By Dark

by T Thorn Coyle

  “You ready?” Moss asked.

  “Give me a minute. Sorry.”

  He took a moment to try and re-center himself and slow the trembling queasiness down. It wasn’t quite working, but after a few breaths he at least felt a little bit better. Sending a breath out to the edge of his aura, he imagined the protections he had embedded in his energy field activating. If that piece of magic wasn’t just wishful thinking, hopefully it would help, too.

  Not too long ago, he would have been certain of his magic and his practice. These days, though? Midlife crisis was a bitch.

  The small group scuffing the sidewalk with their high-top sneakers was gathered on one of the side streets a few blocks away from the main drag of MLK, and four more blocks south of the North Precinct. They all wore hooded sweatshirts like his, and two of them had backpacks that carried the fliers, staplers, and extra rolls of tape. The hoodies were precautions against cameras, and Moss had told him that his usual snazzy suede motorcycle style jacket was way too conspicuous anyway. So a Timbers hoodie it was. Turned out that a lot of local activists were rabid members of the Timbers Army, a sort of soccer fan club. Who knew that it had an anti-fascist wing?

  Even when it felt like shit, the world was a strange and wonderful place. He wondered if he’d felt that way as Alejandro Juan, too, before he was dragged to death. He swallowed down the sour, metallic taste at the back of his mouth and fished in his jean’s pocket for some gum. Nothing. The gum was in his jacket, left in one of the cars.

  “Alejandro?” Moss’s voice was quiet, but had acquired an edge.

  No more stalling. Alejandro pulled up his hood and nodded. Moss’s housemate Tariq led the way. Alejandro and the rest of the crew fast walked behind his lanky, loose-limbed stride, sneakers smacking softly on the concrete. No boots tonight. Tariq’s orders. All Alejandro had were Nikes to go with his fancy jeans, but he wasn’t trying to win any activist fashion contests, right?

  As they approached the first telephone pole, Moss turned to him. “Want to hang the first one?”

  He nodded and grabbed the outstretched stapler. Sending a quick breath across the sigil for protection, he saw it flare in his mind’s eye. Thwack! Thwack! Thwack! Thwack! The staples shooting home into the ragged, tarry wood sounded so loud. No one seemed concerned though, so it must have just been him.

  The quartered square with a circle inside looked good, strong, lit by a nearby streetlight. The words “STRONGER TOGETHER” sent a message to the neighborhood, boosted by the magic.

  Every group out tonight had at least one witch with them, able to give the sigils an extra boost. They were spread out across the city, heading all the way into Gresham in the east and Beaverton to the west. Alejandro and Moss’s group had already hit North Portland proper, and were now at the start of northeast. Right near the North Precinct of the Portland Police Bureau. Heading toward a lot of surveillance cameras.

  Despite having done several actions with the coven, especially over the past year, Alejandro was nervous. He usually preferred to work on political and social change from behind his computer, or by changing the balance of power in boardrooms. Now that he knew more about Alejandro Juan, he wondered if there was a reason he leaned a little more conservative than folks like Tariq and Moss. He had literally been tortured to death by police.

  “Hey, man, you don’t have to do this.” Tariq stood beside him, one hand on his shoulder, concern on his face, half hidden in the shadow thrown by the soft black hood that hid his hair. Had Alejandro stopped? He didn’t remember. “You can go back to the car. Wait this out.”

  The base of Alejandro’s skull flared, sending a small strobe of pain toward his temples.

  “No. I’ll keep up. Sorry about that.”

  Tariq nodded and turned to head off again. Moss stood a few feet away, watching, but the rest of the crew was busy stapling sigils to phone poles or taping them to fences.

  “Hey, Tariq?” He kept his voice soft. It wouldn’t do to have names carry out here in the half dark. The taller man paused and turned. “Keep an eye on me though. Okay?”

  Tariq just nodded and loped off to join the rest of the squad.

  They were rounding the corner, heading toward the Boys and Girls Club, where they planned to post several “Stronger Together” sigils out front.

