Page 48 of The Witch's Spell
I dip my finger into the jam filling my scone, then stoop so he can lick it off. His tongue is rough against my skin and makes me laugh.
By the time the three of us reach the fairy hollow and step into the grove of old oaks, we’ve finished our scones and need only to brush the crumbs from our cloaks.
“The fairies,” Harrison says, tone hesitant. “They really are stuck here.”
Unlike me, he can see them even when they’re wearing their disguises, much—I assume—like Thorne can. I told him all about the fairies. And about Thorne. But he said he knew the first night Thorne stepped into the cottage that he was of the fair folk. When I asked Harrison why he hadn’t told me, he said it wasn’t his secret to tell.
Thinking back on our conversation before the fire, I smile. I’ve much to learn from Harrison still. I’m so grateful he chose me to be his companion in this life.
As we step into the center of the grove, the fairies start to emerge, dropping their disguises so I can seethem in their many odd and beautiful forms. Some have bulbous blinking eyes, others butterfly-thin wings. But all wear expressions of curiosity as I lift the top of the satchel hanging at my hip.
“All right,” I say, taking a breath and casting my eyes around the hollow. “Where exactly is the portal?”
Thorne’s smile is amused. “You’re standing in it.” He gestures to the clearing amidst the old oak trees. “This entire area is the portal.”
My brows rise. “This whole area?” I cast my gaze about the sunlit grove. “Then why... Why didn’t I ever stumble into Fairyland before?”
“It’s not so easy as the folk tales and books make it out to be,” Thorne says. “The portal requires intention; you need to know it’s there and know you wish to use it, or else you’ll pass right by and be none the wiser. It may simply feel like a breeze on your cheek or a butterfly in your hair.” His eyes trace my face, making my skin prickle pleasantly.
I tear my gaze away and let out a short breath. “I suppose that’s one way to keep humans from stumbling into Fairyland.”
Thorne nods and hums agreeably. “Precisely.”
“Best get started, then.” I reach into the satchel, my fingers closing around a chunk of smoky quartz. Lifting it into the sunlight, I wrap my hands firmly about it and fill it with my goal and intention: to absorb and stabilize the raw energy of the portal. I’m imagining the fog and fairy magic like rough water: impossible to see through, choppy and jagged. But once you calm the chaos, the path through can be viewed clearly.
Once the crystal has been charged with my purpose, Ifind a sun-warmed rock at the edge of the clearing and set the crystal upon it. Then I repeat the process, this time with a glistening black tourmaline.
The process is slow, but it’s important not to rush this. Harrison and Thorne follow behind me for a while, then take a seat together on a tree stump and watch quietly, along with the many gathered fairies, as I continue making my way around the portal.
I can’t believe I had no idea it was even here—or whatherereally is. Ever since Auntie showed me this place, I knew it was special, knew there was something that drew fairies to this area and made it a perfect place to leave them gifts of fruit and bread.
Did Auntie know about the portal? Did the fairy she met all those years ago tell her about it? I keep asking myself these questions, wishing I’d known to ask her about it when she visited for Samhain. My gaze lifts to the blue winter sky, and I let out a sigh, breath steaming around my mouth.
I may never know.
By the time I’ve finished setting out an array of crystals, the sun has drifted higher in the sky. Though it looks like a warm day, my nose and cheeks prickle in the cold, and I have to breathe on my fingers through my knit mittens to warm them up.
“What’s next?” Thorne asks from where he’s still seated on the stump, drawing a hand gently down Harrison’s spine while he purrs.
“Now,” I say, a twinge of nervousness creeping in, “we find out if this is going to work. Can I have the singing bowl?”
Thorne nods and retrieves his satchel from the groundbeside him, from which he pulls a bowl wrapped in thick fabric. With my bag full of crystals, I needed him to carry Auntie’s old singing bowl, and as he passes it to me, I feel a tingle of anticipation in my fingertips.
“Sound can help harmonize chaotic energy, guide it and calm it,” I explain while slowly unwrapping the bowl. It’s made of pure copper and gleams beautifully when the sunlight strikes its gently curved walls. The mallet is made of wood with a fiber-padded surface, and when I hold it in my hand, I imagine Auntie sitting in the deep grass, eyes closed as grasshoppers leap around her, making the bowl sing as if it’s doing so just for her. “I’ve never been very good at playing the bowl,” I tell Thorne, “but I know the basics.”
“I believe you’ll do a wonderful job,” he says softly.
“And I believe he’s flirting with you,” Harrison says in response.
My cheeks warm despite the cold air, and I turn away from them and move to the center of the clearing. There, I tuck my thick cloak beneath me and take a seat on the snowy ground, getting into as comfortable a position as I can manage with my belly now so large. I sit up tall, close my eyes, and calm my breath. If my energy is leaping all over the place, this ritual will be of no use. If I want to encourage calm energy, I have to exude it myself.
With the flat bottom of the bowl balanced in my left palm, I hold the mallet in my right. After taking another calming breath, I strike the side of the bowl lightly with the mallet, warming it up. The sharp contact causes the bowl to vibrate, and before the vibrations cease, I begin using the mallet to circle the rim of the bowl in a clockwise motion.Auntie taught me to use my whole arm, like I’m stirring a big cauldron of soup over a fire. That’s what I picture as I brush the mallet along the rim of the bowl and the overtone starts to build. It vibrates into my chest and radiates out around me.
As I continue to play, I picture the raw energy of the fog gathering into calm fluffy clouds and dispersing into the blue sky. I imagine the crystals glowing with golden light and stabilizing the portal, allowing the fairies to travel between realms once again.
And as the bowl sings, Ifeelthe energy starting to shift. It’s drawn to the vibrations and to the crystals, and it has a tangible longing to be comforted and calmed, to release its chaos and find the stability needed to reactivate the portal.
The energy draws nearer; it makes my chest tight, like how I feel when Harrison curls up atop me and tucks his head under my chin for an afternoon nap. But I don’t stop playing. I don’t stop visualizing serene golden light filling the grove and shining down upon all the fairies gathered within it.
