The Book of Secrets
Lit Up — December Prompt
Sometimes I catch a glimpse of you amidst the canopy of glistening stars. Sometimes I peek beyond the veil and see your gentle smile in candleglow. Sometimes, like now, I catch the fragrance of Damask rose and evening jasmine on the breeze, drifting across the veranda where you loved to sit.
You are here, standing at my shoulder as I prepare to cast a spell.
I have gathered everything I need: a transparent sachet of organza, filled with violet blossoms, a red candle and The Book of Secrets, passed down our female line for hundreds of years.
“Grandma,” I once asked, “why don’t you give the book to Mum?”
“Your mother is a believer, Lissy, and she has many talents, but she does not possess your gift — your innate connection with the past.”
It is true that I have always felt the bond with our ancestors and sometimes sensed their presence. I learned the secrets of the natural world as a child at your knee — the phases of the moon, the constellations of the night sky, the healing properties of herbs and flowers, and the way all life is bound together like the strands of a spider’s web. You taught me all you knew and left The Book of Secrets in my care some days before you passed beyond this life — as if you knew.
“Heed my words,” you told me. “Use this book wisely, with respect for all earthly life. Do no one harm with the powerful secrets you will learn.”
A tremor of uncertainty courses through me as I open the leather-bound tome.
How many women in my line have traced their fingers over the fading vellum and studied the exquisitely painted pictures of flowers and herbs? It has taken me many years to decipher the flowing archaic script — incantations for prosperity, protection, good fortune and love. Now the secrets are unlocked to me, yet the power of these words is unnerving.
Never before have I cast a spell, but what else can I do? The man who plays with my heart is as unattainable as the furthest star, and the pain of longing forever gnaws at the core of my being.
The sun has set in swathes of crimson, and the waxing moon has risen over the forest. The time is right. With trembling hand, I light the candle and place the sachet of blossoms upon the book.
Beware . . .
Your voice is the susurrus of wind through willow trees.
Beware the love charm, child. It will return to haunt you fourfold. Its power will set your soul aflame with unbearable desire that might never be assuaged.
I only want to make him love me. Where is the harm in that?
It is against his free will, child. Against all the laws of herb magic. Love born of enchantment is false. It is doomed to fail and may well destroy you both.
I would risk my soul for love of him, but I never wish to do him harm.
Heed my words, child. If true love is your destiny, if he is meant for you, nothing on Earth or in Heaven will ever stop the Wheel of Fate from turning.
Consumed with longing, I have practiced the incantation for so long in my mind, waiting for a Friday and the waxing moon. If I utter the words, he will surely be mine. The temptation is great. Oh . . . I should burn this book for the harm it might do! Yet it is centuries old, and you have placed it in my safekeeping. There are so many secrets I have yet to learn.
A gust of wind shifts the sachet of violets and turns the pages of the book.
I read the words in candlelight.
A Spell for Good Fortune — that wishes may come true.
Such is my love that I will cast this spell for him. I only wish him well. If the charm should come back to me fourfold, as you say it will, he would gain his heart’s desire, and my wish would be granted.
Gather rose petals and marjoram at midday when the leaves and petals are doused in sunlight. Cast the spell by full moon.
Trust your heart . . .
Your words fade into the night sky.
A quiver of hope stirs within me, for the next full moon is near. I gaze up at the mystical firmament and wish upon the canopy of stars.
