Mostly Harmless Magic

Prathak's Perilous Pickles Part 2

Rue nodded, the memory of carefully painted lines and whispered words surfacing in her mind. “Yes, ma’am. I think so.”

“Good. You’ll lead.” Granny Thorn gestured for Rue to step forward, her steady hand a silent reassurance. “Prathak, the page.”

The orcish woman grinned, the old spark of mischief returning to her eyes. “Knew you’d ask.” She dug in her belt pouch, pulling out a sheaf of rumpled papers. Rue watched with growing curiosity as Prathak rifled through them, tossing aside a recipe for midnight stew, a map of the southern marshes, and a letter sealed with a muddy thumbprint. At last, she found the right page: a sheet so stained and creased, it looked as if it had survived a dozen adventures.

It seemed to be lyrics to a song in the old tongue. Rue felt a strange thrill; a sense that she stood at the edge of something vast and secret.

Prathak passed the page to Rue with a wink. “Best you do the honors, apprentice.”

Rue nodded, a mix of hope and trepidation in her heart. The page was fragile, the ink faded and ancient, but Prathak handled it with care and confidence. A confidence she hoped she could also muster.

She swallowed, feeling equal parts terrified and proud, holding the paper delicately. With Granny Thorn and Prathak flanking her, she stepped into the spiral, the jars shivering as she passed. Every footstep seemed to make the yodeling jar increase in volume, sending a ripple through the collected concoctions.

She reached the center, the twin jars pulsing with unnatural life. The yodeling had grown faint and thin, like an echo in a deep cave, while the Grimsap’s blackness seemed to swallow the feeble candlelight. Rue laid the page flat, smoothing it carefully.

They began the incantation together, their voices rising in unison. Granny Thorn’s high voice and the smooth baritone of Prathak’s seemed to gently lead Rue’s into the right key.

The jar's yodel grew more frantic, the sound a wild crescendo that filled the cellar. Rue's pulse quickened, the urgency of the chant echoing in her every heartbeat.

The jar of Grimsap vibrated wildly, the darkness inside sloshing against the glass. Rue felt the air thrum with energy, a palpable tension that built and built until it seemed ready to explode.

And then, with a sound like breaking ice, the yodeling pickle jar cracked.

Rue’s gasp was drowned out by the sudden chaos that erupted around them. Pickles flew out, squeaking and darting through the air with a life and speed that left her breathless.

One slammed into her face, the impact cold and startling. A vinegary slime trail marked its path.

“Keep chanting, girl!” Granny Thorn shouted.

The jar continued to yodel, its fractured surface spilling more grey-green forms into the cellar. The pickles careened around them, leaving trails of brine and mischief in their wake.

Rue ducked as another pickle whizzed by, narrowly missing her head. More jars toppled in the pandemonium, the crash and clatter a discordant symphony of chaos.

Prathak reacted with the instincts of a true adventurer, holding up the cast-iron frying pan she had taken from a hook on the wall in the kitchen. She swung it with precision and force, deflecting the pickles as they flew through the air towards them.

“Duck!” Prathak shouted between verses, shielding Rue with the makeshift barrier as pickles bounced off the metal with metallic pings.

Rue obeyed, her heart pounding with a mix of terror and exhilaration. The scene was pure madness, the pickles' squeaks mingling with the sound of shattering jars, clanking armor, and their chant.

The cellar descended into utter chaos, a whirlwind of animated pickles and flying debris. Rue’s hair was slick with brine, her clothes marked with slimy trails where the pickles had made contact.

They ducked and dodged as Prathak moved with practiced skill, her movements swift and sure as she blocked the worst of the onslaught. The frying pan was a blur of motion, each swing sending pickles ricocheting in wild directions.

A particularly large pickle zeroed in on their position, its trajectory fast and unerring. Prathak stepped in front of Rue, the frying pan a protective shield as the pickle slammed against it with a dull thud.

Prathak fought back with determination, her expression fierce and focused. She caught Rue's eye, a spark of shared adventure passing between them in the midst of the chaos.

More jars toppled, their contents spilling and mingling in unpredictable ways. The air was filled with a jumble of scents and sounds, a cacophony that left Rue dizzy and amazed.

“Just like old times!” Prathak shouted over the noise, her laughter a bright note in the tumult.

Rue found herself grinning, the sheer madness of the situation both terrifying and thrilling.

