“You are what you choose to be,” Ciara said, a predatory gleam in her dark eye. “You must let go of the negative, release the pain you carry like a stone. Unless that is all you are, all you want to be. There is magic in the world, Trey.” She gestured to the bowl. “You don’t have to believe in it. It’s there, anyway.”
“What is this?” He put his hands around the bowl, feeling the heat emanating through the thin stone.
“A magic potion,” she answered. Even within reach of the fire, her face fell into shadow. The crow flew from somewhere to land on the high back of her chair, its dark eyes staring at Trey. “Or a simple cup of tea. It all depends on you.”
He looked into the bowl, floating bits of green on the surface of the hot water that still wafted steam into the air. “I don’t understand why you would help me. You know I have no money, nothing to pay you with.”
“Perhaps it is my need, to help you.”
The crow shifted, rattling its feathers, and the fire popped. Trey listened to the tangled words that scrambled his mind; Mother’s distaste and Father’s disinterest, the judge’s inflexible orders, the terrible guilt for things he had done and things he had not, and the soft words I’ve missed you from Emilia. Beneath it all, his own mantra clean now went around and around without end. Nousha tinkled her laugh at him while her skin glittered, shifting through iridescent ripples of hypnotic color, and his desire for Bliss that never seemed to lessen tracked through his brain like the tickling feet of millions of insects.
“What I need,” he finally whispered, unable to hear his own words over the clamor in his head, “is to be with the only person I ever loved, who ever really loved me.”
“And who is that?” Ciara asked, although Trey was sure she already knew.
“Emilia.”
“Then I can help you,” she said, leaning forward to cup his face in her cool hands. He stared into her blank white eye, breathing the scent of clean wood smoke and nutmeg. Her lips were sweet against his, and for a brief moment all the noise in his mind fell silent. “Drink the potion,” Ciara whispered, and he felt the hot bowl against his mouth.
The taste was bitter, like his many regrets.
Salah and Jacob walked along the crowded sidewalk. Salah was scanning the buildings and store-fronts, looking for the correct block number. Jacob watched the people, the tattooed designs on his slab face looking like some kind of ancient writing in the kaleidoscope lights.
A painted girl with bright pink hair winked at Jacob, licked her lips suggestively at Salah. “Looking for anything special?” she asked. Her skin twinkled with a recent hit of Prizm.
“Number 138,” Salah said, jaw clenched tightly.
“You know Trey?” Jacob asked, more laid back and friendly than his companion.
“Red hair, sad eyes?” she asked.
“He missed two shifts,” Jacob started, but Salah cut him off.
“He’s in violation of his sentencing,” the taller man said coldly. “If he doesn’t want to be processed for a prison gang, he’d better have a good excuse.”
The painted girl looked across the street, to the shop with the crow and eyeball sign above the door. “He’s gone,” she said. “Found him lying on the sidewalk in front of that building,” and she pointed. “Two days ago, in the morning.”
“What happened?” Jacob asked sadly. He’d liked the young man who fought so hard to stay clean.
Nousha shrugged, wearing a wistful smile. “You should go over to the Morrigan’s. She would know. She could maybe give you what you need.” The painted girl reached for another iridescent tablet, and nodded just once to the shadow behind the sheer black curtains.
***
NOT THIS TIME
by Mike Lester
I decided to take a walk.
Melanie would have liked that.
The day was lovely, breezy, bright under a blue sky, bluer than I ever thought possible. Not at all the kind of day I expected it to be. The grass was dry and golden and waist high. Soon it would be taller. Tall enough to hide in. Tall enough to get lost in. Almost. I ran my fingers through the grass, blade tips tickling my palms like blinking eyelashes.
I looked back to the house, back the way I had come, my path a darker shade running through the field. I picked up the bucket and kept on. The bucket was heavy. The wire handle dug into my fingers and I had to keep switching my grip from hand to hand, careful not to spill.
They were all still inside, eating and drinking and telling stories about Melanie, no doubt. As if they knew her.
