Halfway Dead Read Online Free PDF Page B

light. There is no electricity down there. I keep as much of the modern world at bay as possible. I like the sense of closeness between me and the earth; it brings my spells into focus in ways that I cannot live without. I’m a better witch because of the silence, and I moved unerringly between the two heavy wooden tables where I keep all of the things I need to perfect my art.
    Yes, I said perfect. I don’t practice anything. My Gran taught me that. I strive to be the best witch I can, pure of spirit and intention. In turn, I hope that my spells reflect that freedom from any toxic influences of the dark world. With that in mind, I turned the collar over in my hands, feeling the slight nicks and stretching that had occurred during the years of its use. It hadn’t been Cowboy’s last collar, only his first. In fact, I suspected that it was the only collar Cowboy had ever worn. He was a dog well loved, and his relationship would have surpassed the need of collars. Whoever his family was, they belonged to each other equally. The need for restraint faded with the last vestiges of puppyhood. As a dog, he was a friend. As a friend, I imagined that Cowboy was without peer. I let my hands move over the table, selecting items that mirrored such a spirit, and in an hour, I was ready to begin.
    I wrapped the collar carefully around a clay bowl that had so many cracks it could not possibly hold a liquid. That was fine, because the only things going into the bowl were jasmine, hairs from Cowboy that had been stuck in the buckle of the collar, and three colored lumps of beeswax.
    “ Te le cheile ,” I commanded, and the wax began to obediently soften before my eyes. My Gaelic sounded robust in the muffled dark of my cellar, and I watched as the orange, blue, and black waxes began to braid together sinuously. I placed three dog hairs into the swirling mass, letting the wax climb toward my fingers as it spun. Twirling about the hairs, the three colors wove together, forming a small, thin candle with a wick that was nearly invisible.
    I watched soundlessly as the spell completed, the surface of the heated beeswax cooling visibly. I took an ordinary match, struck it to the bowl, and lit the hairs aflame. They vanished instantly, burning into the new candle with a small sizzle as the tiny spark penetrated downward into the pencil-thin column of wax. In a flash, the candle collapsed, sending small colorful waves against the lip of the bowl before drying into a charmless gray dust. I lifted the collar gently, feeling the spell alive under my fingers. With economical motions, I replaced the collar and picture into the envelope, smeared the dust across the exterior, and closed my eyes in a silent moment of thanks for the generosity granted me during the casting. I felt light, even giddy, knowing that the spell would work. A boy would move on, his grief consumed by the spirit of the very animal who he loved, and who loved him in return no matter how many states of matter might be between them. For difficult loss, the easiest spell to cast invoked a visitation. There’s a difference between the physical world and our dream state; in that same vein, there’s a clear division between a dream and a visit . A visitation has all of the hallmarks of a waking moment; you experience the person, event, or in this case, animal, with all five senses. They are for all intent as real as you are, lying in your bed. There is no fear from a visitation, only relief. Joy, too. There is some mild sadness, but that fades as it becomes clear that the departed is in no pain, merely separated by states of being, and that too will seem temporary, because it is.
    As I ascended the stairs to put the envelope back on the porch, the sky was pinking in the east. A chickadee called from the roof as the town began to rise, announcing the morning, along with the low purr of warming car engines and the odd enthusiastic bark of a dog. The air was fresh and a bit cool, and,