The Old and Noble Art of Necromancy

They are all around us; hiding in the shadows of once-busy streets, clinging to objects from the past, and unsettling us in the small hours of the night. They hover, seen and unseen, around us, and send chills when their matter collides with ours. Many disbelieve, but that doesn't change the reality of the situation.

The living need Necromancers just as surely as the dead do.

Necromancers of benevolent alignment dispel spirits and help them cross over, make peace with their deaths, and forgive those who wronged them, and so keep them in this plain. They wish to ease the sufferance of those past, and reconcile the dead with those who continue in their stead.

Necromancers of malignant alignment bind and hold spirits here, using them as guards for place or objects, using them for personal vengeance, and as sources of energy for other magickal works. It is highly irregular for malignantly aligned necromancers to hold power for long, as Spirits do not suffer the living to mistreat them without repercussion.

Rarely, we find a Necromancer of truly neutral alignment, one who plays by both sets of rules, yet is owned by neither. These folk tend to be rarer solely because they do not advertise their skill. Often, these types are seen as selfish- binding and releasing spirits as it suits their purposes, calling back those who have gone on for information unobtainable through more conventional means, and crossing over spirits who cause more trouble than they are worth.


The Old and Noble Art of Necromancy is often seen with fear, misunderstood in it's greater aspects by those who wish to believe the dead loath the living and envy them their mortality. Those who live in fear of the Art of Necromancy fail to see the practicality, and indeed, the beauty of bridging the plains between physical and metaphysical.

Rare a gift in the olden days, Necromancy has been watered down through the ages to be commonly known as mediumship. While not as potent, it is none the less useful a tool for those following a benevolent path. Few are gifted with true control over the spirits, however, and it is perhaps for the best.

None the less, those wishing to follow the path of the Spirits need simply atune themselves to the hidden rhythms of the night, when spirits more comfortably roam our cities and poke at our dreams.

The Snakes of Ireland

I saw him, and immediately I panicked. As he passed me on the busy street, he smiled and nodded, completely oblivious to what I was feeling. Why should he care, though, when he was likely unaware of who he was?

I smiled back nervously and tripped, sending my purse flying. He stopped to see if I was okay. I cringed instinctively from his hand as he helped me back to my feet.

"Thank you for your help." I said. He handed me my purse.

"You're welcome. Are you sure you're okay? That was quite the tumble."

"Yes, I'm fine." I pulled my purse against my body, hoping he would just leave. Thankfully he did, somewhat reluctantly, and I escaped the street. Ducking into a cafe, I hoped the caffeine would stop my trembling hands. I had an important presentation today, I didn't need him to destroy it.

"Patrick?" The barista called. My head shot up, searching the crowd. A middle-aged man claimed his drink. My heart-rate lowered. It wasn't him. I retrieved my coffee, and pulled out my phone. Dialing, I heard a familiar, comforting voice on the other end of the line.

"Hello?"

"Annie, it's me. I saw him. Maewyn. He's come back."

Silence, then finally, "is he aware?"

"No, I don't think so. He was wearing a collar though. He's a priest."

"Always with the priests. I suppose his job isn't done yet."

"We can't keep this up. It's been centuries, and he still comes back. I refuse to die again, because of him."

"You won't."

Annie hung up. I took a deep breath. Annie always had a plan, and this one had been in the works for over a decade. This time, we'd get him first.

*****

She looked so innocent, so young. Such a shame, really, that it always came to the same patterns. The snakes had to be eradicated, though.

She was the first. Always the first. I suppose switching it up would keep things interesting, but ritual was important. Killing was unfortunate, but necessary. Those who wouldn't convert had to be killed. God demanded it. Or, at least His earthly representatives did.

I flipped open my phone speed dialed. Two rings, and the line was open.

"Found one. The Blue Robin, east side of town. Approximately five minutes."

The call ended. I began to backtrack leisurely, following her as she exited the cafe and spoke on the phone. I smirked. It was always the same game. After centuries, they should have learned, but alas, simple minds for simple folks.

Her call ended, and she rounded a corner. A taxi pulled up beside her as I came up on her, and the door opened. She looked at me moments before I pushed her into the car and shut the door. Terror splayed across her pretty face before a black-gloved hand pressed a cloth to her face.

