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I glanced feverishly to my left with a sinking feeling in my gut. The second shelf from the top was entirely devoted to Wicca, Druidism, Neo-Paganism, witchcraft, and various folkloric, indigenous, and heritage practices, especially those concentrated in Appalachia and the United States.
Where Decca’s people came from.
How long had she been in here? Had she noticed how cracked those spines were compared to the other books? How dogeared the pages were in the Foxfire series of Appalachian oral histories?
I’d started acquiring the books in the “witchy” subsection after meeting her a couple years ago. Decca and I had become instant friends and since then, we’d spent several nights a week on Zoom calls, talking about philosophy or religion. Her cases. My papers. She’d listen to me humming a chant that constantly ran through my head as she read.
Sometimes, we’d work independently in silence.
Sometimes, we’d watch something together on Netflix.
Once in a while, she’d casually mention something her granny had done or said. Or, a surprisingly rural, old-timey phrase would slip into her mostly academic discourse. I’d say nothing at the time, but later I wouldn’t be able to get it out of my head. I’d comb through my books, looking for vestigial examples of what she might be referencing.
All to learn more about this mercurial woman who’d broken through my walls and forced my friendship.
Now that woman was here, and something told me she’d been waiting for me.
“You have a Satanic Bible?”
I shrugged. “I like to know how all God’s children think.”
I took a few tentative steps into the room but didn’t shut the door.
Decca noticed. Her eyes remained on the open door for a split second before she turned back to the books.
“What are these?” She pointed to the Greek on the spines.
“Different liturgies. Services,” I clarified, when she looked up.
I moved closer to her and bent low, looking for a specific book, running my fingers over the tops of the spines. “Here.” I wrenchedit out from its tight squeeze and handed it to her. “The Divine Liturgy of Saint John Chrysostom. That’s what you’ve seen. When you’ve come to church with my sister.”
She held it like a Holy Relic, like the tip of Saint Barbara’s desiccated pinky finger. A fragment of Saint Anna’s skull. I half expected a beam of light to shine up from the pages and illuminate her face.
I laughed. Her sweet reverence was all too endearing. “It’s just a guidebook for service. It’s not even blessed. A textbook, really.”
“May I borrow this?”
“Keep it. I have a hundred copies.”
She narrowed her eyes skeptically and opened to the beginning. “‘To Kosta.’ I can’t read the rest. It’s in Greek.” She closed the book and held it out to me. “Gus, I can’t keep this. It was a gift. An expensive one, considering the age of its still-intact leather binding.”
“It was. And I’m giving it to you.” I felt for the slits in my robe to pocket my hands in my slacks underneath.
She sighed, but hugged the book close to her chest. “Why did he inscribe it to Kosta? I’m assuming that’s you.”
I nodded. “The Greek nickname for Constantinos is Kosta. The American nickname is Gus. The Greek Kappa and Gamma don’t sound as different from one another as they do in English. It’s my grandfather’s name. You can blame him.” I smiled.
“What does it say? The inscription.”
“Congratulations.”
“No, it doesn’t.”
I grinned. “No. It doesn’t.”
“You’re not going to tell me?”
I shook my head.
