episode 7: Takara

I ended up at my local, sitting at the bar, my mind turning the visions in my head over and over. The beer appeared at my elbow, startling me, but it didn’t stop me from draining half of it in short order. The advantages of being a regular. Ruth gave me a knowing look from the other side of the bar. "Rough day?"

"Weird day," I responded. "Ever see shit you couldn’t explain?"

She snorted, "I work here," she responded, "that’s pretty much every Saturday night."

I gave her a laugh, thinking about the antics of the undergrads who congregated here on party nights and the creatures throwing snowballs in my backyard. Then the laugh went on a little too long and even I was disturbed by the edge in it. I forced myself to stop with another gulp of beer, and the laugh turned to a cough. Once I recovered, I managed a lame, "Yeah, true enough."

She gave me a hard look. "Jesus, David, what happened?”

"I dunno. Maybe it was just stress."

"Well, first round’s on me," she said, "but try to take it easy."

"Sure thing," I said.

My phone buzzed then — John. He was probably calling to remind me of our meeting tomorrow. I thought about picking up, trying to talk about the shit I’d seen with him, but the time where we’d been able to talk shit through like brothers had long since passed. Now, it was a toss-up on whether he’d attribute what I’d seen as a hallucination resulting from my decadent lifestyle or as an inevitable outcome from my consorting with witches. As I stared at my phone, a sense of dread filled me. Not just the mundane reality of familial conflict; but also with a profound sense of dislocation. The possibility that my brother’s ravings against the occult might actually have substance was not a realization that I cared for.

"I don’t think I’ve ever seen anyone stare at their phone like it was a dog gone rabid before."

I looked up to see an Asian woman, her hair caught in a ponytail, wearing an oversized leather jacket over a band t-shirt as faded as the jacket was well worn. Her eyes were black in the dim light of the bar, but with a gold rim at the outside edge of her iris that was almost luminous. I barked a laugh, "Close enough – it’s my brother."

"Ah, the joys of family. He’s gone been bitten?" She asked, a quirk of a smile on her face.

"Ages ago, perhaps in the womb, I think it must be slow-onset," I said. "He was always a little mad, but his symptoms are getting worse."

“Slow-onset, eh?" she smiled. "Huh, perhaps it’s more widespread than previously thought — it would explain a lot, you know, like my grandmother."

"Driven you to the hard stuff, has she?" I nodded towards the glass in front of her, filled with a few fingers of liquid with a lovely amber colour.

She took a sip. "Purely medicinal," she responded, "a prophylactic measure against infection."

"That’s very sensible, and what brand of antiseptic do you favour?"

"Bourbon - they have Bulleit here."

"Always a good choice, though I’m more of a scotch man myself, especially the Islay style."

She made a face. “Well, I can imagine that they would be exceptionally effective, what with that whiff of formaldehyde, but I prefer my drinks, well, drinkable. Still, I admire your commitment to your health."

I raised my beer, reached towards her, "To health."

She clinked my glass. "To health."

“So, at the risk of getting drawn into detailed descriptions of pustules and pox, what are your grandmother’s symptoms?"

"Well they, thankfully, don’t include a weakness for alliteration," she smiled.

"We all have our ailments," I said, "Or has your medicine prevented any infection?"

"Well, my doctor would label me a hypochondriac with the amount I drink. But since I don’t exhibit symptoms of either rabies or odious wordplay, I would argue the treatment is quite effective."

"Perhaps I’ll try it, lest I start making puns or worse — some days, the world seems filled with such horrors."

"A slippery slope. I try to drink enough to cure my grandmother and it can be taxing."

"Goodness, the crosses you must bear."

"Innumerable," she responded, and held out her hand, "Takara."

"David." Her handshake was firm, but odd, as though there were more bones in her hand than usual. And I felt something else when she touched me, though I didn’t know what. As if I knew her, had seen her before, it was strange. "So you local?" I asked. "I don’t recall seeing you here before."

She shrugged, "I get around the city, both work and play, haven’t been in this neck of the woods in years. I’m usually hanging in Kensington. My grandmother and I run a shop there."

"Cool, it’s great to see those businesses staying in the family — there’s always some rumour that a big box store will move in."

"Hah, grandmother would never allow it."

I raised my eyebrows. "She’d threaten the developers with rabies?"

Takara laughed, "Something like that. She has a great deal of influence in the neighbourhood."

"So she’s been there a while? Would I know the shop? I go down there quite a bit." I was thinking that I might get a discount, and well, maybe run into her again.

“Maybe. It’s a little traditional Chinese herbal shop."

"Ah, not my cup of tea."

"Nor mine in many ways," she responded, "but you know, it pays the bills."

"Well, that’s always important. God knows I’ve struggled with that at times."

"Is that why you got the free beer?"

"No," I laughed, "I got that because I’ve spent too much of my time here - thus the struggles. So of course, now that I can afford one, I get a free one."

"Struck it rich, have you?"

"Ha, no, just got a steady gig - so I’ll be able to concentrate on work, rather than looking for it."

"What do you do?"

"Writer," I answered, "Freelance stuff. Most of my work has been dull as dishwater corporate gigs, but for a change, I get to write about something interesting."

"Oh? What about the uses of alliteration in casual conversation?"

"No, no, that’s just a highly transmissible disease."

She paused, then swore under her breath, "Well," she said, "the only cure must be more medicine. But you seem to have had a shitty day, despite the onset of a regular paycheck. Can I get you another beer?"

I looked down at my glass, "Damn, that went down fast," I looked up at her, "I wouldn’t want to impose."

