Humans Bite Back

Humans have a choice between burial and cremation, but it is mandatory for each witch and warlock to be cremated twice.

Once the witch or warlock’s remains are thoroughly burned to a crisp, then their ashes are placed in a boat and put into the water, where the ship is set on fire once again.

As a child, I had assumed that this was simply tradition, but I learned in my later years that the death row ceremony was a necessary precaution against necromancy. I couldn’t imagine a warlock capable of raising the dead, but I could imagine that many widowed witches didn’t wish to be widows, which was why the practice had been banned.

Through the little magical wisdom my father had been able to impart, I learned that only animals and supernatural beings could resurrect. I suppose knowing this was why I had developed an unhealthy distrust of critters, and that was why I had never pressured my father to let me have a pet.

“I understand why necromancy is dangerous, but why is it banned?” I asked Finn as she stuffed my clothing into a black garbage bag.

“Well, everything should have a proper ending, I suppose,” Finn said briskly as she shook out another large plastic bag and began emptying my drawers. “Besides, when something has died, it comes back with a bit of knowledge that doesn’t belong here,” she let out a frustrated whoosh of air, “I can’t believe you boys never owned one suitcase or a duffle bag.”

“My father never fancied traveling,” I told her, “Though I’m sure there were sights he would have liked to see, he always said he didn’t fancy being sealed into a flying metal tube with humans,”

“What? Why not? Humans are delightful; people-watching is half the fun of traveling,” Aunt Finn said, shaking her head as she folded one of my sweaters and stuffed it into a bag.

I raised my shoulders, “I don’t know; they seem a bit dull to me.”

“Oh, that is where you may be mistaken, my boy,” Aunt Finn playfully scolded me, “Humans are fantastic creatures who are anything but dull; they have just been impaired.”

“Impaired?” I repeated.

Finn nodded, “Oh yes, impaired,” she turned around and looked at me. “Did your father ever tell you about the Leviathan?”

Yes, he had. The Leviathan had been the first. Though they often steered clear of Silverdale, my father told me how to detect them if I ever came across one.

I knew they were nasty amphibious creatures with cold blood that would have devoured the earth if Luna had not reclaimed them by rebirthing them into human form.

Luna’s plan had worked, sort of, since they couldn’t swallow the world with their teeth, they had to resort to slow but clever tactics.

They were still hungry in human form and desired to possess everything, even other humans. That was why Luna had created the werewolves, witches, vampires, and ghouls.

We maintained a balance that kept the humans out of physical chains. Still, the Leviathan, being clever creatures, had turned to psychological warfare and had manifested ways for humans to imprison themselves. For centuries magical creatures have been developing ways to break these invisible restraints, though humans resisted for reasons unknown.

“The nasty creatures that rule over the humans,” I said bluntly, displaying my distaste.

“Yes, those horrid things,” Finn said, expressing her own disgust. “Humans were once connected to each other, sort of like bees in a hive. They could sense one another’s emotions and display the needed compassion, and could even sense if one another was in danger.”

I thought about humans as they are today. I thought of them as lovely, helpless, though self-interested creatures. “What happened?”

“There is power in numbers; that is why witches form covens. The Leviathan would have been defeated if they attempted to enslave a population of a hive mind, so they had to break that connection. With the help of a rogue witch, they discovered a natural element called fluoride that crystallizes the pineal gland. Once the human’s visions were dulled, they were easier to divide and conquer.” She frowned as she tied up the latest garbage bag. “That’s why humans are always searching for that lost connection.”

“Well, that certainly explains those horrible romance comedies,” I joked, then turned serious.“Is that why their life spans are so short?”

Finn nodded, “Yes, at one time, the poor things didn’t even make it into adulthood, but with our help, they can manage to fight off all the illnesses that manifested. We have two jobs, to maintain the balance, and aid the human’s survival.”

Can’t you just cast over their water, and make it pure again? “I asked her. Finn threw back her head and laughed, “We tried, but the Leviathan convinced the humans to poison it themselves,” she sighed heavily and tossed a bag into the growing pile, “It’s too late now; the poison runs through their veins, so they’re doomed in the womb.”

When she said that, the dream I had flashed before my eyes. “Is that what happened to the warlocks?”

Finn shook her head, “We are immune to earthly chemicals.”

I thought about the witch in the dream, the one who had taken me away and collapsed before she could complete whatever it was that she intended to do, and I came to a realization. “So, it must be magic.”

