All Hallows

by W. Sheridan Bradford

  “My parents say the best way to start a big trip is to start now. They were talking about getting into Princeton, but still.”

  “They’re more thoughtful than I would have guessed; I’m increasingly pleased I didn’t immolate them.” Maren said. “Collect yourself. You’ve heard the old song? The worms go in, the worms go out?”

  “Mom used to sing it. When I was little.”

  “Well, Obi Cinnamon—”

  “Cimarron.”

  “You’ll want to study a memory charm for the benefit of others. As I was about to say, the song is mistaken. The worms go in, and then the worms… stay put. As to the pinochle, that is patently absurd; I must assume it was inserted for the sorry purpose of making-up syllables.”

  “Like using snout for nose.”

  “No, that was added for rhyme.”

  “Oh. Right.”

  “As I am not a doctor, I won’t lie to you. A night worm’s journey is not a sensation, or a touch, or pressure, or anything remotely pleasant. If you’ve ever stuffed bath salts into your sinuses, you will notice a mild parallel.”

  “Word.” Obi Cimarron looked at herself in the dresser’s small mirror, searching her broad face, her wild, picked-out hair, her strong jaw. A lifetime of pleasant, safe fears—of witches and worms and spiders and wolves—had resolved into something calm… although she did have so many questions.

  “Did you put a spell on me?”

  “No,” Maren said. “Night worms prefer the willing. You are as you were. If you’ve changed, it’s your own doing.”

  “I don’t, like, want to fight a werewolf,” Obi said. “But I’m not scared. Not of the worm. Not any more than I was in the cafeteria today.”

  “The slop they serve would frighten anyone. I visited a short while back. Eddie’s a good kid. Been through a lot. He wouldn’t eat the pudding, though… I was the show and tell, though I showed little and said less.”

  “It’s not about the food. There’s… there’s these girls. They’re always in this group, and they’re super rude, and they always say they’re going to… it’s tense.”

  Maren snorted. “Tense is having a dhampir tunnel under your charms and defenses as you sleep. It scrapes its way from a hole in the cellar, and you awaken to fangs at your throat, a foot-long tongue on your chin, bifurcated and rougher than that of Mister Tibb. You arise from your nightmares thrice-cursed; your sole impulse to lie there—to surrender to the vile ragman, to tell yourself you’re dreaming as your muscles lock; as an eternity of damnation consumes you…”

  “Uh… cool. So, like… how’d you live through that?” Obi asked, watching the worm, its incandescent pulse synchronizing to hers, its head—she assumed it was the head—following her slightest movements, a cobra swaying in a basket.

  “Never said I did. I described a situation.” Maren said. “Times change, Obi, but people do not, and a mob never will. Any group of young girls will have pitchforks stashed near to hand. Those girls should be the farthest thing from your thoughts. If you survive the worm, I assure you that tomorrow will be… different.”

  “You said I have to choose myself. But what if I… is it like faith?”

  “Similar. There are degrees of belief. The most fervent of worshippers won’t know true faith until their god bleeds through the groaning sky, gnashing a sword in its teeth the size of civilization.”

  “Keeps it real,” Obi said, glancing out the window with a grin. “That was pretty lit.”

  “Thought you didn’t see Tocaya.”

  “Are you nuts? Of course I did. You don’t huff a freaking worm just because a wolf ate a pickup and a couple of homeless chicks got into a street fight.”

  “You naughty imp! You lied to me! Oh, it’s a proud day. I thought I might be wasting my last worm.”

  “Beats getting strangled,” Obi said. “It’s kind of like, this or die, know what I’m saying?”

  “Maybe. I’m two for two today, but night worms are unpredictable. Be glad you didn’t get my last batch. Strangling didn’t begin to cover it; that took a refrigerator.”

  “Damn. Give it to me before I start bugging for real.”

  “There’s barely any bug in these,” Maren noted.

  “That’s not… never mind.” Obi reached for the night worm; it transferred and curled around her forefinger. The slightest of tremors wobbled in the hollow of the girl’s throat.

  Obi held the creature as if it might bite or buck, but she cradled the night worm softly against her lips, breathing heavily through her nose at the first tickle, the first push; the first burst of pain.

