Spirit Glow

The row houses are stone or brick with wooden sheds and entryways reflecting the human condition: prone to weakness. Gramps told me Mom’s deteriorating leather satchel lies buried under broken dolls and rotting clothes. 
 The porch’s remnant teeters as I pry the moldy treasure loose. A need to confirm the Institute’s rumors override my common sense as I’m thrown onto my ass to avoid the imminent collapse. 
 But I have it. 
 “So that’s it?” my companion asks. “Six months searching, two years of indentured, who cares about your future later, and that’s all you got?” 
 Dylan was like our modified country — uncertain. 
 “In here is my future, bro. Don’t piss on my bonfire.” 
 Lurid orange and green sunset glows on our scurry to the transport. I kick at bones clinging to my boiler suit, most are livestock, some human, all reek of the Institute.
 “Raven don’t care, ya know. She won’t wait forever, ya sick bastard. She’s too good for you and some destiny.” Fear brings out Dylan’s worst.
 I know he’s right. 
 But my mom is worth this.
 Isn’t she? I need to shut their mouths about her. 
 Just some piece of mind is all I can hope for. Dylan is right though, Raven fears the way of the pear.
 “Let’s just see if it’s here, Mate. If Gramps led me true, I can put a stop to the bullshit, once and all.” The open transport entrance is just a step up. I jump, the leather gives way to its rot and misery, spills articles inside the hatchway. 
 We stare.
 “Bollocks, Boyo, this sheisse’s taboo. We can’t get caught with it.”
 Kneeling, I separate the items. Small labeled bottles, Damiana leaves, Devil’s Claw, Calamus Root, silver and gold flakes, an athame with runic scrawls writhing on the hilt. Sachet powders for circling. A box and white and red candles.
 “Dude, the man was right. Gotta scram, bro. No time to get classy.”
 Dylan claims the controls. I lever the portal shut and sit. Circle drawn with white candles placed at star points. Calamus Root sprinkled outside the circle to be certain.
 After decades under garbage, the athame is still razor sharp. I open the small box I recognize from my seventh birthday, the one before the Destruction, remove the lock of hair and place it in the circle, then close and seal it.
 The palm cut bleeds and I daub at star points.
 “Reversus est ad me,” I intone. “Come back to me,” then wait.
 She is as I remembered her. Long red hair, resolute. Shimmery air around her, she opens emerald green eyes, smiles.
 “My son, is it time?”
 “Do you have it?” 
 A quick nod.
 The transport climbs, banks, prepares for hyper drive. I break the circle for Mother to place my brow band. A dim blue glow, and then the blood beckons.
 “Jump first for Raven, then the Institute.”
 “Can you hear them, son?”
 “Every interface is calling to me. They await my command.”