Third Person Press E-Sampler
Page 5
Cure for End-of-Summer Malaise
1. Comfrey root (dried, crushed)
2. Squash flowers (summer, pref. crookneck, no leaves, must be fresh)
3. Gooseberries (pref. over-ripe)
4. Oil of lavender
Ratio of parts: 1, 10, 30, .025
5. [S/I] - usual amt.
Preparation: Combine and mash into a paste; 3 gramme pot
Usage: to be eaten on toast/biscuits thrice a day until first fall leaf is spied on the ground.
§
“Freesia, dear...one more small thing. The chokeweeds are doing just that to our nasturtiums. Do take care of them after you’ve finished in here.”
Mother exited the room with her trademark flourishes of scarf and skirt while Freesia turned to the chore at hand. She flipped through the concoction cards Mother had given her. Poultices, pastes, teas. All of them were familiar necessaries that commonly ran short in late summer.
No need to read the recipes.
By heart, by heart, I know thee by heart. The old, romantic tune played in Freesia’s head as she gathered materials and set to work in the relative gloom of the Concocterie. Today was Sunday, catch-up day, the only day when the family took no clients.
As she crushed, measured, weighed, compared, steeped, stirred, bottled, packaged and labelled, Freesia’s hands and arms moved through bright stripes—evidence of the sunny day showing through slatted shutters—splayed across the smoothed-by-use wood of the work table.
Your prison bars, Freesia Caliche. For indeed, she thought of herself as a prisoner to the family’s mission.
The Clan Caliche had seen to the ailments, unrequited desires and emotional irregularities of the people in the town for as long as anyone could remember. Bryony, Freesia’s mother, had learnt the concoctions, constructions, spells, divinations, ruminations, sacred songs, evocations, and agricultural requirements from her mother and great-aunts and had, in turn, taught them to her daughters, Freesia and Ivy—now young adults. Their dear father Frederic, who once would have contentedly tended to the chokeweeds, had passed on a long time ago.
The Calling. Bryony had told her daughters from the time they could listen that it was their born duty to be in service to the people. “We are graced with abilities and knowledge that others do not possess. The Calling is our life!”
With mortar, pestle and fierce feelings, Freesia crushed crystal chips to a fine dust, wondering what it would be like to enjoy a sunny Sunday instead of working.
And so it was as it always had been until a stranger came to Caliche Hills.
§
Cremeweed Confections
Juice of 5-6 cremeweed stalks, boiled and strained
Charcoal made from the oldest Vinberry branches, crushed
Histerberry nuts made into a paste thinned with early morning rainwater
Ground chalk from the riverbank
Combine ingredients
Season with vanilla, honey and spices to taste
Bake into cakes, cookies, tarts
Indications: common cold, congestion, allergies
§
Ivy whined from her apple-green tent, “Freesia, I need you!”
Instead of running over to help, Freesia telepathically sent her sister a case of uncontrollable sneezes. It was only wishful thinking, as she did not possess the power to transmit such a malady with only a thought, but it made her feel better to ponder it. She was extremely busy interviewing each person in the queue of clients that stretched down the poplar-bordered path.
She directed those needing simple agricultural remedies to Ivy, more complicated divinations, charms, and talismans to Mother, and the rest—those needing the grounding and emotional healing—to wait at Freesia’s lavender tent.
After speaking with the clients, she offered them a Caliche’s Mud Pie. The renowned tarts were prepared from the finest chocolate made from cacao trees grown on their land. Freesia suspected that some customers came just for this three-bite-sized treat.
So far today, she’d sent four women and one man to her tent. She’d see to them after finishing the triage and in-between fetching everything for everyone. All this, after working the gardens for three hours before the first client had shown up. Truly, the work was never done.
“Freesia!” Ivy’s whine had turned into a squeal.
Let her solve her own problem for once. Freesia had finally arrived at the last person in line and she was determined to finish this chore before moving to the next. “How may I help you?” she said, reaching into her basket to get a pie.
