Black Magic Woman
Mar 15, 2019 12:55:31 GMT
Post by girl-like-substance on Mar 15, 2019 12:55:31 GMT
This is an entry for this month's Rock the Block prompt! Basically, the announcement that Galar is a thing has given me carte blanche to bring all my favoured cultural specificity to the pokémon world. :V Warnings for one or two instances of strong language, some homophobia/transphobia (they're sorta intermeshed here), and people feeling badly. Oh, and title from here, for the interested.
BLACK MAGIC WOMAN
It's harder to draw a circle than I expected. I give it a few goes – even try to do the thing where you tie the chalk to a string pinned to the floor – but it keeps coming out wobbly, and while I'll admit I'm mostly going off novels and movies, I'm pretty sure that screwing this up gets you killed. In the end, Low takes pity on me and dives down to twirl just above the floor, carving a perfect circle of black shadow into the worn cement.
He tips his head back to look up at me, eyes questioning beneath the brim of his hat, and even now it's just so cute I have to smile.
Man. I really don't know why everyone's so down on ghosts. I guess they're dangerous, but so are growlithe or scorbunny, and people partnered with them never have to worry about being asked to remove their pokémon from the premises.
“Cheers, Low.” I rest my fingers briefly on the jewels in his throat, letting them suck the heat from my hand, and he grins his evil little grin. Looks mean, of course, but he's happy. “C'mon. You got my book over there?”
Low burbles in that adorable consonantless way that ghosts do and flies away across the room in search of the book. I know I brought it in here, but I had to clear a lot of the junk to make space for the circle, and at some point along the way it got lost among the boxes and relics of Aunt Winnie's passion for gardening.
―Ah, you're here! Lovely to see you, dear. Now, as long as you're visiting, I need a hand with the big camellias―
Nope, not thinking about that. Better thought: I'm kind of regretting not cleaning up in here earlier. But moving has been much more complicated than I thought, so I've just been tossing everything that I can't find a place for into the garage, and now I guess I'm reaping what I sowed.
“Uomuou,” cries Low, dipping his head, and a moment later the book floats up from behind a rusted-out lawnmower, wisps of shadow carrying it across the room towards me.
“Cheers. Can you hold it open for me? I gotta write this stuff down round the edge.”
He nods enthusiastically and flips it open to the right page, levitating my bookmark up and out of the way.
“Okay. So … I think we start, here, right? Larva callida …”
It's really just a matter of copying down the words, making concentric rings of well-read classical gibberish and trying to stop my kara slipping down my arm and clattering on the cement. Honestly, I thought magic would be harder, but you can get anything on Amazon, it seems. Obviously that's not ideal, but you know. Sometimes you need stuff you can't find in your local independent bookshop.
And, well, it sorta seemed like an omen. I want to invoke a potentially evil power, and what's more evil and powerful than Amazon, right?
Low moves slowly around the rim of the circle, turning the page whenever he thinks I need it; he only gets it right maybe half the time – mismagius might be smart, but reading is definitely beyond them – but it's okay. He's trying to help, even if he doesn't quite understand what we're doing here, and I honestly do not know if I deserve that.
It takes a little while, especially since I have to fight my awful handwriting, but I have nothing else to do today. I finish up the locks and wards, Low rings them with another dark circle, and we step back to admire our handiwork.
Book, circle, magic ghost. That should do it, right?
I pick up my mug from where I left it on top of the box of books and take a sip of lukewarm tea.
“Looks good to me,” I say. “What about you?”
“Ulumu,” he agrees, swooping down to inspect the circle as if he actually knows what he's looking at. Maybe I'm underestimating him and he does. Mismagius might not be able to read, but they definitely know magic. “Oh!”
“I'll take your word for it,” I say, finishing my tea. “All right. I, um … I guess we should do it.”
We look at each other from either side of the circle. After a second, Low scowls and drifts over, his ragged body billowing in concern.
“Uou?” he asks, cocking his head on one side. I try my best to give him a smile, but it doesn't quite survive the transition from brain to mouth.
“Mm,” I say. “It's okay. Just like. Little bit intimidating.”
He swirls around the back of my head, swishing his cloak through my hair. I read somewhere that this is how mismagius socialise, chanting and swirling through one another; Low knows I'm not a mismagius, of course, but he likes me enough to consider me an honorary colony-mate.
“Thanks.” I reach up, feel him rubbing his folds against my hand. “I think … I think I'm ready now.”
