“I’m sure you helped a lot,” said Lester tipping his glass.
“Drink it all to get all the good luck!” said Sylvie, taking a drink of hers and carefully watching Lester.
He drained the jar.
“There now, you sit down while I get the book, Molly go on now and play,” said Sylvie.
Molly sat in the rocker with Miss Lovely.
Lester sat at the table and picked up the jar of flowers, “Molly, I know these are smiles from God and the angels because I smile whenever I look at them.”
Molly looked up startled and looked at Sylvie.
Sylvie glared at her and shook her head slightly.
“Flowers make me smile too,” whispered Molly.
Sylvie said, “Molly, play now while the grown-ups talk.”
Molly started whispering to Miss Lovely.
Sylvie smiled at Lester and walked out to the wagon. She returned carrying the shawl covered book and set it on the table. Lester eagerly unwrapped it.
He looked puzzled, “A box? I thought you said it was a book.” He said as he turned it in his hands.
“It is a book. You have to tap it a certain way for it to open,” said Sylvie.
Lester looked at it in wonder, “Like an Amish Box. But you’re sure this is a…” he yawned, “Pardon me…. A book?”
“Yes,” said Sylvie as she sat across the table from him.
“How does it…” he yawned again and looked confused.
Sylvie took the book from his hands, “It goes something like this, where you tap it and then it should open, see how it says ‘Locum Tenens’ on the top and then ‘ye to he and he to ye’, that’s the cover of the book…” and she rambled on for a few minutes keeping a careful eye on Lester.
He nodded blearily and struggled to keep his eyes open.
Sylvie rambled on some more, talking more nonsense about Locum Tenens and the hag.
Lester was bobbing his head, trying to keep himself awake.
He leaned forward and reached his hand out towards Sylvie. He mumbled something and laid his head on his arm.
Sylvie stopped talking and watched him.
“Mommy, is he tired?” asked Molly.
“Shut up,” hissed Sylvie watching Lester.
His breathing slowed. His lips turned blue. He was still.
Sylvie sat for a few more minutes and then slowly got up and leaned next to him. She could not hear or feel his breath. She held her hand to his neck. There was no pulse.
Sylvie wrapped the book up, collected the jars and ribbons, and put them back in the wagon.
“Mommy is he sleeping?” Asked Molly in a loud whisper.
“Yes, now let’s go,” said Sylvie
“Shouldn’t we tuck him in?” Asked Molly.
“No, he’s taking a nap and he will wake up soon,” lied Sylvie, “hurry up.”
Molly climbed into the wagon. Sylvie went back to the cabin and took another look around. Nothing was out of place. She went outside, climbed into the wagon and they went home.
Later the next evening, Nettie rushed over to pass on the sad news that Lester Brimell had died.
“Such a shame,” she said shaking her head, “He died sitting at his table. Minerva said they don’t know what killed him. His heart must have given out. He’ll be buried tomorrow. They’re planning a beautiful service for him tomorrow at noon. Would you like to come along?”
“No, I’m afraid I haven’t been feeling well again.”
Nettie looked at her concerned, “Dear you are a bit peaked. Get some rest and have Richard come get me if there’s anything I can do to help.”
Sylvie nodded and hoped she would leave.
“Well, dear, I’d best get back to my pies. Take care and remember what I said.”
And Nettie left.
Sylvie’s favorite room in the house was in the cellar. The main room of the cellar was made up of a brick floor and shelving on the walls for jars. Hidden in the far corner, and barely noticeable, was a small iron door leading to the coal room. When Richard built the house he’d included this hopeful feature as a just-in-case room to be used for coal, or food storage. The fireplace and wooden stove kept the well-built little house warm and so this feature remained unused. It was Sylvie’s favorite room.
Sylvie glided down the cellar stairs. A single flickering candle lighted her way. Once in the cellar, the small windows cast a dull gray light. Although the day was promising thunderstorms, Richard had said he was going to attend Lester’s funeral. He said if the weather got too bad he would bunk up with the Brimells for the night.
