The Flower Bowl Spell

by Olivia Boler

  Tucker nods again. “Read a little more.”

  The spell is, in fact, so named for the look that foot-binding was to render in a girl or woman’s foot after the bones in her feet had been broken over time by the binds and the foot placed in a shoe called a flower bowl, the look of a lotus. It is also known as the “Spell of Loss” and the “Sacrifice of Presence” because the common denominator of the elements is things that are missing.

  In the late 1800s, a walk-in known as Bapho, who thrived in the Caribbean islands, added a fifth element to the spell. Bapho is said to have risen to power at an early age, garnering many followers with black magick, particularly animal sacrifice. After his arrest by authorities in Cuba, the stories go that he executed a prison escape through transmutation, taking the form of a cockroach and slipping through cracks in the walls to freedom. His followers, however, had lost faith in their leader, for his arrest reportedly came about after he used the favorite schnauzer of a visiting cinema star, rumored to be Rita Hayworth, on a hunt for gold, and severed the dog’s head with a pickaxe (see: Masonites). The scandal was too much for the intellectuals and peasants who had been under Bapho’s thrall. In order to restore their faith, he invoked the Flower Bowl Spell, adding the newly aborted fetus from a Cuban society girl (he claimed that a more easily accessible prostitute’s abortion would be too “low and unclean” for his needs). The spell was a resounding success. Bapho regained his followers and his power, and went on to great and awful deeds and achievements throughout the islands and the Gulf region of the United States before walking out after 112 years in the earthly realm.

  I raise my eyebrows. “Jailbreak as a cockroach? That’s pretty brilliant.”

  Tucker shakes his head. “Indeed. But it’s not the point. The point is someone is trying to recreate this spell.” He picks up his notebook as something else in my memory clicks into place.

  “Wait a minute. The Planet did an article about a pair of foot-binding shoes that were stolen from the Asian Art Museum.”

  “Has the thief been caught?”

  I shake my head. “Last I knew they had no idea who it could be. Do you think whoever it is killed this fairy? And Gladys? And stole the elephant tusk?”

  “Maybe.”

  “Could it be this walk-in? This Bapho dude?” Walk-ins are witches who appear out of nowhere with no history or lineage, not even a childhood or parents or foster home. I’ve only heard of walk-ins in a general way. Bapho is the first one I’ve heard named.

  “Anything is possible,” Tucker says. “Perhaps he has decided it’s time to return. We could try to find out.” He looks at the mutilated body of the fairy, his fingers rubbing together.

  I’ve already had to read one dead body today, I tell myself. What’s another?

  I look in Tucker’s magickal cabinet for supplies, wondering what adjustments will be needed. “How do we do this, Tucker?”

  He doesn’t answer, so I turn to ask him again, and see that he has his hands on the fairy and his eyes are closed. It’s really only the tips of his fingers pressed softly all along the little body. Tucker’s lips move in silent incantations, and I watch as translucent Luna moth wings form above the body, about a foot across and nine or ten inches high. They flap once, bodiless, and go still. Superimposed over the wings is the image of a man standing next to a rectangular swimming pool. He’s shrouded in night’s darkness as well as a black ski mask, but as he steps under a light, a reflection flashes off his face, illuminating his black eyes.

  He places a poppet on the ground and presses a rock into its chest. After tying a cord around it to keep the rock in place, he suddenly stands up and hurries out of sight. Bill the bellhop wanders into view, smoking a doobie. He doesn’t notice the poppet.

  “I know him. That’s the LeRoy Hotel,” I say. “In Santa Barbara.”

  “Where you stayed.” Tucker doesn’t look at me, his fingers still on the body.

  “Yeah.” I’m distracted by the fact that the doll has short, dark hair.

  After a couple of hits, Bill saves his butt and meanders back to the building. A fairy swoops into view. I recognize it as my fairy with hummingbird wings.

  The fairy pulls the cord off the doll and kicks the rock away. He then drags the doll into the bushes next to a building. He looks into our eyes and says something I can’t hear before flying up and away.

  The scene changes to a car driving quickly down residential streets. We’re following the car, but the back of the driver’s head is clearly our mystery man’s. The ski mask is pulled back like a cap, but we’re behind him and can’t see his face.

