The Shadowseer

Submitted for the Forest & Fawn Holiday short story challenge. The story required the following three prompts: “a secret is revealed,” “a frazzled shopkeep,” and “a clock that strikes at the wrong time.” Word count limit was 2000 words.

Results: TOP 10 Placement! 7TH place!

The air feels electric as I enter Elodie’s Apothecary. Tonight is Samhain, All Hallows’ Eve, and it’s as though the spirits are already crowding around the metaphysical gates, waiting to be summoned. The townsfolk are just as eager, all scrambling to gather last-minute components for tonight’s ritual. On any given day, the shop is cramped, its shelves brimming with herbs, salves, and unmarked jars; but today is another beast entirely. Poor Elodie looks like she’s about to combust when she meets my gaze from behind the register. 

“Sera! Whatcha need? Ready for your big debut tonight?” She doesn’t even look at the customer in front of her as she finishes their transaction. Several more are queued behind them.

My voice barely reaches her over the din. “I was hoping to pick up some extra mugwort, but—”

Elodie grimaces. “Sorry, lovie, I’ve just sold my last bundle.” She looks around desperately. “Though for our esteemed Shadowseer, I’m sure someone would be willing to—” 

“No, please,” I interrupt. “There’s no need. I was just stocking up.” 

Elodie’s shoulders slump in relief. “Oh good! Diligent of you. Your grandmother was the same, gods rest her soul.” She looks back anxiously towards the queue. “Now, if there’s nothing else you need…?” 

With the dismissive wave of my hand, she immediately turns back to her customers. I begin winding my way out of the shop, satchel clutched tightly at my side, and I can’t help but overhear the excitement among the townspeople. 

Who will you call upon tonight?
Do you think Grandpa is happy in the Shadowside?
What if we can’t hear the Shadowseer’s bell? 

I press forward, anxious to reach the door. When I finally do, I shove it open to reveal the darkening skies. Cold air fills my lungs, and the shadows stretch long on the stone walkways. I can already see their edges dance in unmoving light. A good omen, my grandmother would say. She was always observant of such things, exactly as a Shadowseer should be. I shove my quivering hands into my pockets, telling myself it’s just the cold. 

It will be fine, I assure myself. Just don’t hesitate. 

I check the clocktower in the town square. 4:57 PM. Several hours remain before I must take my position in that tower, ringing the bell to alert everyone of the precise moment in which the Shadowside’s veil is at its thinnest. Only then will everyone begin their Samhain ritual, tearing tiny rifts in the barrier between worlds to embrace a fleeting moment of connection with those they’ve lost. 

Everyone, that is, but me. 

I am to remain in the clocktower, ringing the bell, never to take part. 

Such is the role of the esteemed Shadowseer.

The next few hours pass with painstaking slowness. I walk about the town square, hood up, trying my best to look unapproachable and busy. And yet, no matter where I go, everyone in town seems intent to seek me out and wish me luck. Don’t worry, they say, clearly misinterpreting the source of my anxiety. You’ll do great. You’ve always been a natural at this. 

When I was young, word spread quickly of my ability to hear unspoken voices and see movements in the shadows. I boasted about my invisible companions, my “spirit friends.” No one doubted that I would carry forward my grandmother’s legacy and become the next Shadowseer. I spent my entire childhood perched upon her lap, learning about our traditions and the magic that wove the intricate veil between life and death. When I grew older, she let me accompany her on visits to the local townsfolk. I watched as she divined the desires and advisements of their dearly departed. Even outside of Samhain’s magic, she could still feel them somehow. She sensed their will, their pain. I remember staring into her black eyes, wondering what depths of existence they’d seen — what they saw in me. 

The morning after she passed, no one was surprised when I awoke with eyes like hers: deep and black as the shadows themselves. The gift of the Shadowseer, clearly, had been passed to me.

And tonight is my first Samhain without her.

Around nine o’clock, when the townspeople return to their homes in preparation, I finally venture to the clocktower. The night is truly black now, and the soft ripples of the veil blur in my periphery. I can sense it now, the way one senses a sneeze coming on — inevitable and impossible to ignore. At exactly 9:32PM, the barrier will be at its thinnest; and that is precisely when I must ring the bell. Despite having plenty of time, I find myself rushing as I open the tower door and begin climbing the spiral staircase. The aged metal whines with each step. When I reach the top, it looks exactly as it did when I came here last year with my grandmother: old, dusty, and charged with Samhain magic. Only three things occupy the space: an oil lamp, an old broom, and an immense rope hanging from a hole in the ceiling. 

I check my pocketwatch: quarter past nine. I light the lantern and set it in the room’s center. Broom in hand, I begin to sweep away the dust. Unmanned whispers join in with the soft, hushed sounds of its bristles against the wooden floors. The air swirls with particles and sourceless shadows. Magic culminates. I watch the warm brown of the floorboards reveal themselves beneath the grey dirt. I take my time. It helps to steady my nerves. 

If someone were with me, they would see the blacks of my eyes start to expand, taking over the whites of my sclera. If they looked closely, they might see reflections of the spirits themselves within them. But, mercifully, the work of the Shadowseer on Samhain is without company, and I am alone. 

