by Jeremy Hepler
Copyright © 2019 Jeremy Hepler
Front Cover Artwork by Alan M. Clark
Graphic Design by Kenneth W. Cain
Formatted by Kenneth W. Cain
Edited by Kenneth W. Cain
All rights reserved.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the authors’ imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, without the prior permission in writing of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
For my wife Tricia and all the other lovely Garcia-Ayala women.
HOW TO CRAFT A CRICKET STICK
Instructions given by Yesenia Garcia-Ayala, Bruja, Curandera
The crafter should sever the limb from a living tree with their bare hands, alone. No tools. No onlookers. No help from anyone else. Preferably, the crafter will have grown with the tree, watered its roots, climbed its branches, danced in its shade, sung with the birds it housed. The deeper the crafter’s connection to the tree, the more powerful the weapon.
Upright, the limb should stand shoulder-high to the crafter and be slightly tapered, the fattest end measuring about half the size of the crafter’s wrist. Using a single stone or series of stones found as near to the tree as possible, the crafter must sharpen the skinny end of the branch to a fine point.
Once the point is honed enough to pierce flesh, it should be used to shed the crafter’s blood. A slice or jab to the palm, usually. The wound must be deep enough to draw at least four drops of blood. One for the earth the tree seeded from, one for the air it swayed and spread its seed in, one for the water that nourished it, and one for the fire that will strengthen it. These four drops must soak into the sharpened tip, and then the tip must be hardened by a flame sparked by the crafter, preferably using only nature’s tools—loose twigs, dry sticks, and tinder gathered from underneath the tree. If a friction fire is unattainable, a wooden match that has undergone a purity ritual will suffice.
After the tip cools, the crafter must mark the stick with a number, letter, or symbol sacred to them, a unique design or stamp that represents their spirit’s greatest strength. The mark should be carved into the stick with the same stone, or one of the many stones, used to sharpen it.
Finally, with one hand on the giving tree and the other holding the stick above their head, the crafter must say the bonding spell out loud three times.
Prepared properly, the stick will be bound to the crafter, a servant to their will, forever.
SEPTEMBER 2013
Chapter 1 – Cel
Cel closed her eyes when Parker’s cell phone vibrated just before seven A.M. She’d been lying in bed an arm’s distance away from him for nearly an hour, watching him snore, remembering when they used to sleep with their legs woven seamlessly together, their heads on the same pillow. They’d been together fourteen years, married six, and she’d never felt this disconnected from him. Sure, they’d suffered their fair share of rough patches over the years, survived a couple of temporary splits even, but this time the gap between them felt wider, deeper. Almost impassable.
She pretended to sleep as Parker grabbed his phone off the nightstand, eased out of bed, and snuck into the bathroom. When the door clicked shut, she smothered her face with his pillow and pushed hot, heavy breaths into the cotton. She had no doubts about whom the caller was: Lauren Page. Miss fucking Page. The new seventh grade English teacher at Oak Mott Middle School. Parker’s fresh-out-of-college mentee. The skinny brunette who called and texted with no regard to time. Cel had met the woman face-to-face twice, both times when she’d gone to the school unannounced to visit Parker during lunch, and she’d found Miss Mentee’s bubbly greeting and perfect smile as much a façade as her cherry red lipstick and fake nails.
Cel tossed the pillow aside when she heard the toilet flush and made her way to the closet. She had her jogging shorts and tank top on, her hair pulled back in a ponytail, and her blue running shoes in her hands when Parker came out of the bathroom. He stopped at the foot of the bed and adjusted his boxers.
“You leaving?” he asked.
Without looking his way, Cel knelt, slid on a shoe, and cinched the laces tight enough to make a hiss. She didn’t have any proof he’d slept with Lauren, only a hunch, a fear. An intuition so strong she couldn’t hold it inside any longer. “Are you fucking her?”
“What?”
“That was Lauren, right?”
Parker tossed his phone onto the unmade bed and smirked. “Are you serious?”