“That’s just silly,” Finn said abruptly, “We are healers; the magic community would never allow such a thing,” she stopped and looked around at the now-empty closet and dressers. “Now that we are finished packing up your room, you need to select an item for your father’s death row,”

Aunt Finn Paused and looked around the room. “Well, this took less time than I thought it would.”

“My father was very orderly and not a big fan of waste,” I told her truthfully as I looked at the three black trash bags that represented my entire life up until now. “He always had me toss out the old to make room for the new.”

“The last two rooms are the living room and your father’s bedroom,” Finn said smoothly, “Why don’t you start hauling these things out to the car while I start boxing up those rooms?”

I had been dreading entering my father’s room, so I accepted gratefully as I scooped up a bag in each hand. Finn had arranged for a moving company to haul the rest of our belongings to a storage locker while I decided what to do with the house, a decision I was not ready to make just yet. It felt too adult, and I was far from ready to think of myself as an adult just yet.

I scurried out of the room as if I was afraid that Finn might change her mind and swap jobs with me.

Thankfully, Finn had decided to convert her SUV so that it ran on scrap vegetables instead of getting rid of it altogether, so all of my bags fit with room to spare. I neatly placed all of my bags into the back hatch and decided to leave it open; I needed something from the living room.

I hurried back into the house and opened up the linen chest; on top was my father’s Grandmaster hat, the one I had hidden away.

I had been careful not to crush it when I had placed it in the chest. I had intended to put it back once the meeting was over. I had just wanted one Warlock gathering that was humiliation-free; at the time, I had felt entitled to that, but now it seemed plain selfish.

I plucked that hat from the linen chest and used the underwire to straighten it out. It was well made, though it was enormous and silly. I placed the cap on my head and had to hold the brim to keep it from slipping over my eyes.

I didn’t feel powerful or important wearing it; perhaps the hat had lost its power when the other warlocks had perished; it had been made for them after all.

I set the hat aside and was about to unburden the linen chest of its folded cloth when I heard a clatter from my father’s bedroom.

Startled, I hurried down the hall, fearing that Finn had fallen and hurt herself.

When I reached my father’s room, I saw that Finn had emptied the closet of all of my father’s clothing. The rattle I had heard must have been the hangers colliding. Finn had taken my father’s desk chair as she inspected the top shelf in the closet.

I didn’t want Finn to know I had caught her snooping, so I backed up a few steps before calling out. “Aunt Finn?”

I heard the chair scoot across the floor as Finn called out, “In here, going through your father’s clothes.” She had my father’s clothing spread out across the bed and was in the process of separating the slacks from the shirts when I entered the room.

I shook my head, “My father wasn’t attached to his clothing,” I muttered as I allowed my gaze to wander around the room.

I had not spent a lot of time in my father’s bedroom; it was his designated space, just as my room was, the only two rooms in the house where permission had to be granted to enter. For some reason, I had always thought of my father’s room as spacious, but now that I stood in the center of it, I realized how small it had been.

“Have you found an item for the death row?” Aunt Finn inquired as she organized the clothing on the bed. “Perhaps he had some personal items that reminded him of your mother.”

Her voice was conversational, but my instincts prickled. Even though Finn had been nothing but helpful, I had the sneaky suspicion that she had come here with an agenda.

I walked over to his night table and opened the top drawer. The drawer had been reserved for my parent’s wedding photo and a small box beside it. I took out the small box and offered it to Finn.

Though her expression remained neutral, I could see her eyes register disappointment as she accepted the box and opened the lid to reveal its contents.

It contained a cluster of silk flowers that had faded with age. “It’s the corsage my father had given my mother on their wedding day,” I explained.

A ghost of a smile touched Finn’s lips as she said, “I was there, I remember,” she looked at me. “Are you sure, Bishop? Perhaps you should hold onto this….”

I lifted a hand to cut her off, “It was their memory, not mine,” I told her. “Besides, my father wouldn’t have kept it at his bedside if it hadn’t been important to him,” I expanded my arms, “As you can see, he wasn’t a very sentimental guy.”

“Oh, is that all he kept?” she said, though she was attempting to sound baffled, I could detect the trace of disappointment in her tone.

“He said he had given the rest to you,” I told her.

Perhaps I was just good at reading expressions because a thought crossed my mind, though it spoke in Finn’s voice, “Not everything.”

