Read Online Secondhand Spirits by Juliet Blackwell - Free Book Online Page B

they visited the Haight. Smelling strongly of patchouli, the inventory was a hodgepodge of tie-dyed classic rock ’n’ roll T-shirts and paraphernalia, cheap but appealing Asian imports, brass hookahs, blown-glass ornaments, and inexpensive jewelry featuring peace signs and yin-yang symbols. She also carried what I secretly referred to as the lighter side of the supernatural—crystals, candles, pyramids, goddess figurines of all stripes, and a wide selection of New Age-inspired self-help books.
    Peaceful Things, despite its name, made me uncomfortable. In the first place, I couldn’t stifle the feeling that Sandra trivialized the mystical world, and second, I was afraid some of her customers might unwittingly invite unwelcome powers into their home. It was one thing to carry a protective quartz crystal around in your pocket, quite another to bring certain items—like the richly beaded and embroidered pakets kongo juju bag I held in my hand—into your home without understanding their nature and how to treat them with the respect they demand and deserve.
    I put the bag back on its glass shelf and sipped my mocha while Sandra chattered on, nonstop, about the merchant association and how I really should get involved with the community and link together in an alliance, just as she had with her own residential neighborhood association. Of course, she had lived in her area forever and knew anyone who was anyone .
    Sandra was the type of talker who rarely required a response. Still, just being in her presence tired me out. Since Sandra did not have her own energy centered, she tried to feed off others. Not intentionally draining, but with the same results.
    â€œJust listen to me, rattling on and on. I brought you in here because I wanted to show you what I just bought off the Internet,” Sandra exclaimed. She leaned down below her counter and brought out a large, flat cardboard box. Lifting it onto the glass surface, she opened the flaps and pushed back some rustling white tissue paper to disclose the contents: a large volume the size of a coffee table book.
    I felt as though I had been doused in water: first hot, then cold. There was a bitter, burning smell.
    The tome in front of her was the Malleus Maleficarum . . . the witch-hunters’ bible.
    I looked up at Sandra. Was that malice in her wide, searching, celadon eyes? Or merely excitement?
    â€œWhy do you have this?” I asked.
    â€œYou don’t like it?”
    â€œHow could anyone like it? It’s a vicious, misogynistic handbook for torture and murder.”
    â€œLily, I’m so sorry! I didn’t mean to offend you! Did I offend you? Is it because your friend Bronwyn is a witch? Or a Wiccan, as she calls herself?”
    I swallowed hard and spoke in a measured tone. “I’m not offended, Sandra. I just think it’s an evil book. I’m sure there are scholarly reasons to read it, just as there are for reading the Nazi propaganda that explained how to exterminate Jewish people. But I don’t want to be the one to study it. Do you?”
    â€œWell, I . . . I didn’t realize. I mean, it’s fascinating reading in a historical sense. It was published in 1487—”
    â€œBy the Dominican friars Heinrich Kramer and Jacob Sprenger, for the purpose of rooting out and destroying witches, as well as those who did not believe in them, through the use of standard ‘tests’ that were essentially torture. Yes, I know all about the book, Sandra.”
    â€œThey say witches can’t cry. And they can’t drown.”
    â€œThey also said witches stole men’s penises.”
    She started flipping though the pages. “I didn’t see that part. Penises?”
    I slapped my hand down on the book, closing it. It hummed under my hand, and the burning smell once again assailed my nostrils.
    â€œWhy did you want to show me this, Sandra?”
    â€œI just thought it was interesting.”
    I