The Book of Offerings

The burlap sack over my head obscured my vision. Light in the room was minimal, at best, but I could still see the head sorceress standing beside The Book of Offerings on the podium in the center. The space smelled of wax and books. The head sorceress was hooded so only her crimson lips were visible and she positioned herself to be backlit by the moon and ebbing flames on thin candles. All this cloak and dagger, an unnecessary but traditional practice, reflected the worst of our order, hidden even within our mostly magical world. Where more modern magic is practiced, you find innovation and the integration of technological advancements from the non-magical community into daily life. The family wouldn’t want me to practice non-traditional magic. Well, speaking honestly, they don’t want me on the magical roster in The Book of Offerings at all. But, since there were no others who manifested this cycle, and since “there’s never been a cycle without a Crawford initiate,” I had to walk the literal and metaphorical path alone, a tricky and solemn business when you’re in the dark, barefoot, and mourning.

It was quiet in the room as hooded figures circled me. I slowly glanced around from underneath the sack, hoping to recognize at least one face. The head sorceress began, her MagiScribe pen floating just beyond her right ear over The Book.

“What is your craft?”

It was a trick question and a silly one, another part of the ridiculous traditions to which the family and the order desperately cling. The trick was asking what the craft is instead of requesting initiates like me demonstrate their magic, particularly since we weren’t meant to speak during our initiation. I have the benefit of both an invisible and mostly silent partner to guide me through this foolishness. Even though I appear physically alone, there is still someone close by, always with me even if I can’t see him. That’s what he always says when it’s just the two of us - it’s his sign off. “We are always together, don’t forget.”

Just like he showed me, I raise my left hand, my fingers widely spread and slowly close together at the tips, keeping the space between open for air to flow through, palm facing downward. I flick my wrist rapidly so my fingertips point upward as flames from the candles around the room fly into my open palm. I slowly open my fingers with my palm facing upward as the flame dances in the center of it, first amorphous, then as a small ballerina performing a pirouette, extending one leg to become the fencing blade in the hand of a miniature swordsman who then sheaths his sword, only to become a horse, reeling on its back legs soundlessly, and so on, shifting colors and shape. It’s always a shame to destroy my creations - but we wouldn’t want a tiny ballerina performing plies in the middle of a forest, would we? With my right hand, I gently crush my fluttering figurine, and a stream of hot steam disburses from between my clasped palms.

Hard not to feel cool - and just a touch smug - when I do that last part. Maybe I’m still a little immature, but wielding fire magic means that man must acknowledge me now. I will not be ignored on the night of my initiation.

The head sorceress’s MagiScribe scribbles furiously in the open book as she starts to speak again. I wonder what dismissive or critical comment she is adding about me in The Book of Offerings, but I won’t be able to see it unless I become head sorceress myself. According to traditions, this next query won’t be a question, but I already feel flustered and disenchanted. I am ready do anything necessary to get this ceremony over with.

“She thinks she’s better than both of us in that fire engine red lipstick.”

I stifle my laughter with a loud cough, looking downward and trying not to smile. He said he would be quiet for the ceremony, but even he couldn’t ignore the smug look on the head sorceress’s face. She was hateful and untrustworthy; she often leveraged information about both of us when we were children for her own gain. As a head sorceress, she kept the traditions of this world alive. As a stepmother, she was a vile monster committed to subjecting her step children to cruelty. We had one more sibling, a little sister, who would probably stand where I am now this time next year wielding ice or wind magic with unmatched force. I smiled a little bit at the thought of her freezing or blowing out all of these stupid candles.

“The candidate will respond,” the head sorceress snarled. I wasn’t paying attention… oh, right! She said to offer something in service of the magical community. I’ve got just the right item for this part, one of my mother’s staffs - not the best one, but something to distract the head sorceress from others in my collection. My brother whispers to me again through the small trinket on my ear cuff, discreet and almost imperceptible. “This ought to shut her up, right?” I pull the folded staff from my pocket, sending some of the magic residue from my hand into the handle. The wood extends another two feet in either direction making it almost as tall as I am. Since I commanded fire in my demonstration, the flames around the room dance erratically in response to the powerful magic source in the staff, a small and willing fire sprite who agreed to serve that man back when he had love in his heart for my mother.

