Chapter Text
Eric Richard Bittle was a witch.
Practically. He was getting there.
Dozing upon a clover hill not a mile from where he had been borne of magnolia and honey, the witch lay with his father’s “borrowed” radio. The sound of the weather caster’s voice was not nearly as sweet as the whistling wind that brought with it the fragrance of hundreds of wild azaleas.
“But, first, here's the weather forecast. Skies are clearing up, thanks to a high-pressure front moving in from the mountains. Mild winds will be blowing in from the west, pushing the clouds out by this evening,” the calming voice across the radio waves read.
A good night for flying, then. During warm summers like this, there was not a force on heaven nor Earth that could get Eric off of his trusted broomstick. When he flew up so high in the air, the cool wind in his hair, it felt like he was a part of the sky.
Eric opened his wide brown eyes, taking in the swiftly moving clouds just above him. This was his home. The countryside where a town was considered big and everyone packed in their little jalopy to visit its sights. But there had to be more than this.
There had to be more. Somewhere with mountains, somewhere near the endless oceans. In all of Eric’s travels across the idyllic and dull countryside, not once had he ever ventured farther than where he could see, farther than what the horizon would warrant.
He let his eyes fall closed, sighing.
“There'll be a beautiful full moon lighting up the sky, so if you have been planning something special, tonight might be the night—”
The weathercaster continued but Eric couldn’t hear a single word, sitting up straight, a gasp ripping from his lips. Tonight? Tonight?
Standing and turning off the corded radio, Eric turned on his heels and sprinted through the meadows, mindful of bees and their labors. Across the wild field, down the glen and down the dirt road until he could see the creek beside their shrouded house.
Hidden from the outside world and along a beaten path, the Bittle house and their gardens were also the workshop for his mother, the village of Madison’s resident witch. As a master of potions, if there was an elixir that could bring about luck or love or even curing rheumatism, many would humbly flock to her door.
The very door that Eric burst through to get into the greenhouse round the other side of their humble home.
“Shitty! Shitty! I think it’s tonight!” He called out into the house, his bare feet skidding to a stop when he noticed his black cat, Shitty, lounging in the sun, properly sitting in a potted plant. The fronds bending to support his body, as though it were an armchair.
Not approving of the name the cat called himself, he was dubbed Basil by his mother. Shitty was not amused.
“Dude, dude, slow up, pump the brakes,” with a toothy yawn, his black cat opened his eyes and shook himself a little, as though trying to rouse himself from the potting soil. His whiskers flicked this way and that, a white mustache mark below his nose made him look like a disgruntled mustachioed man. “What’s tonight?”
“We’re leaving.”
Shitty properly fell out of the clay pot, yowling when his shock over took and tossed him over the lip. “We’re what?”
Padding along the hardwood floors to the greenhouse, he laid a hand on the knob and remembered to stop and breathe, centering himself before walking inside. His mother was likely with a client, if the automobile out front wasn’t an indication enough. As he walked into the sweltering greenhouse, Eric took a moment to thank each plant silently as he hurried along the narrow rows to his mother. His fingers tingled and nearly snapped, pulsing with energy unseen. At last, through another heavy oak door, he entered his mother’s workstation and sitting area.
As he walked inside, Eric was nearly swept off his feet with memories. This was where he had grown up proper, when not in the sky or the wilds. He would sit at his mother’s feet or in the client’s lap, watching as his mother performed her magic, her skill of utmost importance to her and their family.
A witch’s skill was how their magic breathed and made themselves seen. For some, they could conjure up fortunes of love and loss, while others could heal the meek and wounded. His mother could bend plant’s natural powers to her will and Eric never stopped being inspired by her skill and the ease with which she wielded it.
Eric turned and inclined his head to Miss Dora, the elderly woman who adored his mother’s salves and potions for her arthritis and other symptoms. In turn, he adored her for her sense of calm and bemusement with life and its problems.
“Mornin’ Miss Dora, excuse me,” Eric turned to his mother, clasping his hands before him, unsure and worried.
“What is it, honey?” Suzanne Bittle turned her head towards her only son, surprise plain on her face. Her son hadn’t barged in quite like this since he was a small boy.
“The radio says tonight there’ll be a full moon and clear skies.”
The sudden look of worry and understanding crossed her face, as though the sun emerged from behind a cloud of confusion, “Oh.”
“This is the last one before next month. When I have to… leave home,” Eric looked down, his throat closing up on him.