Cel scooped up the other shoe and stood, eyeing him with unbreakable focus.
Parker hesitated, ran his hand through his hair for a few seconds before answering. “Am I…No. I’m not fucking her. We’re just friends. Co-workers. You know that.”
Cel squeezed the blue sneaker with both hands as her pulse quickened. She wanted to believe him, wanted to give him the benefit of the doubt, but she knew him too well. He’d hesitated too long. “Don’t lie to me, Parker.”
“I’m not.”
Cel glanced at his phone on the bed, took a deep breath. “It’s pretty obvious something more than lesson planning is going on between you two.”
Parker dipped his chin and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Jesus Christ, Cel.” He looked up. “You’re freaking out over nothing again.”
“Am I? Am I? Then tell me why you talk and text with her all the fucking time? Why do you leave the room every time she calls? Why do you hang out with her for hours after work?”
“It’s my job to talk to her. To listen to her. To help her. I’m her mentor, remember?” Parker enunciated the word mentor slow and loud, as though Cel wouldn’t understand the meaning otherwise. “I leave the room for privacy when I talk to a lot of people. The same way you do when you talk to Natalie or your abuela. Get over it”
Cel fought against the urge to throw the shoe at him. “Why have you suddenly decided to start going to the gym again after years of not giving a shit? The same gym she goes to.”
“It’s the only gym in our neighborhood. And I haven’t…wait…” An inquisitive look passed over Parker’s face like a shadow. “How did you know she goes there, anyway?”
“I didn’t until now.”
Parker pushed out a loud breath. “Listen, I started going there before she even moved here. I’ve only seen her there once, for God’s sake.” He grabbed the flabby flesh drooping over his boxer waistband and jiggled it. “This is why I go. Not because of her.”
Cel’s gaze slid to Parker’s wallet on the nightstand. A key to Lauren’s apartment was wedged between his driver’s license and debit card. She’d supposedly given it to him so he could feed her fish when she went to Austin over Labor Day weekend. “Why do you still have the key to her apartment?”
Parker’s brow knitted. “Have you been going through my wallet?” When Cel didn’t immediately answer, he stepped toward her. “Is that what this is about? Her stupid fucking key?” He tapped his chest. “I tried to give it back, but she asked me to hold onto it in case of an emergency because she doesn’t know many people in town yet. I keep it in my wallet so I won’t lose it.” He marched to his nightstand, fished the key out of his wallet, marched over to Cel and held it out. His face and neck had reddened to match the color of his boxers. “Here. If you’re that fucking paranoid, then take it.”
Cel searched Parker’
s face but didn’t move. She could tell by the look in his eyes and the sour adrenaline stench of his breath that his frustration would soon boil over into anger if she continued peppering him with questions. Her emotions were on the brink as well, and she didn’t want another physical-altercation-notch on their belt. She swallowed hard and flashed a submissive yet condescending smile. “Taking that will serve no purpose on my end.”
A thick curtain of silence dropped between them. They held eye contact for a long moment, until Parker’s phone sliced through the tense silence. The vibration was just a slight rattle, barely audible in the mess of sheets, but it impacted Cel with the force of a fire alarm. She shook her head, turned, and stormed out of the room with an awkward gait due to only wearing one shoe.
As she approached the kitchen at the end of the hall, Parker mumbled something and slammed the bedroom door shut. The force rattled the pictures hanging on the wall beside her. She whispered her go-to calming spell, her security blanket, put on her second shoe, grabbed her cell phone and earbuds off the kitchen table, and closed the front door hard enough for Parker to know she’d left.
Chapter 2 - Cel
When Cel rounded the corner onto Matador Lane, Parker’s Camry was no longer in the driveway behind her Envoy. She slowed to walk and laced her hands behind her head. The five-mile jog through Woodway Park and a good dose of The Eagles had calmed her nerves some, loosened her rigid muscles, and she hoped a hot shower would finish the job.
