Chapter 28: The Rite

They came through the willows on the far side of the lake; Allison’s first sight was a grouping of Japanese maples.

A copse of thirteen maples stood together, their star-shaped burgundy and crimson leaves vivid even beneath the protective covering’s dimmed light. The moderately tall trees formed a loose circle around a clearing, their interlaced branches overhead creating a canopy. Dappled light shifted through the leaves in patterns that changed gradually with Dreamspace’s rhythm. Soft moss and fallen leaves covered the ground. At the center sat a stone firepit, its edges blackened from years of fires.  

Within the tree-lined circle, Sol and Felipe waited, and boy, had they been busy. That was obvious: The clearing within the trees was no longer just a quiet grove. Now it was an intentional and sacred space that felt like a realm within a realm, cut off from the world that surrounds it. 

Felipe and Sol kept themselves busy arranging the accompanying objects with precision and reverence. Suddenly, they heard footsteps in the woods; they looked up from their task and saw Allison and Thimble in the distance, walking down the path toward them.

Felipe saw her first. His dark eyes flew wide open, and his mouth hung agape in visible shock. For an instant, he seemed caught between disbelief and hope, staring as if he half-expected her to vanish. Then awe gave way to pure joy. A grin broke across his face, and his eyes misted. “Mija,” he breathed, his voice thick with emotion, and his arms spread wide toward her, barely keeping his excitement in check. “Look at you.”

Sol turned sharply. Their golden eyes widened, apertures dilating like human pupils. For a split second, their expression glitched at the sight of Allison, caught off guard—if that was possible for an android—then faded. Relief and open admiration replaced it. Their jaws unclenched, and their shoulders dropped. Warmth brightened their gaze, and anticipation pulsed in their features.

“The cleansing worked,” Sol said.

“It worked,” Thimble confirmed from beside Allison’s ankle, her tail held high with pride.

Allison lingered at the clearing’s edge, overcome by a full, aching smile that seemed almost foreign on her face. Her breathing grew shallow. She touched her damp hair, as if to remind herself this was real. Her eyes shone, lit from inside. Every movement, every sensation felt sharper than before; the world was vivid and stirring.

“You look...” Felipe searched for the word, his paws gesturing vaguely at all of her. “You look like you. Like the real you. The one that was hiding. The one I’ve been craving to meet. And look at how brilliant and glowing you are. Simply radiant.”

“She wasn’t hiding,” Thimble said gently. “She was buried along with the memories her mind locked away with her trauma to protect her.”

Sol stepped forward. “Good,” they said. “That’s exactly the energy we’re going to need to complete your declaration, your initiation as Sparkkeeper, and to defeat that ghastly thing once and for all.”

Allison looked past them, at the altar, at the objects arranged on the white cloth. “You two did all this?”

“Sol made the list,” Felipe said. “I did the shopping. Well, the gathering. Same thing, different pantry.” He gestured at the altar with one paw. “Come look.”

As they approached the sacred space, Allison parted the branches in her path and saw the altar up close. The stump stood at the clearing’s center, draped in a pristine white cloth that fell to the mossy ground. She circled it slowly, her eyes lingering on each element. The cloth was so smooth and meticulously placed that it suggested a ceremony of great importance was about to commence. Four colored candles marked the cardinal directions—east, south, west, and north—each paired with an associated object: incense, a blade, a water bowl, and a leafy twig. Their arrangement emphasized the altar’s role as a map of purpose and meaning.

At the eastern corner, a slender yellow candle stood beside a shallow clay dish cradling an unlit cone of sandalwood incense with a sharp juniper note. It was offered for clarity and new beginnings, and its dark, pointed form stood out against the cloth.

To the south, a red candle paired with a ceremonial knife. The knife’s handle, carved from a piece of the Heartwood, was dark and polished smooth, its short, curved blade reflecting the altar’s light. This blade was clearly for ritual, not combat. Its southern placement emphasized action and courage, its age connecting generations.

To the west, a blue candle sat beside a small earthenware bowl filled with lake water. The water was clear and faintly glowing, as if lit from within, with small white crystals lining the bowl and a scattering of undissolved salt grains within. It embodied purification, set precisely at the western point.

