by Marina Cohen
Charm Spell
1 cup whole wheat flour
1/2 cup of salt
1/3 cup of water
Place the flour in a wooden bowl. Holding the salt in one hand, allow it to slip through your fingers. Pour the water in slowly. All the while chanting:
Flour is earth, nourishment, innocence;
Salt is purity, power, protection;
Water is life, desire, emotion.
Using finger tips, mix ingredients while imagining your intended. Fashion a talisman from the dough. Let dry overnight.
Close your eyes. Clear your mind. While holding a personal belonging of the intended in one hand and the talisman in the other, chant the following lines three times:
Defences destroyed,
Walls worn,
Ramparts rendered,
Shields shorn,
Open thyself to my suggestions
Surrender thy thoughts to my will and intentions.
*Note: Of all spells, charm spells are the most challenging. They require absolute concentration. Confused minds cast confused spells.
“Lovely,” said Hollis. “Now, tell me again what you hope to achieve by this ridiculous action?”
“Simple,” I said. “I’m going to charm the clown into giving us the post office box number and any other information he has on the White Witch.”
“Simple,” she repeated. “So, er, Ms. Genius, have you given any thought as to where you’re going to get the ingredients?”
“Pfft!” I scoffed, holding up the salt shaker and scanning the restaurant. “Need I remind you we’re in a pizzeria?”
“Fine. And you’re just going to go up to the counter and ask for a cup of whole wheat flour.”
I smiled at her and stood up. I sauntered up to the counter, exchanged a few pleasantries with the kindly lady, and then returned with two paper cups — a large one containing flour, a small one filled with water.
Hollis shook her head in disbelief. I couldn’t tell if she was thoroughly amazed or just plain jealous.
“Okay. So you have flour, salt and water …”
“Don’t forget the clown’s personal belonging,” I said, tilting my head toward the coffee cup.
“But you’re supposed to let the talisman dry overnight. Have you thought about that Ms. Genius? And what about the note — the warning …”
“Details, shmeetails,” I said. “We can’t worry about every little thing. We have a charm spell to cast, an address to get, and a witch to see.”
I unscrewed the salt shaker and poured the contents in my right hand. A little spilled and, being mildly superstitious, I grabbed a pinch with my left hand and tossed it over my shoulder. Luckily, there was no one seated there. I’d tossed some salt over my left shoulder once and hit Jordan right in the eye. The ensuing episode wasn’t pleasant to say the least. I shuddered at the thought.
“Um, Claire,” said Hollis. “You’d better hurry. Remember he goes to the hospital over his lunch and it’s almost noon.”
“Right,” I said, picking up the pace and just plopping the remaining salt into the cup, dumping the water in and stirring with one hand to create a pasty dough. All the while I mumbled: “Flour is earth, nourishment, innocence; salt is purity, power, protection; water is life, desire, emotion …”
“Eew. Disgusting,” sneered Hollis, as I lifted out my sticky, slimy hand.
I kept on mixing and chanting until I’d formed a mass of dough dense enough to sculpt into a clown.
“There. The legs, the arms, the head …” I said. “Et voilà! One talisman ready to go.”
“It’s not dry, Claire. His arms are drooping and his head is tilting. It looks like it’s going to fall off …”
She reached over, but I slapped her hand away. “It’s perfect. We don’t have any time left, so here.” I held the coffee cup in one hand and the talisman in the other and motioned for Hollis to place her hands on them as well. She reluctantly co-operated. “Now close your eyes and clear your mind.”
“That should be easy for you,” she muttered under her breath.
“Hilarious. Now will you focus and start chanting?”
Anyone looking on must have thought we were lunatics. I didn’t really care — I was getting kind of used to it — but I’m sure Hollis was mortified. I sneaked a peek at her at one point and caught her scanning the restaurant.
“Keep your eyes shut!” I said in the middle of the third round.