  The North Precinct stood across from the club. With its red, curved awning facing a small parking lot, the police station looked like a flooring tile warehouse or something. Not a place where people worked to patrol the formerly mostly Black neighborhood, deciding what random dark-skinned person looked like they must be in a gang.

  They taped a few sigils to the Boys and Girls Club fence, making sure to keep heads down, faces well out of the range of security cameras. He had to admire Moss and Tariq’s crew. They were quick, quiet, and efficient, and didn’t get in each other’s way. He quickly decided he was a liability in the work and backed off from hanging the fliers.

  Instead, he and Moss tag-teamed giving the sigils some extra oomph once they were hung. Just a flash of witchy fire, sent with a thought and a crooked finger.

  Tariq and the others had moved across the street, on the blank, broad side of the police station. One person would roll out and cut tape while the other held the sigil to post, fence, or wall. They must have decided staplers were too loud for this part of the operation. Moss moved to do his part, when Alejandro realized Tariq and his partner were no longer visible.

  They must have gone around the front of the station.

  “Shit.”

  Shouting and sounds of a scuffle came from around the corner. Alejandro didn’t think. Just ran, barreling around the side of the hulking building, heading directly toward what looked like a small scrum.

  A cop had hold of one of Tariq’s arms, and was shouting for backup. The other activist tugged Tariq the other direction. Both activists strained against the cop.

  Alejandro held out both arms and ran straight into Tariq. Smacking his hands around a slender waist, he just kept running, felt a yank, felt Tariq stumble and then catch his feet.

  Then they were all on the run.

  Alejandro didn’t stop to see what the cops were doing. He ran as hard and fast as his pounding head would let him. One of the other comrades, a small woman, grabbed his hand and pulled, helping him along.

  Ancestors, help me, he prayed, then put on a burst of speed.

  Block after block they ran, deeper into the neighborhood, away from the brightly lit main streets. One of their crew cheated down an alleyway, and everyone pounded after.

  Even though his head was about to split open, and he wanted to puke, Alejandro realized he also felt a barely familiar sensation, burbling up inside of him like the beginnings of laughter.

  For the first time in years, he felt free.

  42

  Shekinah

  Shekinah was sweating.

  The white-clad group in front of her was, too. Sweat glistened on faces and clothing darkened as moisture ran down their bodies.

  “Ek Ongkar Sat Nam Siri Wahe Guroo…” Infinite Creator. Name of Truth. Ultimate Wisdom.

  They had chanted for twenty minutes now, and the energy showed no sign of abating. In fact, it built and built. It felt as though if she reached out, she could tug the air around her like a shawl.

  “Ek Ongkar Sat Nam Siri Wahe Guroo!” Their bodies snapped and twisted, side to side. There was power in truth. There was power in prayer. Together, maybe, just maybe, the scales would fall from their hearts and eyes, and the truth would be revealed.

  Tish prayed with fierce zeal, eyes filled with fire.

  The kundalini serpents rose and twined, rose and twined.

  “Ek Ongkar Sat Nam!”

  Voices bellowed, louder and louder, as the energy rose, stronger and stronger building in the room until every person was taut as a quivering wire.

  “Siri Wahe Guroo!”

  Shekinah raised her arms, then clapped her hands together, a sharp retort that pie
rced the energies like an arrow.

  Arms fell to sides. The twisting and snapping stopped. The only sounds in the room were soft pants, as people tried to regulate their breathing.

  “May the truth be told, over and over,” Shekinah said. “May the truth be revealed. May a juggernaut roll through, carrying the power of all who have gone before.”

  “Jai, Jagganath!” Tish called out.

  “Jai, Jagganath!” the rest of the class said in response.

  “Jai, Shiva!” Shekinah called.

  “Jai, Shiva!”

  “May there be justice, in this world, here and now. May we be instruments of your justice. May we be unafraid of battle. Lord Shiva, keep us strong, that we may enact the work of truth. May we speak clearly, live simply, fight with love in our hearts and strength in our minds.”

