I run.
I’m holding on tight to Gabriel’s hand and running fast, through the forest and down the slope. We’re going faster and faster and the only thing ahead of me is the gorge. And I push harder and faster, gripping Gabriel’s fingers, and as I get nearer I see how wide and deep the gorge is. I hear him in my head, the other me, the animal me, and I want to laugh as he roars at me, not in fear or terror but as if to say, “Yes!” All I can do is run faster and faster and leap off the edge and reach forward. Somehow I find a cut in the air and I’m sucked through it, still holding on to Gabriel and hearing the animal in me roaring. And we are swirled through the black tunnel of the cut, quickly spinning into the light, which hits us as hard as the ground.
We’re on a mountainside and the smell of it, the air, the dampness, the light—everything says that I’m back in Wales. The hillside is grass-covered with some bare stones and to our right a small stream tinkers its way down. Gabriel is still holding my hand and I look at it and see that he is bound to me with the leather strap and the stake is there too.
We go to the stream and drink. The water is pure and clear and cold. I’m home. The animal in me knows it too. And I think I know what to do.
I take hold of the stake and drive it into the earth by my side. Nothing happens. The animal in me howls a complaint. The earth is the right way but I’ve not done it properly yet. I hold Gabriel’s hand tight and look in his eyes and pull him to me. Our clasped hands are between us, the stake is between us, over each of our hearts. And I tell him, “This is the way back.” Then I push Gabriel away from me and fall forward and feel the stake enter my chest—my heart—at the same time as it enters the earth and the animal’s heart too. The earth and my blood and spirit mingle. And the earth holds me and something is returning up the wooden stake into my wound and between it all is Gabriel’s hand, still held in mine.
*
I open my eyes and see Gabriel looking at me. His eyes are those of a Black Witch. Dark brown with gold and chocolate flecks twisting and fading and exploding.
Do Obama
Gabriel, the new Gabriel, showers first. We’ve gone back to his room. I’ve healed my hand and now have a round wound on both the back of my hand and my palm to add to the other scars. I healed it in a few seconds. Gabriel’s hand healed too. I watched. It took him about twenty minutes but it would take a fain weeks. He was grinning the whole time. I think from the buzz of healing and also the buzz of being himself.
He’s a bit unsteady on his feet but insists that washing is more important than food. I’m spaced out with lack of food and sleep but more than wanting food or a shower I want to be with Gabriel. He’s so pleased, so confident. So Gabriel.
Van enters the bedroom. “You did well, Nathan. And you’ll be pleased to hear that I want to move on quickly. I need to get to an Alliance meeting in Barcelona by tomorrow. We leave after breakfast.”
The door to the ensuite opens slightly and Gabriel stands there, a section of him revealed, bare-chested with a towel round his waist, damp hair, big grin, and eyes that are coffee-bean brown with gold twists moving leisurely around the irises.
“I get the feeling this discussion isn’t just about what’s for breakfast,” he says.
“Nathan will tell you,” Van replies. “We’re leaving soon but first food and a small celebration—it’s not often that the potion works.” And she walks out of the room.
“I think that’s her idea of a joke,” I say, turning back to Gabriel.
“Yep,” he agrees and opens the door fully. “So, what do you think?”
“Of the new you?”
He nods. “The original version.” He holds his arms out and does a slow turn so I can see him from all angles.
“You’re . . . remarkably like the fain version. Except that your grin is so wide it’s going to break your face open.”
He just grins even more.
“But your eyes are different, really different. And there’s something else. Turn again.” I watch him closely and I try to analyze it but there’s nothing I can actually point to. “I guess it’s the way that Black Witches move but I can’t say exactly what it is.” He’s hardly moving anyway but something about the way he holds himself is different. “You look more comfortable in your skin, more relaxed.” I shrug. “But I’m not sure it’s that; you always look comfortable.”
He turns back to me and controls his grin. “Thank you. From you, that’s a great compliment.”
“I’m not paying compliments. I’m just trying to describe you.”
“And what I’m trying to say is that”—he hesitates and even, I think, blushes a little—“you’re very comfortable in your body.”