Chapter 5: Story of Summoning
The silence after his words stretched, filled only by the burble of Agatha’s cauldron and the distant chaos of the market. The old woman hadn’t moved. Her milky eyes were fixed on him, unblinking. Willow was holding her breath beside him, the jar of silvery eelgrass forgotten in her hands.
Kenji cleared his throat. “So, you see, the narrative from a purely physical standpoint is impossible. The conservation of mass-energy alone would—” He stopped, a familiar frustration tightening his jaw. He was trying to explain a symphony to someone who only understood the vibration of a single string.
Agatha’s lips, thin and weathered as a split seashell, curled upward. Not a smile. Something more knowing. “You talk pretty,” she rasped. “All those ‘standpoints’ and ‘conservations’. Your world has its rules. Ours has different ones.” She stirred her cauldron with the bone rod. The green broth swirled, and for a second, Kenji saw shapes in the steam—a fleeting knot, a braid, two separate strands twining.
He shifted on his feet, the worn leather of his shoes gritty against the packed earth. “The linguistics are another inconsistency,” he found himself saying, the scientist in him latching onto a tangible anomaly. “Since I’ve been here, everyone understands me. You, Boris, Gerald… Willow. I’ve been speaking Japanese, then English, switching without thought. You all respond in kind. That shouldn’t be possible.”
Agatha’s chuckle was like pebbles rolling downhill. “Of course we understand you. We speak all languages here.” She tapped the side of her head with a gnarled finger. “Language is a construct. Sound with agreed-upon meaning. Magic is sound with intent. If you couldn’t communicate, how could you barter? How could you share stories?” She leaned forward, the ozone-and-salt smell of her intensifying. “Magic is everywhere, boy. Even in your world of… accelerators and errors. You just need to know how to tune into it. Come on. Tell me your story. Don’t stop now because something illogical is tickling your brain.”
Kenji felt the rational part of his mind rear up, a wall of equations and peer-reviewed journals. He monitored the impulse, acknowledged its scream of protest, and then deliberately stepped around it. He met Agatha’s clouded gaze. “As I was saying,” he continued, his voice quieter. “I was in my office. Finalizing my lecture notes. It was a clear day. Ordinary. Then… it wasn’t.”
He described the pull. Not a sound, not a light, but a profound, spatial wrongness, as if the coordinates of his reality had suddenly skewed. A tear in the graph paper of existence. One moment, the cool, sterile air of his university office, the next, the dizzying scent of crushed grass and ozone.
“I landed in a field. On my back. Looking up at… her.” He gestured to Willow, who offered a small, apologetic wave. “It was very confusing.”
Willow couldn’t stay silent. “He had leaf litter in his hair,” she murmured to Agatha, as if sharing a secret. “And his suit was so crisp. It was honestly impressive, how crisp it was, even after planar travel.”
Agatha’s eyes didn’t leave Kenji’s face. “And you? What were you doing, girl?”
Willow’s cheeks flushed. “I was… summoning. Or trying to. My familiar, Pippin, he… retired. Fell in love with a dryad, would you believe it? Moved to a spruce grove up north. I was attempting to summon a new one. A bit of company, you know? Something to help with the smaller tasks, growing, focus; the usual, usual” She shrugged, the gold thread in her cardigan catching the light. “The spell was… more enthusiastic than precise.”
“So the thread reached out,” Agatha mused, “and instead of grabbing a willing spirit, it hooked a passing professor.” She looked between them, her expression turning grim. “You didn’t summon a creature. You spliced a soul.”
The word hung in the air, heavy and final. Spliced. Not tethered. Not linked. Spliced.
Kenji’s hand instinctively went to the center of his chest, where the brand’s hum resided. A knot. A splice. Two different cables joined.
“It was an accident,” Willow insisted, but her voice lacked its usual conviction.
