At eleven, my friend Mel resurrected an apple. The tree divided our field, so it was appropriate that I was present when he trespassed through the boundary of life and death. The apple clung to its branch all winter. It held through the frost, but the chill turned it shriveled, black, and greasy. When he picked it, he whispered words so low the wind stole his voice before I could hear. The grass turned jaundice; the apple turned a crisp, cadmium red.

“Here, Jason.” He tossed me the apple. “Eat it.”

I’m not sure if it was a gift or a test, but I would’ve bitten into it either way. I maintained eye contact as I sunk my teeth into the flesh, but I spat it out with a startled laugh. It tasted like rot and vinegar, with brown, dehydrated flesh.

“It’s poisoned,” I coughed.

“I’ll get better,” he said.

Even if the apple wasn’t edible, there’s talent in dark magic, a dangerous talent that could get you in trouble. My dad told me necromancy was illegal and immoral, but Mel didn’t have a dad to tell him that. Not anymore. That’s why he was reviving apples.

He let me keep the apple, a gift that time, I’m sure. I studied it with graphite, crosshatching the decay beneath its skin.

* * *

By thirteen, Mel got comfortable with reviving plants, while I grew comfortable with mixing paint. I would sit in the tall grass while he paced, smiling this wild, grit-toothed grin, on the verge of breaking the barriers of his understanding.

“It’s not just magic,” he said. “It’s more than speaking words with the right intentions. There’s science to it.”

He learned that for every plant he revived, another plant had to die. The fruit that he gave life would remain spoiled. The plants that he regrew wouldn’t sprout flowers.

“And the lives of plants can’t be traded for animals,” he said.

“How do you know that?”

He turned to the woods and said nothing else.

He gave me the discarded plants to study, and I’d sit in my room for hours to make them as immortal as paper. My art seemed unimportant compared to magic, but I’d smile and fool myself into believing that he picked the flowers for me.

* * *

At fourteen, he revived his first animal. I found my mother’s finch at the bottom of its cage, back pressed against the newspaper classifieds, spurs frozen in the air. I cupped its body in my hands and ran next door to Mel.

He shrugged and said, “I could use the practice.”

He found a live deer mouse in his pantry’s trap. I clenched my eyes shut, but I still heard the rattle of the mouse’s last breath.

After that, the bird stopped singing and preening – it only faced the wall and shivered. My father took it to the veterinarian to take it out of its misery. Before bed, he told me the story of Cain and Abel.

“God rejected Cain’s offering because he gave Him resurrected fruit. Entropy is God’s will, Jason.”

I was too cowardly to tell Mel we sinned, but I painted the bird’s remains as if it could atone for us.

* * *

At fifteen, Mel stood at my door, bloodied hands trembling. I followed him deep into the woods, where no one could find his sacrifice. He bludgeoned the stray tomcat that our families kept fed and warm in the winter.

“I killed it,” he said. “But I was going to bring it back to life, I swear.”

“I believe you.”

I buried it. Even though my chest panged with grief, my stomach knotted in disgust, Mel needed me. Sweat soaked and wind chilled, we sat next to the modest grave. Mel once healed the cat’s infected eye with tea bags. I wondered how it could mean so little to him and if I was just as worthless—

But his head hit my shoulder.

“I don’t know what I did wrong,” he cried.

Now I know he wasn’t crying for the cat – it was because he failed.

* * *

Seventeen. I tried not to notice the missing animal posters on the powerlines or how bloodshot Mel’s eyes became. He was getting impatient with his skills, so we spent days in his attic trying to contact his dad with a spirit board. Ghosts don’t like to be disturbed: they answered with sleepy ‘yesses,’ and ‘noes,’ and labored ambiguity.

“Where’s my dad?”

T-H-E… S-O-I-L.

“Can I speak to him?”

Goodbye.

He threw the planchette against the wall. I flinched and blinked away tears. I’d grown fearful of his fists, but I reminded myself I crumpled sketches that didn’t fit my vision. Instead of breaking pencils, he broke lips and capillaries.

I struck days from my calendar, counting down to graduation. I never told Mel that I was accepted into art school. The guilt of keeping the secret weighed heavy but never as severe as my mounting dread of his wrath.

At eighteen, I left.

* * *

I’m twenty-five now. I drive a harvester by day and paint bowls of fruit by night. They’re hard sells because the apples are rotten, and I paint dead finches and cat skulls in the foreground. I loved Mel, but distance granted me clarity: he thought of me as an assistant, nothing more.

He called the other day, came over for coffee, and he said he liked my paintings.

“Then buy one,” I said.

He laughed, ignoring the bite in my voice, and leaned close to share one last secret.

“I can bring him back now,” he whispered. “I can do it, Jason, but I need your help.”

I looked at my paintings, my bowls of entropy, and swallowed.

“No. I’m sorry.”

He left me in a room full of my decaying fruit. I thought about running after him, but our friendship was dead. If nothing else, I’ve learned to let the dead rest.

* * *

Ⓒ Nicole Lynn

Originally published in The Arcanist, October 6, 2022. Reprinted here by permission of the author.