Coins for the Keeper

         The alley was sickly moist with the aroma of water and trash. Fresh rain, marked by the filth of the pavement, washed brown paper cups and grey wads of tissue into a stream of churning grime. Along the walls, frayed blue tarps and torn brown blankets that once sheltered the sick, old, and forgotten now lay like dead lumps against the wall. The impoverished have long since left it deserted. Even the residents of the neighbored buildings no longer use the dumpsters and city workers refuse to service the alley. For them, rational thoughts do not explain the raspy sobs or the strained cries that echo through the brick chamber.

         Manfred knelt down and rolled out a brown leather wrap onto the wet pavement. Tools of his trade clanked and chimed with anticipation. He raised a small elaborate cross to his lips, whispered a prayer, and slid it into the laces of his hiking boot. His rough, aged hands gently ran across the vials of dark powders and cloudy liquids. After careful consideration he plucked a smooth, glass bottle with a silver cap and held it up to the small ribbon of morning light shining into the alley. The liquid darkened in the beam. From light yellow to dark brown, and then finally it turned black. Manfred nodded and tightened his lips as he put the vial back in the leather wrap and stood up.

         People from the street cast curious glances as they carried on their morning commute. While they wore summer shorts and lightly colored shirts, Manfred dressed like a weathered army veteran in tan, military-grade cargo pants, a flak jacket, and a grey buzz-cut head. Some people slowed and stared with mouths partially open, while others quickly ignored him. They watched him disappear into the alley and went on with their lives.

         The city behind him, Manfred stepped into a world of pipes and brick, rusty stairs and barred windows. Sounds from the city echoed and distorted through the alley, giving the heavy air a mourning choir of voices. Manfred’s hand eased into his right thigh pocket and pulled out two coins. The coins were polished, but worn and old. Even in good light, Manfred could barely depict the Byzantine faces on the ancient gold. They would be enough for his purpose.

          “Hello”, Manfred greeted as he looked down the stretch of asphalt and cement tiles. Although the revered books of his training have specified the proper methods to make contact with the spiritual realm, a simple salutation was often enough. The reply came a moment later.

          “Help me!” The strained, whispering voice was carried through the air on a living breath that spoke from directly behind Manfred and drifted down the alley into silence. Manfred’s neck stubble felt cold and he calmed the natural fear by concentrating on the unnatural cold in the air. He breathed out a wisp of vapor and cleared his throat.

          “Are you lost?” He called out. He could hear something moving like a thick blanket dragged across the ground. Rain puddles rippled and splashed as the sound moved closer to Manfred. Instinctively he walked backward until he felt the brick against his hard jacket.

          “So hungry…so hungry…please help me!” The pleading whisper became a coarse hiss as the dirty puddles splashed closer to Manfred. His casual methods became ancient techniques as Manfred could feel a loss of the situation. The spirit was powerful; the chakra vial had turned black. He should have returned with more of his Order, but he was not supposed to be here in the first place. He wouldn’t be the first to embrace death in a cold alley. He tightly clenched the two coins still in his palm. Their worn edges cut into his skin.

          “Spirit, bound by nature or law, I command you back!” It was a general call, defenseless in nature, but he held his voice with confidence. Words of his teacher flooded into his mind. A light is powerless in battle except to find your enemy lurking in the dark.

         The splashing stopped. Only a strained breathing sound came from the spot a few feet away.

          “Spirit. What do you hunger for?” Manfred could feel the cold blood trickle down his palm and drip off. Although the alley was still gathering moisture from the previous rain, Manfred could hear each drop of blood land in the red, cloudy pool by his foot. He wondered if the spirit was equally attuned to this life fluid collecting in its presence. His heart started to race and he could barely focus on the cold air enough to ignore the blood sacrifice he inadvertently offered.

