Inheritance By Samuel McGuire Thank you all for coming. It’s not every day I get to go to a magical funeral, haha… Ahem… What can I say about my grandmother, Inga Lisowski? She was… Pause. Deep breath. She was the kindest woman I know. At the lowest and most fearful parts of my life, she was understanding and kind and just… present, in a way that I don’t think I’ll ever be able to. She was also a kickass witch, pardon my language, and an even better psychic. When I was younger I’d hound her, practically jumping at her heels like those crusty–ahem– cute dogs her friends would bring over. They’d all sit around her work table, this beautiful tablecloth that she’d gotten from Łódź. When she was working she’d always make sure it was covering these chunky white running shoes she always wore. ‘My secret Tevas,’ she’d call them, ‘no use working at home if I’m not comfortable.’ Smooth out the paper. Pray you don’t cry or hurl. Anyway, I’d hound her, asking her to tell me my fortune, or teach me how to do it myself, how to read coffee grounds–she always hated tea– or even just shuffle the cards. All I’d get was the ‘when you’re older’ runaround, and I’d try to peek in from the kitchen to watch her and her friends play bridge and drink black coffee. ‘Black as night, sweet as sin,’ as she’d say. The occasional cigarette passed between them if it was warm enough to open the windows all the way, smoke creeping out into the air. Ahem– but now, regardless if I even can, I’ll never get the chance to ask her again… Excuse me… The funeral was almost a week ago now. The day had burned up my tears early, so I dragged myself over to my childhood home, a squat bungalow in the midwest. Not exactly what you might picture as a witch’s hut, but in this economy? Inga was lucky to carve out this space in the increasingly stifling city. Inga. Not Baba, or babcia or babushka for Inga. Made her feel old. My key met some resistance, but a jimmy and an angled lift got it to open the door. I was about to go inside when a gaunt old woman clambered up the steps with a cane thumping against the floor of the veranda. “Good, you’re here, Milo,” said the old woman. “I try to call ahead but Inga’s phone’s disconnected now.” Her accent was thick Eastern European, having withstood the tides of “you betcha”s and “dontcha know”s of the northern US for decades without faltering. “Hello, Madame Anastasia,” I greeted as the door creaked shut behind them. I was way too late on realizing that Madame Anastasia was not the woman’s given or surname. ‘These Americans, they expect a bit of theater, mysticism with their fortunes,’ She’d explained between puffs of a long cigarette. When I asked if I could call her Ms. Serafin, she’d passed me a piece of fudge and said, “yes you may, thank you for asking.” Ms. Serafin sniffled as they escaped the winter air, and raised her hand to me. I bent down and kissed her thin hand, mindful of the large sapphire ring on her middle finger. “Good boy,” she said, “I come to help with Inga’s things. She may have left something special for you.” As we crossed the threshold of the house, I began to hear the click-clacking of claws and the scraping drag of scales on hardwood. The aching in my chest subsided for the moment as I followed the noise through the main hallway to the kitchen. There, I was greeted by a small dragon the size of a chihuahua, with leathery wings, pinkish, wrinkled skin, and two yellow eyes that never seemed to point in the same direction. He wheezed out a puff of smoke and picked his head up to gaze at Ms. Serafin and I blankly. “Misiek!” I shouted as I approached and kneeled in front of the small beast. As I picked the dragon up by his midsection, his head and butt both followed on a delay like a cat’s as I gathered my grandmother’s familiar into my arms. Misiek let out a shaky purr as his eyes closed and he curled his thin tail around my arm. Ope, I was wrong about my tears drying up. “Ah, yes, I almost forget about little Misiek.” Ms. Serafin gave the both of us a wide berth as she went into the sitting room. After checking his food and water bowls, I set Misiek in his bed, possibly the nicest piece of furniture in the house, and joined my grandmother’s friend. Hung on the far wall, above the huge old horsehair sofa, my eyes immediately stuck to a small photograph of Inga out in front of the house. She had curly hair wrapped in an orange scarf, a dark blue open cardigan decorated with moons and stars, and her comfortable white sneakers. The neon sign in the kitchen window proudly read PSYCHIC in red and blue, a print sign beneath it advertising palm and tarot readings, authentic and reasonably priced. “My