On my inaugural day as a volunteer worker, I arrived at The Mystic Willow, "the village's one and only metaphysical supply shop", tardy but present, and was met by the enigmatic Sabina Ross.
With measured and purposeful strides, she guided me through the labyrinthine confines of all that is enigmatic and mystical.
Floorboards creaked beneath our feet like an ominous tune of subtle percussion, as though the very structure of the building was infused with the echoes of past visitors.
The air was thick with the intoxicating aromas of incense and myrrh, the walls adorned with a myriad of arcane and esoteric objects: crystal orbs, tarot decks, woven dreamcatchers and ancient tomes.
"I should have instructed you to cast your fishing lure," the temperamental woman said in a concise and authoritative tone. "Jack asked you to be here nice and early to assist with the delivery. He had to lift all those boxes by himself—a task that required considerable strength and two-person assembly—because the hired help turned out to be capricious, unreliable and unpunctual. I hope you are satisfied with your actions, or lack thereof, Mrs Lewis. My poor Jack. He had to spend the entire morning in bed, recovering from all the heavy lifting."
Yes, I am unfashionably late. I had promised to be punctual, even ahead of schedule, per Mr Ross' request. But, as I have yet to inform Daniel of the volunteering position, I had to wait until he left the cliff house before I could run around like a headless chicken to get here. On foot, as I still have a phobia of driving. A foot with a potentially broken toe.
"And before I get a shit ton of excuses about why you didn't show up, I don't want to hear it," she said, her stance in the doorway strong and unmovable. "This is where the goods are kept. Your job is simple: restock the shelves, organise the inventory, and help customers find what they're looking for, preferably with a smile on your face." She handed me a pen and a clipboard. "Here is a cornucopia of treasures to be replenished. Get started."
Clicking the top of the pen, I took the clipboard and surveyed the cluttered room.
My senses were immediately enthused by a profusion of suggestive scents: the sweet, earthy fragrance of botanical sticks, the musty tang of dust and the faint metallic hint of old coins and ancient jewellery.
Taking in the eclectic array of items on display, I gazed up at the dusty chandelier hanging from the ceiling, its crystals casting prisms of light on the walls and creating a beautiful kaleidoscope of shimmering colours.
Shelves sagged under the uncompromising weight of crystal orbs that gleamed like arcane eyes in the dim light.
Tarot decks, with cryptic symbols and arcane imagery, lay on the floor like forgotten treasures.
Artistically woven dreamcatchers, suspended from the ceiling like the slender threads of ethereal spiderwebs, twirled and swayed in the gentle breeze, and cobwebs draped like ghostly veils from the old, wooden furniture.
Despite the disarray, I could sense the potential of this space.
With a bit of tidying and organisation, it could be turned into a sanctuary for wisdom seekers, where people could find guidance and inspiration, explore the hidden realms of the subconscious, and connect with the more profound mysteries of the universe.
In the powderous peripheries of the storage room, I diligently restocked the shelves, arranging donated garments and footwear with meticulous precision.
I discarded the antiquated elixirs and herbal remedies and, with reverential care, unpacked the chests of crystalline wonders.
Carefully unwrapping a delicate garment from its ancient wrapping, I brushed my fingers over the soft fabric, marvelling at its delicate craftsmanship. It was a gown fashioned from silk and lace, with a flowing skirt and intricate embroidery.
I envisioned the noblewoman who had once adorned her graceful figure with this garment, her beauty radiant in the candlelit halls of a grand castle.
In awe of the beautiful gown, wondering if perhaps I should purchase it for myself, I hung it on the rack, where it would be displayed in the front of the shop for all to admire, then turned my attention to a collection of ancient scrolls, parchment pages worn and yellowed with the passage of time.
As I worked through hours of manual labour, I could feel Sabina's watchful eye on me. I knew she was a tough cookie, a no-nonsense kind of gal, but I was determined to do a good job. I wanted to prove myself to her and show her I was worthy of her time, energy and trust.
