Ancient Spellcrafter

Black Speculative Fiction - August 2025

Photo by Jadon Johnson on Unsplash

Zora Charles

Rock Bottom is smacking into concrete sidewalk, it’s 3 a.m., and it’s raining, and I’ve got nothing but the clothes on my back and fresh bruises on my skin. I’m twenty, and spitting blood out of my mouth, and wiping mud off my lower lip. Papa Moses put all of his weight into throwing me into the gutter, like the trash I was in his eyes, in the whole Charles family’s eyes.

Moses’ words bellowed in my ears, shaking up my brain.

The Lord does not suffer a witch to live!

“But I’m not,” I mumbled around more blood filling my mouth, drawing myself to my knees, my limbs shaking. “I’m not a witch.”

My memories assaulted me with what a lie that must be.

When I was fifteen, Papa Moses lectured me for over an hour on the evils of witchcraft.

When I interrupted that it wasn’t witchcraft, it’s called spellcraft, he slapped my mouth with the buckle-side of his belt, tearing open my lip. Seconds later, his guitar burst into green flame, and burned into blackened shards within seconds.

When I was twelve, I was sent to Grandma Rose Webb Charles to be trained properly on how to be a good Christian woman. Waking up at 4:30 a.m. every day, washing clothes the old-fashioned way, baking biscuits from scratch, peeling potatoes, sanding down shoes, ironing, strictly enforced. Grandma Rose sent me home when my depression caused a thunderstorm inside the house, and rained for three solid days indoors.

The blackened sky crackled with white streaks of lightning, immediately followed by a boom of thunder, shaking me down to my bones. It was about to storm the same moment I’m ready to cry.

Spellcraft.

Magic reacting to my emotions and responding with effect.

Anger, fire.

Sadness, rain.

Joy, levitation.

And other spellcraft/emotion combos I might not have noticed yet.

I stumbled to my feet, and wiped at the blood on my mouth and the smeared mud over my lip again. I looked back at the tall brownstone house that had been my home my entire life, and was now the last place I could call home.

Enough was enough.

They had tried to stamp out my witchcraft it’s spellcraft, I’m not a witch but nothing worked. The more I tried to suppress it, the more I acted out.

I walked forward, slouching forward at the throb clutching my thighs and my calves. If I wasn’t bruised now, I definitely would be tomorrow. If tomorrow ever came.

Rain peppered down at first then faster until it was driving down in sheets, soaking me to the bones. Even with the rain sliding down my face, I could see clearly, spellcraft parted the water in front of my eyes visibly.

“You make it rain, yes sweet child?”

The voice whispered at my ear, and I swung around. Nobody was there but the spelled voice wafted on the wind.

“No way,” I whispered. “Another…like me?”

“Yes. I am like you. This rain is full of tears,” said the spelled voice. “Come this way. Come to me.”

“Who are you?” I asked even as I followed where the voice beckoned.

Maybe listening to disembodied voices was a signal of insanity, or I should run the other way, but I had nowhere to go.

“I am Madam Jada,” said the voice, now physical.

Standing next to a convenience store, holding a plastic bag in one hand, and a umbrella in another hand, had to be the other spellcrafter. She wore a purple turban over her head that roped over itself upwards, aiding about an inch or two to her diminutive height. Despite the 85 degree night, she was wrapped in a thick puffer coat with a fur-lining, and a scarf wrapped over three times over her neck, tucked in to the fully buttoned up jacket, with mittens. She was dressed like it was 20-below.

“Sweet child, who did this to you?” She asked as I came to stand next to her, revealing the blood on my face, on my clothes.

“Papa Moses thinks I’m a witch,” was what I said.

“We aren’t witches. We are spellcrafters of an ancient bloodline,” said Madam Jada. “Come, out of the rain. You have nothing with you? No luggage?”

I shook my head and walked at her side.

Unable to wait another moment, I asked, “Is it true? Are you a spellcrafter?”

