The Skinwalker's Apprentice (8 page)

New York, NY

October 5
, 1984

There was only one more place Emerald could think of to go. She said goodbye to Charlie, promising for the twentieth time that she wouldn’t forget what they’d talked about as he walked her to the Dekalb Avenue subway station. She boarded the B train and hurtled through the dark tunnels towards Hell’s Kitchen.

Emerald reached her stop and pressed play on her Walkman. She had been so wrapped up in thinking about Charlie’s suggestion, she’d completely forgotten she’d had her headphones on the entire thirty-minute train ride over. The thought of having something to look forward to made Emerald’s heart skip. Could she really get into a music program? She scowled at her own thoughts, which instinctively told her,
You can’t do i
t. For the first time in what felt like forever, Emerald was excited about something: something unrelated to breaking a rule or breaking and entering. She told her inner voice to shut up and listened as Roxy Music’s ‘More Than This’ floated into her ear. She walked the five minutes to West 46th Street and reached a wrought iron gate between two buildings. A black plaque with a gold border and lettering was welded onto the gate, and Emerald pushed it open and stepped into a narrow alleyway. She walked down the limestone path and into a courtyard. Jackson’s family, like Emerald and Nora, lived in a house that had been handed down throughout the years, although the Kipp Boarding house was a shanty compared to the Darcantel residence.

Emerald reached the courtyard and peeked in through the French doors of the carriage house, but she didn’t see anyone. She walked to the brick staircase on her left, leading to the upper porch, just as Henri, Jackson’s dad, opened the cherry wooden door upstairs.

“I thought you were a raccoon,” said Henri, holding his arms out for Emerald.

She walked up to the tall man and hugged him.

“Happy birthday,” he said, ruffling her hair. Emerald adored Jackson’s dad. She loved his whole family, but there was something about Henri that made you feel at home, safe. He looked like an older version of Jackson, with cocoa-colored skin, brown eyes, and the same toothy smile. A few wrinkles had started to show as of late, and his once black hair was turning salt and pepper.

“What’s going on, Emerald? How’s your birthday going?” Henri was leaning against the iron balcony fencing, wearing a gray t-shirt and jeans. “Jackson’s not home, by the way. He went to see his grandmother in the Bronx; she’s been feeling lonely lately.”

“That’s alright. I should’ve called before I stopped by, anyway. And my birthday’s been okay,” she said. She left out getting her soul crushed by her best friend and almost getting kicked out of school.

Emerald must have made a face, because Jackson’s dad looked at her with knowing eyes and asked, “What’s the matter?”

Henri was one of the few friends Nora had, and Emerald trusted him almost as much as she trusted Jackson. She had a natural aversion to believing in adults.

Henri opened the door to his left and signaled for Emerald to follow him inside. Georgia, Jackson’s mom, must have been cooking, because the house smelled delicious.
I can eat
, thought Emerald to herself, despite just eating two slices of pizza and half an order of garlic knots. Sometimes she wondered how she stayed so thin.

“HI!” A blur of curly brown hair shot past her, running to the other side of the house as she walked into the living room.

“Hey, Sammie,” Emerald called out with a laugh. Jackson’s little sister Samantha was a ball of energy—always running around the house, dancing and driving Jackson crazy. Emerald liked her a lot.

“So,” said Henri, sitting on the sofa as Emerald put her hands on the arms of the butter-colored wing chair next to him. She lifted herself into the seat and tucked her legs beneath her. “What’s wrong?”

Emerald smiled nervously, before mumbling, “Nothing.” She looked at the floor and fidgeted with the small leaf-shaped necklace she had gotten from Nora on her sixth birthday. She always played with the thing when she got nervous or embarrassed, which was often, so she never took it off.

“Henri, what would you do if Jackson wasn’t as perfect as he is? I mean, would you still treat him the same way and feel the same about him, if he didn’t get straight As and all that?” she blurted out. 

