Hexenzauberbuch

Hexenzauberbuch

By Patricia Magdalena Redlin

It’s a tiny book, as small as one of those mini dictionaries that were popular back in the late twentieth century, until smartphones became ubiquitous. She herself owned two of the mini-dicks (as she had called them). Just the thought of the nickname she had given to her two tiny dictionaries causes a giggle to escape, along with the usual snort. She never learned how to giggle without snorting.

Isabel feels her face reddening. The A line subway train from Penn Station is unusually empty for a late Monday afternoon, so at least she doesn’t look like one of those crazies who snuffle, snort and giggle at the air, squished in between well-ironed suits and two-inch spiked heels that could punch a hole into the top of your foot with one wrong step. She looks around. The closest people to her are a couple sitting way down at the end of the car, paying way too much attention to the taste of each other’s tongues.

“Get a room,” she thinks as her blush recedes, leaving behind its heat. Isabel opens the tiny book. It’s not a mini-dick. Its cover is black, looks like well-worn leather. She sniffs it. Nice. Real leather. She opens the book to the first page.

Hexenzauberbuch

“Witch’s spell book.” Isabel turns to the second page and reads the ancient handwriting in faded blue ink.

Silke Hammerschmidt, * 13 Dezember 2032, ꝉ 24 Dezember 2132

What?! This little book looks old. How could the dates written here be from the future? She knows from her years in Germany that the asterisk stands for “date of birth” and the cross-like character stands for “date of death.” Who was – will be – this Silke person? Is this her book? She absolutely loves the name “Silke.” Back when she lived in Germany, one of her colleagues at the ad agency was named Silke. And she looked like a Silke…with long, silvery blonde hair that seemed to float around her like a fairy mist. Huge green eyes, a bright happy smile that had warmly welcomed Isabel into her world. They had quickly become best friends as they worked together. With Silke, there had been none of this “Oh, I am a careful and fastidious German person and I can’t let you be my friend until I have tested your loyalty, honesty, morality and whether you have curtains in your home.”. No, it had taken Silke a morning and a lunch spent together to befriend Isabel, the new American woman at the agency. She hadn’t even asked to go to Isabel’s apartment to check the status of the curtains.

Isabel smiles as she thinks back to the years she had lived in Germany, difficult at first but so much fun and exciting later, especially after she met Jesse, the tall American guy in the Air Force. The years since she had met him and then gotten married in early 1990 were still as fun and exciting. She will return to their Upstate home near Albany tomorrow, after the meeting with the new potential client in the morning, and she’ll tell him all about her new client.

What is with this tiny black book, though? She turns a few more pages and sees that it’s only the second page that has handwriting on it. There are two pages with the Table of Contents, followed by several pages of the "Einführung” (Foreword), and then the chapters start. The font is so tiny – she puts on her computer glasses. Better. She starts to read the Foreword. It’s basically the story of the life of a witch who lived (will live?) and died (will die?) in the future, a bit longer than one hundred years, starting in 2032, eleven years from now. And spells.

The Foreword addresses that conundrum about the future. She translates in her head as she reads.

“You will have noticed by now that this book is published in the future. I, Silke Hammerschmidt, live and die in the future. Your future. For me, time is time (as it most likely is for you) and I was born in December 2032 and died one hundred years later in December 2132. How do I know this book and my life are from your future? Because I placed the book back into 2021 one day before I died. I placed it in a quiet corner of Penn Station in New York City, near the escalators down to and up from underground train platforms.”

At Penn, there are always people milling around, text walking, or standing still, glued to their tiny screens, waiting to see which platform their train will depart from. Isabel had exited the train from Albany, ridden the escalator up from her train’s platform, and hurried over to a huge column off to the side. She loved coming down to the City, but it always takes her a minute to calm her terror of the hurrying crowds, the loud sounds and the general frenzy that is the City. She had been standing next to the column, almost behind it, breathing slowly, eyes closed. After a few minutes, she had opened her eyes, looked down and saw the little black book. She had picked it up and shoved it into her coat pocket. What if its owner was looking for it? Too bad. It was hers now. She had felt an overwhelming surge of need for this tiny book arise in her. She gasped and felt faint for a second. But as soon as the book was in her pocket, the strong feeling of need disappeared, replaced by a confident calm. She had the book.

She had raced around the huge ticket counter area and lobby, then down the worn, slippery steps to the subway train levels. An A train was pulling up to the platform just as she arrived. She entered with no one pushing or smashing her. She had been the only person waiting for this A train at that moment, at that platform. Weird. But nice, better than holding your head back to avoid smashing your nose into the shoulders in front of you or holding it forward to avoid head-banging the chin behind you.