gods, she was beautiful. Not just her looks. Those fade,” Ms. Serafin remarked before gesturing to her whole body, “you think I keep looking like this naturally?” I let out a neutral hum as I finally sunk into the sofa. Ms. Serafin sat in a much firmer armchair and continued, jabbing her cane towards the picture. “She was larger than life, our Baba Yaga.” Baba Yaga. A title given to her that was moderately true to the legend. Inga was undoubtedly the most powerful spellcaster in her circle, though she didn’t live in a mortar or prowl around the swamp. She was certainly not immortal, no, but she was powerful, and strongly, fiercely independent. When my parents died, she took custody no-questions-asked, and raised me with all the love she could offer– damnit, there I go again! Ms. Serafin summoned a tissue box to me, and I dried my eyes and blew my nose as she continued. “She didn’t just keep the magic alive, she made sure it would thrive, even after she passed it on.” She sat back in the chair and did not speak for a while, feeling how the house changed without Inga’s presence, her aura. I looked over and saw Misiek sulking in his bed. I looked up and saw the witchy bits and bobbles that lined shelves along the sitting room walls, mostly to fit the psychic aesthetic for Inga’s work, but some were legit: Jars of iron nails for wards, a silver bowl for scrying, locally-sourced bones, dusty tomes brought over from the old country. I could recognize the glamor and wards used to trick the eyes of “normies”: some runes in old polish, a few Nordic and even some charms she’d learned from the Indigenous medicine people over on the reservations. I blinked as Ms. Serafin’s words registered in my brain, “what do you mean, passed it on?” Ms. Serafin just raised a thin eyebrow at me. “Wha– Me?” I asked, “I can’t do magic. She never taught– I mean, she taught me about it but I can’t, like, do it.” “Have you ever tried?” Ms. Serafin stood and walked idly to the wooden shelves, sagging with books and collected trinkets. “I tried a bit in high school, but nothing happened, and then I was dealing with applying to schools, and moving out-of-state, and transitioning and it just… never felt like the right time, you know?” I sighed as my phone’s alarm went off. I went into the kitchen and pulled my antidepressants out of my bag, then went to raid the fridge. Ms. Serafin hummed, “How is your recovery going, by the way? Lugash kept droning on about ‘confidentiality’ when I asked.” I smiled as I practically heard her eyes roll. “Finished and healed, as of three weeks ago. Thanks again for recommending Dr. Lugash to me.” Dr. Lugash Serafin, nephew of it-should-be-obvious, was kind, despite being built like a literal golem. His usual trade was pulling bullets out of mobsters and getting prescription drugs to those who truly needed them, but lacked insurance. As it turned out, hands that looked like they were built for strangling were quite adept with a scalpel, and I was taking a year off school for top surgery before I knew it. I hope he got my thank you card. Most of the food in the house had been cleared out, so that left frozen borscht or a deli sandwich wrapped in wax paper. I recognized the borscht as Inga’s recipe, and I couldn’t handle another emotional spiral on top of having my teeth stained red, so I went with the baggage-less meal. I set the sandwich down on a plate and went to pour myself some water to wash it and my meds down. When I turned back around, Ms. Serafin was sitting at the kitchen table taking a bite out of half of it, and I knew I hadn’t heard her come in or unwrap it. “How…?” “You need to stay on your toes if you’re going to be a witch,” She said before wiping her mouth with a napkin. I sat across from her. “I don’t even know if I want to be a witch. I mean, it’d be awesome, but I don’t exactly have my life all together.” “Oi, you children, always trying to rush through life! The 23 year-old is supposed to have things all figured out, now?” I elected to ignore her and eat my half of the sandwich. I had a general–very general plan: Save up for a few months, fix the car, go back to school and get my degree… Full stop. Damnit. “This is probably best time to learn, you know.” Ms. Serafin poked me in the arm, “No school, no partner, you could live here while we get you on your feet as a witch. Is good.” At this point, Misiek had crawled over to plant his long neck and head across my feet, so I leaned down and fed the dragon a piece of sandwich meat. “So is that the ‘something special’ she left for me? Her magic?” I asked. “Is your magic, now. How do you think Misiek’s still there?” I looked from the small old