Casual Necromancy

Casual Necromancy

Clouds nestled into the brickwork of ancient townhouses. This early, the sun was too small to compel their movement. That morning the fog showed off its mischievousness mostly by obscuring the space between cars and traffic lights. Those in a hurry were often greeted by red, slammed brakes and adrenaline shocks that would delay the need for coffee.

For Claire there was no rush. It was a day off. The beauty of a foggy morning stretching across her sleepy New England hamlet was the perfect respite from grueling workdays. She had earned relaxation and could think of no better way to spend it than by strolling up to Wellspring’s Coffee and Cakes. She hoped that the local paper would still be there so she could have something to read while she dined.

Her path towards the shop was littered with choices. The labyrinthine neighborhood had been cut by a variety of side streets that hinted at an older town. It was so that on her walk, she had many ways to make the five-block trek. To say that she was thoughtful in her choice to take the path between the yellowed brick on Rosemary Avenue and the grey stonework of Olde Street would be disingenuous. Fog guided her through the slim passage. Its pace was quick, moving more in earnest than the lazier clouds on the streets. She followed it.

Two steps in the path and Claire lost her footing. In a burst, her feet shot backwards as if sliding on ice and she fell like a tree in the forest. She was lucky to catch herself, sparing her nose the pain that her wrists found. Daggers shot up her arms and settled into her shoulders before she ratcheted herself. Once fully upright, she turned around.

Situated in the middle of the walkway was a little black book whose leathered binding had been scuffed and scratched long before she stepped on it. A loose page was folded in such a way that it protruded like a tongue. She wanted to laugh as well as curse, but ambivalence forced a flat face. For moments she stood while the desire to pick up the book grew. Her heartbeat sent pulses to her fingertips.

She didn’t open the book at first but merely continued her walk towards Wellspring’s. The fog seemed to lift as she got closer. Wet air gave way to the smell of dough and sugar. Just before she got to the steps, a loud caw rang from behind the building. A crow was clearly enjoying the stale loafs that had been thrown out days prior.

Ding ding.

A bell rang letting the cashier know that another customer entered. Even though it was loud, it couldn’t drown out the clamor of a blender making some bluish-purple concoction. A lone cashier was moving to the dance of breakfast requests and only paid attention to the task at hand. There were two others in line before Claire. That was fine. She was in no hurry. Even though she had her mind made up, she still enjoyed looking over the menu. Maybe there would be something special.

In the end, Claire went with her staple as nothing seemed better than a cooling latte and the tart explosion that only a raspberry danish could offer. Once her order settled on a doily she took out her new found book.

Just before she opened to the first page, steam rushed from her cup like smoke.

Madam Flora and Her Life Remedies

The first page had been penned with such beautiful cursive that it might as well have been calligraphy. Curiouser as to whose book had so carelessly caused her accident, Claire continued.

What she found on the following pages was perplexing. At first there were pictures like the diagrams in scientific journals of obscure plants. But as she continued through the pages, symbols that she couldn’t decipher, numbers that she didn’t fully understand, and words that made no sense leapt off the page. She skimmed back and forth, trying to make any sense of the book. Some of it appeared to be written in a foreign language. And it was all written and drawn by hand. The smudging of the ink seemed to drift in parts suggesting the pen used was very old. Each line and margin was filled as if the book was trying to burst with the very things it contained.

Claire smiled and leaned back, taking a drawn out sip from her steaming latte. To her this book would certainly be more fun to riddle over than a Sudoku or word search.

When her danish had been halfway consumed and her coffee was almost gone, she settled on one page. To Claire it looked like a recipe, but not like any recipe she had ever seen. Passion flower, sage, mint, chicken gizzard, cow’s tongue and the intestines of a pig were listed with complete clarity along with a few other obscure ingredients she didn’t recognize.

Also on the page was a symbol that looked like a half moon and markings that looked like archaic glyphs. In the right-hand corner of the page were the words ‘for luck’ followed by gibberish. This gibberish was written in such a way that it enticed Claire to read it out loud, even if it made no sense to her.

“Non est in prota media elige luna sapietiam.” She whispered into the remains of her latte. Her face blushed, but not with embarrassment, something else. The rising energy behind her cheeks drifted up into her eyes and settled at the center of her forehead where it coalesced into the pinprick of a bright white light. In this moment she thought that she was merely caught off guard by how bright the florescence was.

