by Abra Ebner
Gregory walked toward me, “Where are my manners?” He shoved his hand toward me. “I’m Greg, Max’s brother.”
I swallowed, hoping the fear in my face didn’t give away my secret. I was too shocked to take his hand, not to mention too afraid of what would happen if I did. He gave up and dropped it to his side. “Rather rude guest,” he spoke under his voice.
The room was thick with tension, the clocks now the only sound. Gregory took a seat beside me as the legs of the chair scraped against the old wood floor. He was smiling as though nothing were wrong. He hastily grabbed some food and I watched him heap a plate.
“Man…” he addressed the room as everyone stared. Clearly there was something more to this than the tension between him and me. There was a tension between everyone. “I’m starving! Aren’t you, Max? Seems like ages since I last ate.” He threw a look toward Max, tilting his head. I couldn’t understand the emotion on his face.
Max stood. Gregory dropped his fork to the plate, standing faster than I’d ever seen anyone stand before. He still held a table knife in his other hand, his body poised for attack.
I saw Max’s jaw tighten, his fists clenched at his sides.
Gregory’s hand lowered, and he threw the knife onto the table with a loud clank. Food flung from the blade, and I was quick to dodge a bit of potato. “I guess I’ll take my dinner in the other room then, if no one minds?” Gregory snatched his plate from the table as he turned, leaving the room without another word or explanation said.
Max sat frozen for a moment before sitting once more, placing his napkin back in his lap. I said nothing, feeling the awkward displacement of family drama, and then also my own anxieties because of my dreams.
Erik wiped his mouth. “Please excuse my… grandson.
He’s—”
“Erik.” Max’s voice was cold, silencing his grandfather. His face terrified me, but as he caught my eye, the anger faded. “Sorry, Jane. Please excuse my brother. He had a bad day at school, I’m afraid.”
I swallowed, hoping my voice wouldn’t crack. “He goes to Glenwood High?” I also knew this, but begged for something to disprove the fact that he really was in my dream.
Max nodded, sipping a glass of water. “He does.”
I exhaled, hoping that perhaps I’d seen him after all, but then forgot. Maybe that was why I’d seen him in my dreams, so maybe I wasn’t as crazy as I suspected.
“We have a lot of rough family history,” he added.
Erik nodded in agreement.
“Things here get tough with three men under one roof.” Max was calmer now.
I took a bite of food, chewing delicately as the clocks still ticked. I swallowed, finding it hard to eat. “I understand. My house is full of three women. Things get tough there, too.” I raised my brows. “You saw how it is, Max.”
He laughed. “I did. It does remind me of our home here.”
Erik cleared his throat. “So, Jane. My grandson says you’re interested in history?” Erik moved on to something more appealing, and I tried to forget about Gregory.
“I am.” I pushed food around my plate.
“Well, what would you like to know?” He was more than obliging, and the change of subject was a much needed improvement.
The fork in my hand suddenly felt lighter. “I know that you focus on the mythological and magickal past. Is it difficult to back your findings? I’ve read through all your writing, but you never mention how it is that you know for certain that these things exist.”
Erik slowly chewed, his knife scraping across the plate. “Most often, people accuse me of making up lies. No one wants to believe what I know.”
His answer skirted around my question. “So, when you say what you know, you mean that you’ve seen these things first hand?”
Erik pushed his lips out in thought. “Perhaps I have.”
I gave up on that question. “How is that some people come to posses magick? You don’t mention that, either. You mention artifacts, and already existing beings, but no way of knowing how it could be passed on. Do you believe that magick is hereditary?”
He placed his fork on the edge of his plate, dropping his hands into his lap and leaning back in the wheelchair. “There are three kinds of magick: hereditary, learned, and Sheol. But what you need to understand is that it’s all supernatural, or Heavenly. You see, long ago, a woman named Pandora—”
I interrupted him. “Yes, the Greek goddess that was sent to Earth with a jar of evils. She opened it out of weakness and curiosity, releasing evil among the world. In other words, she released magick.”
Erik grinned, impressed by my knowledge. “Yes, exactly. It’s Heaven’s magick on Earth, so you can see the controversy.”
I nodded gravely.
“But as I was saying, hereditary is rather rare, but the learned magick is an art that can be passed through generations. Learned magick is magick that almost anyone can do, as long as you’ve been touched by the gift. The problem is, no one realizes they can, and there are a lack of texts to teach it. Hereditary magic is a deeper, stronger form. It includes shape shifters, mind readers, and sorcerers that naturally carry the gift without any magickal training at all, and they can pass it to their offspring.”
He took a bite of food, but then continued.
“The kind of magick that one is born into is much stronger than the kind that can be learned, and far more impulsive.” Erik was glancing toward Max. “And then there are some forms of magick that happen somewhere between learned and hereditary, perhaps a result of a traumatic event, or brush with death, or death itself. This is called Sheol magick.
“Sheol?” I asked.
“It’s the Hebrew word for Hades, or Hell, but this does not mean that those with it are devilish, or dammed—it’s more subjective than that. This kind of magick is very volatile, a brush with the divine world that leaves a lasting mark. Because of this, beings find themselves in the world of Sheol—”
“Hell?” I blurted, horrified.
