, her voice full and triumphant. “Your daughter will be one of the most powerful we have ever seen in this family. She will be a beacon for us all.”

I always wonder how my older sister Rowena, who had been allowed into the room, reacted to that statement. No one thought to check that part of the story, but I really would have relished the one moment where I, and not Rowena, was the sun and the moon and the stars combined.

They say I never cried at birth, never made a sound, but opened my eyes immediately and regarded them all with a calm and quiet gaze. “As if she’s seen so much already,” my mother whispered, touching my fingers, and then my face.

Well, if I had seen anything, I’ve long since forgotten what it was and as for what my grandmother promised, that’s been forgotten, too. Or not forgotten, but definitely scrapped.

Even now, seventeen years later, I still catch my mother’s gaze lingering on me and I just know she’s wondering how she managed to lose the child she’d been promised and gain me instead. I also wonder if my grandmother ever recalls the echo of her words, one of the most powerful, a beacon. Doubtful.

The story was told so many times in eager anticipation up until my eighth birthday. Then the whole family gathered and sang, while my mother lit the twelve golden tapers to represent the four winds, the four elements, and the four directions. They also watched me, some openly, some furtively.

And what did I do?

Nothing. At. All.

Nothing that I was supposed to do anyway. After awhile, I got tired of everyone staring at me and then at each other so I went around blowing out all the candles, taking comfort in the dimness as I ate my way through two large pieces of sugar-sweet birthday cake. Eventually, everyone trickled home.

I come from a family of witches. Each and every member of my family down to my youngest cousin manifests his or her particular Talent without fail just before, and certainly no later than, the age of eight.

Except for me.

Nine years have passed since that birthday and I have nothing to show for it. Not a drop, not half a drop, not even a quarter of a half of a half drop of magic runs through my, apparently very pedestrian, veins.

As for what my grandmother said about me, one of the most powerful, a beacon, etc, etc, etc. All this goes to show is that contrary to popular belief, even the oldest and wisest of witches can be dead wrong.

< back to books