I don't think this, at all, but I can't stand here all day. I motion Low into position at my side, flick through the book to the right page, and start to read.
“De profundis, voce mea audi …”
It sounds dumb. I can't pretend to know anything about Latin, but even I have a suspicion that this isn't grammatically correct; I'm hoping that the words aren't everything, that what matters are my intentions and Low's powers.
I gesture with my free hand as I speak, and Low zooms around the edge of the circle, mingling his chanting with my own and making little purple fires sprout from nowhere around its limits. His voice has no words, although like always it sounds unnervingly like it does, buried just beneath the surface in a language you forgot a long time ago; the air grows still and heavy as he speaks, the drumming of the rain on the roof and door becoming unnaturally distant, and as I watch and declaim my awful cod Latin the flame begins to bleed down the lines of the circle like the water in the gutters outside.
Is it working? No idea. This might all be Low; maybe none of this is even possible and Low's just humouring me with illusions while I babble on to an empty gara―
Whoosh.
The flames surge upwards into an incandescent ring – and immediately die back down to glowing gold cinders.
“All right, mate?”
There's someone here. She's tall and handsome, with tawny skin and eyes as dark as a desert night. And she's right there, in the circle, and … and holy crap, I think I just summoned someone.
I mean. I was trying to. But you know.
“Hello? Anyone home?” The spirit waves. Her nails are the same dark purple as her lips, her eyelids, her huge mane of hair. Is this even a hoopa? That's what I was going for, but I thought they were six-armed giants. “Mighty djinni over here. You called, I answered.”
She keeps on looking at me. I guess she wants an answer. I did drag her all this way, after all.
“Um, hi,” I say. “Sorry. First time.”
“Hey, happens to the best of us.” She claps her hands together, all business. “So. What can I do for you?”
“What?” Nope. Try again: “'Scuse me, it's just you're, uh, not quite what I was expecting.”
“Oh, sorry. Did you want a twenty-foot colossus with six arms?”
Before I can answer, a ring of gold light flickers around her, like a coin spun on its axis, and suddenly she's huge and hunched against the rafters, her horned head scraping the ceiling and her tail lashing against the confines of the circle.
DOST THOU PREFER THIS GUISE, MORTAL? she asks, her disembodied hands orbiting her like taloned moons, and I jump back so hard I almost trip over the hosepipe.
“Aah! No, oh my god, turn back!”
AS THOU COMMANDST.
The ring spins: there's the woman again, grinning and brushing imaginary lint off her kameez.
“Yeah, that's why I led with this shape,” she says. “Not really enough space for the real one. Also I gotta admit, the novelty of terrifying people sorta wears off after the first thousand years.”
I stare at her mutely. Behind the boxes in the corner, Low floats sheepishly up out of his hiding-place and hurries back to my side.
“So you are a hoopa?” I ask, once my voice has come unstuck.
“I'm old-fashioned, so I usually say 'djinni', but sure, same thing.” She smiles, showing teeth as white and even as a row of retiree bungalows. “Anyway, I should introduce myself, right? Obviously, you know my real name or you couldn't have summoned me, but I'd appreciate it if you didn't use it. Sorta impolite to keep reminding me that I don't have a choice about being here.”
“Oh. Um, sorry about th―”
“It's fine. You're just human, is all.” Her charm falters there, and just for a second her smile turns cold and wintry before she recovers herself. “Anyway, you can call me Qamar. Prettier than the other one and all. More vowels.”
“Okay.” This is so not what I was expecting. Not that I know what I was expecting. “Um, I'm Samreet. This is Low.”
“Ooo,” says Low, swirling around her, torn between checking the circle's integrity and keeping an eye on its occupant. “Umuo.”
He sounds suspicious. I guess I should be too. Nobody is nice without reason; that goes for hoopa as well as humans. You catch more flies with honey than with vinegar, after all.
“Okay,” says Qamar, waving lazily at him, utterly unconcerned. “Samreet, Low. You gonna make some requests, or is this just a social call? 'Cause I'm gonna be honest, there are probably better uses of you and your partner's magical powers than calling me up for a chat.”
“Oh. Yeah, I'm …” I force some laughter, shake my head. “Sorry, I just didn't really know what this was gonna be like.”
“Heh.” Her eyes flash for a moment. I can't tell if it's just amusement or whether there's real fire in there, burning beneath the surface. “First time for everything, Samreet. Anyway, let's talk about what you want here, eh?”
