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The Age Of Asparagus
The Age Of Asparagus
The Age Of Asparagus
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The Age Of Asparagus

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Young witch and giant Jim Morrison fan Gwenhwyfar is fed up with Toronto's singles scene and wants a boyfriend of her own. There's really only one thing left to do, clearly: Bring the drop-dead sexy Lizard King back from the dead! That is, despite her younger physics-obsessed genius sister moving in and much resistance from her reclusive roommate Eugénie. Complicated by the creepy attentions of Gwen's twice-her-age burnt out ex-rock-and-roller neighbour and the weird old guy downstairs who thinks he's the reincarnation of Aleister Crowley. The biggest problem, though, is there are always repercussions to pulling off a necromantic spell. Like, you can invite unwanted entities, and who knows what the new boyfriend will really be like. And, with the Age of Asparagus—er, Aquarius coming nigh, you could, say, accidentally empower someone with world domination aspirations who wants to become, like, the Evil Dominatrix of the World. Or whatever. Anyway, the point is, things could get really weird.

LanguageEnglish
Release dateJul 15, 2016
ISBN9780986759956
The Age Of Asparagus
Author

Nicole Chardenet

Nicole Chardenet graduated from Kent State University back when Duran Duran was still considered cool. She was in the medieval re-creation group The Society for Creative Anachronism, where she learned how to dress like a historically misplaced dork, belly dance, flirt outrageously, terrify battle-hardened Vikings and dance around campfires at midnight surrounded by screaming barbarians wearing loincloths and roadkill and very little else. Her writing credits include a technology column with a colleague for a New England alternative newspaper, various freelance pieces, and several SCAdian “filk songs”, the less said about which the better. She currently lives in her Den O' Iniquity in Toronto, where she now terrifies Canadians rather than Vikings.

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    The Age Of Asparagus - Nicole Chardenet

    THE AGE OF ASPARAGUS

    By

    Nicole Chardenet

    Dedicated to Elaine Waddell,

    The world's biggest Jim Morrison fan,

    who took pictures of his boots

    at the Hard Rock Café downtown

    rather than stole them.

    ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

    Thanks to my number one beta reader, Juliet Archer Swiggum, who pointed out a few politically incorrect humour points that were probably not going to go over too well.

    Thanks to Ira Nayman, who picked out a few lapses in continuity and logic, and a helluva lot of typos and punctuation mistakes I'd missed.

    Thanks to Fionn McCool's on Adelaide Street West in Toronto for fueling some of my weirder passages with pints of Alexander Keiths.

    Milles mercis to Guy Breau and Cedric Mailleux for helping to translate some of the dialogue into French.

    Thanks to Sonya Young at Sonya Young Photography for providing such terrific author photos, not just for this novel but for the next two as well.

    Thanks to Evan Dales for his usual bang-up job on the book cover.

    Thanks to my two beloved countries, my native United States and my adopted Canada, for giving me all the blessings and freedoms to live my life as I want and to write as freely as I do.

    CHAPTER 1

    ABZU KABATTU MURSU, peta babkama arammu sikurru nertum Nanshe!

    A very pretty young witch, with only extremely rudimentary Sumerian language skills, wearing little more than scented love oil and pentagram jewelry, stood erect in her bedroom. A beautiful antique gold necklace in the shape of a serpent grasping its tail in its mouth, set with emeralds and diamonds, rested on her throat. Long graceful fingers of patchouli incense embraced her sensuously and moody trance music pounded and rolled behind her. She sweated and gasped from the effort of the difficult ritual. This was the third attempt. She tried not to think of how late it was. She opened her uptilted brown eyes and stared hard at the objects on the floor, willing them to be filled with her deepest desire. She raised her arms above her head and called out a long, intricate incantation in an ancient tongue. She waved her wand, she invoked the proper spirits, she threw the appropriate herbs on the fire in the small cauldron and at just the right moment, at the very peak of the energy raised, she let out a great cry and pointed the wand at the beaten-up leather boots.

    There was a loud crack like a thunderclap, and she peered eagerly through the smoke.

    But there the boots stood, empty, as usual. She lowered her arms.

    Shit.