His mother looked equally crestfallen, her hands clenched tightly around her two beakers of greens and flower bulbs. “It would be the perfect midnight. Eric? Wait—”
Eric turned and left as swiftly as he came.
The beakers in his mother’s hands turned black and exploded, nearly breaking the beaker but leaving a comical smoke cloud in its wake.
“My, oh, my. What’s all this about?” Miss Dora piped up, her eyes bad but her ears in perfect working order. She leaned on her walking stick that had aided her into the house and into the plush wicker chair she sat in.
With a frustrated sigh, Suzanne remembered to center herself before returning to her potions. “It's one of our oldest customs that when a witch turns 21, they have to leave home for a year to begin their training.”
“Your baby boy is 21? My goodness,” she chuckled affectionately, shaded by large fronds and blossoming flowers. She had no doubt seen many babies grow and blossom as her son had. “Time flies so quickly.”
“I know, he seems so young still. To be leaving home? He was so good, he waited practically 11 months since turning 21 to find a time to go but…” Eric had seemed too eager to fly everywhere during the day. She and her husband had taken to scouting the skies after sunset in case Eric had decided to leave early.
But he always returned, as though afraid going somewhere would never bring him back.
“I remember very well the exact day you arrived in this town. A beautiful young woman flew down from the sky on her broomstick. And I was certain she was much too young to hold such an important job as resident witch,” Miss Dora recounted, her voice growing thick with fond memories behind them all.
Lifting her hand to will the plants, she added all she needed until there was a golden, perfectly formed cloud of smoke that rose from the beaker in her hand, the elixir complete, ready to be bottled and sent with their favorite customer.
“To think out there there’s a town that needs Eric as their resident witch. What joy he has brought to us and what joy he’ll bring to others,” said Miss Dora, leaning against her walking stick as she reached out a shaking hand to hold the green, corked bottle. “While it does mean that the sun will shine a little less here, it’ll be so bright where he is.”
Eric paced in his room, rubbing his arms as he hesitantly began to pack, making sure to pack his money tin and his stationery to reach his parents back home. He threw it all in his messenger bag, unsure of where he was going or if he should go at all.
“Okay, listen, brother. I’m proud of you getting out there and seeing greener pastures. Or the ocean, remember how much you like the ocean, man?” Shitty stepped forward, spitting out the man’s comb so it went into the bag, helping his witch pack. “This is a good thing that you’ve been putting off for basically a year, man. You’re basically 22.”
“I know, I know, one more month and I’d probably age out of my magic altogether,” Eric said nervously, sitting on the floor.
Purring, his black cat crawled into his lap, kneading his head against his stomach, “Dude, listen… I know you’ve been playing it safe, and it was a great plan. But plans come to an end, right? What are you worried about?”
Failing. Miserably.
“Well, besides the obvious? You are going away to cross the horizon just like you always said. I hate turning around at that old green barn in the next county over. Beyond Madison, don’t you think you’re capable of great things, brother?” Shitty asked, looking up at him with his big eyes.
“I don’t even have my skill yet, and Coach was looking forward to going on a camping trip to see if my skill is survival or something to do with the woods,” Eric said weakly.
Shitty paused before blinking, his massive whiskers flicking to and fro, “I’m going to put my paws together and pray you’re not seriously going to put off your magic and your freedom for going on a manly camping trip with your dad that you know you’re going to hate anyway.”
“You know Mama will take good care of you when we’re gone.”
“Don’t try and bribe me with that sweet woman!” Shitty sighed, exasperated, “You’ve got big things coming for you, Eric. I’m gonna be sitting front and center, brother. Come on, man, let me see you become awesome. We all know it’s going to happen. And I’ll be with you every step of the way. What else are black cats for?”
Eric chuckled when Shitty pressed his face against his cheek, embracing him, “Being bad luck?”
“Hell no I ain’t bad luck.”
Eric’s dad didn’t say anything. Not when he got home from work and was told about the camping trip being cancelled, not after he called all their relatives and acquaintances to see him off, not even when they sat down to his favorite dinner. The man was made of marble. And Eric was terrified.
At last he would be gone from his father’s watchful eye, like his magic would be associated with sports or with something he was interested in. But no matter how many fishing trips they went on or how many times he tried to take Eric hunting (he always refused to go), his magic appeared to be just flying. Which seemed to appease his father for a while.
