Good Sex, Great Prayers
Page 19
The egg timer buzzes on the kitchen counter. Madeline grabs it, twisting the knob slightly clockwise until it goes silent. “It’s time you learned how this works,” she says, slipping on a nearby mitt. She opens the oven door, retrieving the muffin tin off the middle rack, which now blooms six golden brown cupcakes. They radiate the scent of cocoa and cinnamon, effectively covering the sulfur smell that was once present. Father Johnstone would be tempted to indulge in one if it weren’t for his intimate knowledge of the ingredients—specifically, the curse fluid. He recalls purging it from his system, the pain, a memoir of the incident written to the tune of cuts and gashes in his throat.
Madeline places the baking tin on the kitchen counter and removes the mitt. “Alchemy,” she says. “You familiar with that term?”
The pastor nods. “It’s like chemistry.” Beyond the basic concept though, he knows next to nothing about the subject. In a place like Pratt, not a lot of stock was put into this particular area of academia.
“Chemistry that doesn’t adhere to scientific law,” Madeline says. “Any law, for that matter.”
Father Johnstone is reminded of what he’s seen so far in regards to Mrs. Tiller and Sheriff Morgan: instant, unmitigated control; the ability to rewrite memory, to bend a person to suggestion, even if they vehemently disagree with it. He’s never seen or heard of anything like it—in the medical field or otherwise.
“It’s how the terms black arts and sorcery originally came into use,” Madeline says. “When the effects of something couldn’t be explained through science—what passed for science, anyway—it was automatically categorized as evil.”
“By the church?” Father Johnstone assumes.
She nods. “Despite themselves, priests are very prideful individuals. They don’t like having their faith challenged, and I suppose it’s easy to write something off as ‘the Devil’s work’ when someone is able to do the thing you’re not. This, for example,” Madeline says, turning a few pages in the black spell book. She slides her fingers under the words veritas serum, explaining, “This is a truth formula, an organic composition that manipulates higher cognitive function.” From the opposite side of the counter, Father Johnstone attempts to read the script, the listing of ingredients corresponding with numerical amounts. Piscis oleum (x7), volucri pinnam (x3), pomum granum (x4). It’s all in Latin.
Madeline says, “A lie isn’t automated. If someone is asked a question they don’t want to give an honest response to, the brain needs a moment to make the necessary adjustment. What this does,” she says, “is it inhibits the ability to make that particular adjustment.”
From Leviticus, Father Johnstone recalls the passage: ‘Do not lie. Do not deceive one another.’ What Madeline speaks of is the idea of removing deception from the table, a world free of falsehood. Truth that can be brewed and bottled and slipped into a drink.
“You can imagine this pissed off the clergy,” Madeline says. “According to them, you should be honest because that’s what God wants, not due to force or unnatural manipulation. They viewed Craft as a cheat,” she says. “If you can circumvent a system and its values, you’re threatening it by extension.”
Elements brought on by command, death overturned, free will restricted; these are the events Father Johnstone has witnessed which he previously believed only God was capable of. These are the acts of Divine power, a power based on faith in the Lord and his Holy Word, and Madeline Paige is living proof that it’s not exclusive. With the right ingredients and a certain know-how, you can manufacture supremacy.
“This is a spell that removes memory,” Madeline says. She turns a couple pages in the book, translating the next header, which is in Greek. Her lips move silently, sounding out the word to herself. “Sleep spell,” she says. Father Johnstone watches her turn another page. A human diagram is meticulously sketched out, circles radiating from either hand like pond ripples. Madeline says, “This one teaches you how to amplify the naturally occurring magnetic fields in the body, also known as: biomagnetism.”
