CHAPTER III: INTO THE DEN OF THE ENGLISHMAN
Way back in Elementary, I remembered that the school library was a hot-spot of activity. Sure, it only saw a few dozen students here and there, but it was as lively as any library could be. Comfortable. Welcoming. Quiet. Honestly, it was one of my favourite places — far better than the chaos of the playground or the din of the courtyard. Students would browse for books their parents wouldn't approve; the more studious worked on assignments in their spare time; and quite a few just used the space to hang out.
There were even a few board games to play, though many were missing bits and pieces here and there. Most were simply lost as kids far too young to be careful mucked about with them unsupervised, but I knew for a fact many pieces had been stolen by opportunistic students. I knew because I was one of those opportunistic students, and my prize was the Black Rook of stone that sat upon my windowsill.
The library of Sunnydale High was nothing like that.
Students perused, of course, but nobody stayed for long. At least, most people didn't. There was just something off about it that left my skin crawling — as if everything had been moved an inch to the left. Like, I knew there was something strange, but it was too subtle to tell what and all I could do was stumble.
I was sure everyone else felt it too, but nobody talked about it.
It didn't help that the last time I was here, it was Halloween. That fact alone set my skin ablaze with an intolerable itch of memories I didn't want to relive.
"God, why couldn't Mister Giles work at the public library," I thought, trudging through the halls, past students coming and going to and from their usual haunts. It was lunch, so that gave me about an hour to scan through the school's collection.
When I arrived, I pushed open the twin beige doors of the library and found myself confronted by bitterly beautiful architecture I wished I could enjoy.
The library was built around an octagonal base, clearly defined by the lines of red in the mostly white linoleum floor. A low set balcony sat at the far end — a pair of stairs leading up on either side and shelving for books beneath it. More bookshelves sat up on the balcony, partially obscuring a back door that led to more books and a maintenance stairway to the library's roof. Above a series of tables in the centre of the room was a broad skylight, octagonal, that bathed the room in sun.
To my right, there was an alcove sectioned off by a marble countertop. A computer sat upon the white marble, along with a catalogue and a few documents. Beyond that, the librarian's office. Finally, to my left was a large cage built into the wall where books would be returned and stored to be relocated at a later date. It was probably a storage closet, too, but nobody was allowed inside without the librarian's permission.
"Excuse me?" I called, tentatively, trying to ignore the slimy dread that had eased itself down upon my shoulders. I hated being here. Hated it more when I was the only one. Rationally, I knew the library was open at all hours during school, but I couldn't help but feel like I was intruding.
I waited a few seconds and, when nobody answered, I shuffled over to the counter where I knew the catalogue was. Just in time, the librarian deigned to show himself.
"Ah, Will—"
Jesus-fuck-Hell! I tensed, strangling a squeal, desperately trying to stop myself from jumping. Mister Giles was there, looking at me, head poking out of his office door. Don't fucking sneak up on people! I wanted to hiss, but I didn't. I just stood there, looking at him expectantly, trying to calm my furious heart.
"Sorry, I thought you were someone else," he said, genuinely apologetic. "Can I help you, Miss . . . ?"
Mister Giles was a tall man, around six-feet if I were to guess, swathed in a tweed suit. I think he was in his fifties, maybe sixties, and he had an attitude to match. His hairline was receding, and his face was marked by deep creases. Despite that, he seemed remarkably spry, if a bit absent minded. He smiled, charming, and I could see why so many were invested in his Thing with Miss Calendar, the computer teacher.
"Um. Sinclair," I replied. "Kaitlyn Sinclair. And — um, no. I'm good. Just looking."
He nodded, looking as if he didn't quite know what to do before he found some paperwork or something to deal with. I turned my attention back to the catalogue and flitted through the pages, scanning the Dewey Decimal System categories for any mention of the occult — but also made note where the dictionaries were kept.
I was here for two reasons; the first was entirely practical. I wanted books on the occult. Wasn't sure what I was looking for, but that was neither here nor there. The second wasn't that important, yet.
Parapsychology & Occultism was in class 130 to 139, but I only really needed to search through to 133. It might just be me, but I didn't think that phrenology and physiognomy were particularly relevant when it came to magic. Also, I was pretty sure both fields of study were incredibly racist.