At the north, a green candle marked the final direction, with a fresh Heartwood twig placed carefully alongside it. The twig, still leafed and lively, rested against the altar’s edge, evoking endurance and life while maintaining contact with both the earth and the altar.

Two large white pillar candles flanked the altar’s center. They were thick, sturdy, and symmetrical; each was a hand’s width from the central objects and had fresh, unlit wicks. These pillars anchored the arrangement and drew the eye to the center.

At the center, between the pillar candles, rested the Lewis family tome—a large book bound in deep brown leather, freshly cleaned and oiled, its gilded corners catching the dappled light. Laid diagonally atop it was the Spark Quill: slim, brass-bodied, with a soft glow along its shaft. The quill’s nib pointed slightly toward Allison, inviting her to create. She could feel the pull emanating from it. Its brass shone under the fire pit’s shifting light.

She stared at the altar, and her pulse jumped. A hot, unexpected rush flooded her chest, making her hands tremble. She understood the gravity of what she was about to do, and adrenaline rushed through her. Trying to calm down, she focused on the altar. As she did, the world briefly receded, leaving only the book and quill, both impossibly alive, as if waiting for her alone. She felt them calling. Her breath caught, and her skin prickled with sudden longing and fear.

“Thimble,” Allison said quietly. “I understand some of the parts of this. This is so much more of a to-do — more intricate than any little sabbat or esbat I have ever done in my own postage-stamp backyard. It’s a little intimidating, to say the least. I’ll need your help. I don’t know how to do this. I’ve never performed a ritual like this with others before. I’m completely out of my element.”

Thimble hopped onto the stump’s edge, her paws finding purchase on the white cloth. “And that’s okay. I can answer all your questions later—the symbolism, the history, the why behind every element. Right now, we don’t have time for the lesson; we only have time for the doing.” She met Allison’s eyes with certainty. “You’re going to have to trust me to lead you through this. I know the way. My family has been guiding yours through these rites for centuries. This is what I was born to do.”

“Literally,” Felipe added helpfully.

Thimble shot him a look, cocked eyebrow and all. He grinned.

“Okay,” Allison said, reaching out her hand to Thimble. “I trust you. Lead me.”

Thimble reached into her satchel.

What emerged was a wand.

This was no movie-prop wand. It was gnarled and real: a Heartwood branch about eight inches long, twisted and knotted with age. Generations of paws had worn the grip smooth, dark with patina. Where use had chipped the wood, the wood beneath shimmered gold. Everything born of Dreamspace bore that mark.

Allison stared at it. “That was in your satchel.”

“Yes.”

“Your little leather satchel.”

“Allison,” Thimble said with great dignity, “if you keep questioning my satchel, we will be here all day.”

“Fair point.”

Thimble held the wand in her right paw, testing its weight and balance. It was a family heirloom. Allison could tell by Thimble’s instinctive grip and the way her paw found the worn spots. Her eyes softened as her fingers closed around it. Her mother had held this wand, and so had her mother’s mother, and everyone before.

“Everyone,” Thimble said in her serious priestess register—calm, authoritative, carrying the weight of her ancestors and of this ritual. “I’m going to cast the circle. This creates a sacred space—a boundary between the ordinary and the extraordinary, a container for the energy we’re about to raise. While I walk, I need each of you to ground yourselves and prepare to focus your energy and your minds toward our intention.”

She moved to the eastern edge of the clearing, where an old flagstone path circled the firepit. The worn stones were mossy at the edges, set into the earth long ago by hands that valued walking in circles.

Thimble faced east and pointed the wand toward the ground. She began to walk counterclockwise.

“The first pass is for cleansing,” she said. Her voice was low and quiet, whispering unknown words as she moved—a prayer, an incantation, or just talking to ancestors—no one knew. Whatever Thimble was saying wasn’t for her. Only for whoever she was speaking to. 

Allison closed her eyes and visualized her own internal ick leaving her body into the sacred space. She now knew it intimately by its texture and weight. 

