Don't Summon Us, We'll Summon You

a short story

It’s officially what “they” call “spooky season.” And so, to kick it off, I’m sharing a short speculative (dare we say, spooky?) story about space monks and warlocks and pesky, pesky magic. But that’s not all! After the story, I have a whole bunch of links to some new and recent spiritual writing, plus an upcoming retreat and maybe something special...

The summoning spell has never worked before today. For good reason: The spell’s shit.

I mean, the warlocks don’t know that. Obviously. They never will. Inyez and I make sure of that.

We’ll keep them in the proverbial dark. On brand for a coven of warlocks hellbent on dealing out bloody retribution to the armies that defeated them, ending the so-called Warlock Wars, putting magic in its place, uniting the continent’s armies—something to that effect.  

Grasping about in the dark—that feels about right. Weeks of monitoring this backwater planet, and I still can’t understand the local politics, histories and wars. All we’ve been able to figure is that what these would-be villains call “magic” is of an elemental variety; they’re just harnessing latent energies in the planet itself.

But they’re not anywhere near advanced enough to realize that. They aren’t even advanced enough to have been discovered. This planet isn’t in any of the monastery’s datafiles, and I combed through the whole damn library.

Probably in one of those actual books. The ones that burned with the rest of the Blue Monks. A mental shrug. We press on.  

And at least I try. Inyez doesn’t even care.

“Warlock sounds like a fancy name for magician,” she’d said. “And these magicians lost their war. They don’t have anything we want.”

“It’s always worth learning a few new parlor tricks,” I’d countered. “Plus,”—and I’d leaned in here, inviting my young protégé to do the same—“these magicians might not know what they’ve got. You have to know how to wield power, right?” That’s what I always say, at least. That’s probably why I was kicked out of the monastery—back when it was more than ash and memory, of course.   

All that really matters for our purposes is this: less-than-meticulous routing of the warlock lords post-Warlock Wars means magic is still in play on this rock.

And magic of any sort means power. And power—well, Inyez and I both care about that. That’s why we’re such lousy monks.

So, the summoning: We’ve timed it just right. The warlocks—all done up in their dark cloaks and bone masks and blades of wicked steel—gather every fifteen days, when both moons are fully visible, and they chant and dance and throw some sacrificial blood and some golden dust in the shadow of these three pillars located atop a forested mountain in the southern reach of the largest continent. Magic, right?

There’s a lot of flashing lights and bursts of energy and even the odd conjuring of flame. But they’re looking for something more—that much is obvious, even if you aren’t trained in prophecy, myth and spirituality, like Inyez and I are.

I mean, we are monks, after all. My robes are blue and tattered, as you’d expect. Spiritual forces interest me, those things the average eye can’t see. There’s power there, right? I just differ from others in what you do with the power once you’ve found it.

So, what are the warlocks looking for? A demon of sorts, I assume. Some creature that can lead them to victory over their foes, help them reclaim lost land.

“And you’re that creature?” Inyez is skeptical. Always.

“They’ve never seen a hologram,” I say. “Magic by another name.”

“There’s nothing here,” she insists again. She keeps tugging on a wayward lock of auburn curl, and I find it endearing. But she’s not focused.

“They’re pulling energy out of the planet’s surface, and they wield that energy as a weapon. There’s something here.”

“Some weapon,” she mutters. “Beaten by swords and clubs.” But she pulls up our ship’s holoprojection array nonetheless, twisting around in her seat, ensuring I see her raised eyebrow and half frown. “Let’s be quick.”

A flip of her wrist and my surroundings change, the organized chaos of our small ship’s bridge dissolves into a wooded mountain peak. Those pillars cast shadow over my holographic form. I glance at my hands: digitized blue.

“See who comes to answer our summons! Will you grant us victory over the infidels?”

I glance around, seeing nothing but shadowy, lingering figures. “Indeed.” I can just see Inyez rolling her eyes.

“We have suffered greatly in our patience.” A new voice. I don’t turn.

“Patience wins wars,” I say. “And you have discovered new ways to fight, no?”

“Our powers have grown.”

“Tell me.”

Silence. Brooding. I stare into the darkness, wondering what Inyez is thinking as she watches the conversation unfold. Probably that she was right, that this is a waste of time.

But still—I can’t help thinking…

“We will show you.”

“Very good.” I incline my head, cross my arms, hoping the hologram adequately projects my attempted indifference.

A single warlock steps forward, producing an orange, glistening orb from the folds of his robe. Chanting, then. The orb glows, light cascades around me, resting on me. I feel it warm and hot on my skin.

“Penn, something is wrong.” Inyez in my ear. Of course, I can’t reply—not without breaking character. But I glance around, notice my hands, seemingly pale and withering.

And no longer cast in the blue of the hologram.

“Penn—they’re pulling you through the holo—”

“Your ship would aid us greatly in our conquest.” The warlock’s voice like a booming whisper, and I feel it more than I hear it. “Come. Stay. Teach us.”

“Penn—I’m—”

I’ve made a terrible miscalculation. I’ve failed to see—“Get out of here!” I scream. The warlocks are taken aback, but I’m not talking to them.

Inyez won’t hesitate. I’ve trained her well.

And when the ship leaves the planet’s orbit, I feel its pull—stretching, stretching and snap—as though my body is still on the bridge with Inyez and my consciousness is trapped here with these warlocks.

Because, well, that’s exactly what seems to have happened.  

I’m one of those spiritual forces now, the kind I found so interesting. A monk confined to a new sort of cell.

I’m not sure you’d call whatever is sustaining my astral form power, per say, but I gather whatever it is—a strenuous bit of instinct and mental gymnastics—and push back against the expanding glow of that orange orb. It’s not enough.

The silence in my ear is the pounding absence of my heart and blood and—well, I guess my ear—but still I can hear, or feel, the laughter of the warlocks, those hooded bastards slowly encircling me.

“You don’t know what you’ve done,” I say. Or, think. Project?

“You don’t know what we can do.” The first voice again—and the closest. “You don’t know what we can do with you.”

Unfortunately, I soon find out.

This backwater rock does have real magic—real power. And it’s fueled by fools like me.  

And another (few) thing(s):

• First off, next week is the official cover reveal for my upcoming book, “My Life with the Jedi: The Spirituality of Star Wars” (Loyola Press, 2024). I’ll have more to say then…but in the meantime:

  

• Over at Jesuits.org in my weekly column, “Now Discern This,” I share a pray-poem about sunflowers. Give it a read.

• In my monthly contribution to IgnatianSpirituality.com, I write about discernment, signs and whether or not I should take up the mandolin. Check it out.

• Over at DorkSideoftheForce.com, I riff on George Lucas’ famous insight that all of Star Wars rhymes, and apply that to the latest live-action show, Ahsoka. Read it now.

• And finally, speaking of Star Wars, I’ve mentioned the upcoming virtual retreat I’ll be leading. Read more about that here—and learn a little about it in the video below.