Page 26 of Snag
I haven’t read the centuries of journals collected on these shelves. Journals written by all the Conduits who came before me. It was never the right time for such things, according to Disa. Then I was banished, no matter that Ididn’t know it. Some of these journals even predate the Gage bloodline settling in North America as the self-appointed guardians of the intersection point.
My family history leans heavily on the core idea that it was the destiny for our bloodline to be the caretakers of the intersection point— rather than the literal colonization that claiming this site actually was. What with the Conduit being a goddess and all, as my aunts and uncles would have the world believe.
Now that I’m holding the power of the Conduit and the intersection point, I’m slowly becoming concerned — aware? — that the family history isn’t as revisionary, or as self-aggrandizing, as I previously thought.
Speaking of gods, Muta stirs on my wrist. Transforming into his bushmaster aspect, he slides across the desk to curl around Disa’s journal. It’s not the sweet gesture it appears to be on the surface. Disa and Muta were not friendly. I’m almost certain that if my aunt could have countermanded whatever bond my mother invoked moments before her death — binding Muta to nine-year-old me — she would have.
Disa bought into the whole Gage god/goddess mythology, and she didn’t think the future Conduit should be walking around with an inherently nefarious, exceedingly diminished death god on her wrist.
Muta’s spiny tail whips across the desk, sending Disa’s fountain pen spinning to the floor.
“Someone could turn their ankle on that,” I say mildly.
He silently flicks his tongue at me, then curls into a tight coil. Deliberately turning away from me, facing the framed photograph.
“You could be down by the fire. No one is going to hurt me on the property.”
Thesulky death god ignores me. Always knowing better. Or rather, always just doing his own thing.
I quickly check the dates on the dozens of matching notebooks filled with Disa’s handwriting on the nearest set of shelves. But after noting that the journals from halfway through 2003 into 2012 are missing and must be shelved elsewhere, I start exploring the desk.
The cabinets at the front of the desk yield a multitude of objects, most essence imbued and all randomly stuffed away, as if tucked somewhere for safekeeping but then forgotten. I pull out spellbooks and grimoires that need to be shelved, guessing that Disa hadn’t gotten around to figuring out where they should go, stacking them on a corner of the desk. Muta hisses when I block his view of the window, abandoning Disa’s journal to coil around the new stack of books — most of which quietly hum with varying levels of essence. Likely not as good as lounging by the fireplace from the bushmaster’s perspective, but still good enough for a nap.
After half-heartedly sifting through its contents, I leave a wooden box filled with the greeting cards my aunt collected but never used where I found it. Though I have to tamp down a sharp spike of grief upon discovering the collection, and to quash a completely uncharacteristic urge to paw through the massive pile, looking for the cards I know she bought on our trips together.
I don’t dwell in the past like that. I don’t look through photos and reminisce. I don’t actually have all that many photos at all.
I don’t have as many memories as I thought I did.
I also ignore the plethora of financial documents filed in the bottom cabinet, though I’ll need to double-check that I have digital copies of them all. Especially because I knowthere are alliances to renegotiate now that I’m the Conduit, specifically with the Outcast Motorcycle Club, whose territory borders the estate.
I set two of the essence-imbued objects on the desk, mindful of not blocking Muta’s view. Both are used to identify and hone essence-weaving affinities. The first is set with various crystals and semiprecious stones, and the second with narrow bars of rare metals. I’ll have Presh work with both as soon as she’s ready for more focused training.
The three slim drawers on the other side of the desk were locked to me the first time I tried them, but they yield to my touch today. Perhaps my connection to the intersection point, and therefore the protections threaded through the house, is strengthening.
The narrow top drawer is filled with writing implements, loose-leaf paper, and bottled inks. An empty space to the side is presumably where Disa tucked away her current journal. A pile of seemingly random antique keys fill the central drawer. I note their location for when I have occasion to need one, notwithstanding that none of these will unlock the armoire taunting me from across the tower office unless a keyhole appears in its doors.
The bottom drawer is literally filled with gold, along with some platinum. Mostly coins of various vintages and currencies, but mixed with numerous bars and a few heavy chain necklaces. Though the Conduit rarely trades in worldly currency, sometimes paper money or credit cards aren’t what a situation calls for.
The desk doesn’t yield the missing notebooks. So I head back to the shelves. Though the journals of previous Conduits are usually grouped together, most of the other shelving is organized by year rather than categorized by subject or title. This was super annoying for young me.Whenever I was allowed entry to the office, or had to wait for my aunt’s attention even after being summoned, I generally just plucked random things off the shelves to read.
Not that I was much of a reader. Nor have I ever kept a journal. Though I think Disa might have encouraged me to do so … at some point …
That idea, those random thoughts stretch around me as if I’ve somehow manifested them as pure essence, shoving every other thought away. I press my hand against the nearest shelf to ground myself in thenow.
Still, my chest tightens with anxiety.
I try to breathe through it.
Muta bristles his tail spines, presumably more pissed that I’m partially blocking his view than concerned with trying to pull me from the numbness once again spreading through my system.
Because I don’t actually know, do I?
I don’t know if I was much of a reader.
I don’t know why I was never interested in keeping a journal.
I have an understanding of the portions of my childhood spent on the estate, and sense memories of the house and grounds, but it’s nebulous.
