I tried again. “Da, what made you and Mum leave in the first place? How could you—how could you leave us behind?” My voice cracked and splintered—this was the question that had tormented me for more than half my life. How many times had I cried it aloud? How many times had I shouted it, screamed it, whispered it? Now here was the one person who could answer it, or so I hoped. Mum no longer could. Da’s eyes, once deep brown, now looked like dim pools of brackish water. They focused on me with surprising sharpness, as if he had just realized I was there.

When he didn’t answer, I went on, the questions spilling out like an unchecked river—once started, impossible to stop. “Why didn’t you contact me before Mum died? How did you know Linden died? How could you not have contacted us when each of us was initiated?”

With each question my father’s head sank lower and lower. He made no reply, and I realized with frustration that I would get no answers, at least not today. My stomach rumbled with alarming fierceness, and I remembered I had eaten nothing since that morning. It was now five o’clock, and dark.

“Come on, Da, let’s get something to eat. We could both use it.” Without waiting for a reply, I went into the kitchen and began opening cupboards. I found a tin of tomatoes, a tin of sardines, and some half-eaten, stale crackers. The refrigerator offered no joy, either: nothing but a lone turnip, whose shriveled, lonely form increased my confusion, my concern. Why was there no food in the house? What had he been eating? Who the hell eats turnips? I went back out to the living room, seeing again how thin Da was, how fragile he seemed. Well, I was here, and I was the only son he had left, and I would take care of him.

“On second thought, let’s go out. I saw a diner in town. Come on, my treat.”

June 1997

Today my cottage seems filled by a cloud of sadness. I know that this isn't a day for sorrow; it should ne a day for happy memories, for quiet contemplation and reminiscing. Yet the sorrow comes along unbidden. Today is the fifth anniversary of Mama's death.

It seems so long ago that we lived in this house together, yet I remember so much about her-her intensity, her passion for learning, the way she strove to kindle in me an appreciation for the complexity of the world. And her morality. If they knew the truth of her beliefs, many witches who revere her today would not consider my mother a moral person. Yet her heart was large, her empathy complete. She taught me healing spells and did the utmost to help animals, children, anyone who was vulnerable. She has a strong sense of right and wrong, and she felt that our family had been wronged too many times. I miss her so terribly, even five years after her death. I would like to believe that somewhere, wherever her soul is on its journey, she is aware of the work I am doing, and she is proud.

Today I stayed away from the library. I did non want to be tempted; it would be so easy to hurt my mother in my nostalgia and my sadness. But tomorrow I will return to my work. I will continue compiling… continue learning.

I cannot think of a better gift that I could give to Mama.

— J.C.

“Sorcier.”

My head jerked at the French word, so casually spoken, as a man walked past Da and me. We were in the town proper of Saint Jérôme du Lac, which was basically one street, no stoplight. One petrol station. But at least there were sidewalks and some small shops that had a quaint, frontiersy charm. I had parked my car not far from the town’s only diner, which was right next to the town’s only grocer. It was dark and colder than an ice cave. I pulled my coat tighter around my neck and wondered that my father didn’t get knocked over by the stiff breeze. And then I’d heard it: “Sorcier.” Witch. I know the word witch in at least seventeen different languages: useful for a Seeker. Bruja in Spanish. Hexe in German. Italians call us strega. Polish people say wiedzma. In Dutch, I listen for toverheks. Once in Russia I had old potatoes thrown at me while kids yelled, “Koldunya!” Long story. In Hungary one says boszorkány. And in French Canada one says, “Sorcier.”

But why anyone from the town would identify my father as a witch was still a mystery. I resolved to ask him about it later, after we ate. Two more people greeted Da as we went into the diner. He acknowledged them with a bob of his head, an embarrassed nod. I scanned them with my senses: they were just townspeople.

I, for one, felt better after a dinner of sausage, potatoes, canned green beans, and four thick slices of a rough brown bread that was incredible. I felt self-conscious, sitting with Da; I felt eyes on me, speculation. Da introduced me to no one, never said my name aloud, and I wondered if he was being careful or if he had forgotten who I was.

“Eat that,” I encouraged him, gesturing at his plate with my fork. “I paid good money for it.”

He gave me a slight, wan smile, and I found myself hungrily looking for a trace of his old, broad grin. I didn’t see it.

“Your mother would be amazed to see my appetite so small,” he said, forcing a laugh that sounded more like a cough. “She used to tease me about being able to eat for three.”

“I remember,” I said.

Da picked his way through his meal and left so much on his plate that I was forced to finish it for him. He did seem a little less shaky afterward, though. I bet he would be a hundred percent better after I got a couple more good meals into him. Luckily the grocer’s was still open after dinner. I bought a cabbage, some potatoes, some apples. Da, not even pretending to take an interest, sank down into a rocking chair near the door, his head on his chest, while I shopped. I bought meat—missing the somewhat intimidating sterile American packaging—chicken, fresh fish, and staples: flour, rice, sugar, coffee, tea. Inspired, I bought laundry detergent, other cleaning supplies. I paid for everything, collected my dim ghost of a father, and loaded groceries and Da into the car.

By the time we got back down the road to the cabin, Da was a waxy shade of gray. Worriedly I helped him into the dark house, felt unsuccessfully for a light switch, gave up, and used witch sight to lead him to a tiny, bleak, horrid bedroom—the only one in the house. It was about the size of a walk-in freezer and had about as much charm. The walls were unpainted pine planks spotted with black, age-old sap. The rusty iron bed, like the furniture in the living room, looked like it had been saved from a garbage heap. Unwashed clothes were piled in small heaps on the floor. Next to the bed was a small, rickety table, covered with candles, dust, and old cups of tea. Da sank down onto dingy sheets and rested his arm across his eyes.

“Da—are you ill?” I asked, suddenly wondering if he had cancer or a death spell on him or something else. “Can I get you something? Tea?”

“No, lad,” came his reedy voice. “Just tired. Leave me be; I’ll be fine in the morning.”

I doubted that but awkwardly pulled a thin coverlet over him and went out into the lounge. I still couldn’t find a light switch but brought in the groceries, lit some candles, and looked around. The cabin was freezing. As cold as outside. Shivering, I searched for a thermostat. Ten minutes later I came to the sinking realization that there was no thermostat because the cabin had no electricity.

Smothering a curse, I lit more candles. How had Da managed to live like this for any length of time? No wonder he looked so bad. I’d thought all the candles and lanterns had been witch gear—but they were his only light sources as well.