    One floor below, a bald middle-aged man lying in bed opened one eye, squinted and rolled over to his side. Stupid girl, he muttered, the highest and greatest necromantic magick always requires the performance of the Great Rite!

    The following morning the pretty young witch received a call from her younger sister.

    Gwen? It's Leila.

    Hey kid! How's it going? How's Mom?

    Awful, and bloody awful. She's crazier than ever.

    Really? What's going on?

    She's like on this total power trip, lately nothing I ever do is right, she won't let me do anything, and Gwen, you know me. I'm totally serious. She wouldn't let me go to a party last weekend because there would be boys there, and last night she was pissed off at Tony, her newest total loser, and when I asked to go to the movies with Frannie and Deirdre she was all like, 'No, you're not going, you've got studying to do.'

    Did you?

    No, I had done all my homework and studied for my algebra exam. I am so all over dividing radicals. I could teach the class myself.

    How are your grades?

    Straight fucking A's.

    Watch your mouth!

    Sorry. Anyway, I've, like, had it, Gwen. She won't listen to me and I'm not asking for much. You'd think I was like all those fluffy little airheads and ditz-brains at that stupid school.

    Gwen understood her sister's misery. How many girls her age actually cared about their grades if not pushed by their parents? How many actually knew what they wanted to be when they grew up and hadn't changed their mind since they were eight?

    For a fifteen-year-old kid, Leila had it way more together than her peers. She wanted to be a theoretical physicist and work at CERN or maybe FermiLab. When other girls had posters of the latest teenage heartthrob rock star on their walls, Leila worshiped at the altar of Stephen Hawking and Richard Feynmann. At an age when her peers spent most of their waking hours prettifying themselves and droning endlessly of boys, Leila, unadorned, when she wasn't composing long detailed emails to David Deutsch explaining in irritating detail where his theories of multiverses were weak, researched high-level universities and wondered if she could score an internship with Peter Higgs after high school.

    And their mother was, unquestionably, a bit crazy. She had handled the divorce from the bottom of many Glenfiddich bottles before her ex-husband, prodded by his daughters, confronted her and helped her get into AA. Mom had stopped drinking but hadn't much explored the reasons why and was, in modern parlance, a 'dry drunk'.

    I can't deal with this anymore, Gwen. She's making me nuts. So, like, I have to ask a big favor of you.

    Anything, baby sister.

    Oh, Gwen so shouldn't have said that.

    Meanwhile, elsewhere in Toronto...

    Colin Caswell returned from the small hospital room where his father lay on his side desperately hoping to move his bowels and sat down next to his twelve-year-old sister Tracy.

    Have they given Dad the enema yet? Tracy asked.

    Not yet. They're giving the suppository a few more minutes.

    It'll work, right?

    It should. Dad should have never had all that Limburger cheese, it always binds him up.

    And it makes his breath stinky.

    Colin nodded.

    Like stinky feet, Tracy added. How long have we been here?

    About two hours.

    Did you call Mom?

    No, what can she do? She's in Chicago right now. Dad's not in any danger, you know how his digestive system is. If they can flush him out he'll be okay.

    Can I go see him?

    Colin shrugged. Sure. Stand behind the curtain and ask first, just in case he's on the pot or he isn't decent.

    Tracy came back a few minutes later. Her small face was screwed up with concern. He says he still can't go, she reported. He says he wants to, but he can't. He's really unhappy, Colin, we've got to do something!

    You think we should give him the enema?

    Don't be stupid, Colin! This isn't funny! Dad's in a lot of pain!

    No, he's not, he's just very uncomfortable. And we're in the emergency room, Tracy. What better place is there for him to be?

    Her dorky stupid older brother had a point. Sometimes it was hard to remember he was thirteen years older because he often acted like he was still in high school.

    I wish there was something else I could do, Tracy pouted.

    I prayed to Apollo while you were gone to help Dad out, Colin told her.

    Who's that, the god of poop?

    "No, he was the Greek god of healing.'

    Did they have a god of poop?

    I don't know, I don't think so. The Romans might have. They had a god for everything. Colin fidgeted, twisting the pentagram ring on his finger.