“Was it?” Agatha asked. The bone stirring rod glowed faintly blue where it touched the liquid. “The magic is old. It has a mind of its own, of sorts. It seeks balance.” Her gaze settled on Kenji. “You, with your rules and your graphs. Your world is all edges.” She pointed the bone at Willow. “You, girl, all softness and chaos. No edges at all.” She brought the bones together, crossing them. “Maybe the magic didn’t make a mistake. Maybe it saw two halves of a too-rigid, too-floppy whole and decided to fix it.”
Willow’s breath hitched. Kenji’s mind, always seeking the flaw in the argument, the alternate hypothesis, went terrifyingly quiet.
With a sudden, decisive movement, Agatha plunged her hand into the bubbling cauldron. Kenji flinched, expecting a scream, the smell of scorched flesh. Instead, she pulled out her hand, perfectly dry, holding a sphere of clear, shimmering water the size of a grapefruit. It hung in the air between her palms, unsupported. Inside, three tiny silver fish swam in endless, intricate patterns, tracing glowing lines that hovered in the liquid.
“Take this,” Agatha commanded, her voice losing its rasp, gaining a resonant, undeniable weight. “Truth-fish stew. The broth is made from kelp that grew where a leviathan spoke its first lie. The fish… they swim in patterns that show the shape of a bond.” She extended the sphere towards Kenji.
Hesitantly, he reached out. His fingers passed through a cool, yielding membrane and closed around the sphere. It was heavier than it looked. The water didn’t spill; it held its form, a perfect, self-contained biosphere violating every law of fluid dynamics and surface tension he knew. The fish changed direction, their silvery paths now weaving around the intrusion of his fingers, casting prismatic light on his skin.
“When you’re ready to see what truly binds you,” Agatha intoned, “not the spell, not the accident, but the splice… drink deep. All of it. The fish, the broth, the light. It will show you the knot from the inside.”
Kenji stared at the orb in his hands. The three fish swam faster, their paths beginning to braid.
“And if we don’t?” he asked, his voice barely audible over the market’s din.
Agatha settled back on her stool, the ancient wisdom in her eyes replaced by mundane weariness. “Then you’ll just be a man and a witch tied together by a mistake, slowly wearing each other thin. The bond will chafe. It’ll ache on rainy days. It might even fester.” She shrugged, a brittle movement. “Your choice. The Caladh Dionach ritual will break the tether. But this,” she nodded at the water sphere, “this might tell you if you should.”
Willow found her voice. “We… we should go. Thank you, Agatha. For the grass. And the… the stew.”
The old crone merely waved a dismissive hand, already turning her attention back to her bubbling cauldron, the moment of gravity gone as if it had never been.
They walked away from the stall, back into the swirling, colorful chaos of the market. The laughter of a pixie vendor, the sizzle of something unnameable on a griddle, the bleat of a creature that was definitely not a goat—it all felt distant, muted. Kenji carried the sphere carefully, his scientist’s mind cataloging its impossible properties, while a deeper, more unsettled part of him watched the three silver fish trace their endless, intertwined loops.
Willow was silent for a long time, her usual buoyancy submerged. She stopped at a stall selling crystallized moonlight, haggled absently, and tucked the purchase into her basket without her usual flourish.
Finally, as they reached the edge of the market, the path back to the hillside passage opening before them, she spoke.
“A splice,” she whispered.
Kenji looked at the orb in his hands, then at her—the wild hair, the hopeful, frightened eyes, the woman who had accidentally anchored him to a world of screaming onions and truth-fish.
“It appears so,” he said.
The fish swam on, their silent, silver patterns a tiny cosmos in his hands. Willow watched them for a long moment, her expression unreadable, then she shook her head as if clearing a web. The practical, sunlit part of her reasserted itself. "Okay," she said, clapping her hands once. The sound was sharp in the heavy air. "Okay. We have the eelgrass. We have...that." She nodded at the truth-fish sphere. "We should keep moving."
She turned, not back toward the passage home, but deeper into a less crowded lane of the market. The stalls here were stacked with folded fabrics, racks of clothes, and bins of oddities. The air smelled of dyed wool, ozone, and dust.
