Fisher (tenth_life) wrote in light_of_may, @ 2012-02-18 20:49:00 |
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Entry tags: | 2009-08-31, jackson |
But in order to get to the heart / I think sometimes you'll have to cut through.
Who: Jackson and Gretel / the Wolf and the Witch
When: Night, late.
Where: The local woods, off the beaten path.
The less a man carries in his pack, Gretel thought, the more he must carry in his head. She'd always been fond of the saying in relation to camp cookery despite being the sort of personage who was very careful to arrange her life so as to avoid the necessity of boiling her breakfast outdoors. Of course, that didn't mean she had to ignore her fondness for moose ragout or a well-seared muskrat...
Focus, witch. Good grief, but how this teenage mind liked to wander. It was amazing that anybody under the age of twenty ever managed to keep their thoughts together long enough to tie their shoelaces. The sarcastic little thought was an unpleasant reminder of how long it'd take Gretel's present form to reach the meager age of twenty; she stamped down her disgust and turned back to her preparations.
A camper was known by her fire, and Gretel had no intentions of messing up the basics. Gathering and arranging quickly, she stuck a forked stake in the ground and laid green stick, properly notched to hold the pot bail--or in this case the handy camp kettle. Then she got an armful of dry twigs, avoiding any that lay flat on the ground. Luck was with her to the point of there actually being some hardwood to be found; it'd last well. Three of the best of the sticks would serve as kindling; she shaved them briskly, going half the length, but leaving each shaving's end attached to the stick, one under the other. She stood them in a tripod, to go under the hanging pot, with the curls down. Around the little structure, Gretel built a conical wigwam from the other sticks, standing each on end and slanting to a common center, but leaving a ration of free space between them. You didn't have to be a witch or a scientist to understand that fire craved air; it burned best with something to climb up on. She touched off the shaved sticks, and shortly had the right heat under her little camp kettle. The whole thing took less than ten minutes to assemble.
Gretel had to admit that the set up made a charming tableaux: the fresh night sky, the crisp starts, the autumn trees, the merry crack of the fire and the soon-to-be bubbling kettle. It was very--homey. The sort of scene that would bring a smile to anyone's heart, really.
Well, provided nobody actually asked what was in the kettle.
Ankles crossed and chin in her hands, Gretel sat down to wait for her brew to boil. It would've been pleasant to pass the time thinking about the stars or the leaves, or what the hell she was going to wear on the first day of school. But Gretel was Gretel (no matter how damn short or near to puberty) and instead she spent her time thinking about the risks and rewards of what she was about to attempt.
It wasn't a terribly powerful spell in comparison to her standard repertoire, but on the other hand Gretel hadn't the means to have anything to do with her standards. What she was attempting relied on dexterity more than innate power, a fact she was hoping would let her avoid the potential backlash. Really, really hoping.
For the most part the formula read like a botched recipe for mulled wine. Many of ingredients were easily recognizable and deceptively simple. There were the cloves, the four thousand year old anesthetic, meant to ready one's mouth for speaking with emperors or bolster the power of incantation. The flesh and oil of an orange to garner wisdom and to ensure the renunciation of interfering desires. Three slices of ginger, stringa-vera, the root “with a body like a horn” to elicit the sweat that warded off plague or failure. A lemon for the sake of night prophecies, honoring the hour. A handful of peppercorns, the King's Spice, the Master Spice, children of the evergreen vine that was once ranked high with Romance luxuries like African ivory, Chinese silk, German amber, and Arabian incense, and its evergreen sibling, cinnamon, the embalmer's sweet treat, to preserve the purity of her intentions. Badian, star anise, which could flavor absinthe or fuel a mother's milk with its power to nurse and inspire. Finally, there was sugar and virgin honey, and a half a bottle of wine mixed with Gretel's own blood, and the finger bone of a murdered stranger.
Blood of the grape and the juice of a girl, the sweat of spices and the tears of bitter fruit, a line from a dead man's hand--what else would one use to steal memories from death?
If it worked, the potion would transmute into Gretel's true blood, an elixir of her old self. But transformation was only half the battle; the potion had to take, her juvenile body had to have the strength to accept the blood. If it did Gretel would have a dose of her old power.
And if it didn't, she'd have to give the same measure of blood back...with interest.
Over the fire, the kettle began to steam.