“How would you know I had my eyes open unless you had yours open?”
“Stop arguing!” I said, completing the final verse on my own. “Surrender thy thoughts to my will and intentions …”
We both opened our eyes fully and sat staring at one another, still clutching the coffee cup and the drooping talisman that had lost its head during the ceremony.
“This is so not going to work,” sighed Hollis.
I raised my eyebrows and grinned. “We’ll see about that.”
19
You're under my power … you’re under my power … you’re under my …
With the coffee cup hidden behind my back, I swung open the dingy door and charged up the dark staircase, taking the steps two at a time.
My will and intentions … my will and intentions … my will and …
Hollis was right behind me, huffing and panting and dragging her left foot to keep up. She was sicker than I thought, or seriously out of shape. I hoped it was the latter.
The address of the White Witch … the address of the White Witch … the address of the …
My mind was so focused on charming the clown into giving me the post office box number that I wasn’t thinking about anything else when I skittered around the corner at the top of the landing. Wouldn’t you know it — the clown was heading around the corner at the exact same time! To avoid bulldozing him, I came to an absolute and abrupt standstill, as did he. Hollis, unaware of my intentions — or the clown’s for that matter — continued in forward motion, plowing right into me. Now, I may have been shorter than Hollis, but what I lacked in height I gained in sturdiness. Hollis hit me like a brick wall, falling backward, arms flailing. She landed on her behind with a tumultuous thud.
“Are you okay?” asked the clown, racing to her side and helping her to her feet. In the confusion, I slipped the mug onto the coffee table that was only a few feet away and then rejoined the commotion.
“Are you hurt?” I panted. “Oh my gosh! You’re bleeding!” I pointed to a scrape on Hollis’s cheek — probably caused by her own long fingernails.
The clown helped Hollis to the sofa, where she sat catching her breath and steadying herself.
“There are some bandages in a first aid kit in the blue filing cabinet,” he said to me. “You get the bandage and I’ll get a cold compress for her forehead.”
I nodded, all the while thinking that her forehead may not be the exact part of her anatomy requiring a cold compress. All the same, I dashed to the back of the room, behind the desk, while the clown disappeared into the bathroom. I yanked open the blue filing cabinet and to my absolute astonishment, I discovered more than just the first aid kit.
Author Information was scrawled on one of the plastic tabs dividing file folders. I couldn’t believe my eyes. I’d done it. I’d actually done it. I’d managed to charm the clown into handing me the information I needed! Well, in a roundabout way, I guess.
I momentarily forgot about Hollis and her injury and began rifling through the files at lightning speed. Turner, Unger, Vanderklaauw (???), White. That was it! I pulled out the file and opened it. White, W. was printed across the top — the White Witch! It had to be her! I quickly memorized as much of the information I could, focusing on the post office box number: 8799 (I memorized this using hockey players — 87 was Sydney Crosby, 99 was Wayne Gretzky — a little trick Jordan taught me ages ago). The postal code was unbelievably easy: L8T 4S2 — it spelled late for stew!
“Did you find the bandages?” asked the clown, as he exited t
he bathroom holding a wad of sopping paper towels.
“Um, yeah,” I said, suddenly remembering Hollis. I tucked back the file and fumbled through the first aid kit at the bottom of the cabinet.
“I feel fine,” said Hollis. She tried to stand and then sunk back down.
“Do you feel dizzy?” asked the clown, handing her the cold compress.
“Not more than usual,” said Hollis.
“She hasn’t been feeling well lately,” I added. “But don’t worry, she’s going to be fine — just fine.” I winked at Hollis and grinned. I ripped open the bandage and slapped it onto Hollis’s cheek, patting it several times to make sure it was on right.
“Ow, quit it!” she said, smacking my hand away.
“Well, that’s that. All better,” I announced. “We’d best be going now…” I dragged Hollis to her feet, and with one arm around her shoulder, I pulled her toward the door.