After three hours of breaking my back to haul boxes left, right and centre, my attire was soiled with soot and perspiration, and I was in dire need of sustenance.
However, as I surveyed the chaotic scene before me, I could not repress dejection.
In spite of my diligent efforts to organise the merchandise, I had made negligible progress.
"I need you to down tools." Sabina's voice pierced the silence like a siren's call. "Wash your face and get your ass out front. I am inundated with customers."
Before I headed to the front of the shop to help with the influx of customers, I splashed cold water over my face and gave myself a mental pep talk: I am not afraid to tackle the disapproval of villagers, no matter the circumstance, and I can engage in conversation, politely and professionally, without taking offence, for the sake of my volunteer position.
With a nervous knot in my stomach, I headed to the front of the shop, expecting to see a throng of customers eager to purchase our unique wares.
Instead, I spotted a lone individual browsing the selection of candle holders. And Sabina, who is "besieged by the avalanche of consumers" to the point she asked me to "down tools" and "help", is busy doing nothing behind the wax-covered altar, her eyes downcast on that ancient grimoire she is obsessed with.
Honestly, if I were brave, even in the smallest of measures, I would give that crazy old lady a piece of my mind.
"Welcome to the village's only metaphysical, apothecary and boutique," I said as I approached the female customer by the candlestick holders, and I never failed to notice Sabina's eyebrows furrowing in response to my sardonic introduction when she decided to look up from that silly book. "Where you can buy anything from peppermint tea, swaggering canes or a life-size cutout of Nicolas Cage."
In place of extending a hello to me, the female customer rudely waved a wall plaque in my face, its polished surface reflecting my startled expression. "Is it made out of cast iron or wrought iron?"
My lips pushed into a pout. "Is there a difference?"
"Yes." She looked at me as if I were dumb. "Wrought iron is heated and then manipulated with tools to remove impurities and improve its strength and ductility, whereas cast iron has to be melted and poured into a mould to create a desired shape."
Alright, smart arse. You can clarify your point without getting too close and breathing unpleasant odours on my face. "Well, if you are so well-versed with the nuances of iron, why must I assist you?"
"I should have known that you'd be useless." Her eyes flashed with fury, the pupils narrowing to slits. "I suppose you know nothing about the figurine, either."
I glanced at the item in question: an illuminated dragon geode figurine, emblazoned with eerie motifs and inscribed with the alchemical words "Solve" and "Ouroboros" cast in premium-grade resin. I am not privy to the figurine's intended purpose, for it just looked like any other ornament, but I am familiar with the subject of the Midgard Serpent of Norse mythology.
"That's Jörmungandr," I explained, perplexed by the particular piece of random knowledge. "He is the quintessence of chaos, destruction and catalyst." My head began to throb as I dug deeper into the recesses of my mind for more information. "He also symbolises the cyclical nature of life and death."
"The tale of rebirth?" Her snort bounced right off me. "Honestly, Olivia. Get with the program. It's just a stupid dragon. There is nothing meaningful about life after death."
A sudden paramnesia transported me to a scene before I could even think of responding to the rude cow.
In the dimly lit chamber of the unknown, I played chess with my husband, Daniel. The hand-crafted wooden board, raised by four intricate pillars, stood between us, a battleground for our minds.
The comfort of the wooden floor beneath my sprawled-out body contrasted starkly with the competitiveness of the game.
My opponent's voice was barely audible, a rasp of an indistinct whisper, but I could sense his magisterial presence keenly.
"He believed it," he said, his thumb tracing the dragon king's powerful armour of hand-carved scales. "He said that Jörmungandr is the bridge between two worlds, the guardian of the dead." His stare slowly lifted. "The protector of souls."
"And you?" I wondered, and he jerked one shoulder. "Do you think that a mythological creature is protecting those lost?"