The pickle ghosts knocked over more jars, releasing various magical substances that reacted with one another in alarming ways. Rue ducked as a large, swirling mass of potion fizzed and burst overhead, scattering liquid rainbows that painted the air with color and chaos. The scent of wildflowers filled the cellar, mingling with the acrid tang of vinegar.

More pickles whizzed by, crashing into everything with reckless abandon, the impacts sending jars spinning like tops across the floor. Each collision released another wave of unpredictable magic, the contents mixing and mingling in an ever-growing storm of enchanted mishaps.

A cloud of glittering dust burst from a fallen jar, enveloping Rue in a shimmering haze. The world seemed to spin as the dust settled over her, the tiny, glittering particles sticking to her skin and hair.

Rue blinked, the magical chant forgotten as the room began taking on an eerie, translucent quality as if she were seeing it through frosted glass. She held a hand in front of her face. She could see through her fingers as if they weren’t there. She was turning transparent!

Rue turned to Prathak, half expecting the orcish woman to have vanished too, but the orcish woman was still entirely visible and holding her ground with the tenacity of a seasoned warrior. Prathak swung the frying pan with precision and force, deflecting pickles as they came at them in an unrelenting barrage. Each impact rang out with a metallic clang, the sound adding to the wild symphony of the chaos around them.

Another jar, this one holding spores, exploded next to them. The cloud of spores landed on Prathak with an explosion of enchantment, the sight both comical and alarming. Then, her armor began sprouting tiny mushrooms, each one a vivid splash of color against the metal.

“Seems we're in quite a pickle!” Prathak shouted, her voice carrying a note of amusement even in the face of chaos.

Rue couldn't help but laugh, the sound wild and unexpected in the frenzy. Her transparent skin shimmered in the shifting light, her eyes wide with the thrill of it all.

The storm of magic and mayhem showed no signs of abating. The pickles continued their erratic flight, squeaking and darting with relentless energy. More jars toppled and shattered, the cellar floor a mosaic of spilled potions and abandoned lids.

And then, above the clatter and confusion, Rue heard a sound that cut through the chaos with startling clarity. It was Granny Thorn’s voice, calm and commanding, finishing the incantation they had abandoned in the chaos.

Granny's voice was clear and unwavering, each word a thread in the tapestry of the spell.

Rue and Prathak exchanged a look, a spark of shared hope and surprise passing between them. They joined their voices to Granny's, the chant gaining strength and rhythm as it filled the cellar with its ancient power.

Finally, the pickles wavered in their flight, the momentum of their escape slowing as the chant wove its magic around them. Rue watched with bated breath, the thrill of the adventure building to a breathtaking crescendo.

The cellar seemed to hold its breath, the energy in the air building to an almost unbearable intensity. The jars stilled, the flying pickles frozen mid-air, their forms suspended like a strange and wondrous mobile.

And then, as they completed the song, the pickles fell to the floor in a strange rhythm of squishy thumps before dissolving into a fine, green mist. The cellar was suddenly still, the silence as shocking as the chaos had been.

The mist smelled strongly of dill, a pungent reminder of the havoc that had just been unleashed. Rue blinked, the sudden calm as disorienting as the earlier storm.

Prathak lowered the frying pan, her breath coming in quick bursts. Tiny mushrooms still adorned her armor, a colorful testament to the unexpected magic they had faced.

Granny Thorn surveyed the scene with a slow, deliberate turn, her sharp eyes missing nothing: the rainbow puddles pooling at her feet; the glittering dust settling into a soft, silver patina on the floor; the shards of glass strewn at every angle; the lingering dill mist twining about the rafters. She lifted a brined eyebrow at the fungal outgrowth on Prathak’s shoulder plates and then at the fading shimmer still clinging to Rue.

She inhaled, held the breath to the count of three, then exhaled. With care, she righted a toppled jar of something unidentifiable and catalogued the extent of the damage.

Rue stood at nervous attention, already bracing for either a scolding or, if the winds of fortune favored her, a rare word of praise.

For a long moment, silence ruled the root cellar, broken only by the distant drip of pickle brine and the fainter, almost respectful, fizz of enchanted potions resolving their differences in the spilled puddles. Rue didn’t dare move. She could still see her own hand—no, she could see through her own hand, the outline of her fingers barely limned in a silvery afterglow, like a shadow that had been wiped nearly clean. When she tried to say something, all that came out was a very small, breathy, “Um?”