Erik laughed. “No. It’s the in-between. It’s a place we go to be judged so to speak, the place we go when we have unfinished business.”
I listened to his story as the hairs on my arms stood on end. Sheol. I’d never heard the term used before today. Nowhere in his grandfather’s texts had Erik ever mentioned it. “I never knew it was so extensive! But tell me, Erik. The Sheol magick, have you ever known someone inflicted by it?” I pressed.
Erik smirked to himself. “I know you are an open minded girl. I can see it in your eyes.” There was a look on his face I couldn’t quite place. “I have seen it before.”
I hung on his words, noticing the gravity in his tone.
“Sheol magick occurs because the soul was supposed to die, but was either spared or unwilling to leave this realm. You believe in angels, don’t you?”
I bit my lip. “I suppose I do.” I had to believe because I had no choice. I knew what I saw the day my father died. I saw the shadowed beings, and the objects hanging from their backs. They were not human.
“Angels posses a form of Sheol magic—a very rare form. So rare, that perhaps there are only a handful of these beings in existence. Angels are souls that have in fact died, but refuse to leave. They are tied to this realm by unfinished business. Until they unlock what it is that binds them here, they cannot go on. They are stuck in Sheol. It is interesting to find that angels are the only beings that can actually spare a soul from death, being that they seem ill-fit to make such decisions. This is why, in the angel world, it is typically frowned upon to spare a soul, and angels like to follow the rules. But every so often an exception comes along, and the angel is left to decide. If the angel chooses to save the soul before them, stating a valid reason, they are then bound to that human and become their guardians until their natural death.” He scanned my eyes as they glimmered. “You may be familiar with the term guardian angels.”
I nodded.
Erik smiled. “There are many types of angels, m
y dear. But the guardians are by far the fiercest, but also the sweetest.”
I thought about the foreseen death I’d seen when I shook Erik’s hand earlier. Erik was lying in bed very still, but then Max was there beside him, like a guardian. Never had I seen another being other than me in a foreseen death, but where Max was consistently alive within in his own omen, it somehow seemed acceptable.
“What about those they do save? What becomes of them?”
Erik grinned to himself. “They are also Sheol, but of an opposite form. These special, also rare beings are tied to Sheol because they did not die, though they should have.”
I swallowed hard. I was supposed to die. My life here is a lie.
Erik folded his hands on the table. “What you need to understand is that there was a time when magick was more prevalent on Earth, almost trendy. People inflicted with these talents should not feel ashamed. It saddens me to see that magick has become as big of a myth as Santa Claus.”
“But why?” My gaze was locked on his. For a long time I’d dreamed of a place where I could belong, a place where other people like me could coexist in an open environment.
“It’s controversial, my dear, as I pointed out before. People with magick understand that in order to protect the human race, it is safer to remain anonymous. Otherwise, the social balance of this world will topple.”
“Why doesn’t magick take over and control the world? Like a Heaven-on-Earth?”
Erik laughed at my question as though it were obvious. “Certain magickal beings know what kind of destruction that could cause, because there is also the possibility of Hell-on-Earth. Within the magical world, there are the bad and the good—those that cohabitate with the human race, and those that would rather eradicate them. A long time ago, dark magick tried to take over, but was quickly squashed. It was then that it all seemed to disappear, or go into hiding.”
I tilted my head. “So, it’s sort of a war.”
“Exactly.” Erik nodded once, telling me I’d reached a concluding point.
Max put his fork down, and the clang of it broke my attention away from Erik. His food was pushed around the plate, but barely eaten. His eyes met mine, and I was reminded of his presence beside me. “Are you done?” he asked.
My hunger was completely gone. “Yes.” The things Erik had told me where things I’d desperately wanted to know.
Max looked to his grandfather and then stood, placing his napkin on the plate before him. He offered me his hand. I took it, and he lifted me from my chair with little effort. “Erik, please excuse us.”
Erik nodded and smiled. “Of course! Don’t let this crazy old man hold you back! My tall tales are a bore to most, I’m afraid.”
I giggled. “Oh, no, Erik. I very much appreciated you taking the time. I very much enjoyed the opportunity to speak with you.”
“I’m sure you did, my dear.” He bowed lightly in his chair.
Max gave him a polite partial bow in return. They were so formal!
“Br—Grandfather, have a good night.” Max said his good-byes and turned.
He gently tugged my hand and I followed his lead.
So there was hope for my abilities after all. I had Sheol magick.
Emily:
“Well, when did she say she would be back?” I was yelling at my mother as I paced the room.
She eyed Wes as he sat on the nearby couch, his growing body causing the cushion to sink dangerously low.
My mother put her hands up, trying to calm me. “Emily, I hardly think that you should—”
“That I should what, Mother?” I knew what she was going to say. How was it that she could drag my own misfit past into this? I understand that I’d been a horrible daughter, but never were my actions life-threatening as she assumed at this moment.
“Just calm down, Em. Jane’s with that nice Max Gordon kid.” She had a dreamy look on her face as she shrugged, oblivious to the possible danger. “He seems very nice, and polite.” She continued to eye Wes, discomfited by my embarrassing display of anger.