He pondered momentarily, his eyes never straying from the wooden chess piece. "It's not about what I think," he finally deigned to reply. "It's what he believed. For me, that's all that matters."
As we moved our hand-carved dragon figurines across the hand-painted board, our fingers brushed lightly against each other like the fleeting graze of a butterfly's wing.
His touch invigorated me. I wanted to throw the game—that was becoming more of a dance of seduction rather than a bit of fun—and surrender to his waiting arms.
I sensed his smile. "Your gambit."
Carefully examining the chessboard, I considered my next move. I had several pieces in advantageous positions, but I was aware of my opponent's skill and experience. He was a formidable player. I needed to be prudent in my decision-making lest I commit an error.
After a few moments of contemplation, I moved the claw to the dragon queen's bishop four-square. My opponent acknowledged the move with a nod and placed the tail on the dragon king's fourth square.
My deft fingers dragged the dragon queen across the board with swift precision, setting up the checkmate. I grinned triumphantly, sure that he was done for, that I had won the game.
"Not quite." He relocated the claw to the dragon king's knight four square, and I had no choice but to rescue the dragon queen out of check. He then positioned one of the talons strategically to finalise the play. "Checkmate."
Damn it. I lost. My focus on checkmate had blinded me to the vulnerability of my own dragon king.
"My gamesmanship leaves much to be desired," I said sulkily, and he laughed. He had a deep, hearty laugh, the kind that came from the belly. It was contagious, and soon, I was laughing, too, despite myself. "I am struggling to come to terms with this defeat. I thought I had you this time. But no matter how hard I try, I can never outmanoeuvre you. You perpetually have the upper hand."
"What can I say? I'm a top performer in demanding situations." His words were ostensibly innocuous, but the low, suggestive tone of his voice and the piercing, knowing glint in his eyes betrayed his true intentions. "It's a good position," he said, his lips curling into a barely perceptible smirk. I understood the meaning perfectly. "Don't you think?"
"I am not oblivious to such insinuations," I said with a condemnatory point of the finger, and his laughter erupted again, louder and unrestrained. He threw his head back and covered his eyes with one arm, his body shaking with amusement as he lolled on the wooden floor. "May I inquire as to the nature of jest?"
"Stop." With sporadic outbursts of laughter, he raised a hand to quell my response. "Your approach to everyday life is archaic. Isn't the pretence of formality tiring?"
"I have never been one to feign formality." My voice hardened, and my words sharpened. "From a young age, I was taught the importance of proper speech and decorum. My erudite parents and stringent education from the district refined my capability to articulate with finesse and grace. My formality is not a facade but rather a genuine representation of who I am."
"Yeah, but, on a side note..." He never made eye contact because he was dying to laugh again and knew that one look at me would send him over to the deep end. "Mind your damn business would have sufficed. Just saying."
"You know what? Fuck you," I unleashed my frustration, and his eyes snapped up, colliding with mine. "Fuck you so much. I hope you go through life with only yourself to fuck with." My face was puce with indignation as I held my ground. "You selfish-fucking-fucker."
"Selfish, huh?" He scratched the line of his jaw with ringed fingers. "Glad you got that pent-up bullshit off your chest?"
My arms folded. "Yes, actually."
"Good for you," he said airily, and I could see he wished to indulge in another bout of amusement. "Maybe next time, a fuck you is just as impactful as the barrage of fucks, huh?"
"Perhaps," I persisted, as obstinate as an ox, but inwardly, I wore the unshakable smile of young love. "But where is the fun in vitriol without asinine repetitiveness?"
He scrutinised me with rapt attention, a low, curious smirk on his lips as if there were something on his mind that he was hesitant to share. "You know what, now that you have gone off like a banshee, I think I like the word fuck on your tongue." His voice was thick and gravelly, his throat parched and raw, yet he proceeded to speak, his words dragging out slowly and painfully. "Don't let it go to waste."
