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remember where to find the key to the attic door, if they were ever inclined to enter. I
was the only one who knew about the secret passageway in my bedroom closet that led
to the attic stairs. I guarded that secret like my life depended on it, in case it ever did.
I escaped here as a child to hide from my siblings, until they decided to do
something besides torture me. Until Magdalen forgot how much she wanted to set the
plaits in my hair on fire. Or Adrian lost interest in making me swallow the pancreas he'd
carved out of a stray cat because Silus said that eating cat pancreas turned your skin
purple.
I settled down onto a blanket on floor. The familiar smell of mothballs and lavender
rose from folds in the fabric to settle around me in a welcoming cloud.
A stack of books sat next to me. It had collected much less dust than anything else
in the attic. I must have set it up there before I left. Most of the boxes contained books,
some useless and others less so. I used to sit up here for hours and comb through them
all. I couldn't escape my family, not physically, but I always hoped to find something that
would take my mind away.
Now I was the prodigal daughter returned. I'd been to a literal hell and back. I was
changed. So why was I still that scared little girl, hiding in the dark?
I picked up the first book in the stack and idly flipped through it. It was a handset
volume, penned by one of my mother's great aunts. Cramped notes filled the margins of
each page, circling elegant drawings of lines and curves. The first page of the book bore
its title.
The Casting of Lots
I remembered it. In her time, Great-aunt Hagal was an oracle. She had a hard-line
directly into the ether. I only met her once, mere months before she died.
My mother and I visited her in early summer. This was during a phase my mother
went through in which she firmly believed my powerlessness was a curse that could be
broken. If only she could consult the right authority, we would finally find a cure. I could
still become the powerful being the fates had promised her.
We traveled to a remote cottage on the green, Icelandic countryside. Hagal lived
alone and isolated. She had sat behind a heavy table with her hands resting heavily on
its surface. One hand touched the wood and the other covered a leather bag tied with a
length of cord.
Her face was wrinkled and worn with age but her hands were smooth and soft,
girlish even, untouched by time or hardship. She opened the bag and upended its
contents. Blank tiles spilled across the table, skittering and clacking against the wood.
They looked like polished stones or worn bone.
"These are cut from the wood of the World Tree." Great Aunt Hagal's hands
hovered in the air over the tiles, moving over them in a gentle swaying motion. "As Odin
hung from the windswept tree and spied the first runes, so must we pierce the veil
between worlds."
Great Aunt Hagal's eyes never left the table's surface. With lightning speed, she
turned over three tiles. Black markings were carved on each. She touched the first, a
letter c made of straight lines with an extra swipe on the top and bottom.
"Perth. This is your situation as it is. Perth is the rune of initiation and change."
Her hand moved over the second tile, a tilted cross.
"Nauthiz. This is the action you must take. Nauthiz is the rune of pain. Its role is to
identify your weakness."
I shivered at her words. My mother stood behind me and her hand closed hard on
my shoulder. A warning against speaking out of turn.
Great Aunt Hagal touched the last piece. Two triangles faced each other with their
points touching. It looked like a distorted version of the symbol for eternity.
"Dagaz. This is what will be. Dagaz is the rune for transformation. You must ready
yourself for the spirit. She has much in store for you."
Hagal swept the tiles back into the leather pouch and tightened the cord. The bag
disappeared into the voluminous folds of her dress. She rose painfully slow from the
table and turned away, disappearing deeper into the house.
I was summarily dismissed.
My mother led me out of the house and back to the car. We left Iceland that evening
to return home. Her disappointment at Hagal's murky fortunetelling was a palpable
thing.
Rune casting could be a powerful bit of magic or it could be as useless as a take-
out fortune cookie. Oracles were notorious. Their advice was only useful in hindsight,
when it was time to enumerate all the ways in which you went wrong. Their information
only made sense if you already knew what the hell they were talking about.
I felt along the floor, feeling without enough light to pierce the shadows. Cobwebs
stuck to my fingers and the dust that painted my hands. I'd almost given up, resolving to
come back later with a flashlight, when my fingers touched smooth leather.
My body folded underneath an antique armoire to reach the prize that was [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]