woman to the small old dragon. Ms. Serafin laughed while wiping her hands and stood up, “Familiars are bound to their masters, you know. If Inga has moved on…” I recoiled slightly and stood, “What, seriously?” “Try giving him a command.” Ms. Serafin instructed. I looked down at Misiek and tried to remember the words my grandmother used, her voice holding all the authority of a true witch, seeming to will the world around her to do as she said. That voice was the moving of mountains, sharp as the cut of a razor, accompanying burning incense and scarlet threads, putting charms and wards and cures into the readings of cards and palm lines. My lips moved silently as I tried to emulate Inga Lisowski, the Baba Yaga of the greater midwest, daughter of Ania, daughter of Marya. The first to come to mind was the word she spoke to Misiek when she had to bring him out of the house. I remembered the handwoven yellow handbag she toted him around on her way to visit clients or deal with arguments between other magic wielders in the area. I’d hold her hand as we took the bus around town, marveling at how the normal people around us looked at Misiek, but never saw his true form. It was, in a word, magical. “Schować, Misiek.” As I spoke the word, the little dragon changed. Streams of gray smoke and orange fire swirled around him, faded away, and left a thin, wrinkly sphynx cat staring up at me with yellow eyes. “See? You’re a natural. Gold star for you.” Ms. Serafin walked around the table and back to the sitting room. She reached down and opened a small ottoman, and brought out a long table cloth that she unfurled and laid perfectly on top of the table. I moved to help her, then looked to Misiek and tried uttering the same command, feeling relief as he turned back into a dragon. “Okay, that was sick as, but was that my magic or Misiek?” I asked, “I just spoke a word. That’s a little different than summoning spirits or making illusions.” “Oh, illusions are childs’ play, literally! Inga and the other sisters used to entertain the little ones with them during our bridge nights.” Ms. Serafin smoothed out the tablecloth and withdrew a leather case from her handbag. “And remember: magic is not just illusions and party tricks. We can use it to make small improvements to our lives, yes, but at its center, it is about shaping the very fabric of reality!” Ms. Serafin spread her arms, and in a flash of technicolor smoke, she disappeared into the air. “But, if you need assurance, why not ask the cards?” I nearly jumped out of my skin as she spoke from behind me. The gaunt woman walked back to her spot across the table from me and whipped out a sheaf of old paper cards, splitting the deck and fanning them out in her hands. As I clenched my chest and leaned on a chair for support, I watched as the cards jumped from her hands and rolled corner over corner, doing cartwheels along the perimeter of the table before flipping into two uniform rows in front of Ms. Serafin and flopping facedown. They hovered at varying distances above the table before gliding back into a single stack. “Are you sure?” I asked. “Why not? People paid your grandmother $200 a session. I give you heavy discount.” Ms. Serafin finished shuffling the deck, set it on the table, and waited. I felt my sandwich sit like a rock in my gut, and my palms grew sweaty as I approached the table. I took a deep breath and sat as Ms. Serafin spread out the cards. For all my past desire for a reading, the gravity of my question left me somewhat hesitant. Having this option, one I’d thought died with my grandmother, another thing for us to do together, had we a bit more time, now lying in front of me on the… Well, it didn’t sit entirely right. Inga couldn’t teach me herself, like her mothers had. I’d moved away and… changed, in more ways than one. Did I even deserve to wield this power that someone like Inga did. ‘The cards, Milo. Let the cards tell you.’ The words pierced my mind, Ms. Serafin hadn’t looked at me or moved her lips, just pointed a spindly finger at me as I stared dumbly at the table. Might as well bite the bullet. “What… what can I do if I inherit my grandmother’s magic?” I asked the cards, and pulled. Three cards lay face down between the two of us. Ms. Serafin moved the rest of the deck to the side and reached for the first card. “First, your past.” She turned the card over. The image faced her, showing a woman gently stroking a lion on its forehead and jaw. She wore a white dress and a crown of flowers. “Oh, Strength: it's reversed, so the power is there, but clouded. Self-doubt, inner-conflict, powerful emotions boil inside that you must harness.” I felt very