Yes. Right. Without being asked, Low swoops back to my side, his cloak expanding to settle over my shoulders. Qamar's mouth moves slightly when she sees it, although I'm not sure she really finds this funny at all. She's hard to read, in that particular way that makes me shrink inside myself. The way that reminds me of home.
“Mm,” I say, because after all one little sound isn't too hard, is it. “Mm, I, um …” Deep breath. “So you can grant wishes, right?”
“In a manner of speaking.” Does she ever blink? I'm not sure she does. “Dunno if I'd call them wishes, but I can change things. If you want. Gotta warn you though, you might not like how it goes.”
“Might not like it?”
“Yeah, you know what they say. Be careful what you wish for and all.” That grin again, a sudden startling flash of beauty in this gloomy nowhere town. “You understand what you're getting yourself into?”
“Yeah. Sure.” Low's cloak tightens slightly. Not a mismagius thing; he learned this watching people hug each other, and though he can't apply the same pressure, he always tries his best. “I – I really need this.”
Qamar nods deeply, encouragingly. Like she can see right through me and knows everything. Maybe she does, I don't know. She's thousands of years old, maybe older. Must make all my problems seem like clichés.
“Course,” she says. “Just had to make sure you knew the score. Now come on, mate, hit me.”
Okay. Here we are: twelve years, one death, an escape down here to the suburban wasteland sloping down to the Channel – all leading up to this moment, facing this circle in this damp garage as another no-longer-freak storm blows itself out overhead.
I take a deep breath. Low mumbles quietly in my ear: uolumo, oee. Doing his best to be encouraging.
“I want to be a girl,” I say, and to my surprise my voice doesn't shake at all. “Can you do that?”
The words leave a silence that the breaking thunder can't fill. Qamar stands there, nodding slowly, and raises her eyebrows.
“You do know that asking that question means you already are one, right?”
“Yeah, I've read the fucking motivational Tumblr posts too,” I snap, before I can stop myself. “Not the same thing.”
She sighs, rubs her forehead.
“Okay.”
I'm expecting more, but that's it: just that okay, half-lost in the rain. It's getting worse; the storm must be moving closer off the sea. I stand there, listening to it howl, and watch Qamar watching me.
She's very calm, and very patient. After a few seconds, I start feeling guilty and fold my arms, embarrassed.
“Sorry,” I mutter. “I'm, uh … not mad at you.”
“I know,” she says. “I'm just thinking, Samreet.” She stops herself, brow creasing. “That what you wanna be called?”
Oh, no. No, no, no, now I feel even worse. Low pulls away from me a little, eyes full of confusion.
“I, um, I dunno,” I admit. “I guess? Maybe? Sikh names are unisex.”
“Mm, I know, just checking. Sometimes people wanna change anyway.”
“Oh. Right.”
And now I feel even worse. She does know, doesn't she? Probably better than I do, in fact. I wonder how many times she's been summoned, how many different corners of the world she's been dragged to from her native desert.
“Look, can you do it or not?” I ask, trying to cover my embarrassment. “I just want a straight answer.”
“Oeeu,” says Low, with a forceful kind of nod. I don't think he has any idea what we're talking about, but he's picked his side. Without even thinking, of course, because that's just who he is.
God. I don't deserve him. Nobody ever deserves their pokémon, of course, but I especially don't deserve him.
Qamar screws up her face thoughtfully, then lets it settle again.
“Okay, sure,” she says. “I mean, in theory. I can change my shape, so how hard can it be to change someone else's, right?”
“That's … worryingly vague.”
“Wow, tough crowd.” She gives Low a conspiratorial look. “Doesn't have a great sense of humour, does she?”
It's like a firework in my heart, sparks racing down my veins to burst all through my body and transfigure it into light. Literally nobody has ever called me that before. It's kind of awful that the first person to do it is a capricious genie who'd murder me if she could get out of her circle, but still. I could get used to this.
“Uumuo?” Low cocks his head on one side, uncertain. He can tell she's sort of mocking me, but he can also tell I like it, and now he doesn't know what to think at all.
“All in good fun, mate.” She smiles at him and turns back to me. “Okay. Non-joke version, then: yeah, I can do it. But I need something from you first.”
The sparks wink out; the firework grows cold and dark. Of course. There are no free lunches, are there? Just because I have some chalk and a book and a magical partner doesn't mean I can have this.
It isn't this that frightens me. It's the fact that I already know I'll pay any price she wants.