The order members circling me gasp. It was a while since anyone saw this staff. In truth, I only brought it out to make sure I had his full attention. I knew he was in the room - I just couldn’t tell where. My brother was scanning from within the trinket, as well. He would tell me the moment he saw him. Unfortunately, showing the staff didn’t reveal where in the room he was lurking, but I knew the next part would.

“Initiate, what does this staff offer?”

She couldn’t help asking the final question through her teeth. Sometimes, I have sympathy for my stepmother - a stepdaughter herself, little sister to my mother, playing second fiddle for a man who turned cold. Didn’t she know what other people thought of her? Didn’t she care how this reflected poorly on her birth lineage? Yet, by right of marriage, she became head sorceress - with trickster magic, a spiteful and mostly useless thing that any caster worth their salt defended themselves against with wards focused on illusions and delusions. I guess if you think you’re powerful, you can become so. Here’s hoping the same applies to me.

“Funny thing, fire magic,” my little brother muttered.

I smiled. It was time to put on a show. When I was just a child, my mother showed me that fire magic and light magic are intertwined. With a small flourishing of the staff to whip the wind, I draw a simple sigil with the end into the ground - a mirror. Light, reflections, truth. With the sigil, I silently share my intention with the small sprite residing in the staff. We practiced before the initiation, so I knew they were onboard to complete complex magic. The sprite traveled to the top of the staff. I repeated my initial demonstration of the craft - using both hands this time - and closed the amorphous, dancing orange flames around the sprite until they were white hot. The light from the window that perfectly framed the moon reflected against the sprite who then turned to face the head sorceress. The crackle and pop of the flame quickly changed into smaller, fine-tuned, more recognizable sounds. Words. A conversation.

“I don’t care if that brat is to be initiated tonight. She has no magics worthy of this community and you will see my head on a pike before she is ever eligible to be head sorceress. I will end the Crawford family line before another woman takes my place!”

Gasps and whispers, even a cell phone pulled out from the pocket of someone’s robe to record the encounter - there was no hiding as the sprite reflected back to the head sorceress her despise for me and for my siblings. We knew how she felt - but hearing her say it made me feel ill and unclean.

“ENOUGH.”

“Ah,” my brother said, “finally.”

I turned my head toward the voice and there, from the back of the crowd of witnesses, a man stepped forward. He wore a gold ring on every finger, gold hoops in both ears, and his eyes glowed gold in the light of the fire sprite. I grabbed the staff to call the sprite back; they slinked down into the heart of the wood, warming it in my right hand. He was standing inches away from me now.

“Leave us.” His voice trembled with anger, deeper than usual - or at least deeper than the last time I heard it. That was before mom died, before my aunt became my step mother, before my brother chose impermanence, before everything changed. The room cleared and the head sorceress stayed, looking on and proud of herself. He turned to her and all but growled. She balked as though to protest, but his gaze was fixed. She snatched the MagiScribe from the air and stomped out of the room, slamming the door behind her and screaming in frustration when it was closed.

“You can come out now, Emir. I know you’re in there,” he turned, glaring at the cuff on my left ear. I took it off and rubbed it gently with my thumb in my left hand until my brother, the genie, floated from my palm in miniature.

My father pinched his brow. “You’re meant to complete your initiation - without help. Alone. Solo. It is the only way to legitimize your rites. Damn it, girl, you refuse to do as I say.”

“You can’t even say her name, but you want her to take orders?” Emir was furious, one hand on his hip.

“I’m the head of this order - she will do as I say!”

I thought I might vomit. If I wasn’t holding Emir, I would probably be on the ground. I forgot what our father smelled like; I don’t remember when we were this close or when he last gave me a hug. He smelled like home and safety - still. It was so unfair.

“Ember, say something to this man before I say it for you,” Emir snapped.

