Matches. An earthenware bowl. Silt from the Singing River in a chipped coffee cup. A tightly bound bundle of Sweetgrass. A vial of water. A craft knife.Kerrigan places the items on a large mat of woven rushes and kneels before them. The only light comes from a propane lamp. He glances at the windows, each one a black square pressurised by the gathering night, and shudders.Hands trembling, he lights the candle and snuffs the lamp with a twist of its valve. Darkness leaps in from all sides. Kerrigan cowers.Please.He lights the Sweetgrass bundle and stands it in the river silt before blowing out its flame. Only when its redolent smoke reaches his nostrils does he feels the surge in his veins. His trembling ceases, the tension falls from his shoulders, he raises his head.He uncorks the vial and washes his left forearm in its cool water, the moisture absorbing into his skin. He takes the craft knife, places its tip between the tendons on the inside of his forearm and thrusts. Something bursts within his wrist and a spray, black in the candlelight, jets from the wound.