  As Shekinah finished her prayer, she opened her eyes, only to find half the room with eyes still closed in rapture, and the other half staring at her with wide eyes.

  Yogi Basu entered the room.

  Walking quietly, with steady gait, he approached Shekinah, who bowed. He stood beside her.

  “Our sister Shekinah has asked a great thing of us tonight. She has asked us to look beyond our simple school. To look outward, more deeply at the world. And she is right to do so. The Lord of Truth wears many faces and holds many weapons. What weapon do you wield? What courage do you need? There are people in pain everywhere, and yes, some of them are in this room, and yes, our practice helps to ease suffering. But our sister Shekinah thinks that we can do more.”

  Everyone was staring, which would have made Shekinah wither, just a few months ago. But he was right to ask her to train. People could look at her, and she didn’t have to crumble. She didn’t need to pretend to be less than she was.

  Her life was her truth.

  Yogi Basu turned to her. “Shekinah? Is there more that you would tell us?”

  She swallowed, then tilted her chin up and lengthened her spine.

  “The police have declared war on the most vulnerable in our communities and it is time we started doing more. If Shiva Center is to truly be a sanctuary, we must do more than simply feed the poor once a month or so. We must welcome immigrants. We must open our hearts to grieving families. We must tell the city of Portland that enough is enough. No more killing. No more lies.”

  The words stopped at the edges of her lips. Had she said too much?

  Tish looked steadily at her, fierce look still on her face. Yogi Basu gestured for her to continue.

  She looked around the room. Everyone was perfectly still, in that way that only practitioners of some deep form of meditation or physical practice—or sometimes the most skilled master craftspeople—seemed able to achieve. The energy of the kundalini serpents was still palpable in the room, and she swore she smelled datura, though the night blooming flower grew nowhere in the neighborhood.

  Lord Shiva… She didn’t need to finish the prayer. She had just prayed for one solid hour, the last half hour shouting out the name of Truth.

  “Today, Tish and I sat with the families of people killed by the Portland Police Bureau. Our sister Tish has been having terrible visions of more killings yet to come. I want us to use our spiritual power to help stop her visions from coming true. Tish?”

  Tish gave one quick nod, then stepped to the front of the room, standing at Shekinah’s side, between her and Yogi Basu.

  “I have had dreams and visions of my brother, lying before me, dead on the ground. And others have been having visions, too. Of strange rituals. A powerful, spiritual force working for what I can only call evil. And here we are, raising a spiritual force of our own.” She gazed at every person in turn. “So what Shekinah and I are asking, with Yogi Basu’s permission, is for us to channel that spiritual force to counter the terrible power of the police. I know it is a lot to ask, and not what we usually do, but…”

  Yogi Basu held up a hand to stop Tish from saying more.

  “Enough, sister,” he said, voice filled with compassion. “Their hearts and minds can decide what is too much. Shekinah?”

  Tears were close to the surface now, but when she spoke, her voice was calm and clear. “Two evenings from now, on November second, we are asking you to pray with all your power, that truth be seen and justice rise like a beacon in the darkness. We ask that you let yourself be illuminated with this fire, and send it out, to fill the city with warmth and light.”

  One of the men in the back of the room cleared his throat and spoke.

  “With your permission, I would like to speak.”

  Here it comes…. Shekinah thought. The railing against dragging their spiritual practice into politics.

  Shekinah and Tish both glanced toward Yogi Basu, who simply gestured for the man to continue.

  “Will you be leading us in prayer again, like tonight? Or should we do this on our own?”

  “I will be leading you myself,” Yogi Basu replied. “I believe that Shekinah and Tish have other work to do that night. Am I correct?”

  The tears she’d been holding back filled her eyes.

  “Yes, Yogi. We will be with others, trying to hold back this force.”

  “Then it is so,” he said. “Whoever wishes to help? Come pray. We will do our work as our sisters do theirs. But it is all the same work, yes? It is all the same prayer.”

  Shekinah bowed to the group assembled before her, then turned to bow at Tish. And, bending even lower still, she bowed to her teacher, then bent all the way to the floor to touch his lotus feet.