“Right,” I say, squashing the impulse to reach for Low. I can do this by myself. I can. “You want to …” I'm about to say eat my soul, but that feels like it might be prejudiced. I've already dragged her all the way here; I shouldn't insult her into the bargain. “I dunno. What do you want?”
Low burbles softly and floats closer again to draw his cloak through my hair. I touch his jewels briefly, without thinking, and only remember a moment later that I was trying not to do that.
“Your help,” says Qamar, watching us from beneath hooded eyelids. “See, you know the rules, right? You make a wish, I fulfil it, but surprise! There's an ironic sting in the tail. You wish for your dead son back, but oh no, he's a zombie, that kind of thing.”
“Did you steal that example from 'The Monkey's Paw'?”
“That's kinda my point. Unfortunately, I'm not very imaginative.” She gives me a serious look. “I'll be blunt. I'm gonna need your help coming up with a horrible twist for your wish.”
I can't help but stare. Honestly, I didn't really know what would happen when I made the circle and recited the spell; maybe nothing, maybe everything, maybe just lethal levels of ignorance and/or transphobia from a demonic spirit who didn't know anything about humans, or who knew too much. I thought about all the places I might land after I took the plunge, over and over; I stayed up late at night, staring at the ceiling of the bedroom I still think of as the guest room, unable to claim Aunt Winnie's for myself, and planned out how to negotiate every variant of the conversation I could think of. This was just too important to leave down to chance.
But even after all that, I never could have imagined this.
“Couldn't you just … not do one?” I ask.
She sucks her teeth, shakes her head.
“Ooh. Now that would be nice, huh. But it's not how it works.” Apologetic grin. “You could call them union rules, I guess. We like to avoid being bound to people's wills, right? So we came up with the idea of twists, to discourage people from summoning us. And if anyone hears that I broke the rule …” Short, sharp exhalation. “Look, you seem nice and all, but I'm not gonna get myself beaten half to death for someone I just met.”
“Oh. That's fair, I guess.”
We look at each other. Outside, the rain pours down in solid, deafening sheets.
I'm so selfish. Everyone always said as much, didn't they? It's all about me, all about what I want, and screw all those who have a stake in my future. Now I'm proving it: what is this, any of this, if not an exercise in selfishness? A normal person doesn't summon hoopa at all, let alone ask them to break union rules.
“Sorry,” I say, avoiding her eye. “I'm not being a very good host.”
-oOo-
Maybe you can excuse this. It's not like I have a lot of experience entertaining guests, after all; I only left home three weeks ago, and I still don't even feel like this house is mine. Still, I'm going to do better now. I strain the leaves and spices from the tea―
―Sammi, you came! Excellent, because no matter how much I try I cannot make masala chai the way your uncle did―
―pour out two and a half cups, and fill a plate with chocolate Hobnobs: that'll do it, right? Feels like what Aunt Winnie would do if I came round. Would have done.
I don't want to think about any of this. I load everything onto a tray and carry it through to the living room, where Qamar is looking around at the old lady décor and listening politely to Low's babbling. It took us a while to do the spell to let her out the circle while still keeping her from killing me and going home, but she's out and I'm still alive, so I think it worked.
“… aiou uollu, uo!”
“All of them at once?” she asks, raising her eyebrows. “That was very brave of you.”
Low beams.
“Uuollo,” he says proudly. “Umuo.”
“Wow. And they didn't even manage to hit you?”
He shakes his head vigorously.
“Wow,” she says again. “I didn't know I was in the presence of such a mighty warrior. And hey, here's the woman of the hour.”
Oh god. I almost drop the tray when I hear that, but I just about keep myself together, and set it down on the table without spilling anything.
“Here,” I say, passing her a mug. “And here's yours, Low. Make it last, okay?”
He levitates the half cup out of my hands and sucks happily on the straw, completely ignoring my advice. He loves tea, and while it doesn't do him any harm, he can't absorb physical substances very well, so if I don't restrict him to a half cup every two days he just drips everywhere like a haunted umbrella.
“You didn't need to do all this,” says Qamar, taking an appreciative sip. “I'm a philistine, so. PG Tips would've been fine.”
I shrug and take my own mug over to the armchair by the rain-streaked window. (Aunt Winnie's chair. Except not any more.)
“You're a guest,” I tell her. “And Low likes it.”