"I came over this way because I normally don't come here unless I really need a pair of pants or something," she said, her voice deliberately bright. "Or a new sweater. But since you don't have a lot of clothes, I figured we could get you some." She glanced at him, a flicker of uncertainty in her eyes. "I mean, unless you want to keep wearing my dad’s clothes. Those pants don’t really fit you very well."
Kenji looked down at the borrowed flannel and the too-short canvas trousers. They were comfortable in a way his suits never were, but she was right. They were a costume. "I suppose some practical attire would be logical," he conceded. "Given the uncertain duration."
"Right! Logical. Comfortable. At least until we figure this out." She pointed to a stall draped in fabrics that shifted color in the dappled light. "You should also have cell service here. There's a thin veil between this world and the human world right in this spot, something about ambient dimensional bleed. You should be able to pick up a signal if you need to contact anybody."
The offer was a bucket of cold water. Contact anybody. His department chair. His landlord. The conference organizers. The real world, where he was currently missing. He slipped his phone from his pocket. The screen, previously a dead black rectangle, now showed a single, wavering bar of service. It felt like a lifeline to a sinking ship.
"I'll be over here looking," Willow said, already moving toward a pile of thick wool sweaters in colors that looked dug from the earth. "Don't wander too far. Keep me in your eyesight." She paused, meeting his gaze with sudden seriousness. "And if somebody tries to steal your soul, run away. The soul vendors are usually by the live eels, but you can never be sure."
She said it with the same cadence as someone warning about pickpockets. Kenji stared after her as she plunged into a discussion with a vendor whose beard was threaded with what looked like copper wire. He stood there, holding a universe of water in one hand and a connection to his old life in the other.
He looked at his phone. He could send an email. Draft a text. Explain. But what would he say? Dear Committee, regrettably I cannot deliver the keynote on quantum decoherence as I have been soul-spliced to a witch and am currently shopping for trousers in an interdimensional bazaar. Sincerely, Prof. Tanaka. He locked the screen, the single bar vanishing, and put the phone away.
He approached a rack of trousers. They were not like any he owned. They were made of a tough, brushed canvas, dyed in deep greens and browns, cut with room through the thighs. He found a pair that looked his size and held them up. A small, embroidered tag on the inside waistband read: Woven under a gibbous moon, will not shrink or attract imps.
"Solid choice," a voice chirped. The vendor, a small person with eyes like polished river stones, materialized beside him. "The imp-repelling charm is standard. We had a recall last season on the ones that attracted them. Nasty business."
"I see," Kenji said, feeling wildly out of his depth. "Do you have... shirts?"
"Oh, all kinds!" The vendor gestured to another rack where flannels, linen tunics, and soft-looking henleys hung. "The green flannel is nice. Thread spun from dried nettle. Very breathable. The grey henley is woven with mist-thread. Never holds a smell, even after bog-wrestling."
Kenji selected a simple, dark grey henley and the brown trousers. "These will suffice."
"Payment?" the vendor asked, their head tilting.
Kenji froze. He had no river stones, no memories of smooth water, no interesting lint. He thought of the truth-fish sphere in his other hand, but Agatha’s warning echoed. That was not for barter.
From a few stalls over, Willow’s voice cut through. "Put it on my tab, Glimmer! I'll bring you that jar of dew-light next time I'm in!"
"You owe me three jars, Thistlebrook!" Glimmer called back, but they were smiling. They waved a dismissive hand at Kenji. "Take them. Her credit's good, mostly."
Kenji took the clothes, a strange warmth spreading in his chest that wasn't from the brand. He moved to a relatively secluded space between two stalls, shielded by a hanging tapestry depicting a rather sad-looking dragon. He changed quickly, slipping out of the borrowed clothes and into the new ones. The fabric of the henley was soft and cool, and the trousers fit perfectly, the waist sitting snugly, the length just right.
He folded his old clothes, the suit trousers and shirt, now hopelessly wrinkled and smelling of forest and lavender. They felt like artifacts from a museum. He placed the borrowed flannel and canvas pants neatly on top. He would return them to Willow's father's chest. The thought was oddly formal.
