The Ballad of Shakey Lee

A child’s shoe lies in the ash of a burned village. Still warm. The smoke hasn’t decided whether to rise or weep. Hasher stands slightly off to the side, holding something like an alembic. Hasher crafted this piece of bent glass. It has all the familiar characteristics of such a device, but what makes this one unique is the open conical end. The smoke, which had been confused a moment before, seemed to have a decision forced on it. What was left of the grey vapor rushed into the conical end of that alembic and, almost with a pout, squatted down near the base of the glass. Hasher lifted the device to eye level and spoke to the alembic,

“Well, Vito…I told you not to toy with those advanced spells. It really is a shame that you have ended up this way, and the village was caught up in your nonsense, but it seems foolish not to put your remnants to good use. I believe you can still hear me, or at least understand the tone, so I do apologize for any discomfort moving forward, but waste not want not, as our mother often says.” The smoke that was Vito did a churlish little twirl and strained to escape the alembic, but Hasher plugged the exit with a thick cork. Vito fumed and billowed but only succeeded in making his brother grin.

It’s not that Hasher didn’t love his brother, or that he was callous as a rule, but the two brothers had gotten themselves into quite a jam. They had always shared a keen interest in some of the darker, arcane arts, but it was more a hobby than a practice. It was only after they found themselves owing some great sums to the local gang of teenage roughnecks that they added action to their occult contemplations. They were hiding out in one of the local libraries after school when sheer luck reared its head. In between several useless volumes was tucked a slim leather journal. This journal also so happened to be in the local vernacular and contained a whole litany of quick and dirty rites and incantations. The cover was hand-drawn, and although the hoofed young man depicted was unnerving, the ends seemed to justify the means. The brothers were not likely to escape their debt...nor the fate that debt carried without the aid of something decidedly less human than they were used to.

Despite his youth, Hasher was quite the craftsman, dabbled in practical alchemy, and was far more literate than his older brother, Vito. When he discovered the transmutation spell and the specific implements it required, he set to work. Vito was kept in the dark as his brother prepared. Hasher eventually lied to Vito, explaining that it was a simple spell to shift the material composition of certain objects, and the rites and utterances would be best handled by himself. Vito raged and outright demanded that he be the one to invoke such spells. Hasher’s first trap was successful; he relented with faux humility…although to sprinkle a little sugar on this snare, Hasher mentioned the danger of the black arts. Vito waved off the warning and reaffirmed that they really had no choice. Hasher nodded in agreement.

At this point, the transmutation concluded, leaving Vito transformed into a volatile entity. An unexpected consequence was the destruction of a significant part of their village due to eldritch fire. Hasher shook off the destruction and set his resolve toward a new plan. He knew just what to do. Those he owed a debt to had left the smoldering remnants of their village and congregated in a cramped old shack on the river’s edge. A lot of boyish backslapping and lewdness took place out there, and none but the initiated were allowed in. Like most shacks, this one had a single door for entrance and exit, and enough room between the clapboard for all kinds of vapor to squeak through. Vito, still prone to tantrums, was sure to be in quite the mood, given his new state, and some of the diabolical energy he was now infused with was a little bit of fuel added to the fires of his childish rage.

Shakey Leagh was the oldest and therefore the leader of the roughnecks. His perception was the most attuned to changes. So, he was the first to notice the dark smoke that slithered through a slat of wood. He bounded into action and vaulted over his compatriots, sprawling for the exit. Although this seemed in his mind to be the most prudent of reactions, this callousness toward the remaining teens only served to expedite his demise.

Vito, in smoke form, used his newfound demoniac prowess to inflict partially unwilling vengeance on the startled gang of creditors. His gaseous form takes on elements of his previous anthropomorphic shape. He grasps with slender child-like claws at open mouths and nostrils; He delved deep into lungs to squeeze oxygen from every available blood vessel. He wrapped himself around each victim like a worm and leeched life like a parasite. In short order, the chance for escape was smothered, and had the roughnecks been less chaotic in their attempts to flee, some might have survived, but these types were never known for their courteous and orderly exits. All the gang was dead, and Vito spun tendrils of smoke seeking more life to extinguish. When none was found, he attempted to flee the shack himself, but Hasher was waiting, and the smoke again found its way into the bottom of that infernal ingenious alembic. The cork quickly followed. The smoke settled back into a little bloom, and if Hasher had not been celebrating his victory with a mirthless cackle, he might have heard a desperate puff of weeping coming from Vito inside the alembic.

Hasher, with his older brother tucked under one arm, returned to the remnants of the village. Some rebuilding would be required, and the vacuum of youthful leadership created by the various tragic events presented an opportunity not likely to come again.