  “On the way to done!” Maren enthused. “Obi, if you can hear me, I shall see you again when your face has settled. Remember to practice. Listen to the worm. Read voraciously. Recall that an attercop is running loose. Oh, and press this window’s screen back into place; I’ll be careful.”

  24

  Maren fell out of the window, cursing and kicking the ruined frame of the screen from around her ankles. She was certain she saw scratches on her neon shoes, but Uriah Lee tackled her, ending the inspection.

  “Winter’s antlers! You said you’d do a quick slaughter and we’d be on our way.” Uriah’s hand flew to her mouth. “No. Impossible. That girl’s into her moons. How’d you—?”

  “—How did I what? I didn’t kill her. The girl is as worthy as we, so there’s a new sister tonight. I gave her… oh my. She got Dottie Tommaso. Poor child—she’ll stab a quill through her ear before the sun climbs. At any rate, my last worm is bonded.”

  “To heck with the worm. Where’d you get the gift?”

  “Gift? If I don’t count candy… nowhere, is my answer. It’s been a long day, Uriah. Let me be. I don’t like people poking at my face.”

  “Poo!” Uriah grabbed Maren’s knotty braid and dusted the elder woman’s nose with the split ends.

  Maren shook her head in irritation. “Leap off, you pushy virago.”

  “Look!”

  Maren murmured a charm to help her see objects at close range and found it did nothing to improve her eyesight. “What the—is that a black hair? I’ve been silver for thirty years!” Maren exclaimed.

  “It was Tocaya. Had to be. She said—”

  “—Oh for the love of… Yes, she did—part of a greater transformation. Flour gravy! That explains the convulsions in my… I need to get home, Uriah. Blast her gift! I’m not ready to be young again. I’m scheduled to replace—”

  Uriah was in her arms again, kissing Maren’s cheeks, her chin, her oily forehead. “She gave you back to me!”

  “What? I’m not property! Help!” Maren cried in a mock falsetto. “Assault! Aid an old beldam! The powers that be have ganged-up on this wrinkled brush-hag!”

  “Wrinkled now—but not for long!” Uriah Lee cackled, jumping up and down as if her shoes contained springs. “You rock, Tocaya!” she screamed into the darkness.

  Maren patted at a disheveled braid and gave-up the cause as lost. “Are you going dancing, then?”

  “No.”

  “Do I want to know why?”

  “Because I want to be with you. I would like to be warm again. And in the morning, I could—”

  “—Disappear.”

  “No, you stale tart. In the morning, I would like breakfast. And then I want to train with you; I want to break-out a bonfire and the big pots.”

  “Let me into my bag. You’ve taken a fever.”

  Uriah Lee’s hair began to shiver and slide. “What I have is the suspicion of conspiracy. We’re being controlled, and I’m going to find those responsible.”

  “Sounds dangerous,” Maren said lightly. “Breakfast, I mean. I’ll take that on, if you don’t mind. If you remember the last time—”

  “—Cook what you want, but last time I was running. I always am. Running from myself; running into the easy gifts; into the arms of… I’m done with it. I need to know.”

  “Be careful, Uriah. You sound horribly close to looking into a mirror f
or more than a view of your new nose. What do you plan to make? Jeans with fewer rips in them?”

  “You’re being mean. I know I haven’t applied myself, but with some… I know you’ll be there. To remind me. To teach me. I have something you haven’t seen, Maren.”

  “I doubt that. You forget what we were. I can use my thumb and two fingers to explain the exact shape and position of three freckles in the small of your back.”

  “You have the Vasillias Nortus,” Uriah continued. “You did. A few pages from it. It only takes one—anything that can show what it chooses doesn’t need to be a tome. Did you think it a secret? And yet I’ve kept one from you.”

  “Mmm. I don’t have the Vasillias on a shelf, but… that’s the problem with secrets: to prove them is to share them. I believe you. Hiding things is your primary skill.”

  “There’s a reason I keep secrets, Maren. I must. But this one I’ve kept for… I practiced hiding petty things, from you and anyone else. From myself.”