called-out, but nodded as I looked the card over, the image of the woman holding the lion seemed awkward as she seemed to bend perfectly at the waist. “Now, the present.” Facing me, the card showed a group of eight straight branches, all floating one above the other in parallel. “Eight of Wands. An unexpected surprise is coming your way.” “Oh, you don’t say.” I said. “Don’t get smart, boy. Something, a possibility, is becoming a certainty.” A little on the nose, maybe, but this seemed to be a positive sign to the witch, so I nodded along and ignored the sudden distinct awareness I felt for my own heartbeat. It’d been years since I had a panic attack in this house, and that was not the kind of nostalgia I hoped to experience coming home. “And now, the future…” A young girl sat on a throne and wearing a crown of stars, a bountiful forest spread out behind her. “Oh, The Empress. This is a good sign, Milo. It brings potential; fertile ground to be sowed and cultivated. You’ll have the chance to create something wonderful in your future!” I stared at the cards. Ms. Serafin had a pretty good poker face, but that last card made her smile. I didn’t think she’d rigged the cards somehow, not like I’d be able to tell if she did. I reached down and pulled Misiek into my lap, lightly scratching between the dragon’s wings and feeling the little bumps of his spine and the leathery scales. Ms. Serafin’s reading played over in his head. Did that mean this was locked in? Was it my destiny? What would happen if I refused? What would happen to the house? To Misiek? The magic? “So, what now?” I asked the witch. “Now we need to see how much magic you can do now without proper training. Get a… how say– a baseline, then build your magic up.” Ms. Serafin returned her cards to her handbag and stood up, before grabbing one of the old books from the sitting room and setting it down in front of me. “Start looking through that. I must rest.” Ms. Serafin walked over to the armchair and reclined back, shutting her eyes and lying still as a corpse. It appeared I was on my own. I flipped through the spellbook at random at first, because who needs a table of contents for a book on practicing magic? But I could recognize enough incantations and symbols to get my bearings. It was actually easier to figure out what I couldn’t or didn’t want to do, like burning the house down, and narrowed my options down. There were still a lot of options I could try, but I just wasn’t sure. How taxing would it be to cast this spell? If I mispronounced something in that spell, could I end up hurting someone? I sat back and let out a frustrated sigh. I was never the best at studying. There were a number of other books I could read, or other things I could try that Inga might have kept around. I tried to remember some of those little illusions and tricks the witches would use to entertain when I was a kid, but couldn’t find anything specific in the sitting room. “Maybe the attic,” I muttered as I gathered my grandmother’s– my familiar onto my shoulders, “come on, Misiek.” The “attic” was really just a spare bedroom on the small second floor of their house, but it had long accumulated its share of junk that Inga didn’t want cluttering up the main floor. As I pushed the door open and slid past a spare armoire and stacks of scrapbooks, I was greeted for a moment by that old, near-magical scent of old, dusty books that I grew to love growing up. Inga would take me to lots of bookstores, and would read these old fairy tales from a big leather-bound tome that had been in our family for generations. It’d just be me and her and Misiek in the sitting room, and I could look at the illustrations and picture myself as a knight or a woodsman or bard, and have this feeling of peace that I took for granted. All those times I thought I was too grown-up for stories— Ope, not going there right now! I jumped as a ball of smoke and sparks exploded from my shoulder, and Misiek was turned once again into a cat. He blinked, I blinked, I said the command word and he turned back into a dragon. Should probably tell Ms. Serafin about that later… I started searching for anything that stood out. There was a taxidermied bird that I thought Misiek had eaten at one point. Too morbid. A vial of holy water with specks of something silver floating around inside. Too biblical. Some vials of oil and herbal extracts that– no, those were from a multi-level-marketing scheme. “Aha!” I exclaimed as something sparked a memory. Past a stack of old suitcases and augury sticks to see a model cottage, painted deep browns and blues and dusted with some white polystyrene to simulate snow, was the little cottage