Up ahead, I could see the lane and the tall trees that lined it, tall and straight, two green, even rows falling all the way back to the highway. I remembered foggy mornings. Walking along the path. The tops of trees shrouded, swaying. Melanie and I would always run ahead of the others, trying to get lost, thinking the fog would take us away, away from the paths and the field and the world. But then Uncle Brad’s voice or footsteps or some other human noise would reach through and bring us back.
I had seen the look in her eyes and recognized it.
Not this time. Soon.
That was a long time ago.
I stepped out of the dry grass and onto the lane. Looked up to the tops of the trees, half-expecting them to be blotted out like before. But no, not today. Today they were golden and green and bright yellow, leaves flickering like shiny coins. I set the bucket down in the gravel and looked back home again. Chimney. The roof, smaller now, far off on the other side of the field. Solitary. A dollhouse.
Mother wouldn’t let me take my tie off, not even after the service. Not even up on top of the hill with the sun beating down on us all. It was hot and still and I couldn’t look when she was lowered. Not because I was sad though. I could hardly keep from smiling. At one point I thought maybe Uncle Brad had noticed, and so I started to feel bad and did my best not to smile.
Now everything is different. Now I could smile if I wanted to and I even whistled a bit. Just a bit.
This is our place. Our secret.
I loosened the knot around my neck, ran a couple of fingers along my collar, and unbuttoned it. Better. I could breathe. Pulled my tie off, whip-like, and tossed it into the air. The wind caught it, carried it up, away, then higher still, a snake among the leaves.
Let the earth have it, I thought and smiled. Melanie would have liked that, too, and so I kept smiling, sensing her approval.
I almost smiled in church. In fact, I almost laughed. I bit my lip to keep from making a sound, and when the service was over and we all walked up the aisle to have a last look I think I really did smile. And I’m sure she was smiling too. I could feel her there, nearby, trying to get in. I don’t think anyone else noticed. And so I smiled, the taste of blood in my mouth.
Later, we each dropped handfuls of dirt into the hole, and this was just fine because I knew she would want that.
“Don’t be afraid, Jack.” Uncle Earl gave me a nudge and walked me to the edge. “It’s just a part of saying goodbye.”
So I reached down and took a small handful of dirt, pebbles and grit running through my fingers, and dropped it in.
Earth covers earth, she used to say before we went in the woods. These were the best times of all. Melanie made up a code one day when we were out in the field. We were chasing crickets and she said wouldn’t it be fun if we could chirp and sing the way they do, if we had our own private language. So she made up the Words, and they were good words, and nobody knew what we were really talking about, even when we were sitting around the dinner table. She also found the nice colored rocks, pebbles really, and we made a place to keep them at the end of the lane, back by the house. The white one meant stay, and the black one meant come. But the reddish one was the best. My favorite. The reddish one was secret. Sacred secret. Every secret. So secret I can’t even think about it now. Sometimes we would take the same path and be home before dinner and nobody would say anything. Other times we would find a new path, a different one, and then it wa
s always a long time before we would get back. One time we went on a few new ones all in a single day. My legs were tired, my feet were tired, my everything was tired, and when we got back Uncle Brad took Melanie in the study and shut the doors. They were in there for a long time. Maybe even half an hour. I tried listening at the door but could hear only faint murmuring, voices rising and falling. It must not have been too bad though, because when Uncle Brad opened the doors again Melanie walked out first and I could see she wasn’t crying or anything. And then, when she walked past me she winked, so I knew everything was okay. And Uncle Brad, he just stood in the doorway and didn’t even notice at all. He never said anything to me about it.
I turned back around, picked up the bucket, and walked backward a few steps. Looked through the trees, caught a glimpse of hillside, dry grass, and just for a moment, a second or maybe only half that, I could see the whole house before it vanished behind the leaves again.
I was glad to be out of the house. Away from all the false smiles and phony sympathy, the endless comfort of “she’s in a better place now.”
