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The combined force of all of us together is the only thing that makes the rush possible.
We all wear identical white rushing gowns, loose, light garments that hit at the ankles and look like nightdresses. The eldest witches stand spread out in a row along the shoreline. Behind them, my parents’ generation stands, and behind them, the youngest of us. None of the witches speak. We look out at the water or down at the rocky beach. Shame is a powerful weapon, convincing every person on this shore to turn away from each other during a ritual that is part of who we are.
Sometimes I think it is the shame, not the fear, that will ensure our survival as a coven. The rush is a pillar of the new order and what enabled us to begin a productive dialogue with the mainland; they didn’t stop trying to eradicate magic until we proved to them that the new order was not a threat. In many ways, the rush should be a celebration of survival and courage, of sacrifice and wit. But another pillar of the new order is a complete and utter disavowal of dark magic, and over many generations, that disavowal has turned from conviction to shame. As soon as dark magic became something to be ashamed of, no one wanted to practice it any longer.
And it has stayed that way.
We’re on the western edge of the island that looks out onto the open ocean. We would never rush on the eastern shore that faces the mainland; even with the Passage as wide as it is, knowing the mainlanders could never see us from so far away, it would still feel too vulnerable. So instead we make the trek to the westernedge, turning our backs on the mainland for one evening per month. Just one.
I jump when the copper bowl behind me goes up in flames, signifying everyone is here.
“Let’s begin,” my mother says, her voice carried on a wave of magic so everyone can hear.
In unison, we wade into the water, the eldest witches going out the farthest and the younger witches following. Those not old enough to rush their magic are held by their parents, the spell powerful enough to coax what little unused magic is in their systems out to sea.
The water has just touched my ankles when something catches the corner of my eye. I turn. It’s a small circular light identical to the one I saw outside my bedroom window, hovering above the ground, illuminating a moonflower.
I look around, but no one else notices it, focusing instead on the water.
The light gets brighter, and I can no longer ignore it. I carefully back away from the water, checking over my shoulder to make sure no one is watching. The actual rush won’t happen for at least twenty minutes, and it doesn’t take me as long to prepare as some of the others.
As quietly as possible, I hurry up the beach and around a dense patch of flowering bushes, following the light. I’m no longer in view of the shoreline, and I move faster, chasing the glowing sphere.
But the closer I get, the faster it moves away from me.
I keep running, following it into an inland field, long grasses blowing in the nighttime breeze. They nip at my skin as I push my way through, and I keep my eyes on the light as best I can.
It comes in and out of view, then goes out entirely. A shiver rolls down my spine.
I run toward the last place I saw it, relying on the light of the full moon to guide me, and slam directly into another person.
I fall to the ground, shocked and disoriented. The wind is knocked clear out of me, and I clutch my middle and groan, rolling onto my side. No one else should be here—everyone is on the beach.
“What the hell?” The voice is coming from a few feet away, and I push myself off the earth and frantically look around.
The light is long gone by now, but slowly, another person rises from the ground. A person I’ve never seen before. I take a step back.
“Did you miss the ferry?” I ask, wondering how I can possibly get him off the Witchery before the rush happens.
“You ran right into me,” he says, ignoring my question. “Where the hell are your manners?”
I’m completely taken aback, and I stare at him with my mouth open.
“Well?” he asks. His dark hair is unkempt and falling into his eyes, the light of the moon casting his pale skin in a faint blue glow. The set of his jaw is hard, and he looks at me as if he’s irate, as if I killed the thing he loves most in the world instead of accidentally running into him.
“I’m sorry,” I say, trying to keep my voice even in case his parents are people of importance on the mainland. “I should have been paying closer attention.”
He scowls at my answer, like he’s disappointed in me.
“Did you see that light?” he asks, and my heart picks up speed.
“You saw it?”
“Several times now,” he says, shoving a hand through his hair. “I can’t figure out where it’s coming from.”
“Me neither,” I say.
The light went out right where we’re standing, and in the span of a breath, the earth groans and a single moonflower rises in the space between us, sprouting large, heart-shaped leaves.
