Whispered Prayers Read online

Whispered Prayers

  Cynthia D. Witherspoon

  Story © copyright Cynthia D. Witherspoon 2014

  Cover art: Playing with Smoke by Rachel Elaine; edited for cover use. Creative Commons.

  A note from the author:

  `

  It always begins with the wisps of a whispered prayer. A prayer filled with soft words that brushed against the tips of the candle’s flames as they cast a long light across the tools that were required. Sandalwood for earth, cinnamon for success, blue for knowledge. I smiled as I examined the table before me. No, not just a table anymore. It’s an altar.

  The bedroom that I had called my own for years had now been transformed into an unworldly place. The peeling wallpaper rolled downward in the same places, and the bookshelf overflowed with the tattered paperbacks that had been passed along until they found themselves here. Yet as I lit the candles, the incense, and poured the herbs into the small glass bowl that trembled in my hands, the shadows that were cast out made me forget the poverty of my surroundings. That was the true power of magic for me. It wasn’t the results that were wielded by my faith in the unknown. Nor was it the calm that overcame me at the mere thought of casting a spell. No; the true power came when I was able to believe in something more beautiful; more solid, than what I knew.

  My words slipped from my tongue and into the air with an ease that would have surprised my Christian parents. Raised to praise a vengeful God and beg forgiveness for my mistakes, I became disenchanted by their methods. Hate, anger…there are many ways to find religion. My grim smile played against my lips as images of the Baptist Church that I had served for years pushed against my memories.

  Our little Kansas town was notorious for its hold on Christianity. It had been raised up by the farmhands who settled here; fearful only that the rains wouldn’t come or that it would fall with such precision, the gold of their crops would rot beneath the soil. The Grace Baptist Church became their altar to prevent such failures. Men bigger than my daddy would fall to their knees and let their tears fall against the wood scarred from years of use. The women were no better; finding comfort from their beatings in the words of a Bible that condoned their abuse. No, not now. I need to focus. Got to think of what I’m doing.

  The small mirror danced with the reflection of the flames as I lifted it. The girl that stared back looked softer in its polished surface than I remembered. Thin bones made the lines of my face sharper in the daylight. But here, they were almost beautiful. The green eyes that I knew so well stared back as if examining the stranger I felt myself to be. The gaze that met mine startled me for a moment before the smile returned, and I began to whisper. The most dangerous kind; these whispered prayers. One must be careful what they wish for. What they want may not be what they can handle.

  “Gracious Goddess, please hear the words to thee. I come as a child to ask for the knowledge of lives unknown to me. The mirror is the gateway, the sandalwood is peace, the cinnamon is success brought to my plea. Show me lives that were lived before, so that I can learn the secrets buried deep within my core. With harm to none, and none to me, so mote it be.”

  Thrice to lock it, eyes to seek it. I labored my breathing as I focused on what I wished to see. The lives that I had lived before; the lessons that led me to the life of hardship that I was forced to endure this time around. My curiosity of reincarnation began the moment I learned that such a thing existed. What my parents called dangerous, I jumped at the chance to explore. The interest I’d acquired for the occult scared them. The fact that I was practicing magic would have caused their hearts to stop if they knew.

  I discovered magic three months before; drinking up all the knowledge that I could about the art. Books that were secreted in the hidden corners of my bedroom became my refuge as I memorized chants, the symbolism of runes, and the importance of words. My first spell had been a prosperity one; cast with shaky hands and a desperate heart. The words I spoke to the Goddess I didn’t know came from a place that I didn’t know existed. One where destitution met knowledge; where the rumblings of an empty stomach grabbed at my throat to choke them back. I ran on instinct that first time, and it worked. Not two days later, my father made his largest sale of wheat to a local grocery chain, and we had more food in the cabinets than I’d seen in over a year. The happiness of that day filled me and the thin bones lifted in the reflection to beam back a wider smile than before.

  Closing off my sight to the mirror, I took a moment longer to believe that it had worked just before the voice in my mind whispered back to me. Julie, child. Are you certain that you want to know?

  Nodding to nothing visible, I responded as I replaced the mirror and stood to close the spell. “Oh, yes. There’s so much to know. So much that I could change if I knew the answers to the questions that I seek. The past is good for that; finding answers I mean.”

  Some things were not meant to be known, child. Yet, it shall be as you wish. The voice faded as I closed the spell, collected the items, and breathed a happy sigh that my actions were sure to be a success.