The Flower Bowl Spell

by Olivia Boler

  The Flower Bowl Spell

  Title Page

  Prologue

  PART ONE: THE FAIRY

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  PART TWO: THE COVEN KIDS

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  PART THREE: THE ROCK STARS

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  PART FOUR: THE ELDER

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Chapter Twenty-two

  PART FIVE: THE FLOWER BOWL SPELL

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Chapter Twenty-six

  Epilogue

  THE FLOWER BOWL SPELL

  A novel by

  Olivia Boler

  Copyright 2012 by Olivia Boler

  Smashwords Edition

  Discover more at http://oliviaboler.com

  Cover art design by Fena Lee: http://pheeena.co.cc/

  Author photo by Andrea’s Images Photography: http://www.andreasimages.com/

  Smashwords Edition, License Notes

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be resold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  This book is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, or to places, events, or locales is purely coincidental. The characters are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously.

  This one is for Paul, for always supporting my dreams with love and patience.

  Acknowledgments

  This book would not have happened without the support of my writing group, Kill Your Darlings. Specifically, I need to thank Susan Godstone, Fiona Hovenden, Michael Kay, Jesse Potterveld, Mark Segelman, and Jeremy Adam Smith, for reading many, many, many drafts of the adventures of Memphis, and never holding back. Michael, when you told me you sometimes worried about Memphis, it gave me the push to finally share her with the world. Siobhan Fallon has always believed in my writing, encouraged me to keep going even when I swore it was time to quit, and been brutally honest about what must go and what should stay. My editor Jenny Moore possesses a keen eye—thank you for a job well done. Thanks to Fena Lee for the beautiful cover, and to Andrea Price, you are an amazing photographer—you made me feel more than a little glamorous. Anne Milano Appel, thank you for always being there with writing resources, tips, and leads. My friends Melissa Stein and Lea Aschkenas and I have shared many lunches commiserating over the vagaries of publishing. To Heidi Ayarbe, who has been a writing pal from afar—what would we do without the Internet? The National Novel Writing Month (NaNoWriMo) challenge of 2004, gave me the first draft of this book. Asian American Women Artists Association (AAWAA) is a wonderful community—I’m so happy to be a part of it. To my mother, Lucy Yang, my appreciation and gratitude for spending so much time with the children, freeing me up to write, and more importantly, giving them the gift of a second language and culture! Ed Marshall encouraged me to consider the independent publishing path, and for that I’m grateful. Carol Marshall and Tom Price, bookworms of my heart, thank you for always being interested. Thanks for the inspiration from Paul Boler, Kathy Boler, Sarah Jenkins, Woody Hoebel, and Callie Hoebel. And last but never, ever least, to my dear children, Ludyvine and Renzo—if there are such things as spells, I am under yours.

  Prologue

  I’ve always known that rats live in the Muni Metro tunnels, but this morning, after I almost fall onto the tracks, I find out that fairies hang out there too.

  This should come as no surprise to a person like me, even though I banished magick from my life two years ago. In that time, I haven’t come across anything like fairies or talking sparrows. Not one rag doll has tried to jump into my shopping cart in ages. Yet, all at once, magick has come back to me.

  In the Castro Street station, waiting for an M, L, or K car to take me to work downtown, I stand on the edge of the platform with a trickling crowd of morning commuters. Teenagers heading to Union Square for midsummer shopping sprees mingle with hipsters and Asian elders. There are a couple of indigents, one slumped against the wall, the other pacing and muttering. They wear shabby clothes with dirty, threadbare cuffs. Their BO could be bottled for biological warfare.

  A high whining sound and blasting horn signals an inbound train. I move with the crowd, the wind from the tunnel gritty yet refreshing on my face. A shove at my back throws me off balance. It’s split-second fast, and I can’t tell if I’m being pushed to the tracks or pulled away, as my head is thrown back and the dim yellow ceiling lights lurch into view. At the same moment, a woman’s voice cries, “Watch out!”

  A disheveled man in a San Francisco Giants jersey has hold of my arm. I glance at him as the train pulls up in front of us and the doors open—his eyes obscured by sunglasses and the bill of his baseball cap, and his face covered in graying stubble. He’s the homeless guy who’s been sitting on the floor.

  “Thanks,” I mumble.

  “You okay?” A young woman dressed like an H&M salesclerk puts her hand on my shoulder, and the man’s tight grip on me loosens and slips away.

  “Yeah,” I say as the woman and I step through the doors together, carried forward by the impatient crowd that could give a hoot about my almost-accident. You’re alive, aren’t you? No biggie, their indifference says. The doors close. The man has not followed us. In fact, he seems to be distracted by something just behind the train. I let my shoulders relax, unaware until then that they’ve been tightly hunched. I look out the window. Our train hiccups once before starting its slow glide out of the station. He stands on the platform and, unexpectedly, I read the gray cloud of his disappointed aura—but in response to what, I can’t tell.

