Chapter 10: Sanctums

Akewillow Chapter 10 Sanctums

That's it. This is the last straw. In fact, the last straw should have been after they found Anais Duchesne's body behind the Aquilo Cafe. Or after members of the so-called Inquisition-leveled threats against me. or after I was half-abducted by a detective desperate to solve his case. There've been more than enough red flags for me to pack up and leave Aquilo, and the one that tops the list should have been seeing a bonafide demon shambling around the neighborhood.

It's a compliment to the power of denial that I've been able to walk out into this alley again and again, despite repeated encounters with this monster. The only possible explanation for why I'm here once again is that I must be losing my mind. With any luck... The delusions extend to the monster before my eyes, and it, too, is nothing but a hallucination, an extension of the dream I had earlier in the day.

Maybe I'll get bitten by a raccoon again and be woken up from this nightmare, too, safe in the alley behind the cafe. I doubt it, though. There's just too much engaging my senses for this to be a figment of a broken, overstressed mind. From the smell of decomposing flesh to the wet dragging of inhuman limbs through puddles, I can sense the realness of it all. The demon is there. in front of me, as terrifying now as it's been every other time we've crossed paths. Even more so tonight.

For where it once had nothing but a hollowed-out abdomen, the monster boasts fresh digestive organs. I can think of only one origin for these glistening viscera. Clara. And now I know why the demon kills. It's trying to rebuild the pieces of itself that are missing. Although all the spare parts seem to have been acquired and installed, that doesn't make me safe.

Now that the demon has a stomach and intestines and all the bits and pieces required to digest, it could very well be looking for a snack. In my dream, it went for my head and for my brain, and I've no reason to believe that reality wouldn't reflect my flights of fancy. I've eaten brains before. It's not my cup of tea.

But if I had a brand new digestive tract I wanted to take for a spin, I wouldn't discriminate against it. The demon, gray, decayed skin and pink, fleshy organs shambles to the back door. This time, I made sure to lock it, having learned from my mistakes. I can see the flip side of the scenario that played out on my first evening in Aquilo. Sharp.

Black nails run across the door's window, emitting an ear-splitting cry. The monster grabs the door handle, shaking for all its considerable might, but the hinges and bolt hold fast. I can hear the strain in the wood of the frame, begging to splinter and let go, but it too stands firm. The scene is so much more terrifying from the outside. Within the walls of the Aquilo, the worst I could imagine while hearing those sounds was an intruder trying to break in. Never.

Even after Olivia explicitly said that it was probably a demon, would I have thought the source to be, well, a demon? Once more unable to gain access to my café. The creature turns its attention to me. My arm throbs at the memory of sharp teeth and claws holding me in place the last time I was in this situation. My eyes move back and forth between the monster and the circle of salt.

If this is all that's keeping the beast away from me, it too has to hold, but part of it is dissolving in a rain puddle and has very little time left. The demon. Its breath like a downtown sewer drain leans in towards me, held back by invisible forces. Its claw-tipped hands reach for me, but they too are stopped short. So very little of the salt remains dry.

Legs too deformed to be this agile take a few steps back and the monster propels itself at me, hoping, it seems, that brute force can prevail over metaphysical barriers. But the salt circle is like a wall that the demon bounces off of, like a ragdoll thrown at a window. A prayer takes shape at the back of my mind that this will be its last attempt.

A quick look confirms my fear that the salt in the circle is all but gone. I don't know the rules about raccoon-made protective wards, but I don't favor my odds if the demon launches itself at me again. Thankfully, its last attempt has loosened the fresh organs in its abdomen. Black claws grasp carefully at a length of intestine that seems to have come free, tucking it back in place. The damage seems to be enough to dissuade the monster from any further assaults. Stuffing its organs...

Clara's organs back in place, the demon shuffles away and back to the woods, having all but forgotten about me. Minutes tick by again without my noticing.