A thought occurred to me. “We do have a small attic,” I reminded her. “It can be accessed through the kitchen ceiling; there is a hatch with a drop ladder,” I moved as I meant to accompany her, but Finn raised a hand to stop me. “You should sort through your father’s clothes,” she suggested, “Pick him out something nice for the death row.”

“I should pick him out something nice to be burned in?” I asked, giving her a puzzled look.

She narrowed her eyes at me, “This is hardly a time for sarcasm or dark humor.”

“Sorry, I use humor to cope,” I told her sheepishly.

Her facial expression softened, “Now may be the time to begin the grieving process,” she told me. “I’m going to leave you alone while I go up to the attic to see if there is anything up there worth salvaging.”

I nodded as I let my eyes fall to the clothing that lay on the bed. “Take your time,” she said, leaving the room and shutting the door behind her.

I listened as her boots clicked down the hallway, and when she pulled the rope that was fashioned to the ceiling hatch that led to the attic, I knew the ladder would come barreling down with a large screech of resistance.

I heard Aunt Finn mutter a curse, followed by the unmistakable sound of feet making their way up into the attic. Once she was at a safe distance, I dove into the closet.

The back of my father’s closet was paneling, and on the lower-left corner, if you pressed the right corner, a small patch of paneling that unlatched from the wall revealing a secret cubby space. I discovered it when I was a small child, snooping around my father’s room out of sheer curiosity.

When I had seen Finn searching the closet, every instinct told me that what was in that cubby contained what she was seeking.

I hit the panel and the small square popped out. It had been a while since my father had oiled the hinges, so I had to pry the door open wide enough to extract a book fashioned in some sort of cured skin, and though it appeared only to be held together by twine, it was a book that stubbornly remained closed to those with the wrong blood and right words.

There were only two people in the world who could access this book, myself and Aunt Finn. I lifted the elastic of my pants and slipped the book inside, tightening my belt to ensure that it stayed put; then, I hurried to close the hidden cubby, ensuring that it latched and I left no sign of disturbance.

I supposed that I would allow Aunt Finn to take possession of my mother’s grimoire at some point, but only after I read it myself and discovered why she had wanted it in the first place.

Words had power, especially words written in blood and sealed by a witch’s casts for eternity. The grimoire and the power it contained were protected by the author of the book until the author passed, in which that power would be inherited by the next of kin.

I was my mother’s next of kin, so it rightfully belonged to me, but since warlocks were notoriously bad at magic, the next female member would often take possession. So Finn did not intend to steal the book; she had felt it was rightfully hers.

Traditionally, Finn should have inherited it, but my father had been keen to keep it hidden. I didn’t suppose that my father had saved it for me because he never so much as mentioned it in my presence, and I would have had no knowledge of its existence if I had not been such a disobedient tyke.

I heard a box fall from above; I supposed that Finn had found my father’s cache of unused fishing rods. He purchased a new one every year, promising to take me fishing at some point.

I rushed over to the bed and began separating my father’s clothing. I was lost in a sea of beige khakis and unimaginative shirts. I finally picked out a nice outfit to dress my father and placed the rest in a pile. I then took a piece of packing tape, bound the hangers together, and put them in a tall box I marked for charity.

When I was done, I began to strip the bed and search the drawers for any other items that may be of use. I had just cleared the dresser when Finn returned, looking frazzled and frustrated.

“Did you find anything we could use?” I asked, knowing full well she didn’t.

“No, just some old Halloween decorations and a pile of fishing rods,” she paused for a moment and then added, “I wasn’t aware that your father fished,”

“He didn’t,” I said as I sealed the latest box, “He always intended to but never got around to it,”

“So, he just kept buying fishing rods?” she asked.

“He thought it would give him inspiration,” I offered lamely

“I brought everything down and piled it in the kitchen; we can either donate it to charity or hold a yard sale,” Finn told me.

“I would rather give it all to charity,” I affirmed, “Maybe there is some dad out there who really will take their son fishing,”

“I’m sorry your father never took you fishing,” Finn said genuinely.

“I’m not,” I told her bluntly. I had never had any desire to fish, couldn’t even stand the smell.

Finn put her hands on her hips, “Well, that last room is the living room, and if we hustle, we can get it done before dinner,”

I had only seen Petra briefly before we left; she had seemed nice enough but didn’t strike me as someone Finn would trust to cook her meals. As if Finn had read my thoughts, she said, “We’ll pick up a pizza on the way back,”