“I would like to ask you the same question,” the man answered. Looking up, Freesia realized she didn’t know him. Most customers were townspeople with whom she was well acquainted. “I come looking for information.” His elongated vowels, common to the people of the Eastern Realms, were not unpleasing to her ears.
“You need a divination, then?” Freesia pointed to a line in front of her mother’s tiger lily orange tent. “Go to that one. You’re last for today, so it’ll be a wait.”
Though they called them tents, these were permanent structures covered in paisley tapestries woven from the wool of the sheep who’d fed off the grass grown from their soil. They were orange, the largest, then lavender, apple green, down to the smallest, forget-me-not blue. Lines of customers waited under awnings edged with long fringe. Inside, the magically-enhanced tapestries kept them cool or warm, as needed. This day the tapestries were rolled up on two sides to accommodate summer breezes.
The man glanced in the direction she pointed, but quickly turned back to her. While his body emanated cucumber cool, his eyes reminded Freesia of popping, roasting, coffee beans. “Allow me to introduce myself. My name is Rihlad Caliche.”
“Caliche?”
He nodded his head slightly. “We share the same name.”
“I–I’ve never met anyone else with our surname.”
“When I heard of your family and your vocation, I became curious. I hope you don’t mind me dropping by.”
“Could we be...are we...related?”
He shook his head slightly causing a thick, black curl to fall over his left eyebrow. That eyebrow, also thick and black, raised slightly. “Distantly, perhaps. But my family has lived far from here for generations.”
“I see. So, you don’t need a divination?”
He smiled and his eyes finally matched the relaxation of the rest of his body. “Do you perform the divinations?”
“My mother Bryony usually takes those.”
“Are you capable?”
“Well, yes…it’s just how we divide up the work.”
“Could I make my appointment with you instead?
“It will be hours, I’m afraid.”
“I am happy to wait. The day is beautiful and your land is exquisite.” He rotated a full circle, his arms away from his body, palms open as if he were about to hug someone. He took in the swaying poplars—three times their normal height—the waving, lime-green grasses on rolling hills beyond the tents, the riot of colour in the perennial beds. “May I look around?”
“Hmm. All right. If you stay in this part of the property. We can’t have people tromping through the gardens.” She immediately felt stupid having said this, as the man exuded gracefulness. “Sorry. I’m sure you’d be careful. It’s just...”
“I understand. You must have rules. Perhaps I could have a small tour later on?”
§
Freesia handed her customer—a woman beset by incapacitating headaches—a small spade inlaid with crystals and turquoise. The two of them sat facing each other, cross-legged, near the back of the lavender tent on a mound of loamy soil. Between them a pitcher of milky liquid waited.
“Dig,” Freesia instructed.
The woman hesitated and then jabbed the tool into the dirt. She met resistance, brought the spade up and tried again. She glanced up, looking for more instruction, but Freesia�
��s eyes were closed as she chanted. The customer went back to work and dug a cone-shaped hole as deep as her forearm. A bit of white showed itself at the bottom. She reached down, hooked a finger under it and tugged. The long, fleshy root resisted at first and then gave way, coming and coming until she could pull it with both hands.
“Uungh!” The woman fell back as it finally came free.
“Mother Earth!” Freesia boomed. “Uproot her pain!” She poured the contents of the pitcher into the hole. It bubbled and frothed violently and then subsided. Freesia scooped up mud, kneaded it between both hands until it became like sticky, dark dough. She reached over and sculpted it onto the woman’s forehead, jaws and neck, and then escorted her client to a cot in the blue tent.
“Rest and let it work. I’ll be back later to check on you.” Before walking away, Freesia added, “If you want to feel better forever, you might consider changing husbands.”
