A faint smell of incense and herbs penetrated the smell of animal fur at the outdoor spice market on 32nd avenue. It was a pleasing smell, one that conjured nostalgia into Hecate. Still, the feeling wasn't the same as before the Descending. A rooftop market, the open air and warm breezes made her think of Thrace but it wasn't the same. How could it be? It was not yet time for the ceremony. She knew they wouldn't start without her but she hated to make the Africans wait, even if her witchcraft was ineffectual now. She would still try.
A drumming could be heard over the conversation of patrons going about their shopping. Every kind of herb and spice available. Some sellers carried candles, snakeskin of every species were displayed in a number of areas. The bodies of chickens and monkeys hanged in a few. Everything the Sangomas might need was available here. Hecate knew that her white painted face and braided hair was a shock. She saw it in their eyes as she made her way to the far corner of the rooftop where her rite would take place.
Hecate sighed. Before Descending, she had been the goddess of all witchcraft. It was no surprise that she'd partake in South African magic. Now, she stuck out and felt almost ridiculous. They were welcoming, yes, even if they had no conception of who she was. But there was a weariness in their eyes, a holding back.
She wondered what others would say if they were to witness the ritual she was about to perform. Many would say it was horrifying and cruel. A savage throwback to a forgotten time. Hecate knew better. The calling of the ancestors was a powerful ceremony that could just work. Who was to say?
She heard murmurings as she walked past and kept her gaze low. She heard a few whispering, the words 'pale trumpet' audible a few times. She knew why. The trumpet was the screams of a dying goat as its throat was cut during the ceremony. The trumpet to awaken the ancestors. Other animals could be used but the Africans preferred a goat. For whatever reason, its scream was the correct intonation.
She thought again of the pale trumpet and swallowed hard. Was this nickname something more sinister? Was she herself the trumpet? She knew that humans, especially tiny children had been used in these sacrifices before. She had personally presided over many, of many peoples, before Descending. It had been what it was and it had been in sacrifice to her. She loved the bleating, the cries and drumming and rattles. For months I've been here now. She thought. And the closest I can find to my beloved magic is a rooftop in New Los Angeles. Not surrounded by Thracians or Greeks but Africans who haven't forgotten the old ways.
"Pale trumpet."
A voice said from behind her. It was a man she had seen before. Dark and sinewy, he looked out of place in his dress clothes as if he were attending Sunday school.
"Hello."
His large hand motioned for her to follow and she did. As they walked, he put on a bulbous hat that covered his unusually large ears. A large tent opened and Hecate entered. Incense filled her nose. She was directed to a chair in the middle of the area and surrounded by three attendants who would be indispensable when the ritual began. She unbuttoned her blouse and took it off, handing it to one of the attendants. The nakedness was also essential, to excite the male ancestors as they awoke. Her red hair was pulled and smoothed back with warm water til it shined like the head of a puff adder native to these peoples home. She flicked her tongue and let her eyes bore into them. Did they know who she was? Unlikely.
She sat and felt the air pressure drop. Her ears popped and she smiled. One by one the attendants began to chant, some stomped their feet, others whooped and screamed.
Hecate closed her eyes, let her essence billow out like the incense. Dogs that had been brought to the rooftop began to howl. She felt weightless as if she'd been picked up and placed on a cushion. Her equilibrium strayed and she began to lean to the left. An attendee righted her with hands on her head and shoulders. Hecate felt herself succumb and her mouth parted. She leaned her head back, rolled it to the side. A bursting green glow filled the tent as if accent lights had been placed on the floor. Through the clouds of smoke she saw shadows standing here and there. The bodiless. She thought. The ancestors of these people. She didn't even need the trumpet, they had come, were probably evident as soon as she arrived at the rooftop. Hecate tasted ash on her tongue and spied the small fire that had been built in the tent. More coal colored incense was being added as the bodiless moved back and forth. Each time she blinked they appeared somewhere else. One was off to her side in one instant then inches from her face the next. She gritted her teeth, felt sweat form on her forehead. It was carefully wiped away. The green glow persisted, deepened, took on a pungent hue. It was now almost blue, thick like syrup. The bodiless stretched across the tent until they were all one shadow. A dark mass, a shape. Outisde, she knew the moon had just been uncovered by cloud. But it was a new moon. She felt it. It was delicious and cool. Hecate let her awareness fan out, let it grope all who bore witness. And it was there. And she rose into the bodiless.