         At that moment, the crackling breath of the spirit seemed to quicken. The splashing spirit pounced at Manfred and the force knocked him to the ground. Before he could get up a crushing wet weight pressed into his chest and pinned him to the cement. Manfred struggled to get free but the weight was so great that he couldn’t even breathe.

         He was amazed how fast the spirit overtook him. In his youth this would have been a challenging intervention, but he would not have been harmed. Like most of his aging peers he had taken a leadership role, but Manfred could not ignore his passion for spiritual contact. It was this burning desire that created his duel life that secretly defied the will of the Order.

          “HUNGER!” the spirit cried in a shrieking voice that filled the alley and startled people on the streets.

         As pressure on his chest spread to his face and behind his eyes, Manfred fought to stay alert. He tossed the blood specked coins and reached for the cross on his boot. He could touch the smooth polished silver, but his hand could not grip it. The cold breath of the spirit froze his cheeks with each exhale. As his consciousness faded into memories, he could recall his old teacher reciting Latin prayers in the conservatory. When he noticed Manfred’s attention wandering to the fluttering monarch butterflies on the lilacs he laughed. How are you able to listen to an old man’s prayers when you can see the answers right in front of you? Manfred thought this to be the musings of an old man, but in these final moments, they meant everything. Manfred drew in a final breath against the pain of the spirit weight.

          “I can stop the hunger!” He yelled, although it was more of a quick exhale with words. The pressure lifted. “Forever.” Manfred shouted between deep breaths.

          “Forever?” The ghostly voice slowly cracked. Frozen puffs of breath still inches from Manfred’s face. The putrid smell of garbage and the sickening journey into consciousness gripped his stomach and chased vomit up his throat and into his mouth. The reflex followed and Manfred spilled the contents of his breakfast onto a pile of wet plastic bags.

          “FOREVER!?” the spirit sounded angry as it backed away. Manfred nodded and wiped his mouth and chin. At this moment he was unable to think of escape, prayer, or even his next words. His mind had stopped spinning and he checked himself for injuries beyond nausea. He was thankful there were none. The spirit did not hunger for blood. It was merely frustrated.

         Manfred reached into his right thigh pocket and remembered the coins he tossed aside earlier. He knelt down and pulled the cross from his boot. His tools were further away than he liked and he would need to work with only his wits and training for now.

         The spirit splashed again toward Manfred. He held out the cross and tried a Christian prayer in Latin. The spirit slowed, but did not stop. Manfred stepped back again, deeper into the alley, and recited a more unorthodox Wiccan spell. The spirit stopped. Manfred’s muscles relaxed slightly and he continued the charm.

          “So hungry. Help…” The spirit splashed in the puddle filled with diluted eggs and toast. There was a slurping sound and Manfred could see small clumps of vomit disappearing from the ground. He held back the urge to unintentionally feed the spirit more. At that point he understood.

          “You are a Preta?” Manfred spoke to himself more as realization than as a question. This was only the second Preta he had ever encountered of the hundreds of spirits in his career. His fears melted into pity as he remembered the stories of Preta his teacher once told. The Preta and Gaki are the punished ghosts of selfish leaders. They are denied everything they once had and hunger only for the most repulsive things. Manfred knew how to release such an entity, but only after they have turned away from their own selfishness.

          “Forever!” The spirit wailed and splashed over beside a blue dumpster. Two coins spun through the air and landed at Manfred’s feet. The voice croaked a painful cough that ended in a groan and the sloshing puddles slowly made their way back to Manfred.

          “Yes, spirit, Karma has given you a form devoid of fire, water, and earth. You hunger filth because you were selfish with your life.” Manfred compassionately smiled, picked up the coins, and showed them to the Preta. “These are for another spirit; I have what you need in my tool wrap”. Feeling proud of his work, but not wanting to prolong the tormented soul, he pocketed the coins and swiftly moved to get his wrap.