    Okay. Tracy sat back and contemplated her knees. She didn't mind if her goofy brother made a silent prayer to whichever one of his many gods and goddesses he thought might help. As long as he did it quietly and didn't make a scene.

    Colin! his father called. He rose and headed to his father's room.

    Yes, Dad?

    Can you ask the nurse for the enema? I don't think this thing is going to work. Dad's voice sounded awful; he might not be in pain but he was still pretty miserable. Colin wished he knew some wonderful magickal spell that would make his father the smoothest mover at the hospital. But unfortunately, Wiccan magick (spelled with a 'k', so as not to get it confused with magic-without-a-'k' stage magic) didn't work that way. Even the herbal teas Colin might have made for him could never have surpassed the power of the almighty enema.

    Just then the nurse entered. Colin brightened up. Just the lady we want to see! It's been almost forty-five minutes, ma'am. My father would like the enema.

    Certainly. If you'll step outside, please?

    Colin rejoined Tracy on the long leather couch. He's getting it now, he announced.

    Good. Tracy sat back and said her own prayer to Apollo just in case he hadn't been listening to Colin, which would have been completely understandable. Her stupid older brother was quite possibly the biggest dork in Canada and maybe even North America.

    Five minutes later the nurse walked out of the waiting room and turned away from Colin and Tracy. Fifteen minutes later Colin went to check again.

    Dad? he said from behind the curtain. Are you okay? How's it working?

    I'm on the pot, but so far nothing much, his father moaned. My God, I feel like I'm never gonna shit again.

    It's okay, Dad, take your time. Tracy brought a magazine and I've got my Playstation. He returned to his sister, who looked at him expectantly.

    Colin shook his head. So far, nothing, he said.

    What's it gonna take, a stick of dynamite? Tracy wailed.

    I dunno. I wish there was something—hey, maybe there is something I could do! Colin exclaimed.

    What? Can I help? asked Tracy, excited the way his face lit up.

    You sure could! Let's do some sympathetic magic!

    What's that?

    That's when you do what someone else is doing in an effort to help. So Dad's trying to take a dump, we've got to help him.

    Huh? What? asked Tracy, who had the horrible feeling this was going to involve another bout of public embarrassment.

    We've got to strain like Dad is right now, said Colin, and he gripped the edge of the bench and screwed up his face. Unnnnhhh—unnnhhhhh— he began, in perfect imitation of someone grunting out a turd the size of a Zamboni.

    No—NO! Tracy protested, and she tried to shake him out of it. You look like a complete tool! Don't you dare embarrass me in public again!

    I'm helping Dad, and anyway, we aren't in public. We're in the hallway of a hospital and believe me, he needs all the help he can get. You should help me, Tracy, between the two of us I'll bet we could get him going—

    No! Colin, you can't sit there like you're about to crap your pants! It's too embarrassing! At your age!

    We're not in the waiting room. Come on—Unnnnhhh! Unnnnhhh!

    Colin, stop it!

    Unnnhhh, unhhh! Colin strained mightily, his face screwed up, concentrating. He sent his strength and his mental pushes to his dad, willing his father's lower intestines to react, compelling that stubborn piece of Limburger-fueled feces to move, to travel down and be free.

    Colin, please! Someone could come by!

    Unnnnhhhh, unhhhh! Unnnnnnnnnnnnhhhhhhh! Colin's face grew red with the effort. He looked for all the world like he was fighting a world-class bout of Olympic-level constipation.

    Sir, are you all right? Do you need a bathroom? came a voice near his shoulder, and Colin opened his eyes to find a concerned nurse standing next to him. She took his arm and tried to pull him to his feet. Are you having a problem with diarrhea? Are you trying to hold it in so you can get to a washroom?

    He's not sick, he's just the world's biggest idiot, explained Tracy, having turned a particularly deep shade of fuchsia.

    Are you all right, sir?

    I'm fine. I'm helping my father.

    You're helping your father—what, exactly?

    Pass his bowels. He's in that room over there— Colin pointed.

    And, uh, how exactly is this helping him?

    "Tracy tried to curl up into a ball on the bench next to the creature she called her brother, although she often wondered if perhaps he'd been adopted. Or that she had. Because there was no way she was genetically related to the most embarrassing noodlehead she'd ever known.