In the foyer, she instinctively whispered a dissolving spell as she removed her earbuds. She’d learned the spell, like all spells, from her abuela. After every fight or disagreement they’d had when Cel was a child, Yesenia would walk around the house with a fistful of burning sage, whispering the spell, forcing Cel to follow and whisper it as well, in order to dispel any lingering energia maligna. Cel knew the spell couldn’t work without Parker participating, or without the sage for that matter, but she couldn’t help herself. The spell came without thought. Like many of them did.
She threw on jeans and a T-shirt after showering, and then made her way to the kitchen, where she filled Mila’s food and water bowls and downed a shot of wheatgrass before locking up the house and heading over to her abuela’s. Yesenia had retired from Allied Foods two months earlier, and they’d met for brunch three days a week since.
Yesenia lived in a small, three-bedroom house in the Gateway neighborhood on the east side of Oak Mott—the same painted-brick house Cel had grown up in. A hurricane fence blanketed with ivy bordered the front yard, and two giant slippery elms stood guard on either side of the walkway leading to the front door.
On the porch, Cel readjusted the potted herbs, peppers, jasmine, aloe, and plumeria, allowing the dappled sunshine to kiss new leaves. She’d helped care for her abuela’s plants as a child, one of the few chores she didn’t mind back then. She’d hated mowing the lawn, having to use the clothesline in the backyard to dry the laundry, and washing the dishes by hand, but she loved tending to the plants, nurturing them. A group of similar plants were in terra cotta pots on her own back porch, most grafted from these.
She called out for her abuela as she stepped inside the house. The smell of jalapenos and the hiss of sizzling grease filled the air. She called out again as she made her way into the kitchen and found Yesenia in front of the stove stirring a pan of migas. Yesenia stuck out her cheek without looking at Cel, and Cel kissed it. “Good morning, mija.”
Cel sat at the table in the center of the kitchen behind Yesenia and sighed as though a weight had been lifted off her chest. Nothing in the kitchen had changed in thirty years. The same grease-stained, flower-patterned linoleum covered the floor. The same yellow paint flaked away from the cupboards. The same pouch of blessed, dried bay leaves—maleta de curacion—dangled from a hook above the sink. The same long silver braid fell down her abuela’s back. And this morning, the same spicy version of migas was cooking in the same cast iron pot on the same gas-burner stove as it had most mornings when Cel was a kid. In her teens, she’d constantly complained about the never-ending sameness, calling Yesenia dull and predictable, but now, especially given the recent instability in her own home and marriage, she found comfort in it. Stability felt good.
Yesenia loaded two plates with steaming migas, placed one in front of Cel, and sat down across from her. Her forehead was slick with sweat, the chest of her knee-length purple dress speckled with grease. She picked up one of the two glasses of black tea she’d brewed earlier and smiled. “Fuerza y salud.”
“Strength and health,” Cel repeated, and sipped her tea.
Inspecting Cel’s face with her eyes, Yesenia scooped a forkful of eggs into her mouth and spoke as she chewed. “What’s wrong?”
Cel picked at her eggs, took a small bite. Like the house, her abuela never changed. Direct and to the point as always.
“I can tell something’s off with you, mija.” Yesenia shoved another forkful into her mouth, then drew an invisible circle in the air around Cel’s face with the fork. “Tirada.”
Cel chewed slowly, swallowed. “Parker and I had a fight this morning.”
Yesenia continued eating. “About?”
Cel took a warm tortilla out of the comal in the center of the table, tore off a small chunk and shoved it in her mouth. “I asked him if he was sleeping with Lauren.”
Yesenia nodded. “What did he say?”
“He got pissed and denied it. Said I was paranoid and freaking out over nothing.”
Lightly shaking her head, Yesenia smirked with half of her mouth. “Of course, he did. He’s a man.”
Cel shoved another small chunk of tortilla in her mouth and shook her head. “If he hasn’t slept with her already, I’m afraid he might soon if something doesn’t change.”
Yesenia took a drink of tea as Cel poked at her eggs. “Did you try the rekindling spell we talked about last month?”