I climbed the stairs and began sifting through the shelves, but it quickly became apparent that I was in over my head.
There were about fifteen shelves in the library proper, six of which were double sided, all of which were filled to the brim with books. Then there was the back room where even more books sat, dusty, waiting to be read. And how many of these shelves were dedicated to the occult? Three. Three whole shelves, top to bottom, filled with tomes and textbooks and more. I knew our library was above average when it came to the occult, but I didn't think it was that bad.
Just for reference, this was a short selection of what I found: The Magic in Your Mind; Studies in Alchemy: The Science of Self-Transformation; Hebron's Almanac; Kabbalah of the Golden Dawn; The Writings of Aurelius; Living Wicca: A Further Guide for the Solitary Practitioner; The Twilight Compendium; seven volumes by some dude named Pherion; and a further sixteen volumes by another named Dramius. It was going to be a pain sorting through them all, but I had time. Yeah. I had time.
So, I buckled down and started sifting through.
For the most part, it was garbage. Self-help books and random bullshit about vampiric prophecies. Very quickly, I started dismissing anything that seemed overly concerned with monsters, with Kabbalah, and Chakra. It's not that they were bad, but the former had nothing to do with what I was researching, and the other two were. Well.
There were a few interesting bits, though. Scott Cunningham's encyclopaedias looked useful, but I wasn't sure how applicable crystals and herbs were when it came to real magic. For the most part, I was going off gut feelings. If the title felt odd, I'd skip it. If the book didn't feel right after a few pages, I'd skip it. If the front cover looked too psychedelic or try-hard, I'd skip it. It was a very robust system of mine.
By the half-hour mark my eyes were beginning to strain. I had carved through a decent portion, finding a lot of nothing between the pages presupposing arcane lore. Those which I found, such as The Lesser Key of Solomon and the Galdrabók, were particularly troublesome in their archaic dialect that left my head pounding just to skim a single chapter. All in all, I came across the same issue as I did with Mom's books. A lot of talking about magic, a lot of information about supposed spiritual realms and daemonic hierarchies, but what magic there was served only for the ephemeral — to cause good luck, to protect against trouble, and the like.
By the half-hour mark, I was about to take a break and get some lunch when I though, Just one more book. I glanced about, walking around the three shelves, searching, until I spotted it, low to the ground at the outer bounds of my search criteria.
A thick, battered tome. Old. Its spine was black, the title written in golden script: Witchcraft. I plucked the book from the shelf and gave it a once over. No blurb. No author. There wasn't even a little sticker declaring its place within the Dewey Decimal system, though that was hardly surprising. Quite a few of the occult texts, especially the weird ones like The Writings of Aurelius didn't have them. I wasn't sure about the process of borrowing, but I'd burn that bridge when I got to it.
I flipped the book open to a random page and was met by the step-by-step guide to a tracking ritual. It listed the ingredients, the incantation, and the basic theory of how it operated.
There was even a little illustration to go along with; a witch crouched in a grassy clearing, obscured by a black cloak. Only her arm was visible as she held a pendulum by its string between pinched fingers. The weight — a crystal of sorts — wasn't pointed straight down as it should. Instead, it leaned forward in front of the witch as if pulled by an unseen force.
I froze, staring at the page, brain struggling to reconcile the words with what I had spent the past half-hour reading. I had skimmed instructions for Tarot readings, trudged through dissertations on purification rites, and had the basics of crystal charging hammered into my head more times than I cared to count. This, though — this gave me pause.
I wanted to learn magic, but I had no idea how to tell snake oil from the bona fide. But if I could work a single ritual from a single book, suddenly everything inside held some credibility.
The issue was, most of the books here were more concerned with invoking good vibes rather than something tangible. I couldn't quantify good vibes. There was literally no way to tell if Gerald Eveningstar's Most Ancient Ritual of Good Vibes would even work. A tracking ritual, on the other hand? Now that would be easy to tell if it worked or not.
The ritual itself seemed simple enough. The most expensive thing here was the pendulum, but even that I could make — assuming Mom didn't have one tucked away somewhere.
