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Fire licks their arms as they dance across the shimmering black stones. The moon glows a dead shade of white. Wrong. They think. This is all wrong! They lift their hands up, miming reaching for a handful of stars, but something forces them away. In the background, the pristist is singing an insufferable hymn.
Daughter of earth
And son of sea
Bring my children back to me
Sister of shadow
And friend of fiends
Feed off fear of death woe
He knows us better than we know ourselves
We know ourselves
We know ourselves
They know this song by heart. It’s etched into their mind like those parasitic brain bugs that crop up every now and then. They bite their lip, drawing blood. They think about spending long nights rewriting that damned hymn: watching night bleed into day. Bile begins rising in their stomach. They freeze, clap three times, take off the onyx cuffs and put out the fire. The singing stops. They listen for it, but the only sounds they hear are animals and the wind. And still, it feels incredibly wrong. They grab their Biblion Mendax and hold it like a baby. This is to say, they kept it at a distance because, well, it stank, but avoided dropping it since that would look terrible.
Magick, like just about everything else, has a smell. Depending on what Magick someone uses, it’ll either smell like freshly baked bread with honey and milk with a side of chocolate or, it’ll reek of rotten meat. Very rarely is there any in-between. And when there is…well, blessed be Mahlon.
They pack the book with the other stuff from their failed ritual. They’d have to clean it, eventually. But that pretty much guarantees at least a week of them avoiding that bag like the plague. They cringe, close their eyes, clasp their hands together and say in the most convincingly loyal voice they can muster
“Blessed Be Mahlon.”
The walk home is gray. They feel emptier now than they did then. Emptier even, then the first time Mahlon rejected them.
It was spring. They were 7. All the little kids were dancing around the roots or blowing dandelions. Abungu was there—smiling at them and singing a song they couldn’t remember. They went up to her. She moved her golden basket and patted her lap. They sat down on her dress of white flowers; the entire world glowed brighter. They turned to her and a wave of euphoria seemed to wrap around them. They grinned even wider and asked;
“What do you think my name will be?”
She just smiled in that way adults smile at kids when they know something the kids don’t. Her eyes—one brown, one emerald green—shone with crystal tears.
“Something as beautiful as you, baby.” Her voice was everything. She started to hum the same song as before. Birds circled around them like a colorful halo. Feathers rained down. They caught three. Abungu made a sound like she’d had any idea. She gently poked the tree she was sitting on.
“You mind?” she asked. The tree dropped a silver leaf into her hand. Then, she took a few stands from her long twist-out and turned back to them.
”Can I see those feathers?”
They gave them to her, watching in awe as she kissed all of the materials and blew. They made the mistake of blinking. When they opened their eyes…and saw a hand cover their eyes.
“Hold on, baby, not yet.”
It started to drizzle. Then it stopped. There was a pause and they heard fire crackle
“Now!” She said, removing her hand. They gasped. Right there was the most beautiful stone they had ever seen. It was a perfect triangle, rough to the touch. It looked like it was every color imaginable and no color at all. They forgot their manners and reached for it. She placed it in their hand. It sank down. They looked up, confused.
“If you ever need it, tap your left hand three times. See?” She did it on her own hand. They nodded. Just then, they felt this intense pressure on their forehead. Abungu seemed sadder, somehow, but shook her head.
“He’s calling. You have to go.”
“Thanks so much!” They hopped off of her lap and waved. Abungu just nodded. As they ran to where everyone else was for Nomen, they heard, somewhere in the wind, Be safe baby.
They shake their head, clearing it. Mahon didn’t name them then, so why did they expect it now? They unlock the door and walk in, head down.
“Hey,” their voice cracks a little. Their mother looks up from her weaving. She skips the greetings altogether.
“Nomen?”
“No nomen.” They breathe. Their mother nods; she expected this.
“Well, Mahlon knows all,” she says. “Have you done the closing prayer yet?”
