The Secret of the Sacred Four

by E J Elwin

  I crept into the living room and gently opened the liquor cabinet. Normally, I would have taken just a tiny bit from each bottle so as not to make it seem like any was missing. But tonight, in the spirit of my crazy adventure, I seized an entire bottle of whiskey and went on my way.

  The streets were dark and deserted, and I zigzagged my bicycle through the road, swigging immoderately from the whiskey bottle. The woman’s house was only a few miles away, and it wouldn’t take long to get there on my bike. The whiskey hit me quickly and a warmth spread over my face. For the first time since Connor’s death, I felt excited about something. I believed in the craziness of my adventure. The stories had to be true. The woman had to be a witch because I needed her to be. Even if she isn’t, I thought tipsily, knocking back whiskey, she might blow me away with a shotgun for trespassing on her property in the middle of the night, and all of this will be over.

  The bottle of whiskey was half-empty by the time I skidded to a halt in front of the old house. It looked just as it did eight years ago when I first knocked on the door. I shoved my bike carelessly into a bush, stepped into the overgrown weeds, and made my way to the door.

  I reached out to knock and my knuckles barely made contact with the door when it swung open, creaking just as it had the first time, and revealing a dimly lit living room. I could just make out an old-fashioned couch and an armchair by the light of some weakly burning embers in the fireplace. There were picture frames on the walls but I could only see the dark outlines of the people in the photos.

  The door was unlocked. She must have known I would come.

  “Hello?” I said into the darkness.

  Silence. I took another gulp of whiskey and stepped into the house, closing the door gently behind me. There was a long hallway off the living room that led into the rest of the house. Soft golden light spilled onto it from the first doorway on the right. I stepped forward slowly, thinking to call out the woman’s name, and then remembered I didn’t know it.

  I glimpsed wooden cabinets as I approached the room and knew it was the kitchen. When I finally reached it and looked inside, I saw that the golden light came from a number of candles held in a dusty old chandelier hanging from the ceiling. It was a small but cozy space, and unlike any kitchen I’d ever seen due to the fact that it looked more like a library. There was a small stove, and counters packed with pots and pans, but the rest of the room was filled with books. They were stacked all along the walls in different-sized piles and on the small wooden dining table in the center of the room.

  It was there, almost unnoticed among the piles of books, that the woman sat. She looked directly at me, smiling just as she had in my dream, complete with the electrified gray hair.

  If I hadn’t been drunk on whiskey, I would have jumped a foot in the air at the shock of finding her there. As it was, I hiccuped and nearly dropped the bottle. She only continued to smile, looking entirely unsurprised at the sight of the stranger who had walked into her home.

  “You’re here,” she said pleasantly. She had bright blue eyes, and her voice was gentler than I had expected it to be. She sounded like a kindly old grandmother.

  “You knew I would come?” I got out.

  “I did,” she said. “Sit down.”

  My legs guided me numbly to the table and I plopped down on the chair across from her.

  “I’m Harriet,” she said, reaching out a hand across the table. I took it and found that it was warm and incredibly soft. I didn’t know what I had expected.

  “I’m—”

  “Arthur,” she cut across me. “I know. It’s nice to see you again. You’ve grown so much.”

  “You—”

  “Of course I remember you,” she said with a smile, once again guessing what I was going to say. “You kids were adorable. If I seemed annoyed, it was only because I was working on a very stubborn potion that wasn’t turning out the way I needed it to.”

  She gestured toward a large rusty old pot in a corner of the room, nestled between the stacks of books. No, not a pot. Cauldron.

  “So it’s true?” I asked breathlessly. “You really are a—”

  “Witch?” she said brightly. “I sure am.”

  “And you called me here?” I asked.

  “Well, you needed help, didn’t you?” she asked. “I could hear you calling out for help. Help that I could give you.”

  I didn’t have to ask if she knew about Connor. “Is it possible? Can you really—?”