    Sympathetic magic, Colin explained, and he held up his pentagram for the nurse to see. I'm a witch, a modern-day Pagan, and I'm raising some strength energy and sending it to my father who's really constipated and has so far defied a suppository and an enema and—

    Would you please go check on my father? Tracy interrupted. My brother was born without a brain, I have to apologize for him.

    If you're sure he's all right—

    He'll never be all right, he's permanently this stupid. The doctors say there's no hope for him. In addition to being the stupidest person in the world, he's also the world's oldest virgin.

    I am not a virgin! Will you stop telling people that? Colin snapped.

    Only if you stop embarrassing me in public.

    "The nurse hurried away before she heard any more uncomfortable revelations about this peculiar young man.

    I'm not a virgin, Colin repeated sotto voce so only Tracy could hear him.

    Oh please. You can't even remember it.

    I can too.

    Can not. You said yourself you passed out.

    But I woke up the next morning and Donna made it clear we had done something. Oh, gross, I shouldn't even be telling you this! You're just a kid! And my sister!

    Who heard about it at school and was totally embarrassed for three weeks.

    There was an exultant cry from their father's room. They stopped arguing to look at the door, then at each other.

    Colin, Tracy! Come here! I did it! their father cried.

    See? It worked! Colin exulted as they both rose.

    Or the enema worked, you big freak!

    Rik Rennie was relaxing on the porch when Gwen left just after breakfast for Hecate's Portal, Toronto's leading witch shop.

    He lived next door to Gwen, in an attached house like herself, although not, unfortunately, in the same attached house like the old guy downstairs from her. He drank his Stella Artois, his shirt unbuttoned to show off what he fancied was his manly chest. Chicks used to really dig it, back in the day. He wore sunglasses even though the morning was overcast and his brown past-the-shoulders hair hung in disheveled ringlets around his collarbones. He hoisted the brewski to his lips and watched in appreciation as his hot blond neighbour exited via the side door.

    Hey Gwen! How's it goin'? he called out to her, and she looked up.

    Hi Rik.

    Where you off to? Want a beer before you hit the road?

    Can't, very busy, but thanks anyway. Lots to do today.

    You're a very busy babe, you know that?

    Uh-huh. Gotta run. See ya. She hurried down the street to the bus stop. He wished he could think of a good excuse to follow her but he didn't want to seem too obvious.

    Man, what a hot piece of tail she was. If he was still in a band she'd be all over him like Steve Tyler on a gram of smack.

    Rik leaned back in his lawn chair and thought longingly – yet again – of his days in Muskeg Midnight, and wondered what it would take for a 48-year-old guy like him to get a piece of that half-his-age action.

    Gwen breathed a sigh of relief when the bus arrived. She was afraid Rik might follow her again and try to 'make conversation.' He made her uncomfortable; she wasn't quite sure what to do with a man twice her age who clearly fancied her. He was far too old even without the burnt-out-ex-rock-and-roll-star premature aging but she was too polite to just blow him off. And it was her fault, really, that he was next door. Well, okay, it was probably her fault, anyway. Hadn't he moved in instead of a totally hot rock star the second time her magick failed?

    Gwen turned instead to pondering Leila's request. Was she ready to have her 15-year-old sister move in with her?

    And when? Like, now? There was the extra room, but how to explain her impossibly strange roommate Eugénie? Not to mention the strange rituals in her own bedroom. Leila knew Gwen was a Pagan and practiced magick, but this was more intense than anything she'd done when the girls were living at home before the divorce. Leila was sure to ask questions. As it was, Alphonse, the insufferable High Magick ceremonial magician living downstairs, was already looking at her funny. For all his pretensions to being a great magician – which Gwen likened to Rik's claims to having once been a great rock star – Alphonse kept looking at her with disgust, as though she were a mere child who didn't know what she was doing. And maybe he was right; after all, hadn't he moved in right after her first failed attempt?

    Gwen wondered what weird person would manifest in her life now after her latest necromantic screwup. She fingered the serpent necklace, which she usually did when things went wrong in her life, which was rather a lot lately.