She sits and finishes reading the Foreword of the book. She wants to keep reading, but her stop is next. She’s staying at her favorite hotel in the Financial District. It’s expensive, but what halfway decent hotel in New York isn’t? And she loves walking around the Wall Street area in the evening when it’s fairly quiet. She always goes to “her” small boutique filled with wonderfully strange clothes and always buys something – she keeps expecting to find it closed, like so many other weird little boutiques here. But she always goes there during her periodic trips to the City and it’s always there. Maybe it’s popular enough to not force the owner to go bankrupt.

After checking in with the friendly hotel clerk, taking the creaky, shaky elevator to the fourth floor and using the giant metal key to open the door, she throws her overnight bag on the chair and flops on the bed. There is barely enough room to walk around the bed and over to the window. She has a view this time and she looks up and down, enjoying the feeling of strength she derives from the massive granite walls of the nearby buildings. There are still lots of Wall Streeters scurrying below, holding smartphones to both ears as they speak with two or more people simultaneously. She smiles at their unnecessary stress and frantic running. What’s there to be so excited or stressed out about? But she knows this is how people are in this vast nervous city.

She wants to wait an hour or two before venturing down to the sidewalks below to her favorite Greek restaurant. It’s called “GRK” and even though you should pronounce those letters as “grrrk” instead of “Greek,” which kind of annoys her, she loves the restaurant. Everything is always fresh and it’s so reassuring to watch the cooks hand-cutting the long strips of perfectly cooked beef and lamb from the tall skewers in front of the vertical open flame grills. She had worked in a Greek restaurant during college and still loves the taste of “real” gyros meat and “real” tzatziki sauce.

Instead of showering, as she would usually do, to wash off the train, NYC sidewalks and subway grime, she opens the little black book and starts reading again.

Chapter 1 – How to Cast Your First Spell

“There was and is a time in this world when witches were and are the toast of the town they lived and live in. They were and are celebrated as benevolent sorceresses and warlocks. They never learned and don’t know any evil spells – only good spells that give their recipients all the happiness, wealth and fulfillment of a well-lived life. Here, then, is the first spell I learned and am learning to use. It was and is called the “Infinite Prosperity Spell” and it was and is very easy to cast.

“Ingredients for the Infinite Prosperity Spell:

1 strand of hair from the top of your head

1 smidgeon of saliva from your mouth

1 sprinkle of water

“Instructions for casting the spell:

1. Pull 1 strand of hair from the top of your head. Be careful to only select 1 strand and not accidentally pull out 2 or more strands. Remember: Only pull out 1 strand of hair.

2. Wipe your right index finger along your tongue and get a smidgeon of saliva.

3. Turn on a faucet and gather a sprinkle of water into the palm of your left hand.

4. Wipe the saliva on any flat surface.

5. Take the strand of hair and curl it in the smidgeon of saliva.

6. Sprinkle the hair and saliva with a few drops of water.

7. Wait fifteen seconds.

8. Et voilà! You will find the first payment of Infinite Prosperity in your bank account.”

What?! She quickly follows the instructions and gives a little jump. She wants to check her bank account balance, but she needs to finish the chapter.

“The payments from this spell will each be USD $20,000. No more and no less. It is up to you to use the money wisely, generously and humanely – only for good purposes. If you ever use a payment (or a part thereof) for any nefarious purposes, all subsequent payments will be cancelled, and you will never be able to cast this particular spell again. Be aware of what you are doing whenever you decide to spend any of the infinite prosperity money. It’s up to you to bring your goodness to the world.”

Isabel opens the bank app on her phone and checks. What?! The current balance is $25,019.32.

***

Two people swish through the empty train station building, long cloaks fluttering behind them.

“Silke, you cannot keep leaving that book there by that column. What if Isabel isn’t the one who finds it?” The tall man bends to pick up the little black book. He straightens and throws the book as far as he can. With no people bustling and stressing around them, they both hear the small plunk as the book lands somewhere down in Hellish Platforms, where no good train ever arrives.

“Wolf! Why did you do that?! Isabel is my only hope. If she doesn’t get the book, then I’m not born and worse, I never die. You must retrieve it and…” But the rest of Silke’s words fade away in a shimmery silver mist that drifts upward, filling the train station.

***

As Isabel exits the train, a young punk kicks a little black book down onto the electric rail, which sparks, then burns the tiny book to ashes. She feels a huge pain as she rides the up escalator and pushes through the crowds. As she steps down to the subway platforms, the pain exits.