Magic Time: Angelfire by Maya Kaathryn Bohnhoff, Marc Zicree Page A

they eddy like candle soot. And I realize that they’re more than just sensitive to the light. They’re terrified of it.
    The fire I shelter behind leaps no higher than my thighs. I drop the machete and hold out my arms—palms up, eyes closed—and imagine four people and six horses inside a snow globe. My palms tingle. My eyes open to a veil of blue-white light.
    “Sonofabitch!” Colleen squeals like a five-year-old and leaps back from the shimmering curtain.
    Beyond the veil, our would-be gourmands shriek in fear and fury. I want to laugh, not at Colleen (although I have to admit she looks damn funny—kind of like a guerrilla goldfish), but at the sheer exhilaration of what I’m doing.
    If they came like smoke, they leave like a buffalo stampede. When the thrashing fades, the wood is as tranquil as a Robert Frost poem. There is only the whisper of rain and the breathing of ten relieved creatures in a bubble of light.
    I hold the globe of light around us for another several minutes, until I’m sure I hear nothing in the woods beyond. Then I let it go. It does a Fourth of July fireworks fade. So does my energy. Hands on knees, I pant like a dog.
    “Bozhyeh moy,” says Doc softly, and I think he crosses himself.
    “What the hell was that?” Colleen demands, her eyes still raking the woods.
    Cal utters a single bark of laughter. “Cool.” He grins at me sideways in the flicker of struggling firelight. “That,” he says, “was a step above your usual parlor tricks.”
    “I’ve expanded my repertoire. So, what do we do, boss? ‘Do we go or do we stay?’ ” I half gasp, half sing this last bit, then pull myself upright.
    Cal sends me a quick glance before sinking to his haunches. “If we could count on them staying away…” He shakes his head, flinging water from his hair. “This weather is miserable for traveling.”
    “Look, here’s an idea—why don’t you and Doc stand watch while Colleen and I grab some sleep? If the horses act up again, wake me and I’ll blow another bubble.”
    Cal surveys our soggy campsite. “I don’t suppose there’s any way you could set up a ‘bubble’ and have it stay put?” “I … I don’t think so. That took a lot of effort.”
    “Could I get you to try? Anything, Goldie. All it needs to be is flashy.”
    Flashy. “Okay. Lemme see what I got.”
    I fashion a ball of blue-white light, rolling it between my hands, feeling the texture of the power against my palms. They all slog over to watch me, looking like a gathering of drowned cats in the pale light. Rain drips from their hair, glitters on their eyelashes, and trickles down their cheeks.
    I take my ball of light, set it about four feet off the ground, and let go. “Stay,” I tell it, and step away.
    It stays.
    “You’re still thinking about it,” says Cal. “Walk away and make another one.”
    I do as asked. When I’ve finished and set the second globe, I glance back at where the first one was—and still is. Cool . A little Goldie goes a long way.
    When I cozy down in dry clothes inside my pup tent, a perimeter fence of obedient light-balls stand guard over my sleep. I send them my last conscious thoughts.
    When I wake at dawn, the rain has stopped and the sky is a bright blue, streaked with flame. The light-globes are gone.
    “How long did they last?” I ask Doc over a hasty breakfast of dried fruit and flatbread.
    “Almost two hours. It appears they extinguished when you entered deep sleep. But we had the fires up again by then.”
    I get my bearings, listening to leaves, and we mount up, striking out due west. Just after noon something changes. We are within sniffing distance of the Ohio River. Behind me the others discuss whether to ford the river or try to find a bridge. I’m idly wondering if there might be trolls under bridges these days when a window opens in my mind through which I catch the scent of a melody.
    This is neither my memory nor the memories of leaves, this is the real deal.