Halfway Dead Read Online Free PDF

car horns and watching the people crowd around a dying man, wondering why it was important to me.
    I awoke to Gus placing a meaningful paw on my cheek. He doesn’t slap at me; he leans into me with one of his giant mitts. It’s a silent means to wake me, and I let my eyes come open to the candles burned low and that particular silence of two hours before dawn. The moon had fled from the kitchen; it had business elsewhere, and I stroked Gus once in thanks, listening for all I was worth.
    The brass mail slot in the front door creaked slowly inward, and a light shush revealed that an envelope had come through to rest on the rug. A spell request. They always seemed to come at this time; it was never during the day, but always when my house was most silent. I don’t advertise—Gran never did, either—so I knew that whatever the envelope might hold, it wasn’t anything harmful. My rules for spells are quite simple. The envelope must be handmade, and plain. The request is written on a sheet of handmade paper, and the ink must be from the forest or natural world. It can be the juice of berries, natural dye, or even the stain from a walnut—those are popular in the fall. All that matters is that whoever asks for my help does so in a way that speaks to their honesty.
    My price is neither high nor low. In fact, I rarely accept money; payment for my services is more personal than writing a check or reaching into a wallet. I have no need of money that has no real meaning. Rather, I accept kind acts done for strangers, a promise kept, or a small thing of value from the person who is seeking my craft. These things require some thought, and a degree of existential justification; for that reason, I don’t get many casual requests.
    I stood, careful not to dislodge Gus with any great upset, then padded to the oval rug in the hall. The envelope gleamed in the dark. It was rough cut and handmade, just as I demand, and there was no writing on the exterior. I clicked on a lamp and settled in to read the note. The envelope was a heavy, cleverly-folded shape in which the corners were tucked in to hold everything together without glue or tape. Inside, there were three things. A small, flat dog collar that was stiff with age. On it hung a metal tag that read Cowboy . There was a picture of a teenage boy on the cusp of manhood. He was stretched across a tattered couch in a basement that had the comfortable trappings of a middle-class home. Across the boy, a large, mixed-breed shepherd with a graying muzzle and kind eyes looked adoringly at him. The boy’s hand was placed casually on the nape of Cowboy’s neck, with a familiarity that could only come from long years together. Tears sprang to my eyes for the second time in one night, and I looked at the third thing, a letter written on linen-colored card stock. In blue ink that was clearly made from berries, the smeared words read, “ Fifteen of my son’s sixteen years were with him; please help him with the pain. ”
    I couldn’t help it, I cried. I mean, hard. Gus comforted me with head butts and a deep rumbling purr, but it was some time before I could get it together enough to look at the picture again. I’ve gotten requests like this before; they’re totally selfless, and usually all I’m being asked to do is short-circuit time. Time heals, it’s true, but the endurance needed during healing can be too much, and that’s why people come to me. I carefully folded the envelope back together, keeping the collar out, and went to the kitchen. I had two hours before the sun rose, and I wasn’t going to waste it.
    My cellar is dry, earthy, and dark. It’s perfect for growing mushrooms, casting spells, and breeding spiders of various types; Gus has refused to keep them under control, and I can’t bring chemicals into my workspace. For now, the arachnid population and I have a gentle sort of détente. For now.
    The walls are stone, and I have small alcoves in which I place candles for