         At the mouth of the alley, Manfred rolled the vials, charms, and parchments into the leather roll. There were no markings on the outside and it looked like a simple, brown camping bundle. He tucked it under his arm and looked up at the sky. The warm sun on his face comforted him and he closed his eyes for a moment before heading back into the cold, sodden alley.

          “Hello?” Not knowing where to look, he called out to the spirit as he did before.

          “Help me!” Once again he heard the strained voice close to his face.

         Manfred felt heavy in his cold, wet clothes and he was physically and mentally exhausted. With great discipline he focused on the warmth of the sun he experienced moments ago. He needed a strong psyche for the task before him. Alchemy was not for the impatient.

          “Preta, you must do as I say, or I will not help you. Understand?”

          “Help me! HELP ME!” The spirit moved closer, its breathing sounding like a hand saw chewing back and forth through a soaked branch.

          “Back spirit! Remember forever!” Manfred shouted and began to repeat the Wiccan spell he used before. The spirit stopped.

          “Forever, hunger, forever! HUNGER!” it growled and threw itself across the alley striking the metal bars of a guard rail. Murky puddles danced to the sound of ringing metal and glass poured onto the street from a couple nearby windows. The sound was deafening, but Manfred was sure no one was brave enough to investigate. As the numbness in his ears subsided, he could hear the spirit weeping from the staircase. Shadows in the alley shifted and twitched as they echoed the agony of the cursed specter.

         Manfred knelt on the slimy pavement and unrolled his leather wrap. The moisture would damage the parchment, but he would not be distracted from his art. His teacher would have agreed. Much like Manfred, the old sage would eagerly cross the ancient laws just to save a soul. If a part of me is saved with the spirit, then that part cannot be judged by Gods or men. His words spoke openly about the most sacred of the Order’s convictions. Such is believed that attempting to save a soul invites the same curse upon the savior. Only by a purification ritual in the temple of the Order will the mortal’s soul be cleansed. Manfred found the words of his teacher strengthening and he felt a rejuvenated conviction to save the wretched Preta.

         The vials were well marked, but in the dark, wispy alley, he worked strictly from experience. The quantities were meaningless, for the ingredients were only a vessel of the elemental powers they represented. Properly prepared, even a dried salamander could hold a demon at bay. In alchemy, each spiritualist is unique. Instead of trying to keep wolf’s fur or watermelon seeds, Manfred used Dragon Bone, a powder of crushed volcanic stone from the sea floor. It was infused with Earth, fire and water elemental essences and when mixed with feather dust from an eagle, held as much potential as any concoction. As he shook the fine particles onto a dried banana leaf, he could feel the energies passing through his hand and into the sachet. For a moment he studied the dusty gray lump. With a satisfied nod he put his hand on the corner of the leaf and considered the fold.

          “Preta, what do you feel when you eat?” He shouted.

          “Ohhh hunger, it burns!” The spirit slid closer. “You help. Now!”

          “Not now, halt, or it will burn forever!” Manfred did not need to look over to the spirit to know where it was. Its energies were becoming attuned to his own. Like a living fog with sparkling swirls of light, Manfred could sense the distorted figure standing in the alley. He could see with his mind’s eye a tall skeleton wrapped in flesh with a bulging round belly. Its proportionally long limbs and neck resembled a poorly crafted puppet.

         Manfred reached down and wiped the condensation from his compass. He turned the leaf slightly and folded the southern point leaf first. He recited a prayer with each fold, turning the leaf each time to face the south. Finally he raised the bundle to his mouth. Phlegm and saliva spattered onto the tight parcel as he coughed until his vomit-sore throat gagged, and then chunky bile coated the bundle. This last step was purely for flavor. The flavor a Preta could not refuse.

          “HUNGER!” The phantom roared and charged. Manfred tossed the packet onto the ground and leaped back onto and landed on his backside. The spirit moaned and smacked with each bite. “So good. More!” Still swallowing he reached out to Manfred and pleaded, “More?”

