Page 7 of His in the Dark

PERSEPHONE

I f Beatrice can do this, so can I. A mere mortal. Surely even if I am losing the divine I was born with, magic can aid in my time of need. My mother speaks of it, as does my confidant Beatrice. And I’ve seen the powers that have come to her, the blessings she’s wished for and the gifts granted with ease after her rituals.

If it works for her, it will not betray me. The spell I cast will work and my worries will be put at ease.

Those are the thoughts I hold close in my mind as I gather the necessities for the simple spell and carry them to the low altar, the glass clacking as I go. My thoughts are fixed on that altar and on magic, though I do not want to think too far into the coming days.

There is still hope.

My doubts are soft at first. They creep in like weeds in a garden, growing under the soil and in the night before one knows that they’ve put down roots. By the time they sprout, they have gone much deeper into the earth than it first appears.

The doubts in my mind sprout like those weeds, budding above the earth and bursting into my mind in full bloom.

What happens if this spell goes wrong? The phrasing on this spell is not specific, nor does it include the true reason behind its workings or even the true reason for its casting as my particular need is unique.

There is another fear among the others I had not expected to face.

What happens if the spell goes right?

What happens if my power comes back in a firestorm that grows beyond my wildest imagination and it causes great attention and my father’s wrath?

A shiver passes through me.

Even with my intentions focused as they are, I cannot predict the outcome. My mother’s warnings scream in the back of my head. Be careful of your thoughts . Magic happens with a dollop of humor. It is often delivered in a way you weren't expecting and could never have predicted. You’ll get what you want, but how and what else comes with it is often unexpected... Not always in delighted ways.

Magic is a little like planting an unknown seed in a fertile patch of dirt. One will not know the shape of the flower or the color of its petals until it blooms. One must wait for the greenery to peek above the earth and show itself. One can only hope that the outcome will be good, but there is no guarantee in gardening. It could result in the infestation of shrubbery that shades and smothers the other flowers in the garden. But the seed that you planted will rise. And isn’t that what you asked for? What was prayed for even?

There is no guarantee in magic, either.

I arrange the items carefully on my altar, touching each one as if it is something precious. It is something precious. The crystals and candle I have brought with me are a part of my magic, just as the altar is. The obsidian sphere is small but mighty, a gift from someone long ago that I cannot remember. The small bottle of smokey quartz chips sits next to it, and as the tips of my fingers brush against it, I pray for the ease of burdens on my mind.

Just as the space around me dwells in magic. Just as I dwell in magic. It is part of me, and I am part of it, too.

“If Beatrice can do this, I can as well,” I say softly, letting my mother’s certainty smooth my voice. I repeat what she always says, “For the good of all and to the harm of none, I am divinely guided, divinely protected and I pray to you now and thank you for the blessings you bestow upon me.”

I sit on the floor close to the low altar. Seated this way, I am as near as I will ever be to the mortal world and centered within the heart of Olympus. For a flicker of a moment I can feel the prayers from those in the mortal realm, the cries and pleas for me to aid them and I vaguely wonder if they start their asking with the same quote. And yet I know I have no power to grant their prayers. The thought is only a flicker of a moment, faster than the light of the white candles and it’s gone, vanished and I send it away. It is no more that I cannot answer them. “It is no more,” I whisper.

I breathe in deeply, feeling the warmth of the air all around me. The safety of my chambers, and the safety of my home. I concentrate until I can feel the light of the stars and moon shining through my window.

Then I lay my hand over the crystals, positioned to the right side of the altar, the amethyst for power and black tourmaline for protection. Both rough to the touch and yet a soothing balm to my soul.

The heat from my palm seeps into the stone.

My first thought is that it's living heat, seeping into a dead thing. But that isn't right. The crystals are alive, just as I am. They don't have a heartbeat or veins or blood, but they have energies within them, energies that connect to the oldest parts of the world. To before I was born and they will survive me.

I whisper, “I connect to the void that existed even before there was a world. I am part of the universe, and the universe is magic. I am magic.”

I close my eyes and concentrate on the warmth transferring from my palm to the stone. Light, transferring to darkness. My head falls back just slightly as a warmth grows in my womb. A dash of power resonates through me as I focus on it, feeling the pleasure of it all.

That is how magic transferred to me when I was formed and born. The universe transferred its magic to me, and I lived, and I breathed, and I was magic. Magic existed long before I was created, and I will dwell in it for as long as I live.

I imagine lighting the unlit wick of the candles that lay on the altar, darkness flaring into heat. It's a transfer of energy, like the same transfers that have been made many times before. I only need to allow it.

Beatrice's words echo in my memory. The divine is within you.

“The divine is within me,” I repeat out loud. If that is so, then I should not need Beatrice to light candles for me. I should be able to light them myself, with my own divinity. I need not tell anyone else of the dreams or the darkness within them. The light is within me as much as the darkness in my dreams.

“The divine is within me,” I say again, allowing strength to come to my voice. “It has always been within me. I will allow it to dwell in me and flow from me to the wick. The divine is within me and with me, and I can bring light to the darkness.” I do not dare to peek and see if the candles are lit.

Allow for the possibility.

For the first time since I became aware of the fading of my powers, the possibility is there before me. I focus on it growing and I feel it pulse through me, like blood in my veins.

I am a goddess. Not a garden nymph, or a nymph of the forest. Not a pale echo of my mother. Not powerless at all. But filled with the power of warmth and light.

