Southern Rites

by Stuart Jaffe

  The front door stood ajar. A strange sign read: Enter and wait. Even stranger, Drummond had no trouble following them into the house.

  They walked into a living room. Three couches pressed back against the walls. Paintings of old women from long ago hung above them. A hallway stretched off to the left. On the right side of the back wall, an arched opening led to the kitchen. From there, a woman approached.

  She wore a black hijab over a white frock. Her smooth, olive skin and wrinkle-free dark eyes suggested she was in her early 20s. When she spoke, her strong North Carolinian accent jarred the image she had built up. “Welcome to Madame Yan’s. I’m Cheryl-Lynn. Do you have an appointment?”

  “We do,” Sandra said. “Tell her the Porters are here.”

  Bowing slightly, Cheryl-Lynn backed her way into the kitchen. Max and Sandra held a look for a full two seconds before breaking into laughter. He covered his mouth and did his best to control the giggles, but they kept coming back. Sandra dropped to the couch and hid her face in the pillows.

  Drummond said, “Will you two pull it together? She’ll be back any second.”

  Max inhaled a deep breath, and despite a shaky exhale, he thought he had the laughter under control. Until he heard Sandra snort. The two fell into hysterics again.

  Drummond scowled. “Oh, for Pete’s sake. She’s a Southern Muslim. What’s the big deal? We got Korean Christians, too. Is that a thing to make you laugh?”

  “We’re sorry,” Sandra said, dabbing at her eyes as she regained her composure. “It took us by surprise. That’s all.”

  Max inhaled deeply once more. “Yeah. I’ve seen plenty of Muslims around the area, but never heard one speak like that.”

  “How should they speak?” Drummond said. “They’re just people like you and me.”

  “Don’t get all high and mighty on us. Besides, how long did I have to work with you to stop you from calling black people colored?”

  “I’m a product of my time. What’s your excuse?”

  Sandra stepped between them. “Boys, knock it off. You both know that neither one of you is a racist. So stop goading each other.”

  When Cheryl-Lynn returned, Max and Sandra had full control of themselves. They were respectful as they followed the young woman into the kitchen. At the cellar door, she turned back to them. “It’s okay. You aren’t the first to get a chuckle when I talk.”

  Sandra’s face reddened. “We’re sorry. We didn’t mean to offend you.”

  “None taken.”

  “My husband and I have been under a lot of stress lately. Our laughter was more a release than anything else.”

  “It really is okay.” Leaning closer with a faux-conspiratorial whisper, Cheryl-Lynn added, “Just don’t start joking on Madame Yan. She’s not likely to take it with kindness.”

  As they headed down the unfinished, wood stairs, Max offered a sheepish face, but Cheryl-Lynn either did not notice or did not care. Once they reached the basement, however, all such concerns vanished.

  “Will you look at this place?” Drummond said.

  The basement looked more like a medieval dungeon than an office or even a simple place for the laundry machine. Square-shaped, gray stones had been laid carefully to form the floor. In the center, a circular pool had been dug out. Clear water glistened with the light from four candles — one at each compass direction around the pool. A spell circle had been painted on the bottom of the pool.

  Max glanced at Sandra but she shrugged — not a spell she knew yet.

  Incense burned on a round table in the corner. The strong aroma masked the heavy chlorine smell rising from the pool. Animal heads decorated the walls, and from the worktable nestled underneath the staircase, Max surmised that either Madame Yan or Cheryl-Lynn had studied taxidermy.

  “This way.” Cheryl-Lynn led them toward the back. Another set of stairs had been dug into the floor. These stairs were cruder — not part of the original design to the house — and the walls pressed in tight on either side. A low ceiling forced Max to duck, and he had to hold the handrail or risk tumbling all the way down.

  The temperature dropped. Max’s skin prickled, and he sensed the weight of all that North Carolina red clay above his head. At the bottom, they entered a wide room with another low ceiling like a modern-day mine. Max half-expected a flat cart with miners flat on it would drive them the rest of the way.

  Instead, Cheryl-Lynn pointed to a hanging bulb at the far end. “You’ll find Madame Yan behind that door.” She bowed and returned up the stairs.