"Sure," I said, a tad softer, heaving a shuddered breath. "Fuck you."
He licked his bottom, then rolled said lip between his teeth in a slow, deliberate motion. "Try the more explicit version this time."
"Are we flirting?" I asked, lost on him, and he just laid there, stretched out on his side, looking at me, waiting for me, as if I had all the answers and he had all the time in the world. "It is unclear to me if there is a sexual ambience at play. If so, let me know, and I will be happy to go there."
"Come here," he ordered, his voice a velvet caress igniting a fire within me. "I won't beg."
Drawn to him by an irresistible force, I moved closer, on my hands and knees, until the space between us diminished inch by inch.
Our eyes connected, smouldering with heat and longing.
"Look at you." His whispered breath warmed my cheek as his fingers tilted my chin toward him, lips almost touching. "Now, let's work on that mouth of yours."
"Okay," I said lowly, rectifying the error in my previous statement. "I want you to fuck me—"
"Hello?" A manicured hand fluttered before my eyes as the rude customers demanded my utmost attention. "Earth to Dweeble. I asked you a question!"
Eyes squeezing shut to clear my vision, I slapped a hand to my chest in trepidation and shook that intangible memory surge out of my head quicker than I could blink.
Flabbergasted is the tip of the iceberg. I don't know what I just experienced, be that deja vu, a vivid flashback or a figment of my imagination, but it knocked seven shades of shit out of me.
Reminding myself of the current surroundings, I inhaled deeply, then focused on the customer's face, trying to recall the nature of her query.
Her expression was patient, but her eyes revealed a hint of irritation, much like her rude tonality.
My throat cleared. "Could you please clarify your question?"
"Are you serious?" She was on the brink of a hissy fit. "I asked you why I should buy the stupid dragon statue."
"You should steer clear of purchasing any merchandise that triggers discomfort or reservation." My tone of voice conveyed an undertone of irony. "Perhaps I can tempt you to buy some concentrated plant extracts instead. I hear lavender is a remarkable stress suppressor."
"Forget it." The insufferable customer placed the dragon figurine back on the shelf and turned to Sabina, watching the scene unfold with an unreadable expression. "You may want to consider hiring more qualified staff. You do not want the likes of Olivia Lewis representing your company. You'll end up out of pocket."
Right, I should have known this woman had a preconceived opinion of me before I could offer to be of service. She is just like everyone else in the village: hurtful, hateful and unapologetically spiteful.
Maintaining an upright posture and projecting her chin, she confidently exited the store, the sound of her heels resonating on the wooden floor.
Upon reaching the entrance, she momentarily halted to bestow a conclusive, disapproving gaze in my direction.
Then, with a flourish, she slammed the door shut behind her, sending a shockwave through the air.
My rigid shoulders relaxed.
"What's the story behind that shit show?" Sabina asked, to which I did not have the answer. "You were spot on about the social pariah label. You have a face that people want to slap, eh?"
I nodded slowly.
"Why?" It was the ultimate question. "Did you sleep with her old man or something?"
"No, I did not sleep with anyone's husband," I vehemently denied the marital infidelity allegation before she could roll it out to the rest of the villagers. "Mrs Ross, I wish I could satisfy your curiosity, but sadly, I do not have the requisite information to answer."
Sabina is perfectly still, her ears perked up and her eyes razor-focused. "Then, why is there so much animosity directed towards you? It has got to come from somewhere. There is always a reason."
Well, if there is a reason behind the village's detestation, I was bloody ignorant. "You should know," I said as politely as one could muster. "You appear to share the same adverse feelings as they do."
"Oh, how wrong can one child be?" Her response could be considered disrespectful, condescending and ageist, but oddly, I inferred it as grandparently, like a long lost relative that wanted to be supportive and encouraging and share wisdom and experience. "I do not dislike you. I pity you."
And just like that, I retracted all positive opinions.
