Page 112 - Herzlia HS Magazine 2021

The necromancer starts his ritual: filling the pentagram grooves of
his tablet with salt and sulphur (he holds his nose), placing the lock
of hair in the centre and finally the incantation. Sometimes he feels

fancy, but usually he just makes them up on the spot. Tonight's
incantation goes something like: “By this awful smelling powder, hear

my magic chant grow louder. Give to me, King of the Dead, this wretched
woman’s husband’s head.” (Yes it rhymes; he has class.)

And there it is, and quite solid too, although it does float there so

gently like a leaf on the breeze. The man (what was his name?) Oliver
Tepesh’s head, quite separate from his long dead body. “Hello Oliver,
your wife has asked that I contact you, she misses you dearly.”

“That hag? You can bugger right off cuz I don’t give a shit. I was busy,
you know!”

“Eating horse crap? That’s what your breath tells me.”
“Fuck you! Send me back you bastard!”

“As you wish,” he chants. “As I can no longer stand this smell, send
this idiot’s head back to hell.”

Sigh. And so it is gone, the hair too. He would make something up to
tell the widow.

Surprisingly enough, most of his recalls are like this. He has become
an expert dead person impersonator, though he tends to sugarcoat

their messages heavily. This is what he does every night. It may seem
menial but he finds his little joys. The necromancer is always tired,

but never lonely.

- Sammy Forman