When he stepped out, the sphere of truth-fish held carefully again, Willow was waiting. She looked him up and down, her assessing gaze brightening into approval. "Yeah," she said, a slow smile spreading. "That works. You look less like a lost accountant."
"I feel less like one," he admitted, the words surprising him. The clothes were practical. They belonged here.
"Good." Her smile softened, then faded as she looked at the sphere he carried. The three fish had slowed, swimming in a slow, synchronized triangle. "We should head back. Start preparing for tonight."
He nodded. The weight of the ritual, of Agatha's words, of the splice, settled back onto his shoulders. But the new clothes didn't chafe. They moved with him as he turned to follow her back through the swirling, impossible market, the sphere of water and light and truth held tightly against his chest.
They moved with him as he turned to follow her back through the swirling, impossible market, the sphere of water and light and truth held tightly against his chest.
The journey back through the earthy passage was a silent contrast to the market’s riot. The blue bioluminescent fungus cast long, wavering shadows. Willow walked ahead, her basket now heavy with their acquisitions, her footsteps quiet on the damp stone. Kenji’s own new clothes, the soft grey henley and sturdy trousers, didn’t rustle like his old suit; they moved with him, a whisper against his skin.
He watched the sphere. The three silver fish had resumed their independent, meandering paths.
Emerging into the cool, clear air outside her cottage felt like surfacing from a deep dive. The familiar scent of pine and damp earth was a relief. Willow pushed the hidden door in the shelves inward and they stepped back into the warm, cluttered chaos of her home.
The quiet here was different. It was the quiet of held breath, of a space waiting. She set her basket on the table with a soft thud, the jars clinking.
“Home again,” she said, her voice too bright. She began unloading with a swift, practiced efficiency. The screaming onions went into a hanging wire basket. The jar of seventh-wave eelgrass was placed reverently on a shelf already crowded with such things. The parcel of boar rib was tucked into what he could only assume was a cold-box that hummed with a faint, inner frost.
He stood there, the sphere of liquid in his hands feeling suddenly alien and heavy. He didn’t know where to put it. It wasn’t a grocery. It was a question.
“Just set it there, for now,” Willow said, noticing his hesitation. She pointed to the center of the heavy wooden table, cleared of breakfast dishes. “It needs a stable surface. It won’t roll.”
He placed it gently. It settled on the wood without a sound, a perfect, shimmering globe. The tiny fish inside darted, agitated by the movement, then slowed. They began tracing a slow, synchronized circle.
She moved around her space like water flowing steadily, each action purposeful and unforced. She put the kettle on the hob, swept a few stray herbs into her palm, wiped the counter with a cloth. He wanted to help, to fold himself into this domestic rhythm, but his limbs felt locked. He was an observer here, a variable in an unsolved equation.
“I can assist,” he offered, taking a step toward the empty basket.
“No, I got it,” she said, waving him off with a smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes. “You just sit down. You did all the carrying, which was great, thank you very much.” She took the basket from him and hung it on a hook by the door.
He retreated to the daybed, the spot that was becoming his. He sat, the worn cushions giving beneath him. One thing he noticed right away was she was very polite. Everything about her was politeness and kindness. The way she’d thanked Glimmer the vendor, her patient explanation to Gerald about his onions, her “thank you very much” just now for merely carrying a basket. And he’d been here, being a brooding jerk the entire time.
Now that he had a moment to reevaluate his own existence in this weird magical plane, the starkness of his behavior shame clanged inside him. Twenty-four hours ago he had been in Tokyo. He was a university professor. He was logical. Sure, his family had magic, but it wasn’t something he engaged with; it wasn’t something he ever thought he possessed. And now, for Agatha to imply that the splice wasn’t a mistake, that the magic had chosen him…
The idea didn’t compute. It didn’t resonate.
And then the crow’s feather burned in his pocket.
It wasn’t a heat of combustion, but a sudden, sharp awareness, a pulse that synced with the dull ache of the brand on his chest. He took it out, the silky black vanes cool against his fingers, and set it on the low table next to his open notebook. He looked at it again, the impossible shimmer along its edge, the faint hum it seemed to emit into the quiet room.