Sylvie stood in the middle of the cellar and drank in the moist damp air. Richard never came down here, preferring to use the barn for storage. And Molly was afraid of the ‘black eyed people’ she thought lived down there.
The black eyed Rumilures were said to live underground in a vast labyrinth of interconnected mines and caves. For the locals, it was easy to take this belief one step further and add that they lingered in dark, damp cellars. Legends and ghost stories attested to the fact. There were many local stories passed around about encounters with the Rumilures. Sylvie had assured Molly that they did indeed live in their cellar and would hurt her if she ever ventured down there. Molly never dared.
Sylvie made her way to the far corner. Shadows capered and danced in the flickering candlelight. Sylvie bent at the small iron door, pulled an iron key from her apron and unlocked the old padlock. When asked, Sylvie said she wanted to keep Molly safe from possibly tripping over the jars and vegetables stored in the little room. Finally, the padlock creaked open.
Darkness wrapped itself around her. She set the candle on the floor. The tiny light barely reached the brick walls of the small room. Sylvie sat next to the candle, holding her bundle on her lap. The tiny light made little difference in the room and gave the illusion of being in a vast cavern. Sylvie smiled.
She unwrapped the bundle. The hand of glory was withered, but still useful. She set it aside and looked at the jar from the shack. It was filled with dried plants of various kinds. Knotted and black, some had thorns, while others had the remains of blackened flower petals. Curious, Sylvie picked up a twisted clump. Belladonna. The knowledge seeped out of the darkness of her mind. Sylvie smiled.
Arcane secrets, absorbed from the shack, lingered in the dark recesses of her mind. Sylvie set the Belladonna back in the jar and picked up a narrow, blackish red mottled root. Dragon’s Blood. Smiling, she put the root back in the jar.
She closed her eyes and concentrated. Voices filled her head. Garbled chants, screams, and laughter flowed through her. Suddenly a vision of a séance in a dark parlor, with a dead man seated at the head of the table appeared. Unseen people holding hands, chanting the ancient words, forcing the dead man to speak dreaded words best left unspoken. This vision was replaced by another, this one of a mass of cloaked beings in an underground cavern. Torches lit the room in a fiery red light. A woman, stripped and bound to an inverted cross screamed as a wicked curved blade sliced into her abdomen. And then darkness. The little candle sputtered. The knowledge was there, with Sylvie, and it grew. She no longer needed to be in the shack to have it leech itself onto her, pouring its dead blood into her. She felt a tug of regret over the jewels that were held in the mine and just out of her reach, but she also felt a stab of satisfaction and a knowing that she would someday find her way to the mine again and reclaim what was rightfully hers.
After Locum Tenens. She must complete Locum Tenens. Her corrupted spirit would move to the healthy body of another. Someone similar. Someone within a close proximity. She knew she would go into another woman’s body. Someone who lived near.
The promise of the world 100 years into the future pulled on Sylvie, spurring her on. She would find the jewels. And then, she would attain her ultimate goal. She would call upon the dark forces, she would find the book of All, and she would gain all the power. The world would be hers.
Sylvie carefully set the Locum Tenens
book in front of her. Then she tipped the candle onto the palm of the hand of glory. The fingers flinched and formed a claw. Sylvie stuck the lit candle in the middle of the hand, picked it up and chanted the ancient chant over the book. The book snapped open.
‘Number’ was burned into the wood. Sylvie picked up Martin’s knife and carved ‘100’. She noticed the wood was smooth, with no other markings.
The wooden page rose and snapped down.
‘Five candles, Hand of glory eternally burning, Coal bowl, Perpetual eye to watch over all’
Sylvie ran her hand the burned words.
She would begin tonight.
As the day wore on, the thunderstorm raged. The gray day slipped into a dark windy night, broken by flashes of lightning. Molly was asleep. Nettie sent word to Sylvie that Richard had stayed in town, to console the Brimells.
Sylvie slipped down to the dark cellar. She made her way to the hidden corner and opened the iron door. Two red eyes and a white leer loomed out at her from the dark room. They blinked out and were gone.
Sylvie set her items on the dirt floor and began.