The rooftop was now chaos as the howling had gotten crazed, uncontrollable. Gusts of wind blew incense and oils onto the ground. Sellers tried to stake down the tents only to see them picked up and blown like newspaper. The greenish hue spread across the rooftop causing some to scream in terror.
Hecate felt hands on her head and shoulders, chanting in her ear. The tent flaps blew outward a a gust from inside threatened to topple the enclosure. She stared up at the bodiless who were above them all. They spun and spun, tighter as Hecate's magic drove harder and harder.
"The ancestors have come!" She screamed.
Her attendees screamed and she heard the goat pulled within arm's reach. It bleated, it's fur soft on her hand. She was given a knife. The bodiless were now moving through the tent in quick, jagged, bursts. They whipped across her face as she drew the knife across the goat's throat and heard the trumpet sound. A silver bowl was brought to catch the blood as it poured onto the ground and onto Hecate's bare feet. She felt its warmth running between her toes.
"Sangoma!" The man from before said beside her. "Have the ancestors come? Whom do you see? What masks do they wear?"
The moon is the key. She thought. The gate of resurrection. She smiled up at the man with the bulbous hat.
"There is a budding morrow in midnight!" She responded.
"I don't understand witch! Have the ancestors answered?"
The magos persists. She thought.
She sensed it, not nearly as powerful as before Descending. But there was a residual clarity, an awareness of the bodiless and gestating undulation of the magos itself. Hecate slumped off the chair and onto the rooftop floor. She felt blood on her calves and thighs. An attendee stood over her and leaned her head back. Her mouth opened, her tongue extended. Bile from the goat was poured into her mouth and she gagged. Her eyes watered as she swallowed. To her right, she blurrily saw others quickly shearing the goat that had bled out. They worked furiously, four or five hunched over it. They brought a bangle to her. A necklace fashioned of the sheared goat fur, it went around her neck. Smaller ones were placed as bracelets onto her wrist.
"Sangoma!" The man said from beside her.
Hecate was given a large plastic cup of beer. She guzzled it, tasted the bitterness as her senses blurred.
"Sangoma!"
She was given another cup, then another. Her shoulders softened. She looked up and saw the moon slowly realizing that the tent had been blown apart. She looked down at the ground and saw small streams of blood. The bodiless were still present, great darknesses here and there. Hecate's face darkened, she drank more beer. The man pulled at her arm. Somebody stepped in front of him.
Hecate saw what he was doing, felt his hands on her waist, trying to take her from here.
Her attendees stood in front of him, waved the knife in his face, threatened to cut him. He backed away.
"Sangoma!" He screamed. "Sangoma!"
A drumming could be heard over the conversation of patrons going about their shopping. Every kind of herb and spice available. Some sellers carried candles, snakeskin of every species were displayed in a number of areas. The bodies of chickens and monkeys hanged in a few. Everything the Sangomas might need was available here. Hecate knew that her white painted face and braided hair was a shock. She saw it in their eyes as she made her way to the far corner of the rooftop where her rite would take place.
Hecate sighed. Before Descending, she had been the goddess of all witchcraft. It was no surprise that she'd partake in South African magic. Now, she stuck out and felt almost ridiculous. They were welcoming, yes, even if they had no conception of who she was. But there was a weariness in their eyes, a holding back.
She wondered what others would say if they were to witness the ritual she was about to perform. Many would say it was horrifying and cruel. A savage throwback to a forgotten time. Hecate knew better. The calling of the ancestors was a powerful ceremony that could just work. Who was to say?
She heard murmurings as she walked past and kept her gaze low. She heard a few whispering, the words 'pale trumpet' audible a few times. She knew why. The trumpet was the screams of a dying goat as its throat was cut during the ceremony. The trumpet to awaken the ancestors. Other animals could be used but the Africans preferred a goat. For whatever reason, its scream was the correct intonation.
She thought again of the pale trumpet and swallowed hard. Was this nickname something more sinister? Was she herself the trumpet? She knew that humans, especially tiny children had been used in these sacrifices before. She had personally presided over many, of many peoples, before Descending. It had been what it was and it had been in sacrifice to her. She loved the bleating, the cries and drumming and rattles. For months I've been here now. She thought. And the closest I can find to my beloved magic is a rooftop in New Los Angeles. Not surrounded by Thracians or Greeks but Africans who haven't forgotten the old ways.
"Pale trumpet."
A voice said from behind her. It was a man she had seen before. Dark and sinewy, he looked out of place in his dress clothes as if he were attending Sunday school.
"Hello."