Henri chuckled. “First of all, Jackson is NOT perfect, believe you me. That boy can be a pain in the you-know-what-word that I won’t say because Sammie’s probably listening in the next room,” he said with a smile.

Emerald heard two small feet scampering away, and laughed.

“Secondly, Emerald, if Jackson was strung out on drugs and living under a bridge, I would still love him with all my heart, because he’s my son. Why? Did that boy do something bad at school today? Because if he did, I want you to tell me right now, God help me,” he said in a fluster.

“No, no,” said Emerald with a giggle, “I’m asking because of me, not because of Jackson. He’s still got it all figured out.”

“Ah,” Henri said, nodding at Emerald, “so that’s what this is all about? Graduation?”

“More like what comes after graduation,” said Emerald, rubbing the back of her neck in embarrassment.

“Emerald, you know what I do for a living, right?”

“You’re a taxi driver.”

“Right, and do you think when I was a kid I said, ‘I want to drive TAXIS when I grow up?’” 

“I guess not, huh?”

“You bet your bottom dollar I didn’t. I had grand plans, big schemes, Emerald, but life makes its own plans, and often times they don’t go along with ours. I still have dreams for myself; they’ve changed over the years, but it took me a long, long time to figure out what I wanted to be, and I’m still not there.”

Emerald knew what he was talking about. A few years ago he had gone back to school and was studying to be an English professor. Henri loved to read, especially poetry.

“You’re going to have more than one dream in this lifetime, Emerald, and all is not lost just because you haven’t figured out the first one. Maybe you’re on a different path than the rest of your friends, sure, but that doesn’t mean you stop trying in the meantime. Life is about the meantime, about what happens when you’re lost and looking for a way,” he said, flashing a comforting smile.

“Everybody feels like they’re not good enough sometimes, so I know where you’re coming from. What makes me happy is in
here
,” he said, tapping his chest, “and over in that kitchen, and in the Bronx with his grandmother, and the little butterball that’s eavesdropping still and is about to get in big trouble.”

Emerald saw the edge of Sammie’s mass of curls disappear slowly from around the corner.

“You’re gonna be just fine. Just have to believe in yourself a little more, okay?” Henri smiled and jumped up from his seat as if he’d just remembered something wonderful. “Have you ever read ‘A Seed in Soil’ by D. L. Stanada?” he asked Emerald.

“Um, I don’t think so.”

“It should be in the book of poems I gave you for Christmas last year, probably buried somewhere beneath those applications, I'm guessing?” he asked with a sly smile.

Emerald smiled uncomfortably and shrugged. “Look that poem up, read it. It might help you feel better about what you’re going through.”

“I will,” said Emerald with a smile as she got up.

Henri walked her to the door, and before she said goodbye, he pulled her in and hugged her tightly.

“You’re going to be okay,” he said, patting the top of her head, “and if you don’t know how to believe in yourself yet, I’ll do it for you. I promise you that.”

Emerald was not a crier; she hated crying, but in that moment she had to bite her cheek to keep the tears from spilling over. She couldn’t remember what her own father’s hugs felt like, but she wanted nothing but to stay that way, safe and believing in herself just this once.

Easthampton, NY

1658

Margo was at The Priestess’s house earlier than usual that morning, and when she opened her heavy wooden door, the young witch was already standing there, looking frightened.

“What’s happened?” asked The Priestess, swiftly throwing the door back and ushering Margo in like she did every morning.

“I’m not … entirely sure.” Margo was still dumbstruck by what she had done, but tried her best to explain.

“I think I might have reversed time.” She looked up at The Priestess with a distraught expression. If anyone could help her figure this out, it would be her. But just then, The Priestess did something Margo had never before seen her do. She smiled. Then the smile turned into a chuckle and a laugh. More like a witch’s cackle really. Margo pursed her lips indignantly. Why was she being laughed at?

“I am certain you must be mistaken,” The Priestess said, finally catching her breath as she wiped the tears from her eyes. She had really had a good laugh at Margo’s expense.

