Wax and Way

By Pamela Love

My eyes gleamed with satisfaction. For tonight’s ritual, I’d spent months selecting the proper wax, melting it over the mystical fire, and pouring it into heirloom molds. I’d spared no effort to ensure that every detail was perfect. The result?

Twisted white tapers in the candelabras shone serenely over the dining room table set with our family’s finest china, crystal, and silver, employed solely for the Society’s annual Feast of the First to Leave. Taller, cream-colored candles in wall sconces illuminated the parlor, where the black pillar candle stood on a marble mantelpiece, soon to play its ritual role. Triangular, copper-colored calling candles were ready to summon the Escort to our entranceway once lit.

True, the jack-o’-lanterns on the veranda did not contain the votives I’d crafted to welcome all who visited the house that evening. I gritted my teeth, remembering the nosy neighbor from the HOA who’d knocked on our door that morning. From the kitchen, I overheard phrases such as “fire hazard” and “if even one child…”

Dismissing Father’s explanation that using candles was family tradition, Ms. Stoltz plopped two battery-powered tea lights into his soft hands. “These look just like the real thing. Nobody will know the difference.”

Indeed, the Society apparently hadn’t noticed. Yet neither had they complimented the candles that were present, despite their banter with Father and each other. They always used to praise Mother’s work. I bit my lip. Maybe they don’t think of me as the candlemaker yet.

Why should they? Instead of sitting in the candlemaker’s chair across from Father, I had to wait on our guests just as I always had. No doubt they thought of me merely as the server. Names outside of this Feast didn’t matter, only the Society’s mutual purpose, passed down for millennia through a few family lines. I didn’t even have time to sneak my votives back into the jack-o’-lanterns as I’d planned.

At last, Father tapped his goblet with a fork, and the guests followed him into the parlor. As usual, my view of the ritual itself would be somewhat obstructed by the wall. Having passed my twentieth birthday, I was now of age, yet I still could not participate. Someone had to monitor the door in case of belated trick-or-treaters or other potential interference. Still, it was with well-deserved pride that I watched Father, as host, kindle the pillar candle’s flame. Its fiery dance would last just sixty seconds. With its final flicker the wick extinguished itself.

I couldn’t see the glow appear around a guest, which happened outside my line of sight. But once the First to Leave was revealed, the others of the Society breathed in a share of what would have been his remaining lifetime, divided equally among them. With renewed vigor, they processed from the parlor, backs straighter, strides longer.

At last, the First to Leave emerged. Blank-eyed, he trudged toward the door. As a mark of respect, I helped him into his overcoat. I swallowed hard, remembering doing the same for Mother, the year before.

Father lit the calling candles. The fortunate guests stood in a semi-circle, waiting to pay homage to Hades in his function as the Escort, knowing he would someday come for each of them.

Seconds ticked by, then minutes. Wax tears flowed down into the silver candlestyx.

One of the guests turned to Father. “Host, why the delay?”

“I don’t know.” Father ran a hand through his graying hair. “It’s unprecedented. By lighting these candles, I’ve summoned him. Hades should be here by now.”

The rest of the Society nodded. The woman pressed on. “You have done all as usual, but your candlemaker is a novice. Any errors in her preparations—”

I whirled to face my slanderer. “If my mother hadn’t thought me fit for the task, she wouldn’t have risked joining the ritual last year.”

“Her judgment may have been impaired. She did have brain cancer. Unless this is no mistake.” A thinly veiled sneer. “Bitter at losing your mother, did you deliberately sabotage these candles?”

Father squeezed his eyes shut. “Please, now is not the time for such accusations.”

Another guest spoke up. “Agreed. Now is the time to find a solution. Did the previous candlemaker leave any extras behind?” A faint hiss escaped my lips. He turned to me, arms outspread. “I’m not unsympathetic, my dear, but we must summon the Escort somehow. Otherwise, the First to Leave can’t, uh, leave. Which might offend Hades. Nobody wants that, do we?”

My stiff black skirt rustling, I stalked to the china cabinet. Yanking open a drawer, I held up two white votives. “These are the only remaining candles in this house. I made them for tonight. They should be in the jack-o’-lanterns outside. But our neighbor insisted that we use battery-powered lights instead.” I glared at my father. Now it’s your turn to explain yourself, “Host.”

“The jack-o’-lanterns are merely decorations, to help our house blend in with the others in this neighborhood. Ancient Greece had no pumpkins.” Father stabbed a finger at a calling candle, which almost toppled until he steadied it. “These are what summon the god.”

Theories whirled through my mind like the souls in the Escort’s realm. “But tradition requires us to use candles tonight. Even our porch light is switched off. Maybe the electricity in the jack-o’-lanterns is interfering with the summons, or even”—struck by a flash of insight, I gasped—“diverting it.”

“Diverting it? Where?” snapped Father.

I dashed toward the door, imagining sparks. “Blow out the summoning candles! Now! I’ve got to replace those electric lights!”

It was too late. The door burst open, revealing a shining figure, a lightning bolt in his mighty arms. “Who dares summon Zeus?”

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Pamela Love was born in New Jersey and worked as a teacher and in marketing before becoming a writer. Her work has appeared in Havok, Page & Spine, and Luna Station Quarterly. She is the 2020 winner of the Magazine Merit Fiction Award for her story “The Fog Test,” which appeared in Cricket. She and her family live in Maryland.

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