“Protect me from all things that wish me harm. Guide me to safety for my powers. Whatever ails me, cannot reach me any longer.” I repeat the incantation over and over.

I envision my powers, the life that I grant and the beauty I’ve aided in. “Bring forth my powers. To be my highest self.”

Beauty burns in the dark when there is nothing else. Life burns in the cold world when it should not survive. Hope may be the long way to say goodbye, but it is also a way of saying hello.

“I release all that ails me and it releases me as well. There is nothing that will stand in my way of being my most powerful self.” A shiver runs through me and I open my eyes. In the dark of my room, the starlight shining through the window, the unlit candle stands before me. It's stoic and straight, its wax still whole. My candle and the altar and me—we are all surrounded with the warmth of magic and the power of the Gods.

It is warmest within me.

“It will be warmest within me,” I say, giving voice to my hope. Hope must be nurtured as well. I must not let it wither and die.

I will not let it wither and die.

I inhale. Power and magic exist all around me. All I need to do is allow for the possibility. The possibility of a simple transfer. The possibility of ease, like letting water droplets fall from my fingertips into a pool. I can always get more crystal drops of water. The water has been plentiful all my life, and it has belonged to me all this time.

I blow gently on the wick, hope thick in my throat and beating in my breast.

The candle does not light. Inhaling deeply, I ignore the pain in my chest and the doubt that preys upon my thoughts.

“It is warmest within me.”

I breathe again, not allowing any more weeds of frustration to creep into my mind. That power still exists. I believe it exists. I believe it exists in me, and I can allow this to happen.

No—I know it exists. I know it in my bones and my gown. I know it like I know the solidity of the floor beneath me. This is the cycle. This is hope and perseverance. This is refusing to let death have its way.

This is faith in the Gods, but it is also faith in myself. In me, there is possibility, and that possibility comes from magic itself. It gives itself to me freely. I take it freely. Like water droplets falling from my fingers. Like new buds pushing above the soil. They know the warmth is above them. They never doubt.

I will not doubt.

I do not doubt.

Allow it. Allow it. I do not know if what I feel is hope or my powers returning. The two may be the same thing.

I take another breath and add the words of the spell written on the parchment colored with age and crinkled. I will guide the magic with words from others who have seen protection and growth.

“The power inside me craves the light,” I begin, the spell taking on a new resonance as I speak the words. "Bring me the warmth of fire and take from the powers to my right."

I blow on the candle. The faintest ember at the wick glows to life. My breath is caught and goosebumps flow over my skin. The skies darken and I repeat the words more confidently and louder.

“The power inside me craves the light. Bring me the warmth of fire and take from the powers to my right." I blow again, and the ember disappears.

I take a deep breath and hold the feeling of the spell in my mind. It is a protection spell. It is a release. Whatever plagues me will no longer harm me. I will be protected and freed. Protected and freed. I vanquish the harm inside of me. I release it. I guide it out. I stare at the budding flame and I whisper with every need in me, fear and anger, the hope and the love I have for what I know I’m meant to be.

"The power inside me craves the light. Bring me the warmth of fire and take from the powers to my right."

This time, the flame bursts into life on top of the candle, and hope burns bright in my heart.

"The power inside me craves the light. Bring me the warmth of fire and take from the powers to my right."

Tears brim as the warmth from the flame is felt on my face.

It burns. Light in the dark, spilling a pool of warmth onto my altar. My hands over the crystals cast shadows in the dancing flame.

This is the warmth I felt all around me as I came to my chambers. This is the warmth of magic. This is the warmth that dwells within me and calls the flowers to the sun.

I was so hopeless that I was willing to dismiss Beatrice’s words before. But she was right.

The Gods are gifted, but magic is for all of us. Allow the possibility of magic working. That is all you must do. Simply allow it.

I heard Beatrice’s words, but I did not allow myself to understand. Not until now.

I force my next breath to be steady, even as tears prick my eyes. They are tears of triumph. My hand is warm over the crystals. The flame is hot in the night. My own life runs hot through my veins.

"As within, so without," I say, my voice strong and steady, "I am at peace." I blow out the candle, concluding the spell.

What I do not expect is the chill that sweeps over me. The sudden drop in my chest. I attempt to grip forward but nothing is there.

Everything plunges into darkness. A sweep of bitter cold bites through me.

It is not the darkness of moonlight through the window, shining smoothly in. It is complete darkness, as if I've lost my sight.

My vision is gone.

I blink, my heart racing and my mind whirling with fear, waiting for it to clear, but it does not. The hairs on the back of my neck stand up. I drag in one breath, then another.

I do not wish to release the panic into the air around me. I do not jump up for fear that I will be lost in my own room. But my heart beats faster, as if the power I called on is too large for my body and too large for my control.

I choke on the panic. I've done something wrong, haven't I? I've done something wrong, and I don't know what it means.

I nearly scream out for help. As if a curse has descended in the wake of my spell.

Did I make myself mortal? Did I blow the last of my powers out of me with my breath? Or have I become even more immortal? Have I become something new?

The thoughts race around my mind, growing and spreading until my breath comes shorter. I felt the heat of my palm on the crystals, but now they are like ice under my fingers. Ice. The chill spreads all through my body and to my head, freezing my thoughts.

With no way to anchor myself, I’m lightheaded and lost in the dark. It only grows deeper. I drag in one final breath, and then even the darkness is gone.