No Humans Involved
Page 81
I looked up at Jeremy. "You said you like to help. So do I, but I've been fighting it all my life. Maybe I'm not very good at it. And I'm sure I'll never run around chasing down problems like Paige or Hope. But this is what I want to do-now, not five years from now, after I've had a TV show that I'll hate every moment off. Time to do what will make me happy: stage work and council work."
"Good." He smiled, then went sober. "But this could still damage your professional reputation."
"Yep. It could." I opened a small tin of grave dirt and sniffed it for freshness. "But what matters right now isn't the show or my reputation, it's the children. What's best for them is to have me here, close by, with all-hours access, working to free them. Whatever the cost."
"But you can do this without the premonition angle. You happened to be in the garden. You saw something sticking from the dirt. You alerted the guards who called the police. Their interviews alone will delay all plans to pack up today."
"Maybe. Maybe not. But giving this a spiritualist angle guarantees they won't pull the plug on the final show, which I suspect they're considering, despite all the promotion they've done. They'll back out and blame 'problems on the set'-meaning us. But if I find a body and claim it had something to do with spirit communication? The buzz will be too big for them to cancel it. Personally, I don't care anymore, but I feel guilty, I guess. I'm responsible for getting us shut down, and now I may have ruined Angelique's big shot at stardom and Grady's chance to pick up a North American audience."
"We'll have to handle it carefully."
"I plan to."
OUR THEORY about this human magical group was that they were "scientists" of the occult world, trying and discarding various theories and practices, maybe latching onto a ritual or an ingredient that seemed to work, and experimenting until they found just the right combination, the one that did something.
As I prepared to raise a body, kneeling at my altar cloth while Jeremy and Eve kept watch, I pondered on how we-true supernatu-rals-weren't much different. There's no single way to raise a corpse. Every necromancer family has its way-one it swears is better than everyone else's.
Some use poppets-small dolls stuffed with hair or nail clippings from the target. The O'Caseys prefer a more complicated method, but one that doesn't require body bits.
As for the ingredients and invocations, again, they vary. Like spellcasters, we use what's been "proven" to work. As with spellcast-ers, there are those who say the whole thing is hooey-that we don't need to sprinkle grave dirt over a chalk symbol, we don't need to blow corpse dust to the four winds-that the power to raise the dead, as the power to communicate with them, is within us.
But we keep using what works. Thatdoesn't mean we're too stupid and superstitious to try without the bits and bobs of ritual. This group had probably done the same-tried sacrificing an adult. Maybe it failed, as did our pared-back rituals. That could be psychology at work-at some level we're convinced we need ingredient X and therefore we fail without it. Or maybe I was thinking too much to avoid what I was supposed to be doing.
Paige told me once that her mother always said the main function of ritual was that it provided the spellcaster-or necromancer-with a gradual transition from the everyday world to the magical. That the act of concentrating on placing ingredients just so, on drawing symbols, on laying out tools and lighting censers was for focus, to release the brain from thoughts of shopping lists and luncheon dates. If that was the case, I'd probably never needed that refocusing more than I did this afternoon.
It wasn't thoughts of shopping lists cluttering my mind, but the horror of what I was about to do.
Raising the dead. If you're a religious person, you call it resurrection and it's a miracle. If you're a horror buff, it's Armageddon at the hands of a flesh-munching mob of shambling corpses. In truth, it's some of both.
Like miracle workers, we return the ghost-the soul-to the body, conscious and aware. So unless you raise a Hannibal Lecter, the person's not going to start eating brains. But the body is the dead one, the broken one, the rotting one, just like in a horror flick. So now the ghost is trapped, fully aware, in that broken and rotting corpse. Could anything be more horrific?
Yet every well-trained necromancer is taught to do this. Must practice even. Whether he or she ever chooses to raise a zombie, we know how, should we need that knowledge.
And now I did. To raise a child.
THE DARKEST POWER
I BEGAN THE INCANTATION. Jeremy stood just past the nearest garden bed, watching for anyone coming from the house. Eve patrolled for ghosts, warning them off. I think Kristof was helping too, but I didn't see him; didn't see anyone.
As much as I tried to clear my mind, every sight, every sound seemed to vie for my attention. The poke and scrape of pebbles under my knees. A prop plane buzzing overhead. A fly walking over my chalk symbol. The sickly sweet smell of lilies. To me, they smell of funeral homes and death. Sweet yet off-putting, like the stink of rot.
Rot
How long had these children been in the garden? How much had their bodies decayed? Were they even whole? What if they weren't and I'd return a soul to a partial corpse, one without arms, without legs, unable to fight to the surface, trapped under the earth as I sat, oblivious, listening to airplanes and watching flies-
Enough. Focus.