§
Mud Pie Filling
makes 400 - 500 tarts
7 canisters cocoa powder
3 canisters almond flour
3 bottles honey
1 tin sweetsache syrup
3 jugs Spiced Tea mixed with 1 can soybean powder
1 can chopped Caliche nuts
To taste: salt, vanilla bean curd, candied violets (crushed), cinnamon
[S/I] - usual amt.
Pour filling into prepared shells; bake 24 - 30 minutes
§
Rihlad, true to his word, waited patiently the whole afternoon and Freesia, for once forgetting her fatigue, went to him after Mrs. Headaches had gone away a happy customer. “Mr. Caliche? Are you ready?”
“Please,” he said, “Rihlad. Would it be possible for you think of me as a friend instead of customer?”
“Perhaps. You want a tour, I take it, and not a treatment?”
“If you please.”
Freesia, happy to be done with cures for the day, found that she enjoyed showing off her home grounds, perhaps because she had never had the occasion to do it before. Rihlad’s eager attentiveness didn’t hurt. He asked hundreds of questions, not only about the land, her family and their Calling, but also about Freesia herself.
“What do you want to do with your life?” he asked, as they sat on a bench near the honeysuckle trellis, the air around them swamped with sweet scent.
“I—well, this,” she said, indicating the farm, the tents.
“So you are perfectly content?”
“No. Is anyone?”
“I don’t know. Though if you are not content, what is it that would make you happy?”
“I’m happy.”
“Happi-er, then.”
Freesia sighed at Rihlad's relentlessness. “I would like to have my Sunday afternoons completely free from responsibility.”
“That’s it?”
“Yes,” she said, feeling a bit defensive. “What’s wrong with that?”
“Nothing. I don’t understand why this isn’t easily attainable.”
“Too much work. And I have to do the bulk of it.”
“Why?”
“It’s just the way it is.” Freesia pulled a honeysuckle blossom from its stem and brought it to her mouth, tasting its sweetness.
“You get uncomfortable every time I ask you about yourself.”
“I—I just realized that I haven’t even offered you something to drink.”
“Ah, there it is again. That denial of self.”
“I haven’t been a good hostess. I don’t have many guests to entertain.”
“I noticed there’s tension between you and your relatives.”
“What?”
“Freesia, I’m sorry to be so forward, but it’s so obvious. I had nothing to do this afternoon but observe. On three separate occasions you and Ivy—is that your sister’s name?”
Freesia nodded.
“You and Ivy argued.”
“So?”
“What’s that about?”
Freesia sighed. “I’m tired all the time. We have too much work and Ivy tends to be lazy. She relies on me for things she should be capable of. Mother, too.”
While she spoke so candidly, Freesia admired the expressive arch of Rihlad’s eyebrows. “I let it get to me...in the heat of the moment.” She smiled slightly, waving her hand in front of her face. “Today there were a lot of hot moments! It’s just our way.”
“If you feel so overworked, why don’t you do something about it? You’re a grown woman.”
“It’s not so bad.”
“I see. Well, I have another explanation.”
“About?”
“Why you allow these issues to continue without doing anything about it.”
Her voice and body stiffened. “You don’t even know me.”
He continued unabated. “I observed today that your mother is controlling things.”
“Naturally. She’s our mother. She’s in charge.”
“To the point of using magic on you?”
“What?”
“She’s using magic to control you and Ivy.”
Freesia felt her ears heat up. “That’s ridiculous. She would never do that. Magic for what purpose? We have our hands full taking care of everyone else. We have no need of—no time to—” She looked into his eyes, leafed with long lashes. “Why do you think that?”
“While you were in the heat of battle with Ivy, your mother knelt and threw something to the ground. Curvy sticks or rods—”
“Petrified locust pods. She would have been using those in a spell for one of her clients.”
“While facing you? No customer around, Freesia. As soon as she finished and gathered up her seed pods, you lost all steam, turned away from Ivy and went back to work. This happened on three separate occasions.”
Freesia did not want to accept this information. She stood up. “I must go. I have chores to do.” She put out her hand. “Nice to meet you, Rihlad. Thanks for dropping by.”