  With a smile of thanks to the young woman, I move away from the door farther into the car. I find standing space near a back window. As the train enters the subway tunnel, something on the tracks catches my eye. It’s a rat, looking a little dazed and sniffing a bit of discarded muffin. Isn’t it terrified by the rumbling train? I wonder why it doesn’t scurry away. Then I see the reason. A tiny fairy is riding it bucking-bronco style. A fairy who’s waving a shiny sword at me.

  In the few seconds before the train rounds the corner of the tunnel, I note that the fairy is only pretending to ride the rat. Its wings beat rapidly, much like a hummingbird’s. I’m not familiar with this variety of pix. The ones I’ve seen are slow flitterers mostly, butterfly-winged. I can’t determine the fairy’s gender, but guess it’s a dude. No self-respecting female fairy would take part in such tomfoolery. He waves the sword around his head as if holding an imaginary lasso.

  I allow myself to toy with the idea that perhaps I’m merely hallucinating. Perhaps there’s a speck of dust on my retina or this is just a childhood memory resurrected. But I know that’s wishful thinking.

  And I have to say I’m more than a tad concerned.

  PART ONE: THE FAIRY

  Chapter One

  Life goes on. I have to work. Pay the bills. Contribute
to society. At the Golden Gate Planet editorial meeting I try to concentrate.

  “So, what do you think? Sound fair, Memphis? Memphis? Yoo-hoo! You with us?”

  The urgency in Ned’s voice drags me back. I focus on his face, the raised branches of his eyebrows.

  “Sure! Sounds more than fair,” I say. I haven’t the foggiest idea what my editor is talking about. Clearly it’s time to act normal. But this is what’s been happening for the last few months. I space out in meetings and think about that morning on the Muni. It’s hard to forget that I nearly got pushed into (or was it pulled from?) death’s door. Oh yeah, and saw a rat-riding fairy.

  “Good. Okay, so Howie, what’s going on with that story on the museum break-in?”

  Howie, who has the news beat and favors sweater vests, shuffles his notes. “The curator at the Asian Art Museum was expecting a donation of antique Chinese foot-binding shoes, but they got shanghaied—” He interrupts himself to guffaw at his own joke. “Get it?”

  No one laughs. More than being offended, we can’t abide tired wit.

  Howie coughs, his cheeks turning pink. “I mean they were stolen en route from the donor’s home in Belvedere. I’m going to talk to the donor tomorrow.”

  “Who would want creepy old shoes?” Marisol asks.

  “They’re worth a lot,” Howie says. “They’re in museum-quality shape.”

  “It’s a big deal.” Ned thumps the table. “Let’s move on.”

  I lean over to Marisol. “You’ll tell me what Ned wants me to do, right? I won’t have to pay you or anything. You won’t get all smug on me?”

  “Why don’t you just read his mind?”

  “Don’t sass me. Please.”

  “You’re interviewing third-tier famous people. Same old same old.”

  “Who?”

  “Some band.” She shrugs. “They’re opening for Yeah Right.”

  “How come I don’t get to interview Yeah Right? Cheradon Badler is like my idol.”

  “Yeah. Right.” Marisol’s eyes pop and we snort and giggle like dorks. We don’t like tired wit, but we often let mock wit slide.

  The meeting is adjourned and Ned’s assistant hands me a press packet. It’s a fluorescent green folder with a DIY sticker askew on the cover that looks for all the world like the potato-stamp art kindergartners make. I think it’s supposed to be the silhouette of four people, but it looks more like a Rorschach test. I see a fungus-infested footprint.

  Tossing the folder on my desk, I sit down. We all share cubicles since we’re mostly part-timers here and often work from home. In the two years I’ve been doing this, my cubicle-mate—a proofreader—and I have never laid eyes on each other. Urselina’s rosary, framed portrait of Saint Mary and Her bleeding heart, and the little fake silk flowers kept in a painted pot are like territorial pee markers. I keep one postcard of a full moon over the Canadian Rockies, a place I’d like to visit someday. I sometimes wonder what Urselina thinks of all the want ads she has to proof—trannies, lesbos, queers, and leather-daddies looking for their perfect one-nighter—as well as the lefty leanings of our publisher.

  Her little snow globe with an angel trapped behind plastic reminds me again of the fairy. I’ve seen the fay in the city before, but only in parks. They like to live near animals, so I shouldn’t have been entirely surprised by the rat-rider, although the Metro seemed a grim milieu for the little guy. But it’s been a long time since one popped up. I guess I thought maybe they’d all left. Or that I had actually succeeded in my wish to be magick-free.

  I can’t remember the last time I seriously considered drawing down the moon or throwing together a charm ritual, or saw a squirrel wearing a bonnet. Or read someone’s aura by accident, and that used to happen all the time. I certainly don’t recall the last time I saw a fairy.

  I used to remember everything, because I put a photographic memory charm on myself when I was eleven so I could get straight As and be rewarded with the Arabian horse my parents (falsely) promised. But I haven’t done any maintenance on the charm and it wore off a couple of years ago. Like every other magickal skill of mine.

  I can’t give this an in-depth pondering right now. I have to meet Cooper soon. It’s Columbus Day (or, as we like to call it here in SF, Native American Appreciation Day) and he has the day off, so we’re going to indulge in a little afternoon rendezvous.