The urge to leave the coffee shop pushed her from the seat. Without even finishing the last bite, Claire strolled into a sunny morning. As the door flung open, the fog that had enveloped the city evaporated as if it hadn’t even been there in the first place.

Knowing that she had the day free, it was time to do something else she enjoyed. She would go shopping for things to eat later in the day. Once done, she would sit down, start a lengthy cooking process, and enjoy a newly discovered book, regardless of how cryptic its pages were.

Claire headed towards her apartment following the same path she took that morning. She skipped as she moved, letting her flats clack merrily against the ground. Her heart fluttered like a hummingbird and every buzz of a passing car felt like music.

When she made it to the passage between Rosemay and Olde she saw something quite out of the ordinary. In the same spot where she had procured the little black book was a piece of white cloth, wrapped with a red bow. At its center was a wooden tag. Claire approached with caution as if the bag contained a wild animal. The tag read: To the Blessed. Without a second thought, she scooped up the sack and found it to be made of silk. The bag wasn’t really a bag but a simple piece of cloth wrapped with red twine. There was heft inside of it that was more than expected. As she lifted, the fabric sagged and what seemed to be a multitude of rocks clicked together. Claire placed the center in the palm of her right hand and carefully undid the twine that held it all in place. When the fabric fell away, she gasped. Held in the center above the white silk were gemstones: diamonds, rubies, emeralds, sapphires, and other precious stones that she didn’t recognize. Her hummingbird heart transformed to the thud of a bear. Was this really happening?

Sunlight glinted in the facets, leaving kaleidoscopes in her eyes. She tried counting the jewels, but every time she would forget what she was doing and get lost. Sparkles shimmered at unpredictable moments. The sound of each stone clacking had a hypnotic effect. The more she looked, the more she rolled them around, the more captivated she became. With each second it felt like weight lifting from her. She expected to soon find herself in the clouds.

The rest of the morning leading to the afternoon blurred. Only flashes were left. If you had pressed her, she wouldn’t have been able to say for certain where she had gone or what she had done. There were thoughts of a store with a sign that said “We buy Gold” Various scents mixed and muddled in her memory leaving traces of blood, parsley and wax to linger. But nothing stuck.

At four in the afternoon, Claire found herself in the middle of her apartment with two tall grocery bags and a piece of paper.

She set the bags on the counter and looked to the paper. It was a check written in her name to the total of twenty thousand dollars. It was written by Smith’s Gold and Pawn. Claire nearly fainted.

It was a blessing.

Claire set the check, alongside her keys and purse on a tiny stand by the door. She then began to unpack her bags. Passionflower tea, three blocks of butcher paper, milkweed seeds, three iris flowers, a sage stick, a bag of guts, a white candle, a black candle and a plastic tub with Blood written on the lid were inside. At the bottom was the leather book.

Claire sighed.

She had no memory of buying anything.

Light from outside drifted through the window. The heat settled on her neck and radiated to her fingers. She opened the black book and turned to the page she had read earlier. After staring at it, she knew exactly what to do.

Claire pulled out her wooden dining table and placed the candles on it. The black candle was placed to the West. The white to the East. If you asked her on the street, she wouldn’t have been able to say which direction was which, but somehow she knew. Claire made a circle with the dried leaves of passionflower. To this she added milkweed seeds and fresh iris. Inside the circle, she dumped the contents of her butcher paper: a cow’s tongue, a chicken’s gizzard, and a bone. Claire spilled pink entrails from a thin plastic bag in the center. She then took a tub of blood and without hesitating stuck her index finger in. She traced a triangle around the animal parts in one motion. She made no effort to wash the blood. She found a match and lit the candles. Lastly she took the sage and lit it. Grey smoke billowed in her apartment.

Her breath leapt from her towards the center of the circle. She screamed. “Fomar gea lach na grea ne.” She knew not from where the words came but repeated them anyway. Smoke from the sage obscured her apartment. It grew as thick as the morning’s fog. It had gotten so thick that the table in front was completely obscured.

After nearly an hour of standing still, she felt a singe. The sage had burned to the end. In reaction she turned and tossed it away.

When she turned back, the smoke was gone. Instead of seeing a table covered in entrails and flowers, Claire saw a fruiting apple tree glistening with bright red and yellow fruit. There was no space between her wooden floors and its roots. They were one and the same. Even her ceiling fan had noticed. Its blades clashed with branches. They were locked in a stalemate.

A hunger pain stabbed Claire in the chest and she was compelled to sate it. She walked over and found the perfect apple. She plucked it and then took a bite.