“You just say it?”
“Don’t be dense. Talk’s easy. Look at us now. It takes years of effort and centuries of sacrifice—various kinds—to attain a diploma given by nobody else—yourself to yourself. That consumes the other million. They’re yawning right now, their feet in padded slippers, wine warming their guts. They answered the doorbell until they wanted to scream, but now they sit watching a screen, content to let it move for them. Most never see the path of which I speak.”
“Have I seen it? Because I… saw you?”
“You saw me because you looked out of a window. More people should, but it doesn’t make you—yes. I can see potential in you. Don’t let it go to your head. Potential resides in us all—or it does in the beginning. Unused paths fade until they overgrow and are indistinguishable from the meadow.”
“But I could learn? How to… to bring a cat back? And to run like—”
“—The barrier to learning is application. I’ve set aside purges and mobs for the sake of simplicity.”
“How do I become… how do I start?”
“Start? Tonight? I thought we’d agreed to kill you. I should have left you to Tocaya. You jabber of witches and werewolves, but… did you see another woman outside?”
“The one with bubblegum?”
“Yes, well, her too—that’s Uriah Lee. She’s… she’s like me. Far too much like me. Tocaya was the one dressed in… she was naked as a jaybird. You’d have noticed. Tore the sky apart?”
“I saw the skinny one. The shortie. No offense.”
Maren plucked her fingers from the disaster of her braid, the cramps in her fingers unbearable. It was a victory, in that her hair was no longer entirely in her face.
“Uriah’s not skinny. She’s quite sporty, though perhaps at a distance… Salisbury bluestones! I should’ve known Tocaya would conceal her presence. Look, I have no time to show you everything myself. Certainly not right now. If you are interested, I can leave you with… I don’t have brochures or a packet or anything like that. The sisterhood could learn something from the door-to-door Christians, I dare say.” Maren drummed fingers on her cheek. “I could leave you with something, but…”
“Please? A book?”
“A book? Not sure if I packed anything that… What’s your top subject? Here’s a hint: say math.”
“Poetry doesn’t count?”
“Not since the Lake Poets.”
“Is that a band? Dad won’t let me listen to—”
“—You’ll want to look them up. Poetry is… math counts by its definition. Any idiot can spit a rhyme. Mathematics is essential to the reliable culturing of what we’ll call magic. Beginner magic, in particular. That said, to separate the two disciplines would be a gross misinterpretation of the natural order. How do you fare in geometry?”
“Like trig? I’m taking a lot of STEM courses. And two AP classes, this semester.”
Maren stared. “Is that math?”
“Yes.”
“Mab forbid you ever answer me directly. Concentrate on math and science for now; one cuddles the other, and poetry and culinary arts hang somewhere between. Do you know what RGB is—the triangle system? Or if you want to be negative, try CMYK.”
“Like on a computer screen?”
“Yes, but I’ll scrap those. Let’s go with hexadecimal. Sounds better to my ear. Black is six zeroes, white’s six of f—and so it goes; additive. Two digits for each of the three primaries. Got it?”
“Ummm… okay.”
“What’s your favorite color?”
“Violet?”
“Don’t answer questions with a question, and don’t retreat to poetry. Roses are red and violets are blue—but think a moment on that. Why would a violet be blue, hmm? And a rose, as you know, may be white as easily as red; yet rose is neither. Words are hot trash as a standard. I use real color. Try again. What’s your favorite? Hex!”
“Hex like a curse, or—?”
“—Hex as in… I may show you the difference! Hex like 26174B for your precious violet, or pick something nicer, like 7F1315. You should remember that one, for it is my favorite color. What’s yours? If you don’t know it now, determine it, and commit it to memory before I return. I want seven favorites from you. You’ll tell me just the one. That confirms you are not a fool, and the other colors you can chain together as a password for your soul. Yes?”
“A… for my soul?”
“You have not accepted the night worm yet, and as such, I am using simple words. I thought I was. We deal in bad company at times, and if the slayers can find a way to torment you forever, they will. The body is not equipped to accept eternal punishment—it dies—and thus we want to guard what we will, for tonight, call a soul. Not to say that the body is… oh, and I want you to eat your iron.”
“Mom buys fortified—”
“Not vitamin cereals and broccoli, but actual products made of the stuff. Eat steel, if you must. I suggest you find a well-seasoned skillet and a plasma cutter. Try for a pound or two a day. Eat no single piece larger than an acorn or you may regret the… what’s with that look?”
“Why would I eat a skillet?”
“Eat staples and tacks, for all I care! It was an example.”
“But why iron?”
Maren swore in exasperation. “Do you want to break a bone? Calcium is well and good, but… have you ever seen a witch in the emergency room?”
“I never saw any witches before—well, maybe. There’s this substitute teacher. Mrs. Sawyers? She’s sort of a hard-ass. Acts like you.”
“Has she had any bones set?”
“Not that I know of. She just sits there with her referral pad while we copy stuff from the board that—”
“—There, it’s proven. Witch bones are indestructible by regular means. They’re alloyed with iron. Red as rust, my bones are—heavy, yes, but stronger than… you truly didn’t know?”
