The White Witch Read online

  Copyright © 2020 Rory B. Byrne

  ISBN: 978-1-952134-14-2

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored, or transmitted by any means—whether auditory, graphic, mechanical, or electronic—without written permission of both publisher and author, except in the case of brief excerpts used in critical articles and reviews. Unauthorized reproduction of any part of this work is illegal and is punishable by law.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

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  Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter 1: Summer Vacation

  Chapter 2: Endless Sabbatical

  Chapter 3: Distant Relations

  Chapter 4: Weatherspoon Guesthouse

  Chapter 5: Fairy Tales

  Chapter 6: Equinox Technologies

  Chapter 7: The Way In

  Chapter 8: Into the Void

  Chapter 9: Reaching the Unknown

  Chapter 10: The Changeling

  Chapter 11: Lost Americans

  Chapter 12: Lasting Legacy

  Chapter 13: Haunting Past

  Chapter 14: Lost

  Chapter 15: The Clansmen

  About the Author

  Also by Rory B. Byrne

  Prologue

  In the dark, the courtyard stirred with life. Within the deep caverns hidden in the Highlands, the refugees huddled. It was the last refuge for the creatures that once walked proudly on the lands before humankind proved dominance over the realm. In the court of Nicneven, surrounded by her loyal and protective subjects, she nestled on her throne.

  With the advisors, the secretaries, and the mighty reach of the royal guards, Nicneven had protection from the marauding clans. Many of the queen’s courtesans and courtiers had dwelled in the subterranean shadows long before their beloved queen claimed them as her subjects. Without direction, without protection, their numbers diminished to the tipping point of extinction. It was Nicneven who cared for her people without judgment. She protected them from annihilation by the hands of the scourge that claimed the lands.

  Nicneven asked only loyalty in return for her protection. For thousands of years, she had watched over the Elphame and its creatures. The queen had protected them while the lands changed and new enemies threatened to take what didn’t belong to them.

  There was a shift in the currents. The winds that filtered through the Elphame reached the deepest recesses of the caves. The current of wind whispered secrets to Nicneven. Her people were threatened again. Warriors more potent than she’d faced before were moving through the world. Even the queen feared the new clans.

  “Tell me again,” she asked.

  Nicneven sat on her dais. The stalagmite throne chair rose from the floor, borne of crystals and dark magic. The perpetual darkness had an ambient purplish haze. The amethyst’s preternatural glow was an elemental power of the queen. It was a living gift to her subjects. Her life alone gave strength to the earth.

  In the presence of the queen, Bean Nighe kneeled before the throne. Closer to the queen, it allowed the messenger to regain her bewitching splendor. She was in her loveliness, a creature of divinity. The healing presence of Nicneven replenished Bean Nighe’s magnificence.

  “She is not like the others,” Bean Nighe said, keeping her eyes on the floor. It wasn’t wise to look upon Nicneven directly.

  Her majesty’s disciples languished, ever listening, slithering in the folds of darkness. The movement of bodies, claws, and leathery wings, the hushed murmurs of spirit creatures waiting for Nicneven’s commands.

  “It is my pleasure,” Bean Nighe added habitually.

  The violet light within the cavern flared, a castoff of the queen’s emotional charges. Reading the glow, one within the court understood the temperament of Nicneven. At the zenith of her anger, the crystals within the cave walls burst, tangible consequences of her supernatural abilities.

  “I am curious,” the queen whispered.

  Her long fingers stroked the head of the beast that lay curled at her side. Its eyes closer, bathed in the healing touch of its mistress, the beast waited patiently.

  “You say she has an ordinary dagger. But in her possession, it has immense power.”

  Bean Nighe bowed, answering without words. Her long flowing hair, the color of lignite, moved against her gossamer gown as if suspended underwater. The strands of hair cascaded over her slender shoulders and gesticulated around her head. Her shapely body barely hidden beneath the ethereal robes, even the textiles of the queen had lost their luster. Bound to the court, Nicneven relied on her allies to bring reports from the lands.

  “This isn’t anything new,” a voice said.

  The echo came from the corner of the chamber. The speaker, one of Nicneven’s highest counselors, had permission to speak without restraint. Very few of the advisors had the license to talk unless spoken to directly. The Black Hand of Nicneven emerged from the darkness.

  Bean Nighe shuddered. She glided away from the Black Hand.

  “It’s happened before, don’t you remember?”

  “Where is the girl from?” Nicneven asked.

  “She is from the Clan Biel,” Bean Nighe replied immediately. As a seer, her visions were never fully formed. “There is much ahead, My Queen.”

  “Too limited is this old fool’s visions,” Black Hand said. “Foreshadowing, snapshots of the future, never painting a vivid or complete picture. Do not rely on the scope of her visions.”

  Bean Nighe slipped farther back from the dais of the queen. Between her and Nicneven, the Black Hand stood fast. The vague fortuneteller never gave enough insight for a stable or favorable outcome. She was steadfast to the queen. No one questioned Bean Nighe’s loyalty. She gave everything to Nicneven.