She set the five candles in the shape of a triangle. Three across the base and one halfway up each side. She set the hand of glory on the top point. In the middle of the triangle she set pieces of coal together in the rough shape of a bowl. She placed the little glass eye between the makeshift bowl and the point of the triangle.
Sitting at the base of the triangle, she picked up the book of Locum Tenens. She raised her left hand over the book. The page flipped and snapped down.
‘Silphium’
Sylvie picked up the hag’s jar. She removed the herbs one by one. Belladonna. Dragons Blood. Rue. Vetivert. Silphium.
The silphium was a twisted knot of dried stalks and leaves with mottled red spots. She picked it up, pulled a pinch off and dropped it into the coal bowl.
The hand of glory clenched and all six candle flames bent as if in a great wind. But the little room was silent and still. The book made a groaning sound, the page lifted and snapped down.
‘Burned Palm’
Sylvie looked at her left palm. Then a vision filled her mind. Long slender green leaves burning. Ashes in a bowl.
Sylvie left the small room pulling the iron door closed behind her. A flash of lightning filled the damp cellar. She saw someone standing near the stairs before the cellar was plunged into darkness. Thunder boomed and crashed. Another flash of lightning revealed the empty cellar. Sylvie strode through the darkness and walked up the stairs.
Sylvie walked through the darkness and into her room. She opened Richard’s wooden trunk. Aside from that piece of furniture everything else in the room was Sylvie’s. Since she’d been ill Richard had taken to sleeping in the living room or barn, giving her the comfort of having the room to herself.
She shoved his clothes around until she felt the stem of a plant. She pulled out the palm. It was a leftover from Easter. A few months ago, on Palm Sunday, Richard and Molly had brought the small palms home. They’d carefully wrapped them to save for next year.
She carried the palm to the kitchen, set it in a bowl, lit a match and watched it burn. After a few minutes it was reduced to ash. Sylvie carried the bowl into the dark cellar. In the little room, she pinched the ashes between her two fingers and sprinkled them into the makeshift coal bowl.
The bowl sizzled and hissed. The hand of glory grasped its candle and stood upright on its wrist. All six candle flames burned red.
The book of Locum Tenens shuddered, the page lifted and snapped down.
‘Defiled holy water’
Sylvie went back upstairs to Richard’s trunk. She clawed through his clothes. She found a wooden crucifix shaped box and pulled it out. It was a treasured heirloom that had been handed down through Richard’s family for generations.
Used for anointing the sick, the unique antique served many purposes. In addition to being hung on the wall, it could also be set on a table. Its top could be slid open and arranged into a small altar. The hollowed out bottom stored two small candles, a cloth, and a bottle of holy water. It was last used for Richard’s mother on her deathbed.
Sylvie pulled the cross open and dumped the contents on the floor. She grabbed the bottle and stuck it in her pocket. She crammed the other items back into the hollow and slid the top back into place. She tossed it into Richards’s trunk and slammed the lid shut.
In the kitchen, she poured the vial of holy water into a bowl. She spit into it. Then she had another idea. She set the bowl on the floor and peed into it. She carried bowl to the little room in the cellar.
She dipped her fingers in the defiled holy water and sprinkled three drops into the coal bowl. The bowl started spinning. A bloody red streak swirled down its side. Thick black liquid filled the inside to the rim. The bowl stopped spinning. Its smooth, red streaked sides no longer resembled pieces of coal. Mottled yellow smoke eddied and swirled above it disappearing into the darkness.
The candle flames dipped and pointed towards the bowl. The red flames sputtered and turned black outlined in murky orange. The room dimmed.
The Locum Tenens book groaned. The page lifted and snapped down.
Sylvie traced the words on the page.
‘White dove sacrifice’
Sylvie smiled.
She crossed the black cellar, hurried up the stairs and put on her black cloak. She slipped her slingshot and stones into a burlap sack and walked out into the storm.
Cold rain pelted down drenching her immediately. The wind whipped her cloak and swirled it around. Thunder roared and lightning seared the sky. In a split second flash of light Sylvie saw three people standing near the forest. Another flash a second later showed no one.