“About the bones? No. Are you messing with me?”
“This is no snipe hunt. Wait for the worm to advise you—you’ll gobble metal like… You’re young. Overdo it. Fillings are hard on the digestion, and most are an amalgam, these days. Choose smooth objects so you don’t—coins are impure, but they are common and rarely missed. That, and pick your favorite colors. I was going to say more, but you have me flustered.”
“You said I’d learn from a worm? Like a book worm?”
Maren poked the girl’s pillow. “No. I can’t recall if I programmed the remaining option with a full complement of… I was planning to eradicate your household, but it would be rude to wake the others. If you won’t be killed, then you are to drink a tincture and remember nothing. Learning is the opposite of that.”
“But you’re the one talking about… Can you fix it so it knows more? The worm? Do I have to swallow it?” Shandra tried to keep a brave face, succeeding in part.
“Night worms are buffered against the possibility of ending in a stomach, but the recommended… it’s up the nostril, into the sinuses, and it finds its way from there. If you are in a desperate hurry, a sledgehammer might work.”
“That’s… I’m super patient,” Shandra whispered.
“Fine,” Maren said. “Just as I was once given a gift, you shall have yours. If you survive it, I should warn you that we may be murdered.”
“Because you didn’t ask permission?”
“Among a thousand other reasons.”
“I don’t care.”
“That’s the spirit!” Maren smiled, the last of the night worms wriggling messily between her fingers, its organs visible beneath translucent skin, the rubbery joint near one end pulsing irregularly.
“Up my nose,” the girl said, more to herself than Maren.
“Be glad you don’t have a piercing. I’ve remembered. Each worm I constructed this round contains the essentials of careworn textbooks you’d do well to review: On Stoichiotical Theurgy and Rudiments of Applied Goety are among the titles. They’ll be in the reference section. Classi
cs, both—you’ll warm to them. The Vasillias Nortus is not included, except for a note to explain that it isn’t there. If you read the other two, you’ll see why that doesn’t come in the bundle.”
“The reference section?”
“Yes, in the worm. Once it settles, you’ll experience—dash it all. I saw a similar idea on a television. I can’t remember if this was science fiction or the cooking channel… Do you know what a mind melt is?”
“You mean a mind meld? Like the Vulcans do?”
“Goodness, no! Should you ever meet Vulcan—Hephaestus—be sure to… I should ask your name.”
“I already told you. Does it have to be Shandra, or can I pick my own?”
“I don’t know, can you?”
“I hate it when people say that. It’s a stupid joke.”
“Grammar is no joke. Try gadding about with indefinite pronouns in your incantations—see if your skin doesn’t fall right off. Next… it’s been ages since I’ve interviewed a prospect. You should… do you have a sense of humor? Tell your worst. No, I’ll go first. We’ll get some more grammar into you. Knock knock.”
“Who’s there?”
“To.”
“To… who?”
“Wrong. To whom. You see? Now it’s your turn.”
“That was stup… can it be a your-Poppa?”
“I’m out of touch with recent trends. I only heard about the dog-faced banana patch this last month. Thank the black saints that album did not make your attercop. It would leave you with a trap door, so to speak.”
“What?”
“Nothing. If you are possessed of humor, proceed with your demonstration.”
“Okay, but my cat died and… you’re supposed to say a bunch in a row.”
“Now that I think on it, I do remember those Poppas. Try something else.”
“Um, okay… What do you get when a vampire attacks a snowman?”
“Bad humor?”
“Frostbite.”
“Awful. Try again. We’ll do this by baseball rules. Three and out.”
“Uh… why did the cow quit her waitressing job?”
“No, I can see where this is—I don’t want to hear it.”
“She got tired of being tipped.”
“You’re fired.”
“You said I get one more. In baseball—”
“—I forbid it. I can’t take another awful… fine! Third time pays for all.”
“What kind of bear spends months hibernating, then jumps out of bed with the best idea ever?”
“Who’s there?” Maren asked dutifully.
“It’s not a… it’s a bipolar bear!”
Maren stared at the girl for a long second. “The next time you are asked about your funnybone, say it is either missing or in a cast.”
“I have some from grandpa, but they’re kind of dirt—”
“—Your set is done. I want you to practice. Constantly. Begin with those jokes: practice never telling them again.”
“You’re super mean.”
Maren was in her purse. “Here, take these crystals.”
“What for?”
“You are familiar with batteries? Same idea. These charge in moonlight.”
“Old school, huh? Do they blink when they’re done?”
“No. Don’t worry about that for now. These won’t be topped-off again for another forty or fifty years. That’s if you’re diligent about leaving them out for the moon.”
“And this does what again?”
“It lightens my bag. It may teach you patience, too. If nothing else, it provides you with something to wear to your next dance.”
“Uh… yeah, I’m so not wearing those.”
“They’re a middling grade; no getting around that. Earn your own polished baubles. Everything begins somewhere. For the most part, we begin at the bottom.”
“So this is like, your hand-me-downs? Dead batteries? Is it because you don’t want me born with a silver spoon in my mouth?”
“I’ve never seen that unless you’re talking birthmarks. What do spoons have to do with crystals?”