“Uh-huh. A few weeks ago. But it obviously didn’t help much.”
The grooves bracketing Yesenia’s mouth deepened as a knowing smile touched her lips. She pointed at Cel with her fork. “I told you that spell was a cooperation spell and would only work if in his heart he wanted the same as you.” She took another big bite and eyed Cel as she chewed and swallowed. “It would’ve been better to use a stronger spell on him that might be able to bend his will enough to—”
Cel waved her hand, cutting off Yesenia. “I don’t want to bend his will. I just want that Lauren bitch to leave him alone. She swooped in when we were already in a rocky place because of the miscarriage and started throwing herself at him like a temptress. I think it’s a game to her. A few weeks ago, she even gave him a key to her apartment.”
Yesenia’s stopped chewing mid-bite, her eyes widening.
“Right,” Cel continued. “He said she gave it to him so he could feed her fish when she went out of town to visit her parents, but I don’t know. I just…” She trailed off, scanned the yellow and white mushroom-shaped jars lining the counter, then locked eyes with Yesenia. “He still has it. He said she told him to keep it in case of an emergency since she doesn’t know many people in town.”
Shaking her head in disbelief, Yesenia pushed the last of her migas into a small pile. “Dar de comer al pez. Chingao.” She shoveled the bite in her mouth and set her fork on the plate. “Are you going to confront her?”
Cel shrugged. “I don’t know what to do.”
Yesenia wiped the corners of her mouth with a napkin, dropped it on her plate, and clasped her hands together on her lap. “Have you tried any spells on her?”
Looking down at her plate, Cel lied by shaking her head. She’d been raised to believe that if spells and rituals were used in the right way, cast or performed by a dedicated, well-versed bruja with an enlightened spirit, they could influence anything from hair thickness to emotions. Yesenia had pounded into her head that failure to achieve results was never the craft’s lack of power. It was the bruja’s. Although, at thirty years old, Cel didn’t
crave her abuela’s approval as strongly as when she was a child, she still felt ashamed admitting that the rekindling spell she’d tried on Parker had failed, and she didn’t want to add to that humility by admitting failure with the one she’d tried on Lauren, too.
Yesenia stood and picked up her plate. “I know a few that might help keep her away. If you want, I’ll write them down for you.”
Cel smiled a pleased smile not at the offer, but at the thought of how her abuela wrote everything down with pencil and paper like it was 1920. Another example of how time stood still at 314 Cobalt Street. Despite repeated attempts by Cel, at least on the cell phone end, Yesenia had refused to acclimate to the Internet age. She still occasionally sent Cel letters in the mail. “Okay.”
Yesenia gestured at Cel’s plate. “Acabaste?”
Cel nodded, and Yesenia took the plate and dumped the eggs in a scrap bowl beside the sink. As Yesenia washed the dishes, Cel brought the comal and glasses over to the counter. She tossed the leftover tortillas into the scrap bowl, wiped down the table, then dried the dishes and put them away as Yesenia cleaned the stovetop. They’d repeated this sequence of events so many times that they moved around the small kitchen like two mute dancers gliding through an obstacle course. Each knew exactly when to twist sideways to make room for the other, when to pause before opening a cupboard, when to pass the other a towel or rag or spray bottle.
Yesenia passed Cel the scrap bowl to end the dance. “Take that to the ninas, and I’ll go write down those spells.”
Cel stepped out onto the back porch, and all four hens noticed the bowl and sprinted for her. They knew the multi-colored bowl better than they knew their own talons. “Hey, ladies.” They followed her into the center of the yard, and she scattered the scraps beneath the pear tree. As they pecked, she scanned the tree line beyond the hurricane fence that cordoned off the large backyard. The wooded area was known to locals as Hunter’s Haven because of the large number of white tail deer and rabbits that lived there. It stretched for miles beyond the eastern edge of Oak Mott. Sparse patches of leaves had already begun to change into fall shades of maroon and gold, speckling the dark green canopy like distant stars.
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