I've been through this, and it's no easier this time. The demon is gone, and so is the salt circle, no longer providing me with any protection. Only the Aquilo Cafe can do that now. My shaking hands struggle to unlock the door, and my head keeps snapping back to the woods, always expecting to see the shambling horror with fresh organs leaping back towards me.

The only thing I see is the Don, that fat bastard of a raccoon, apparently giving me two thumbs up. That's it. I'm done with this town. Take the bus. Gulliver answers. Because that's how desperate and scared I got. At this point, unless Edmund Gulliver Kemper turns into a demon and stalks the streets of Aquilo to steal young girls' organs, I'm pretty sure he isn't the killer. Well, not Clara's killer, or...

any of the other girls for that matter. So I called Gulliver. He brought me here. He can take me out. That was my thinking, except he doesn't want to. Look, I'm sorry. I apologize, pleading a little harder than I want to admit. I shouldn't have asked for the keys to the cafe back. Obviously, Doris trusted you, and maybe I should too. But I never knew Doris.

I don't know you, and I don't know this town, and now— And now you want out, he finished for me. It's not about the keys, Miriam. Well, maybe a little. It stings, but I have to admit it now. Doris is gone, and the Aquilo is under new management. Things are going to change, and I have to adapt, but see, here's the thing. I like the new management. I think Doris would be heartbroken if the cafe ended up in other hands. You're not Doris, but you cook like Doris. You wear her apron like she does.

I think she would have wanted you to stay, and if that's what she would have wanted, then it's what I want. I don't care what you want, Gulliver. I want out. It's not what I say, of course. Instead, I mumble something about looking at the bus schedule before hanging up. I've made my way back to the apartment above the cafe to make the call.

My bag is already packed, not that there was much in there to begin with. It was never my plan to stay this long in the first place. I thought about going to Olivia's or giving her a call to tell her the whole story, but... I suspect she'd try to convince me to stay. I thought Gulliver would be glad to see me gone, but I miscalculated on that front.

I try to switch on my computer and go online to look up what convoluted series of buses I would need to take in order to get back to civilization, but I get nothing. Oh, come on. After years of coughing up blood and falling into periodic comas, my poor laptop seems to have finally succumbed to the infinite list of illnesses that plagued it.

I'm no expert, but by the aborted whirl of the fan and the lack of any sign of life after that, I suspect general organ failure is to blame. Power supply, CPU, hard drive, all giving up the ghost at once. Or just one of them dying and the rest unable to come to life on their own. It wouldn't matter. My noble assistant has perished.

Perhaps, once back in the city, I can get someone to perform necromantic rituals and bring it back to life, but until then, I'm isolated from the digital world. It's late, and I'm alone in a strange place. Even after a week living in Doris' apartment, I still don't think of it as home, though it feels like it wants me to. I don't feel alone, but also I don't feel unsafe. I feel trapped.

But not by the apartment. It's the whole town of Aquilo that has me walled in. Gulliver is only a symptom of something that I feel might be bigger and stronger than I want to admit. At this time, with all I've been through... I should go to bed. That's how reasonable people deal with things. Sleep it off. It's the common sense remedy. But it's not what Miriam Dufour does. No.

The way I deal with my rage, anger, jealousy, anxiety, stress, and fear is cooking. But I don't think I can go down to the cafe kitchen tonight. It's too close to the alley. to the raccoons who give thumbs up, and to the demon that steals organs. It only leaves one option. I step up to the line where hardwood floors end and beige ceramic tiles begin.

In the night, I can barely see inside of Doris's vast kitchen, not without reaching in and flipping the switches on. Old incandescent bulbs flicker once touched by electricity. as if hesitating after going so long without use. The kitchen seems so much smaller with just the warm light to brighten it up. Not that it looks cramped or stuffy, but rather cozy and welcoming.

The forbidding shadows now banished, I can see all the personal touches that make Doris's kitchen her own. None of the myriad of photos from the rest of the apartment make their way to the kitchen. This is a sanctum. It's a place of purpose that smells of spices, butter and soul. You'd be amazed how much you can tell about a person just by the smell of their kitchen.

