Justin and Jonah were blessed to be born with wings. Some offshoot of humanity or half angel, either way they were part of a lucky few. From birth they had been in the world of magic and all of that. I’m just a normal human, I didn’t receive an introduction until after I was saved. Justin swooped in one night, saved me from a drunk driver. Whatever kind of magic that makes humans forget, couldn’t make me forget him and the glorious wings that had snatched me away to safety. I basically stalked him after that, almost flunked out of college because I was chasing after him, trying to relearn the world around myself.

From there I was enrolled in one the academies around the country that specialized in giving students and education in both worlds. Sure, I learned of the American Revolution, the classics like Shakespeare and mathematics. I also learned Alexandre Dumas’ Wolf Leader, is based on a true account, fundamentals of magic, and supernatural history. My view of the world changed, a lot. I became more cynical, that’s what made Justin great, he balanced me out. Made me see the good in the world.

Through all my studies, travel and work I learned a lot about magic. What it could do, and what it couldn’t do. Everything had limitations. You could change a lot of things with magic, but you could never really change the world. You can change someone’s age, weight, gender, appearance, bodily functions, and they would still be the same person. There were love potions, but the person would only be loyal to you, they could never really love you.

I learned a lot about the magic of elves, orcs, goblins, humans, and other species. Still, not a single one of them has helped me to bring Justin back. That’s when the words of my mother came to me. Something she had told me when she realized what I was doing, all on her own. There are things humans do, without realizing there is magic behind them. We can’t help it; our eyes have been closed to most of the magic in the world. We see a street magician or an escape artist and consider that to be the extent of magic. Regla de Ocha, or Santeria may be deemed insane or satanic by the Catholic church, but there is more power in sacrifice than throwing holy water on fancy cars.

“Do not forget that there is power from our ancestors, as well as theirs,” that’s what my mother told me.

My mother had long been practitioner of Voodoo, Vodun, Vodou or any of the other names it is called by those in the diaspora. A great deal of prosperity can come from making deals with or sacrificing to the Loa. I was arrogant, let my knowledge of it all slip past me. I never learned about any of it in school, there are still some magics that aren’t taught. Magic of people’s who have been overlooked, exploited and disrespected by history. My answer could have been in my face the entire time. I remember my mother telling me stories of The Pope of Voodoo, Max Beauvoir. He could bring back the dead with his powder, unfortunately, I don’t have the time to fly to Haiti and trek through the forest. Instead, I’ve done some research on my own. The Rose of Jericho, a plant that supposedly has the power to bring people back to life. I found the only voodoo shop in the city that had some real credibility. Inside there’s a sweet scent, nothing like what movies would have you believe. There’re no people convulsing on the floor or soaked in chicken blood and dancing to rhythmic drums. Instead, the shop is well lit, simple white walls with portraits honoring some of the 121 Loa and various slave revolts.

“Hey, what can I do for you,” a young woman at the counter asks.

“I’m looking for Rose of Jericho,” I approach the counter.

“Strange request, can I ask what for?”

“Resurrection.”

“Hmmm, that’s not going to work. Wouldn’t find that here anyway. Most of the stuff we sell is premade. Shipped here from Haiti. Sacrifice kits, offerings to burn, candles to light the way, histories of the Loa. We do have some potions of vigor, love, health. Trinkets that bring luck and so on. But we’ve got nothing for resurrection.”

“I’m sorry, I just remember my mother telling me stories about resurrections.” 

“I said we don’t have anything for resurrection. You’ll need a Manbo for that.”

“Manbo?”

“A priest or priestess, the patriarch or matriarch,” she explains casually.

“You know any?”

“I do.”

“Can you call them?”

“She doesn’t make house calls.”

“Then how can I meet her,” I’m starting to get irritated.

“You need to go see her, at her home. Bring a gift for her, and she may help you.”

“Who, and where?”

“Tituba, go see her at the address,” she scribbles an address on some receipt paper.

“What do I take her as a gift?”

The young woman burst into laughter, “Tituba likes the ganja,” she puts a heavy accent on ganja.

“Where the hell, do I get weed,” the whole situation is funny now.

“I have to give you my dealer too?”

“I don’t know where to buy weed anymore. I know I look young but give me a break,” I laugh at her.

“Relax, I’ll have him come to the shop,” she pulls out her phone and starts texting.

For the next thirty minutes I sit and discuss my lapsed practice of Voodoo that never really existed with this young woman. It turns out her name is Mary and she’s studying to become a priestess herself, but it takes years and she’s only just begun. To my surprise, her weed dealer actually shows up as if this is a common occurrence. I buy a little extra for her, as thanks for the information.

“Thank you, I’ll make sure to stop by from time to time,” I say as I exit.

“Wait,” Mary stops me.

“What is it?”

“Whatever you do, don’t interrupt Tituba, it may irritate her.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.”