She was watching him. He could feel her gaze from across the room, a gentle pressure. The kettle began its low whistle.
She poured the water, the sound a domestic anchor. She brought over two mugs, the steam curling in the afternoon light. She handed him a chipped ceramic mug, the same one that had constantly warmed his hands before. Its surface was glossy, painted with clumsy stars.
“Here,” she said softly.
He took it, the familiar warmth seeping into his palms. She settled onto the floor across from him, leaning against a stack of books, her own mug cradled close. She took a sip, then looked at him over the rim. Her wild hair was a halo in the slanted light from the window.
“Penny for your thoughts?” she asked.
The question was so simple, so achingly normal. It undid something tight in his chest. He stared into his tea, then at the feather, then at the sphere on the table where the three fish swam their endless, inscrutable loop.
“I am thinking,” he began, his voice rough, “that I have been rude. And that I owe you an apology.” He looked up, meeting her gaze. “My reality has been dismantled. But that is not your fault. You have shown me… extraordinary kindness. While I have been…” He searched for the word.
“Scared?” she offered, her voice gentle. “Angry? Confused?”
“All of the above,” he admitted. The confession felt like lifting a weight. “I have treated this as a problem to be solved. A flaw in a theorem. Not as… a lived experience.” He gestured vaguely at the room, at her, at the truth-fish sphere. “You have lived with this—with the consequence of your spell, with my presence—with grace. I have not.”
Willow considered this, sipping her tea. “You got pulled through a hole in the world into a stranger’s house,” she said finally. “I’d be pretty pissed too. Grace is easy when you’re the one who made the mess.”
“But you didn’t,” he said, the realization sharp. “Not according to Agatha. According to her, the magic acted with intention. A… correction.” He picked up the feather again. It hummed against his skin, a low, persistent frequency. “This. It feels like a tuning fork. Striking a note only I can hear.”
“What note?” she asked, leaning forward.
He closed his eyes, focusing past the hum, into the brand on his chest. “A question,” he said. The words felt dangerous, like admitting a weakness. “It’s asking a question I don’t know how to answer.”
The sphere on the table gave a soft, internal pulse. The water glowed faintly, illuminating the grain of the wood around it. The three fish stopped their circling. For a single, suspended second, they aligned, nose-to-tail, forming a perfect, shimmering triangle at the heart of the globe.
Then they broke apart, resuming their lonely, intertwining paths.
Willow’s breath caught. She looked from the sphere to him, her eyes wide. “It reacted to you,” she whispered.
Kenji stared at the water, at the tiny, contained universe. Agatha’s words echoed: When you’re ready to see what truly binds you… drink deep.
He wasn’t ready. The fear was a cold, solid thing in his gut. To see the shape of the splice, to understand the intention behind it—that was a truth that might not set him free. It might bind him here forever.
“The ritual,” he said, his voice firmer now, clinging to the logic of a solution. “The Caladh Dionach. We have the components. We proceed with breaking the tether. That is the agreed-upon course of action.”
Willow watched him for a long moment, her expression unreadable. She nodded slowly. “Okay,” she said, but it sounded heavy. “We proceed.” She set her mug down and stood up, brushing off her skirt. “The ritual works best at the hinge of the day. Not quite night, not quite day. Dusk.” She glanced out the window at the still-high sun. “We have a few hours. I should prepare the space. Grind the components.”
He stood as well, the need for action, for forward motion, pulling him up. “What can I do?”
She looked at him, then at the truth-fish sphere, pulsing softly on her table. A symbol of a path not taken.
“You can choose,” she said simply. “You can help me grind the eelgrass into paste. Or you can sit with that.” She nodded toward the sphere. “You can decide if you’re brave enough to look.” She turned and walked toward her cluttered workbench, leaving him standing in the middle of the room, caught between the solid certainty of the recipe and the liquid, shifting unknown in the glass-like sphere.
The crow’s feather on the table hummed, a persistent, vibrating question against his silence.