I rolled my eyes. If she only knew how dangerous Max was, or at least how dangerous I supposed he was. I grumbled, storming toward Wes and grabbing his arm. “Wes, come on.” I yanked him off the couch, finding his weight was close to impossible to budge.
My mother exhaled, putting the moment behind her. “Where are you guys going?”
For the first time she didn’t seem concerned, but simply curious. It felt strange to hear her treat me that way, and I knew it was because I was with Wes. She worshiped the ground Wes walked on, figuring he could do no wrong.
I held his hand longer than I should. My mother’s hawk-like eyes began to put the pieces together as she analyzed the nature of our relationship. Her gaze narrowed. “Are you two dat—”
“No, Mother.” I cut her off, leaning my weight on one foot and dropping Wes’s hand like it were a hot potato. She was analyzing my face now, noticing the change in my makeup. I grumbled and turned away from her, marching toward the door. Wes followed, and before she could say another word, we were gone.
Max:
Jane followed me down the hall, thinking about the things Erik had told her. I rubbed my hands together, turning into the library. I heard her gasp as we entered.
“Look at all these books!” She exclaimed.
I turned. “Yes, we have a lot.”
“Are any of these magick books? Like your grandfather talked about?” Jane walked to a nearby shelf, running her hands lovingly over the spines.
“Some are,” I shrugged, not knowing which ones were magick anymore. To me, books about magick were common place at this point.
“Where did he find them?”
“Here and there over time. Some he found in this house, much like the ring, and some he found elsewhere.”
“Did you have magick in your family?”
I didn’t know what to say. Erik had been adopted into the alchemist’s magickal world, but my real family did not have magick until it came to my brothers and me. Our death, or our near death, left us all stuck in the world of Sheol. “Yeah, in the past. But it wasn’t hereditary.” I figured that was vague enough that it wasn’t a lie.
She saw the cello then, and forgot about the books in their entirety. I was relieved to find we were on to a new subject. Her steps floated across the room and she sat on the bench beside it. I followed her, lifting the cello off the stand and handing it to her. She traced her fingers across the strings, snugging it between her knees.
“Do you play?” I asked. Of course I knew that she did because of her thoughts in the car on the way here, but I tried to stick to social conventions and pretend I didn’t know what she was thinking.
“A little.” She was being modest.
I grinned to myself, leaning against the nearby wall. “Play something.”
Jane’s smile faded. “Oh,” she shook her head, her eyes wide. “No. No, I couldn’t.”
“Come on,” I pressed, narrowing my eyes.
She placed the cello back on the stand, folding her hands into her lap. “I can’t, Max.” She looked up at me, searching my eyes. “I should have specified. I used to play, but not anymore.”
“You loved it, didn’t you?” It was more of a statement to me than a question.
Her face grew pink. “I did.”
“Then why did you stop?” I pressed her, pushing the memories of her father to the surface.
She didn’t answer for a long while as she ran her hand back and forth across her knee. “My mother used to play, until my father died. Then she stopped. I missed the music, so I taught myself. My mother doesn’t know about it, but it’s my way of remembering my father, and finding a sense of peace.”
I knelt toward Jane, moving behind her. I reached for the cello, my chin hovering just above her shoulder and close to her ear. I could feel her resentment toward my actions. I ran my hand slowly down her leg, placing the cello between her knees. I placed one hand on the neck, the other no
w grasping the bow. “My parents used to play all the time.”
She relaxed into my arms as they wrapped around her, my cheek against her ear as I whispered.
“They loved to play, but what I learned…” the pressure on the bow in my hand transferred to the strings. I played a long note, the sound of it echoing throughout the room, “…was that what once hurt, eventually helped me to heal.” I moved my fingers along the strings of the neck, playing a few more notes. It was her father’s song, but I played it so slow, that she didn’t recognize the melody.
I saw her hand lift to mine, taking control of the bow and neck as she drew the threads across the strings. Her note mirrored mine. My hands fell as I stopped playing. She played another note, and then another. I let her song gain momentum as I remained behind her, within her world of life. A smile crept across her face, her cheeks lifting.
I could tell that I’d lost her in her own head. She had forgotten where she was, instead allowing her thoughts to go to a place where she was comfortable and happy. She shut her eyes, and I watched her hands dance across the frets, hearing her breath pass her lips. Wisps of her hair danced in the air, and life glowed on her rosy, freckled skin. The girl I’d known in her dreams had finally come out.
When the song was over, Jane opened her eyes and reality returned to her. I felt her back grow rigid once more. “It feels good to hear that out loud,” she whispered.
“Out loud? What do you mean?” I tried to sound surprised, wanting to bring the Jane I knew back.
She twisted her head to look at me. Her face was suddenly full of anxiety. “I mean, it’s been a long time since I’ve played it.”
I looked at her sideways, our lips close. “Ah.” Though I already knew her whole sad story, it would mean a lot more if it were told from her lips, rather than through the prodding fingers of my mind. Her lips stayed sealed on the subject.
“Let’s play something else.” She turned away, smiling wide and leaving the subject behind her. “Do you like folk?” She laughed.