          “Tell me your name.” Manfred rose to a crouched position and scurried to his tools.

          “More!”

          “Your name!”

          “I am Preta!” It yelled and charged Manfred, stopping just short of his body and breathing violently into his face. “More!”

          “Preta, feel the elements in your belly, they make you stronger. You will remember your name!”

         The long deformed fingers of the ghost rubbed the swollen ball of an abdomen. As it looked down at its stomach, the spirit tilted its head in curious reflection.

          “I.. I.. I am Harold…” He lifted his head and held his hands up again, pleading for more. His face was sunken and forlorn.

          “Harold? I am Manfred. I will now make you another sachet.” Manfred sat again and poured Dragon Bone onto a soggy leaf and folded it in the same manner. This time he only spit on the packet and gently placed it on the ground.

         Harold the Preta looked at it with less enthusiasm and more frustration.

          “Eat it. Now that you are healing, you don’t need filth.” Manfred instructed in a strong tone of a father. Never having a son, and having too many responsibilities to have an apprentice, helping this spirit seemed to be the closest to fulfilling the nurture instinct, a quality considered a weakness by most of the hardened Order.

         Harold picked up the leaf and slowly ate it at first, but as the powers of nature soothed his insatiable hunger, he greedily swallowed the rest.

          “More!” he mumbled through lumpy cheeks. His features smoothed and his pale, gray skin became as visible as any mortal. Tissue filled the gaps in his ribs and he stood taller with a new power.

         The two stared at each other in the ally with equivalent awe and fascination. Moments like this were rare in his line of work, and Manfred felt the same rush of pure jubilation that he felt when he was welcomed into the Order. On that day, almost four decades ago, he was transformed from a fearful boy running from the demons in his mind to an apprentice of the Fifth Order of the Stone. During his initiation, his heart raced madly as he ceremoniously stood facing the noble statue of Sir Agostino, the first Knight of the Order. To build his confidence, he mentally pledged never to disappoint the memory of the ancient warrior forever etched in stone. The Twelve Elders dressed in long brown robes bearing the white hammer crest of the Fifth Order gathered in a circle to determine his teacher, and therefore what discipline would be his life pursuit. Having showed promise in spiritual channeling and demon lore, Manfred hoped this would earn him a place as a student of summoning. However, any discipline would be better than getting rejected and forced to study for another year. Such refusals were getting more common as the aging Elders took on fewer students. As part of the ritual, Manfred called out to the circle of sages for a mentor. In the presence of the ancient statue, the voice of every teacher volunteered. Unanimous calling was an honor seen by few apprentices. It was intensified by the consensus that his teacher would be the Lord Magus himself, whose warm smile and confidence- inspiring gaze filled Manfred with the greatest joy he could remember. With enduring devotion he vowed to follow his teacher and the discipline of alchemy. Years later, Manfred stood in an alley, his smile growing wider as he saw Harold smiling back.

         Like the young naïve days of his youth, Manfred lost his concentration in the power of the moment. He moved closer and reached out to touch the ghostly figure. This was completely against the laws of the Order, but he had already crossed that line by using his own life-force to call the elements. In pragmatic haste, he carelessly bled on the sachets from his palm wound. His great teacher’s counsel gently faded from his mind. If you offer body to spirit you will channel its words. If you offer spirit to body you will bind its power. These natural opposites can grant us our power. Ignore these natural laws of life and death and the cursed will consume your power for its own desires. The words of an old sage seemed overly cautious. As the spirit grew in strength, Manfred did not fear the warnings of the ancient ways.

         Harold looked back and forth from Manfred’s outstretched hand to his smiling face. With a sinewy finger he lifted his hand firmly toward Manfred.

          “I am still hungry!” his words broke the stare and Harold angrily stomped over to the wrap of tools.

