#things like writing and reading become so jarred and misplaced and i cannot enjoy them at all

[xiaoluclair]

.

[bookwyrm-in-space]

flash fiction

Not something I normally post, but I wrote a thing and thought some folks might be interested in reading it.  Just a rough draft.

My mother had died giving birth to me, and she was pissed.

I’d always been vaguely aware of a malicious spirit hovering at the edge of my consciousness, but nothing really brought it to my attention until I was three.  Then, one day, as I was playing with my blocks, a sudden strong wind ripped through the room.  It scattered the blocks, throwing them vehemently against the walls, and one bounced sharply off my forehead.  I screamed and cried, and my father rushed in, scooped me in his arms, and raced out of the room.  I was too frightened to go back in that room or play with my blocks for the rest of my childhood.

Later that night, I heard him whispering with my aunt, my mother’s sister, as they sat discussing the incident over a cup of tea.

“Jijima,” my aunt hissed.  “That’s what my sister has become.  An angry mother spirit, bent on vengeance against her own child.”

I ran up to my room, heart pounding, and slammed the door.  I jumped in bed and pulled the covers over my head, wriggling into a little ball.  I knew I had a mother; my aunts and uncles talked about her, as did my father.  They spoke of her with fondness, and sadness, and regret that I would never meet her.  I couldn’t reconcile the words they used to describe her with the violent ghost that had attacked me that afternoon.

I was still hiding under the blankets when my father tapped at the door. “Dearest,” he said, sitting on my bed.  “There are some things you need to know.”

I peeped my nose out and saw my aunt standing in the doorway.

“Are they things about mama?” I asked, looking not at my father but at my aunt.  She nodded.  “Will they keep me safe from her?” I asked, and when she nodded again I pushed more of my head out of the blanket cocoon.

That night I started to learn rituals and spells to ward off evil spirits.  I kept a sprig of sage on me at all times, tucked in a pocket or in my purse, even in a sock if nowhere else was available.  I learned to make sigils in the air, a magical sign language that would bar attacks as I crossed a doorway.  I was taught that borders and liminal spaces made me most vulnerable to attack, and found myself holding my breath any time I entered or left a building.  Once a year, on my birthday, I’d go to my mother’s grave and gather a handful of dirt, sealing it in a special jar with spells inked on its surface.  I kept that jar beneath my sleeping place every night, a protection against attacks in my dreams.

I only suffered a few physical attacks growing up, when I let my guard slip or forgot the sage in my haste after oversleeping, but I was always aware of the jijima.  She was like a shadow at the edge of my vision, just out of view, and almost physical presence.

And so things went, until I visited the far-off town of Yfril with my father.  As usual, the jijima followed me everywhere.  She went on the historical city tour with us; she cast a pall as we ate lunch; she followed me through the shops.  I could almost ignore her presence by this point, casting the sigils automatically as I went in and out of buildings.

It wasn’t until I heard a scream as I entered the apothecary shop that I even gave her a thought.  But suddenly, she had my full attention.  I whipped around, terrified, to see the shade writing and boiling behind me.  Frantically, I signed every sigil I could think of - for protection at border crossings, for protection as day gives way to dusk, for protection at the changing of the seasons - she continued to screech.

I saw a flash go past my eyes, as finally she was still.  I shuddered.  She was still there, not in the edge of my vision, but right in front of me.  The shadow of a woman, no detail, only smoke, frozen in agony.

I felt a hand on my shoulder and turned to see an older woman shaking her head sadly.  “I haven’t seen one this angry in years,” she told me.  “Has she been with you always?”

“Yes,” I said, stunned.  Apart from myself, I’d never met anyone who could see the jijima.  My father knew she was there only because of the tantrums she threw.  “She’s my mother,” I explained.

“A jijima?” the woman said.  She clucked.  “What a shame.  Would you like me to help?”  Noting my surprise, she smiled a little.  “My dear, you’re in my shop.  What sort of apothecary would I be if I had nothing to help with spirits?”

“I thought apothecaries traded in medicine?” I asked.  “I came in to get something for headaches; I’m prone to them.”

“We do,” she agreed.  “Medicine for both body and spirit.  Come along; I’m sure I have something that can help your poor mother’s soul.  And your headaches, of course, although I’d be very surprised if the one didn’t cause the other.”

I followed her to the back of the store and watched as she gathered herbs and unguents from various containers.  She grabbed a scale and began sorting through the ingredients, carefully measuring and adding them to a small bowl.  At one point she walked to the window and called to someone outside, but I didn’t catch what she said.

A few minutes later another customer came in, leading a poor old dog with rheumy eyes.  He hesitated as he saw the frozen jijima, but the apothecary waved for him to step around it.

“My dear,” she said to me.  “I cannot free your poor mama directly.  She’s angry because she didn’t give to live her life to the end, and she blames you for that.  Not that it’s your fault,” she added quickly as tears sprang to my eyes.  “There’s nothing you could have done, of course.  But sometimes the dead are unreasonable.  Now, here’s what I can do.  Poor old Rufus there has about lived his life out.  I can help your mother’s spirit move into him, so she can enjoy the living world for just a little bit longer.  Once she’s been able to say goodbye properly, she’ll be able to move on to the next world.  What do you say?”

I blinked.  “You’re going to put my mother’s soul into a dog?”

The apothecary nodded.

I had a thousand questions, but the one that popped out was, “What will happen to the dog??”

The apothecary shrugged.  “Nothing, really.  Dogs don’t have souls.  Rufus will just have another passenger with him until he passes on.”

I worried my lower lip between my teeth.  “And you think this will help my mother move on?” I asked doubtfully.

The apothecary nodded firmly.  “It’s the standard treatment for restless spirits.  Give them another body, one that doesn’t have a soul to be misplaced, and let them make peace with their passing.”

I hesitated.  “How much will it cost?” I asked.

“No cost, as much,” the apothecary told me.  “Just take Rufus with you and see that he has a good end of his life.  I’d be much surprised if you didn’t come to find your mother’s soul staring out of his eyes from time to time.  See if you can make your own peace with her.”

So we did.  The apothecary did an intricate spell, a litany of chanting combined with fistfuls of mixture from the bowl at certain times, and gradually the jijima flowed toward the dog.  I could barely look, afraid the animal would be hurt, but he didn’t even seem to notice.  His eyes cleared a bit, and he seemed to perk up, but seemed perfectly unharmed.  Once the spell was done, I crept over and let him sniff my hand, then gently scratched behind his ears.  He looked up, and for a moment I saw a flash of human intelligence behind his eyes, at first angry, and then grief-stricken.  My heart stopped.  “Mama?” I whispered.  The moment passed, and Rufus nuzzled against my hand.

“Here you go, dear.  Something for your headaches.  Please write me and let me know how you get on,” the apothecary forced a package into my hand and steered me out the door.  I’d already started down the street to find my father before I realized she hadn’t asked for payment.  I turned around to go back, but the apothecary shop was gone.

I looked down at the dog, and he gazed back at me, something greater than canine knowledge in his features.  I shivered.  I didn’t have many moons to make peace with my mother before her spirit departed for good, but oh, how I was ready to try.