“Well, ta very much, mate.” She takes a Hobnob and crunches it in a meditative kind of way. “Jesus, Mary and Joseph, I always forget how good these are. Ahem. Uh, so – ironic twists, eh?”
“Right,” I agree. “So, um … I was thinking while I was making the tea, and I thought maybe if you made me a girl, you could turn me into someone my family and friends wouldn't recognise, so I'd be lonely and estranged forever.”
Low raises his head from his tea to give me a look, and rightly, too. I do feel a little bad about suggesting this, as if I'm not lonely and estranged already; still, if there's a chance I can pull this off without ruining my life even further, I have to take it.
“Ooh.” Qamar nods deeply, impressed. “That's a good one, I have to admit. Let's put it down as a strong maybe. Got anything else?”
“Uh …” Honestly, I was really hoping she'd go for that. Not ever going home again sounds kind of appealing. “I dunno. I could die?”
“Drastic,” she observes. “But is it ironic? Like don't get me wrong, it's definitely mean, but unless you die because you got your wish, it doesn't count.”
“A racially-charged transphobic murder?”
“Wow. Heavy. I, uh … I actually dunno about that one.” She gives me a frank look over the top of her mug. “Bit brutal, you know? No class. And if there's one thing we hoopa are known for, it's class.”
“I thought it was amassing huge amounts of ostentatious wealth and then immediately getting bored with it?”
“Yeah, that's what I said. Class.” Qamar laughs: I guess that was a joke. “But seriously, Samreet, that seems a bit pointless. You gotta be alive to regret your decision, you feel me?”
“You can't keep adding extra conditions like that!”
“Course I can,” she says, amused. “I'm a hoopa, aren't I? Caprice is the name of the game.”
I don't really know what to say to that, so I look away and pull my feet onto the chair, curling up against the arm. Outside, lightning burns the sky white for a moment, and a split second later the thunder follows. Right overhead now.
“In the thick of it, huh,” says Qamar, looking out the window at the little square of garden, Aunt Winnie's – my – rose bushes thrashing wildly with the rain. “Where are we, anyway? I mean Galar, obviously, from the accents and the weather, but more specifically?”
“South coast,” I reply, glad of the change of subject. “Nowhere, really. One of those places where white people go to die.”
“Ah, OAP central.” She grins and takes another biscuit. “So what is this, your grandmother's house or something? Does she know you're doing magic in her garage?”
Low hisses and burbles something even I can't catch, darting up off the back of the sofa and making little sparks of ghostly fire flicker in the air around him.
“Something I said?” asks Qamar, furrowing her brow. “Hey, Low, there's no call for―”
“It's my house,” I say, drawing on some reserve of composure I didn't know I had. “I own it.”
I think I say it wrong somehow. With the bravery of someone who eats ghosts for breakfast, Qamar takes her eyes off Low and his posturing and transfers them to me.
“Okay,” she says, and for once there isn't any trace of a joke in her voice. “Are you all right?”
It's because I'm not expecting it. Can I use that excuse? Never mind that I've already planned how to answer if anyone ever asked me that (yeah, fine mate; brief smile; slight tilt of the head), because I knew nobody ever would. They've got no reason to, after all. It's not like Aunt Winnie is really family, when you get down to it.
So I'm not expecting it. And I can't reach my prepared answer. And what I end up saying instead, after a half second in which I feel like chisels are being hammered between my ribs, is:
“N-no.”
There's a shake in my voice, thick and ugly with tears. Qamar stares at me for a moment, face utterly unreadable, then puts her mug down on the coffee table and pulls a large gold ring out of thin air.
“Here,” she says, as a box of tissues drops out of it. “I think you might … whoa, okay, mate.” She raises her hands and smiles gently at Low, who's hissing and conjuring sparks again. “Take it easy. Let's not any of us cast any spells we regret, huh?”
Low throws her a dirty look and dives towards me, body expanding to drape over my shoulders. For a moment, I wonder why he's shaking, and then I realise I'm the one who's shaking and reach up to clutch the hem of his cloak in my fingers.
“I-I'm okay,” I mumble. “Sorry, I …” I snatch a tissue and wipe my eyes, furious. I'm supposed to be better than this. Supposed to be competent, for a start. Have to be: it's all down to me now, no one else here to catch me if I fall. “Sorry,” I say, trying to raise my voice back to normal. “I'm fine.”
“Yeah, uh, you'll forgive me if I'm not totally convinced by that.” Brief hesitation. “I'm gonna be honest with you, I can see what it might mean for a child to come into possession of a random bungalow in retiree territory.”
