Incantation: Anathema narthis semena

(photo by Eireen)

"Anathema narthis semena.

      The rash of Job,

 Jonah's sea monster,

Jehova's leprocy,

the decay of the Dead,

the trembling of the heart-broken,

the drums and thunders of Hell,

the curses and anathemas of men,

Anathema narthis semena...."

Eyes closed, she whispered the words, with trembling hands she held the bottle and muttered with all her might:

"Anathema narthis semena"

Still a small voice inside her kept asking if all this was worth the trouble.
She was scared and tired and lost and what more was there to be done but this.
She would take her chances and be all that she can be, a witch, the devil,
the one to change the course of history, and die for it.
She had grown sick of her weaknesses and her desires; fears and dreams.
So melodramatic, yet factual.
She smiled and knelt on the stone floor.
She will have to focus if she wants this to work.
No more games with potions and lotions,
this is the real thing,
the Power.
All she has to do is to repeat the incantation until it blends with the air inside her lungs and the winds around her.
A green light shone within her trembling palms,
she lost all focus, her eyes rolled inside their sockets and then,
 she saw:

She was standing on a high platform, grey clouds were running fast above her.
Thousands upon thousands of people below her, all calling her name.
She saw the rain falling on her cloak and on her feet but she felt nothing,
neither its moisture on her face nor the smell of the wet earth.

Then she spread her arms and flew up above,
above the clouds and the rain, where the sun shone the brightest,
but still no warmth penetrated her skin, as if standing behind a frozen glass, trapped, she felt nothing.
She wanted to feel the fear, the terror and the despair but none came and then the image of a son;
she should go to him to feel.

So she flew to the place where she called home and the boy opened the door, all dressed in velvet,
his face froze and his eyes went blank as they fell upon her,
he turned around and never looked back,
and still she felt nothing, no anger, no despair, no sorrow.
She entered the house and walked around,
the thick carpet lost an inch each time she stepped upon it,
and everyone bowed as she crossed their path, none looked at her in the eyes,
heads low, perhaps of disgust, but she did not care to ask.

The tall floor mirror stood against the wall at the far end of the corridor.
A lavinshly made looking glass,
with a gold gilded frame.
She stood in front of it and looked across.

A tiny scream echoed in the vaults of her mind and as it grew louder she pierced the reflection with her eyes,
and tried to perceive what was the thing she saw.

Herself an open wound, a leper, an abomination,
her hands old and rotten, wet with pus and slime,
her eyes empty, sockets dry and flaky,
her red hair was no more and in its place her skull shone like a wet stone.
A walking dead, a rotting corpse.
She opened her mouth to catch a breath
and black gore ran out and fell on the floor.

Dead yet alive,
weak yet strong
her youth, her life, all gone.

The sound of breaking glass brought her back,
her hands had let go.
His face, his lovely eyes had pierced her soul,
she wanted this no more.

(This bloodless story was written for Anna, a dear friend and fellow reader,
 who wished for something without blood but with all the rest that my stories have.
 I hope she finds this to her satisfaction.)