  As they scurried along the second basement, Drummond floated beside them. He had lowered his body into the floor so that his head would be on the same level as Max and Sandra without have to crouch. “I know I’m not the most advanced guy when it comes to the Internet, but how reliable is that machine for finding a useful witch?”

  Sandra said, “The Internet isn’t a machine. There isn’t one building somewhere housing the Internet.”

  “You want to play Parse Out Drummond’s Question, you go right ahead. I’m not the one bent over like a naughty schoolgirl waiting punishment.”

  Sandra stopped to look at him. “Have you been surfing Internet porn again?”

  “Again?” Max said. “When did he do that before?”

  “I caught him at it a few months ago.”

  Drummond said, “And you promised not to tell Max.”

  “I’m sorry, but you should know already that we can’t keep a secret from each other for long. Look, I found Yan’s listing on a witchcraft forum. There’s no guarantee that she’ll be good enough to help us, but we’ve got to start somewhere. Aren’t you always telling us we need a network of contacts in the area? Well, we need witch contacts, too.”

  “I agree. I only question ...”

  But Max did not hear the rest. His mind swirled around the idea of Drummond putting himself through the pain of touching the corporeal world so that he could use a mouse or type on a keyboard to find some porn. With a shudder, he drove out the images.

  Drummond once had been a living man. He had his desires and weaknesses and flaws like any man. I can’t judge him for being human — well, for having been human once. Besides, criticizing a person (or a ghost) for looking at porn was like criticizing a person for breathing — everybody did it to some extent.

  They reached the door — an uneven, poorly hung thing made of five slats and painted blue. Orange light flickered around the edges. Max shivered. This all looked strange and unwelcoming to him; however, Sandra’s calm, matter-of-fact approach eased his mind.

  “Do you mind taking a look?” he asked Drummond.

  “You know, you are entirely too comfortable using me like that. You ought to learn how to approach a suspicious door without me. What are you going to do if I ever move on and leave this ghostly world?”

  “I don’t see myself living hundreds of years until the Other forces you to move on, and since you’ve declined the opportunity in the past, I’m not too worried. Besides, isn’t that part of why you stayed? To get in on all the detective action? Well, here you go.”

  Max did not miss the excited twinkle in Drummond’s eyes. That ghost loved being a detective. “Okay,” Drummond said. “I’ll check it out for you. Wouldn’t want Sandra getting hurt.” The ghost stuck his head through the door. “It’s okay. Just a big junk room, and an old lady poking about.”

  As Drummond floated back from the door, Max ducked around the bright, hanging bulb and knocked. Three sharp raps.

  “Enter,” a woman said in a sing-song voice as if entertaining guests at an evening soirée.

  He pushed open the door, the bottom edge dug into the floor, and they slipped inside. The room had a normal ceiling, so Max and Sandra both stood straight and groaned as they stretched out cramped muscles. Despite the more open headroom, the furnishings cluttered up the place enough to feel even more claustrophobic than the narrow stairwell.

  Madame Yan’s place looked like a rummage sale gone amuck. Boxe
s of unknown contents had been stacked from floor to ceiling on one wall. Piles of books formed Jenga-like towers in front of the boxes. One corner had an assortment of empty birdcages. There was a mound of candlesticks next to a mound of half-used candles. One wall remained slightly clear due to a massive fireplace; however, long braids of hair had been hung from the ceiling, and many of them dangled dangerously close to the fire — the source of flickering light. Above the fireplace, a flatscreen had been mounted, and animal skulls formed a row along the mantelpiece.

  Max leaned toward Sandra’s ear and whispered, “Let’s get this over with fast. It’s a miracle this place hasn’t burned to the ground.”

  Sandra nudged the edge of a throw rug (there were about twenty on the floor) to reveal the painted edges of a spell circle. “I don’t think a miracle has anything to do with it.”

  “Ho!” the woman’s voice sang out. “Madame Yan is here.” An old lady appeared from a corridor masked by the numerous boxes sitting atop an old dresser. She wore a black-lace dress, and with an exuberant yet frazzled grin, Madame Yan walked to a high-backed chair and sat.

