Magda

Magda traced the outline of the sigil with her index finger. Lightly at first and firmer with every revolution. A lock of hair pressed firmly between her lips. She releases it as the server approaches. “Hello, I’m Brian and I’ll be serving you today. Would you like anything to drink to start?” Magda nodded, “Yes, I’ll just take a glass of your malbec, please.”

“Of course,” Brian says with a sweet smile and turns to leave. Magda remembered the summer she spent working in a cajun cafe right before she started and promptly failed college. She was notorious for asking for patrons’ orders and then forgetting as soon as she walked away. She did this so frequently, she started writing everything down. Even a one item order like hers today. Even cutlery requests. Even refills. Brian didn’t need to write down one simple item though. She assumed his memory would be much better off in later life than hers would be. And that he received far better tips than she ever got.

Magda returns to the sigil. The smooth grain of the wood left no possibility for splinters. It had been held like this in every Callus woman’s hands since the early 1800s. Magda Callus was 13 years old when her mother passed it down to her. It was the day after her first slumber party. Her friends had gone home. Magda stashed the ouija board she stole from her stepmom under the bed as Magda’s mother lightly knocked and popped her head around the door’s edge. Where she found Magda pretending to read a Goosebumps book. “Nice try,” her mother had said. “The book’s upside down,” Magda dropped it and gave a big grin, she hoped would assuage her mother. “What are you hiding?” Her mother looked around and landed her gaze on the floor under her bed where the corner of the ouija board peeked out. “I see. No need to hide but you don’t know who’s on the other end, when you make the call.”

Magda’s mother sat at the edge of her bed, somberly turning a black velvet, pull-string bag in her hands. “Here,” she said unceremoniously. Magda took the bag. She opened the bag to find a round, wooden medallion the size of a silver dollar. She pulled the medallion out, a tingle spread from her fingertips to her wrists. Something like electricity traveling up her hand. She furrowed her brow as she tried to understand the symbol she was looking at. “What is it?” Magda asked. “It’s your lifeline,” her mother said sadly and looked back to the doorway which encased a dark, empty hallway. “I love you very much. I hope you know that,” her mother leaned to kiss her forehead and got up to leave her room. “There are some instructions inside. Follow them without fail and it will serve you well. As it has served me and the Callus women before us,” her mother walked into the abyss of the hallway and the door shut behind. Her mother died a few days later. Undiagnosed sleep apnea which caused cardiac arrest, they said. She was only 39. The same age Magda is today.

Magda still has that black velvet bag. Inside, a weathered piece of paper with instructions for the sigil live rolled up like a scroll.

“Sigil for protection from the shadow,

Keep on your person at all times,

Bathe in the light of each full moon,

Do not show others.

Follow these instructions and may the goddess keep you safe.”

She rolled the instructions back up and gingerly tucked them back into the bag. “Here we are,” Brian returned and set the glass of wine in front of her. “Would you like anything to eat today?” This time he pulled out a notepad, ready to take a full order.

“No, I’m going to just have wine. Thank you,” Magda offers a polite smile but it’s forced. Brian nods “Wonderful, I’lll check on you in a minute. Just let me know if you need anything,” he bustles off to help the next table.

After her mother’s death, Magda wanted to ask her father about the sigil but the instructions had explicitly stated to not show it to anyone. And she reasoned that since it was some sort of protection, then whatever happened to her mother after passing the sigil to Magda might also happen to her if she defied the instructions. So, her adolescent mind kept it secret and always carried it with her. She became well-attuned to the moon cycles and charged it consistently. Except this past full moon, which was last night.

Magda decided young that she would not have children and she would not marry. Although she had come close to marriage when she met Ingrid in Norway at 26 while backpacking across Europe. They only lasted two years though. Magda found herself unable to maintain intimate relationships. Ingrid called her a “robot” because it was so difficult for Magda to openly emote. Magda wanted to talk and to show her pain, rage, and joy but she found herself trapped within herself more often than not. Her thoughts and feelings piling up inside her like a multi-lane interstate suddenly reduced to a one-lane tunnel. It wasn’t that she didn’t have anything to say, she simply could not parse them quickly enough. She’d find herself in a deluge of emotion while outwardly the curtains were down in her eyes, unresponsive. Ingrid couldn’t live like that and Magda didn’t blame her. How could she authentically connect with another person when there was so much about herself from which she was disconnected?

So last night, she didn’t charge the sigil in the moonlight. The sigil may be protective from something harmful but she started to see it as an anchor keeping her underwater. A reminder of a childhood loss. Her mother wound externalized. Gaping, throbbing. A generational diathesis she carried with her as a talisman. For how long? She asked herself. For how long can I continue this way? She decided the time to hold onto this weight had expired. Whatever was to come, would be a change. Whether the change is good or bad, remains to be seen. How will I know unless I cross the threshold?

Outside the window of the bar, she saw a haggard woman. Magda saw this woman when she went for coffee this morning as well. She stood in a hunched position and wore a baggy hoodie which covered her face. She never saw the woman move. She just appeared and waited. Magda looked back to the sigil. She held the sigil in the palm of her hand. She could feel only a faint pulsing from it. Not like when her mother gave it to her. She looked back to the woman and saw she was slightly closer now. Magda took the sigil and snapped it in half. It surprised her how easily it broke in two. She placed the pieces back into the black velvet bag, took a sip of wine and looked across the table. Where there was an empty chair, now sat the haggard woman. Her hoodie down. Magda took a long inhale and allowed her eyes to linger and study. A smile stretched across the woman’s emaciated, sagging face. A sliver of drool slid down and hung like a spiderweb from her chin. Magda felt no fear. Only relief. She exhaled, “Have we met before?”