Sylvie walked across the meadow towards the forest. A few days ago, Molly had excitedly pointed out a white mother dove feeding its young. Sylvie spied the nest in the branch of an old oak tree. She pulled out her slingshot, loaded it, took aim, fired, and the nest came tumbling down in the storm. Four baby birds struggled and coo’ed in terror. The mother squawked and opened her wings jabbing her beak at Sylvie. Sylvie loaded another stone, took aim and fired, hitting the mother dove on the wing. The mother squawked, and struggled towards her babies, extending her good wing protectively over them. Sylvie lifted her foot and crushed two of the struggling baby birds. She threw the burlap sack over the mother and trapped the panicked bird. Sylvie tied up the sack went home.
Back inside, she didn’t bother lighting a candle. Instead of going right to the cellar, she went into her bedroom. She flipped open Richard’s trunk and grabbed his treasured crucifix. She took the crucifix and the burlap sack to her room in the cellar.
The candles black flames flickered and pulsed through their murky orange tips. The candles gave off no heat and the room was icy cold.
Sylvie sat at the base of the triangle. She placed the cross upside down in front of her. She rolled the top of the burlap bag towards the bottom and trapped the mother dove into a corner. She picked up Martin’s knife and laid the bag on top of the inverted crucifix. She plunged the knife into the dove. Blood spilled out of the bag, splattering the crucifix. Sylvie plunged the knife again and again relishing the powerful feeling.
She held the dripping bag over the bowl and squeezed it like a washcloth. Blood dribbled and mixed with the bubbling viscous liquid. The mottled yellow smoke turned swamp green. Ghostly chanting filled the air. The little room was suddenly alive with movement. The walls breathed in and out, the floor squirmed. The voices grew louder and deeper. The book of Locum Tenens shrieked. Another page turned and snapped down. Sylvie read the burned in words.
‘Thy blood’
Her right hand still held Martin’s knife. She turned it towards her left wrist and sliced a deep gash. Excruciating pain forced her to cry out. Blood trickled from her wrist. She held it over the black bowl letting her blood drip into the viscous blackness. She clamped her hand on her wrist.
The ghostly chanting got lou
der. Incomprehensible words filled the air. Shadows pressed in the edges of the triangle. Human forms took shape and dissolved. The black candle flames tilted, pointing at the black bowl. Wind swirled around the room.
The book of Locum Tenens screamed. A page rose and snapped down. Sylvie bent to read the words.
‘Live human appendage’
Sylvie paused. High pitched laughter reverberated in the darkness and faded away. A pair of burning red eyes appeared above the hand of glory. They blinked and were gone. An awareness filled Sylvie’s mind and suddenly she knew. In that way of knowing that had burrowed its way into her in the shack. Something, whether it be an arm a leg or a finger, must be cut off a live human being. Whether that human dies later is irrelevant. But Locum Tenens would not work unless the appendage was cut off while they were alive.
Molly’s tiny voice drifted down to the cellar, “Mommy? Daddy? Where are you? I’m-” A clap of thunder drowned out the rest of her words.
She knew the axe was in the barn. She went upstairs to find Molly.
“Mommy, why were you in the cellar in the dark?” Molly asked.
“Go to bed,” said Sylvie sharply.
Molly’s eyes filled with tears, “but mommy the black-eyed people live down there!’”
“I said go to bed!” Said Sylvie
“Mommy, I’m afraid of the dark!” Cried Molly
Sylvie leaned in and grabbed the front of Molly’s nightgown, “I said go to bed!” She hissed and pushed Molly away.
Molly cried out and ran to her room.
Sylvie put on her cloak.
The wind whistled through the thrashing tree. Sylvie’s cloak was still soaked and she was immediately drenched again. Thunder roared and rumbled. Sylvie made her way to the barn.
A four legged loping shape ran towards her and howled. It stopped and sat between her and the barn. It was Ole Duke. And he howled even louder.
“GO AWAY!” Sylvie hissed.
He howled and howled. Plainly ignoring her plea.
She glared and stomped towards him.
“I said GO AWAY! BAD DOG!” Sylvie kicked out at him. He dodged and she missed.
Sylvie Page 10
