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Chapter 10

Othello woke up to the nastiest hangover he'd ever had... but also to bacon. That last bit was really the only thing that made Ezras' presence forgivable. Or even tolerable for that matter. The man's whistling was like an ice-pick between the eyes.

He threw off a blanket, presumably made of 100% brillo, and followed his nose out of the tiny cabin into the campgrounds of the wolves.

Ezra growled. "Come eat."

Othello all but pounced on the offered plate, trying to shovel the sizzling bacon and eggs into his mouth before they could burn his fingers.

Ezra kept the food coming, clearly used to caring for monstrous appetites.

After finishing the plate, Othello realized someone was speaking to him. "Have you completed your task?"

He'd forgotten all about that! To "Manifest" something...

"Oh!" He reached again for that feeling. His Big voice. His Power. But the world seemed to be tilted again. A sense of absence and loss distracting his focus.

"Some Shaman," Elizabeth scoffed, sauntering up and spitting her chew. "Haunted by spirits all the time, but forgets all about that over boy-trouble? Heh." She smirked, chewing loudly. "You talk in your sleep."

"Sorry? I wasn't listening," Othello said, pretending to stare in shock. "I'm just amazed that such a cute face bypasses "mannish" into downright trollish when it chews tobacco..."

At that, Elizabeth began a brisk, steady march in his direction. The psychotic rage was still reddening her features when she was tipped face-first into the mud.

"Ah! There it is!" Othello bit back the laughter. "I figured it wasn't hiding very far away!" He tapped two fingers on the ground, coaxing the grotesque, little hand from Liz's ankle to come closer. "This counts, right?" He asked

"Sure does, but..." Ezra was backing away at a brisk pace .

Othello followed his gaze to the changing, half-human form of Elizabeth. Crouched and preparing to pounce.

"Ez?!" Othello scrambled to his feet.

"You made this problem," Ezra chided. "First rule of Magic: You deal with your own fall-out. Besides! This'll be a good showing of what you can do on your own!"

"Fuck." Othello gestured towards the hand and felt the connection realize. At that point, however, he wasn't sure what to do next. "Fuck!"

That pause to swear was Elizabeth's opening to strike. She leapt at him, jaws open, fangs glinting. "FUCK!!"

He didn't think. He saw only teeth. But since he was still connected to the grope-monster when he threw a wild punch, it was Lefty that struck the rampaging werewolf.

It was a bit too late, though. As the she-wolf went flying, a flailing paw-hand caught Othello across the chest, almost dumping him into the fire.

He managed to barely tumble himself out of the way of the flames, landing next to it, instead. His eyes locked with those of the salamander, startled, but still sheltering in the flames. In that moment of shared sensation, fright-to-fright, he became aware of a dim connection. He seized it, gesturing with his right hand.

The Salamander's eyes widened as the connection was fully established. The feeling of being connected to two spirits felt like holding a pair of dumbells. If Lefty was a five-pounder, this tiny lizard was at least 15. And hot. Like he'd picked up one of the stones from the flames by squeezing it between his temples.

So he threw it as hard as he could at the beast already bearing down on him.

Though all of this was limited to the inside of his skull, it manifested as a compacted ball of embers that splashed over his assailant's face, filling all of her tender sensory organs with burning detritus.

She fell away, yowling. When she went down, he used his left hand, fingers directing Lefty over her, visualizing hands multiplying, which suddenly became so. He flipped his hand over and made a downward, gripping motion. The Lefty(s) followed suit, dropping to restrain the wolf's limbs, and one for each of her mouth and nose, sealing them shut.

Elizabeth panicked. She not only thrashed physically, but her power thrashed behind his eyes, rattling his brains. It wasn't "pain", per se, but more like the sense of weight, as if he was wrestling her himself. His concentration was slipping. It was getting harder to keep the visualization. Lefty was starting to tire as well. He just needed a moment!

"BE STILL, DAMMIT!"

Whatever power he held over spirits connected to the bits of Elizabeth that were "wolf" and each such cell seized up, dropping her flat to the ground. Whatever power he'd tapped to do all of this drained away all at once. His connections evaporated. He was aware of the ground flying up at him, aware of the impact, and aware that he suddenly couldn't move. Yet he was wide awake, so it wasn't quite the seizure he'd had before, but this wasn't much better.

He couldn't move his head, or eyes to see Ezra leap over him, but he saw the shadow. This also meant he couldn't watch the ensuing fight between the two wolves, which was something of a blessing: It didn't sound pretty.

He was soon turned over and examined by a bloodied Ezra. Even as Othello watched, deep, nasty claw marks were fusing shut. Othello noticed that this old man, though bowed with age, was rather solidly built. A bit like a mini gorilla. Or an orangutan on protein powder.