  43

  Alejandro

  He wasn’t ready. He would never be ready. When he’d complained about it to Brenda and Raquel, Raquel had simply raised an eyebrow and Brenda replied, “Like the rest of us, you’ve been preparing for this your whole life. And as a matter of fact, it looks like you’ve been preparing for several lifetimes, haven’t you?”

  He had no response to that, and had simply headed past the purple Celtic knot work curtain that led to the back room of Brenda’s shop, carrying photos of his grandparents and Alejandro Juan for the altar. His athamé was sheathed in his pocket.

  His ancestors had wanted the ritual to be in front of his living room ofrenda, but he’d explained there just wasn’t room. Too many people planned to attend. The ancestors had agreed to send representatives, instead. Hence the three photos.

  Brenda had gotten a rug for the room at least. The large, emerald-toned rug was also bordered with a running knot pattern. It made the room feel less…clinical than it had in the past.

  Tempest and Lucy plopped cushions around the edges of the rug as Tobias set up four candles in the cardinal colors in the center on a round wooden tray, along with a thurible for incense and a large blue chalice. Lucy looked good, strong and hale, but yeah, Tempest definitely didn’t look well.

  “Terra and her crew made up the fliers asking folks to pray to their ancestors to protect our communities from the police.” Moss’s voice startled Alejandro. He gave his coven mate a sideways hug that Moss returned, though he didn’t stop speaking. “English and Spanish. She already dropped them at the Mercado and a few other Latinx-owned places around town. She said folks seemed receptive.”

  Alejandro breathed a sigh of relief and felt the ancestors buzzing in response. “It’s good to know it’s not just my ancestors who’ll be working overtime tonight. Thank Terra for me?”

  “Will do.” Moss moved off to help with chairs and cushions.

  Juggling the photos into one hand, Alejandro drew his athamé out of its sheath and walked toward the central altar tray. He’d hesitated between his wand and the blade, before figuring the blade felt more useful for tonight’s purposes. Protection and attack. But now he regretted leaving his wand behind. He wanted both magical tools tonight, though he could not have rationally explained why. Sometimes objects had a mind of their own.

  He crouched down and added his double-edged knife to the altar, then carefully placed the photos between the candle
s.

  “Hey, brother.”

  “Hey, yourself.” Tobias swept a dark lock of hair from his forehead and leaned over to embrace Alejandro. He smelled medicinal, as if the herbs he worked with had soaked into his skin. Pulling back, Tobias gave him a quick kiss on the lips, then looked into his eyes.

  “You got this. We’ve got this.”

  “I hope so. It’s just all so strange. This ancestor shit. The fact that it’s me this time… I’m used to the rest of you living these magically charged lives, you know, and I’m just the ordinary, bourgeois IT guy who cheers you on.”

  “Oh, bullshit.”

  Alejandro shrugged. It sure felt that way, but no matter. “But also, we’re doing all this work on the astral, figuring the cops are doing some sort of ritual, too. We have no idea of the timing, other than it feels like things are coming to a head. In the past, we’ve always either had a solid outside event to focus on, whether or not we’ve pushed the timing. And we haven’t included the community on this one, either, which doesn’t quite feel right.”

  “We haven’t?” Tobias asked, then gestured around the room, which had filled up as they conferred.

  Alejandro looked up. There was Thomas. Seeing him made Alejandro’s heart thump in his chest. If he hadn’t also been so nervous, he was sure he’d be having a different sort of response, too. Next to him was Frater Louis. Then Moss, Tariq, Terra, Barbara Jean, and some other members of the anarchist crew. Alejandro would have to ask later how the hell Moss had convinced them to be part of a strictly magical operation. Tobias’s boyfriend, Aiden, a Catholic Worker who helped run one of the local soup kitchens was there, along with two other people Alejandro vaguely recognized.

  “Your Catholic boyfriend is here?”

  Now it was Tobias’s turn to shrug. “He knows it’s important. And he trusts us by now.”