“I have offended you.”
“Not really. I just know that you are mistaken. And, it has been a long day”
“Please don’t shut me out. It is our way in the East to be direct. I meant no harm and…I like you. It seems that you could use a friend. Might I be allowed to visit?”
Freesia felt flustered and didn’t know what to say. She had never had a friend outside the family, much less a male friend.
What would Mother think? That thought made her stiffen. Why shouldn’t I have a friend? Why should a mother object to that? Could she be controlling Ivy and me with our own magic? Could it be true?
“You would be welcome, Rihlad.”
§
Calling Forth Faeries
NEVER DO THIS EVOCATION WHILST ALONE!
Where:
Corner of the herb garden courtyard nearest the berry patch
When:
Dark of night
Liquid ingredients:
Icicle water from the previous winter
Summer dew gathered from the jacoby plant
Combine and pour into the smallest aspergil
Dry ingredients:
Pink Isling quartz, ground (1/4 dramme)
Pink clover flowers (four-leaf plants only - dried, ground and prepared with S/I)
Combine; distribute equally to 12 kadji dishes.
Stack and wrap tightly for transport
Gathering:
Faerie nets, one for each person present
Silk drawstring bags
Method:
Carefully move the garden orb and stand in its spot
Place the dishes in a circle around the evocateur
Expound the evocation as outlined in EV-5, page 323, while sprinkling the liquid over the dry
Repeat as necessary
Caution:
Evoked faeries are often even more ill-tempered than usual. Wear protective gear.
§
The next day and the next and for all the days until Rihlad returned, Freesia tried to catch her mother casting spells on her or her sister. It turned out to be a difficult thing to disprove because when in the moment—fighting with Ivy or arguing with her mother or simply huffing off in disgust at being, yet again, told to do something that wasn’t fair—Freesia didn’t have the ability to observe the scene objectively.
Frustrating to be sure; however, just the awareness that it might be happening loosened Freesia’s mind from habitual patterns of thinking. She wondered, for the first time, what would happen if she refused to work when she felt too tired. She had no idea because it had never happened. Often she lost her temper, but always, she obeyed. Freesia began to realize that this might not be normal.
Rihlad had planted the seed that it might be possible for her to take control of her life. She wanted him to come back so that he might move this possibility along.
Her mother noticed the difference in her. “Are you feeling all right?” she asked one evening when Freesia didn’t get up immediately after having been asked to bundle herbs for drying.
“I’m fine.”
“Then why are you looking at me like that?”
“Like what?”
“Your eyes look feverish.” Mother placed a hand on Freesia’s cheek.
“I’m not sick.”
“Something’s wrong. Let me make you a soothing tea.”
Freesia shook her mother’s hand away and stomped off to the Herberie to do her work.
§
The next time Rihlad showed up, Freesia snuck him into the garden shed. She didn’t want her mother to know that she had a friend.
“I don’t have long. Thanks for coming back.”
“I don’t mind waiting for you. How are things going?”
Freesia told him of her frustrations.
“You believe me then?”
“I’m suspicious for the first time in my life.”
His face gave in to a slow smile. “What will you do?”
“Fight magic with magic, I guess.”
“Hmm.”
“What?”
“Maybe you should try talking to her first.”
“I never thought of that.”
“It might work. And it would easier than fighting.”
“I doubt it. I really do have to go now. I’m sorry.”
“I’ll wait for you to finish working. Am I trusted enough that I may wander around?”
“All right. But watch out for Mother. If she sees you, she’ll give you a tongue lashing.”
He laughed. “Or worse.”
§
Bolstered by Rihlad’s visit, Freesia gathered her resolve that evening. Taking a deep breath, she said, “Mother, things need to change around here.” Bryony glanced up from her embroidery only briefly, but Freesia had Ivy’s full attention. “I want us to close on Saturdays as well as Sundays.”
