Light a Flame

You trudge through the knee-high grass that strokes your legs until you find what you’re looking for—the crescent-moon-shaped patch of grass that is a rare blue and white, a complete contrast to the forest green surrounding you. It’s said that the Egyptian god Jeonghan, also known as Thoth, seared the grass this way specifically, as a gateway to him, for anyone who dared to call out to him. He is the God of wisdom, writing, magic, and the moon. Coming here was no accident or mere coincidence, and the items you brought were specifically for him. Your purpose is to summon him and broker a deal, no matter the price.

Lowering yourself to the ground, you place everything in a circle, complete with a candle that you charged with the previous full moon. You light the stick, watching its flame burn brighter than a regular candle but also unmelting, as if it knows its purpose. You ignore the tension lining your gut, instead pulling out a scroll containing a chant you created. With a deep breath, you say:

On this very night

I call upon thee and his divine light

Shine upon me with your wisdom

Salve Divinus Thoth

You repeat the mantra six times, the lucky number associated with him according to the scribe of the gods and the patron of learning. You wait patiently, expecting lightning to strike or maybe the wind to pick you up and carry you into the sky. But all you hear is the sound of nature, crickets, and the waters of the river crashing into each other. Time passes, and your hope deflates with it as you stand up slowly and dust the dirt off your legs.

“Maybe I missed something,” you mutter to yourself.

“No, you didn’t.”

You yelp and jump back, your foot crushing the corner of the dark chocolate you brought for the offering. You stare at a man, much taller than you, with a carving of an Ibis on his head, dressed in only a short white pleated kilt. He takes a step towards you, and the ground shakes, the recoil making you accidentally fall on your ass. You’ve never seen something so majestic and strange, and it has you shaking in fear.

“I take it you're Jeonghan?” you sputter, your hands shaking. “I brought you an offering as a token of my gratitude.”

“I accept your offerings,” he says shortly. “Why did you summon me?”

Your breath hitches, the words caught in your throat. You’ve been preparing this for several months now, researching it heavily and telling your friends and family that you were going on a trip to ‘heal’ and find yourself again. It wasn’t totally a lie, just an omission of some facts.

“Jeonghan, god of wisdom, writing, magic, and the moon,” you declare, kneeling before him. “I humbly come before you with a request.”

“What is it?” Jeonghan demands, his voice echoing into the night air.

You swallow hard, your voice shaky as you reveal your intent. “I need you to bring my fiancé back from the dead.”

Chris died a year ago today in a car crash as he was heading home to you. You will never forget that day, the hard knock at your door that caught you off guard while you were in your element. You still remember the screams from his mother when you went with her to identify the body. His body lay on the cold, metal stretcher, lifeless and void of the man who gave you joy, the man you were set to have a life with. His mother died not too long after from a heart attack, but you also suspect it was from a broken heart. He was her only child. Not only are you doing this for yourself, but you are doing this for her, to get back the son she lost.

“You want to undo the balance of nature and bring back your loved one?” Jeonghan probes. “Do you understand the consequences you wreak when you bring back the dead?”

You understand the stakes. You’ve been studying them all your life, and you aren’t afraid of the consequences, as long as it brings Chris back into your arms. “I understand,” you breathe.

Jeonghan’s body morphs before you, his height changing drastically to meet your eye level. He slowly removes the Ibis head covering him, revealing a man who is strikingly handsome, with shoulder-length black hair and piercing brown eyes. You’ve seen the hieroglyphics of his true face behind the head, in the shape of a baboon, but it does not do him justice—he’s more beautiful than he’s been pictured or described.

“Very well then,” Jeonghan says, circling around you. “To bring back someone from the dead requires that you serve me for as long as Chris is alive.” Your head shoots up, caught off guard by his name being said out loud. “Don’t be shocked, woman,” Jeonghan says flippantly, tapping his head. “I know all.”

You lick the bottom of your lip, nodding slowly. “How am I to serve?”

“Every full moon phase, you must serve me,” he reveals. “The day before, the day of, and the day after.”

You lock eyes with him, pondering over the information. It costs you almost a quarter of your savings to come here, and you know you can’t afford to do it once a month. Panic weighs heavily in your choice, doubt creeping into the back of your mind. Maybe you shouldn’t have done this.

“I-I don’t think I can afford to come here every month,” you stutter. “It cost me a lot to come here.”

Jeonghan lets out a noise that almost sounds like a snort. “You humans are short-sighted. I will find you, as I am guided by the moonlight.”

You stare at him incredulously, almost not believing what you are seeing and hearing. “Can you tell me what I am going to be doing?”

“Whatever I need you to do,” Jeonghan asserts. “Will that be a problem?”

You weigh the options in your mind heavily. You get the love of your life back, and your nights will not be so cold. You feel warmth, love, and peace again. You will have your savior, your protector, your Chris back. Whatever you need to do to serve this god, you are willing to do.

“No.” You bow your head. “I am willing to serve.”

“Very well then.”

