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This new magic takes me by surprise as it surges through me, joining to my will. It is overwhelming, the raw nakedness of this power. I never want to let it go. I could use it to control, to wound, to win.
The creature cackles. "Yes it's intoxicating, isn't it?"
Yes, oh, yes . Is this what my mother and Circe felt, what they were afraid of losinga power they could not have in their own world? Anger. Joy. Ecstasy. Rage. All theirs. All mine.
"We're almost there," the thing whispers.
Below me London spreads out like a lady's fan, ornate and delicate. A city I wanted to see when I lived in India. A city I still want to see. On my own.
The thing senses my discomfort. "You could rule it," it says, nearly licking my ear.
Yes, yes, yes.
No. Not really. Not attached to this creature. The power would never be mine. It would control me. No, no, no. Let it win . Be joined. I'm weary with choice. It makes me heavy. So heavy I could sleep forever. Let Circe win. Abandon my family and friends. Float downstream.
No.
At this the thing seems to grow weaker. You have to know yourself, know what you want. That's what Mother told me. What I want what I want
I want to go back. And it's coming with me. Suddenly, London shrinks to a pinpoint, out of reach. I'm pulling the thing back from the world with me, back to the mountain-top, back to the grotto and the runes.
Shrieks and howls, the hideous cries of the damned lash at me. "You tricked us!"
It expands into a ghastly, churning wall that reaches up to the sky. I've never seen anything more terrifying, and for a moment, I can't feel anything but a fear so real I'm frozen there. Those skeletal hands grip tightly around my neck, squeezing. Panicked, I fight back, using the magic to wound it as much as possible. Each time it comes back, taking more and more of my energy. The hands come around my neck again, but I've got very little fight left.
"Yes, that's it. Give yourself over to me."
I can't think. Can barely breathe. Overhead, the sky roils gray and black. We sat here and counted clouds in the blue. Blue as my mother's silk dress. Blue as a promise. A hope. She came back for me. I can't leave her to this.
Those black, swirling orbs lean closer. The smell of rot fills my nostrils. Tears sting at my eyes. I have nothing left but that hope and a whisper.
"Mother I forgive you."
The grip loosens. The thing's eyes widen, the hideous mouth opens. Its power shrinks. "No!"
I feel my strength returning. My voice grows, the words take on a life of their own. "I forgive you, Mother. I forgive you, Mary Dowd."
The creature writhes and screams. I roll from its grasp. It is losing the fight, diminishing. It howls at me in pain, but I don't stop. I repeat it like a mantra as I grab a rock and smash the first rune. It crumbles in a shower of crystal rain, and I smash the second.
" Stop! What are you doing ?" it shrieks.
I smash the third and fourth runes. For a moment, the thing changes shape, becomes my mother, trembling and weak on a patch of strawlike grass.
"Gemma, please stop. You're killing me."
I hesitate. She turns her face to me, soft and tear-stained. "Gemma, it is me. It's Mother."
"No. My mother is dead."
I smash the fifth rune, falling back against the hard earth. With a great gasp, the thing loses its grip on my mother's spirit. It shrinks in on itself, becomes a thin column of twisting moans, until it is sucked up into the sky and all is silent.
I lie still.
"Mother?" I say. I'm not really expecting an answer, and I don't get one. She's truly gone now. I am alone. And somehow, this is as it should be.
In some ways, the mother I remember was as much an illusion as the leaves we turned into butterflies on our first trip to the realms. I'm going to have to let her go to accept the mother I'm only just discovering. One who was capable of murder, but who fought the dark to come back to help me. A scared, vain woman, and a powerful member of an ancient Order. Even now, I don't really want to know this. It would be so very easy to escape into the safety of those illusions and hold fast there. But I won't. I want to try to make room for what is real, for the things I can touch and smell, taste and feelarms around my shoulders, tears and anger, disappointment and love, the strange way I felt when Kartik smiled at me by his tent and my friends held my hands and said, yes, we'll follow you
What is most real is that I am Gemma Doyle. I am still here. And for the first time in a long time, I am very grateful for that.