“I'm nineteen.”
“Really? That's your response?” She sighs. “Look, uh … why'd you summon me, mate?”
“To become a girl.”
“No, that's why you summoned a hoopa. Why me, though?”
She's got me there. I look up, forcing myself to let go of Low, and admit it.
“Because of what the book said.”
Qamar nods like this is what she was expecting. I guess it probably is.
“You shouldn't believe everything you read,” she says. “But in this case, you probably thought right. I'm sorry for your loss, Samreet.”
There's no fighting it now. I cry, for several long minutes that make me feel naked and ugly, and Qamar leans in to put an uneasy hand on my shoulder.
“Yeah,” she murmurs, as Low presses in close on my other side. “I know.”
“Ugh.” I sniff deeply, as if I could somehow reverse the last few minutes and draw my tears back in. “God. Sorry. I just … not a lot of people have said that.”
The solicitor, looking grave and shrunken in his dated 90s suit. I'm sorry for your loss, Mr Singh. Now, I do need to go over these papers with you. Frieda next door. You're Winnie's nephew? Oh, I am sorry. She was a lovely soul. By the way, if you're sorting out her things, would you mind doing something about the tree on the corner there? She never would allow us to cut it, but it's such an eyesore.
Were they the only two? Jesus. I actually think they might be.
“Chose your summons well then, didn't you?” asks Qamar. “What does it say – something like 'a hoopa of above-average power and remarkable ingenuity, but possessed of more empathy than many of its fellows'?”
“It, um … it says 'merely average' power. And nothing about ingenuity.”
“Merely―? You wanna take that grimoire back, mate, it's rubbish.”
It's hard not to smile, even with everything. When she sees it, Qamar smiles too.
“There you go, that's better.” She pats my shoulder again, in an awkward sort of way that makes me very aware that she hasn't touched anyone in a long time, and leans back into her seat. “Here. Your tea's getting cold.”
“Cheers.”
I take a sip. It tastes so strongly of home that I almost start crying again, and I put it down again immediately. Low understands, because of course he does, and burrows down into my lap, spreading his cloak as far across my body as he can.
“Cheers,” I say again, stroking his little head. “I, um … this was my aunt's house. My uncle, he – he was like the black sheep of the family? Ran off to marry this older white woman, which everyone was unhappy about.”
I don't know why I'm explaining, but I can't seem to stop; the story has been wound up so tight in the back of my head all this time, and now Qamar's kindness has knocked it out of joint and the whole thing is springing violently back into shape.
“I always liked her, though. She and my uncle didn't often show up to family stuff – or I guess we didn't invite them – but like …” Deep breath. “I've known about this for a long time,” I say, not daring to look at Qamar. “About … me. And I mean I've always tried to hide it, but I guess something shows.”
Once a white guy with a tiny mottled sobble on his shoulder propositioned me in the bathroom at the restaurant. I could see it reflected in his eyes: that thing, that soft and boneless thing that lives in my face and screams weakness at the world. It was my fault, I knew, because I couldn't hide it from him, same as I couldn't hide it at home, or at school, or on the street. So I stammered and tried to run off, and mistaking my terror for nerves he caught my arm, and I wrenched myself free and spat a slur that hurt me as much as him and hurried back out to get the drinks for table four.
I wished I'd had Low with me. But Raja was always adamant that letting ghosts on the premises would scare the punters, and the closest he could be was in his ball.
He shifts in my lap, tilts his head up towards mine, and I realise I've stopped stroking and started squeezing.
“Sorry,” I say, letting go. “I didn't mean to―”
“Uouoou,” he says kindly, shaking his head. “Umo.”
I turn the edge of my mouth up, which is as close to a smile as I can manage right now, and hug him gently. Some cold tea oozes out of his folds and seeps into my shirt, but it's worth it.
“Anyway, she was the only one who was nice about it.” I risk a quick glance at Qamar; her face has settled back into its usual unreadable calm, and though I know she's probably not judging me, I still look away again, heart pounding. “Or I guess my uncle was, too, but he died. Someone knocked him off his bike with a van. And then Aunt Winnie moved down here.”
―Sammi, I'm an old white lady, so tradition dictates I retire to the coast and, I don't know, take up bowls or something. You'll come and visit me, won't you?