was used as a centerpiece for holiday dinners, and I recalled an instance where, after indulging in some fruity liquor Ms. Serafin had brought over, Inga had waved her hands and the cottage came to life. I remembered my shock vividly as two yellow, scaly chicken legs sprouted from the underside of the cottage and it began bounding around the table in some crude imitation of a ballet dance. I remembered the witches and their guests howling with laughter and my cousins shrieking with joy, a few of them flinching away when those clawed feet kicked a little too far out for comfort. If Inga could do it blasted on spiced booze, I could probably figure it out. What’s the worst that could happen? Once I lugged it downstairs, I started flipping through the spellbook until I found something that looked right. There was a picture of a little hut standing on raptor-like legs, and the words were older Polish but I could read the gist. I adjusted the house and cleared anything else off the table that it might knock over. I looked over and, checking that Ms. Serafin was still breathing, brought over the necessary materials. I lit a candle and set a small sheet of paper on the table, then extinguished the flame. I dragged the charred wick over the paper, tracing the symbol in the book and, as I rubbed my hands together in anticipation, began reciting the incantation. “Wędruj do domu…” I paused as I saw the lights above me flicker for a moment, felt the flow of air change and revolve around me like the faintest of breezes then kept going. I spoke, “Wędruj do domu… Wędruj do domu… Come on…” Nothing. I could feel the weight of my words, the magic was there, but the spell wouldn’t take. It was like building a LEGO set without the instructions. I kept reciting the incantation, and when I felt the lights and air be affected again, I pressed on. I locked my eyes on the little cottage as I spoke. Out of the corner of my eye, Misiek slinked away from me and the table. Keep pushing… I was encouraged when the cottage began to shake. I braced myself and leaned closer and closer as it shook so hard that I felt the table follow. The cottage shook so hard that I felt the vibrations reverberate down the table’s legs and through the floorboards. I felt my face get hot, even perspiring lightly, which emphasized the feel of swirling wind around me. I felt hyper-aware of the shaking, of the air, the electricity stuttering through the lights overhead, even the sensations of my clothes with every microcosm of movement. I tried to take a deep breath, but I could only fill his lungs enough to continue the chant. It felt like an hour passed before I felt a single bead of sweat. I couldn’t(or wouldn’t) break my gaze as I willed the tiny house to grow a pair… of legs! A bead of sweat bled down my forehead, passing between my nose and eye before falling off my chin and hitting the table as I finished another cycle of the incantation. The lights stopped flickering, no wind, no shaking. The house was still. I dropped to a knee and leaned against the sitting room table, trying to catch my breath. That was… a lot. I looked over to see Misiek poke his head out from under the sofa and let out a nervous whimper. My eyes passed over to the armchair and saw Ms. Serafin stir. The old woman raised her head and looked at him as she stirred. “Did you cast something– oh, Milo, you’re bleeding!” I licked my top lip and tasted copper, realizing that some of the sweat was actually a small nosebleed. “No, not unless there’s a spell to make you have an aneurysm.” “There is, but it sounds, and looks, like you just pushed yourself.” Ms. Serafin raised my chin to look, then dabbed at my face with a napkin before looking over the model cottage and the open spellbook. She tutted and moved to put a hand on my shoulder. “Don’t fret, Milo. An animation spell can take practice, especially when you have to make an object grow limbs. Maybe we start smaller, hmm? I can show you how to talk to plants–Kurva!” As she touched me, the witch recoiled like she’d been hit with a static shock. Her eyes swept over me, and I wanted to shrink under the sofa like Misiek had under her gaze. “I-I really don’t know what went wrong.” “I… don’t think anything did. The shock was just your magic reacting after casting such a powerful spell.” I watched her go over to the shelves and grab some sort of crystal ball. She bent down in the grandma-bowling pose and set the sphere on the hardwood floor. I watched as it slowly rolled forward, then curved and rolled into a wall. “You know, you don’t have to be all mystical and cryptic when it's just us, right? Did I break something?” I asked, feeling a bit