I shuddered in barely contained excitement. I was going to do magic! A tracking ritual. I could — I had no idea what I could do with that. Track things, I guess? I'm sure there was some use for that, but regardless — magic!
I took a deep breath, fighting against that primal urge to flap my hands in a manic attempt to vent some of that nervous energy bubbling in my chest. I needed to focus.
Flipping through a few more pages, I tried to get a general overview of the book I had. What I found was . . . promising. More rituals. Guides to create poppets, to invoke spirits from the otherworld, to bewitch others — to cause lust and to summon fear. Then there were the potions. Potions. I could create an elixir to change my hair, grant myself resistance to fire, become unseen by others. All practical. All observable.
It was baffling. Impossible. Even after a weekend of pyrokinetic hell, I still couldn't believe it — yet here it was.
I snapped the book shut and tucked it under my arm. I could fawn about it later, once I was alone. Anyway, I still had business in the library and the less time I spent here the better.
The dictionaries were on 'ground floor,' in the shelving under the balcony. I quickly made my way down and began searching for the next book on my list. This, at least, would be easier. I'd still be picking at random, but I knew what I was looking for.
Átendra. My own little magic word. I knew what it meant — to light; to kindle. I don't know how I knew that, but I did. A quirk of magic, maybe? It was troubling. More troubling than pulling magic out of my ass.
Had I lit the candle with frustration alone, I could at least assume my emotions were to blame. I was terrified about being lost in the dark, and I could suppose that my inner magic reacted to that. The fire started. The cause of my fear was gone. The issue was that incantation. There was just no explanation. None. How did I learn it? Where did it come from? I didn't recognise it from anything. No fantasy books came to mind, no incantations from comics either.
It wasn't English, it probably wasn't Spanish, so what was it?
Thus, the dictionaries.
Of course, I knew well enough that I could be barking up the wrong tree. It might not even be a human language. I had to look, though. If I knew the language, maybe that would help with my spellcraft? It'd at least be one answer checked off my list.
Right away, I could discount a few languages. English and Spanish, of course. It didn't sound particularly Greek, didn't feel Japanese. I could reasonably assume it wasn't French or Latin, either. At the same time, I knew the word probably started with an A followed by a T, and I could reasonably assume what came next was an E — though whether the words had diacritics, I couldn't say.
It cut down time, at least, flitting from Georgian, to Finnish, to German, before eventually landing on The Dictionary of Old Norse. I opened the book, paged through entry after entry until I reached A and T, then passed A and T onto Á and T. There it was. Átendra. To make a fire, light; to kindle, excite.
So, it was Old Norse.
I wasn't quite sure how to feel about that. Wasn't quite sure how to feel about any language popping into my head for that matter.
Still, I added the book to my list, ignoring the pang of anxiety as I did so. Maybe I should tell someone? What if I was missing something? What if there was something wrong with me? Or maybe this was normal for a witch-to-be? Either way, I was done with the library, for now. I could figure everything out later.
Books in hand, I headed to the front desk.
Just then, Buffy Summers, resident delinquent, decided to enter the library.
She was a short woman. Five-foot-and-a-few with enough muscle beneath her dainty frame to make even a strongman sweat. Her hair was bottle-blonde, her eyes a hazel-going-on-blue, and she was currently dressed in a leather jacket far too big for her, along with a pastel-pink blouse and a pair of worn skinny jeans.
Honestly, I didn't quite know what to think about her. According to Principal Snyder, she was the anti-Christ; a danger to his school. The Jocks were half-terrified and half-aroused, and with good reason. Buffy was cute. More than cute, really. She also had a hair trigger temper and the strength to back it up.
It wasn't that she was quick to anger, though. No. She was skittish as all Hell and her acute stress response was broken on "fight." There was, of course, the infamous "Buffy almost stabbed Cordelia" rumour that had floated around during her first week at school. Honestly, I didn't care about context — I was in love! At the same time, I had personally seen her nearly snap the arm of a handsy jock who thought sneaking up on a girl was just as good a replacement as a pick-up line.
I glanced over and inclined my head, the customary acknowledgments for people who knew each other but barely ever spoke, and promptly ignored her as I searched the room for Mister Giles.