  She had the most curious blend of heritage Max had ever seen. Her face bore features from all over the world — color, shape, and size lent itself from every continent. She was heavyset, yet when she moved, she flowed with uncommon grace.

  “You must be Max and Sandra Porter,” she said with an accent, clearly foreign yet imprecise as to what country she originated from. “What brings you here?”

  Sandra stepped forward, but before she could speak, Drummond said, “Be careful. I’m feeling something strange here. More than a gut feeling, too.”

  “Thank you for seeing us on such short notice,” Sandra said.

  Madame Yan covered her mouth, hiding her smile. “Any time for you two.”

  “For us?” Max said. “What do you know about us?”

  “Even if the two of you had not been responsible for the end of the Hull’s reign over the witches here, I would know about you. Did you really think you could go around getting involved with witch covens and cursed paintings and the Baxter House and nobody else in our world would notice?”

  “Hadn’t really thought about it.”

  Drummond’s hands went to his hips. “Hey, what about me? Why don’t I get any credit?”

  “Well, on behalf of all witches, we thank you. The Hulls had too much power for far too long. We all appreciate this opportunity you’ve provided.” Madame Yan popped back on her feet. “Oh my, I’m being a terrible host. Would you like something to drink? I have bourbon and vodka, or if you’d prefer, I can ring down Cheryl-Lynn with some Irish coffee.”

  Max readied a comment concerning witches and alcohol, Sandra saved them both from his mouth. “No, thank you,” she said. “It’s a bit early in the morning for us.”

  With a shrug, Madame Yan returned to her chair. “If you say so. Living down here, I stopped seeing the point of day and night. There’s only awake and asleep.”

  “You live down here? All the time?”

  “I do. It’s a long story and not interesting at all.”

  “I doubt that.”

  Madame Yan winked at Max. “Maybe you’re right. Still, a witch’s story is one of her many secrets, and we’ve only just met.”

  “Yet you already know a lot about us.”

  “Some days the advantage is yours. Today it belongs to me. Tomorrow, who knows?” Perhaps she spotted the frustration in his face because her voice rose in pitch as she made an expansive gesture. “You know how you should see me? Like one of those Tibetan monks. Cloistered away in the mountains so that they can meditate in peace. It’s the same for me, except I’m hidden underground, that’s all.”

  “Hidden from what?”

  Sandra shot Max a hard look. “She doesn’t want to talk about it.”

  Madame Yan tittered as if she had heard an amusing anecdote. “Being here has some advantages. A big one is that I’ve had time to read and read and read. I’ve learned from all the great books we have. And if it weren’t for the pig-headed prejudices against witches, a lot of people in the world would benefit from these books.” She stuck her hand between two boxes and pulled out a plate with two slices of cherry pie. A third slice had already been eaten. “Would either of you care for a nibble? Oh, probably not. Usually Cheryl-Lynn joins me for my meals. I forget myself sometimes.” She set the plate aside. “You are obviously not here for a nibble. Are you? No, of course not. So, what is it that brings you to Madame Yan? Love potion, perhaps? Maybe a bit of divination? Or do you need my help with what’s left of the Hulls?”

  Despite her evasion, Max liked the sparkle in her eyes. “You’re something.”

  “We all are something. Some of us are a bit more something than others.”

  Drummond chuckled. “You know, I might get to like this witch.”

  Stepping closer, Sandra said, “We’ve been involved in a case with two exhumed bodies, possibly exhumed by magic, and in each instance, the femur bone had been stolen. I managed to see one of the bones, and it had symbols on it.”

  Madame Yan gestured to a stack of college notebooks. Two empty paint cans filled with pens and pencils sat on either side. Sandra took the top notebook and grabbed a pen. With a few swift strokes, she drew the symbols and handed the notebook over.

  Pressing the notebook close to her face, Madame Yan inspected the work. “Are you sure these were the symbols?”

  “Those are the ones I could memorize before losing the bone. There were more, though.”

  “I’m sure there were. This is only the first part of a dangerous spell.”

  Max edged in. “So, you know what it is?”

  “Of course, I do. You don’t get to be a witch as long as I have been and not be able to recognize a spell like that.”