“Hold on just a second,” said the clown.
I froze. What could he possibly want? Did he figure out I’d taken his coffee cup? Had he discovered I’d been rifling through his files? I was wincing, but he couldn’t tell because I had my back to him. I slowly turned to face him, plastering the stickiest-sweet grin on my face that I could possibly muster. I was trying to look cute and innocent, but I think the combination of fear, apprehension, and my crazy huge smile made me look more maniacal than anything. I reached into my pocket to try and use the talisman to charm him again, but unfortunately it was now nothing more than an unidentifiable mass of guck oozing around and sticking to the lining. My mother was going to kill me — but I had a whole half day before I had to worry about that.
“Have you forgotten something?” asked the clown.
What could I have possibly forgotten? I did a quick brain scan. “Um. Nope. Nothing. Thanks again.” I turned to leave, but his voice hooked me and reeled me in a second time.
“Are you forgetting what you returned for? Why exactly did you come back?” he asked.
Luckily, my mouth was as fast as a jet engine. It was a shame that my brain was more like a hot-air balloon. “Well,” I said sweetly, “we came here about the hospital, of course. You know, to ask you how we could get involved and help out there, too.”
Hollis looked at me with a deadpan face. I looked back at her and shrugged. Well, why not? It was as good as excuse as any.
“That’s great!” he said. “They can always use people. All you need to do is …”
“Oh, don’t you worry about that,” I interrupted. “I’m going to call tomorrow and find out. I’ll probably see you there sometime. But right now, I think I need to get my friend home. She’s had enough excitement for one day. She’s not used to it, you know — rather bland, boring life and all. Besides, Sydney Crosby and Wayne Gretzky are late for stew …”
Before he could utter any kind of response, and before Hollis could protest, I pulled her toward the hallway and down the steps. I raced along the sidewalk, certain she was only a few steps behind. When we were a safe distance from Mixed Pickle Press, I stopped to catch my breath and explain.
20
"What in the world did you mean?” demanded Hollis.
“Well, you see, Sydney Crosby is number 87 …” I began, but she cut me off.
“No, no, no!” she shouted. “Not that! About my life! You said my life was boring. And bland. What exactly did you mean by that?”
My eyebrows tangled. Here I’d gotten the address — well, almost the address — of the White Witch and she gets all up in arms about some mindless little commentary. “Oh thaaat,” I said, rolling my eyes. “It was only an excuse to get us out of there —” I stopped and thought about what I’d said. “But now that you mention it …”
“Oh. So you do think that. You think my life is bland. Boring,” she spat. “Well I’ll have you know that I happen to lead a pretty exciting life. Way more exciting than your pathetic little existence. Like the beauty pageants I’m in. They are totally exciting — no, thrilling. Yes. My mother says they are thrilling beyond imagination. She says they’re suspenseful. And adventurous. And …”
“Hold on,” I said, putting my hand on her shoulder. Now, you’d think I’d have been angry at the pathetic little existence crack, but when I looked deep into her stormy-sea eyes, I saw more than just anger raging there. I think my comment hurt her somehow. Really hurt her. And then to make matters worse, I said something, that in hindsight, maybe I shouldn’t have. Unfortunately I have this horrible habit of speaking first and thinking later. “Seems to me your mother ought to be in those pageants instead of you if she finds them so beyond thrilling.”
Her eyes were boring holes into my skull as she shrugged her shoulder away from my hand. If looks could kill I’d have been reduced to atoms. It was written all over her face. What I’d said was haunting her. For the first time, I began to suspect that Hollis didn’t like those beauty pageants half as much as she claimed. Then she put a hand to her head and squinted and I could tell she was getting one of her headaches. I had to get her de-hexed as quickly as possible.
“Come on,” I said, my voice a little softer and a little gentler than usual. “I’ve got the address. So now all we need is a post office.”