"Nonsense, I’m working on my karmic debt, not that I have any, of course, but I like to keep ahead of the game."

"Ounce of prevention, and all that."

"Exactly," she responded.

"Well, I wouldn’t want to impede your rebirth to a higher form." I said.

"How considerate of you," she grinned. “So, what is going on with your brother?"

"It’s not him, not really. I’ve just been dealing with some… weird shit. I think the articles I’ve been working on have been getting to me."

“So, what are they about? True Crime or something?"

"Sort of, Wiccan and witchcraft." She kind of froze then, staring at me. Licked her lips - it was funny. She had struck me as someone who’d be okay with the whole magic subculture. Most people frowned on it, of course, what with it being, technically, illegal. Of course, this was why my story had such traction - lure of the forbidden and all that. But most people agreed that the periodic crackdowns by police were essentially one constitutional challenge away from getting the law overturned "You don’t approve?"

"No, no," she objected. "Sorry, I was stereotyping. You don’t exactly look like one of those new age types — no crystals, no astrological embroidery. You surprised me."

I burst out laughing, "Good god, no. Not me! I mean, I find it fascinating and all, but I’m, you know, skeptical. I’ve heard all the stories, of course, but I just really think that the fear of magic is overblown."

"Until you started writing about it. Have you seen some spells?" She gave me a nudge then, her elbow to mine, and I was a bit startled to realize that we were suddenly sitting side by side, though I wasn’t sure when she’d moved to the stool next to me. Though maybe the fact that I’d downed the better part of two pints on an empty stomach since I’d arrived had something to do with this loss of focus. I certainly didn’t mind. I liked the way she smelt — something musky and animal about her.

"No, no…" suddenly I was no longer caught up in this conversation with an attractive woman in my local bar. That she had struck up the conversation seemed to hit me — yet another slightly odd occurrence stacked on top of everything else.

"What?" she asked.

"You… you wouldn’t believe it."

"Oh, I don’t know," she grinned, "I work in a traditional medicine shop in Kensington market. Let’s just say I have a more open mind about magic than most."

And suddenly it all came rushing out - that first encounter with the strange white bull and its effect on the fence, the subsequent visions, the sudden appearance of entrails, the creatures in my backyard... I had enough sense to keep my voice as low as the music and hubbub in the bar would allow, but she seemed to catch everything I said. Finally I was done. "I’m crazy, right?" I asked, "Someone’s pranking me?"

She shrugged, "Maybe, maybe not. This woman with the bull was at the Royal Winter Fair. Maybe they have something about her?"

"Jesus, you think she might be some sort of witch?"

"Or part of an elaborate ruse to prank you." She shrugged, "You tell me which is more likely."

"Ha, I don’t know which is worse."

She gave me a feral smile. "You might have to rethink your skepticism?"

"I’d have to rethink a lot of things," I replied, "And who’s got time for that? I’ve got deadlines, reevaluating my world view seems a little time consuming."

"We can’t have reality intruding on your writing."

"My boss isn’t so keen on such frivolities."

"But the boss is fine with you drinking on a weeknight."

"I thought we’d already established this, medicine," I hoisted my pint.

She signalled to the bartender and ordered a couple of shots over my half-hearted objections. "Absolutely," she hoisted her shot and indicated that I should respond in kind, "to medicine, right?" And we threw them back. I felt the effects of the alcohol almost immediately. Never a good sign. But then she patted my hand, hers warm and calloused, and I felt a thrill of excitement cut through the booze. "So I guess booze would count as traditional medicine, right?"

"It would, though Grandmother still frowns upon it." She shrugged, leaned on my shoulder, "But you won’t tell, right?"

I looked over at her, caught by her incredible eyes, her face close to mine. I swallowed, and her grin grew a little larger. "As long as you don’t tell my editor."

She settled back into her own seat, held out a hand, the feigned formality, "Deal." But as I shook her hand, some sensible part of my mind kept whispering about what my editor would be thinking. About how he’d torn a strip off of me for the article and that I had a very short deadline to fix things.

I leaned back in the barstool, and stared at the ceiling. "Fuuuuuck." I muttered.

"You gonna puke?" Asked Takara.

"Worse," I said, "I started thinking about work." I narrowed my eyes at her. "I blame you for bringing up my editor."

"Ah, no, you drunk. That was you."

"Now, now, there’s no need to go around casting blame. The editor was brought up, and so I think we must all bear responsibility." I said.

"My grandmother was also mentioned, yet you don’t see me having a meltdown," she retorted.

"Obviously you are made of sterner stuff than I."

"No shit."

"In any case, I should head home," I slurred, "but thank you for the drinks, and the shoulder to cry on."

“Well, do let me know how things go. Drop by the shop, I’m in there pretty much every day. It’s like my job or something. I’d really like to hear how things go," and again her hand was on mine, gave it a squeeze. My heart rate accelerated. "It’s too bad you have to go, though. It was shaping up as a fun evening." She gave me a most charming pout.

"As much as I hate to disappoint such a delightful companion, I suspect that my wit is about to be eclipsed by my drunkenness very shortly. I’ll buy you a shot or two next time, and hopefully be telling you about a special effects person who just moved into the neighbourhood."

She gave me a smile. "Perhaps, or maybe you’ll be telling me about your trip to Fillory."

"I’ll try to bring you back a souvenir. It’s been a pleasure, Takara."

"Likewise, David."

As I headed out, I was glad that I’d been able to find someone to listen as I’d spilled my guts about what had happened, as I tried to make it home before I spilt my guts from an excess of drink.

Photo credit: Judy-Beth Morris on unsplash