  “Bah. I know you sing Vivaldi at each equinox, invoking Persephone’s shade. I know summer is your favorite movement, despite what you say to sound metal.”

  Uriah huffed. “Tocaya’s right: you know too much. This, though, you do not. There is a record; a memory. To inspect it will… it’ll disintegrate. The vessel will be lost.”

  Maren’s smile vanished. “You’re not… are you speaking of her?”

  “I am. My sister fought her condition. Refused to accept the curse. It was futile—she was killed.”

  “That much I knew.”

  “What you do not know is that she lived for years after she was left to… she was scarred, but she had time to learn, and to hate, and she solicited magic, which you’ll recall was available then as it is not today. She learned to pull herself into other items. She made a record. Incomplete, but close to… it was as much as she could spare and still exist.”

  “You have her memories? Her spells?”

  “Yes, Maren, I do. Shout it a little louder. I’ll shake you if Tocaya returns with a more vigorous pet than Feri.”

  “What of the ingredients? I have no idea where to find a kraken these days—don’t tell me the open ocean! And if I read one more ancient text demanding seven scales from an amphisbaena, I will lose my blessed mind.”

  Uriah tapped at a green spike of her short hair, which looked increasingly like a head of lettuce had been run through a wood chipper. “You’re right. The requirements are impossibly difficult to obtain, and that was then. It will be harder now.”

  Maren sighed. “I may beat you to bed. I may let you make breakfast. Burn your own pot, if you please; mine will need to see other action. You have her memories. I am too tired to be shocked. I should be excited, if chasing our death is exciting.” Maren waved a blood-stained finger. “This won’t be stealing mushrooms from a pixie’s garden.”

  “No,” Uriah said softly. “I found her at the end. My sister asked me to continue to… I couldn’t bear to break the seal. Thought I’d lose what little I had left of her. But Tocaya promised me that if we… you know how quests go. As to the recipes: yes, they’re old. There will be countless substitutions. Those will come from you. I trust no other.”

  “Substitutions? Uriah Lee, this is no cake that may fall and be attempted again. It is not a matter of whole wheat for bleached rye. If what you possess is half of what you suggest…”

  “It’s not like it has a foreword,” Uriah sniffed. “It’s known to me as Chrysaor’s Cookbook. If you can find the heart of a mountain, we could revive Geryon. I’d like to see what a simpering werewolf thinks of him.”

  “Geryon? Let’s not. Saints, I need a drink,” Maren said.

  “You said you were going to bed.”

  “A list can be expanded. Didn’t I give my night worms away? I should celebrate. I’d like a clay mug of mead to loosen the mind, and an hour to watch you dance. I suppose you’ll claim to be too sore.”

  Maren looked overhead and held her scarred right hand to the heavens, marking constellations to take the hour. “I know what it took to challenge Feri, but I don’t know if I can ever summon it again. Worries at me.”

  “Summon love? If you have lost the ability to recall it, we should practice that, too.” Uriah bumped Maren with the swell of her hips and hugged her briefly by the neck.

  “Yes, that’s all… what I didn’t mention was the cost of that spell. The grace of truth was child’s play.”

  “Oh.” Uriah looked simultaneously tired and abashed. “Do you know why?”

  “I’m pondering it. I thought it was a price to be paid. Old magic tends to be that way, especially without… yet it was more like a release—a lanced furuncle. I believe the spell compressed a timeline in the way of your accelerating nicket. Grated my every nerve. It was the act of a moment, a recipe without thought. I reached for power blindly, desperately. I assumed I was begging for new knowledge, but the ingredient I called was marinading in my bones. To let go of it was purest agony; it had grown into my being.”

  Uriah’s feet were silent on the rough path. “You… you let us go? You and I?”

  “No, but I was prepared to. I thought I had, once I began to see what I’d done. I need to recuperate, restock my stores, and view it by a new day… but I may have released only the worst of it. The bitterness. The hurt. What I endured may have been the passage of pain; a garden hose vibrating as water rushes through. I would hate to have been… poor Feri. I will need to apologize.”

  “Yeah,” Uriah said, though her voice lacked conviction. They walked unsteadily through the dark, leaning together. Uriah was silent as she mulled the implications of Maren’s words.