  “Yes…?” She knew what I was going to ask but wanted me to say it out loud.

  “Could you bring Connor back?”

  “You want to bring the boy you love back from the dead?” she asked.

  “Yes,” I said. “Is it possible?”

  “It is,” she said, her expression neutral now. “But I need to know that you’re sure about this. Are you absolutely sure that this is what you want?”

  “Yes,” I said, without hesitation.

  “Well then,” she said, “I have to warn you, without any ambiguity, that resurrection spells rarely turn out well. It is possible, I assure you of that, but it rarely turns out well.”

  “What do you mean?” I asked. “What happens?”

  “Well, bringing people back from the dead is a huge undertaking,” she said, as casually as if we were discussing the weather. “Death, even premature or accidental death, is a part of nature, and nature doesn’t like to be undermined. To shift a departed soul back to Earth and reanimate a body that has died involves an enormous amount of power and creates a cosmic disturbance which can carry serious consequences.”

  “Like what?” I asked, staring at her unblinkingly.

  “The person who returns might not be the same as they used to be,” she said. “There may be fundamental changes in personality. They may be subdued where they used to be outgoing, or quick to anger where they used to be calm. It may not even be the same person at all…”

  “But you said ‘rarely’,” I said. “You said the spells ‘rarely’ turn out well. Does that mean that they sometimes do?”

  She smiled. “You’re clever to notice that. If you have a skilled enough witch and good enough candidates for resurrection, then yes, sometimes it does turn out well. And lucky for you, I’m a pretty skilled witch,” she winked, “and your love, Connor, and you are good candidates for resurrection.”

  “Good candidates?” I asked.

  “He died very recently, didn’t he? Just over a week ago?”

  I nodded.

  “That’s important,” she said. “It’s harder to resurrect a pile of bare bones. He also died in one piece, correct? He wasn’t ripped apart or incinerated?”

  “No,” I said, feeling the whiskey gurgle in my stomach.

  “That’s also important,” she said. “It’s not really possible to resurrect body parts back into a cohesive whole and have them be, ah, fully functioning. And it’s completely impossible to resurrect ashes. So you’re lucky he wasn’t cremated.”

  I nodded and took another swig of whiskey.

  “And lastly,” she said, and her voice softened, “he was a good person with good energy. Bringing him back wouldn’t be a blight on the world. You’re a good person with good energy too, and you’re bringing him back out of love.”

  I stared at her, then looked around at the kitchen, at the many piles of books and the rusty cauldron in the corner, hardly able to believe what was happening. Could I be hallucinating? Was this what being insane felt like? I raised a hand and slapped myself firmly across the face.

  Harriet laughed, but not in a malicious way. “You’re not dreaming, I promise.”

  “Why do you want to help me?” I blurted out.

  Her smile faded and there was sadness in her eyes. “Because you’re right. It isn’t fair.”

  There was more to it than that, I was sure of it. She looked back at me and I knew she could sense what I was thinking.

  “Witches live in secrecy,” she said. “It’s always been dif
ficult for us to maintain any sort of community, but we’re becoming more and more spread thin. Our numbers continue to fall. There may come a day soon when magic becomes extinct from the world, and it breaks my heart. I want to make the most of my gifts while I can. I want to use them to help someone. There is a light about you, and a light around him, your Connor. I can see it even though he isn’t here. It’s a love that burns incredibly bright and without end. It’s both beautiful and devastating. I want to help ease the pain that you feel.”

  The word magic bounced around in my head. She said it so matter-of-factly. It was incredible that she had so much insight into how I felt about Connor. I’d never discussed it very intimately with anyone except for Connor himself. Even though it was all so surreal, even though I’d only just met her, I knew, without fully understanding it, that I trusted Harriet completely.

  “So what do we do first?” I asked.

  “First, there’s the matter of payment,” she said. “Everything comes at a price.”