“Yes ma’am.” She looks at them, a mix of pity, disdain, and stale love playing across her face. She puts down her work and stands up. “Another one can’t hurt, wouldn’t you agree?” There is no arguing with her, they could, but that would probably just lead to a visit to “The Room”, if she was feeling nice or a bag of rice if she wasn’t.
“No ma'am,’ they say, mirroring her stance.
“Mahlon, we thank you for every bit of your time—everything you do for us, even though we don’t deserve it.” She pauses, considering her next words. “Thank you, Mahlon, for giving me this child and neutering us all. Remind us, Mahlon, that you are the only reason we live and help us all to have more faith in you than we already do. Do not let any of us stray.” She opens her eyes and presses her index finger between their eyebrows. “Blessed be Mahon.”
“Blessed be Mahlon,” they echo.
They dream of a garden with every plant they’d heard of up to this point—maybe more. Grape vines snake up the walls surrounding it; sandwiched between those walls is a golden gate with swirls engraved on it. The path in front of them consists of glittering black stones that threaten to break skin. They reach for the gate, but pause.
“Come, my child.” A voice calls out. “Enter the paradise I have created for you!” The gate opens, an invisible current pushes them inside. “See the flowers? I’ve picked out the perfect shade of red for the roses!” They look closely at the roses and try to agree, but their tongue sticks to the roof of their mouth. Instead, they nod as the voice—Mahlon—continues. “I’ve made the sweetest fruit for you, as well! Won’t you try some?” Their legs move without their permission. They stop walking after they become face-to-trunk with a rapidly shrinking tree. They reach out and grab a pink grape-apple hybrid and, against their will, sink their teeth into it. The taste of blood hits them insatiably. They think about gagging, about stomping this fruit into pulp and juice and skin. But that doesn’t happen. Instead, the dream begins to crack. First goes the black stoney ground. Next, the walls and sky.
“What did I do!?” they scream.
“That's the wrong question, dear nameless child! What you should be asking is What haven’t I done? What can I do? After all,” they break off into squelch-y yet ethereal chuckles, “greedy children will never be right in the eyes of Mahlon.”
They open their eyes to the sun, slapping them in the face. It hits them almost instantly that they didn’t actually wash off last night and they run to the closest pond they knew, grabbing lavender and the black salt they keep hidden on the way. They think about using the tub at home, but it reeked of Mahlon’s Magick. There is also the fact that they don’t feel like boiling water, but nevermind that! A mile and a half jogging makes much more sense!
When they finally reach the pond, they freeze and listen for siren songs or a fae’s wings. They sniff the air for magick. They smell a hint of chocolate, but other than that, nothing really. They throw off their clothes and sink into the water. It’s cold and slightly biting. They listen to the birds and double-take at how happy they are that for the first time in a long time, the song’s just…a song! The birds sang it because they can, not because they have too and that was just too damn beautiful. They smile, feeling their chapped lips crack in protest. Laughter threatens to bubble up but before that happens, another voice joins the chorus of birds. They freeze. They stand up in the water and sniff the air again. The chocolate smell increases and with it, so does their panic. It could be a siren! It could be a witch! It could be anything that’s bored and magick and cruel. They quickly finish washing, the splashing drowning out the singing…until it’s not. The singing stops, but the smell gets stronger and stronger, until they can taste it—sweet and smooth, a little bitter. They look around the lake to see what they could have possibly missed, but no one’s there. Nothing’s out of place except…except for a small hole on top of the water. They don’t keep looking at it. They hop out and get changed into cleaner clothes. They're about to give wind riders a run for their money when someone calls.
“Was I really that bad of a singer?” They freeze. They know they should be running, but their feet stay rooted to the ground. “Yes, I’m talking to you!” he says with held-back laughter. They turn and come face to face with a boy who looks their age with pale skin and hair as dark as raven feathers. He looks solid and mildly amused with smirking lips that give away nothing and eyes that must have belonged to a rainbow once. They stare for a second more and speak.
