Transcend

Finnegan - The Holiest Men

In the alley behind the store, Finnegan let Otto jump out of his hood and into a broken crate.

"You better wait here." He said, "And if you see trouble run. Meet me back at camp."

Otto nodded as Finnegan handed him a handful of peanuts. He took them happily and started working on peeling them as Finnegan disappeared around the corner.

Finnegan made sure to avoid ringing the bell as he crept into Angus's general store. He pulled his hood up in anticipation of the crowd. Usually, the store was stuffed with people and their annoying children, monopolizing the goods and Angus's time. But as Finnegan ducked behind a shelf of canned beans, Angus stood alone at the counter, reading his morning paper with a small smile on his withered face.

"Welcome!" Angus said absently, waving his hand but not looking up. "Let me know if I can be of service."

Finnegan spotted the article on the front page, recognizing his father's hanging body before the police cut him down.

"Will do," He whispered.

Without waiting, he slipped to the back of the empty shop. The air changed cooler and the walls glistened with hung, slimy animal carcasses from pig to fish and handspun sausages were slung lazily over nails. The wooden walls were stained permanently with the oils and blood as they dripped free until purchase.

He avoided the meats and stopped in front of the door to the backroom.

It was closed but beads on braided ropes still hung over the thin board. He knocked lightly, looking over his shoulder to still see Angus enthralled in his paper.

"Is it the boy with the list?" The gruff voice called out, prompting Finnegan to take a step back. His father knew many people from all around the world, but the deep creole accent was one he'd never gotten used to. He couldn't imagine a whole region of people sounding so angry but simultaneously in a constant state of relaxation. But southerners were different. This much he knew.

"Uh," He stumbled over his words, shocked at the statement. "Yeah."

The door swung open before he had time to ponder it.

Finnegan stepped back again at the sight of the hardened face of the woman in front of him. She grabbed the front of his coat before his pack could bump the jars of marmalade on the shelf behind him.

Her face read much older than her posture as she straightened her back. The frown lines over her brow were deep fissures in her porcelain skin and drew attention from her crystal blue eyes. A slender gold chain disappears underneath her shirt into her cleavage.

She scanned him, racking her eyes over his features before thrusting her hand forward.

Finnegan lowered his hood, shifting nervously. "I don't have any money, Ma'am." He said.

"The list," She nearly growled.

Finnegan cursed himself before handing her the crumpled piece of paper. She disappeared into the backroom. Jars clanked and shifted as she slid items into a bag.

Finally working up the courage to step in, Finnegan entered just as she was waving her hand quickly over a box of smoldering powder. The room was smaller than he expected. It was crowded by a roundtable that held only a stack of large tarot cards and an overstocked shelf of bottles and packages. He nearly missed the small cot sitting behind the door and the even smaller iron cauldron in the corner.

Despite the size, the smell of the roasting powder failed to permeate the room. Instead, he inhaled the scent of the three old books on the small shelf and a trace of lavender oil.