  My cell phone rings. The caller ID reads blocked call. I hit answer.

  “Hi lamb. It’s me.” Auntie Tess. My last link to magick. And family. “What are you doing?”

  “Just had a meeting and—”

  “Oh, you know,” she interrupts, per usual. Did I really expect to complete a sentence? I prop my elbows on my desk, eyes on the ceiling. She continues. “I think I’ve decided something. But I’m just not sure I should…Can you have lunch today?”

  “No can do. I have to—I’m busy.”

  “Oh.”

  I grit my teeth. All the hurt and disappointment in that Oh. I will ignore it.

  “I suppose I can make a decision on my own…”

  “Maybe I can swing by later,” I say.

  “Sure,” she says slowly. “After work. I’m doing a waning ritual tonight. You can help. I’m running low on candles.”

  “I just went to Target, so I’ve got some.”

  “Oh, that’s great. Thanks. Say eight?”

  I agree and we say good-bye.

  Auntie Tess, not actually my aunt, is a distant cousin of my father. They’re both second-generation Chinese Americans. To be perfectly accurate, my father is only half-Chinese—his mother is white. My own mother, a lovely Chinese American from central Pennsylvania, is the one who wrangled Tess into the whole pagan thing. Both came from solid missionary-produced Episcopalian backgrounds. But my mother lost interest in the occult the way she does in most things—bingo, Avon sales, the PTA. Auntie Tess, however, flourished in her newfound religion. And, being under her charge, I did too, but in a totally different way. And only up to a point.

  ****

  I write my copy—three short album reviews, one movie review, none memorable—and turn it in. I make some phone calls, including a chat with the third-tier band’s publicist to set up a meeting, and I’m off for the day.

  Outside, I look up into the trees, their leaves just starting to turn from green to yellow and brown. The limbs hold only birds—no fairy folk. Waiting for the Metro home, I check the tracks. I do that often these days. There’s nothing but garbage.

  I plant myself a safe distance from the edge of the platform and keep watch for any suspicious characters. I do that often these days too. As the train arrives, just to be safe I whisper an eyes-in-the-back-of-the-head charm, stumbling less than I thought I would over words I have not uttered in ages. It doesn’t literally give me eyes in the back of my head, just a heightened awareness of what’s going on behind me. It only lasts for an hour, but that’s all I need to get home. Still, I can’t help but turn around every now and then, ever on the lookout for a scruffy homeless dude.

  Chapter Two

  Contrary to what Sir J.M. Barrie professed, fairies were not created by the scattering of the first baby’s first laugh, although it’s a nice little bit of poetry. Fairies originated from the same quagmires of water, dirt, and simple-celled organisms that every other organic and inorganic being on this planet did. It’s biology and O-chem. I’ve read they’re closely related to bats.

  I think about this as I walk up the stairs of my building. Cooper is inside our apartment, drinking coffee and correcting quizzes. The man never seems to be without a red pencil in hand. I watch the way his fingers curl around it. The tanned muscles in his arm gently flex as he writes, an involuntary spasm. He’s wearing a sage green T-shirt and the gold rims of his glasses give him something of a leafy touch, as if he had been born in a forest, one of its creatures.

  He does a slight double take when he sees me—work absorbs him—and says as he puts down the pencil, “Is it that time already?�
��

  We kiss and I touch his clean-shaven chin, his sideburns going silver beneath the wheat of his hair. With my round face, dark hair, and short stature, I think we don’t look at all like a couple. I look like a charity case, a refugee with hazel eyes, thanks to my father’s European genes. But whenever Cooper and I stand side by side and I see us reflected in a mirror or shop window, I’m always surprised by how well we actually do work.

  I answer his question by nodding, feeling a bit like one of his high school students in his classroom for some after-school tutoring. Which, just a few years ago, I was.

  He stands up and places his glasses on the kitchen table with a sigh. I busy myself by hanging my fleece on its hook, hanging my keys on theirs. Everything put away, everything tidy. Then I remember we’re supposed to be going out. Where is my brain? I take my things back and sling my messenger bag over my shoulder. Let’s do it! I want to shout, and slap Cooper five. Go team! But I doubt he would find such juvenilia all that amusing. He gets it all day from the kids.

  “Did you do the picnic stuff?” I ask, and the corner of his mouth twitches. Neither of us cooks. We’re lazy and disinterested—we have that in common—so it’s take-out or cheap restaurants all the way. He takes my hand and kisses my palm.

  “We’re going to miss the sunset,” I say. “Mr. Funny Business.”

  “Now, now.” He kisses the inside of my wrist. He doesn’t let go as he leads me down the hallway towards the back of our flat.

  Once we are in our bedroom, he releases my wrist and faces me. There’s a smile fixed to his face as he unbuttons my cardigan, removes my blouse, unzips my pants. I tug at the sage green T-shirt while loosening his leather belt. He lets me struggle for a while, then takes it out of my hands, unbuckling it as his eyes stay put on mine.