“No, you were good. I haven’t actually heard singing in a while.” The boy looks skeptical. He tilts his head and sniffs the air, the smirk never leaving his face.
“That so? You smell like…” He sniffs again. “an aegrus. Last time I passed by their temples, they didn’t even take a breath. Just went into the next verse.” They stare at him, a twinge of terror nipping at them. They do another quick scan. He has silver beads in his curls and is wearing a shirt the color of water. They wonder for a minute if it isn’t actually water that’s been charmed to stay put. His skin is pale, like he isn’t in the sun that often, which they find odd considering that it’s the middle of summer and, while it’s not particularly scorching today, it typically is. Then again…he could just not be from here and not know how they operate. Besides, if he wants to hurt them, they’d already be dead
“It’s not the same. All they ever sing about is Mahlon.” They groan. “Blessed be Mahlon! We all must suffer because…reasons.” They shake their head. “It just gets old, I guess.”
“Sounds like it,” he agrees, staring at them.
“What? Is there something in my hair?”
“Lavender sprigs, yeah, but that’s not why I’m looking.”
“Okay…”
“I’m waiting to see if you’ll get struck down by lightning or swallowed by a very specific earthquake.”
“Pfft, that's not how that works,” they laugh.
“No?”
“Nope. I’m used to pissing him off. I usually just drink a cup of salt water or repent at the temple.”
“And…if you don’t?”
“I’ll get sick until I do.”
“Oh,” he says, rolling his eyes. ‘That’s lovely.”
“Yeah, it’s great,” they mockingly agree. A silence follows as they grapple for something—anything—to say.
“Do you…have a name?”
The boy raises an eyebrow.
“Yes. Do you not?” He says it in jest, clearly expecting an “of course!”
“No,” they say, shrinking down a little. “I don’t. Nothing came up during Nomen .”
“Huh,” his eyebrow somehow raises even higher. “A title, maybe?”
“No title either.”
“So wait…what are you called, then?”
“Mostly ‘child’ or ‘you there’. Sometimes people get creative.”
“Huh,’ he nods, like he gets it. He stretches out hIs hand and they stare at his nails which are deep blue. “I’m Colden.” He gave them a name…or a title. Either way, they decide once and for all that he’s safe-ish at least. If he tries anything at all, they figure they could curse him or walk into his dreams uninvited. Malahn’s or Mother’s punishments be damned. They take his hand. It’s soft and cool, like they expected, his grip firm but a good amount of steps away from being tight or painful. “What would your name be if you had one?”
They don’t even think about it. “Cary,” they say with more conviction than either of them were expecting.
“Cary,” echoes Colden as he squeezes their hand again before letting go. “Nice to meet you.” He gives them one final grin and disappears into a cloud of mist. Almost as an afterthought, the cloud sticks around for just long enough for them to hear See you around, Cary.
Cary does not go home right away. The air still smells faintly of chocolate, and their new name tastes like raw honey on their tongue as they say it to themself. Cary, Cary, Cary! They walk past the pond, through the woods, into a stream, and pause at a witches Circle. They would sometimes walk this exact route with their mother. She’d be wrapped on a dark maroon cloak, clutching a string of beads—her portable altar of sorts—in a tight fist as she mumbled her devotions to Mahlon. Cary used to try and peak their nose through the cloth covering it to try and smell the magick, but she’d always catch them and tighten her grip on their wrist. But now? Mother isn’t here! She’s miles away staring at a rainbow of fabric and listening to the wind dance through the chimes. She isn’t here to block their view of the world and Cary left before praying with her…which means she didn’t have a chance to cast Eyes of Mahlon and watch everything that happens.
Cary lets themself fall backwards into the grass and a wave of laughter washes over them. They feel stupid and giddy: like the day is theirs. Something besides their body is theirs. They just don’t understand why this couldn’t have happened years ago. They stare at the sun until shadows dance across theirt vision and decide to commit a little more blasphemy before they go home to drink and sing away their sins.
“I am mine,” they sing. And the birds join in.