Hill Magick
Page 22
“Talk? What do you mean, talk?”
“Did you ask him why he built that fence on your land?”
“Why do I have to talk to him? He knows he did wrong.”
“He might have thought that part was his. You have to let him know what he did. If he doesn’t listen, then you can get mad.”
“He stole my land!”
True snorted. “A tiny scrap not fit to grow potatoes on.”
“But it’s my scrap, not his! You have to fix this, put a spell on him or whatever it is that you do.”
From the refrigerator, True took out a plastic sandwich bag. Inside the bag was a sphere of dried biscuit dough kneaded with dried chamomile flowers and celery seed.
The man stared doubtfully at the ball of dough. “This will make him take his fence off my property?”
“It’ll help you calm down so you can listen to what he says.”
“I want him to listen to me!”
“He will, and you’ll listen too. Put it in your pocket when you go calling on him.”
The man hefted the ball. “This had better work.”
“If it doesn’t I’ll eat it with gravy,” True declared, and the man slapped a twenty dollar bill on the table.
“You’re on!”
“That’s ten, sir, not twenty.”
“If this works it’s worth twenty to me. I can’t wait to see his face when he realizes he’s dead wrong.”
You might realize the same about yourself, True could have said, but wisely held his tongue.
“Thank you, and Merry Christmas,” the man said as he left.
The scar on True’s neck itched, and he rubbed it gently with a forefinger. The powerful antibiotics that had cured him hadn’t been able to prevent some scarring, but he reckoned it was a small price to pay for being alive. He still tired easily, but at his checkup this morning the doctor had assured him that his strength would return in time.
The man’s farewell had taken him by surprise. So much had happened lately that he hadn’t taken stock of the passing days. There was too much to think about. And then there was Rachel, his own true love. A bubble of happiness swelled in True’s heart. He closed his eyes and let the bubble pass through his body, lighting him from within.
Something invisible stirred at his side. “Merry Christmas to you, great grandfather,” he whispered, and felt the air around him smile.
* * * *
Rachel closed the cover of her laptop with a crisp snap. This week’s column for the Yarwich Regular Chronicle, complete with photo attachment, was submitted.
A tiny sparkle of light caught her attention, and she looked over at the pot of parsley on the windowsill. From the sliver of root True had handed her that day in the garden, a healthy crown of curled leaves had sprouted and grown lush and green. A symbol of second chances and new beginnings, she thought as she searched for the source of the flash. Floating among the leaves like a renegade soap bubble was a minuscule pearl-white sphere. Upon seeing her the sphere nestled further into the parsley as if not wanting to be seen, and she rearranged a couple of leaves over it to make it feel more comfortable. My very own supernatural orb, my only souvenir of Yarwich.
The peace and quiet trickled over her like molasses as she watched the snow fall. Outside, the beautiful fluffy flakes piled up on the windowsill, bounced off the panes, and eddied in a random current of air that sprang up from somewhere, and she felt a great sense of contentment steal over her. She had never dared to hope or imagine that her life could be so happy, so complete. Every piece of the puzzle of her life had fallen into place, and it had happened not through her own efforts, but through sheer accident. Or it could have been fate, or maybe just good luck. It could even have been, if such a thing existed, some universal force for Good.
The snow descended silently through the trees, sifting down upon the oaks and the pines and the maples and the rowan tree, covering the grass with white frosting, blanketing True’s truck and the rusty van parked next to it.
Do I believe in luck, or God, or Fate? she mused. I’m not sure, but I do believe in love.
“Merry Christmas, Rachel.” True was standing in the doorway, and she rose to greet him.
“Oh, I forgot! It’s Christmas Eve.”
He put his arm around her and they watched the snow together.
“You did something to the trees by the drive,” he said, and she smiled.
“Did I?”
“When I was in the hospital. They don’t feel the same.”
“A glass of wine and a pleasing song can do wonders,” she answered, feeling smug. “What did the doctor say this morning?”
“I’m supposed to rest, eat, and let you wait upon my every need.”
“I’ll bet she said that!” The last thing Rachel wanted to think of was Joshua, but she couldn’t help asking her next question. “Did you go to the place?”
“I went there right after the doctor’s. I wrecked his magick circle, buried the witch woman’s bones in the woods, and let loose a poor old man’s soul locked in a drawer. I left the doors and windows open,” he added. “Everything inside that house will rot or fall down.”