Doris must have had a penchant for Indian food as the smell of cardamom remains in the air, hovering near her stove even to this day. Her pantry, however, smells of vanilla sugar, and as I carefully pull the doors open, I can see a tub of it. White grains with a stick of vanilla beans still inside. There are odors of butter and cream and baked wheat. Like me, she also enjoyed her French cuisine.

Her equipment is well maintained and hidden behind cupboard doors. It varies in age and style. Her mortar and pestle are carved from white granite and look as old as Akewillow itself, while her blender is the latest model. I know because I've been eyeing the same one, dreaming of a windfall to get my own. I guess I got my wish. There's a layer of dust on her otherwise impeccable countertop.

It's nothing more elaborate than formica, but it's well-maintained. The same can't be said for the three thick wooden cutting boards leaning against the ceramic backsplash. Each is etched with a forest of knife scores. Only one has the telltale signs of blood from the cutting of fresh meat. If the apartment is a museum, the kitchen is a shrine. This is where, for lack of a better term,

Doris crafted her magic. I finish opening and closing each door, assessing and evaluating what's behind all of them. It should feel like desecration, a violation of the dead's most precious space. Except it doesn't. Not because I own the place now, down to the last grain of vanilla-fragranced sugar, but because I feel welcome here.

The floor feels warm through my socks, and the gas stove seems to hum at my touch. The appliances in China might start to sing at any moment, and I would be more amused than afraid. And there, on the counter. A lone piece of clutter in an otherwise immaculate setting. A wooden spoon. It looks store-bought, but well-used. No, well-loved.

It's worn and bleached by many hours of stirring things in boiling water and being scrubbed from tomato sauce stains. The handle has a hairline fissure along its length that's been glued and bound tight with string. My hand trembles a little as I reach towards it. Thousands of meals must have been prepared by my great-grandaunt using this spoon. Back in school, we used to joke around when someone got a good grade on a particular project.

We'd say they cheated and used love as their secret ingredient. Just like the cliché. But if Doris ever did such a thing, then it was through this spoon that she applied it. It's not a utensil. It's an artifact. And I can't bring myself to touch it. My fingers stop shy by less than an inch. I'd rather dig through her grave than disturb this one piece of my family's history.

It'd be like touching Doris's soul. I can't do it. Her cookbooks are another story. Those aren't what I expected. I assume Doris would have had most of the classics, Paul Martin and Jeanne Benoit. But instead, she has scrapbook after scrapbook of accumulated magazine clippings, recipes from everyone under the sun. Celebrity chefs and mailed-in recipes from readers share the pages of her accumulated treasures.

There is, amongst the three ring binders and ledgers, one tome that is closer to what I imagine Doris might keep around. Except, even more so. The book is thick and old. yellowed pages that smell of flour and cooking oils. The cover is bound in beige leather and would be more at home in a library archive.

Faded, golden cursive script spells out the word recipes, and there are bookmarks every ten pages or so. Each calls out from a different era and must have belonged to Doris and her predecessors. My predecessors. It's a grimoire for conjuring food. I flip to one that seems newer. Powder blue tassels still vibrant and attached to a length of cardboard with raccoons printed on it. Again with the raccoons.

The page feels frail under my fingers, threatening to turn to dust should I breathe too hard on its surface. Orange poppy seed honey cakes, the top of the page reads. Well, look at you. I murmur, as if some high priest might be listening, threatening to chastise me for breaking the silence of this holy place. So, I can finally see what it is that Doris does with her honeycakes that's somehow better than mine.

You'd think the differences would just jump off the page. It's not that complicated a recipe. The ingredients can't change all that much, and apart from the proportions of the key ones, like orange zest or poppy seeds, it should be all the same. But it isn't. Doris's recipe looks like it's been rewritten half a dozen times. It's not unusual for a cook, especially an experienced one with imagination and ambition, to put notes in the margins of a cookbook.