          “I’ll make more, Harold.” Manfred spoke with obvious disappointment as he stepped back to his vials and started his careful preparation. “Tell me what you did to deserve this hunger?” Manfred was confident the healing was almost done. Once Harold felt regret for his greedy life, his death would be complete and his spirit would move on.

         There was a cold silence that caused Manfred to stop. “Harold?” He questioned. Again silence. Manfred put down the clumpy vial of Dragon Bone and felt around for another vial. In the darkness he had forgotten to check the chakra. Measuring the spiritual dam blocking the flow of the living world is a powerful tool when saving a soul. Although Manfred has been working on instinct the last few jobs, he suddenly felt he may be mistaken. He looked up to see Harold’s face. A thin leather-stretched skull with two black prunes for eyes. His lips were curled back and full of rage.

          “Deserve? I don’t deserve this! I remember now.” His voice was strong and aggressive. His long finger pointed at Manfred. “I was generous and they always wanted more. MORE!” Harold knelt down facing Manfred. He placed his other hand on the tool wrap and nodded. “Make me more. NOW!”

          “Harold, listen to me.” Manfred lifted the chakra vial to his eye and looked toward the sunlit street; there was no light shining through the deep black liquid in the silver capped vial.

         A strong hand gripped his wrist causing him to drop the vial. It fell to the ground and shattered on the cement. The powerful grip shot bolts of pain through Manfred’s arm and he could feel and hear the cracking of bone. He could sense a presence entering his thought.

          “Make more and you live. Make enough for me to get revenge on the mortals that did this to me and I only break your arm” Harold spoke the words, but they echoed in Manfred’s mind like a chorus of resentment. Manfred nodded and let out a weak cry when the Preta’s hand released its grip.

         His right hand resting limply on his leg, Manfred pulled the ingredients he needed to finish his task. He bit the lids off of each vial and poured the crude mixture onto the leaf, spilling half in the process.

          “Do it the same, you will not deceive me.” Harold warned, placing his hand on the broken limb.

          “You have eaten all my Dragon Bone; I need to make—awghh—the sachet from other ingredients.” Manfred focused on the truth of his statement and ignored fact that the mixture would be very unstable. The pain of his hand distracted his concentration and he took deep breaths to ensure he did not fail this time. “Once you run out, though, you will be back here—awghh—eating filth and wondering why you suffer.”

          “No, your help has taught me enough, I will stay stronger now, and feed on the souls I torture.” His smile widened past his teeth in a thin wrinkled slit like a corpse. “You will be my only exception, but you must hurry!” He slapped Manfred’s hand enough to invoke a tortured scream and crossed his long arms on his massive belly, hissing with laughter.

         With delicate accuracy of the discipline, Manfred single-handedly folded the corners in the ancient manner and placed the sachet on the ground. It was loosely wrapped and much larger than the previous packet. Manfred sat there and stared indifferently at the ugly creature across from him.

          “It is done, Preta.” Manfred stated flatly. In the cold, quiet alley, he could feel his racing heart punching into his ribs and liquid hot shock numbing his pain. He focused on his training to prevent his body from shutting down

          “No… I think it needs something else.” The thin slit of a smile stretched even further to reveal more brownish stained teeth. Harold opened his mouth and tilted his head. With a muffled snap, his jaw broke free of its hinges. Jerking and twisting his head, the Preta’s mouth became a ghastly maw. With a low throaty growl he lunged forward to devour Manfred.

         Time slowed as the adrenaline in Manfred’s body fueled his explosive reflexes. He plucked a piece of charcoal from his leather wrap and dived out of the way. Harold’s jaw swayed and bounced like a playground swing attached to his face as he spun around to attack his prey. Manfred scratched symbols in the cement and quickly mumbled his invocation. Bubbling from puddles and cold pavement, white smoke rose from the marks and drifted in circles around Manfred’s body. The alchemist kept scribbling until the mystic symbols completed a small circle with Manfred in the center.