Away.
I had to sneak out the back door, which was dangerous because it was right next to the kitchen and Aunt Becky was in there getting all the food ready, slicing a ham and filling glasses with ice. The back door opened easily enough. It was the porch screen that creaked. I opened it fast, howling hinges concealed by laughter. Uncle Earl. It was odd to hear him laughing now, when just the other day he was standing at the fireplace saying things like “How could such a beautiful young thing do something like that to herself,” shaking his head and staring into the fire. He hadn’t loved Melanie. I don’t think any of them ever did. Not really. Not the way I do.
She used to take me up to her room and we’d sit and talk for hours and listen to records and shut ourselves away from the rest downstairs.
“They don’t like me, Jacky,” she’d said. “They think I should find friends my own age. They think I’m a bad influence on you. What do you think?”
I shook my head.
She held her hands out and wiggled them, as if she were casting a spell on me. And we laughed.
I remember her telling me not to worry, that I was her favorite cousin and nobody could stop us from seeing each other and playing and taking walks together. No one could keep us from that. No one could keep us from our secret. No one could ever do that. And when she said this, I knew it was true.
But nobody ever said anything to me about Melanie. No warning. No punishment. Nothing. I did catch the others exchanging glances one night at dinner, but that could have been about anything, so I didn’t worry about it. Melanie noticed the glances too, and when she did she gave me a hard little kick under the table and a smile, all white teeth and deep green eyes.
Things didn’t get to be too bad until Uncle Brad found her herbs and the Words and her old black books and burned them all. Everything. Then she cried for days and nobody could get her to eat or come out of her room, not even me. I sat on the floor in front of her door and tried to peek under, but I could only see shadows. When she finally came out she was as calm as ever, though, and went on like nothing had happened.
Faced forward and kept on, my steps crunching along in the gravel, bucket sloshing. My thoughts focused on her eyes, the way they shined, like there was a light inside. Burning. Anima, she called it. Anima. I shifted the bucket again, from one hand to the other.
Thinking of this made me feel good. Almost as good as thinking about the secret. Nothing would ever be greater than the secret. Nothing could ever come close. For the secret to remain great and alive it must remain a secret. Secrets told become common and lost, she’d said. The magic dies, and with it, Anima.
Sometimes at night I would lie in bed and think of the secret and the path and the rocks, but then I would have to start counting or try to read a book because it is not good to think too much about it.
A nice breeze ran through the branches and I came back, listened to the leaves, listened for a sign. Nothing. Not yet.
Soon.
Up ahead, the lane stretched on, disappearing in pinpoint distance. Branches curved out and over the path from both sides, a canopy of green filtered sunlight. I passed the black spot, charred dirt at the edge of the path. It was shaped like a comma or a kidney, something natural. Uncle Brad had tried to rake over the patch with shovels and a hoe, tried to erase the blackness and turn the scorched earth, but the spot was still there, would always be there. I could smell it. Fresh. Sharp. As if he hadn’t even tried.
I stopped. Stopped and stood still.
I could feel it.
Another breeze came along and I listened. Branches.
I tuned out. Stopped thinking. Just listened. Concentrated on nothing. Void. All things slipped away. I set the bucket down between my feet, careful as always, and reached into my pocket, fishing around for the rock. Found it and held it up. Held it tight. I shut my eyes and said the Words we had practiced, said them over and over, shouting silently in my head until I thought it would burst, then out loud, louder still, for all the world to hear. I shouted the Words until I couldn’t breathe anymore and had to stop, panting, bent over, hands on my knees.
A minute passed. Maybe two.
For a moment I was afraid that nothing would happen, that it hadn’t worked, couldn’t work, would never work, and that she’d been wrong all along.
Then, the veil lifted, just as suddenly as she said it would. Sound fell back in.
A whisper in my ear. I heard the secret.
I opened my eyes. The day was brighter under the green. Everything seemed to pulse with new life. I looked back into the distance, to the far end of the lane. A faint trail of chimney smoke slithered up into blue nothingness.