like I was being condescended to. “Oh, fine. Stand, and repeat after me.” Ms. Serafin came over to me and took my hands in her own. “Wzrost. Now, you.” The old woman commanded. “This is not an improvement. Wzrost.” I waited. A few seconds went by as I looked around for something to change. “So, did the foundation get damaged and sink part of the floor, or–FUCK!” I felt my legs give out as the floor rushed up to meet my face. Ms. Serafin stayed firm with her feet planted, even as the floor–no, the whole house shifted. I wasn’t sure if the gravity had suddenly magnified or the house had risen. “Language, Milo!” Ms. Serafin scolded as she helped me up to my feet. The house wobbled and tilted back and forth as, magically, none of the furniture or decor seemed to be disturbed. It settled to a somewhat level equilibrium, and I was starting to freak out a bit. Ms. Serafin looked all too pleased with herself as she walked over to the bay window at the front of the house, where she audibly guffawed after pulling the curtains back. “Well, I was right once again!” The witch cackled as the curtains flew back and I saw… the top of the house across the street. I approached the window and inched forward as my head tilted down, like I was standing at the edge of a cliff, trying to look over without falling. I couldn’t see directly downward, but from the first floor of my house, I saw the roof of a two-floor laundromat across the street, but in the reflections of parked cars and other buildings, a clear sky looked back at me. “Are we, um, is the house… standing, Ms. Serafin? On legs.” I asked as my stomach started doing front flips. I had just wanted a little model to start walking, not this. Not a walking house. How did it detach so seamlessly from the foundation? Did we still have plumbing? “I’ll be right back.” I speed-walked to the bathroom and felt actually sick. Not just from the shock or panic, but like I’d run a marathon, what I assumed was the toll of such a powerful version of the spell catching up with a body that wasn’t used to spellcasting. My lunch met the toilet, and hitting the lever revealed that we indeed still had working plumbing. Because Magic. “I have to admit, that was quite the spell for such a new witch. I hadn’t even seen Inga cast that spell at that level since the seventies!” Ms. Serafin spoke to me from the hallway. “Can we go down, now? I’m not great with heights.” I leaned against the doorframe of the bathroom. “Can we? It's your spell. The command word is spadek. The slower you say it, the easier the descent will be.” I repeated the word, mouthing it out slowly, and took deep breaths as I felt the house go down. It felt a lot less sudden, like being in the world’s largest elevator. As the house, and my stomach, settled, Ms. Serafin dragged me back to the sitting room, assuring me that the house would be fine and no normal people saw anything. “We could have bounded down the street like a headless chicken, and all their eyes would show them is a big truck or a runaway balloon, and an illusion would take the house’s place. It’s well guarded for things like this.” I laid on the couch, staring up as I held my hands in front of my face. The shock had subsided, and in its place, my mind was alight with possibility, and it dawned on me that this would just make my life easier. I wasn’t on a power-trip. There were rules that magic folk had to follow so we didn’t have an inquisition knocking down our doors. It's why Inga had to disguise Misiek and her psychic readings. I’d still be a slave to the almighty dollar, as it were, but this could help with my accessibility. Even just something to manipulate time for school projects or find my dropped contact lenses could be a gamechanger. Plus, I could stick around here, hang out with my grandmother’s friends. I didn’t have a plan for after school. I couldn’t say how many sleepless nights I’ve had just worrying about that unknown, how many doors were closed when I was on my own. But now, I could have a shot at stability. I could get connections from Inga’s clients and friends, maybe get a remote job and ease my way back into school. I could have this thing that my grandmother and her whole family used, connect to them even if they were gone. I could help other people like me. I sat up on the couch, and faced Ms. Serafin. “Ms. Serafin, please teach me how to use magic. Teach me how to be a witch.” Ms. Serafin looked me up and down again, like a jewelry appraiser would study a faberge egg. After a moment, she nodded. “Milo, son of Mariza, daughter of Inga, daughter of Ania. If you really have the desire to learn, then come. I’ll make a witch out of you yet.”