You glance slowly at him as he flicks his wrist, bringing on a white, blinding flash that swallows everything around you. It doesn’t hurt, but you feel like you’re falling with nothing to reach out to. The muscles relax in your body; your vision is the last to go as everything turns black, then dark navy blue. You rise slowly in a haze, your eyes adjusting to the low light and thickness of cloth clutched in your hands. You’re back in your house, with your luggage and belongings you brought with you to Africa placed next to your bed. Your head fogs over, as if you've just had a dream, but you know it’s not that. It’s clear Jeonghan sent you back home. You don’t know what to expect—should you wait for further instruction? Do you go digging out Chris’s grave—

“Dove?”

Your head jerks to the door, a chill settling in your bones. That nickname, Dove, was given to you by Chris because he said you were gentle and brought him peace. That voice that called your name feels familiar; that tremor in his voice is so distinctive that you hear it in your dreams when you are missing him. Creeping out of bed, you open your bedroom door, stalking down the hallway of your small two-bedroom house. A shadow is cast from the front door, matching a man with a large frame, dressed in a brown jacket and jeans, an outfit identical to Chris’s the day he… the day he di—

“Dove? Is that you?”

The man steps closer to you, the light of the stove casting over him, revealing the face of the man you’ve loved for five years, his eyes dark and pleading, his brows furrowed in confusion. “Baby, is that really you?”

You close the space between you two, hugging him tightly and breaking out into a sob. All the grief, the pain you suffered for the year, yearning for his touch and feeling empty inside, comes rushing out of you. Your chest is heavy as you cry happy tears, peppering him with long-overdue kisses all over his face. “It worked!” you exclaim. “It worked. Oh my Thoth!”

“What do you mean?” Chris interrogates. “What did you do?”

You leave a lasting kiss on his lips, heartfelt with every emotion you have, to show him that you love him and that you are grateful to have him back. His hands grab your waist, and your legs almost buckle instantly. It feels good to be in his arms again.

“We have a lot to talk about,” you breathe, placing your forehead on his. “But I will never let you go again.”

The world is spinning. Like a sinking whirlpool in a cup. 

It’s colours you cannot describe. Not the beige of sand, not the green of verdure. It swirls and pulses, moving like eddies in water. 

The feeling against your hands is hard, cool and smooth like a precious metal. You have never felt one quite this large. Your eyes adjust to the light, and realise the swirling, pulsing colours are what you feel against your hand, the hard expanse growing as your eyes lift to take in the ground. It does not sink under your weight, does not bend to swallow you. 

You run your fingers against it, your nails make a clinking sound against the material. Not brick, not cement. Something else entirely. 

Your breathing is shallow, but easy. The air is rich, like the blue of water and the sting of a strong tea. It glides in and out like it was concocted for you. 

Eyes migrating, the ground stretches out like a never ending desert, empty on all ends. You are still in your tunic, however, you note the prominent rips and shreds hanging off your body. For the damage to your clothes, your skin looks pristine, not a scratch or bleed. You feel no pain. 

The horizon is a bleak colourless sky, the pulsing ground giving the impression that you’re moving upwards. Nothing around you explains what this place is, how you got here, and why you are without maim. 

You blink once and open your eyes to the same nothingness, twice, thrice. 

The fourth time, you blink hard, screwing your eyes together tightly, like this was a nightmare you can force yourself to wake up from. Back in your chambers, back to the bank of the Nile, back to your doomed reality. 

The fourth time, you open your eyes to a man made of molten gold. 

This nightmare only seems to intensify. 

His stance is between a statue and a human, alive like man, crafted like granite. He’s in a tunic that appears to be made of pure gold, the hard metal turned into a fabric that moves with him. Golden thread, thinner than hair, wind and twist around his bare arms, writhing into his hair and face, pulsing and glowing like it was a breathing thing.

The nightmare is beautiful till you reach his face. 

The easy, rich air has suddenly turned stale and non-existent. You cannot comprehend what you see. The scene does not register. For his face is molded to look like a man, yet you have never witnessed anything like it. 

The men you have seen have had their skin red and raw from days under the sun. Bleached hair from the rays, a rugged look to them. But this one, this one seems to be favoured by the skies. Warmth kisses his face like a lover, the perfect meld of colour that makes him glow like the metal string that twists around him. 

For the scintillating beacon that is his presence, his eyes are two hollow wells of obsidian. So dark they appear to be voids lacking light and shadow. 

All of a sudden, the rich, saturated air is gone. You cannot breathe, cannot force your nose to take in air and expel what is left within you. You have the incomprehensible feeling of being struck square in the chest, hard. The tightness in your chest is only worsening, almost painful to bear. 

But you cannot look away. 

You don’t remember when, but you’ve moved up from your crouched position on hands and knees and pushed yourself backwards instead. 

The atmosphere washes over your body with no cage, the heat in your body vibrating the very blood under your skin. 

The psychedelic vision has its body turned towards you, as though waiting for you to acknowledge it first. 

But the voice is trapped in your throat. You don’t want to acknowledge it, you want to scream, but you seem to have left it in the river bank with the water and crocodiles. 

It’s too much, the vision is engulfing your entire being. You don’t understand what you feel, but for a horrifying moment, you prefer going back to the wide jaws and rows of teeth. You’re hyperventilating, dry mouth and throat. 

Black splotches appear in your vision, and you know there’s nothing you can do to stop it. 

You lose consciousness in front of what you can only believe to be your own disbelief, staring right at you.