Page 36 of Inkpot Gods

Smita’s voice is, for once, an intrusion. Lilianne flinches away, eyes flicking between her pendulum and the other woman, trying to decide her response. If she tells the truth, Smita will think she’s strange—assuming Smita doesn’t think that already after everything that’s happened so far. Smita thinking she’s strange would really be the least of her problems, a blip in the cosmic weight of the universe. But still, it’s something to consider. Lilianne has always been awkward around women, and yet, even for her, developing a crush and grinding it into the dust in a single day’s time would be an impressive new record. She’d rather be able to dream about Smita for a little longer, even if it can never be forever.

The trouble is, she can’t think of a single lie that makes her look any less strange. “I was taking my pet rock for a walk” is the sort of statement that gets mental health professionals involved, even here in Berkeley, where some people truly believe that Snake’s cockroach colony is also an emotional support animal.

When the truth and the lie are both ridiculous, it’s easier to keep track of the truth. So Lilianne sighs and says a silent farewell to the sweet dream of Smita before she explains, “It’s a dowsing pendulum. They’re more accurate than the rods, at least for me. Never had much luck with rods.”

“A … dowsing … pendulum?”

“Mm-hmm. It’s made of rhyolite. There’s lots of it around here. You want to use a mineral that’s found where you’re searching. Back home in Alabama, I’d be using hematite or blue star quartz, just to be sure my intent is in harmony with the land around me.” That’s a lie. Back home in Alabama she’d be using a pendulum of baked red clay with some hay mixed in for structure and solidity. Back home in Alabama she understands what the land wants, not just what the land knows, and she can tailor her choices better for the understanding.

Smita gives her a half-frustrated look. “That’s what it’s made of, not what it is.”

“It’s a stone dowsing pendulum. You use it to find things.”

“What are you trying to find?”

In for a penny, in for a pound, as the sages say. “Have you ever heard of alchemy?”

There’s a beat as Smita’s eyes widen, and it looks almost like she’s going to step away, back over the boundary into the rocky vacant lot. But she holds her ground and composes her expression, eyebrows relaxing, and in a neutral voice says, “That was a Greek thing, wasn’t it? Philosopher kings and wizard scholars and that sort of stuff?”

“All the inkpot gods,” says Lilianne, with audible relief. “It’s not magic, it’s scientifically applied force of will, and some of it’s deeply silly, but some of it really isn’t. Some of it works, if you know how to do it properly.”

Smita nods. “I’ve heard a bit.”

“Really? Oh, that’s amazing! So many people have no idea about alchemy, or they think it’s all just fairy tales and positive thinking, like you can good-vibrations reality into doing what you want. A lot of it’s just about finding the sympathies and harmonies that exist in the world, and then twisting them around until they take the shapes you want them to have.” It’s a miracle, but Smita is still watching her, still looking like she understands and can accept what Lilianne is saying.

The most beautiful woman in the world and she’s responsive to the idea of alchemy? If she didn’t already know the gods were real, this would be enough to convince her. This feels like the opening verse to everything she’s ever wanted in her life.

“Are you an alchemist, then?” asks Smita.

Lilianne snaps back into the present, leaving her wondering thoughts of alchemical fulfillment behind. “I’m trying to be,” she says. “I’m self-taught. The … the American Alchemical Congress has been a little broken up recently, and even if they weren’t, they’re pretty sexist. A lot of them still don’t think women are suited to alchemical studies, like our brains will run out of our ears and try to escape if we have to contemplate the process of purifying base minerals or transforming one flesh into another.”

“That sounds very shortsighted of them,” says Smita, semi-cautiously. But she does move a step closer, and it’s hard not to see that as a good sign.

“Oh, it is. Some of the most talented alchemists the world has ever known have been women, and shutting them out just keeps America behind the curve.”

“You make it sound like there’s some sort of weird alchemical arms race going on,” says Smita, laughing lightly to show how absurd she finds the very notion.

Lilianne nods. “That’s exactly what’s happening, actually. There are Alchemical Congresses all over the world, and they’re all trying to be the first ones to unlock certain essential functions of the universe. There was an outpost here in Berkeley until very recently.”

“Really? In Berkeley?”

“Yes. They built a permanent lab and everything.” Lilianne looks at her pendulum. “They sealed it off due to staffing issues, and I’m trying to find it, in case they left anything useful behind. The Congress has access to all sorts of things that a self-taught alchemist isn’t going to be able to acquire. I’d like to see what I can learn.”

And then Smita’s hand is on her arm, Smita is touching her, fingers resting lightly on the curve of her elbow. Her skin is warm, and Lilianne never wants her to take her hand away, not now, not ever. “Why?”

“Why what?”

“Why do you want to know?”

It’s a simple question. It’s an impossible answer. Smita just learned that alchemy exists, may not even believe in it—not when it’s just a swaying rock and a strange midnight story. Explaining incarnations and the transformative potential of a place like Berkeley may be several steps too far, taking her fragile acceptance out of the realm of fact and sending her spiraling down into disbelief.

“I’ve always been interested in what it takes to transform one thing into another,” says Lilianne carefully. “I like to understand what the universe is made of, because you can’t really change what you can’t comprehend. People should be able to control their destinies. We should get to choose what we’re going to be, even if other people don’t agree with us. It’s your body and your life; why shouldn’t you be the one making all the decisions?”

“How does that explain the quest for knowledge?”

“Like I said, I like to understand,” says Lilianne. “If I don’t know what all the options are, how am I supposed to decide which one I want? Haven’t you ever wished that something about your life could be different?”

Smita chuckles, bleakly. “You have no idea.”