"The pit awaits you, Snake."




This is a work of fiction. It does not reflect the ideas or views of the contributors to the Dreamers Imaginarium. In fact, there is an awesome article that explains why the Snakes=Pagans idea has no actual basis, despite attempts to connect symbolism.

Encore

The performance ended in the same way it began: with a flourish, a flash of light, and a puff of smoke that filled the theatre with the smell of spent gunpowder and a whiff of ozone. When the resulting haze cleared, the stage stood empty save for the same shining, brass figure that occupied the stage when the curtain first rose -- a black top hat sitting on its head, its shoulders draped with a red-satin-lined cape.

The crowd sat in awed silence for two heartbeats before erupting in thunderous applause that continued fully five minutes before the crowd realized that no amount of cheering would bring the magician back for an encore.

In all that time, the brass figure stood still and quiet -- its arms stiff at it's sides, its eyes closed, its perfectly sculpted brass lips unsmiling while it waited, and the crowd's applause faded into murmuring.

"Is the performance over?"

"I should think the curtain would have fallen by now."

"Should we wait a bit more?"

"Perhaps he has one more surprise for us. He was so full of surprises, was he not?"

"Oh, yes! He certainly was amazing!"

Eventually, even the murmurs faded along with the rustle of expensive satins and the crinkle of crinolines and the polite conversation that accompany the dispersal of a crowd, but still, the brass figure never moved. Still as a Grecian monument in the dimness of a lost temple, it waited until the only sound in the theatre was a faint ticking like that of a gentleman's pocket watch.

Tick, tick ...

The last of the audience drifted out of the theatre's wide, double doors.

Tick, tick ...

The voices from the lobby began to fade as the audience floated away into the chilly twilight in search of a nightcap in front of a cheerful fire or a brandy and cigar in the seclusion of a gentlemen's club.

Tick, tick ...

Tick ...

"Come now, Mister Abernathy," a jovial voice called from the shadows of stage left, "are you going to stand there all night like some great tin soldier?"

The magician stepped once again onto the stage and squinted in the glare of the new electric floodlights. Even out of his usual costume -- he had removed his coat as soon as he left the stage and left it, along with his own cape slung over the back of the shabby chair that occupied one corner of his dressing room, and his black top hat he left perched atop a mannequin head on the dressing table -- the magician quickly found himself over warm and rolled the sleeves of his shirt up over his elbows. In four long strides he reached the center of the stage and stopped in front of the metal man.

The figure opened its eyes.

"Ah! There you are, my friend! Now let's get to work or we shall be all night."

The ticking increased as Mister Abernathy turned. With one white-gloved hand, he reached across his chest to the opposite shoulder. With a snap and a flourish, the cape was whisked away. In a swirl of black and red satin, the metal man turned and flung the cape over an ordinary table that stood behind him. He paused, touched the brim of his hat, waved a hand over the table and whipped the cape away revealing two brooms.

The magician applauded as vigorously as any of the audience members who so recently cheered for him, then picked up a broom.

"Well done, Mister Abernathy! Well done."

Mister Abernathy removed his hat and took his bow to the continued clapping of a broom against the wood of the stage.

Tyra's Heartbreak.

Gazing over the frozen plains, an odd sort of sorrow overcame her. Hoof-prints visible in the dusting of snow revealed that they had gone, and that he had left with them. She was alone now. The camp her people so recently abandoned still held evidence of their betrayal. Fire pits still warm and smoking, and the rocks from the lodge still red with heat, gave them away.

She should have known better.

Her brand of love wasn't acceptable to them. Instead of her husband, she honoured the other women; Men had little regard to her, with their arrogance and tendency to be all hard lines. No, she preferred the subtleties of female bodies, with their curves and softness. Though she laid with her husband out of duty, they both knew he didn't truly please her.

Being faced with their departure wasn't as hard as she expected. She knew it had only been a matter of time, but being the Spiritman's granddaughter, she'd assumed they would wait until he died before shunning her. Perhaps they knew now about the Chief's wife and niece, or the series of women she'd entertained during the last hunting excursion. 

Whatever caused this, her heart felt sad only for them. She could make-do, she was used to being alone, but they would never change. They could never change. And that, above all else, broke her heart.  