“I told you I’m not entirely sure,” said Margo defensively, “I just know that one moment I was on my way to my lessons with the sun rising, and the next it was completely dark. I went back to my family’s house, and they were all asleep, and they weren’t when I left,” she said, thinking of the talk with her father. Maybe The Priestess really was unwell, as he’d suggested. Why else would she laugh at something so potentially serious? Time-telling witches, so called for their ability to command time, were not just rare; they were virtually nonexistent. It was the most coveted of powers, and whoever possessed it usually became the head of The Coven itself, The High Priestess. Margo could not imagine taking her instructor’s place, and worse, leaving her family behind so she could rule the magical world.

The Priestess could see the worry in Margo’s face and shook her head.

“Very well, we will run some tests, just to be sure. But I am almost certain, a witch your age and of your experience level and . . . social circumstance,” she looked her over, “would not be able to wield time.”

Margo felt her face burn with shame as she looked at the floor. The Priestess had never before alluded to her background, but now that she had, Margo felt smaller than a dung beetle. She knew The Priestess was a particular woman, that she was proud and uncompromising. But she had never known her to be cruel until that moment.

For the next hour, The Priestess poked and prodded Margo like a calf. She didn’t say a word but looked bored to death. Finally she took Margo by the shoulders and set her at the far end of the large room.

“Stay,” she commanded.

She turned and walked towards the opposite end of the room. Margo was frightened of what was to come next and rightfully so. Before she could ask The Priestess what she was doing, the older witched yelled “
URO,
” and a giant sphere of fire came hurtling towards Margo’s face, missing her by half an inch and nearly engulfing her entire head.

The heat from the sphere of fire was so strong, Margo’s hair fell from its pins into soggy strips around her face. She watched The Priestess and could see her lips mouthing a spell, but this time she would be prepared. She kept her eyes focused on The Priestess’s hands and readied herself for another attack. The Priestess’s eyes narrowed to slits as she threw both her hands up as if she were unrolling a rug. As she did so, a layer of what looked like bubbling tar uncoiled, starting from the tips of her black fingernails, and stretching across the length of the floor, moving rapidly towards Margo’s feet. Margo thought quickly; her instinct was to jump out of the way, but what if the tar followed her? She closed her eyes and concentrated. Her feet began to rise from the floor, and when she opened her eyes she was hovering safely, six inches away from the tar. The Priestess nodded in appreciation, and then rolled up her sleeves. She had taught Margo well and would have to really push her to see what she was capable of. One after the other flashes of what looked like green lightning flew from The Priestess’s fingertips, casting a dark green light around her and making her skin the color of moss. But Margo was light on her feet and quick as a hare. Still hovering, she avoided the flashes of light by ducking and dodging, the bolts coming dangerously close but never touching her.

The Priestess breathed out heavily. If she was to induce the time-telling, she would have to make Margo desperate. The young witch was too fast to be flustered by rapid attacks, so The Priestess changed tactics. She looked up and began to chant unintelligibly; her eyes rolled to the back of her head, and the veiny whites of her eyes were exposed. As she chanted, black smoke, slow as molasses, dripped from her fingers and slithered towards Margo. The smoke spread across the room; the closer it got to her, it bloomed like the end of a rose. Margo looked around, the tar was still beneath her; she could not lie on the floor. The ceiling was so far up, she couldn’t possibly levitate towards the top fast enough, and even if she could, the smoke seemed to be spreading every which way. She was out of time, and the black vapor began to envelop her. She grabbed her throat, her eyes opening wide. She was being poisoned. Before The Priestess had time to help her, Margo felt as she had that morning, her body underwater, her breathing slowed, her eyes shut. When she opened her eyes, she was standing as she had right before The Priestess began her tests, on the other side of the room, feet flat on the floor. The Priestess was thunderstruck. Neither witch said a word, but in that moment Margo knew without question that she was a time-teller.