“Whatever for?” Mother didn’t look up.
“Excellent idea!” said Ivy.
“Because we are all overworked. I have no life. I’m exhausted all the time and need a day each week to get a little rest.”
Mother’s sewing plopped in her lap. “As usual, Freesia, you haven’t thought this through. If we cut back to five days a week, that will mean more clients and longer hours on the days we’re open. The amount of work is the same whether it’s spread over five or six.”
“Could we discuss it?”
“I like the idea,” Ivy repeated.
“Shush,” Mother said.
“No. We won’t.”
“What did you say?”
“We are grown women, Mother. Do not tell us to ‘shush’.”
“You’ve always been given to these outbursts, Freesia, but more so lately.” She put away her sewing and tossed her violet stole around her shoulders as she rose from the chair.
“Where are you going?”
“To make you a soothing, hot toddy. I’ve had enough of your sass for one night.” Bryony left the room.
Freesia, her brow furrowed, turned to Ivy. “Did I sound impertinent or thoughtless or...insane?”
“No.”
“I didn’t think so either. She controls us, Ivy. I’ve only now realized it. We have to talk, because one way or another, things are going to change around here.”
When Bryony returned with the magicked beverage, her daughters had vanished.
§
“If I feel strongly about something,” Freesia said, “there comes a moment when—whoosh—my emotion disappears as if a flame has blown out. It’s happened all my life, so I assumed it was normal.”
She and Rihlad stood in the privacy of the Concocterie where Freesia felt free to talk. Rihlad had his back to her while perusing the floor-to-ceiling shelves of jars, bottles and vials.
“Stunning,” he said, turning to face her. “How very convenient for Bryony.” He walked to the work table and picked up the stack of concoction cards that constituted Freesia’s next chore.
“I must stop her! It’s not right.”
“How?” he asked, studying one of the cards.
Freesia took them from him. “Fight magic with magic. There must be a spell that can ward off all magic.”
“You’ve never run across one?”
She shook her head. “Never. But there are volumes of spells and potions we have no use for. We use the same magic over and over. People rarely show up with a complaint that we haven’t seen thousands of times. And, Mother keeps Ivy and me so busy that we don’t have time to do research.”
“I have time.” His eyebrows arched eagerly, and the earnest little heart in Freesia’s chest rose with them.
§
Freesia shouted at Ivy. “If you need Calming Tea, fetch it yourself!”
“But I’m with a customer and you’re up.”
“I’d be with a customer too, if you’d stop bothering me. Anyway, you’re up now.”
On cue, Ivy had come out of her tent. The sisters stood facing each other at the intersection just behind the green and lavender tents. Freesia, hands akimbo, feet spread apart, could, out of the corner of eye, see Bryony emerging from her tent.
“You lazy cow!” she said to Ivy.
“Why you self-righteous—”
As planned, both girls turned their heads at that moment to witness Bryony casting a spell. Their mother didn’t notice that they had stopped arguing. Her lips moved, while her eyes focused on her pods.
Watching her, Freesia realized that her mother didn’t seem upset or tense. She’s done this thousands of times before. All my life. Freesia turned her head and nodded at Ivy. They approached their mother just as she looked up.
“What—?” Bryony said.
“It’s over, Mother,” Freesia answered.
Bryony bent down and quickly gathered her locust pods, stuffing them in her pouch. “What?” she asked again, clearly confused as to why her daughters hadn’t calmly gone back to work.
Ivy spoke. “Your magic won’t work. We’ve protected ourselves from your interference.”
Mother regained her composure. “With what have you ‘protected’ yourself?”
“We are on to you,” Freesia said. “Agree that you will stop using magic to control us!”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Mother, we know,” Ivy said.
“We’re warning you,” Freesia said, raising her voice. “Cease and desist!”
Bryony looked around. It was late in the day. Most of the customers had gone, but those remaining had walked around the side of the tent to see about the commotion. “Girls, we’ll talk later. Go back to work. We have people to tend to.”