“She – she died too. Recently. Orion, her magmar, he died a while ago, so there was no one to get help when …”
I see the body in my mind's eye, cold and still and sunken in on itself like a rotten fruit, and in the face of it my voice just quits on me completely. Qamar's mouth moves silently for a moment, searching for words, before she speaks.
“Hey, uh, you don't have to say―”
“It's okay,” I mumble. “It's okay.”
In my arms, Low is as big as he can go, so big he's shrunk his hat to divert his substance to his cloak. He keeps looking at me like he hopes this is enough, but I think he must know that it never could be.
Deep breath. Okay.
“Turns out she left everything to me,” I tell Qamar. “I don't think she got on any better with her family than she did with mine. And, um … we had a fight about it. Me and my parents. They thought that was why I'd stayed in touch with her. To try and get mentioned in her will. When they said that I just – I just sorta lost it.”
Early afternoon, bright winter light lying in bars across the table. The shock and hurt in their eyes. My chest, cold and tight and heaving.
Let's be honest. Things had been bad between us for a long time. Amar got that apprenticeship at the airport and now he's a manager; Meena's at medical school, top of her class. And what about Samreet? Well, Samreet's still waiting tables at the worst Indian restaurant in town, fresh off the back of three mediocre A-levels and years of smiling and pretending not to notice he's being bullied.
I was the one who suggested I go. Half out of fury, half because this was an out and I needed it. But I have to admit, I was kind of hoping they might try to stop me.
Thunder again: sudden deafening rumble, and I rise back out of the past into the present.
“Well, here I am,” I say, the words slipping out without tone or feeling. “Starting over. I figured if I was gonna do that, I might as well sort out the girl thing too.”
Qamar is silent for a moment, eyes dark.
“Sorry,” she says. “Have you spoken to them since?”
“They called twice. I don't want to talk about it.”
She nods.
“That's fine, mate. That's fine.” She sighs. “Can I be honest with you?”
“Sure.”
“I thought of three different ironic twists as soon as you made your wish.”
I start. Low rises from my lap, eyes full of confusion.
“What? But you said …”
“Hoopa.” Sheepish grin. “Totally untrustworthy, remember? But, uh … basically, I saw you and I thought, she doesn't need a wish, she needs to talk.”
“But I do need a wish,” I protest. “That's why I summoned you.”
“Samreet, mate, we've already established the difference between summoning a hoopa and summoning me,” she says. “I may be an amoral supernatural being who likes nothing better than to bring misery upon the asshole magicians who bind me to their will, but … you're not an asshole magician. You're like five.”
“Nineteen.”
“Same difference. More importantly, you didn't wish to be a girl, did you? You wished to be cis.” She grimaces. “I gotta say, that's one sting in the tail I'm not sure I'm happy delivering.”
“What the hell would you know about what I want?” I ask, annoyed that she saw through me so easily, but she just smiles sadly.
“I get around, mate. You're not the first I've met. Or the second. Or even the tenth.” Her smile fades. “It turns out a lot of desperate people summon you when grimoire writers tell everyone you're a soft touch.”
Okay, it's official. I am literally the dumbest kid in Galar. I hang my head, the sudden burst of anger spent as quickly as it came, and fiddle with the edge of Low's cloak.
“Sorry,” I murmur. “You must think I'm such a―”
“Muomo,” says Low warningly, twitching himself free of my hands and floating up to eye level. “Omomuo, ummi.”
And now even my pokémon's telling me off. Great. Clearly this is just the day I fall apart completely.
“Sorry. You're right.” I raise a hand to his jewels; he doesn't immediately pull away, which I guess means I'm forgiven. “Shouldn't … be like that.”
“Honestly, given the month you're having, I'm inclined to cut you some slack.”
We sit there for a few seconds, me with Low in my arms and Qamar flipping one of those rings between her hands in blurry gold arcs. Our words have carved out a piece of time all their own; now that we're no longer speaking, the rain and the wind seem to rush in from somewhere far away, bringing the real world with them.
I have to say it. Don't I? Yes. Yes, I think I do.
“What happens now?” I ask, hesitantly. “I don't know if … I mean I think you might be right. About the girl thing.”
Qamar keeps tossing the ring back and forth, back and forth, then throws it lightly up into the air, where it spins away into nothingness.
Something about this action seems very final. I can't tell if the lurching in my chest is fear or hope.