    And what had gone wrong, anyway? Gwen for the life of her couldn't understand why her spells failed. Wasn't she, after all, a member of the Thundering Waters coven, unquestionably one of the most powerful witch covens ever? Whose membership numbered exceedingly psychic and magickally capable individuals who accomplished great things under the priestess-hood of Lady Delphine? Hadn't they, after all, healed Morgan Whitefire's young cousin of leukemia, after the doctors had given the six-year-old five days to live? Had they not, also, marshaled their energies to enable police to capture the notorious and vicious North York Rapist? He'd eluded capture for many months before the Thundering Waters sent out a carefully-designed hex to give the police favorable circumstances to catch him. And not eight days later he was handcuffed and perp-walked in front of the media. Thundering Waters was a powerful group of frightfully awesome magick-workers. And Gwen was one of them. Then again, she was just one witch, not an entire coven, so maybe she needed to be patient and require some practice before she raised a man from the dead.

    She got off the bus and walked a block and a half to Hecate's Portal. The delicious aroma of lemongrass incense enveloped her upon entry. The shop was dimly-lit and the interior was of crude grey bricks in the walls; it felt very much like an ancient dungeon, but where one performed rituals to the Goddess unmolested by the Inquisition, not a place where women were tortured and murdered for their disinterest in patriarchal religion.

    Gwen picked up some Dittany of Crete and some mandrake root and a bit of Essence of Hermes, as she might send a message to the Goddess asking for help in conjuring her new boyfriend. It might seem a little strange to try and resurrect a dead guy for this, but this was Toronto, after all, where women were women and men turned away in abject fear. At twenty-four, Gwen had had quite enough of Toronto's Ken dolls.

    In truth, Gwenhwyfar, a/k/a Odessa Margaret Annable, a/k/a Annable the Cannibal all throughout secondary school (you can see why she preferred her 'witch name'), was like most women in that she was actually much prettier than she knew. She was tall with a slim figure, although if you'd asked Gwen to describe herself she would have started with the eyes set too close together, and kind of weird-shaped, and how she shouldn't wear belly shirts so much because of her muffin top. Never mind that her flab was mostly in her mind and that Rik Rennie and several other men around town would have denied she was flabby or facially-challenged; Gwen saw only a vaguely cute but not awe-inspiring woman in the mirror. She didn't think it would matter once she and her soul mate were together, quite sure he'd find her the most beautiful woman in the world, assuming she ever succeeded at this resurrection thing.

    She began perusing the latest witch books when a voice at her elbow startled her.

    Hey Gwen! How are you doing?

    She turned. It was that geeky guy from her coven.

    Hi Colin, fine, how are you doing?

    Not too bad. Just looking for herbs for my dad. He's constipated again.

    Oh, I'm sorry to hear that. Her brows knit in concern. You've mentioned he gets that a lot.

    Yeah, my sister and I had to take him to the hospital last night. He's all right now, though. But I'm trying to find something for him.

    How about prune juice?

    Colin shook his head. He's beyond that.

    Gee. I wish I could suggest something. But healing really isn't my forte. Maybe you should talk to Lady Lenora. That's more her line.

    Yeah, you're probably right. I should give her a call. So what's up with you these days? I haven't seen you since Beltaine.

    Oh, you know, work and stuff. Although my sister might be moving in with me.

    Lila?

    Leila. Mom's driving her nuts.

    You going to let her?

    I guess I have to. She is my sister, and Mom is arguably nuts. It's just that—well, this really isn't the best time.

    Why not?

    Uh, well, I've just got a lot of stuff going on, Gwen answered. Like, it would be crowded with the three of them in her apartment (once her new boyfriend was there). Not to mention Eugénie, not that she took up any room. Except for the spare bedroom. Busy life, you know?

    Yeah, Colin replied, not wanting to admit he'd never had that problem, having never been burdened with an overabundance of friends. Hey, did you see the police think they might have a lead on that weird robbery at the Hard Rock Café last year?

    What robbery? Gwen asked. Her heart stopped.

    You know, that person who stole Jim Morrison's boots. Like that was the only thing he went after. He went through all the trouble of breaking into the café and left the money and the booze and the other stuff, but he took those boots. Weird, huh? Someone must really like Jim Morrison. Besides you, of course!