  It suddenly hits me: we’re seeing through the dead fairy’s eyes. We’re flying.

  The car pulls up in front of a house. It’s Bright Vixen’s home. The man gets out and walks up the front walk holding a flashlight, illuminating the darkness. He circles around the back, opening the unlocked side gate. Instead of following him, we swoop down through a drain hole and into a blackness I can actually smell. It’s damp, like wet earth, copper, and concrete. An occasional flash of light confirms, now and then, that the space we’re traveling through is narrow and wet.

  Before long, we emerge into an imperfect whiteness—a porcelain kitchen sink blued by night. We fly through the hall to the bedroom where Gladys sleeps, and we see her lying there, her breathing regular and steady. We go to her—we are so close, we can almost touch her. We look out the window and see the man next to her kidney-shaped pool. He tosses something in.

  We fly through the house, back through the sink and the pipes and out. We are zooming to the thing in the pool, another poppet. We are almost there—

  And then.

  And then we stop and for a moment everything is dark. When we regain our vision, all we see are those black eyes looking into ours. They stare at us and narrow, the corners crinkling in a smile.

  Then there’s nothing. Even the Luna moth wings are gone.

  I look at Tucker. He looks at me. His face has gone pale again and his eyes are wet and bright.

  “Did you notice?” he asks.

  “What?”

  “The first poppet.”

  I already know what he’s talking about, but I play dumb. “What about it?”

  “It looked like you, don’t you think?”

  Maybe. I don’t say anything. But I know now my dream about being paralyzed under an avalanche was not a premonition about Bright Vixen. I really was paralyzed.

  “Does someone have a grudge against you, perhaps?”

  I think of Tyson and his accusations about Alice. But this poppet magick—it’s too advanced for him. Maybe this is about the girls. Maybe someone wants them and I’m in the way.

  “That rock,” Tucker continues.

  “I know,” I say, but he names it anyway.

  “The Pressing Hex. Used during the voodoo witch trials in Barbados to send victims into a state of paralysis.”

  A voice that is strangely familiar and kind suddenly asks, from somewhere in the room, “Are you a good witch or a bad witch?” No one answers, and it asks again. It’s Glinda from The Wizard of Oz, I realize, and it’s the ringer for Tucker’s magick cell phone.

  Chapter Twenty

  When I wake up in Tucker’s plush guest room the next morning, I’m certain that I’ve just made a great mistake. Maybe two. First of all, and less important, I might lose my Golden Gate Planet job. I walked out on a story last night! Even though I already have plenty of material to keep readers happy, I’m not going to have that on-tour-with-the-band angle because, well, I left the tour. Perhaps I need to seriously contemplate a full-time dog-walking career. Justine, my boss, has confided that she pulls in six figures a year, employing two others and me. Nothing wrong with that.

  The direr mistake is one I’m still mulling over: No matter what Viveka bade me about not contacting her grandmother, I probably should have called Gru by now. She would know what to do about the girls and the dead fairy and the Flower Bowl Spell and jinxed Tyso
n Belmonte, and perhaps even how to save my Planet job.

  At the same time, part of me knows I need to respect what Viveka wants. It’s the same part that can’t find her.

  I roll over and look at the bedside table. Tucker’s leather-bound notebook is just where I left it, an old Walgreens receipt doing bookmark duty. Tucker gave it to me to look over last night. Every last page is crammed with his notes. There are spells of his own authoring for determining if the Flower Bowl has been performed, as well as ideas for counterspells and diagrams of amulets and charms.

  I go down to the kitchen, lured by the smell of coffee and frying foods. Things are happening on the stove—bacon in a skillet, a full teakettle—and there’s something eggy in the oven. The toaster pops out four slices of perfectly browned toast. No one is minding any of this. Where is Tucker?

  In the study.

  “Where?” I demand of his damn voice in my damn head.

  Upstairs. Door’s open.

