Witchmas Day by Chris Lowry

Author:Chris Lowry [Lowry, Chris]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Grand Ozarks Media
Published: 2018-04-26T05:00:00+00:00

There are reasons most folks don't know about magic. Sure they believe it, like children on the edge of ten still sort of believe in Santa Claus and the Easter Bunny, but also know that only babies still believe that stuff.

We grow out of belief.

Most of us.

I didn't have that luxury. I was born to magic parents into a magic time just before world war two. My parents were attacked by the Catholic Church and disappeared, which happens a lot more than you think to folks with the ability. I was put in the care of a priest who led the attack on my parents who raised me in an orphanage under his tutelage.

Seriously I didn't have any hang ups about my parents. My childhood was mostly idyllic or at least as sane as a kid raised in a private boarding school monastary could be.

I had new roommates each year, and one or two close friends and was always under the watchful eye of the Father. I was instructed in the rosary and confession, was denied communion until my confirmation and that wasn't allowed until after I hit puberty. That's when they expected any latent magic to appear.

The first signs came when I was ten.

By the time I was twelve I knew I was different and hid it, like most boys who hide their secret longings in their heart or behind bathroom doors.

My body was changing, and whenever the Father tried to question me about it, I just assumed he was referring to the hair in new places.

For my twelth birthday, Father tried to kill me.

It didn't take.

I spent the next four years on the run, living on the streets of city to city, traveling the rails like a hobo. I met a bunch of people, some kind, others not. The kind ones got a little luck on their behalf in the form of magic, just whatever favor I could send their way. A farmer fed me more eggs than I could eat, then boiled two dozen for me to carry with me. I put a blessing on his cows and chickens so they produced more milk and eggs that never spoiled and never went bad.

A grandmother made me cookies once and I put a ward on her home so that bad weather and bad things just avoided it.

Two boys were travelling on horseback to New York and shared their meager meal with me one night and I gave them eternal safety, a personal ward that stayed with them for almost eight decades.

I won't share the details of the bad men.

They were mostly men and they are mostly dead. Men who prey on children deserve horrible deaths, and I gave it to them, and watched while it happened.

The first time I felt guilty.

Good old fashioned catholic guilt for taking the life of another. I didn't like it, I didn't like how it made me feel. Except that I knew that with these types of people gone the world would be a better place.

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