“Now. Tell us that you will stop using magic on us.”
“Or, what?”
Freesia glanced over at Ivy, who shrugged and then reached behind her back, pulling a willow limb out of her satchel. “Agree to our terms!”
Mother looked alarmed, but then her face clouded
over and the storm erupted. “The sass! The nerve!” she yelled, striding closer to her daughters.
“Stay!” Freesia shouted.
By now, all the customers watched, including Rihlad, who had a huge smile on his face. He meandered through the small crowd, handing something to each person.
Ivy brandished her lithe wand and uttered the words she’d practiced: “Still the core~Move no more~Silent, static, and still o’er.”
Freesia winced. She’d said it wrong. “Ivy! It’s supposed to be ‘still and static’.”
“Amateurs.” Bryony’s eyes rolled, and then glazed over. Freesia knew her mother was about to hit them with something.
She and Ivy had cast a cone of protection around themselves from a spell Rihlad had found in the Olde Volumes. It had worked against Bryony’s initial magic, but there was no telling what kind of strong powers Mother had in her arsenal.
Bryony’s mouth moved.
Freesia reached deep into her commodious apron pocket for her next trick, the one she, Ivy and Rihlad had evoked the night before with great and delightful success. She pulled out a large, squirming silk bag.
Bryony’s eyes widened. Her mouth moved faster.
Ivy continued to brandish her wand, attempting to get the words right. “Do not move~Still your body~Static o’er the—”
Freesia lifted her hood over her head with one hand, while holding the roiling bag in the other, at arm’s length. She rapidly closed the distance between herself and her mother, just as Bryony exclaimed, “Uchilswak Selaswak!”—two words Freesia had never heard before.
Freesia yanked the drawstring of her bag and released the contents, saying simply, “Bother Bryony!”
Forty-five foul-tempered faeries descended on her mother. At the same moment, Bryony’s spell hit.
The heavy fabric of the tents lifted and slapped, the popular trees bent and swayed, the awnings pulled from their pylons and whipped in a sudden, violent wind. Heavy, hard, stinging rain fell. The bystanders screamed, cowered, covered their heads and ran away down the lane.
The first gust upended Ivy. She lay—stunned—in what was fast becoming a muddy paddock. Freesia, soaked to the skin in seconds, held onto the tent pole to keep from being swept away by the howling wind. She could barely see her mother through the deluge.
She tried to focus, to remember something, anything, any magic spell that might somehow stop this, but her mouth was dry, her arms sore and her brain scattered to the four winds—which all seemed to be blowing at once. She closed her eyes to the pounding rain and all she could bring forth was a childhood prayer: “Keep me safe, keep me calm, keep me, Goddess, from malice and harm.”
The rain stopped. Freesia opened her eyes, amazed that the storm vanished so suddenly. It seemed a miracle until she looked over at her mother and realized why. Bryony couldn’t keep the spell going. Faeries pulled her hair, pinched her cheeks, poked her eyelids, kicked at her ears, nose and lips and climbed under her clothing, doing lord-knows-what.
Freesia looked over at her sister, who was mired in mud, chocolate brown from head to foot.
Ivy nodded.
Turning back to her besieged mother, Freesia pulled out a packet of crushed clover pods mixed with pink quartz dust. She walked with mincing steps across the slippery ground to her mother’s side and flung the packet with a mighty flourish so that the contents coated her mother’s head and shoulders.
“Be GONE!”
And they were.
No more faeries.
No more rain or wind.
No more customers.
No more Rihlad.
The three bedraggled women paused in the silence and calm for a few long minutes. Then, Ivy struggled to her feet. Barefooted, because her shoes were stuck in the mud, she walked over and picked up a white card—one of dozens lying on the ground.
She read:
Grand Opening!
Rihlad Caliche
Magician, Sorcerer, Healer
Number 2, Towns Way
Reasonable Rates