That Old Black Magick

I was fascinated with the new arrival to our village.

In part, because we rarely have new arrivals. I can almost remember moving here with my dad, but not quite. I was only four. I remember before being a bigger, cleaner, happier place, but I also knew that mom had done something bad, and that she had an accident because of it. We had to leave under the cover of night before anyone found out.

Theodore, the newcomer, is only the third new man since my father, and that was 10 years ago.

But I was mostly fascinated because Theodore was dangerous. He was supposed to renounce his ungodly ways when he came to live here. The others all did, we did too, and everyone burned their small magick books in a grand arrival celebration.

Theodore was different, though, he was only allowed to stay because he knew one of the village elders a long time ago. Some of the men were not happy about it. I heard them talking, after I was supposed to be asleep. They said he shouldn't be here, that he didn't belong and couldn’t understand our ways. That he couldn’t be trusted. That he was dangerous.

He did burn a magick book when he arrived, though there was no celebration, and the men whispered that he could have a second one.

I've been watching him since I learned he was dangerous. I followed him to the old windmill that used to pull water from a deep well for our crops, and for drinking. But it ran dry 3 years ago. No one goes out there anymore. Especially not after sunset.

But Theodore sneaks out there most nights, and when I follow him to watch from the tall grass, there is an unearthly glow that emanates from whatever dark magick he weaves inside.

It terrifies and excites me.

I was never planning to go in and look. But last night my father told me I was to be married next Spring. I told him I didn’t want to be married, that I didn’t like John. That John was old, and ugly, and mean.

My father had no response, I didn’t expect him to, it had been decided and we both knew it.

He didn’t know about the dark magick that Theodore was conjuring, though, no one did.

Except me.

There was something about the glow, the hue, that crept out of the windmill those nights. It was not like any fire glow but almost cold and dead.

Necromancy? Maybe.

The glow stirred a deep memory within me, from before we moved to the village. I knew it was something everyone would hate him for doing. He knew that too, I think, that’s why he hid it and never lingered for more than a minute or two.

I knew his magick could save me, though. I knew it could bring forces more powerful than my father or even the elders and that it could stop the wedding.

I knew it.

Theodore only snuck to the windmill at night, so that’s why I’m here during the day. I shouldn’t go in, but I already know I have to. It will change everything, and that scares me, but also fills me with more hope than I can ever remember having.

Inside is dirty, like everything in our tiny village, but the floorboards around the well are rotted and, after looking under several, I find it.

It’s a small black book, bound with something like leather. Only men are allowed to have books, because all books have too much power, but when I reverently heft this small book out of its hiding place and feel its unholy weight, I know this is one of the magick ones. These books are forbidden to everyone, they’re dark remnants of the outside world, of twisted dying ways that are never to be brought into the sanctity of the village.

I don’t know how the elders haven’t sensed it here, maybe they're not as powerful as everyone says,... or maybe I'm mistaken about what I'm holding.

But when I open it and find the single polished-stone page, so black and deep that I only see my own dim reflection staring out of it, I know what I have. I know this is evil. That I may be damned for even touching it.

But it's too late.

Somehow, my fingers know how to activate it even though my memory does not, and its magick thrums to life in my hand, almost painfully, flaring too brightly in the dank little well room.

I am shaking with fear and excitement. And hope.

I remember the patterns my mother taught me long ago, how to use these to call for help. To call… what, though? Sprits? Gods?... Daemons? It doesn’t matter now, if I go back father will sense what I’ve done, and I will be punished severely. There is no going back.

I perform the short ritual to summon my would-be saviors and wait.

“Hello, 911, what is the nature of your emergency?”

“Help me. Please.” I whisper, not believing until now that this could ever work.

“Mam? Where are you? Do you need help?”

“Yes.” I say. What else do I say?

“Mam, the number you’re calling on is registered to Theodore Alexander, do you know him or his whereabouts? There’s a $20,000 reward for any tips that lead to his capture.”

“Please, help me,” I whisper again.

“Okay, mam, we have your location, it’s a miracle you even have reception way out there. We’re dispatching an armed extraction team now, they’ll be there in 30 minutes. Please hold on the line.”

“Thank you,” I whisper, squeezing shut my stinging eyes as I clutch the phone to my chest, "Thank you."