“Need to pick anything else up?” she asks.
“I’ll get out of your hair. Don’t want to keep the Supreme waiting.”
“I swear if I get up there, and she just has me doing dishes…”
I laugh, though in the pit of my stomach, I wish my mom or Gramps were still around to nag me about chores.
The silver bell over the door chimes as I leave, and I notice Amber locking up out of the corner of my eye. Sometimes it feels like she’s the only family I have left. Except, a few months ago, I found out the ugly truth about my Father. Though, are any absentee Fathers ever really pretty? Either way, I know who my sperm donor is, and he knows who I am.
Which means I need to act before he does.
* * *
I makeit back to my apartment and get to work. I put the package on a countertop in my modest kitchen and grab the first sharp thing I can find, a chef’s knife I left in the sink. I cut through the labels and tape, opening up the package to find a slab of wood; it’s a beautiful shade of brown with hints of red running through it. Despite its beauty, I read that, when cut, it bleeds.
I angle the tip of my knife to one of the block’s edges to see if it’s true. It takes a lot of pressing, but the knife cuts into the wood, and a substance begins to ooze out. Normal tamboti wood secretes a white and poisonous latex when it’s cut. This wood isn’t that different, but instead of white sappy ooze, the same warm red that runs through the wood grain drips from the cut, like cutting into the vein of someone’s forearm.
“Gloves,” I think aloud before setting down the knife.
I look under my sink and find a pair of rubber gloves meant for washing dishes. It’s not the perfect protective gear, but I imagine so long as the sappy-latex doesn’t get directly on my skin I should be fine. I’ve carved enough wands that I doubt I’ll cut myself.
I take some time to prep: changing into an old pair of sweats and a shirt, pulling my curls back with elastic and clips for the flyaways. I lay an old towel on the hardwood floor. Then I get to work carving.
Wands aren’t especially popular. They’re pretty obvious, and the last thing any witch wants is to turn heads. A lot of people see them as a novice tool, as well, since they’re a very precise magic conductor. But I like them, and while I’m not a novice (at least I don’t see myself that way), I don’t have the training other witches have.
Learning magic from a non-magic user goes about as well as it sounds.
My Mom tried, taught me what she learned from her own Mother before she passed. She read cards and built altars; she practiced for personal peace or maybe connection to her Mother. But she had no control over magic. If she drew a magic circle on practice paper as I had hundreds of times, it would have just been a drawing. Nothing more.
It’s not enough to be born a witch, nor is it enough to study witchcraft. They go hand in hand like the components of a spell.
I lose track of time, and soon the wood is shaped into a stretched out cone, thicker at the base and thinner as it extends. I’ve carved sigils into the wood, symbols specific to the practice of summoning, symbols like the ones I drew back at the shop. I rather like drawing sigils and symbols, designing my own for exactly what I need. The more obvious the magic, the more I gravitate toward it–an unfortunate moth to a dangerous flame.
The cloth underneath me looks like a crime scene, and my clothes and gloves aren’t much better. I toss the gloves before I move to the next step, grabbing a jeweler's kit containing gold wire and various crystals. I wrap some gold wire around the base of the wand to secure it, then start winding the wire up the wand, stopping occasionally to wrap a crystal in wire before attaching it to the wand.
The type of crystal matters. It all matters; every little detail put into casting a spell has an impact. Moldavite is my first crystal, a swampy green color, it reminds me a bit of sea glass but nowhere near as smooth. As I wrap the crystal and affix it to the wand I take a second to admire how nicely the colors all come together, brilliant gold pulling out the natural reds of the wood and complementing the green crystal.
I keep wrapping the wand and add another crystal, this time cinnabar, a brilliant red that rivals the wood. It’s so beautiful, I feel a bit sad that I won’t be able to show it to Amber. She teases me for still using wands, but she’s also my biggest supporter when it comes to me performing magic. The rest of the coven is a lot more wary.
I’m finally near the end, which means it’s time to put on the final crystal at the very tip of the wand: a rich purple charoite, which might be my favorite of the crystals. Though I am biased. Purple is my favorite color, has been ever since I was a kid and read that purple was considered a royal color for most of history.
I wrap the last bit of gold wire several times around the wood and charoite, making sure nothing will slip. My fingers, red and tender from all the work they’ve been put through today, run along the cool metal and stones affixed to the wand. Rich purple, reds, and green reflect the light in my apartment.
The sun is starting to set, alerting and alarming me as to how much time has passed. I should set the wand aside, give everything some time to settle. But I can’t. I lay the wand down on my bookshelf before going to grab some candles and chalk from the box in my bedroom where I keep my magic supplies.
My landlord is going to hate me for what I’m about to do.
I pull my coffee table and rug aside, opening up the center of my tiny living room. I stand in the center of the room, then mark that center with a little “X” in yellow chalk. I take three steps from the center, then mark that. I do that a few times, creating different points on the outside of the center mark. This is the sketch for the summoning circle, but it has to be right. There’s a lot of math involved, though I might be the only person who sees creating magic circles as math projects. Designing the sigils reminds me of geometry homework. But witches don’t like to compare the art of magic to the strict sciences–save for alchemists, who are basically wizard chemists.
I create small blocks inside the outline to lock in the various symbols I’ll need. The intent is for the magic to bounce off each symbol before it reaches the edge of the circle. I’m about halfway done with my sketch, when one of the symbols looks funny to me, and I second guess everything I’ve drawn up to that point.
I huff before standing up and taking a moment to double check my work. I’m aware I’m much too deep in the process to really be a reliable critic, but better for me to double check than to wing it and blow up my whole apartment. I mean thatshouldn’thappen anyway. The symbols aren’t meant for offensive magic. Though summoning spells aren’t exactly defensive, are they?
With my palms yellow and dusty, the magic circle sketch is finished. Standing at the edge of the circle I smile with pride looking at my work. “Okay…” I reach to grab my wand, only to remember what a mess my hands are. I dust them off on my sweatpants before picking up the wand. I point the charoite tip at the center of the circle, then map where the magic should go once the circle is activated, going from one symbol to the other, like electricity lighting up a switchboard.
“And all I’d need is a candle and an offering.”
I shouldn’t. This is all just prep work. I can’t actually cast the spell now.
