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  “You show no marks, no imperfection,” he said, staring tenderly at me. “He knew you were a healer.”

  I nodded, reflectively, and by that point we had caught up with Braith a few paces farther, where he’d come to an unexpected stop.

  “Sir?” Jameson inquired out of confusion.

  The man ushered us forward but remained behind. Honing in on the concept that he wanted Jameson and me to go on without him – an illogical assumption – I asked, “Will you show me where to find them?”

  “No,” he replied, showing no emotion. “Cure them at once.”

  My eyes widened at the absurdity of his request so that I blurted, “You mean all of them together?”

  “Yes.”

  “I-I can’t do that….”

  “You can.”

  “No,” I assured him. “I actually can’t.”

  He was asking for a miracle. Perplexed, I stole a glance at Jameson, asking, Why doesn’t he just guide us to the injured?

  “Walk,” insisted the man, gently placing his hand on the small of our backs, urging Jameson and me forward together. “Walk. There is no time to treat everyone individually.”

  “I can’t do this,” I said, abruptly spinning around.

  “Yes,” he calmly reassured. “You can.”

  I could feel Jameson's eyes on me as he slipped his hand into mine and said, “Come on, we’ll do it together.”

  A single word ran through my mind, more accurately, screamed through it - ASININE. More lives would be lost because of this ridiculous delay.

  “Go…walk….”

  Despite my strong aversion to the idea, Jameson and I set out through the rest of the prison as I deliberated why the man would ever insist on this method.

  “He saw something in you,” whispered Jameson, as if reading my thoughts. “He’s convinced that you can do this. I am, too.”

  “I can’t,” I contested.

  “You can.” In an effort to prove it, he went on. “Remember the first time we met? In Olivia’s store?”

  I nodded, wondering whether I should refrain from encouraging him to go along with this exercise in futility.

  “The same trait I saw in you then, I see in you now.”

  “What’s that?” I grumbled. “Annoyance?”

  “Strength, Jocelyn. You have an overwhelming amount of it. You just choose not to see it. Now you have to, because these people are relying on you.” The harsh reality settled uncomfortably over me as he concluded, “You can’t treat them separately. There’s no time. They’ll die before you get to them.”

  Therein lies the reason Braith had insisted I treat them together. The rate at which I could save them would be the determining factor on whether they lived to see sunlight again.

  Jameson took my hand gently, but his whisper was passionate and unrelenting. “I’m with you. You can do this.”

  With his words lingering in my consciousness, I did my best to tuck away the feeling of resentment and concentrate on drawing out the healing energy that, evidently, only a witch doctor could wield.

  Assaulting my senses immediately, was the stench of blood - the stringent, metallic scent that had caused my stomach to churn before spending so much time in hospital emergency rooms. It was mixed with burnt wood, sweat, and hormones released during panic.

  Next, the voices became clear, desperate whimpers of those casting to help their loved ones.

  “Black as night, light as day, mend my brother, impede his life from slipping away.”

  “Watchtower of the West, return my father’s soul, swift or slow, at your behest.”

  “From now and until you return, this candle of safety I will burn. Find your way back to me, in good health and good will, so let it be.”

  As they casted, their voices became muddled, blending into a heartbreaking chorus of painful pleas. Those still alive were bent over the bodies of the dying, their crude tools of witchcraft placed beside them. As they cast, an effort that would be met without success, they were adding herbs to cauldrons and scrounging for any sign of a candle. I found their hovels had been obliterated, leaving nothing more than mounds of broken branches and boards, still smoldering from the Vires casts. Clothes and personal possessions were strewn across the ground, scattered from one home to the next. But it was the number of humans and animals that had died that was most devastating. The fact that all these lives had been lost, people and their pets had been injured because of me, weighed heavily on me.

  “Jocelyn…,” Jameson said quietly. “Focus.”

  I did, and slowly, we made our way through the woods. We traveled down makeshift streets, where leaves and stones had been brushed aside to clearly mark footpaths. Gradually, we heard sharp inhales and relieved exhales, indicating our magic was working.

  At the end, we turned and found people sitting up, bewildered, astonished.

  “He knew,” I said, standing at the edge of the path bordered by the woods. “The old man knew.”

  “We channelers can be fairly smart,” Jameson proclaimed, although he was only partly teasing.

  Still, I smiled to myself and we began making our way back. Strangely, we were no longer passing by unseen. Whether it was our leisurely stroll that looked out of place or the fact that we didn’t belong in this prison, our presence was being noted.

  My grin quickly faded as they began lining up, taking position along the edges of the path.

  “Don’t be nervous,” Jameson encouraged, keeping his voice low. “I’m with you.”

  “What are they doing?” I asked, hesitantly.

  He concentrated on the whispers being passed from person to person, taking his time to answer. “They know who we are, and they’re wondering what a Weatherford is doing with a Caldwell.” Proudly, I lifted my chin higher in response to their curiosity until Jameson added, “They also know what you are.”

  “The Relicuum?”

  “Yes.”

  My head snapped in his direction. “But…how?”

