Spellcasting for Lost Souls
When one is not sure of something, one goes to a witch. Witches are full of wisdom. They understand how to mend a broken heart and make an all-natural salve. They can find misplaced keys and baggage waylaid at the airport. If asked nicely, they will awaken hidden desires or lessen fears of public speaking. But best of all, they know how to help lost souls find their One True Purpose.
With the advent of modern life, it has never been more important to find one’s True Purpose. Once, there were only a few Purposes: have children, rule, overthrow, die young. It was easy to be satisfied. But in the intervening years, Purposes have proliferated. There have never been more ways to live a life, along with more means of interrogating the choices: forms, nametags, profiles, questionnaires, and the dreaded question “What do you do?”
The girl had never understood how to answer the question.
“Office administration for a chain of grocery stores,” an answer she’d been giving for the last five years, always elicited half nods and polite “ohs,” before the asker quickly turned to her companion, who was usually an Account Manager or an Investigative Journalist. The Account Manager worked at Peterson & Co., where they had just launched the most recent Perrier campaign and worked out of a beautiful office on Queen St. The journalist worked for The Globe, having moved up steadily from jobs like Listicle Writer at an Online Magazine and Interviewer of Local Kooks and Curiosities for a Minimally Recognizable Print Publication. They had recently published a full-page spread exposing the lies of the motor industry.
In addition to being woefully unimpressive, the girl possessed no discernible interests or hobbies. She cared enough about fashion to be mistaken for someone with good taste. She read books because they’d been recommended to her or watched shows that were being discussed at the office. She spent most of her free time attending exercise classes or social gatherings. Her life was advancing in a flat line, progressing forward but never upward.
“You just need to find your passion and follow it. Find out what you’re good at, or what you’re most excited about,” said her friend at their next brunch date.
“But I’m not good at anything,” said the girl. “And I don’t know what I’m excited about.”
“That’s not true!” her friend exclaimed. “Didn’t you make all those plates for your pottery class? Or your IKEA bed? That’s hard to do without help.”
The girl wasn’t convinced that she could write about building IKEA furniture on her LinkedIn page.
“But you can talk about how you’re an independent go-getter,” said another friend over coffee. This friend was completing her post-doctorate research in medieval dress. She also crafted beautiful images of herself for Instagram and had just fielded her first media sponsorship.
“What you should really do,” continued the friend, “is see a witch. My boyfriend saw a witch and she really helped him get his YouTube career off the ground.”
So the girl went to the neighbourhood witch, whose business had become very popular since the invention of the internet.
The witch’s shop was located on a trendy part of King St., between a café that sold cold-pressed juices and a Soul Cycle. The witch offered tea leaf readings, aura balancings, the occasional communion with passed-on relatives, and of course spellcasting to find one’s One True Purpose. She also sold premade and prepackaged charms, potions, and poultices. And, on evenings (and some weekends), the witch earned extra income designing occult-themed greeting cards, which she sold at farmers markets and street festivals from May to October.
The girl was nervous when she arrived. Apart from a palm reading she’d received at an exhibition fair 10 years prior, she had never come in contact with magic (and really, the palm reader—who had simply told her she was on the right path—had been highly suspect).
After a brief wait, during which a succession of customers sought help selecting organic teas and nearly expired love charms at half-price, the witch asked the girl what she needed.
“I need to know what I’m supposed to do with my life,” said the girl.
“Ah,” said the witch, “you’re seeking your One True Purpose.”
The girl nodded.
“Come with me,” said the witch, and led the girl into the back of the shop, where she had a table set aside for divining such things.
“It won’t hurt, will it?” asked the girl. “Everyone said Brazilians wouldn’t hurt too badly,” she added, “but my first one made me cry.” She laughed nervously.
The witch only smiled and pulled out a chair.
“Sit please,” she said.
The girl always did as she was told. She had a healthy fear of authority.
The witch began gathering supplies from nearby shelves. She filled a small basket with dried lavender and ginger, lemongrass stem, Saint John’s wort, powdered valerian root, and preserved basil flower. Lastly, she retrieved a bottle of clear and fragrant oil from a hidden spot on the shelf.