Nothing for me back there.
I let my eyes blur to truly see. Slowly, solidly, she came into focus. I smiled, natural and real, and began to walk toward her. Each step brought me closer, yet farther away. Her eyes filled my sight, bigger than the horizon, clouding everything. She was smiling too.
My steps quickened, stumbled in the gravel. I was running.
Then she was gone.
I turned and ran back to the black spot, the burnt soil. Our place. I thought of falling with her, falling into her arms and how we would laugh at the others back at the house. We would laugh at the sky and the world and everything in it. We would laugh, her hands running across my back like wind over the wheat. Warmth spread through me and I began to laugh. I lifted the bucket, held it over my head, emptied it, burning, stinging liquid running into my ears, my eyes, my mouth. The fumes made me gasp, my laughter turned to choking. I laughed, knowing which path to take and which to leave behind and that I would be with her soon. My vision went red. Hot tongues whipped and lapped and kissed me all over, spreading, blossoming with a new kind of life. My laughter turned to screams. I screamed the Words in silent joy and I knew. I knew.
She would be with me always.
On the path.
***
INTO THE LIGHT
by Solomon Archer
Elliot thought back to when it all started, before the gatherings became ceremonies. Before the rituals demanded sacrifices. Before his gift became a nightmare. Before his life became Mother’s.
Back then, he thought, as if the world before the coven had been simpler. Sundown meant heading home to set the table for dinner, pedaling his Schwinn as fast as he could. Back then, he responded “treasure hunting pirate astronaut” to any adult who inquired what he wanted to be when he grew up. He wasn’t a sullen eighteen-year-old who lived with his single mother on a dead farm, in a state where the only excitement came in the form of questionably regulated rides at the county fair or an occasional late summer hailstorm. Back then, he had a family and a life. He had a father and friends and all of suburban Newton Highlands as his playground.
But most importantly, he didn’t stay up until dawn, sweat-soaked and panicky with his heart in his throat, listening for the sounds o
f creatures stirring in the fields outside his window. Or hold his breath when they stopped.
Then, sixteen months ago, he met Deacon.
It had been a Saturday in mid-April, and rather than spend the day turning his dead grandparents’ former dream home into his own Midwest nightmare, unpacking the moving boxes that doubled as cardboard furniture, Elliot opted to explore the deserted back roads of Delphos, far from the disappointed stare of his mother. He rarely needed to use more than three or four gears on his bike in the flat expanse of Ottawa County, but that was more than enough to generate a welcome rush of spring wind through his hair. He had just passed the county line ten miles from his house, enjoying the solitude and peace, when he struck the pothole.
The front tire dropped into the depression, pitching him over the handlebars. He stiffened reflexively as the ground rushed up to meet him, and hit the road with both hands. The road tore into his shoulder, elbow, back, and legs. He writhed in pain, moaning and cursing at dozens of scrapes and tears that had suddenly erupted all over his body.
He sat up slowly, turning his left hand over in his lap and wincing at what was undoubtedly a sprained wrist. The asphalt had shredded the meat of his palms and the pebbles, dirt, and debris burrowed into his skin. A midline scar on his right hand, the result of a playground accident when he was ten, was lost in a map of angry red cuts.
He pulled the cell phone from his back pocket. The screen was cracked, and dark. His bike lay on its side like mechanical road kill, the disengaged chain dangling from the crankshaft like a metal intestine.
Favoring his left leg, Elliot got to his feet, picked up his bike and walked it back in the direction of town. The front tire wobbled on its warped rim and Elliot had to coax it along like a wounded pack animal. It was over half an hour before he spied a vehicle on the watery horizon. It crossed the center line and slowed to a crawl. The muffler offered a low chuckle and shook impatiently as if it were attached to a sleek classic muscle car rather than a dark brown mid-70s Lincoln Continental. Though the do-it-yourself window tinting was pale and bubbled, Elliot couldn’t make out the driver.
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