This looks like it's been reimagined over and over again. Yet, when all's said and done, the recipe circles back onto itself. Whatever the end result is, after ingredients are scratched out and rewritten, it's almost the same as when it started. Certainly, it's not different enough from mine to matter. Is it? But ingredients, cook times, and preparations aren't the only things scribbled in these margins. There are symbols and sigils and sketches. What the hell were you up to, Doris?

My voice is louder this time, as if I expect her to answer the question. And in a way, she does. Or rather, she has. And if I want to make one of Doris's orange poppy seed honey cakes...

I'm missing an ingredient. Doris knew Gary, didn't she? It's the crack of dawn, and I'm sitting at the counter of the Aquilo Cafe. The place is closed, plunged in darkness save for the light trickling in from the kitchen. Behind me, I have everything ready to bake some of the best orange poppy seed honey cakes the world has ever seen. It's my recipe, of course, but that doesn't matter. It never did. Gary Remington is all that ever mattered. She did.

Julia answers, curious what I'm on about. I didn't wake her up to ask that she come down to the cafe. I didn't have to because Julia doesn't sleep. She hasn't slept much since Doris' passing. Olivia, on the other hand, I had to wake up to get Julia's number. The only important thing is that she's here now, and with her help, I could do what only Doris could do. At least, I think I can.

I need you to write this. I slide a piece of paper with a sigil drawn onto it, one I took from Doris's recipe, across the counter. On this. With my other hand, I slide a square of rice paper. tiny enough to fit at the bottom of a small cake mold. And do it while thinking of Gary, I add. Julia, who looks older every time I see the poor woman, shakes her head.

Confused, she looks at the sigil, turning the paper in her hands and trying to decide which side is up and which is down. Why? How? Think of what he meant to you, of your relationship. Picture one of your fondest memories of him, of you together, and draw the sigil. Weak and desperate, she shakes her head. Her eyes, unblinking and sad, struggle to focus on my face.

How is that going to help? It's what Doris did, I try to explain. But she knew Gary. She knew you. I don't have that. I can't make a cake that'll soothe your Gary. I can make the cake, but you have to supply the intent. I uncap an edible ink marker and put it on top of the rice paper for emphasis. If we're going to get him his rest, it has to be through your will and memories.

It sounds as ridiculous to me as it does to you. Probably more, in fact. Her pale fingers find the pen and pick it up. They tremble and drop it, then pick it up again. Julia does her best to draw the sigil onto the rice paper, and does a pretty good job of it too, sliding it back to me across the counter. Thank you, I start, but I stop myself. The sigil looks good.

It's not perfect, but it's clean enough for someone with such shaky hands. Clean and fast. How could I possibly ask for more? But grief isn't fast. And it certainly isn't clean. When Trevor dumped me for that bitch Cindy, I cried and beat the crap out of my pillow for weeks. And let's face it, I didn't even love Trevor anymore at that point.

We'd already drifted apart, and I was mourning the time and emotional investment I'd wasted on him. I was grieving for my ego and for my self-esteem, not for a beloved husband of many years. What memory did you think of while drawing it, I ask? I don't know. Our wedding. I thought of our vows and how stressful that day was, and... She trails off, or I stop listening.

I go back to my kitchen and bring another sheet of rice paper. I don't bother cutting it before handing it to Julia. Do it again, I demand. But don't think of your wedding or your engagement. Think of the little moments. Think of the bad times that were better because he was there. Focus on those moments right after a fight when you forgave each other. Think of the bonds that brought you and then kept you together.

Think of why you can't rest unless he gets his honey cake. Julia puts two fingers on the fresh sheet of rice paper and pulls it towards herself. This time... She contemplates it for a long minute before even picking up the marker. At last, she pulls off the cap again, but still she doesn't draw the sigil. It takes so long before the felt tip of the pen touches the paper that I worry the ink might have dried out. This is no longer the steady, dismissive hand that drew out the first sigil.