“I am,” said Madam Jada. “And you are one as well.”

“I wouldn’t be, not if I had a choice in it.” My tone was overwhelmingly bitter and I couldn’t really change it.

“We cannot choose our blood, our history, our inheritance,” said Madam Jada, leading me somewhere, anywhere than where I came from. “But we do choose what we do with it.”

I didn’t know what to say.

Instead I stayed silent, and followed Madam Jada. She led me to a shop with a home above. Hanging outside the dark brick one story building is a mortar and pestle sign.

Madam Jada opened the door, and the bells at the top jangled. The stark scent of witch hazel tingled my nose, quickly followed by the sharp warm scent of ginger. I looked over the long oak counter and ran my fingers over the engrained carvings of vines and plants wrapped around the leg of the furniture. The countertop is graced with glass jars and vessels of varying shapes. Behind the countertop was a beaded doorway.

“What is this place?” I asked.

Madam Jada didn’t answer. She lead me beyond the beaded doorway, there was more books, towering in stacks, stuffed into shelves, and scrolls wrapped up in cupboards. There was a small sitting area, then a door. Through there was a stairwell, and up there was the entire living area. A kitchen, and then two bedrooms. One was lived in, and the other sparse. Madam Jada led me to sit down at the kitchen table.

Madam Jada said, “You sit. Let me get the first aid kit. Tell me your name.”

I sat down, while Madam Jada went into the cabinet.

Then I asked again, “What is this place? Who are you?”

Madam Jada said, “Madam Jada. This is my shop. The mundane come here to get apothecary items and herbs. However for wayward spellcrafters like you, this place is a sanctuary.”

Madam Jada sat next to me, tugging the chair closer, and popped open the first aid kit. I flinched as she tended to my face with antiseptic and band aids.

I said shakily, “Are you really letting me stay here?”

“For as long as you need,” Madam Jada said kindly. “I have the extra room. And you can work the store downstairs to earn your keep, cook the meals, tend the garden outside, and I’ll properly teach you your spellcraft. You’re what, 18? And to have no idea as how to control yourself. Tearful rain at this age? You must still be setting angry fires, and levitating joyfully. No, you must train. I shall help you, Zora Charles.”

I whispered, “How did you know my name?”

Madam Jada chuckled as she stood up from bandaging my face, and put the first aid kit away.

“Being able to surface read the names, ages, and memories of people you meet is the simply the basic skills of a spellcrafter,” said Madam Jada. “With me as your mentor, you will learn well.”

I nodded, then yawned, covering my mouth with both hands, and bending down.

“First sleep,” said Madam Jada, putting a hand to my shoulder. “We will begin in the morning.”

I nodded.

Madam Jada showed me to the sparse bedroom. It only had a bed and a dresser inside.

I slumped on the bed, and closed my eyes.

Three Years Later

Fists pounded on my head, with heavy downward pulls of both arms, breaking my skull, shattering my orbital sockets, brain matter leaked from my ears.

Still I breathed.

The man kept hitting, cursing, “Die, witch! Die! Why don’t you die?”

Appropriately, I shut down my systems of controlling air, stopped my heart beat, and relaxed my body all over, I even made sure to make the last “breath” sound from my lips.

He hit me once more, but it was over. I was dead in all appearances.

He panted, and wiped at his face, drawing my blood over his cheeks and chin.

“It’s dead,” he said in a low hoarse voice, with a few more low hoarse curses.

Voices came from around the corner, loud, animated, maybe came from the same comedy club venue we had just left. They were about to stumble on my date murder.

This is fine.

My date scrambled up, and brushed his bloodied hands down the sides of his slacks, as if it to hide the blood, but it was also splattered on his tie and jacket, dribbling down his button-up shirt. I watched the rapid expression cross his face, as he quickly decided on a plan.

“Help!” He yelled. “Help me! Oh God, someone, please help me!”

The voices cut off then came back quickly.

“What was that?”

“It’s a man yelling.”

“What happened?”