From one of the drawers, she retrieves a small fork and places it on the counter. She extends her arm out to the pastor palm-up, the silverware on display in her hand. Madeline says, “I’ve been practicing this one a little. Started out with coins and worked my way up.” The fork shivers, rocking a few times on Madeline’s palm before it begins to rise slowly—first, at the handle where the weight is minimal. It tilts until it’s balanced vertically on the tines, then it rises a centimeter or so. Floating. Pivoting deliberately. Father Johnstone reaches out to grab it, pinching the neck of the handle between his thumb and forefinger. He can feel resistance, an invisible pull that’s stronger than the utensil’s natural weight. It’s encompassed by something, a field, making it seem as though the fork’s gravity is central to the spot above Madeline’s palm. She says, “Go ahead and take it,” relinquishing her control over the object. The pastor holds the fork in his hand, examining it for something foreign, an indication of sleight of hand, but all appears to be normal.
“How do you do that?” he asks.
“It’s a relationship,” Madeline says. “It’s understanding the attributes and properties of what’s around us, whether it’s a fork, a redwood tree, or a house fly. Everything has its own signature.” She closes the book, walking it over to the large shelf and placing it back in its spot. The pastor can’t determine any discernable method to their organization since none of them are labeled. Not unless the occasional symbol counts. Stars and Roman numerals are embossed on some of the spines. Madeline pulls another volume from the shelving and brings it over to the kitchen counter.
“So these are all spell books?” the pastor asks.
“Spell books, historical texts, journal entries,” Madeline says, opening the volume so that she and the pastor are able to view the pages. Much like the previous book, this one also varies in print size and language. “A collection of stories, theory, and accounts.”
“You mean in lieu of the Bible?” the pastor asks, and although he’s a man of the cloth and remains loyal to his post, the question does come off a bit insensitive.
Madeline snickers, though. She’s had this debate before. “Tell me something, Johnstone, if you had been given the Torah, or the Koran, or some of the L. Ron Hubbard bullshit when you were a kid…if someone handed you that instead of the Bible, would you really know the difference? Do you really think you’d still be preaching here in Pratt?” Glaring at him, she says, “You are what you were born into.”
“God wanted me to be born a Christian,” Father Johnstone responds sagely.
“No, honey, you were born, and then you were taught what God and Christianity were,” Madeline counters. “It’s not intrinsic. You didn’t come into the world knowing what religion was the same way you didn’t know how to cook ribs or change the oil in your car. All things, even faith, have a learning curve.”
“You’re including yourself in that then?” Father Johnstone asks, attempting to even the plain.
Madeline holds her left hand out, flipping it over palm-up so the scald mark glistens under the kitchen lights. “Still learning.” She smirks, glaring at the pastor.
Through the scriptures it is learned that the Creator is infallible, but as Father Johnstone has explained many times to the flock, He, in all His wisdom, had the foresight to know man would by no means be perfect. “Think of sin as an opportunity,” he’s always told them. “Either to repent or for the Devil to lure you down his path.”
Madeline Paige, on the other hand, is not afforded the luxury of forgiveness. “We don’t get the same loopholes you do. We’re given the tools and the instructions, and if we make a mistake, we pay for it,” she says, rolling the fingers on her left hand again. Flexing it. Minute clicks and cracks sound off from her knuckles. “Craft is a faith and a relationship, but it’s also a skill. It takes practice.”
“And despite all I’ve seen you do so far, you maintain you’re out of practice?” the pastor asks.
“You mean when your aunt passed?” The pastor’s assuming she’s referring to the assembly of volumes on the book shelf, which number around seventy or so. “This collection became yours?”
“These aren’t the kind of things you want to lug all over the country,” Madeline says. “My aunt, as you probably know, kept mostly to herself. She liked her quiet life and her daisy hill. She liked to bake.”
Just like Madeline, Josephine was never one of the flock, despite any peer pressure she received from her local sewing circles or Father Johnstone himself. She was, however, an accomplished pastry chef, and even managed a few wins at the Pratt bake-off during her time in town. Other than that, she was a bit of a recluse.