The fingers that move the pen across the paper are heavy with the weight of memory, trembling and slow as they drag emotion behind them like a ball and chain. When she finally pushes her work back towards me, It's with reluctance, as if giving up the new sigil would be like giving up whatever she was remembering when she drew it. Thank you, I say.

though I doubt she heard me, still lost in the memory I demanded she conjure up. Julia Remington must have been something else before she lost her husband.

If her home is any indication, the woman's pretty well off. The two-story colonial house is a sprawling giant with an immense white-fenced porch that spreads across the entire frontage, welcoming guests like a hug. Lush grass, pine needle green in the twilight, extends for a solid 20 yards, flanking a wide cobblestone path that winds slightly from the sidewalk all the way to the front steps.

Behind the house, towering shadows of evergreens cut their silhouettes from the sky, looking like they're leaning in to see what the Remington house is up to this night. No lights are on when we arrive. Julia insisted I come with her, that I meet Gary. To be honest, I didn't want to come when she asked, and I regret my decision even more now.

I knew she was eccentric, and that her way of remembering her husband was a little unusual. Seeing the old house and the opulent setting in which the widow lives, some of my wildest fears are starting to feel a whole lot more plausible. movies and books have taught me a lot, including that rich people can get pretty crazy when they lose loved ones. Like a dutiful servant, I carry the box with the cake in it. Baking always feels like magic, but...

It's everyday magic. The miraculous result of chemistry and doing something I love and making this cake felt no different. There was the whole sigil thing, though there didn't seem to be anything mystical about it. It's not something I'm used to doing. Usually, if there's any sort of art on my cakes, the point is for everyone to see it. In this case, the rice paper is burnt into the bottom of the cake, invisible unless we flip it.

My frayed nerves get startled again as we walk into the empty entrance to the Remington house. A large dog, no, I mean a large dog, a Great Dane, greets us with a deep bark. That thing is so huge that it begs for a more adequate qualifier, like Gigantic Dane or Titanic Dane. Even on all four paws, it barely needs to lift its head to look me straight in the eyes.

Oswald, sit, Julia commands, and the giant obeys. His fur is a velvet smooth gray and his eyes a sorrowful black. He sniffs at the air around me and tilts his ears. He's magnificent, I say while Julia scratches Oswald behind the neck. He's a giant teddy bear. Gary got him for me, so I would be safe taking walks at night, but...

The big oaf would probably rather play with a mugger than chase him away. Maybe that's what the Aquilo needs. A giant dog that looks like it would be at home amongst the dinosaurs. But I can barely afford to feed myself, and I can't imagine how much food it must take to keep this beast from going hungry. Halogen bulbs explode into life as Julia flips switches on.

The interior of the Remington house is far more modern than the outside suggests, but no less lavish. An enormous framed mirror dominates the far wall of the entrance, hung over a narrow table with ornate legs. Immaculate white walls with intricate crown moldings surround us, punctuated by paintings, each with his own small light like a gallery. Apart from Oswald's collar jingling as he shakes himself, only the echoes of our voices and footsteps can be heard from the rest of the house.

We walk for several minutes from one room to the next and through a corridor, making our way to the back of Julia's home. Yet, it seems like we've only passed through a fraction of it. Julia comments on a few things here and there. This is the foyer, and here's the guest bathroom. But otherwise, she seems detached from the tour, focused rather on our destination. This, she pauses at the threshold of one final door.

was Gary's reading room. It's not what I expected. Considering the rest of the house, clean and lavishly appointed, the modest reading room seems like an oddity. For one, It's rather small, about the size of my bedroom in Montreal, but also it lacks for all the ornaments that decorate the rest of the Remington house. There are no oil paintings with brass plaques or polished marble floors.

Even the carved wooden furniture I expected is missing. Instead, a series of laminated pressed wood bookshelves line the walls, each overflowing with paperbacks and loose leaves. There's no desk, but rather a ratty old couch with a mahogany end table next to it, the only sign of luxury. There are still notes on the table. sitting underneath a dusty, empty coffee mug with a faded logo of the Aquilo Cafe. Gary was a customer, I say, more as a matter of fact than a question.