  I thought of the money I’d saved for the weekend in Portland, which remained unspent.

  “Um, well I have some money saved up,” I said. “How much—”

  “No,” she said. “Not money. I mean, the spell requires payment. The resurrected life comes at a price. This might be a bit difficult for you.”

  “Well,” I said slowly, “what’s the price?”

  CHAPTER 2

  The Spell

  I got back home around four in the morning, after thoroughly discussing with Harriet what the resurrection spell would entail. I understood it completely and knew what had to be done. Harriet was surprised at first at how quickly I had accepted the price that had to be paid for the spell, referred to as an exchange. It took me all of about thirty seconds to realize I was capable of getting it.

  I slept for a short while, woke up, got dressed and left the house, pretending to go to school. After I knew that both my parents had gone to work, I went back home to sleep some more and to prepare myself to gather the exchange that evening.

  **

  Father Gabriel lived a short distance away from the church where he was priest. I knew exactly where it was because he regularly hosted gatherings there for congregants. Since he lived so close to the church, he often spent time there in the evenings. That night, shortly before eleven o’clock, as I made my way to his house, I walked past the church and noticed lights on in the upper window where I knew his office was. Perfect.

  I climbed the stone steps to the church, realizing that I hadn’t set foot in this place in years, and that after this evening, I wouldn’t have reason to ever again. A very fitting final visit.

  I pushed the heavy doors open and stepped in, pulling them shut behind me. The light from the votive candles arranged in the sanctuary illuminated the empty church, casting long flickering shadows on the walls. Above, I could hear footsteps and the faint sounds of gentle classical music. I turned toward the narrow spiral staircase that led to the upper level and began to climb, no longer feeling the apprehension I’d once felt, but rather a warm, steady confidence.

  His office door was slightly ajar, and a shaft of light spilled out onto the dark mezzanine. I crept forward and peered through the crack in the door. His back was turned toward his polished wooden bookshelf, where he was struggling to open a bottle of wine, but there was nobody else in there.

  I soundlessly pushed the door open and watched him, waiting for him to turn around. He wore the same priest’s outfit that he’d always worn. There was the sound of a cork popping and he tipped the bottle into a crystal wine glass, humming to himself as he did so in time to the sounds of William Byrd’s “Mass for Four Voices”. Finally, he turned around.

  His sprightly humming ended in a cry of shock, and he slopped half the contents of his freshly poured wine down his shirt. “Arthur?” he asked in disbelief, patting his sodden shirt.

  “Hello Father,” I said. “Bad time?”

  “Um, no, no,” he said, flustered. “I wasn’t expecting anyone, that’s all. What— what are you doing here, Arthur? It’s been a long while since I’ve seen you here in the church.”

  “Yeah,” I said. “Wasn’t really for me.”

  “Ah well, have a seat,” he said, indicating the two visitors chairs in front of his desk.

  I sat down in one of the hard-backed wooden chairs, the very same ones that had been there when I was brought to the church as a child, and which were just as uncomfortable as the pews downstairs. Father Gabriel’s own chair was made of a sleek padded leather.

  “What can I do for you, Arthur?” he asked. “It’s awfully late for a visit.”

  “Isn’t it?” I stared into his gray eyes which had always unnerved me. They reminded me of foggy days where it’s hard to see any further than a few feet and there are more car accidents than usual. He held my gaze for a few seconds before turning away.

  “Would you like some wine?” he asked, indicating the open bottle of red wine on the bookshelf behind him.

  “Aren’t I a little young?” I asked. “But then, that was never a problem for you, was it?”

  He made a sputtering sound and cleared his throat nervously.

  “I’m more of a whiskey guy anyway,” I said, before he could respond.

  “Yes, well…” He raised his wine glass and took several large gulps, nearly draining it in one. A bit of the red liquid escaped the glass and trickled down the side of his mouth as he drank, making him look irresistibly like a vampire.