“Well.” She gets up and wanders over to the window – trying to hide her awkwardness, I think, or maybe deliberately letting me see it, to try and put me at my ease. I guess I really don't know anything after all. “Your choice, really. You can make a wish, or not. I thought of a fourth twist while we were talking, so y'know, if you do go for it, you have options. Unpleasant options, but hey. Still.”
“And, um, what if I don't?”
Qamar shrugs, turns to face me.
“Release me,” she says. “You don't need a hoopa if you aren't making wishes.”
“Oh.”
I'm not disappointed. I knew we'd have to go it alone, didn't I? Just me and Low. Sorting out Aunt Winnie's things, finding work, figuring out how to run a household.
So no, I'm not disappointed. But I feel a little crushed all the same.
“No,” continues Qamar, “you don't need a hoopa. You need a friend. So hurry up and release me, then I'll make another cup of tea and when the rain's done, let's go down the shops. Get you some new clothes. Haircut too, if you like. Or not if you wanna take things slower.”
I freeze.
“What?”
“A haircut, mate. I assume you've heard of them, although judging by the state of that mop maybe you haven't.”
“No, not that part.” I stare. “Are you – I mean did you mean – like are you sure?”
Qamar grins.
“Like I said. You're not the first. And, well, you're a nice kid and I feel like it'd reflect badly on me if I left you sitting alone in a strange town full of the kinda suicidal desperation that makes people summon hoopa.”
“It's not that strange,” I mutter. “Like I used to visit her sometimes―”
“Jesus, Mary and Joseph, mate, you're really bad at accepting offers.”
Low seems to agree; he rises from my arms and bobs his head at Qamar, little black sparks popping in the air around him.
“Uoromo,” he says. And he's right, so I get up, and I swear I only mean to shake Qamar's hand but somehow I end up hugging her instead.
“Oh,” she says, stiffening in surprise. “Uh … hey, you know what, that's fine.”
She hugs back, something beneath her skin vibrating with suppressed energy. I wonder what would happen to me if she exploded back into her real self now, if the expansion would rip my arms off, and then I don't care any more because I'm pretty sure I'm crying again.
“Hey,” says Qamar. “Hey, it'll be okay. You know that, right? Shit's hard. But I've seen enough of it to be able to say, it gets a little easier.”
I sniff.
“Sorry―”
“Don't need to apologise for having feelings, mate.” She pats my shoulder and pulls away again, summoning more tissues through another ring. “Here you go.”
“Cheers.” A moment to scrape myself together again, Low swishing his cloak through my hair. “I, um … I release you.”
Low cries out in a thin voice – the air bursts into vivid gold flame – and Qamar, against every fearful expectation in my heart, does not dematerialise.
“There we go,” she says. “Now we're equals. Or as equal as a mere mortal like you possibly can be to a being of unparalleled power like me. But, y'know, I'm not your slave any more, which is kinda the important thing.”
It feels so long since I met anyone who made jokes. And she hasn't killed me, either. Honestly, I'm not sure what more I could ask for in a friend.
If I said that, she'd probably tell me to raise my standards. But I think it's true all the same.
“Cheers,” I say again. “I … you're really staying?”
She shrugs.
“Why not, eh? Nice part of the world, this. Handy for the downs, walking distance of the sea. I could see myself sticking around for a good long while, really. If you've got space for me and you don't get sick of the lip.”
It barely even seems possible. But I guess maybe she really wants to help.
“Man,” I murmur. “I – I don't know what to say.”
“Ua!” cries Low, darting forward. “Ummi oh!”
“He does, though,” observes Qamar. “And you're welcome. Both of you.” She smiles again, picks up the mugs. “Shall I do the tea, then? No clue how you make that chai stuff, but I know how to put a bag in a cup and add hot water.”
“Yeah. Thanks. And … Qamar?”
She pauses halfway to the door.
“Yeah?”
“My friends, they― I mean. Since you're. Like.” Calm down, I order myself. It's okay. Things will be okay. “You can call me Sammi. If, um, if you want.”
“Sure thing, Sammi,” she says, kindly ignoring the fact that it took me five tries to say that. “Be right back.”
Out she goes, leaving me and Low alone with the flash of lightning and the drumming of the rain.
I look at him. He looks back.
“Uomuou?” he asks, head cocked questioningly to one side.
“Yeah,” I reply, a little nervous shock of laughter prickling at the inside of my throat. “Yeah, I … I think we might be okay.”
The words hang between us like hummingbirds, jewelled and fragile and so beautiful they take my breath away. Yes. Twelve years, one death, an escape, and here we are.