  Realizing it at the same time, we said his name together. “Tavish….”

  Those along the path not only took a place in line with their neighbors, they bent at the waist, tilting their head toward us.

  “What are they doing?” I asked, as the heads continued to dip in a human-made wave before us.

  Jameson exhaled in a way that made me think he was just as surprised as me. “They’re…bowing.”

  One by one, men, children, the elderly, even mothers cradling their newborns, continued down the line.

  Stunned by this outpouring of respect and admiration, I felt as if I was walking across hallowed ground, impersonating someone of significance.

  I could hear nothing but the scuff of leaves and dirt, and the popping of dying embers, as Jameson and I passed them.

  “This has never happened before,” he said, astonished. “No one in our world bows to anyone but The Sevens.”

  They were offering us their utmost sign of respect and I wondered what The Sevens would think if they were here to witness it for themselves.

  A few yards down the path ended where Braith and Tavis also bowed. Theleo stood nearby underneath a sprawling tree branch, preoccupied. Despite the significance of what was taking place, he focused on plucking a spider from the trunk and tucking it into a pocket of his cloak. I wondered briefly what exactly he was doing and then I found myself a foot from Braith.

  Stopping, I took a moment to look over my shoulder, finding that the prisoners had followed us. They now stood huddled…bloodied, fatigued, and distressed…a massive family of friends who had endured a significant toll together.

  As Jameson noticed it, too, his thoughts came channeling through to me, a sudden, stunning burst of words. His vehemence delivered enough energy to overcome the cast against the prison long enough for me to hear them.

  “No, this has to end right-” His words stopped abruptly when he released my hand.

  He turned to Tavish and asked, “Can I have your permission to
speak to the village?”

  Tavish gave allowance with a tip of his chin, and Jameson turned to face those who had assembled – which appeared to be everyone who had survived. His voice rose up loud, bold, and confident, drawing in them in.

  “This is not the end. You will rebuild; you will continue to raise your families; you will endure. The Sevens think they can take that away from you, from all of us. But they can’t. Because we are stronger than they believe. We have the will that they lack. It’s the very thing they fear the most in all of us, the reason they continue to destroy our lives…to remind us of who reserves the power in our world. They think it’s them. But they’re wrong. We have the power. We have the will. And, together, we have the force to conquer them." He paused to survey them, noting their frailty with a sad conviction seen in his expression. “When I say that this is not the end, I am not only referring to your lives. It is conceivable that The Sevens will return. When they do, they will pillage and take what they want from you…unless we stop them. But we cannot do it separated by domiciles. We need to act together. Now, before it’s too late.”

  As Jameson spoke, the prisoners remained absolutely motionless, listening with apt attention.

  “If you’re tired of living in fear for your lives and the lives of those you love, come with me. We can offer food, shelter, security, community.”

  A few of them turned back toward their village as it laid in ruins, the smoke clouding the air, the tattered clothes lines, the bodies of their loved ones now carefully laid across the ground. It summed up everything they had endured visually but not emotionally. Jameson did that.

  “You are tired, worried for your lives and your loved ones. That is justified. But there is a way to recover. We do it together. We are safer together than apart. Together, we will rebuild. Together, we will overcome. Together, we will forge a new future."

  The first reaction was from a thin man with a bulbous nose. He darted from the group, down the path, and around a tree without speaking a word. Then another one followed. And another. By the time the last of them had left, the first man had returned, coming to a standstill directly in front of us. In his hand he held a broom, the handle vertical to his body, the bristles placed lightly on the dirt. A man in his twenties returned also holding a broom. A girl in her teens arrived then, also carrying a broom.

  “I don’t understand,” I admitted under my breath.

  Jameson stifled a grin as he answered. “They’re agreeing.”

  Sure enough, one by one, they returned, standing erect with their brooms at their side.

  Jameson nodded to them, firmly, reassuringly, and then turned to Theleo and Tavish. “Think you can carry them?”

  Tavish’s eyes grew large while Theleo assessed the crowd.

  “Yes,” Theleo replied, flatly.

  His confidence seemed to inspire Tavish, who gave a hesitant, although positive, answer. “I can try.”

  On that commitment, the entire lot of them swiftly tucked their brooms beneath them, straddling each side with one leg, and prepared to leave.

  It was the first time I had ever seen anyone in our world use a broom, which Jameson must have realized. He leaned toward me and explained, just before we were launched skyward. “Makes sense why so many people relate witches and broomsticks with the northeast, ha?”

  It did, actually. I came to this conclusion just before my feet left the ground.

  When we descended back into the bayou, it was just before dawn. Theleo and Tavish placed us down on docks that either remained intact or had been newly built.

  “They’ve been busy,” Jameson remarked, angling his chin toward the reconstructed shacks, many of which now had purple curtains hanging in their windows.

  The new arrivals clustered together, filling the docks on both sides of the waterway for as far as I could see, their expressions blank and dazed.

  “Who are all these people?” Mrs. Caldwell demanded, edging her way through the crowded dock.

  Apparently, we had landed outside his parent’s shack.