My date arranged it that he had found me out here, and he was bloody because he tried to give me mouth-to-mouth resuscitation, but it was clear that I was dead. He lied that he didn’t know who I was, or who had killed me, and he even lied that this wasn’t his car we were next to.

It didn’t matter. I would only lay here and pretend that I was dead until I got the best opening to disappear. I didn’t see a reason to wait around for my date to get caught in his obvious lies and that he was the one who “killed” me. He’s a great guy. Mid-thirties. Graduated from MIT. Was in the middle of building a business with his step-brother and intends to be a millionaire by the time he’s forty-five. Has no kids, two ex-wives but wants children one day.

He however, reacted adversely to the fact I’m a spellcrafter.

Ancient, near-immortal black women who resist death in most forms.

Beating me would never cause me to fully die.

As the couple questioned my date, and called 911, and reported a dead body, I began to surreptitiously heal my wounds and slowly in increments, shift my position to ready myself for a quick escape. The date was keeping his back toward me, and busying himself with trying to get as much blood off him as his possible. I don’t think the other couple suspected him, but the man’s hands were swollen and bruised from slamming his fists against my skull. The police would arrest him so quick.

Murders are nearly one hundred percent committed by someone the victim knows. This man and I were on a date, video footage of the club would prove we had entered and left together. There might be CCTV footage that had caught him beating me right here next to his car on the street. My blood was on him and his hands bore the injuries of a vicious beating.

He was the culprit.

But, what if the victim disappears entirely. Could they arrest him on murder charges when there’s no body?

Sirens were rising in the distance, the same as I slowly sat up.

The only one who saw right away was the woman of the other couple, and we met eyes. She paled ghost white, and screamed, a single high note.

Her date grabbed her, asking what was wrong, not looking back, as I carefully clambered to my feet.

My date whirled around, and saw I had gotten up. Shock, confusion and horror contorted his expression, he hadn’t managed to kill me. Backing away, I slipped off my high heels, and threw them at him, hitting him directly in the face, and I ran.

I congratulated myself that I didn’t have my date pick me up from my apartment, but from a neutral place. Gathering spellcraft around my ankles, I broke the bonds of gravity, and managed lift-off, spinning the magic around my shoulders and down my waist, and landed outside of my apartment, making sure to dim the streetlights and shade.

I got inside, and was greeted by Kin, my black American domestic short hair with sharp knowing yellow eyes. He smelled the blood on me, and rubbed anxiously around my ankles, questioning what happened.

“Got murdered,” I responded, closing the door and leaned against it for a short moment, breathing. “I should probably move. I’d see him around and he might attack me again. He can tell his friends maybe, and then within days there’ll be a Horde to deal with.”

Kin didn’t like the idea, he had become comfortable here, and had started several relationships with cats nearby, but understood the need for safety, and agreed to leave with me.

Kin is a cat. He’s not a human in a cat body nor does he necessarily have enhanced human-like intelligence. But I can understand him, and he can understand me. I’ve also seen hints of his own magical inclination. We worked together, a team. I needed him and he needed me.

I made quick work of packing the essentials. My apartment was barren as it is. Little adornments or splashes of style, no pictures, no knickknacks, nothing nailed down. I took nothing I couldn’t physically carry.

However it wasn’t like I could simply abandon my apartment. I needed to let my landlord know. I needed to work out my notice with my job. If I wanted to sell my car, that would take time. The best thing to do was to leave my apartment as empty as possible, and disguise myself while I was out in the open in case the date saw me.

Kin questioned where we would go.

“Not back to Madam Jada’s,” I said, slinging my back over my shoulders.

I had a falling out with my rainy night savior a year prior. She wanted me to inherit her shop. I didn’t. I moved out after two years of her tutelage.

She was right though. About who I am either deterring others, repulsing them, making them naturally hate me. Didn’t know my date would hate me to the point of beating me to death though.

I ushered Kin into his cat carrier, and abandoned my apartment.

It was time to move on.