  “Tell me, dear Bean Nighe, do you see the reach of the Black Hand?” Nicneven asked.

  In a positive response, the fairy bowed again. Her wordless answer was agreeable to the queen.

  Nicneven drummed her fingers on the head of the beast. The amethysts throughout the vast halls flared with her brooding. The creature beside the queen opened its giant amber eyes. They cast twin lights over Bean Nighe and the surrounding chamber. Upon her throne, the queen of the fairies had to decide the fate of her people once again.

  Bean Nighe foresaw the reckoning.

  “What are the warrior’s strengths?” Nicneven asked.

  “Unlike anything I know,” she whispered.

  Summer Vacation

  The day I woke up to start the rest of my life, I wasn’t thinking about where I went, I thought about my pants. You know those jeans that you like so much you want to wear them everywhere? They fit nice, they feel good, and you know if anyone’s looking, they look good on you. The denim pants I found like that I�
�ve had for almost a year. I feel like they’re my lucky jeans. They even have a shamrock stamped on the buttons.

  I picked up the jeans at a thrift store in Ithaca, New York—my hometown. I expected they’d fit right or too tight. I got lucky when they were the right length and made my otherwise narrow hips and bony butt look exceptional.

  The morning I got up, I intended to wear the denim pants on the plane, only the pant fit too snug to fasten closed. I waited, calming my rapid heartbeat. I had a lot of stress following graduation and plotting out the future. To balance my nerves, I spent a lot of time stress-eating. I had to get back into the mindset of my determination. I took a breath, let it out, and fastened the jeans.

  I had a lightweight Henley pullover that covered the pale swell of my bloated belly. I turned slightly to view the backside. I looked and let out a sigh. Still, the jeans looked good from behind.

  I also had a new hybrid-loading backpack I’d stuffed the night before with essentials. It was the kind of packs designed for trail or air travel. I didn’t want a lot to take, and I wasn’t ‘high maintenance’ so I didn’t use a lot of makeup. I had two and a half weeks planned for my first overseas excursion. I didn’t need a lot of luggage. I figured as long as I had my lucky pair of jeans, a good pair of hiking boots, and insulated raingear, I had everything I needed.

  I had said most of my ‘goodbyes’ the night before. Dad had come into my bedroom and had one of those serious heart to heart conversations I knew I’d eventually have to endure. I think he wanted to sit in a familiar place and have the ‘big talk’ in a setting familiar to both of us.

  My dad, Greg Biel, had a lot of experience talking to young people. As a professor of Independent Studies at Cornell University, I always felt Dad was overqualified when it came to late teenage, early twenty-something interaction. I had qualifications, too, I knew. My biological parents, Dad, and my real mom, had tenure at the private, statutory Ivy League research university. I spent my whole life in Ithaca, New York. The campus, founded in 1865, was my playground. Of course, I had a leg up when it came to attendance. Kids of professors got special consideration for undergraduate enrollment.

  My mother taught the master engineering program for computer sciences, which means I’m kind of smart, good genes, that sort of thing. I earned the foundation scholarship for computer engineering because I fully intended to follow in my mother’s literal footsteps. I wanted to retrace everything. My father knew I had too much of her stubborn Scottish blood boiling in my veins to argue. So, he stood fast, let me do my thing, and I, in turn, stayed out of trouble, kept my head in academia, and somehow made it through my whole high school life without ever falling in love. I even missed the prom. I graduated from Ithaca High School as valedictorian, but passed on giving a speech. Everything I wanted to say wasn’t for anyone else except my mother. To do that, I had to follow her path.

  “You’re all set for tomorrow?” Dad said. He’d sounded his entrance into my bedroom with the customary gentle rapping on the door.

  “I’m all set,” I said.

  Dad came into the bedroom, taking small steps. I saw him looking over everything as if trying hard to remember the moment. I saw his fear, even if he hid it behind the prescription glasses.

  He wore a cornflower blue button-down shirt and brown slacks. Dad wore dressy clothes even at home. I think it had something to do with always expecting company. He was one of the professors for fellowship at the university, which meant he mentored a lot of students in the graduate program. We had a lot of visitors who sought my dad’s advice and counsel. He wore home slippers instead of oxfords or loafers at home.

  Dad closed the bedroom door and stood with his hand buried deep in the pockets.

  “Harper, are you sure this is something you want to do?” he asked.

  I took a moment to answer. I had anticipated him coming to talk me out of the decision. It wasn’t about the price of the plane ticket, or the months of planning, or the liaison between my mom’s extended family in Scotland and me. It wasn’t too difficult, but I had never met any of them directly.

  I sat on the bed. Dad came farther into the room and sat on the desk chair. He swiveled to face me. I saw the concern in his gray eyes. Dad looked older, softer. I had to remind myself that he’d lost someone, too. Eight years later, he had turned out okay and moved on with his life. I still had a whole life ahead of me.

  “Dad, you know I have to go,” I said. He expected as much from me. “I’ll be careful. I’m not doing anything crazy.”

  “I think I understand,” he said quietly. “I know this has to do with Phoebe.” I saw the immediate change in him saying Mom’s name. “I’m worried because I don’t want anything to happen to you.”