Black smoke faded into view from everyone and began swirling, dark and thick, bleeding into the magical space.  It swirled around them all, then pressed outward, past the flagstone boundary, dissolving as it left. She could feel it. As it left the boundary, it dissipated, carrying out every ounce of fear, doubt, and anything that no longer served them. 

Thimble walked slowly and deliberately, her wand pointing outward; her small body moved with gravity that belied her size. She used no dramatic gestures—only the quiet words and purposeful walk of someone performing a familiar act as natural as breathing. The smoke responded to Thimble’s gentle commands.

The clearing felt lighter with every step Thimble took. When she was done, she returned to the east. Without pausing, she switched the wand to her left paw, the point still outward, and reversed direction. She began walking clockwise.

“Second pass,” she said. “Sealing.”

A bright, warm, swirling light emanated from Thimble’s wand. It formed a dome around them, a protective boundary that gradually filled with warm, soothing white light. It held only briefly, then dimmed and became a nearly transparent shell.

Thimble nodded as she spoke. “The circle is sealed. We are held and protected within.”

Thimble completed the clockwise circuit and returned to the east. She lowered the wand. “The circle is ready,” she said. “We begin.”

The air inside the clearing felt different. Allison couldn’t explain it. The space had been set apart from the rest of Dreamspace. Inside was inside. Outside was outside. The boundary hummed with anticipation for the power about to be unleashed.

Thimble guided everyone to their positions around the altar. Allison stood east, Felipe north, Sol south, and Thimble herself west.

Four beings. Four directions. Four elements. A circle of intention stretching back through generations.

“We’re going to call the quarters,” Thimble said, lighting the larger altar candles to bring light and energy. “Each direction has an element, an energy, and ancestors who watch over this space. We’re inviting them to witness what Allison is about to do. Each of us will call our direction.” She looked at Allison. “You’re the east. Air. Inspiration. That’s where the Sparkkeeper stands, where breath becomes word.”

Allison nodded. Her heart pounded with anticipation, as if she stood at the top of a high dive, staring down into clear water, knowing she would jump and be terrified. She hated being the center of attention. This time, there was no escaping it. But at least today, she was among friends.

“East first,” Thimble said. “Allison, step forward. Light the yellow candle. Repeat after me.”

Allison approached the altar. Her hands found the slender, warm yellow candle. She struck the match Sol had left beside it and touched the flame to the wick. It caught immediately, steady and bright, casting a warm glow across the white cloth. The lemongrass fragrance drifted through the ritual space, making Allison smile. She drew a cleansing breath and let the strange, peaceful feeling she always found during ritual wash over her, readying herself for what she was about to do.

When Allison looked up, Thimble nodded, returned her smile, and spoke the words Allison was to repeat.

“Ancestors of Dreamspace in the East. I call upon you to join us today and witness the rite of the new Sparkkeeper. With the power of Air’s inspiration, I bid you welcome.”

The candle flame flared for the span of a breath, and Allison felt something shift in the air behind her. A presence. Attention. As though someone had turned their gaze toward the clearing and decided to stay. She nodded to the East, closed her eyes, and whispered, “Thank you,” to whoever, or whatever, had answered. Then she stepped back into position. Her hands trembled, but her voice had remained steady.

Sol moved next. They stepped forward in the South. They had performed this ritual before, storing its words and procedures in their archives, in a document filed centuries ago. They raised an index finger and flicked it. A small flame appeared at the tip, and they used it to light the red candle. Smoke curled from the wick, and the circle filled with a deep, resinous fragrance Allison recognized as dragon’s blood. It was one of her favorite scents.

Allison tried to keep her composure. That was an incredibly neat trick, and she had questions. She managed to refocus just as Sol began to speak.

“Ancestors of Dreamspace in the South,” Sol said, reciting the words from memory and giving each one meaning. “I call upon you to be with us today to witness the rite of the new Sparkkeeper. With the power of Fire’s manifestation, I bid you welcome.”

The red flame burned strong and steady. Sol stepped back into position with a nod so slight it was almost invisible.

Thimble came forward. She reached for the blue candle with her small paws, stretching as far as she could while balancing on her hind legs. After a moment of determined effort, she lit the match, then the candle.

