Ilio loren suplio mudri an-ma.

Supli cuardía. Mutrii in dairn, entur. 

Vigan in centur govor in mandui mas.

 Ilio loren suplio mudri an-ma.

A tall, lanky woman stretches her arms over a little girl’s rail-thin body that lies, ramrod straight and unbreathing, on an old mattress set atop a metal frame covered in patchy, flaking, mushroom-colored paint.


The woman is draped in a shapeless, lavender nightgown. She holds two empty portals in her palms, which open on both sides to the Black Sun.


She moves quickly, instinctively, tracing The Signs at each entrance to the room, ending with her back to the girl. She then faces an oxeye window on the south side of the room and chants the invocation quickly. Quietly.

The air heats up furiously. Beads of sweat form on the mother’s face and arms. Then just as suddenly the room cools. The air in this room has a personality, Furian grumbles. It’s weird. It’s unnerving. 

Aniik’s shoulders fall, her eyelids drop and her feet shift slightly away from each other. Furian moves swiftly to the bedside, perches on the edge of the thin mattress and gathers all seventy pounds of her child’s sleeping body into her arms like a limp bouquet of daffodils. “Ok,” she whispers, kissing her damp forehead. “My little white wolf, it’s ok.”