"Impressive! Damned impressive!" Ezra cheered, sitting Othello up. "Commanding a full spirit AND a fully manifested nimbus? And with no training?" He laughed. "Yes, you have talent!"

Othello felt his limbs again. It was like his body was a garment he was suddenly too small for, but he was filling himself out again. Enough at least to sit up.

"What the hell was that?" Othello coughed. "I've never lost it like that... It always felt like I might, but..."

"Before I can answer that," Ezra said,, sitting back to regard Othello. "I think it's time you understood what you're dealing with..."

* * *

To understand spirits, one must also understand three things:

The Other Side.

Akasha.

Prayer.

The Universe is a coin. Humanity lives in the Material Side. The Flesh. The "Real" World. This is the Side we call "Heads". You know this World, or think you do at least. It is the world we interact with.

But this Side is sculpted by Man. It has been Named, deconstructed and rebuilt a hundred times over. It is easy to forget what is underneath all that, and what was here first. Turn the coin around, and perhaps you expect a monument to human ingenuity and togetherness.

But instead you'd find a polish so fine that it acts more as a tiny mirror. You see what is behind you. You see what is around you. More importantly... you see what was there first.

That is the Other Side of Reality. The mirror of not only what is, but what was. And so too, are the beings that roam there. Happenings here colors the Akasha on the other side. Resonating with it so that it mimics processes and objects here.

A spirit begins its existence as Akasha. A convalescence of energy. One so far outside of the spectrum of what most can witness as to create an alternate version of reality that exists simultaneously and very presently with our own. Akasha acts as both matter and energy of the Other Side.

Light a candle, and on the Other Side, a tiny bit of Akasha becomes hot, and produces light, no bigger nor substantial than the flickering flame from our Side. A larger flame makes more flame-attuned Akasha.

This is not enough to birth a spirit. The second piece of the equation is persistence or impact. A flame that never goes out, and never moves from a place may create a tiny, fragile sprite. A yearly inferno may create more, or bigger entities, but only in that place, in that window of time. The Akasha concentrates, instead of dispersing, in an effect that defies our laws of physics. Fusing in a reverse action of cellular-division. Forming a core. A beating heart. A sprite.

The sprite is driven on the need to acquire more Akasha. But can only acquire that with which it resonates. The flame-sprite can feast upon heat, and light. Perhaps from a warm stove. Perhaps from sunshine. An incinerator may suit it, but so too might a catastrophic house fire. As well, one spirit will gleefully consume another with which it can resonate. It cares nothing for where it might gain the Essence of Flame, but it will seek it, or seek to make it.

And so, they wish to influence our Side.

However, our Side of Existence has reversed laws of nature. A spirit who crosses the Shroud begins to diffuse. Literally begins to dissolve on our Side of the coin. They are not matter. They contain themselves on will and identity alone. These too become harder to maintain as their constructed forms break down. And so, they require the acknowledgement and validation of others to persist.

Enter humans. We who define and name every phenomena we encounter. We who callously use, diminish, replenish and replace. Early man has always struggled to understand the world around him. It is what sets us apart from other animals. The spirits have learned how to use this. They appear to us in brief moments, frightening, or luring, or bargaining with us to feed and nurture them. In return, they offered us protection and blessings. As we acknowledged them, they gained a bit of permanence in our World. They took on forms we could recognize. They became the unicorns, the dragons, the sirens, the angels, and yes, the gods that man writes about to this day. The primal gods planted seeds of their Akasha in us, that we may resonate with them, and better serve their needs. Spurred our adaptations that differentiate us in ultimately superficial ways. All humans share this trait, but some influences are more visibly stronger in some than others. But all are equally influenced, nurtured and endangered by the spirits by default.

And so, early man became honorary spirits. The seeds mingled with other forces within to become what we call souls. Becoming spiritual beings that could persist in the World of Matter. As humanity spread, and varied, so too does the Akasha within us. We share it when we love, and lash out with it when we hate. We express it in what makes us happy. And when we run low, we become sickly and depressed.

And when we die, it is freed of the body. Many a spirit is happy to snatch a soul from a warm body. Many a spirit is happy to kill for an appropriate soul. And so monsters roam. Succubi seduce. Ghouls scavenge. Demons deal. Wendigos hunt.

Prayer is not only the acknowledgement of a spirit, but an offering. Whatever your ritual, you pour a bit of your own Akasha out for the spirits. You channel it through your sacred objects and into that which you worship. Your phone thanks you for the love you show it outside of mere use. Your bed appreciates being made. The killer's knife recognizes the offering of blood and souls it receives from its wielder.

That is what spirits are.