Sabina is the very essence of a witch. I don't know why she saved me that almost-fatal night. I bet she wished she could turn back the hand of time and leave me for dead.
"Now, as for Jörmungandr." Her finger aimed at the dragon geode figurine on the shelf. "When did you get clued up on Norse mythology?"
Good question. I cannot be sure how I came to know the complexities of Norse mythology. It is as if the stories of the gods and goddesses have always been a part of me, buried deep within my subconscious mind. I can, however, assume that the flashback of Daniel and the chess game played a small role in my thirst for knowledge.
"Legend has it that, during Ragnarök, Jörmungandr will soar from the ocean and poison both the sky and sea," I recalled the information my husband once shared with me. It made me wonder: who was the man he had been referring to (the faceless man who loved dragons) when describing the difference between this life and the next? "In the end, he will battle Thor, the god of thunder, and the two will kill each other."
"Ah, the tale of Ragnarök, where the inevitability of change and destruction underscores the pivotal gravity of summoning courage and meeting one's destiny with dignified resolve." Sabina stepped out from behind the altar, her footsteps echoing softly on the wooden floor as she came to my side. "He is viewed by some as an emblem of optimism and strength, reminding them that even in the most difficult situations, there is always the chance of renewal and rebirth." Then, wearing a reflective visage, she picked up the Nidhogg statue with both hands, feeling its weight and cool metal against her fingertips. "Do you believe in Renaissance, Mrs Lewis?"
Well, I believed in the power of renaissance, the ability to rise from the ashes of adversity and emerge stronger and more resilient.
This belief has been tested and strengthened throughout my life, as I have faced marital difficulties, parental discord, a father's gambling addiction, a near-fatal car crash, which resulted in the loss of a pregnancy and, in spite of hardship, I have always found a way to persevere.
"To a degree," I agreed with her to some extent, as I could see where she was coming from, but I did not fully endorse her point of view. "I do not subscribe to the belief that all occurrences have a predetermined purpose. I believe tragedy is random and strikes without rhyme or reason."
Sabina harrumphed.
Mr Ross descended the stairs with the regal bearing of a benevolent king, his polished brogues murmuring softly on the wooden treads. His suit was impeccably tailored, his mien dashing, but his eyes betrayed a hint of weariness as if he had recently awoken from a brief nap.
"Good afternoon, Mrs Lewis." Jack nodded politely at me, then slipped an arm around his wife's shoulders and kissed the curve of her cheek. "Sabina, I am glad you chose to wear the dress. You look lovely, my dear."
Mr Ross is right. Sabina looked beautiful, wearing an ankle-length sheath dress made of lightweight fabric with a flattering V-line. It featured a geometric pattern in shades of blue, green and purple. Her black strappy sandals, open-front cardigan and beaded necklace, added the perfect finishing touches to her work ensemble.
"Mrs Lewis would like to extend her apologies for her delay this morning," Sabina grunted with a composed yet icy tone. "Had she been aware of your condition, she might have placed the needs of others ahead of her own."
I wish she'd get off the hate train already. "Condition?"
Mr Ross showed no sign of worry. "It's no bother—"
"Jack has been diagnosed with heart failure," Sabina interjected before her husband could complete his sentence, and a weight plummeted in my chest. "His medical condition prohibits the undertaking of strenuous activities that exert significant pressure on his chest."
Her words hung in the air like a thick fog. My chest tightened as if a giant hand took it into possession and gave it a tight squeeze. Every instinct told me to back away, but my feet were rooted to the spot, a trespasser in a private conversation.
"It is of no concern to Mrs Lewis," Jack stated firmly, clearly displeased. "My condition is not for her to know."
"Perhaps it would be wise for her to know." Sabina folded her arms tightly across her chest, her body language closed off and defensive. "That way, she might be here on time for the next delivery to give you a much-needed reprieve." Her attention turned to me. "If you insist on working here, be more considerate of his health."