Wishful Wednesday: The Aroma, by Sofiana Rich

Today we wish to introduce you all to our newest addition in the Imaginarium: Madame Sofiana Rich.  Here is a short selection of some of her writing, and we can expect much more from her glorious mind in the future :)

***

Exactly that. 

It's been a constant smell for 16 years, whether dominant or beneath all the others.

 
Exactly that smell.

Photo found on Flickr. 

It's never had a source. There is no memory attached. Just a phantom, an aroma that appeared, tingling and stinging in my nostrils. I tried locating it, labeling it, researching it, qualifying, quantifying, exploring, loving, and fearing it, none of which ever led me any closer to this moment of revelation. 

Revelation can't be tempted, coerced, or read into being. Now I know exactly what, where and when the odor become lodged in my consciousness. I don't know exactly how I know, but the knowing is exact. I find that I'm exactly amazed. 

This will require re-thinking Everything.

***

Gavin, Master of the Winged Ones

He always envied butterflies, with their wings so bright, and the simple joy they brought to everyone. He wished he could be like them, wished he could fly away and make a lonely girl smile, or bring comfort at a funeral. However, he was nothing like a butterfly.

It seemed they started out just like he had. Small, chubby, and vastly different than they would become when they grew up. People always killed caterpillars in their gardens, they were an unwanted nuisance after all, but killing unwanted children was frowned upon and so he was left alone instead, free to wander the confines of his estate home with no hope of venturing into the town just down the road, much less escaping to see the world.

Caterpillars cripples plants, and he crippled faces. When his parents had visitors, they confined him to his bedroom, lest their guests catch a glimpse at the horrific thing they'd created. Few times had he been seen, and each time he bore the shame of witnessing polite smiles distort into melted expressions of disgust and horror, so now he listened and stayed secluded.

But whenever he caught sight of a butterfly, or found a cocoon ready to be evicted, he was overcome with a sense of envy and anger. Why could they change to become beautiful, while he was doomed to grow ever more distasteful as he aged?

"Butterfly Man" by Tariq Shishani

Rage had never served him well, so he turned his emotions into something he could use. He spent many nights wandering the estate, gathering twigs and fallen branches, leaves, moss and sap. He snuck about the manor house and re-purposed colourful fabrics and images left in boxes from times when he'd been a child and wasn't yet bitter. He hoarded his construction materials greedily, and his project became his solace.

Years passed, and his parents grew old. Now well into adulthood, he was finally ready to be free of this perfect cage that kept him so efficiently confined.

An hour after high moon, he stood on the roof of the manor, clothed in nothing but a colourful drapery fit snug about his hips, and a mask across his face. No one would be disgusted now, they would see him for what he knew he was: A butterfly emerging from desolation to stand in beauty and perfection.

With a deep sigh, he turned and marveled at his creation. Even in the pale glow of moonlight, the colours were vibrant and luscious. Nothing, not even the dark, could deny him now. He stepped forward and pulled up his wings, attaching them securely around his chest and shoulders. They were heavy, but he barely noticed. The burden he'd been carrying for so long trained him well.

He faced the moon again and breathed deeply. For the first time in decades, a smile graced his lips, and with one last exhale, he ran and lunged off the roof.

Flash Fiction - Spectre

Oh, dear. I've had this post written for days, and I was really excited to share it with you. Unfortunately, I've been distracted lately because my husband and I are enduring the nightmare that is the home-buying process and preparations for moving house.

Better late than never, I suppose...

I hope you enjoy my little flash fiction. I would very much love to hear your opinion on it.

*     *     *

Spectre

Image copyright 2012 by Stacey Brewer

Trust.

How can you ask it of me after all this time? Every night you call me down the light-tunnel, and every night I fly to you only to be banished every morning. You swear you won't, but we both know you will call me again and again with the same words and promises and the same request: Trust. And you know - we both know - I will come.

Every night I come, and every morning I ask myself why. Why do I keep coming back? Why do we do this over and over again?

As I stand fading like a wraith in the brightening dawn, I have only one answer:

We... were...

                       ...

                             ... so...

                                           ...

                                                  ...

                                                          ... happy...

                                                                              ...