Buffy, however, refused to be ignored. "Oh, hi," she said, sounding a bit surprised. Couldn't blame her. Everyone knew the library was Her Spot, her and her gang — Xander Harris and Willow Rosenberg. They were the only people, aside from the librarian I guess, who didn't seem to care that the library was a hundred tons worth of nails on a chalkboard. "Kaitlyn, right?"
I nodded my head, not sure what to say. It was probably why I didn't have any actual friends, actually. My inability to — you know — small talk. Just chat. I found it all so tedious and, frankly, impossible to figure out.
"Hello, Buffy," I replied, taking a step back to peek through the window into Giles' office. There he was. He was doing some paperwork, it seemed. Great. Now I had to get him. "Looking for Mister Giles?"
"Is he in his office?" Buffy asked in lieu of answering.
I nodded as Buffy skirted around me, hopefully — thankfully — going to get the librarian. As she did that, I placed the books down upon the marble countertop and waited.
"Ah, Buffy—" Whatever Mister Giles was going to say was cut off as Buffy spoke.
"Someone's been shirking their sacred duty," she said with a tone that screamed flippancy. I could almost imagine the Look Buffy was giving him. Mister Giles sputtered for a second, sounding confused, but Buffy shut him up quick. "I know we had an Aesop about taking a break last month, but, unlike you, I get no pay. Not even dental! Look at her. She's been waiting out there for hours! Abandoned. Shame on you."
A few seconds later, a thoroughly chastised Mister Giles showed his face, once again apologetic. "Sorry about the wait, Miss Sinclair."
"It's alright," was the most I could manage. As thankful I felt that Buffy sped things along, my body felt like a furnace from the embarrassment. Really, I could've waited, Buffy. I could've.
"Just these two?" he asked, taking the dictionary in hand, flipping it open to the back page, and beginning the process of signing then cataloguing the little paper borrower's slip.
I nodded, emphatically, redundantly, and suddenly became quite self-aware of just what was happening. I hoped he didn't ask any questions, and I certainly hoped Buffy wouldn't mention my reading list to anyone.
Buffy glanced over my shoulder, looking at the book. "Witchcraft," she said, reading the title aloud. "Spooky stuff. Looking to become a witch?"
Fuck.
Mister Giles had stopped in the middle of signing, looking at the book then me with an impenetrable expression. I glanced at Buffy and suddenly felt like I was being interrogated. I shook my head regardless, a practised lie on my lips. "No. I'm just writing some Sabrina fanfiction. Wanted to mix up the magic system."
Buffy's eyes widened, then her brow furrowed. She was confused. Mister Giles, too, for that matter.
I elaborated. "You know. Like. I didn't like how all of Sabrina's spells were just funny verses. Wanted something more . . . magical."
"Ah. Less 'toil and trouble' and more 'abracadabra'?" she asked, though I could tell a mile away that she was just humouring me.
"Yeah. Just more—" I gesticulated uselessly with my hands— "magic-magic."
"Quite an odd pick," Mister Giles muttered, slowly returning to his work. "Are you sure there weren't any others you'd rather be interested in?"
I shook my head. "Unless I wanted Sabrina to become some self-help guru."
He nodded slow. "Well, be careful."
Even if I knew he didn't know, it was a sobering reminder. Be careful. I was messing with cosmic forces here — or at least I assumed they were in some way cosmic. Either way, it'd be dangerous if I fucked up, so I guess I just shouldn't fuck up.
I shrugged, trying to brush off the worry. "The most that'll happen is I'll get spooked off by sex magic, again."
Mister Giles sputtered. "Sex magic?"
Buffy, for some reason or other, looked quite devilish as she fixed Mister Giles with a Look. A Look Mister Giles otherwise ignored.
"It's not real," I continued, not sure what was wrong, and Buffy looked the least bit disappointed. "Mom said the author was a misogynistic pig who wanted to get laid, so he made up some bullshit to get away with it."
Her explanation didn't seem to ease Mister Giles' poor constitution, and he finished the borrowing quickly and silently. With that, I was all set. I had two weeks with my books — two weeks. It felt like Christmas had come early and I had gotten exactly what I wanted.
I left the library in a hurry, almost skipping, positively giddy with anticipation. Oh, this is going to be so much fun!