  In his typical relaxed, confident manner, Jameson explained what we’d experienced at the prison in New York, but his mother didn’t share with him the same level of confidence.

  “You offered them safety?” she asked, incredulous. “What were you thinking, Jameson?” She was furious. I could tell by the shaking that wracked her body.

  “There is safety in numbers,” Jameson replied evenly, feeling confident in his judgment. “We are safer if we stay together. It’s our meager numbers and distance from one another that leaves us vulnerable.”

  “What happens when the Vires return to that prison and find them missing?”

  “They’ll know their prisoners have escaped, which is why we don’t have much time.”

  She stood back, shaking her head, too appalled to argue. Jameson turned and leapt across the water to the next dock. I followed, but my cloak slowed me down and it took considerable effort to catch up with him.

  “I know what you’re doing,” I whispered, just loud enough for only him to hear.

  “Examining the new shacks for occupancy space,” he replied, understatedly.

  “You’re building an army, aren’t you?”

  He leapt across to the next dock before answering.

  “Yes, Jocelyn,” he said with unwavering conviction. “I am.”

  6 TWO PATHS

  The following days were a blur. New arrivals were organized into reconstructing shacks or put to work building new ones. They were taught the village routines, where to find fishing spots, and began meeting their neighbors.

  Talk surfaced about the Caldwells and Weatherfords living in such close quarters, but that a truce had also been established. While this alleviated concerns for some, others wondered whether we would pose more of a threat than the Vires, which I found laughable.

  Jameson had been correct. Those who escaped the ministry did return to their provinces and recount what happened there. A Caldwell defending a Weatherford was considered breaking news in our world. The fact that the two of them had escaped together caused an even greater stir in the gossip circles. Slowly, it became known that Jameson and I were the ones who defied The Sevens, and any time we left our shack, our presence drew intrigued stares.

  As if the challenge to The Sevens weren’t enough, news was spreading about our true identities. At times, I was addressed as Relicuum and Jameson as Nobilis. This brought on an entirely new spectrum of curiosity within the village. If a Weatherford and Caldwell being devoted to each other wasn’t startling enough, The Relicuum and The Nobilis falling in love certainly was.

  We disregarded their stares for the most part, but then Jameson called attention to our popularity in a way I couldn’t ignore. It was almost two weeks after the new arrivals began settling in when he muttered, “We have an audience,” as we were heading for dinner one evening.

  “We do?”

  Following his gaze across the waterway, I saw entire families trying hard not to appear like they were observing us.

  Holding back a laugh, I surmised, “We must be dull to watch.”

  He stopped suddenly. "That's what you think?"

  “Sure. We’re not fighting….”

  A mischievous smile crossed his face. “Maybe we should give them a different kind of show….”

  I was about to remind him that I wasn’t mad and had absolutely no interest in arguing, when his arms came around my waist and pulled me hard against his hips.

  My back naturally arching in response to his force, he brought his free hand to my shoulders and gently pulled me forward until our lips met. Instantly, I sank into him, my body connecting with his, and recognizing the need for him far too readily. His lips were soft, yielding, and gentle, enticing me, making me hungry for something deeper.

  Then, without warning, he slipped out of our embrace.

  Breathing heavily, he tucked his head and admitted, “That was far more teasing for me than for them…If I didn’t
stop that, I’m not sure anything could have."

  Releasing me from his arms, he turned, still trying to clear his head. We started walking again, but now our focus was much more on each other than those around us or our destination.

  “I-I think,” he reflected, “I underestimated what you do to me.”

  “Good,” I said, playfully.

  “Good? Do you know what could have happened there?”

  “No, what?” I asked, innocently. I could definitely imagine but would rather hear it from him.

  “I could have given them more of a performance than they would have wanted to see, or you would have wanted to show. I could have shown them some very real action…”

  I held back a smile at his inadvertent confession. “You-You’re interested in some action?”

  Stopping again, he turned to me, an incredulous expression fixed on his handsome face. He sighed then, while laughing at the same time. “Do you know how hard it is to have you sleeping twenty feet away, to listen to your footsteps across the floor every night, to watch the light go out in your shack through the gaps in my walls and not do anything about it?”

  “You pay attention to all that?”

  “Every night. And I have to fight myself to not leave my shack and head for yours."

  “You do?” I asked, incredulous. I had no idea.

  He stared back at me, dazed. “Yes…You don’t feel the same?” He suddenly turned from me. “No, forget it, I don’t want to know.”

  Stepping down into the boat, he attempted to end the conversation, but I didn’t let him.

  “Yes, Jameson, I do. I just-I didn’t know you felt that way.”

  Standing in the hull of the boat, he was looking up at me, doing an impressive job of maintaining his balance.

  Quietly, as if still taken aback by our conversation, he openly confessed, “I do, Jocelyn.”

  He held out his hand, offering me a stable way down to him, which I took, our hands never releasing once inside the boat.

  As we crossed the waterway to Jameson's parent's shack, I remained stupefied by our brazenly honest admissions. I knew he was affected by it too. The look on his face and the tension in his shoulders gave it away.