The witch returned to the table and tipped the basket over a mortar and pestle. The herbs tumbled into the waiting bowl, filling the girl’s nose with a pungent aroma. Over all of it the witch poured a long stream of the clear oil, then began grinding the mixture slowly and carefully into an odorous paste. Really, she only needed the oil, but her customers found aromatics to be more persuasive.
“What is it for?” asked the girl, staring intently at the disappearing herbs.
“To open the inner eye,” lied the witch.
The girl nodded knowingly.
The witch took the mixture and pressed it into a spoon, then sucked on the gritty paste for a few moments. She closed her eyes, humming softly. Then she took the girl’s hands.
“Close your eyes,” instructed the witch.
The girl did as she was told.
The witch savoured the taste of the herbs and the oil. She kept her eyes closed and felt the girl’s fingertips. They were cold and clammy.
“You’re nervous,” said the witch.
“I’m worried it’ll hurt,” said the girl, giggling nervously again.
The witch ignored her.
“What would you like your One True Purpose to be?” the witch asked.
“I thought you were supposed to tell me,” said the girl.
The witch didn’t answer. The girl fidgeted. Her legs were itchy, as if covered in tiny pinpricks. The pinpricks turned to little fingers running swoops and swirls all over her skin. She felt bitten by a hundred invisible mosquitos. She felt attacked by a small swarm of miniature bees. She was seized by an overwhelming urge to tear into her thighs with her fingernails.
The witch was silent, and her fingers were tightening on the girls’ clammy hands.
“What’s happening now?” asked the girl in a small and timid voice. She yearned to pull her hands out of the witch’s strong grip and scratch her legs. The girl shifted some more on her seat. The insides of her eyelids were a dark purple red. They felt too heavy, like someone pressing warm cucumber slices into them with determined fingers. The girl lifted the bottom of her lids the tiniest sliver.
“No peeking,” said the witch.
A moment later, her discomfort subsided. Her eyelids resumed their normal weight and her legs ceased their itching. All was still. The silence grew around them like a bubble, growing and stretching to block out the shop noise.
“All right,” said the witch, and the girl opened her eyes. There was a candle placed before her, burning hot and bright. Its sudden appearance stung her eyes and made them water.
“What’s the candle for?” the girl asked.
“Quiet, please,” the witch answered.
So the girl stared at the candle, letting her eyes water and smart, and wondered how much longer all this would take. The silence was broken by the sound of a keyboard. The witch had reached for a laptop and was typing noisily.
“Here is what you must do,” she said, typing all the while. “You must find a stream. You must visit it at midnight. You must dress all in white and walk into the stream barefoot. Wait in the stream until an animal appears before you. You must make silent eye contact with the animal. Do not break its gaze until you have understood your One True Purpose.” The witch rose and came back with a piece of paper.
“Here is your invoice. I’ve included your instructions below. You must follow them exactly. Do you have any questions?”
The girl took the paper carefully and stared at it. She looked up at the witch, who stood over her with a card reader.
“How would you like to pay?” asked the witch.
“I thought you were going to cast a spell so that I could know right away.”
“Your case is more complicated than most. You must commune with the spirit and natural world yourself to receive the true answer.”
This was a lie. The witch had found some customers were more satisfied by an answer for which they’d had to work.
“It’s perfectly safe,” lied the witch again. One of her customers had previously been attacked by a coyote.
The girl was doubtful. But the candle was very bright, her eyes were starting to spill over with tears, and the smell of the herbs was overpowering her nose and making her feel sick.
“Any stream?” asked the girl doubtfully.
“It’s all in the instructions,” replied the witch. She shook the card reader a little.
The girl tapped her card obediently.
The witch watched her customer depart the shop with satisfaction. She had also sold the girl two love charms and a poultice for good sleep, both excellent holiday gifts.
A few weeks later, the girl entered a stream at midnight, dressed all in white. When she’d recited her instructions at brunch, her friends had been excited.
“I discovered my One True Purpose just last year,” said one friend proudly.
“What is it?” asked the girl. She’d never heard her friend discuss it before.
“Field mice,” whispered the friend, full of mystery. She wouldn’t say any more about it.
