Boy Magick

To Whom it Might Concern:

I must assure you that my son is no killer. 

It’s true, I had hoped to be writing this letter under better circumstances. Formal notification of the rite of Colewort Gerard Turner, and the emphatic success thereof. It would have been short and to the point—over before it even began. There would have been little else to say. 

I find myself sitting down to pen a letter of a different kind, and one much lengthier indeed. I am not asking for your forgiveness, only for your patience. To listen to more than hearsay and rumor. I am assured that the Great Mother in Her wisdom will grant my son—Her son—the chance he deserves. And that the rest of us as Her humble servants will do all we can to listen and to understand, as is our duty.

Cole has always been a shy boy. Never one to boast or make a spectacle of himself. From a young age, he was always more comfortable allowing others to take the lead. Yet, despite his quiet nature, his kindness always shone through. His servant’s heart. It’s one of the things we all love most about Cole. Even once life became just the three of us—myself, Cole, and my daughter, Waverley—for a while, he still led with gentleness. Raising a son without a father can be difficult. Though raising him with one can present its own challenges, as I’m sure you’re well aware. Despite these, however, when a boy reaches a certain age, there is little that can replace a father’s hand.

It began that evening in the garden. Cole had just turned thirteen. We had just finished supper, and Cole was standing alone in the backyard. From the kitchen window, I watched as he set the pumpkin patch ablaze. It was quick; every leaf and stem razed in only minutes. He seemed frozen in disbelief as he watched it go. The house was empty, Waverley off with my sister at her lessons. I rushed to him as fast as I could and spoke the words to quell the flames before they took the corn. I tried not to scold him, but the squash would be important in the coming winter months. I asked him what had happened and he said he didn’t know, that it wasn’t him. He had no idea how it had happened. From the tremble in his voice, I knew this to be the truth. Perhaps, had I taken the time then to explain to him what was to come, had I known enough then myself… Perhaps your registry is full of letters from mothers who thought the same.

There were other instances over the following year, but I protected him as best I could. My sister assured me it was normal. She’d had two boys of her own, Bennet and Josef. Of course, she’d lost Josef to his own hand just months before his own rite. She might have lost them both had Bennet not enlisted when he did. There were many days that year she spent trying to comfort me in her own way. There’s something different in them, she said. You can’t expect the same things. I knew this, to some extent, though it was hard sometimes not to compare him to his sister, so diligent in her studies. And she even two years his junior. But Acacia insisted I shouldn’t be so hard on myself. It was just in their nature to destroy. There was little we could do but protect them from themselves.

I wanted to believe her. I’d seen what she’d been through, watched her break down more than once. I could find no fault in her for it. I’d seen it myself in his father. But such is a mother’s love, I suppose. It’s hard not to blame yourself.

I saw her again today. Walking down the forest road headed toward town. She looked how she usually did, with her dirt-covered overalls, hair all piled up on top of her head. She had a basket wedged under her arm, its opening covered in a checkerboard cloth. I didn’t think she’d noticed me. But the leaves have started to come off the trees, and instead of continuing on, she stopped right at the base of the tree I was sitting in and stared up at me. The strap of her overalls had pulled her shirt just a little down her shoulder, showing off her fragile collarbone to me. She didn’t bother trying to fix it.

She yelled up at me, asked me why I’d been following her. I told her I hadn’t. She said she’d seen me every day this week, and last week too, sitting in the trees when she walked home. I asked her why she hadn’t said anything. She called me a stalker. She told me to come down.

I’m not a stalker, I said once my feet were on the ground. We were standing just a few feet apart, the closest I’d ever been to her. She was taller than I thought she’d be, almost taller than me. I kept my distance. She adjusted the basket under her arm, shifting her round hips to support its weight.

She insisted I was a stalker. Said a boy who hides in trees watching pretty girls walk home, if that’s not a stalker, then…?

I thought about telling her she wasn’t that pretty, but that isn’t true because she is very, very pretty. I wouldn’t lie to her; I’m a man of my word. Not pretty like Auntie Acacia is, always sitting up straight and balanced on stilts. Not pretty like a doll is pretty. Her overalls were ripped at the knees and she had a smudge of dirt on her nose and the sunlight filtered through the golden nest of her hair like it did through the leaves of the trees, casting shifting shadows across her round little face.

What’s in the basket? I asked her, but she told me it was none of my business. Something you’re selling in town? I asked, but instead of an answer she asked why I’d been following her. If I wasn’t a stalker. I wanted to look out for you, I said, protect you. Keep you safe. Soldiers use this road all the time, I said. Groups of them. You never know what they’ll do. She laughed at me like I’d said something funny. Asked me why I thought she needed me to save her. I’m very powerful, I said. Everyone’s afraid of me.

I took a few steps toward her, but she didn’t back away. There was a warm, sour smell coming off her but it wasn’t bad. I was close enough to see the faint lines around her mouth. Her freckles dipped in and out of them when she talked. I reached out and grabbed the corner of the cloth draped over the basket and lifted it up just a bit. Inside were all different kinds of mushrooms, wrinkled brains and brown umbrellas and turkey tails all thrown in together and mounded up to fill the basket. More mushrooms than I’d ever seen in one place. When Mum goes out to forage in the woods, she never comes back with more than a few.

Where did you get all of these? I asked her, and she told me she grew them on her farm. You’re lying, I said. Mushrooms are wild. You can’t force them to grow wherever you want them. You have to go find them. She smiled and said I was right, you can’t force them. But you can ask them. Then she reached over and grabbed my hand with her free one and turned it palm up like she was checking if I’d stolen anything, which of course I hadn’t. She set her basket on the ground, then with her other hand started tracing the lines on my palm. The pads of her fingers were rough and calloused but she used them gently. I don’t know what she was looking for, but when she was done, her face was different. Like she was trying to stay focused while someone called her name over the hills. 

What is it? I asked her. She shook her head, and some of her hair came loose from its wrapping and fell across her face. She asked me what my name was, and I told her it was Cole. I asked her for hers. Instead, she said:

Go home, Stalker Cole. It’s getting dark. I’m sure your mommy wants to know where you are. Then she picked up her basket and walked away.

Somehow, she didn’t seem afraid of me. Though I could have killed her right there if I wanted to. I’m man enough to admit that a part of me wanted to. Hurt her, at least. But another part of me didn’t. I need you to know that. I’m not some animal. I have power over myself.

Still, she shouldn’t have talked to me like that. She doesn’t know what I’m capable of.