white birch and dark earth

Agnes stands in her living room, and watches the fire as it burns low in the hearth. The fire smolders along the edges of its embers, flickering dark orange to red and back again. It will go out soon, likely in the next twenty minutes. She’ll be back in fifteen, with luck.

She runs a finger along the handle of her woven basket, then sets it in front of the fire. “I offer bread, to fill your stomach. Wine, to quench your thirst. And a doll made of straw, to entertain you in these dark months.”

Agnes steps back, observing the offerings nestled in the basket. After a moment, the walls of her cabin creak in an errant breeze, and Agnes smiles at the approval she can hear in it. “Thank you for your continued protection, spirit of my hearth and home. I’ll be leaving soon, but I won’t be long, and I’ll be back with more protection for you.”

She doesn’t expect another answer, and doesn’t receive one. Agnes turns away from the hearth and walks briskly to her front door, grabbing her satchel and coat. She checks both— finds the bag of caraway seeds she put in her coat pocket. Finds the Church of Sulfur crucifix in her satchel, carved from white birch the previous morning. 

Following the death of Father Oleander, Agnes wouldn’t be going out at night without such protections. Especially if her suspicions about the recent deaths proved to be true— and demons, she hoped to be wrong. Vampires weren’t to be trifled with on a normal night, but now? In the dying gasps of fall, with the veil so thin as to be gossamer before their fangs?

These next few weeks will be difficult, that much is certain.

Agnes shakes herself from her thoughts, and reaches for one last protection— a garland of garlic flowers, their scent strong enough to water even her eyes. She puts the garland around her neck, lets it settle against the lilacs already growing there.

Lilac, to bring wisdom and strengthen magic. Garlic, to bring strength and vitality— and whose scent would drive off even the most tenacious vampire. 

Agnes takes a deep breath, and steps out into the cold autumn night, locking the door behind her. She doesn't look at the surrounding woods— doesn’t want to meet eyes with anything there— and makes her way to the back of her property.

The stream is still flowing now. It likely won’t be in the coming winter— all the more reason to renew the boundary now. Agnes kneels in the dark mud of the riverbank, and sets her satchel down beside her. The mason jars within clink together merrily, and Agnes pulls out all four of them, setting them in a line. 

Her hands dive into the mud, and she pulls out two handfuls. She dumps them in the first jar, and keeps digging until the jar is full. Agnes repeats the process for the other three, cold muck staining her hands and getting beneath her nails. She occasionally finds a worm or shell, and sets them aside with a quiet apology. 

Four jars of earth from beneath flowing water, one for each corner of her cabin. She would have to finish the spell come dawn— a pinch of dust from each corner of her home, sprinkled atop it as she recites a Sulfuric verse. Maybe this time she would add some garlic flower petals, for added protection from the undead.

This would be enough to strengthen her cabin’s protective boundary. Agnes smiles to herself as she rocks back on her heels, examining the unsealed mason jars. When she’s done with the preparations, they’ll be buried beneath the corners of her property, and that would be that. No unwanted visitors— except maybe Asra, but she makes an exception for him. 

Agnes puts the lids on the jars, and places each back in her satchel. They clink together again as she stands, wiping her muddy hands on her skirts. She sets off for her cabin again at a brisk pace. Her hooves crunch softly on the dry grass, and her fingers brush against the little bag of caraway seeds in her coat pocket a moment before she rips it open. 

Agnes scatters the bag across her back porch without much fanfare, the seeds flying every which way. “Count the seeds and leave me be, all spirits who may haunt me,” she calls out into the dark. There is no answer, but Agnes doesn’t wait for one, hurrying to unlock her door and get inside. The door clicks shut behind her, and she leans against the wood as she locks it with a deep sigh of relief. 

“Thank you for guarding the place, dear spirit,” she murmurs, and her home creaks in joy at her return.