  I know he intentionally left off ‘too’ from his statement. That’s the thing about my life. I’ve had a focus for the last eight years. No matter what, after the therapy, the counseling, and the endless nights filled with loneliness and tears, I never lost the single-mindedness.

  “Mom left us,” I said. “She made her decision and used her time away to make a clean break. I know that. I understand that.” I stared at Dad so he’d see my clear hazel eyes. He needed reinforcement. He needed to know I had a clear head. “I need to go for me, not for Mom.”

  His mouth tightened and he nodded. Closure happened in many forms. Saying goodbye didn’t happen once in a lifetime. It took a few layers to make it official. Sometimes I felt like Mom was right beside me. Sometimes I didn’t feel her at all. I had pictures of her. They weren’t like what I saw in movies.

  Sometimes movies showed families together in portraits, like they knew life events tore away mother from daughter. It’s one of those establishing pieces people use to convey that depth of feeling through a visual means. The pictures I had of Mom weren’t anything as special as family portraits. It felt like we were always too busy to sit still long enough. Dad had classes. Mom had classes and her research projects. I had a few digital pictures of her. I saved the university biography page they had for her. The pictures I had with me and Mom together were very few and fleeting. I don’t remember the scent of Mom’s hair. I can’t remember feeling her arms around me. With all this, I should feel resentment and betrayal.

  Only, since I was ten years old, I felt something deep inside that I couldn’t explain. I talked about the sense of loss and abandonment issues with my therapist. Dad wanted recovery and acceptance. We went to family counseling. We had separate sessions. Eventually, Dad managed to move on with his life, even found love again. I pretended to do the same. I knew no one on this earth understood the profound calling I felt from a country I’d never set foot in before. I had to go. I had to walk the same paths as Mom. I knew for me to truly understand what I felt and what happened to Mom, I had to take my first steps on a continent that was the last place Mom went when she was part of our family.

  “I’m worried about you and this trip,” he said.

  “I know.” I didn’t want to get into the fact that I paid for the trip myself, that I had planned it for close to a decade. I was eighteen, graduated, and ready to step out on my own. “I don’t want you to worry.”

  “Shelia’s worried about you, too,” he added.

  I nodded. It wasn’t something I wanted to talk about. I made up my mind. I wasn’t giving up the roundtrip tickets. I had everything worked out. I shared my intentions upfront with Dad. He knew just about everything I had planned for once I got to Scotland. I couldn’t explain to him or Shelia what I made up my mind to do for the last eight years.

  Sometimes I think it’s how athletes prepare for the Olympics. They train and prepare, and they condition themselves for that shining moment when it all comes together. Getting on a cramped airliner for twelve hours wasn’t something I wanted to do; it was something I had to do. I needed to cleanse my mind, to clear my conscience. Mom left, and I wasn’t the reason. If she and Dad had marital pro
blems, it wasn’t something he shared me with me. From all accounts, they had a durable relationship. I don’t know if it was loving and attentive. Dad had a hard time displaying or sharing his emotion. I knew he loved me. I was a very lovable person. But hugs weren’t his thing. I can’t remember Mom’s hugs either, so I don’t know if she had a more garnished touchy-feely relationship with me.

  “I love you,” I said. I knew he needed to hear it. I know I needed to say it.

  “I love you, too, Harper. I just worry about you.”

  We embraced, and I breathed in the familiar scent of my dad. He used inexpensive aftershave lotion and the same men’s body wash that I remember since forever. I held him, and Dad kissed my forehead. I couldn’t change Dad’s anxiety. I had my own apprehension to deal with, and I knew I had hours alone to deal with my choices.

  Endless Sabbatical

  Do you know how you can have too many beginnings? I know it’s something professors and directors talk about when it comes to particular narratives. I think, for the sake of what happened, one needs a second start to tell a rounded story. For you see, I didn’t set out on an adventure. Well, at least, that’s what I told my dad. I wasn’t looking for something mystical or magical. Actually, I wanted some clarity. I wanted to know what happened. To describe my narrative, I need to explain that I didn’t set out to find something extraordinary. I wanted answers. That was the whole reason I decided to go to Scotland. Not only was it the birthplace of my mother, Phoebe Weatherspoon-Biel, but it was also the last place in the world anyone saw her.

  Mom had a Ph.D. in Quantum Theoretical Physics. It’s more than a mouthful and a lot to wrap my head around. I get my smarts equally from Mom and Dad. I never compared the two of them. I was ten when I saw Mom last time.

  She took a sabbatical from teaching to take a position in a research company deep in the heart of the Scottish Highlands. I never understood why Equinox Technologies had a remote institute in Scotland. The field research branch of the firm based out of Edinburgh didn’t show up on any maps or Google images I scoured the first few years following Mom’s disappearance. The only reason I knew about the place had to do with Mom’s family, who lived only a few kilometers from the site. Whether or not Mom ever set foot in the area was still a mystery. All I knew about was her visit with cousins and her aunt in the burgh of Eskdale three days before Mom disappeared.