The Price Guide to the Occult(7)
“The Price Guide to the Occult,” she read aloud. “Intriguing title.” She flipped the book over. “A collection of magick spells, passed down for generations and now available for common use for the first time ever. They even spell magick with a k.”
“If that doesn’t make it legit, I don’t know what does,” Nor said sardonically. In most of those so-called spell books, the spells typically read more like recipes, most of which, for reasons Nor had never been able to understand, required the person who cast them to be naked under a full moon. She doubted very much that this spell book was any different.
“Wait,” Savvy said, flipping through the pages. “It’s not actually a spell book.”
“What is it then?”
“It’s exactly what it says it is. A price guide. A catalog, like the kind they put out for tulip bulbs every spring. You send in your order form and your money, and then I guess they cast the spell for you.”
“That’s generous of them.”
“Isn’t it? Because apparently magick-with-a-k is far easier to perform when someone is willing to pay for it.”
“Well, it is the American way.”
“Yup. There’s a free one in the front that you can cast yourself. Claims to help with memory. What do you think? Feeling forgetful today?” Savvy’s smile dropped. “Oh wait, it says, ‘non-practitioners of conjuration’ — it really does say that — must perform a blood sacrifice first.’ What a load of crap.”
“Let me see that.” Nor pulled the book from Savvy’s grasp. She read the advertised spell, absentmindedly fiddling with the bandage on her finger.
It was a spell. A real spell.
As a child, Nor had spent every winter solstice, full moon, and spring equinox with Madge and the rest of her coven of wannabe witches. They would gather in the clearing near Celestial Lake to sing songs and dance around a bonfire with flowers in their hair, chanting “spells”: meaningless words strung together with the intention of rhyming more than casting magic.
But this spell was nothing like that. This was a Blackburn spell, the kind only Rona herself could cast. How in the hell did it end up here? Nor opened the book. And that was when she saw her face: those piercing green eyes; that provocative stare; the fingernails filed to a point and painted with scarlet lacquer; matching red lips; a complexion so pale her skin appeared to be made of porcelain. Her hair was different, now a shiny orange-red cut in the style of a 1940s starlet. All cheekbones and coy. After all this time, there she was again.
An onslaught of memories filled Nor’s head. The night sky bright with fire. The charred black of burned skin. Pools of blood. The scars on Nor’s arms and wrists began to hum in anticipation. Her fingers tingled with want for something sharp.
“What is it?” Savvy asked, her voice wavering with concern. “Nor, what’s wrong?”
The thump of Nor’s frantic heart was so loud she didn’t hear Madge coming up behind them until it was too late. Madge grabbed the book from Nor and stared at the photo. Then, clutching the book to her chest, Madge let out a strangled moan, as if a part of her had shriveled and withered away.
“It’s my mother,” Nor whispered.
Nor’s run after work that day took her far into the interior of the island, around Celestial Lake, past the waterfall, and up into the cliffs that edged the island’s western shore. She paused there, wiping the sweat from her face and catching her breath while she admired the view. Nor never grew tired of it. All choppy gray water and gray skies and no one but an occasional breaching humpback whale as far as the eye could see.
Two tiny sparrows hopped along the branch of a nearby pine tree, fluffing up their feathers in the rain and chirping at each other fondly. Animals, Nor had learned, have their own names for each other. Best translated, they were typically things like Winsome, Persnickety, and Sanctimonious. Of these two, one called himself Vigilant, the other Balderdash.
Out in the water, a pod of orcas moved gracefully through the waves. She could just make out the black splotches of their dorsal fins through the drizzling rain. Their thoughts were content and peaceful, and Nor could feel the quiet of the world below the surface wash over her. She closed her eyes, and she was there with them, gliding through those cold waters. Ribbons of sea kelp anchored to the ocean floor brushed against her belly. Tiny fish darted in and out of view. Nor opened her eyes and sighed.
To Rona and her forebears, being able to communicate with nature had meant being able to sway the movement of the tides; to bring rain to parched lands; and to come to the aid of the whales in the sea, the birds in the sky, and the beasts on the land. On her best days, Nor could sometimes predict the weather. It was nothing compared to what her grandmother could do, and Nor had done all she could to keep it that way. She had as much interest in manipulating a passing rainstorm as she did in trying to control the ever-changing color of Savvy’s hair.
She liked the simplicity of this Burden. She liked knowing that rose bushes could fall in love and that leaves sang as they fell, a lilting sigh synchronous with their slow descent to the ground. Most trees could dream as well; all Nor had to do was observe a forest at dusk to know it was true.
The leaves’ autumn song accompanied Nor as she took the long way home, choosing the trail that curved around the lake instead of Meandering Lane. The rain had stopped, and the air felt cold and crisp in her lungs. Her arms pumping at her sides, Nor tried to push out the image of Madge that kept playing in her head. It scared Nor to think of how she’d wilted to the floor as soon as that book was in her grasp, suddenly transforming into the faded, fragile shell that Fern had left behind years ago. What could her mother accomplish with a multitude of fans like Madge at her service? Fans willing and able to do just about anything to keep Fern happy?