  “Tocaya spoke to me. Confirmed our fears. There’s rot in the sisterhood. If it has not overrun the high council, it will. It only begins with the gift—and the gift is failing. She didn’t say as much, but Tocaya is badly afflicted. More than she let on. You must have felt her… instability.”

  “That’s an understatement. I won’t let these evil works continue uninvestigated.”

  “Nor will I. But I have to know you’ll—may I never know my mother’s shade!”

  “Uriah Lee! What a horrible thing to say.”

  “Good! I feel horrible! I need you, Maren. I’ve lost battles in the past. Wars. Friends. Those were setbacks, but it’s never been the end of the world. We won, those times it would have been.” Uriah composed herself. “Without you, you silver hag, I have nothing to fight for—no reason. Nothing to drive my… is this my punishment?”

  “Do you see me striking you? I am not asking for what you will later pretend was an apology.”

  “No, you never ask. You don’t hit. But you do run. Not like I do, but it’s… you hid away for how many years? If you don’t know, I can tell you the count of days.”

  “Uriah, if I was… reclusive… know that I was compelled to study. To practice. It was paramount that… you knew where I was.”

  “Did I? On the planet, yes. You were somewhere, and you were without me. I had to choke knowing you were content, for you didn’t change the arrangement. Each year, I danced until my feet bled. I hoped I’d someday find you in the audience. But you chose to be alone: that is the ingredient you use most. Isolation.”

  “That’s not… well, maybe. It’s not easy to concentrate when you’ve got… Uriah, I won’t leave you to this alone. You may blacken my second-best crock, if you must. Tomorrow. For now, I have a bent scissorwing and a herd of tachyderms, my atelier beckons, and my cauldron is cold. If we have to collect siren tears or melt another live album to replenish my beasts and burdens, I don’t want to hear a word of it until morning.”

  “What do you have left to lose? For vinyl, I mean.”

  “I’ve got Beast from the East and Live After Death in the plastic—I’ve held those back for years. It is criminal that I must deny myself those to make a batch of attercops. But, as I said, those concerns are for tomorrow. Until then, I vow I’ll steal a handful of hood ornaments on my w
ay to a goose down pillow and a long snore.”

  “Deal,” Uriah said, bouncing. “Where will you put me?”

  “You may sleep where you like.”

  “Hah! Remember that! You may regret those words. Or perhaps not…”

  “A streak in my hair doesn’t make me a randy cougar. I want a bed, Uriah. I want to think. I want to rest and heal. Lastly, I want a big breakfast. Unburned,” Maren added. In truth, however, she far less exhausted than she had been. “It’d be a change if Tocaya’s gift doesn’t prove to be a curse. I was just getting used to being useless.”

  “Snap out of it. When we wake, be ready to teach. I can manage breakfast if you aren’t fussy… but I need to know more. My hand is required in what we must bring. Tocaya said so. I have tons of recipes we can adjust. I’ve always been a collector, I just haven’t been…”

  “Promise to be a good student, and promise you won’t complain if you lose hair or hand. Promise you will make no substitutions without consultation. Then you have your deal, since you demand it.” Maren accepted Uriah’s arm and looped her scarred hand through a bent elbow, muttering.

  “I don’t know how you can think of sleep,” Uriah said, walking in an expanded dance step.

  “Well, I can. I have a dispenser of Miska tonic from the days of quinine, but I’m without any gin—someone drank my last bottle. Nor do I feel up to making mead. If we need a nightcap, there’s a Falernian I left lying about…”

  Uriah’s eyes glowed. “You wouldn’t tease me with that. Sweet or dry?”

  “Decide for yourself. It’s old, I can tell you that—old for wine.”

  “You’re serious. Evil thing! You were holding-out on me,” Uriah said, more excited than upset. "Say that I may mix it! Pleaassse? Falernian pairs perfectly with kykeon, and I know just where to—”

  “—Oh no you don’t. Not tonight. We’ll have visions aplenty in the coming weeks—real ones. As to that, I’m already seeing stars. The lamps are blown-out, the clouds were cleared by a giant to shame Atlas… but nonetheless, I see more stars than the heavens should hold.”