Prathak jumped to the rescue again, plucking a blue-stemmed toadstool from her own shoulder plate with a look of curiosity. “Never had a fungus bloom that fast outside the Underrealm,” she marveled, tucking the mushroom behind one ear like a prize flower.

Granny Thorn’s gaze finally settled on Rue—how her old eyes found her translucent form in all the chaos was a myatery. She righted a fallen jar with a precise, almost surgical flick, then set her hands on her hips and fixed both Rue and Prathak with a glare that, had it been bottled, would have carried a warning label.

“Well, at least it wasn’t the honeybeet preserve,” she said at last. “Those come back with a vengeance.”

Rue felt a strangled giggle rise in her chest. She clamped her nearly invisible hands over her mouth.

“I think,” Granny Thorn said, voice dry, “we’ll call that a day for the root cellar.” She gave Prathak a sidelong glance. “And you. Out, before any more mushrooms decide you’re their new mother.”

Prathak bowed, the motion a rattling affair, but the gleam in her eyes said she’d enjoyed every minute of the chaos. She offered her arm to Rue with an exaggerated flourish. “Escort you to the upper air, young miss?”

Rue blinked, the sensation weirdly pointless by the way she could see through, making the whole world fracture for a moment like a broken window. “Um. I… think so?”

Granny Thorn shooed them both toward the stairs with quick, precise motions, then set about cleaning with a vigor that suggested this wasn’t the first time her apprentice had brought the end times to her basement. As Rue and Prathak climbed, the green mist slowly thinned behind them, leaving a tangy aftersmell of dill and something almost medicinal.

The first thing Rue saw, upon breaching the surface, was the kitchen sunlight splashing across the table, bright and ordinary. She turned to thank Prathak for the help and noticed that her hair had sprouted a crown of baby mushrooms, the colors shifting from lime green to a startled coral pink.

“You look,” Rue said, hunting for the word, “ecological.”

Prathak grinned and snapped a mushroom off her left bracer with her teeth. “If it tastes as good as it looks, this will be a brunch for the ages... We are still having brunch right?”

Rue marveled at the matter-of-fact way Prathak chewed the enchanted fungi, then eyed her own condition in the polished surface of the kettle. She could barely see her own outline, just the shimmer of freckles and the faint, distant shine of her eyes.

“Will I—” she started, but Prathak was already shaking her head.

“First rule of old magic,” said the orc, voice gentle for its size. “It wears off. Second rule: it always leaves a story behind.”

Rue wasn’t sure whether that was reassuring or mortifying. She took a seat at the table, hands folded neatly together, and tried to act as if she didn't feel like she was in imminent danger of drifting away on the next breeze.

Granny Thorn emerged a few minutes later, a faint dusting of silvery glitter on her sleeves and a world-weary set to her brow. She surveyed Rue and Prathak, then nodded once, satisfied.

“Rue. You’re excused for now. Go upstairs, clean yourself up as best you can, and for goodness’ sake, keep away from open windows until the transparency wears off. We don't need the villagers thinking there's a ghost in the attic. They make up enough stories as it is.”

Rue nodded, grateful for the reprieve and the implicit forgiveness. She shot Prathak a quick smile before scurrying up the narrow staircase toward her attic room.

As she reached the landing, she paused. The light up here was softer and it filtered through her in stripes and motes, painting the attic floor in strange and beautiful patterns. Rue spun slowly, arms outstretched, and watched herself refract the world—half-there, half-wondrous, wholly changed.

Below, she could hear Prathak’s rumbling laughter and Granny Thorn’s dry, affectionate scolding as they sat back down in the kitchen.

“Admit it Ethelwyn, you've never had as much fun as you do with me,” she heard Prathak's say.

“Be that as it may, we are a thing of the past. You need to move on. The time I have left runs short and you...” Granny Thorn's voice cracked, as if she was holding back tears. “You have hundreds of years left ahead of you. Find someone young and full of life like you.”

After that, the two of them were silent and Rue sneaked the rest of the way up to the attic. So, Prathak and Granny Thorn used to be lovers... But it sounded like Granny Thorn broke it off because of the difference in life expectancy between orcs and humans...

Rue let her thoughts swirl as she sat at the crates shed arranged into a makeshift desk and reached for her journal.

The words came easily and she smiled as she wrote.

Tomorrow, the transparency would fade, but the memory of this day—like all things in Bramblehook—would linger far longer.