         Harold rose tall and lifted his jaw until his teeth touched again. Like a senior adjusting his dentures, his mouth puckered and smirked until his face was back to its original ghoulish visage.

          “Dearest Manfred,” Harold teased, “your spells have no effect on me, as I have tasted your mortality.” Harold cautiously reached out into the swirling smoke. An arrogant smile crossed his lips as his hand passed through and grabbed Manfred by the shoulder. With an effortless toss, Manfred flew across the alley and rolled into the wall with a wet crack and a mortal cry.

         Shaking and bleeding, Manfred tightly gripped the crude writing tool and lifted his head so he could see the Preta. As if on its own power, his hand kept scratching smoky images into the ground.

          “Stop it!” Harold roared and crouched down. With a powerful jump he landed beside Manfred and kicked the man squarely in the chest. Popping bones and a splash of blood muffled his groan.

         Manfred’s hand kept scrawling through blood and smoke.

          “What spell is this? You expect to weaken me?” Harold looked at his palms. Like the symbols, white smoke rose off his body. His skin cracked and floated up like the ashes from a fire.

         Manfred choked and coughed as blood filled his punctured lungs. His body begged for release, but he maintained focus. He concentrated on the day he learned the Spirit Drain spell. It was a wet spring and flooding had completely washed away his freshly planted herb garden. To cheer him up, his teacher shared some of the more exciting spell lore. It was the risky type of magic that made better theory than application. Like a concerned father, he must have warned Manfred a dozen times, but in his wisdom, he also recognized the lessons that could be taught by chaotic magic. Your link to the spiritual world makes you vulnerable to enchantments, even your own.

         His scribbling hesitated for a second and then continued with renewed assurance.

          “Hunger! I will stop you!” Harold fell to his knees and crawled toward the final sachet of elemental power. His body was almost translucent and he cried out with each creeping inch. With the last of his energy he sprung onto the bundled leaves and started to eat it off the ground. The Preta stopped and howled in pain. “It burns!”

         Manfred watched as the Preta burst into a stringy cloud of flowing ash. Through gasps and hoarse cries it twisted and jerked with rage. White light pierced the remaining foggy skeleton and Harold fell into a stunned silence. The light flowed from the specter, illuminating the alley in a blinding radiance. A soft breeze broke up the vapor and no sign of the Preta remained. Manfred’s hand dropped the charcoal stick.

         The peace of death covered Manfred with a calming, dense blanket. His soul was bound to a Preta and he failed to save it. According to the old text, he too would wander the alley as a lost soul until a member of his Order saved him. He considered the last time he faced a Preta.

         He was with his teacher when he first saw a Preta. It was a female spirit that kept throwing glass bottles at them when it was finished drinking pungent wine. That Preta thirsted for spoiled wine, and the vineyard had many bottles. The owners used the phantoms ability to sniff out bad wine as a form of quality control. It was unfortunate that the vineyard had its best year and they could not satiate the creature. It destroyed the place looking for a bad batch. Battling the wine Preta, four of the Order had to be taken to the hospital, including the teacher of the Summoning discipline. They followed the rites by the book. It took the instincts of the Magus to know when to follow and when to improvise.

         Manfred could remember how calm his teacher was and he thought about his own peace. To save a soul you must first give up your own. Once you and the cursed are one, you will have the strength to save both. This may have been the source of many philosophical debates, but as Manfred thought about his past, he could see that the greatest of their Order did not fear death. To find peace in the face of damnation they had to overcome a part of their own mortality each time they stepped into a cemetery, vineyard, or alley.

As he looked around the sickly moist alley, he fumbled in his pocket and pulled out the two ancient coins. They were gifts from his master just a few years before he passed on. Many of the Lost were taken to the next life with the help of these two discs. He placed one on each eyelid and let his arm fall limp. His own would be the last soul he tried to save. Time to die in peace. Dust to dust, Manfred Rivera, foolish chaos wizard and Lord Magus of the Fifth Order of the Stone.