Pungency, by Dima

The fruits of "Writing the Senses" night, inspired by the musto-rotting sent of a shapka.  Take that, Proust.

Danilo didn’t regret for a second his decision to come to the sorceress Lila for help.  After Angel’s death, he had sworn he would do anything, try anything, be anything if there were any of hope of ever recovering his friend.  It was just that he hadn’t expected to find himself in this position.  But, then, what had he expected magic to be?

At the moment, he was standing in Lila’s dark and filthy hut, in the only patch of sunlight that streamed, unobstructed, through the oculus in the center.  Lila was wrapping rags around him, around his whole body, like a mummy.  She was at his neck, now, and he wondered if this whole thing was a ruse.  How could it be true what she said?  She’d agreed too easily when he’d suggested he wanted to travel through time.  Surely she would grip the rags any second now and choke him and hold him until he breathed no more, and he would end up this foul witch’s meal.

Calm down, Danilo, it’s all in your head.

The rotting scent wafting from the rags was almost choking him itself.  But then, Lila had said, that was the point.

“Memories are in smells,” she’d lectured him before starting at his feet.  “You have to cover yourself, your whole body, in the right smell.  Then your mind- you know your mind has the real magic, the real power, yes?  Of course you know.  What?  No?  Everyone knows that!  So, yes, the real power is in the mind.  Force the mind to a place, and you will be in that place.  And that time.”

Then she’d laughed and choked on her spittle and Danilo tried not to run.  Do anything, try anything, be anything.

She had just covered his mouth, and now was about to make the circle around his nose.  The smell was very strong now.  Well, thought Danilo, here goes, and Lila quickly wrapped the rest of his head.

Straight to the back of his nose the scent flew.  It was for a moment suffocating, then suddenly, liberation.  It expanded into the hollow of his head, and all was clear, all was endless.  Pins of pungency still darted upwards right at the nostril’s opening, but the warm must floated unnoticed by these severe sentinels, and funnelled backward, through the dust, through time, filling his whole body with the memories it carried.

And suddenly, he was there, standing, squinting in the brightness of the sun that spread across the square, the rags falling off of him.  He had made it.  He had made it!