His large hand motioned for her to follow and she did. As they walked, he put on a bulbous hat that covered his unusually large ears. A large tent opened and Hecate entered. Incense filled her nose. She was directed to a chair in the middle of the area and surrounded by three attendants who would be indispensable when the ritual began. She unbuttoned her blouse and took it off, handing it to one of the attendants. The nakedness was also essential, to excite the male ancestors as they awoke. Her red hair was pulled and smoothed back with warm water til it shined like the head of a puff adder native to these peoples home. She flicked her tongue and let her eyes bore into them. Did they know who she was? Unlikely.
She sat and felt the air pressure drop. Her ears popped and she smiled. One by one the attendants began to chant, some stomped their feet, others whooped and screamed.
Hecate closed her eyes, let her essence billow out like the incense. Dogs that had been brought to the rooftop began to howl. She felt weightless as if she'd been picked up and placed on a cushion. Her equilibrium strayed and she began to lean to the left. An attendee righted her with hands on her head and shoulders. Hecate felt herself succumb and her mouth parted. She leaned her head back, rolled it to the side. A bursting green glow filled the tent as if accent lights had been placed on the floor. Through the clouds of smoke she saw shadows standing here and there. The bodiless. She thought. The ancestors of these people. She didn't even need the trumpet, they had come, were probably evident as soon as she arrived at the rooftop. Hecate tasted ash on her tongue and spied the small fire that had been built in the tent. More coal colored incense was being added as the bodiless moved back and forth. Each time she blinked they appeared somewhere else. One was off to her side in one instant then inches from her face the next. She gritted her teeth, felt sweat form on her forehead. It was carefully wiped away. The green glow persisted, deepened, took on a pungent hue. It was now almost blue, thick like syrup. The bodiless stretched across the tent until they were all one shadow. A dark mass, a shape. Outisde, she knew the moon had just been uncovered by cloud. But it was a new moon. She felt it. It was delicious and cool. Hecate let her awareness fan out, let it grope all who bore witness. And it was there. And she rose into the bodiless.
The rooftop was now chaos as the howling had gotten crazed, uncontrollable. Gusts of wind blew incense and oils onto the ground. Sellers tried to stake down the tents only to see them picked up and blown like newspaper. The greenish hue spread across the rooftop causing some to scream in terror.
Hecate felt hands on her head and shoulders, chanting in her ear. The tent flaps blew outward a a gust from inside threatened to topple the enclosure. She stared up at the bodiless who were above them all. They spun and spun, tighter as Hecate's magic drove harder and harder.
"The ancestors have come!" She screamed.
Her attendees screamed and she heard the goat pulled within arm's reach. It bleated, it's fur soft on her hand. She was given a knife. The bodiless were now moving through the tent in quick, jagged, bursts. They whipped across her face as she drew the knife across the goat's throat and heard the trumpet sound. A silver bowl was brought to catch the blood as it poured onto the ground and onto Hecate's bare feet. She felt its warmth running between her toes.
"Sangoma!" The man from before said beside her. "Have the ancestors come? Whom do you see? What masks do they wear?"
The moon is the key. She thought. The gate of resurrection. She smiled up at the man with the bulbous hat.
"There is a budding morrow in midnight!" She responded.
"I don't understand witch! Have the ancestors answered?"
The magos persists. She thought.
She sensed it, not nearly as powerful as before Descending. But there was a residual clarity, an awareness of the bodiless and gestating undulation of the magos itself. Hecate slumped off the chair and onto the rooftop floor. She felt blood on her calves and thighs. An attendee stood over her and leaned her head back. Her mouth opened, her tongue extended. Bile from the goat was poured into her mouth and she gagged. Her eyes watered as she swallowed. To her right, she blurrily saw others quickly shearing the goat that had bled out. They worked furiously, four or five hunched over it. They brought a bangle to her. A necklace fashioned of the sheared goat fur, it went around her neck. Smaller ones were placed as bracelets onto her wrist.
"Sangoma!" The man said from beside her.
Hecate was given a large plastic cup of beer. She guzzled it, tasted the bitterness as her senses blurred.
"Sangoma!"
She was given another cup, then another. Her shoulders softened. She looked up and saw the moon slowly realizing that the tent had been blown apart. She looked down at the ground and saw small streams of blood. The bodiless were still present, great darknesses here and there. Hecate's face darkened, she drank more beer. The man pulled at her arm. Somebody stepped in front of him.
Hecate saw what he was doing, felt his hands on her waist, trying to take her from here.
Her attendees stood in front of him, waved the knife in his face, threatened to cut him. He backed away.
"Sangoma!" He screamed. "Sangoma!"
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