“Aunt Josie had no interest in power or finding out how far she could go. She knew what a mistake could cost her so she never put herself in a position to make any. Craft for her was a casual relationship at best,” Madeline says, frowning slightly, flexing her hand again. “When she got these, I imagine they went up on the shelf and were never touched again. Too afraid, more than likely. I’m probably the first person to read these in years.” She turns a few pages in the volume, arriving at one headed with the word: mixtura. “I need to come clean on a couple things.”
The pastor nods, knowing he’s probably not ready for whatever she’s about to tell him.
“I’ve been using the diner to practice,” Madeline reveals. She pauses a moment to see what kind of reaction this gets from the pastor, expecting a paternal lecture of sorts. Or at the very least, a frown of disappointment. Father Johnstone has done this for years though, and if it’s one thing he’s learned in that time, it’s that when someone is in the middle of a confession—especially one of this magnitude—it’s best to let them finish.
“When you do this, it’s best not to test it on yourself, so I got the job at the Presto to have some people to feed spells to. Nothing crazy, mind you,” she interjects on herself, thinking Father Johnstone would assume the worst after what he’s seen. “Simple things, within my experience.”
“Like what?” Using residents of Pratt as guinea pigs notwithstanding, the pastor has heard nothing but good things about the Presto Diner since Madeline’s employ began. If she’s done anything wrong or had a spell backfire, it certainly hasn’t come to mainstream attention.
“Well, I needed money…for clothes and materials and whatnot,” she says. “So I may have cut a generosity spell into the pancake batter to help with tips.” Madeline grits her teeth, somewhat ashamed to finally admit this to another person. “And the grain plant workers always looked pissed off and grumpy, so I started blending their morning coffee with a euphoria compound.”
“Is that all?”
“And I was tired of old man Clevenger coming in drunk and passing out at the counter, so I cast a sobriety charm on his eggs. That one never worked well on him, though,” she says. “I also may have put a little something into Mrs. Becker’s iced tea…y’know…to make her less of a bitch to people.”
“Anything else?” he presses.
“A few. A lot, actually,” she edits herself. “But I never abused it, Johnstone—I want you to know that…and I’ve had more than my fair share of chances. Sheriff Morgan is a regular. Can’t tell you how many times I almost poisoned that asshole.”
“And why didn’t you?” Not too long ago, Madeline was advocating he be chained to a radiator and held as a prisoner.
“It’s a slippery slope,” she says. “You play with dark things and before you know it, you can’t stop. You begin to turn to it because it’s easy. Then it becomes a habit.”
In his thirty-some-odd years in Pratt, he’s lost the occasional member of the flock to the soft options: to drink and drugs, to adultery and lust. A moment of weakness can easily turn into a lifetime.
“Craft is about harmony, and hurting someone—even a sick fuck like the sheriff—it can throw that harmony out of whack,” Madeline says. She looks down at the book again. “This section talks a little bit about that, about harmony. It was written by a witch named Vivian de Bello, a theorist from the early 1800s.” Her finger taps the header. “Mixtura, which is Latin for mixture, was something she warned against, citing that two spells working concurrently would have adverse effects,” Madeline says, translating a portion from the middle of the page. “That, in turn, throws the individual harmony of both spells off. Make sense so far?”
“I suppose,” the pastor nods.
“That curse buried in your yard should have hit you differently,” Madeline says. “You saw what it did to the sheriff. That should have been you, only more intense.”
She alluded to this already in the case of the truth serum, debilitating that which allows a person to act under their own accord. In Father’s Johnstone’s case though, it wasn’t like this, erring more towards illness.
“It was meant to turn you into a puppet,” she says. “And I know the damage has been done, what with you questioning God and all during your sermon, but I daresay it could have been much worse.”
“You said were partly responsible for this earlier,” Father Johnstone says. “What exactly did you mean by that?”
“You know…mixing,” she says meekly, chewing her lower lip. “Lemon bars, cookies, cobblers.”
“You cast on me?” The pastor asks, anger slipping into the words, but Madeline’s prepared—has been prepared for some time now.