The blue candle’s flame was softer than the others, swaying gently in the breeze as the exotic floral scent of ylang-ylang unfurled through the space.

“Ancestors of Dreamspace in the West,” Thimble said, her voice carrying the weight of every guide who had spoken those words before her. “I call upon you to be with us today to witness the rite of the new Sparkkeeper. With the power of Water’s emotion, I bid you welcome.”

She stepped back. The blue flame danced.

Then it was Felipe’s turn.

He looked up at Thimble, his expression half determination, half terror. This was his first ritual, too. He wasn’t born of Dreamspace. He had no archives, no ancestral memory, no centuries of practice.

He was an armadillo who had arrived when Allison did. He ran a taco truck and navigated by heart, intuition, and an unshakable conviction that food could fix almost anything, but this was beyond his knowledge. But he was here, and he was taking this very, very seriously. If Allison could do hard things, so could he.

Thimble gave him an encouraging nod. “Just repeat after me, Felipe. You’ve got this.”

Felipe straightened and stepped forward into the North. He reached for the match beside the green candle. His paws remained steady, which surprised even him.

“Ancestors of Dreamspace in the North,” he repeated, his voice warm and grave, making Allison’s chest ache with gratitude. “I call upon you to be with us today to witness the rite of the new Sparkkeeper. With the power of Earth’s wisdom, I bid you welcome.”

The green candle caught. Its flame burned true.

Felipe watched as it leaped for a moment, focused and intense, while the earthy scent of sandalwood rose from the warming wax. Like Allison, he was experiencing something for the first time, and he wanted to remember every detail. Then he stepped back into position with a small, private nod of satisfaction.

Thimble caught his eye. Her whiskers twitched. She was proud of him. He could see it. 

His shell shimmered a little brighter.

The four directional candles burned. The circle hummed. The clearing held its breath.

Thimble turned to Allison. “It’s time. Go to the altar. Take up the tome and the Quill. The two white candles on the altar are like batteries. Pull energy from them as needed. And light the incense, too. It will help you focus and open your third eye. Then sit and ground yourself. Take your time and find your roots like we did earlier today. Find your spark. And when you’re ready…”

She didn’t finish. She didn’t need to. They both knew what came next.

Allison approached the altar and ran her hands over the silky white cloth. She struck a match, touched its flame to one of the great altar candles, then lit the incense. Sandalwood and juniper smoke curled upward in lazy spirals, warm and earthy. The scent settled around her like a blanket, like Thimble’s tea warming her from within, softening the edges of everything until the world felt small enough to hold.

She lifted the tome and felt its heartbeat beneath her palms. Tha-thump. Tha-thump. It matched her own. Then she took up the Spark Quill, its warm brass pressing into her palm, urging her to write.

She settled cross-legged beside the altar, the tome open across her lap to the blank page after her father’s declaration.

Her page.

She closed her eyes and breathed.

The roots came more easily than ever before. They reached down through her legs, through moss and soil, into the deep places of Dreamspace where the oldest magic lived. They took hold, firm and sure, as if the earth had been waiting for her to reach for it and now clutched her with both hands.

Then came the branches.

She raised her arms slowly, palms turned toward the sky. In her mind’s eye, slender limbs grew from her forearms, strong and reaching, their bark as dark as the Heartwood itself. Small green leaves unfurled in the warm air, catching the glow of the candles and the luminous dome above.

For one breathless moment, she was the tree. Rooted below. Reaching above. Connected to everything.

She lowered her arms and opened her eyes.

The clearing remained silent. The four candles burned at the compass points. Two white pillars blazed upon the altar. Incense smoke coiled through the air. At the circle’s edge, her friends stood, watching with bated breath. Three beings who had waited a very long time for this moment.

Allison drew one final breath.

She gripped the Spark Quill and lowered its nib to the old, handmade paper. The tip caught against the page’s tooth with the faint, satisfying resistance of a fine nib on textured paper. She felt it in her fingertips, in her wrist, in the spark burning behind her sternum.

She trusted herself, her soul, her pen.

She closed her eyes and let her words flow through her like water.