Justin and Jonah, blessed to be born with wings. Some offshoot of humanity, a lucky few. From birth they had been in the world of magic and all of that. I’m just a normal human, I didn’t receive an introduction until after I was saved. Justin swooped in one night, saved me from a drunk driver. Whatever kind of magic that makes humans forget, couldn’t make me forget him and the glorious wings that had snatched me away to safety.
From there I was enrolled in one the academies around the
country that specialized in giving students and education in both worlds. Sure,
I learned of the American Revolution, the classics like Shakespeare and mathematics.
I also learned Alexandre Dumas’ Wolf
Leader, is based on a true account, fundamentals of magic, and supernatural
history. My view of the world changed, a lot. I became more cynical, that’s
what made Justin great, he balanced me out. Made me see the good in the world.
Through all my studies, travel and work I learned a lot
about magic. What it could do, and what it couldn’t do. Everything had
limitations. You could change a lot of things with magic, but you could never
really change the world. You can change someone’s age, weight, gender,
appearance, bodily functions, and they would still be the same person. There
were love potions, but the person would only be loyal to you, they could never
really love you.
I learned a lot about the magic of elves, orcs, goblins,
humans, and other species. Still, not a single one of them has helped me to
bring Justin back. That’s when the words of my mother came to me. Something she
had told me when she realized what I was doing, all on her own. There are things
humans do, without realizing there is magic behind them. We can’t help it, our
eyes have been closed to most of the magic in the world. We see a street magician
or an escape artist and consider that to be the extent of magic. Regla de Ocha,
or Santeria may be deemed insane or satanic by the Catholic church, but there
is more power in sacrifice than throwing holy water on fancy cars.
“Do not forget that there is power from our ancestors, as
well as theirs,” that’s what my mother told me.
My mother had long been a practice of Voodoo, Vodun, Vodou
or any of the other names it is called by those in the diaspora. A great deal
of prosperity can come from making deals with or sacrificing to the Loa. I was
arrogant, let my knowledge of it all slip past me. My answer could have been in
my face the entire time. I remember my mother telling me stories of The Pope of
Voodoo, Max Beauvoir. He could bring back the dead with his powder,
unfortunately, I don’t have the time to fly to Haiti and track through the forest.
Instead I’ve done some research on my own. The Rose of Jericho,
a plant that supposedly has the power to bring people back to life. I found the
only voodoo shop in the city, inside there’s a sweet scent. Nothing like what
movies would have you believe. There’s no people convulsing on the floor or
soaked in red paint and dancing to rhythmic drums. Instead the shop is well
lit, simple white walls with portraits to some of the 121 Loa and various slave
revolts.
“Hey, what can I do for you,” a young woman at the counter
asks.
“I’m looking for Rose of Jericho,” I approach the counter.
“Strange request, can I ask what for?”
“Resurrection.”
“Hmmm, that’s not going to work. Wouldn’t find that here anyway.
Most of the stuff we sell is premade. Shipped here from Haiti. Sacrifice kits, offerings
to burn, candles to the light the way, histories of the Loa. We do have some potions
of vigor, love, health. Trinkets that bring luck and so on. But we’ve got
nothing for resurrection.”
“I’m sorry, I just remember my mother telling me stories
about resurrections.”
“I see. You’ll need a priest the Manbo for that.”
“Manbo?”
“A priest or priestess, the patriarch,” she explains
casually.
“You know any?”
“I do.”
“Can you call them?”
“She doesn’t make house calls.”
“Then how can I meet her,” I’m starting to get irritated.
“You need to go see her, at her home. Bring a gift for her,
and she may help you.”
“Who, and where?”
“Tituba, go see her at the address,” she scribbles an
address on some receipt paper.
“What do I take her as a gift?”
The young woman burst into laughter, “Tituba likes the
ganja,” she puts a heavy accent on ganja.
“Where the hell, do I get weed,” the whole situation is
funny now.
“I have to give you my dealer too?”
“I don’t know where to buy weed anymore,” I laugh at her.
“Relax, I’ll have him come to the shop,” she pulls out her
phone and starts texting.
For the next thirty minutes I sit and discuss my lapses
practice of Voodoo that never really existed with this young woman. It turns
out her name is Mary and she’s studying to become a priestess herself, but it
takes years and she’s only just begun. To my surprise, her weed dealer actually
shows up as if this is a common occurrence. I buy a little extra for her, a
thank you for the information.
“Thank you, I’ll make sure to stop by from time to time,” I
say as I exit.
“Wait,” Mary stops me.
“What is it?”
“Whatever you do, don’t interrupt Tituba, it may irritate
her.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.”
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