  I head back up, past the girls’ closed door, my room, and the bathroom. There are three other doors; one, slightly ajar, lets out a slant of morning light on the carpet. I push through and the first thing I notice is a small but elegant altar in one corner of the room. Front and center is a photograph of an older woman, and it takes me a moment to recognize her. Sadie LeBrun Murray. There are fresh flowers, votive candles, and a small Day of the Dead diorama.

  Even though their handfasting didn’t work out, he’s honoring her. I feel like a royal buffoon. I should have given him my condolences yesterday, when we talked about her. I think back to what Jesus Christ said about her suicide. Perhaps Tucker has some insights on it. From the photo, Sadie smiles out at us with a mild, knowing look. There is such tenderness in the altar that I decide it’s not the right moment. It would be tacky to bring it up just now.

  Tucker sits in an oversized leather chair, his feet propped up on an ottoman, a Hudson Bay blanket folded across his legs. There’s a football game being played on a large television set, the volume a low hum.

  “San Diego Chargers,” he says. “I have a little bet riding on this game, and I didn’t get to watch it last night.”

  Today is Monday. Sunday night football.

  “You’re a gambler,” I say.

  “A gentleman wagerer.” He glances toward his shoulder, and I notice for the first time that a fairy is sitting on the back of Tucker’s chair. He’s using both hands to wave a Seattle Seahawks pennant that is much too large for him.

  The cathedral ceiling and windows of the room give Tucker himself a diminutive appearance, especially in his nightcap and robe. Three walls are covered in full-to-the-brim bookcases, except for one section between two windows that appears to be a glassed-in aviary running floor to ceiling. Inside are a small living tree and moss-covered rocks. Fairies flit about and perch on the tree branches in pairs or groups, some on their own. There are hollows in the tree trunk, and the interior glows with dancing lights, like small fires.

  Tucker sees me studying it. “What do you think of my fey little condo complex?”

  “You capture fairies?”

  “Oh, goodness, no. They can come and go as they please. You see?” He points to the top of the enclosure. “There’s a hatch there. This is a safe haven, if you will. They can stay as long as they wish, forever if they want.”

  There are fairies of all shapes and colors. Among the rocks at the bottom is a pool of water. Fairies swim, some with fishtails, like the one in the aquarium back in San Francisco.

  “Do people see them? What do you tell them?”

  “You know as well as I do the ungifted can’t see fairies. They think it’s an empty birdcage. Nothing more.”

  I turn back to the enclosure where two fairies catch my eye. One is brushing the other’s hair. The recipient of these attentions looks drowsy with pleasure, a relaxed smile on her lips. Another walks by with half an acorn full of steaming liquid. He says something to the others and takes a sip. They all laugh and he moves on. The fairies pay no attention to me. Several are dressed in white or black, and they move like shadows punctuated by the colorful brilliance of their wings. A large group is wearing drab greens and browns, and some are carrying spears and satchels. They clasp hands before spiraling upward in flight to the hatch, where they disappear.

  “That’s a contingent out for Beulah,” Tucker says. “I found out that’s the name of the one the cat regurgitated.”

  “They’re getting revenge.” I envision more dead fairies sheared of their wings.

  “Not necessarily. Just investigating.” Tucker is holding a small chalkboard in his lap. He shows it to me, but the writing is illegible. I think I recognize a few words—Ivy, Dex, Hecate. “I’m making a list of all the wayward witches I know who are still alive. Trying to figure out who could be putting together the Flower Bowl Spell.”

  Just at that moment, my stomach lets out a low growl.

  Tucker laughs. “Hungry?”

  “Apparently. By the way, you left a lot of cooking downstairs.”

  “Not to worry. It’ll cook itself.”

  He doesn’t make any move to leave, so I sit down in a chair near a small desk. What was it like for Sadie to be married to Tucker? Sadie LeBrun, the heiress apparent to Gru LeBrun’s coven, with Tucker Murray, an independently wealthy pagan with a lineage dating back to the ancient druids of Gaul. Who am I in comparison? A nouveau witch, a genetic anomaly.

  “You could say I fall into the wayward witch club,” I say.

  Tucker tosses his chalk into a cup. “No. Erstwhile, but not even that now. Am I right?”

  I shrug. “Can I help it if I see fairies?”