“The familiar?”
“It ran, but I caught it.”
“What are we going to do with the bottle?”
“Where did you put him?”
“On the mantle. I didn’t know what else to do.”
True went into the living room and retrieved the bottle. Rummaging in one of the overfilled kitchen drawers, he pulled out a long white bone. There were scratches on the side like runes.
“It’s a cow’s leg bone,” he told her, “In case you’re wondering. I’m going to seal up Joshua’s soul forever.”
“The bottle was only temporary? Why didn’t you tell me? I was alone with it for a whole week!”
“It would’ve just scared you. Now I can make him a permanent home.” He reached into the same drawer he had taken the leg bone from and fished out a black tobacco tin. The tin contained a moist lump of red clay. He pinched off a bit of the clay and scraped it inside the cow bone, sealing off one end.
“That looks like the clay Joshua’s familiar was made of.”
“I never thought.” He hefted the lump. “I guess it is.”
“True, why did you put Joshua in that bottle? There’s nothing in your books. What’s so special about vanilla?”
“You looked in those books to find the magick power of vanilla? It was a handy place to put him, is all. Every kitchen’s got a bottle of vanilla.”
A kiss smothered his laughter and soothed her embarrassment, and he proceeded with his plan.
“Here, hold this for me.”
Reluctantly Rachel took the bone between her thumb and forefinger.
“He can’t hurt you like this,” he reassured her, unscrewing the cap of the bottle. He brought the mouth of the bottle to the open end of the bone and tapped the bottom of the bottle. Something light rattled out of the glass and down the length of the bone. Immediately he took the bone out of her hand and smeared a chunk of clay onto the other end. “That’s it! He’s done.”
Very much relieved, Rachel dropped the vanilla bottle into the trash can, and he opened the kitchen door and set the bone outside.
“When the snow stops I’ll bury him in the woods,” he told her over his shoulder. “Someplace he’ll never be found.”
“I wonder how many people Joshua hurt that we don’t know about.”
“Don’t think on it. It’s over.” He closed the door and wiped his hands on his jeans. “Rachel, I have to say it. I had to stop Joshua any way I could, and that means that I had to do something bad to do good. Sometimes it’s the only way.”
“You saved our lives,” she admitted. “Maybe it was the only way, this
time, only because there was no other choice, and I still don’t think it’s right-not every time-not most of the time, anyway, or almost never.”
“Sometimes people don’t know any better,” he added, thinking of Billy Pulver. “You were partly right, but I was right too.”
“That makes one whole right, doesn’t it?”
“Remember that time I told you, you didn’t know anything?”
More like a hundred times, she thought. “Yes, True, I remember that one time.”
“Well, I take it back, but don’t whistle for the wind any more. You’ll kill us both.”
She accepted the half-compliment with good grace. “Do you think Sevilla Johnston went back to Hell?”
“There’s no such place as Hell.”
“You were going to send Joshua’s soul there.”
True was silent a minute, formulating his thought. “I don’t believe Hell is a real place you can travel to,” he said carefully. “I think that, living or dead, people make their own Hell inside their minds. That’s where I wanted Joshua to go.”
“So you don’t believe in an actual Hell, but do you believe in a real Heaven?”
“That’s different.” He took Rachel in his arms again and gave her his answer.
* * * *
Dodging the flying clumps of snow, a lone bird darted between the trees. The beak of the bird was deformed on one side, like a sneer. It wheeled, its wings cutting the gray sky, and landed near the threshold of the kitchen door. It inspected the leg bone curiously, tapping it here and there, seeming to listen, and then the shiny black head bobbed up and down as if in agreement with something it had heard. Cocking its head, the raven started to peck at the red clay.
About the Author:
Julia French was born and raised in Wisconsin, and currently resides in the Milwaukee area. She loves cheese popcorn, gardening, crafts, and nature, and is teaching herself to play the piano—an unfulfilled ambition left over from her childhood.
She’s had several short stories published online and one in the UK, is currently working on her third novel.
Please visit Julia’s website:
http://www.juliafrenchbooks.com
and her blog, http://juliafrenchblog.wordpress.com/
for further details.
Julia’s personal philosophy of horror is that knowledge is power, and that it is always better to turn and face what is coming to get you than allow it to leap upon your back without warning.
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