In the south where they lived, “witch” was still a gender-specific term. Many more women than men held the magic within them. And men young and old were good at keeping it hidden from nosy neighbors in the dewey morning or by a midnight’s moon. Some, when they found out, let it fizzle and fade away instead of breaking ties with their family and community. His parents had never been so conservative as that as they supported their son… Even if it meant that Eric was spending more time with his mother.
A disproportionate amount as the menfolk would say.
Eric had no idea what his skill was, but he prayed it was something his father would approve of.
In the lowlight of his room, the hour drew nearer as his mother pulled out what had been passed down for generations: dark purple robes. He donned his black pants and black collared shirt and drew the dark robes against him with an air of finality. He was going.
But he would go his way, even if it felt like tradition was tugging at him.
“I look like I’m going to a funeral.” It was an omen, he was convinced.
Suzanne laughed, “Witches have worn this color for a very long time, Eric.”
“That’s not particularly reassuring.”
Resting her chin on Eric’s shoulder, his mother met his skeptical gaze in the large ornate mirror in his room. “But it’s not really important what color your robes are. What matters is the heart inside.”
Turning into her embrace, Eric murmured, “I’m gonna try to be the best witch I can be, Mama.”
“Just follow your heart and keep smiling.”
The earth was warm beneath his feet, as though coaxing him to fly. Eric had his leather messenger bag slung across his shoulder, a wide-open pocket for Shitty to crawl into when the wind grew strong and cold in the air. It was packed with clothing, sandwiches, and anything else he could fit.
So why did he feel so empty?
Warm faces of clients and family surrounded him, giving him hugs and advice the closer he got to midnight. The sky was clear, and the stars sparkled in the sky. In no time at all he would be close enough to touch them.
“It’s time, Eric…” His mother’s hand fell on his shoulder, giving him a kiss on the forehead.
“Thank you,” Eric turned away from his mother and saw his father nod and walk into the house. Lip quivering, Eric looked down at the ground and took a deep breath.
The family and friends moved aside, giving Eric a clear place to take off. A warm wind teased around his ankles, trying to ease him into the sky.
“Hold up, son,” a gruff voice called out. Turning back to the front door, Eric blinked, surprised.
Coach Bittle jogged out of the house, a small wooden box in his hand. “Forgot to give this to you,” he cleared his throat awkwardly, handing it to Eric.
Pausing, Eric turned to look up in surprise at his father and back down to the box in his palm. “Got this for you ‘cause, Lord you look like you’re fixin’ to go to a funeral.” He handed it over without fanfare.
Opening the box cautiously, Eric saw a bright red silken bowtie. A pop of color in his otherwise drab outfit. The sight of the gift made the witch’s heart soar in a way he had only felt when flying.
“Coach… it’s too much,” Eric protested even as the man took the bowtie and helped him lace it up and put it on.
“Nonsense. I’ve had it since you turned 21. Been waiting to give it to you,” Coach shook his head, shifting his weight awkwardly from foot to foot. He placed his hands on his hips and finally took in his son, 21 years old and leaving home for a year to train. To train to be something that Eric didn’t even know if he approved of.
“Why didn’t you tell me you were growing up so fast?” He asked, his father’s voice quiet and vulnerable between the two men. Eric felt his heart break a little, tears coming to his eyes. “None of that.” Coach bent down and wrapped up Eric in his arms.
At first Eric could have swore that he was flying, but was equally surprised when he found it was Coach lifting him off the ground a few inches for a strong hug, “Write to your mama and I, okay? Wanna know you’re safe.”
Eric pulled back and nodded, the embrace over, his heart filled so far to the brim he swore it would overflow. “Thank you, Coach. Time will just fly.”
Back to being the gruff, quiet father, the man nodded, gesturing up to the sky though he understood flying as well as what he saw on the television set. “Speaking of flying, you should get. You know.”
Nodding eagerly, Eric put a leg over his broom, Shitty assuming the position over his bag. Years of flying at all speeds and weather had made him an amazing copilot of the skies. He could often read the winds better than his witch could.
Gathering his magic and centering himself, he could feel the magic within him guide him up off the ground, hovering a few feet before taking off like those biplanes. The wind guiding him along, he could hear cheers below him of his friends and family. No doubt Miss Dora was waving in his general direction, and his mother was probably crying, and his father… he hoped he had a smile on his face.
But he couldn’t see them now. Now, he had his eyes trained to the horizon.
And he was going to cross it.