  “I’m here because I need a favor,” I said, watching him wipe his mouth on his sleeve.

  “Oh?” He tipped the last bit of wine into his mouth and rose from his seat to the bookshelf for more. “Are you sure you won’t have any wine?”

  I actually laughed before rising from the wooden chair and walking around his desk to where he stood by the bookshelf. “I don’t want any wine, fuckbag.”

  His eyes widened in shock. I reached into my pocket and clenched my fist.

  “Just you.” I brought my hand out of my pocket, clutching a fistful of sparkling emerald-colored powder from Harriet’s kitchen. I raised my palm and blew it hard into his face, reminding myself as I did it of when I blew out sixteen candles in one breath on my last birthday.

  **

  “Follow me,” I said, leading Father Gabriel down the stone steps of the church.

  He stumbled down the steps, his eyes vacant and staring, his mouth hanging open, looking like a cross between a drunk and someone who’d just experienced a massive head injury.

  “Hurry up!” I hissed at him impatiently.

  He continued to stumble as we walked but never fell, his mouth gaping open the whole time, his gray eyes empty of cognition. The church wasn’t far from the cemetery and before long, we were wending our way through the many tombstones and statuettes. An uncommonly thick mist had settled over the cemetery but our path ahead was clear under the bright silvery light of the half moon which was just like the one from my dreams.

  We came around an old mausoleum and finally arrived at Connor’s grave. Harriet was already there, dressed in a long black robe, waiting to start the spell. She was perched on a small wooden stool next to Connor’s headstone, a brown leather backpack at her feet.

  “Arthur, you’re here!” she said cheerfully, as though we did this all the time.

  She rose from the stool and came over to me, taking both of my hands in hers and giving me the same warm smile she had given me in my dreams. She wore a thin silver necklace with a small purple crystal hanging from it that she hadn’t been wearing before.

  “What’s that?” I asked, pointing at it.

  “Cloaking Crystal,” she said. “It prevents spells from being detected or traced. I charged it a little extra tonight to keep curious eyes away from the cemetery.”

  I looked around at the cemetery and the streets beyond. The town could have been deserted.

  “And this must be…” She turned her attention to the bewitched Father Gabr
iel for the first time. She looked him up and down, examining his priest’s outfit and vacant eyes, her face wrinkled in distaste as though he were something creepy-crawly that had gotten into her house.

  “Good, well done, Arthur,” she said. “I see you had no trouble using the Persuasion Powder. Just put him over there.”

  She indicated a spot at the foot of Connor’s grave. I shoved him to where she pointed and told him to sit, which he did without question, plopping down on the patchy mildewed grass.

  She knelt beside the brown leather backpack and began to unpack her supplies, starting with a black velvet cloth about the size of a placemat, which she lay gently on Connor’s grave. Then she brought out a dark red crystal the size of a fist that was shaped kind of like a heart.

  “The Blood Crystal,” she said, holding it out for me to see. “Can’t do the resurrection spell without it. I’m very lucky to own one because they’re extremely rare. This one has been in my family for generations. It kind of looks like a heart, too, don’t you think?”

  I wondered if she’d sensed what I was thinking or if it was a coincidence. The crystal did look like a jagged red heart. She placed it on the black velvet cloth she’d laid on Connor’s grave, aligning it fittingly with where his heart would be if he were lying there instead of six feet below.

  Next, she brought out two white candles like the kind in her kitchen chandelier. She went around to behind Connor’s headstone and set them on the flat stone surface. She gripped both at their bases and closed her eyes. A second later, both candles were suddenly lit.

  “Cool!” I breathed, unable to stop myself.

  “Just you wait,” she smiled. She took her position beside Connor’s grave. “Here we go.”

  She held her arms out to her sides, closed her eyes, and turned her face up toward the night sky. Her wild gray hair shimmered in the silvery light of the moon. When she next spoke, her voice was deeper, infused with command and purpose.