“A post office?” she sighed, her menacing look transforming back to frustration. “Why in the world would we need a post office if we have the address?”
“Well, because it’s not exactly an address,” I said, turning and scouting up and down the street for a drug store. Drug stores often had post offices within them. “It’s a post office box number, remember?”
She sighed again and began following me up the street. “Nothing is ever simple with you, is it?” The venom had left her voice. She no longer loathed and despised me. She was back to merely hating me. I also wondered if she was beginning to see that complicated could be, well, thrilling.
“Excuse me,” I said to a man in a grey suit, hurrying past us. “Do you know where there’s a post office around here?”
He stopped long enough to point a long arm toward the opposite side of the street. “Two blocks up. Beside a vintage clothing store.”
We walked along the busy sidewalk without saying another word. I was busy crafting my elaborate plan. I had no idea what Hollis was thinking about. Perhaps she was contemplating the latest fashion designs displayed in the shop windows — but I suspected she was still thinking about what I’d said.
The post office was on the far corner, inside a drug store, as I’d suspected. I think Hollis had pretty much resigned herself to the fact that I was, shall we say, a tad unorthodox in my approach to life. All right, she thought I was just plain nuts. She didn’t even question me when I purchased a large bubble-padded envelope. Or when I took off my shoes and then removed my socks and placed them inside the envelope, sealing it shut. She seemed to be watching me helplessly as I slipped my shoes back on and then sauntered up to the counter. Using a post office pen, I wrote: W. White, P.O. Box 8799, Toronto, ON, L8T 4S2 in the centre of the package. I left the return address blank.
I turned toward Hollis, holding the envelope up for her to see. I grinned. “You are as good as de-hexed.”
“I know I’m going to regret asking,” she said. “But why, Claire? Why are you sending the White Witch your stinky socks? And how in the world is that supposed to get me de-hexed?”
“Glad you asked,” I said. “First, I’m sending my socks because I needed to send something and unless you’re willing to give up those lovely dangling earrings …” Her hands shot to her ears in defence. “Yeah. I thought so. And how is this going to de-hex you, you ask? Easy-peasy, cheddar cheesy.”
I placed the envelope on the counter and dinged the little silver bell once. A short, stocky clerk with mousy-brown hair appeared from the back room. She had a rather stern look about her.
“Hello,” I said, politeness dripping from every syllable. “I’d like to send this package special delivery. Same-day service.”
The clerk t
ook the envelope and placed it on a scale. Next, she got out a measuring tape and calculated its size. “That will be twenty-six dollars and thirty-five cents,” she announced in a monotone voice.
I gulped. I knew my plan wasn’t going to be cheap, but had had no clue as to just how expensive it was going to be. I dug into my pocket and pulled out a wad of crumpled bills and loose change. I calculated quickly. I had enough. Just enough. Enough to pay for the package and get Hollis and me to the next and final stop in our journey. I didn’t necessarily have enough money to get us home, but I made two split-second decisions:
1. I’d worry about that bridge when it was time to cross it (even if it meant having to go for a quick swim).
2. I would not disclose our financial crisis to Hollis.
This plan was going to work, I told myself. It was foolproof.
“Great,” I said, handing over the money to the lady. I watched her place a computer-generated sticker on the envelope.
“No return address?” she asked. It sounded more like a statement given the lack of inflection in her voice. “It’s always a good idea to include one in case the package gets lost.”
I shook my head. “No worries. I’ll be seeing this package again soon enough.” She looked at me with a deadpan expression, shrugged her shoulders, and then placed the package on the counter behind her.
“So, um, when will it get sent out?” I asked.
“Shortly,” she said. “I can guarantee it will get to its destination today.”
“Perfect,” I said. “That’s all I need to know.” I turned toward Hollis and ushered her a few steps away from the counter. “Now,” I said, digging out Jordan’s phone from my pocket. “All we need to do is find the post office box location …”
“Um, Claire,” said Hollis.