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Chapter Three: The Curse Jar - Part One
Lemon Tree: (Citrus Limon) Once treasured and cared for by kings, this tree — from its leaves to its fruit — is used today in culinary practices, fermentation, relaxation aromatherapy, natural battery production, antibacterial uses, and sanitary deodorization.
In mystical practices, the lemon symbolizes protection, often blocking negativity and deflecting it back to its sender. And, because it has a sharp, clean scent and a long history as a natural cleanser, it is used in purification and banishing spells to separate a person from ties to their past
Rowan
Admittedly, it probably wasn’t wise — particularly for someone with Rowan’s luck — to be juggling the open book in his arms while walking, but he just couldn’t put the book down.
Unlike the other texts in the eight-book series, From Birth to Death, A Magician’s Walk was less a book of spells — though there were a few scattered about the pages — and more a history of his people. And his family, as two of the book’s authors or contributors were direct kin. There was an entire chapter devoted to his family’s history, sometime in the eighth century when the Viking invaders began to claim the land and the Drury elder, for the good of his clan, began the curse.
And there were several footnotes in other chapters about many of the great and most renowned Drury magicians. Like Roselle Drury, who put out a great, consuming forest fire that almost destroyed her whole community. Or Castor, who summoned the most powerful summer storm ever seen during the great famine in the third century.
Rowan turned the page to start on the next chapter when its title stopped him.
The Burning Times.
Rowan stared at the black ink print of a crowd of town officials feeding fires and stringing rope into nooses and lifting large, heavy, human-sized stones. And the screaming, agonized men, women, and children burning, choking, and being crushed alive at their hands.
In a world where the term witch hunt too often referred to corrupt politicians and spoilt celebrities, Rowan and his family never worried overmuch about persecution. Sure, the town talked about curses and witches, but always with a bit of a nudge and a wink. But, in the same way he’d grown up with stories about the Drury elder — and, he supposed, in the same way other children grew up with fairytales and ghost stories — he and his cousins had spooked each other with tales of those infamous years where Britain had burned her own — and, in truth, many others’ — people.
He shuddered, remembering the books in the Drury library — large, heavy tomes — filled with the names of generations of Drurys killed simply for being who, being what, they were born to be.
Rowan frowned when he read the caption that went with the gruesome picture.
King James and his kind were not the first to try to root us out and destroy us, but they were the first to take such pleasure in the deed.
Turning the page, he dropped the book. “Love of God!”
“Rowan?”
He jumped when a hand touched his shoulder. Whirling around, he found himself facing Lenten. Rowan shook his head, trying to steady himself. As he watched the man bend down to pick up the fallen book, his first stammering thought was to wonder why the man was holding Olive’s small doll in his hand.
Shaking the errant, incongruous thoughts from his head, he took the book from the man. “Thank you.”
Lenten, though recently cleaned up and once again straight-backed, studied Rowan with sadness still shading his blue eyes.
Finally, the man coughed. “Are you,” he said, the words sounding stilted and awkward as if he was uncomfortable talking after such a long silence, “okay?”
Rowan nodded. “Yeah.” He shrugged. “Yeah, just,” he assured, “startled.”
Lenten nodded, not quite convinced but unwilling — or uninterested — in pushing the issue. He turned.
Rowan stopped him, placing his own hand on the manager’s now crisp, blue suit, the soft curls of Olive’s doll tickling his hand as he touched the arm that held it. Lenten stiffened but didn’t turn, content to wait expectantly.
“Are you okay?” the boy asked, before he realized that he had no idea what to do if Lenten answered no.
As if knowing that, the man took a deep breath before answering. He hugged tighter to the doll he carried in the crook of his arm. After a moment, he simply patted the boy’s hand and nodded. “Thank you.”
Rowan watched the man leave, wishing there was something he could do for him. He sighed. There were so many things that he wished for.
Flipping the pages of the book back to The Burning Times, Rowan looked down at the image of a man — painted young and handsome if it wasn’t for his eyes that had been gouged out and his throat that had been slashed open. Rowan read the caption belonging to the painting.
Beware, ye born of the Drury tree, Hunters oft enucleate captured magicians, as eyes, hearts, and larynxes are believed to root the soul to the body. By killing the root, the Hunters trap the spirit within the flesh, not just destroying the Drury but also the magical seeds that are passed on and sown into the next generation.
Rowan closed his eyes, remembering his grandfather’s body and the gaping wounds that had mutilated his face. A tear fell down his cheek before being furiously wiped away.
He read further down the page. According to the book, in the same way that magic followed those with Drury blood, so did the Hunters. They weren’t an army or even a specific people — though they often affiliated themselves with the like-minded of their time. They were just those in the periphery of the populace who decided to turn the Hands of Fate themselves and change what had always been, what was meant to be, and what would be.
Seasons, years, decades could pass peacefully, but eventually — inevitably — the Hunters would rise up, decimating their lines and forcing the remaining families into exile and hiding.
“ ‘For as long as there have been Drurys,’ ” Rowan read aloud, “ ‘there have been Hunters, those from many clans and many lands who seek the destruction of that which they covet most.’ ”
He stared at the righteous smiles drawn on the faces of the townsfolk torturing his ancestors and wondered how people could do such things. He understood jealousy. Understood envy — how could he not, with his luck? But to kill — to maim and torture — because of it? He shook his head uncomprehendingly. What kind of people did that?
He shut the book, wishing he could shut away the words. The Hunters were relentless. They were ruthless. And they had returned. And, while exiled in The Elysium, there was nothing Rowan could do about it.
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