“I—it’s just a saying. Mom says that one all the time.”
“Listen to your father drone about drones, then. He makes more sense, from what you say. I’d give you a seeing stone, but it would burn your house down faster than a climbing candle.”
Shandra breathed loudly and looked toward the source of a cool breeze coming from the hallway. “What can—should—I tell them about the door?”
“Why, tell them the truth, of course. It survived a passing werewolf on a rampage, but an old woman kicked it down a while later.” Maren thought for a moment. “You may want to take liberties. Exclude Feri. They like to put people away for talk like that.”
“Exactly. So, what’s my alibi?”
“The truth is the strongest alibi. You didn’t break the door—I did.”
Shandra rolled her eyes, groaning with irritation. “I can’t believe I trusted—”
“—Nor can I. Do they no longer teach children not to trust anyone handing-out things that go in your nose?”
“Yeah, but that’s about, like, drugs and—”
“—Will you defend recreational powders as more dangerous than snorting an enchanted worm?”
“Is my face all swollen?”
“Yes. The worm will take you to triple that. I’d say to use ice, but night worms don’t like the cold. Or perhaps they do. Didn’t test it. On the door… you’re a teenager. Don’t offer what isn’t asked. Go to bed and wait to talk to anyone you know until morning.”
“And leave the door wide open? With all that drama out there? Uh-uh.”
Maren reached into her hair and pulled an attercop from a frizzy braid, cursing until it let go. A reptilian eye the size of a peach blinked on its distended abdomen.
“Little bugger thought I didn’t notice him. When you want to build a new door fast and badly, nothing beats religious volunteers or spiderlings. This one has eaten his weight in candy—here, heft him. Didn’t bother to remove the wrappers. His will be a colorful construction.”
Shandra’s mouth came apart as though she were fighting sewn lips. “God, that’s so freaking gro… it’s heavier than Mister Tibb, and it… why does it have that nasty eye on its…? Will it leave any… will it leave?”
“I don’t see why not. Scamper along, you,” Maren said, and poked the attercop between its spinner, stinger, and the wide, malevolent eye, which narrowed at her from its embedded position within the thick carapace.
The spiderling trundled away, rat-quick, leaping through the bedroom’s doorway into the main hall, legs clattering, its belly dragging like an athletic sock filled with small change.
“And tomorrow I just…?”
“Exactly. You just. Well. It appears I am left to exit the window.” Maren stretched her legs and swore as her knee scraped the wire mesh. “You have a screen. My apologies, but unless there’s another door that opens, I’ll have to kick the… I can call the spiderling back when he’s done with the front entrance. He’d be glad to—”
“—I’ll fix the screen!” Shandra said loudly.
“Very well. Remember, witches are like a new marriage: most are cold and dead inside their first year. If you get beyond the sensitive period, you may live indefinitely.”
“Umm, okay.”
“Honestly, I suggest an early death,” Maren said. “It’s a lonely thing, outliving your given era, your lineage, your friends… even others like you will drop away. I hold that we’re nothing more than mortals with a longer span of years. It’s a poor measurement of life. A dog doesn’t live long—but dogs are happy. I doubt you’ll live half as long as I have. Don’t be silly enough to look back, if you do.”
“What will try to kill me?”
“Why, life of course. There’s what would have killed you regardless, plus any new enemies you make. There are those who will hate and hunt you simply for what you are, or will be. Fewer than they used to
be, but more clever: witchers, slayers; predators of various kinds.”
“And I fight those how exactly?”
“Didn’t I say the worm is encoded with a textbook? Find the young crone’s primer. Gives a good overview. Hardly comprehensive and rarely comprehensible, it’s what we have. I’d thought to write a new edition, but languages change lickety-split. I find it dreary to begin what won’t endure; my last draft already looks like gonzo samizdat.”
“Can I—may I pick my name?”
“If you like. Stop asking me what you may do.”
“But how can… You said to learn anything that I—”
“—I say a lot of things. Pick a name. Be quick about it. How about Jones? Saw that when I forced the door.”
“I don’t want to be Shandra Jones. Not forever. What’s your name?”
“Maren Glover. Boring as parsnips. Uriah Lee was the other you saw. She’s modified her name to flow more sweetly from the modern tongue, but she comes to us from before the Trojan war.”
Shandra bit at her top lip and opened the hand she’d held clenched since Maren had entered the room. An action figure was imprinted onto the girl’s palms—the miniature gripped what looked to be a long, blue wand. The figure was dressed rather like a warlock infiltrating the priesthood.
“Obi Cimarron,” Shandra said with finality.
“No Jones at the end? You could hyphenate. Witches are a permissive lot, or they are with names.”
“No hyphen.”
“As you wish,” Maren said. She pulled the final night worm on its chain.
“Holy—”
“—Listen, Obi. This night worm does little enough on its own, but it will guide you with steady force, much as a vulture rides a current of air, waiting to dip a feather when it must. The worm may alert you to a possibility. To danger. It may cause an idea you have already had to spark into your consciousness. It may shape your dreams. Even then, you’ll be a lifetime away from mastery of the basics, and a thousand years from useful.”
All Hallows Page 31