  “Great. So, what is it?”

  Madame Yan closed the notebook and tossed it on the floor. “You also don’t get to be a witch as long as I have been and not know how this business works.”

  With a click of his tongue, Drummond said, “So much for liking her.”

  “You want payment? I thought you were so honored and appreciative of us getting rid of the Hulls.”

  She lifted her chin. “And I’ve thanked you for that. But this is business.”

  Sandra stepped forward again, her shoulder pushing Max back. “Please, ignore my husband. He’s not good at dealing with our kind.”

  “Oh? You fancy yourself a witch?”

  “I’ve only started learning. But maybe, a long time from now and after much learning, maybe if I’m lucky, I can rise to a status as high as yours.” Max tensed, but Sandra showed no sign of noticing. She went on, “I suppose I’ll have to go fumble around for a bit to figure out those symbols, or maybe they’re easy to find. You seemed to know them quite fast. I’m sure I just need to look in a few more books. Besides, if I don’t succeed, I can always find another witch to help me.”

  Madame Yan shifted in her chair as she filled with pride. “Well, perhaps to help a novice get started on the right track, I might be able to provide a little information. After all, so many so-called witches out there would steer you wrong.”

  Sandra gave a slight bow. “Thank you. We do appreciate your efforts.”

  “Nonsense. We witches have to look out for each other.”

  Drummond clapped his hands together in a sharp, single strike. “Doll, you’re one of the best. That’s as serious a case of buttering up as I’ve ever seen. Straight to the point, not overdone, but hitting all the right notes.”

  Though torn between a desire to wrest Sandra from the lure of witchcraft and a desire to hug her for her strength of will, Max merely stood silent. Drummond saw it as skilled manipulation, but Max knew her determination drove her diplomacy and ultimately, her success. She never ceased to amaze him.

  Madame Yan planted her hands on her knees and squinted at them. “Now, let me tell you about this spell.”

  Chapter 12

 
“It is the Call to Power,” Madame Yan said. Though her eyes repeatedly shifted between Max to Sandra, Max noticed that she lingered her gaze longer upon his wife. “It’s not a controversial spell by far, but in my opinion, it should be. It’s difficult to cast, but in the wrong hands, the Call to Power can be a devastating spell.”

  “What does it do?” Max asked.

  Madame Yan bristled at his impatience. To Sandra, she said, “On a basic level, the spell is used to lock in magic energy for later use. You can put the energy into almost anything.”

  “Even bone?” Max asked.

  “Yes, most often bone. Now, please, stop interrupting me.”

  “I was just asking a question.”

  Though Sandra’s face remained impassive, her voice snapped out with force. “Max, show her some respect.”

  Drummond looked like he wanted to chime in with some sarcasm, but a quick glance from Sandra stopped him. To Madame Yan, Sandra said, “Please, continue.”

  “The storage of energy could be used for anything. Long ago, witches would use it so they could access large amounts of energy quickly in times of battle. More often, though, witches would invoke the Call to Power as they neared death. They would carve their own bones before dying, and infuse the bones with all the energy they had. They passed their power down to the next generation, and in this way, the family line would continue no matter what happened. After all, not every daughter is touched with the gift. With this spell, even the most mundane girl could potentially become a powerful witch.”

  She scooted to the side of her chair and reached for the notebook. Looking over the symbols again, Madame Yan tapped the page. “These are an older variation of the spell. Not common at all. Probably not found in many books, but there aren’t many spells that use all three of those symbols together. Whoever did this is either quite esoteric or she cast the spell quite a long time ago.”

  Max said, “We suspect it’s the latter.”

  “Then you should be extra careful. The older witches spent their lives fighting prejudice unlike anything we have in the modern world. We feel we are oppressed, and we still are, but at the same time, we have greater rights and recognition than ever in the history of our people. An older witch, one attempting to pass her power down through generations, is going to be the kind that felt the harsh hand of those prejudices. She will have seen her peers run out of their homes, thrown in the lake with stones tied to their legs, and of course, burned at the stake. She will be the kind of mean-spirited hag that populated children’s stories.”