It took awhile, but I finally found a mental place without sights, without smells, feelings, sounds, even thoughts. Just me, commanding any nearby soul to return to its body.
"Good." He smiled, then went sober. "But this could still damage your professional reputation."
"Yep. It could." I opened a small tin of grave dirt and sniffed it for freshness. "But what matters right now isn't the show or my reputation, it's the children. What's best for them is to have me here, close by, with all-hours access, working to free them. Whatever the cost."
"But you can do this without the premonition angle. You happened to be in the garden. You saw something sticking from the dirt. You alerted the guards who called the police. Their interviews alone will delay all plans to pack up today."
"Maybe. Maybe not. But giving this a spiritualist angle guarantees they won't pull the plug on the final show, which I suspect they're considering, despite all the promotion they've done. They'll back out and blame 'problems on the set'-meaning us. But if I find a body and claim it had something to do with spirit communication? The buzz will be too big for them to cancel it. Personally, I don't care anymore, but I feel guilty, I guess. I'm responsible for getting us shut down, and now I may have ruined Angelique's big shot at stardom and Grady's chance to pick up a North American audience."
"We'll have to handle it carefully."
"I plan to."
OUR THEORY about this human magical group was that they were "scientists" of the occult world, trying and discarding various theories and practices, maybe latching onto a ritual or an ingredient that seemed to work, and experimenting until they found just the right combination, the one that did something.
As I prepared to raise a body, kneeling at my altar cloth while Jeremy and Eve kept watch, I pondered on how we-true supernatu-rals-weren't much different. There's no single way to raise a corpse. Every necromancer family has its way-one it swears is better than everyone else's.
Some use poppets-small dolls stuffed with hair or nail clippings from the target. The O'Caseys prefer a more complicated method, but one that doesn't require body bits.
As for the ingredients and invocations, again, they vary. Like spellcasters, we use what's been "proven" to work. As with spellcast-ers, there are those who say the whole thing is hooey-that we don't need to sprinkle grave dirt over a chalk symbol, we don't need to blow corpse dust to the four winds-that the power to raise the dead, as the power to communicate with them, is within us.
But we keep using what works. Thatdoesn't mean we're too stupid and superstitious to try without the bits and bobs of ritual. This group had probably done the same-tried sacrificing an adult. Maybe it failed, as did our pared-back rituals. That could be psychology at work-at some level we're convinced we need ingredient X and therefore we fail without it. Or maybe I was thinking too much to avoid what I was supposed to be doing.
Paige told me once that her mother always said the main function of ritual was that it provided the spellcaster-or necromancer-with a gradual transition from the everyday world to the magical. That the act of concentrating on placing ingredients just so, on drawing symbols, on laying out tools and lighting censers was for focus, to release the brain from thoughts of shopping lists and luncheon dates. If that was the case, I'd probably never needed that refocusing more than I did this afternoon.
It wasn't thoughts of shopping lists cluttering my mind, but the horror of what I was about to do.
Raising the dead. If you're a religious person, you call it resurrection and it's a miracle. If you're a horror buff, it's Armageddon at the hands of a flesh-munching mob of shambling corpses. In truth, it's some of both.
Like miracle workers, we return the ghost-the soul-to the body, conscious and aware. So unless you raise a Hannibal Lecter, the person's not going to start eating brains. But the body is the dead one, the broken one, the rotting one, just like in a horror flick. So now the ghost is trapped, fully aware, in that broken and rotting corpse. Could anything be more horrific?
Yet every well-trained necromancer is taught to do this. Must practice even. Whether he or she ever chooses to raise a zombie, we know how, should we need that knowledge.
And now I did. To raise a child.
THE DARKEST POWER
I BEGAN THE INCANTATION. Jeremy stood just past the nearest garden bed, watching for anyone coming from the house. Eve patrolled for ghosts, warning them off. I think Kristof was helping too, but I didn't see him; didn't see anyone.
As much as I tried to clear my mind, every sight, every sound seemed to vie for my attention. The poke and scrape of pebbles under my knees. A prop plane buzzing overhead. A fly walking over my chalk symbol. The sickly sweet smell of lilies. To me, they smell of funeral homes and death. Sweet yet off-putting, like the stink of rot.
Rot
How long had these children been in the garden? How much had their bodies decayed? Were they even whole? What if they weren't and I'd return a soul to a partial corpse, one without arms, without legs, unable to fight to the surface, trapped under the earth as I sat, oblivious, listening to airplanes and watching flies-
Enough. Focus.
It took awhile, but I finally found a mental place without sights, without smells, feelings, sounds, even thoughts. Just me, commanding any nearby soul to return to its body.