    Yeah. Gwen's innards tightened. That, uh, really pissed me off. I liked seeing those boots when I was in there. So, what's their new lead?

    They think it was an inside job. Seems one of the waiters there is like this total Doors fan. He got taken in for questioning last night.

    Wow. Gwen wasn't quite sure how to react. Her innards loosened, slightly. Then contracted again.

    What a flake, to commit a crime for a pair of stupid boots, Colin laughed. His big lips pulled back into a dorky grin. And Jim Morrison's, of all people. The guy was such a—

    Gwen gave him the Hairy Eyeball of Death and turned away to pay for the herbs.

    Uh, alcoholic, Colin finished lamely, squeezing his eyes shut. He almost hit himself with the 'Darn, I could have had a V8!' move. Stupid stupid stupid! What on earth possessed him to let that slip out? What was he doing, trance-channeling his inner Beavis?

    Gwen was actually a lot less annoyed than she might have been. It had never occurred to her that someone else might take the rap for the theft. She wondered if she should anonymously return the boots once Jim joined her. After all, she could always buy him a new pair.

    CHAPTER 2

    GWEN STOOD IN the circle once again. It was past two in the morning but she had double and triple-checked the astrological signs and they were without question in perfect alignment. Tonight was a near-perfect night for powerful magick. Although she was pretty sure that astrological misalignment had been at fault during the last failure, she'd made pretty damn sure this time. There must be no mistakes.

    The candles flamed high, surrounded by blue orgone energy. Gwen's pulse quickened and she shivered, only partially from the excitement, her psychic senses activated by the heightened magickal power in the room. The temperature had dropped considerably that night and she was, after all, stark naked.

    Goosebumps be damned, she had to concentrate. She threw her head back, thought of how Lady Delphine called the quarters in ritual, and addressed the entities she was calling on in the strange ancient Sumerian. What she couldn't be certain of was pronouncing the names correctly, which might be one explanation for why the ritual hadn't worked so far. Her only example was the way they'd pronounced them in that rented movie, and there was no telling whether a bunch of Hollywood writers and actors had gotten any of it right.

    Abzu kabattu mursu, peta babkama arammu sikurru nertum Nanshe!

    The incense swirled about her. Gwen's senses tingled with the power growing in the room and her breath quickened. She could almost feel Jim's presence. In fact she knew he was there because she could hear a voice, but far away, like he was halfway down the street. She wasn't sure but she thought it was the second verse of Moonlight Drive. It was going to work this time, she was certain of it.

    The power of the Mother surged through her and she no longer felt the cold. Gwenhwyfar stood, naked and powerful and beautiful in the candlelit room, raised her arms, and called out the magic chant that would open the portal from the Summerland and let Jim through.

    None other than James Douglas Morrison may enter! she intoned, in ancient Sumerian. It had taken a lot of research on the Internet and an eventual phone call to a university in Cairo to speak to a Sumerian language expert and ask how to say James Douglas Morrison in ancient Sumerian. With the trumped-up story about writing a novel to explain to the suspicious professor why she needed to know. She didn't dare ask about the other Sumerian names.

    She should have, and maybe paid a finer, more anal-retentive attention to pronunciation. Because she had bollixed it up so badly, that while she thought she was calling on Enkidu to open the portal for her love to step through, what she actually commanded was for the primeval liver disease to open the gate for her love to lock the murder charge of the Goddess of Fish.

    The invisible thunderclap cracked with a great cloud of smoke. This really had to work because she didn't think she'd have the privacy if Leila came to live with her.

    There was a loud thump from the other bedroom and for a moment Gwen thought perhaps it was Jim but then she knew better. Cut it out, Eugénie! Va t'enculer!

    She waited for the smoke to clear – it would have been a sacrilege to wave it away herself – and looked at the boots.

    Empty.

    One floor below, Alphonse stirred in his bed and then awoke with a jerk. He stared up at the darkened ceiling and growled with the kind of anger that only comes from the world's most accomplished high magician whose sleep was constantly disturbed by a rank amateur. If still quite a

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