  My cell phone, which I wear on my hip like a holstered gun, shimmies and sings. It’s Ned, but I take the call anyway. If I’m about to be fired, I’m at peace with it. As I say hello, I visualize long walks on Crissy Field beach with my dog pack.

  “Celebrities, what assholes,” he says as a greeting.

  “In what way?”

  “What do you mean? You’re the one who got dicked around.”

  I wonder, for a microsecond, if Ned knows what happened with Tyson on the highway. But aren’t I the one who dicked Ty around? Sort of?

  “Exhaustion, my tuchus,” Ned continues. I can definitely make out the sarcasm. “More like rehab. Or maybe they finally eloped. Who knows when she’ll get her spoiled little ass back on the road? In any case, doll, I’m really sorry this didn’t work out. You think you got enough for a nice feature though? I know it’s not a book, but you’ll still get paid for your time.”

  My mind’s cylinders click into place. A celebrity cover-up! I need to play along, or Ned will know I’ve been a naughty reporter. Concentrating on his annoyed voice, visualizing his sweaty brow, smelling his stale cigarettes-and-coffee breath, I travel into Ned’s immediate sphere until I’m at the Planet office, reading his emails and learning what was said in recent phone calls. And I know, at least with regard to my job, that I’m off the hook.

  “Come home, babe. Come home and give Neddy the story. By tomorrow after lunch. Okay?” He hangs up.

  I put my phone away. I’ve just identified a third mistake: going on this damn trip in the first place. “In-crud-ible,” I mutter.

  “Good news?”

  “Sort of. The story I’m working on—why we’re down here. Well, I kind of abandoned it yesterday to come to you instead.”

  “How flattering! Or is that a bad thing?”

  “No, it’s all right. See, I was supposed to be in San Diego covering this rock concert, but I didn’t and it turns out the lead singer checked out anyway. She didn’t show up for the concert. Her PR reps are saying she collapsed from exhaustion and went home to recupe, but it’s undoubtedly a lie. Plus, she’s secretly engaged to the lead singer of another band, but he’s MIA too. So my boss thinks I didn’t work on the story because the story went poof.”

  “A lucky break for you.”

  I shake my head and look at the fairies. “I don�
�t think so. The singer.” I hesitate. “She’s under a glamour.”

  Tucker raises his eyebrows. “Those chasing fame have been known to dabble in the occult.”

  “And her fiancé is that guy I told you about, Ty. He’s under something too. He was with me on our way here, and he went nuts. He tried to get me to ditch the girls.”

  This tidbit gets Tucker’s attention. “What are the names of these people, might I ask?”

  “Tyson Belmonte and Cheradon Badler.” Just saying their names makes my breath catch a little.

  Tucker throws up his hands and stands up, startling the Seahawks fairy, who drops his pennant and flies a circle around the perimeter of the room, staying near the ceiling away from us crazy humans. “I should have known,” Tucker murmurs.

  “You know Tyson?”

  “No. That name is not familiar, but Cheradon, yes. Or I should say, Cheryl LeBrun. And her father Isaac should be on my list.” In his haste to grab his chalkboard, Tucker knocks over the cup of chalk. “Of course he could be dead, but I give him the benefit of the doubt. He was always a wily one. Am I right or am I right?” Tucker asks no one in particular as he scrawls the name onto his board.

  “Who is Isaac? Who is Cheryl LeBrun?” Something stops me. “Wait. Gru’s last name is LeBrun!”

  I don’t realize I’ve raised my voice until the silence right after is filled with the beating of wings. All the fairies are pressed against the glass of their haven, watching Tucker and me.

  With my mind, I search for Tyson. He’s on his tour bus. It’s going north, heading our way. They are coming. The phrase rings out in my thoughts, as it did when I looked down at the McLaren Park playground.

  “Oh, shit.” I start for the door. “We have to go.”

  “What’s the alarm?”

  I stop and turn back to Tucker. “Tyson, he’s under a hex or something, and I think…I don’t know, maybe he’s involved somehow in the Flower Bowl Spell, or maybe Cheradon is—is that crazy? But I think he’s coming here.” I look at the fairies, who continue to study me. “What if he wants the girls?”