I’m counting on that.

At last, I set the broom back against the curved stone wall. I approach the rope and grasp one hand firmly around its thick fibers. With the other hand, I pull out my pocketwatch: 9:30 PM. Two minutes. It’s almost time. Then, before any chance of second-guessing, I pull. Hard. The deafening sound of the clocktower rings through the night, two minutes too early. 

I don’t have much time. I drop the rope and move quickly. Rushing to a cleared spot on the floor, I dig through my satchel to produce the necessary components. 

“Three candles, for life, death, and rebirth,” I recite as I place them in a circle on the floor. 

Next, I set a small, cast iron cauldron in the center of the candles and sprinkle dried leaves into its belly. “Rosemary, for clarity.” 

Then, I connect the candles with trails of dried flower buds. “And mugwort, for vision.”

I throw my satchel onto the floor and kneel before the ritual circle. With shaking hands, I strike a match, light the candles, and toss it into the cauldron.

“On this night when shadows wait
To venture ‘cross the hallowed gate,
I chant the words and pay the cost:
To call upon my loved one lost.”

The smoke from the rosemary coils into the air. Slowly, it begins to take on a familiar shape. At precisely 9:32PM, I watch the form of my grandmother manifest in the smoke. 

“Sera,” she whispers. Her voice sounds distorted, but it is unmistakably hers. “I wasn’t expecting to see you tonight.” 

“I’m sorry, grandmother,” I stifle a sob. “I—I had to talk to you.” 

“What’s wrong, my little raven?” She asks. I can hear the ache of worry in every word. 

My stomach turns. “I’ve become the new Shadowseer, grandmother.” 

“Of course you have,” she coos. “That was always your fate.” 

“Yes, but—” Tears stream down my face now, and my voice cracks like an overwrought dam. “I lied, grandmother. It was all a lie! I never heard voices, I never saw shadows. Not until I woke up and became…this. I was just a stupid child, and I —” I wipe away the tears with the back of my hand, but it’s useless. My vision blurs with unending grief. “I just loved spending time with you. I loved listening to stories of our traditions, and when you spoke of magic, you made it feel so real, and I believed it, and—” I take a shuddering breath. “I’m so sorry, grandmother. I’m so sorry you died believing a lie.”

I look down. She is silent for a long time. The shadows on the walls have stilled, the whispers quieted, as if giving space for the enormity of my betrayal. My failure. I don’t even have the dignity to look at her. My tears spill shamelessly onto the floor. 

“Little raven.” Her voice flutters with some emotion I cannot place. Still, I don’t look at her. 

“Little raven,” she says again. “I always knew you were playing make-believe.” 

At this, I look up. 

“I knew you didn’t hear voices, or see movements in the shadows.” She smiles, full cheeks bright in the lanternlight. 

“Why—” I can hardly put the words together through the tightness in my chest. “Why didn’t you say something? Why did you train me for this future, if it was never meant to be mine?” 

She leans forward and whispers. “Sera, what is magic if not the belief that it is real? And what is tradition if not for those who are so inspired by it?” She reaches a hand out, and as it crosses the mugwort line marking the ritual circle, its smoky form dissipates into nothingness. She draws back her hand. “All magic is rooted in make-believe. There is nothing to forgive. You were always meant to carry on my legacy — your love and passion are what made that so.” 

Words fail me. She knew. All along, she knew. I reach out towards her, careful not to breach the sacred circle. I can feel the years of guilt and shame dissipate like the smoke. She knew. And yet, in that very moment, a new guilt explodes in my belly. 

“The ritual!” I clutch my hands to my chest. “The town, they…gods, what will I say to them?” My mind races. “I rang the bell too soon, I was so desperate to talk to you, I—”

The soft sound of my grandmother’s chuckle breaks through my panic. I look to find her smiling once more. 

“I’ll never forget my first Samhain as Shadowseer,” she muses fondly. “I was so distracted by my visions of the Shadowside, I entirely forgot to ring the bell.” 

“You—you what?” I blanch. 

“Indeed. My mother, in her early death, did not mentor me as I mentored you. I didn’t know what to expect; I was only told to ring the bell when it felt right. You can imagine my fright when the Shadowseer’s vision began to take hold.” She gestures to the shadows on the wall, who have resumed their erratic dancing. 

“So they’ll just…forgive me?” Disbelief colors my every word. “They won’t be angry?” 

My grandmother chuckles again. “There’s always next year, little raven. They know that. Although, I suppose that depends on how much you disclose about the reason for your mistiming. Rest assured, they’ll hear nothing from me about it,” she adds with a playful wink. 

Her form is wispier now, the veil thickening once more. She gives me a meaningful look, and we both know we don’t have much time left. 

“When will I see you again?” I ask, desperation clear in my voice.

“When your time comes,” she replies matter-of-factly. “Either that, or the next time you accidentally mistime your responsibilities.” 

I laugh, wiping the tears away from my cheeks. “Alright. I love you, grandmother.” 

“And I you,” she responds, before the smoke of her body disappears into the rafters.

“Happy Samhain,” I say to the empty room, and blow out the ritual candles in sequence: life, death, and finally, rebirth.