“Is it,” I started, choking back years of stagnated defeat, “is it because I look like her? Is that why you hate me?”

A softness I didn’t recognize washed over my father’s face. I saw a different person. But I knew it wouldn’t last – couldn’t last because of the head sorceress.

“I could never hate you. You are my first-born child.” A tear began to form in his left eye, something rarer than kindness.

The staff in my hand went hot and I dropped it in surprise. It extended and the sprite inside leapt up. I bent down to grab the staff but, before I could ask, the sprite pulled me to the spot where I did my demonstration. I took their lead and stuck the staff back into the ground where the mirror sigil was. The sprite called all the flames in the room to itself and generated the brightest white flash of light possible. I shielded my eyes, but my father looked directly into it; Emir retreated into the cuff. The light grew until I heard a loud pop and everything went dark.

When I regained my focus, the fire sprite was weak. I scooped them up into my hand and ran to the nearest candle to warm them next to Emir’s trinket. I looked behind me and my father was on the floor; the same invisible force sent The Book of Offerings to the ground next to him. I returned the trinket to my ear and looked toward my father and waited, hoping he would flinch, move, anything. I am so tired of waiting for him to do anything that looks like he cares. The doors to the room - which I can now plainly see is the library at the lodge - flung open and the head sorceress ran in first, hurling accusations.

“It’s that girl - she did this! It’s all because of her!”

“Oh, would you shut up, you hateful, wretched woman,” my father - the one I recognized, with a wicked sense of humor and a silver tongue - moaned from the floor. “Someone help me up.”

I stood and returned the sprite to the staff, whispering, “thank you.” The sprite looked like it may have smiled and curled up in the heart of the wood again as I walked over. I caught the tail end of a sigh of relief from Emir who victoriously yelled, “it’s about damn time!”

Standing and fully upright, the head of the order glowered over the head sorceress with The Book of Offerings in his hands. His eyes were glowing, as though ablaze, and a mist floated off him. No, not a mist – a charm, one of those illusions from the head mistress, one that was much stronger than anything which she claimed to be capable. She was quiet, her mouth agape and her eyes wide, freshly insulted and unsure of what to do or say next. She ventured to speak but was interrupted by the recitation of her own words on from The Book of Offerings.

“‘The candidate, Ember Crawford, resorts to cheap tricks - clearly the least talented of the Crawford line,’ you say?” He looked up from the book. “Cheap illusions - that’s what your mother specialized in, the least talented of her family, by far. I can see now, much more plainly - the apple didn’t just fall near the tree. It rotted the soil around it. Celestine, you owe many people in this room an apology – especially my children.”

She snarled at me and Emir yelled from the trinket on my ear. “I wish you would!”

“You will be stripped of your craft and banned from this order and the use of magic fore-”

“Don’t say it,” she held up her hand. “I’m already gone.”

Members of the order surrounded her, extended their hands, and hummed. What happened then was almost too awful to describe – a fate worse than burning at the stake for a caster. Watching her scream and cry like that, I knew I really do pity her, but how else would I release my family from her lies? She was able to leave, walking barefoot, stripped of keys, any magical tools or trinkets gifted to her, and her own MagiScribe. It was a sad thing to watch.

My father turned to me after Celestine was escorted beyond the walls of the lodge with the book in his hand. “Sign here,” he said. I wished he would say more. I brought my finger to my mouth and remembered how my mother used to sign – the old way. With my sharpest tooth, I bit down and blood streamed across my fingers. I rubbed the tips together, then pressed down firmly and the page in The Book of Offerings glowed.

“Welcome, Ember,” he said slowly, “to the order.”

“To the order!” the witnesses exclaimed.

I held the book in my hands as my name appeared on the page: Ember Marie Althea Crawford. I looked up to see my father smiling, hear my brother laughing, and members of the order – friends, cousins, neighbors, removing their hoods.

“To the next generation’s head sorceress,” my father said quietly, “to my daughter.”

My shoulders dropped. I smiled quietly. My offering was enough.

Finally.