The girl had picked the stream, at the suggestion of her friend, because it was close to the subway and hidden from the road at the bottom of a ravine.
The girl took her first steps into the stream on bare feet and with a pounding heart. It was ice cold and stabbed her skin with a million little knives. Her toes became numb almost instantly.
“This does hurt,” she thought, and wondered whether she should write a negative review.
Sometime later, the girl heard rustling in the bushes on the other side of the water. This was a good thing, as her toes were completely numb by now and her legs were starting to ache. All the same, her heart froze in her chest. The cold from the water slammed into her whole body and a tiny, shocked gasp escaped her mouth.
“Am I going to be all right?” thought the girl. Suddenly she was aware of the small-dog owners who’d been attacked by wild animals and the solitary hikers who’d never returned home from their trips. For a moment, she considered that the witch had not known whether this would be safe, and had simply been trying to chase her out of the shop as quickly as possible.
“Do I even have a Purpose?” asked the girl. “What does any of this mean?”
The rustling from the bushes stopped. A racoon emerged, eyeing her suspiciously.
“Oh! This is it,” thought the girl. “This is what I’ve been waiting for.”
She stared resolutely at the racoon, who stared back, frozen. For a few moments, the racoon sized up the girl, wondering whether to continue. Then, he took a slow step forward. Then another, and another. Slowly, the racoon inched towards the water, then dipped its front paws in the stream and began to wash them.
The girl was overcome by embarrassment. The halo of magic and mystery cast over the scene disappeared. Now she was only an underdressed intruder, staring down a hapless animal and freezing her feet in an icy stream. The whole endeavour felt foolish and pointless.
“What am I doing here?” she thought. “I should be at home where it’s safe and warm.”
After a few more moments her desire to be at home outgrew even her impulse to follow the witch’s instructions. The racoon deserved to be left alone to its nighttime roaming, not forced to stay here under her examination.
The girl blinked and looked away from the animal. It scurried away.
She stumbled out of the stream on numb toes and dried her poor feet on the towel she had brought. She forced them into her shoes, gritting her teeth at the pain. Above, the road was silent and dark.
A little over an hour later, she opened the door to her apartment. She lived alone, in a one-bedroom on the top floor of an old house. She retrieved a sweater from her bedroom and boiled water on the stove. Too awake for bed, the girl sat on her couch with a cup of tea and surveyed her surroundings with the lights turned off.
Across from her couch, she had hung a poster, gifted to her on her last birthday from her best friend, with an inscription of the words “you are capable of amazing things” in huge, flowing font. On her coffee table sat a book from her mother, entitled Seven Paths to a Higher Purpose, meant to help her self-actualize. Her rug had been bought at the suggestion of a listicle discussing how to use décor items to create a sense of inner peace. The wall colour had been prompted by an online personality quiz. Her coffee table had been 10% off thanks to a coupon code from a celebrity she followed.
A ripple of pins and needles travelled up the girl’s legs. She shivered and got up to open the window, taking a deep breath from outside.
She crossed the room and stood before the poster, then lifted it off its hook. She grabbed the book. She went into the kitchen and deposited both on the table. She opened her overflowing cupboards and stared at the contents. She seized a blender recommended for making frozen drinks, a vegetable stringer gifted to her during the holidays, and several unused cookbooks whose covers were crisp from lack of use. She went into her bedroom and returned with a pile of clothes.
Everything went in a black garbage bag that she discarded in the garbage bins lining the side of the house. She rolled up the rug and dragged the coffee table down the steps.
The girl swept and mopped her apartment. She scrubbed counters and the toilet. She dusted behind the fridge. When the early morning light was beginning to show, the girl sat back on her couch with a cup of hot, dark coffee. She looked around. Everything felt fresh and new and ready. She inhaled the coffee’s steam, then took a first sip and held it on her tongue.
Her stomach rumbled. In a few minutes she would make eggs and tomatoes on toast. She could already taste them. Her mouth watered.
The girl inhaled once more, breathing in the familiar smell of her apartment. She took in the space around her; the soft pillows on the couch, the curtains billowing by the opened window, the warm light of the room.
Maybe after breakfast she would take a walk. Right now she was hungry.