She inches back somewhat, explaining, “Technically, yes. I did. But that’s also the thing that saved you.”
“I almost died, Madeline. I almost bled to death in front of the whole town!” he shouts, which jerks Mary awake on the couch. She peers at the two of them, growling before allowing her head to lull back on the pillow, exhausted. Father Johnstone remembers what happened earlier today, what he almost lost. He softens. “I’m upset,” he says. “The last couple of weeks have been—”
“—Shitty?” Madeline cuts in. “I know. I’m sorry.”
“Are you?” he asks. “Because I’m not so sure.”
“I came to town with very little on my agenda but to keep my head down and teach myself a few things,” she says. “And when you’re moving around and hiding as much I have, you tend to lose touch with people.” Madeline sighs. “Yes, I cast on you. It was before…” she trails off, rethinking her words. “I’m different now. It’s not going to happen again.”
“What did you cast on me?”
“Something I thought would help,” Madeline says. Vague.
“And what help did I need?” he asks. It was only recently that the symptoms of the curse intensified, but Madeline has been soliciting her desserts to him for many months. God only knows what they were supposed to do. “I was fine up until recently.”
“Right. ‘Fine,’” Madeline nods. “The man who builds a car instead of a relationship…who has a dog instead of a child. Leader of the flock but no real friends. No one you can be yourself around.” She stares unapologetically. “You’ve been alone your whole life. And you can say that it’s part of the job and that you’re okay with it, but I know you’re not.”
As much as he doesn’t want to admit it, she’s right. She’s right about everything. Every part of it, and although he’s always known this on some level or another, it’s quite another matter to have someone else address it so directly.
“Do you know why all the ladies in town are constantly coming to you, begging you to try their desserts and their casseroles and all that?” she asks. “Do you really think it’s because they’re trying to get an edge in some little cooking contest?”
It never occurred to him that an after-hours visit from a flock member with a pie or tray of seven-layer dip could be viewed as anything other than platonic. He always assumed they were playing strategy or overzealous for a win.
“It’s because
it’s hard to see a good man alone,” Madeline says. “You are the shepherd, the guiding light in Pratt, but you’re still a man that has nothing and no one. You’ll get older and retire from your post, and then you’ll die alone. For a woman, that’s damn hard to watch, even if it’s self-imposed.” She sighs, folding the pastor’s hand into her own. Madeline stares at him with the campfire eyes. “I cast on you. When I gave you those desserts, I was trying to make you feel less alone. That’s all.”
The pastor purses his lips, saying nothing.
“I imposed. I shouldn’t have done it,” Madeline says. “But the rub is that you’d be just like the sheriff had I not. You understand that now, right?”
He nods. He believes her. And he believes she’s remorseful for her actions, despite it resulting in the lesser of two evils. Waking up in the care of Dr. Keller at the hospital after a three-day coma was never something he wanted to experience, but better that than the alternative. Sheriff Morgan’s probably halfway across the state by now, all under the unnatural commands of Madeline Paige. God only knows what this other person intended the pastor to do. If it was merely to ruin his reputation and shake up the town, then in that regard, they were successful. What Father Johnstone fears is that it’s not over yet for him. As Madeline said, if it was her that wanted to hurt the town and its people, the pastor would be her primary objective. Without God, without the direction of the guiding light, Pratt is enervated.
“You said earlier that I’m the most likely target,” Father Johnstone says. “How does someone stand to gain from that?”
“How do you think?” she asks rhetorically. “It’s about power. It’s about taking away the control you had over something and making it their own.”
“You’re referring to the flock?”
“I am,” she says. “These people come to be led, to be guided through life. Nothing shakes a person’s faith more than a pastor or priest gone rogue. It reminds them the system is fallible.” Madeline pauses, a look of chagrin crossing her face. She tells him, “The Catholic church has been dealing with it for years. You hear about it all the time: how some little kid gets molested and all that happens to the priest is a transfer. It’s because the clergy knows it wasn’t really their fault.”