Coffee and honey cakes. It's what fuels my Gary. Well, just the honey cakes now. There's a trepidation as Julia steps inside the room. Even within her own home, she treats this place like a sanctum. She's left it undisturbed, it seems, since her husband's passing, and remains reluctant to break the order in which he left things.

He won't usually show himself when there are others around, but I hope he makes an exception to meet the new owner of the cafe. With dainty, careful steps, Julia walks up to the table and motions for me to follow. I try to be as reverent as she is, walking like the floor is frosting and I'm trying not to leave any footsteps on its surface. Julia takes the box from me, opening it with a fingernail and setting it on the table.

careful not to move anything else on its surface. The subtle smell of sugar and oranges starts to fill the room, and Julia sits down on the couch. Her features, usually taut and strained, relax for the first time since I've met her. The lines on her face seem to melt away, and a smile stretches slowly over her lips. For a moment, Julia has the kind of rested expression that I can't even remember seeing in myself. Turn off the lights, please, she whispers.

I step back and do as she demands, leaving her and the cake alone in her husband's sanctuary. I watch from the threshold as Julia tucks her feet under her legs on the couch and leans down to put her head on the armrest. I too smile, prepared to leave the widow to sleep with the smell of my cake to comfort her. For a split second, I think I get it, and a wave of sympathy runs through me.

All she needed was to recreate a familiar scene in her life with Gary. A sweet, if heartbreaking, morning ritual. My fingers find the switch and flick the lights off. plunging the room in darkness and completing the tableau. My job here is done, I think. But I'm wrong. Well, not wrong. Whatever I had to do is done, but...

I haven't seen everything the Remington house has to show me yet. As my eyes adjust to the darkness, colored spots left over by the light fade away. The shadows recede, leaving a nighttime portal of the room behind. Bookshelves are still full but now so dark the titles become illegible. The window in the back, flanked by thick curtains, now seems lit from outside instead of the dark mirror it was a moment ago.

Julia is still on the couch, still lying with her head on the armrest, but she's no longer alone. A man is sitting at her feet, leaning forward to take my cake out of its open box. He's thin, with equally thinning hair, but not old. He looks to be in his 40s and wears a cardigan and wireframe glasses, like some sort of college professor. I watch as he sits back.

crossing his legs and taking a bite of the cake. His free hand finds Julia's knee and squeezes it as he smiles, still chewing on the dessert I made. It's such a sweet, tender moment. And it breaks my heart to know that it's not really happening. Or that it is, but Gary Remington isn't really here. Though he's really eating that cake.

I should be haunted by this sight, but instead I find great comfort in it. I don't know if what I'm seeing is really Gary visiting from beyond the grave or just an echo of his memory. But there's nothing natural about what's going on here. Contrary to the demon that stalks behind the Aquilo, nothing here fills me with dread. In fact, my heart is warm.

And I step back to let the couple enjoy this impossible moment. I almost make it to the lobby when I hear the deep and, let's face it, terrifying bark of Oswald. I hesitate. afraid the enormous dog might think me an intruder now that I'm no longer accompanied by Julia, but decide there must be something else. Don't you just hate it when you're right about things like this?

I walk into the entranceway at the same time as the front door swings open. A cool wind from outside bursts in, ushering the two invaders that sparked Oswald's barking. One is short and squat. outlined by the moonlight from outside. The other is tall and intimidating, blocking more of the night than she lets in. They step into the house, their features barely visible in the dark.

The tall figure stares at Oswald for a second, browbeating him quiet and finally into sitting down. Orléans and Alessandria. The goddamn Inquisition. Miss Dufour, Orléans starts, his voice like a disappointed father. I so hoped you'd heed our warning. Equilo is written by J.F. Dubot. If you enjoyed this podcast and would like to hear more, please rate and review us on Apple Podcasts, Google Play, or your preferred podcast platform. You have no idea how much it helps.

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