Hearing the intimate details of Mr Ross's condition made my heart heavy. I shifted from foot to foot, feeling like a caged animal, wishing I could disappear into the walls.
"I don't need Mrs Lewis' pity," he said, his voice low and defeated. "I'm perfectly capable of taking care of myself."
"Are you?" Sabina, although primed for argument, looked genuinely worried about her husband. "You were exhausted after this morning's delivery. I had to take over, hump and lump those pissing boxes, so you could go upstairs and rest."
"It was just one time." He exhaled deeply, his shoulders slumping slightly in concession. "It won't happen again."
Their words, each more heated than the last, bounced around the room like a ping-pong ball. I studied the patterns on the floor, the dust on the counters and the sheets of fabric in the window—anything to avoid getting caught in their line of sight or, worse, being drawn further into their dispute.
"It very well could happen again. What if I'm not here to assist you? You need to think about your health." she held her ground, pointing at her husband. "You need to think about me."
"I do think about you." His eyes softened, his gaze warm and tender. "Why else, if not for you, do you think I work so hard?"
"Yes, too much work." She remained steadfast in her pursuit of her goal. "It's putting your health at risk."
"I'm fine." His knuckles turned white as he gripped the nape of his neck. "I'm just tired."
"Yes, because you overworked yourself." She sighed and rubbed her temples, trying to calm herself down. "You need to slow down."
"I can't slow down." He maintained politeness throughout the duration of his wife's micromanagement program. "We have bills to pay and a roof to keep over our heads."
"We'll find a way." Her hand landed on his shoulder, giving it a slight squeeze. "But not if you end up in the hospital again."
Jack turned away, muttering something under his breath. He was done for the day, ready to lock himself away from the world.
Sabina's love for her husband was evident, regardless of her dictatorial attitude. Her bossy and domineering nature was off-putting, but it stemmed from her deep concern for his well-being. Some people may find her approach to his health issues overbearing. I personally think her heart is in the right place.
"What the bloody hell are you looking at?" she hissed at me, and I recoiled to dodge the bullet of confrontation. "Do not stand around flaunting your finery, Mrs Lewis. No one likes a nose bag."
A nose bag?"
"You heard me." She marched across the shop like a force to be reckoned with. "Now, get back to work or expect no payments!"
I daren't remind her of my voluntary position.
"Move it!" she pressed on, her body disappearing through the private door behind the imposing altar.
This woman is a nightmare!
I only have to breathe the wrong way for her to bite my head off.
Anyway, back to the drawing board.
My first day helping Mr and Mrs Ross at The Mystic Willow was entertaining, to say the least. I never finished the inventory—collectables and valuables left on the floor or in boxes—but I managed to get an entire shelf cleared at the front of the store, just to free up some storage. Not that I knew what to do with the empty space now that I had it. Either way, something had to be done with all the hoarded wonders of the world.
That night, I got home late, filthy, sweaty and completely spent. I never made it to the kitchen for a bite to eat or to the shower for a quick spritz. Rather, I fell onto the humongous bed in the master bedroom, still clothed, with arms and legs akimbo, and that's where I stayed, in profound slumber, utterly insensate, until the sound of my alarm went off the following morning.
Daniel failed to make contact on Tuesday and similarly refrained from any form of communication on Wednesday.
Although unjustifiably subjected to his apparent aloofness, I stayed true to my stance, neither seeking reconciliation nor allowing the growing tension to sway me. I was resolute in my belief that he would take the initiative if he desired to reconnect.
Moreover, his absence facilitated the discreet visits to the village, minimising potential feelings of guilt associated with such excursions.
Is it not the adage, "Ignorance is bliss"?
Yes, I shall adhere to that perspective.
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Thoughts on the update?
—Olivia?
—Sabina?
—Jack?
—the customer?
—the flashback?
—Daniel?
—anyone I missed?
Thank you for reading. ❤️
Please don't forget to vote. ⭐️