FALL
He carried the buckets slowly back up the rocky trail. The seawater sloshed gently in each pail, syncopated to the huffs of breaths as the man pushed along. This was the third such trip he’d made, and the exertion was starting to show. The little cove he’d found wasn’t easily accessible, but it was the finest source of clean sea water he’d found on the little island. An almost pristine clam bed and other shelled friends cleaned the water scrupulously and the narrow inlet reduced the exchange with the broader sound, giving the cove a chance to create a clean little corner of the ocean. And, better still, it seemed to be an unknown little gem, evidenced by the overgrown rocky trail and lack of any signs of humans and their inevitable mess. Clean water was important for the man’s task.
Carefully loading the last bucket into the bed of his little truck, the man slowly drove back to his home. The buckets had covers, but he still worried about spillage. Thankfully, his home wasn’t far, the little cove tucked away on his neighbor’s property edge. His neighbor lived in the city and only came out for a couple weeks in the summer, and the man had been caretaking the property for them for since the fall. They were his only nearby neighbors, which suited the man nicely. He liked his privacy and his crafts required a certain level of distance from curious eyes. He pulled into his winding driveway and circled around to the back of his house. He’d setup his materials there for what was to come.
The long bed of coals cast a shimmering wave of heat up. Between the grey coating of ash, little orange-white eyes of fire gleamed and the whole bed glowed from the efforts to tend it. The man carefully placed each of the hand-forged iron still trays in the bed, making sure each stayed leveled and firmly balanced. Then, using a careful hand, he poured the sea water into each. As the sun finally breached the horizon and the day got under way, the man paused his work to say a small invocation to the four points and for the suns blessings on todays efforts. Then he sat, settling into the vigil he’d hold all day. Watch the water simmer down, use the hand-carved paddles to scrape the salt and ensure it didn’t burn, gently add more sea water, until all of the buckets he’d painstakingly filled and hauled were reduced down to pure, clean sea salt.
As the sun slowly crawled across the sky, the man gathered the accumulating salt and added it to his marble mortar, grinding in various dried and fresh herbs into it and then packing it away in glass jars. The herbs came from his garden, which was important to his work. Everything had to be done with intent, and come from the web of life around his home. The sea salt, the herbs, even the wood used for the fire bed were carefully gathered from nearby.
As the sun kissed the far horizon and evening began to creep on, the man gathered, mixed, and bottled the last of the salt. He was pleased by how much he was able to produce today, because his plans would require every ounce of it. The moon crept up as the sun slipped below the tree-line, and the man prepared to begin his next ritual. Again, he’d laid out what he’d need already. The smudge sticks, picked and dried from his garden, the bottles of salt, the rough-hewn iron mallet, and the four iron nails were all placed on the small table he’d dragged out by the fire pit.
The man pulled off his clothes, folding each item and placing it under the table. He wound his tartan around his waist in the proper form. His skin stood in gooseflesh as the chill of the evening hit him, but it was important that he perform his rite as unencumbered as possible. Carefully, he scooped ash from the fire pit and spit into it, then daubed the necessary sigils on his skin. Soon, his chest and arms were a knotwork of dark grey lines and ash bisected each of his eyes. He hoped they were enough protection, but he didn’t have the materials for anything stronger. Quietly voicing his invocation, he bit his thumb and let a single drop of blood drip into each bottle of salt. Then, lifting and cradling them all in his arms, he made his way to the edge of his property. The lines had been cleared and the shallow trench dug in the days before, and the bare earth seemed to nearly glow under the pale moonlight as dusk settled into the gloaming. He walked the line, setting the bottles at even spacing all the way around his property and leaving a single nail at each corner. He walked widdershins, counter-sunwise. Many in the craft would say it was a wrong way to perform the rite, but the man had learned things in his travels. For powerful protections, you needed to run counter to the flow of the world, to create barriers you couldn’t walk with the flow of life. He intended this to be a powerful piece of protection.
As the moon rose to its zenith the man felt that everything was prepared. The materials were in their spot, placed in accordance to his plans. He had walked widdershins around the lines four times, reciting a litany to the four points and to the four powers he intended to invoke tonight. It was time to begin. Taking a deep breath to center himself, he began chanting. The words were ancient Gaelic, the language the man had internalized as his craft language. It was important for anyone who practiced to adhere to a separate language for casting. It was vital to think and speak in only that language for the craft, and to engage in a daily language for all things mundane. All magic, at it’s heart, was just intent given shape and focus. And if you learned how to truly focus and give your intentions life without a means to keep the errant thoughts and distractions in life from taking on their own lives, you were asking for nothing but trouble. Too many “poltergeists” had just been neophyte practitioners in an area who either didn’t know or didn’t adhere to language discipline. He’d chosen Gaelic in honor his first teacher, his grandfather, and because it wasn’t common. Plus, he thought it was just a beautiful language
The rite carried on for hours. The man’s voice remained even and melodious as he kept the invocation going as he worked, altering it for each of the four segments of the barrier. Each nail, hammered into the ground with a single sure stoke of his mallet, marked the end of one verse and the beginning of the next. The salt was poured between each nail in a continuous line, creating an unbroken protective barrier along the boundary of the property. The man was sweating and exhausted as he poured the last of the salt up to the first laid nail. His voiced held as he raised it higher, nearly shouting the final lines to the heavens. The entire length of the line flared white, then faded entirely from view. Dropping to his knees, the man sighed deeply. It was done.
“I felt it. It was a stronger invocation than you told me you were trying for.” The hint of disapproval was tinged with kindness in the gruff voice. The diminutive form poured the hot water over the tea leaves and gently blew on it as he carried it over to the man. With a grateful nod, the man accepted both the cup and the chiding. The warmth of the tea was welcomed after the quick rinse and change of clothes.
“It was…a worthwhile risk. I knew the hand forged nails and the salt would be strong magic, but the sigils I had you look up proved to act in a nice resonance when inscribed on the nails lengths.”
“Those sigils wouldn’t account for the power I felt. What else…no, you didn’t…” The hobgoblin was a very expressive creature at most times, but the exaggerated shock on his face bordered on the theatrical. “You practiced blood magic.” It wasn’t a question, but a statement.
The man nodded. Blood magic had been forbidden, but there was no council anymore to enforce the law. There were risks, but he had felt they were worth them. Blood magic was a source of immense power, but it also tied the caster to the magic performed. With his life infusing the barrier, he was now tied to it. Should it fall, so would he and vice versa. “It warranted it, my friend. Something is coming, though I’ll be damned if I know what.” It was an old argument between them. The man had been seeing the signs and the patterns, but could not put his finger on what was coming. But it was bad, and it was going to change the world. His premonitions had been insistent and Macfie had learned to listen when his subconscious sent him messages. “Titch, I think the day will come when we’ll need that protection and more.” The hobgoblin looked at his friend and whatever retort he had faded. The tears in the man’s eyes said all that needed said that night. They sat together as the sun came up, drinking their tea and quietly contemplating what may come. Neither spoke of the fear each saw in the other’s eyes.
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