Old Folk’s Magick

Jessica was out from Somerville for the weekend. They had left Northampton that morning and pointed the old Honda south down I-91 like it was a pilgrimage with snacks. Eddie sat in the passenger seat, the car smelling faintly of her shea butter-scented hand lotion and the exhaust of the F-150 in front of them. This was their rolling living room. Jonathan, Whispering Serpent off the headset, Temple family in a hoodie, stretched out in the back and quietly tilted his own window down to catch the afternoon sun.

“Okay, first stop: Aether. It’s supposed to be like, the high-end experience,” Jessica said, tapping the address on her phone. “You good? You both seem quiet.” Springfield was already doing that city thing outside the glass.

“Just processing the assignment,” Eddie said, flashing her a smile. “Acquire excessive amounts of legalized spiritual enhancers, then Goon out till we see God.” Eddie lowered the passenger side mirror to check his eyeliner. He pulled out a tube of honey-flavored lip balm and moisturized his lips, then dabbed green glitter-gel under his eyes and across his cheekbones.

“I’m so gay,” he said as he threw his head back for a laugh.

“You’re not gay,” Jessica replied, smiling. “You’re a faerie.”

Jonathan leaned forward between the seats, his expression dry. “And you are too functional to be a witch. We are an interdimensional support group.” He said it like a blessing and a roast, which was how Temple family talked when they were happy.

Eddie leaned into Jessica and said, “If you had to describe my sexual orientation to your mom, what would you say?”

Jessica, without flinching, turned and said, “Not gay. Not straight.”

Eddie’s eyebrows lifted and he nodded with approval. “Interesting!” he exclaimed.

Stop 1: Aether (The Laboratory)

The first dispensary was in a renovated bank building, all marble and frosted glass. A security guard who looked like an off-duty Secret Service agent checked their IDs with a scanner, and they were buzzed through a thick glass door into the showroom.

The room was blindingly white.

It was less a shop and more a set from a sci-fi movie. Gleaming white counters, cannabis products displayed in minimalist glass cases like jewelry. The only sound was a low, ambient electronic hum and the quiet tap-tap of budtenders on iPads.

Eddie’s senses recoiled. The energy of the place was antiseptic. He could feel the plant spirits, but they were... packaged. They felt processed, filtered, and pressed into tidy, corporate-approved shapes. It was the "spirit" of the plant, but stripped of its earth, its wildness, its ‘terpene’ of chaos. It was a ghost in a very clean machine.

A young man with a flawless smile and a name tag that read ‘Dalton’ glided over. “Welcome to Aether. Are we looking for a specific experience today? Energy? Focus? Creative flow? Somnolence?”

“We’re just browsing,” Jessica said, immediately drawn to a display of pastel-colored tins. “Ooh, these are blood-orange mints.”

“An excellent choice,” Dalton said. “That’s a 5-milligram sativa blend, perfect for daytime clarity without the psychoactive fog. It’s micro-dosed for the discerning professional.”

Jonathan, however, was examining the air filtration system discreetly hidden in the ceiling. He turned to Dalton. “Is the climate control optimized for terpene preservation, or just for aesthetics?”

Dalton blinked, briefly losing his practiced smile. “Uh, both. It’s a closed-loop HEPA system, designed for maximum purity.”

Jonathan nodded slowly. “Maximum purity usually means maximum soul extraction. Just the mints are fine,” he said, backing away to join Eddie.

Eddie drifted over to a display of vape cartridges, lined up with military precision. He reached out a hand, not to touch, but to sense.

“Find anything, babe?” Jessica called.

Eddie shook his head, feeling a headache coming on. “Just the mints are fine,” he said, eager to leave the white, sterile light.

Stop 2: The Hazy Grove (The Time Capsule)

The second shop was on the edge of Holyoke, tucked in a basement-level storefront beneath a laundromat. The sign was hand-painted, and a faint, sweet-skunky smell was already noticeable from the sidewalk.

They descended a set of rickety wooden stairs. If ‘Aether’ was a lab, ‘The Hazy Grove’ was a 1970s dorm room.

The small room was dim, lit by blacklights and a few lava lamps. Tapestries of Bob Marley and psychedelic mushrooms covered the walls. A speaker in the corner was playing Grateful Dead. The air was thick, not just with incense, but with the psychic residue of two generations of counterculture.

Eddie felt it like a heavy, fuzzy-warm blanket. The energy here was chaotic, joyful, and completely unfiltered. It was sticky with old stories, half-baked philosophies, and a profound, if uncomplicated, love for the plant. The weed here wasn't in a cage; it was sitting on the couch, eating Doritos, telling you about the time it really understood Pink Floyd. Eddie looked at Jessica and Jonathan and knew the three of them could sit on that couch all afternoon and call it church.

A woman with long, graying braids and a tie-dye hoodie looked up from a well-worn copy of High Times. “Hey, folks. What’s the vibe?”

“This is... a lot,” Jessica whispered, half-amused, half-overwhelmed.

“We’re just looking,” Eddie said, feeling more at home than he expected, like somebody had left a porch light on for them. He walked over to the glass counter, which was covered in stickers.

The flower on display was in simple, large glass jars with handwritten labels: ‘Trainwreck,’ ‘Granddaddy Purp,’ ‘Blue Dream.’

The budtender, whose name tag just said ‘Star,’ moseyed over. “Seein’ anything that calls to you?”

“What’s the story with this ‘Blue Dream’?” Eddie asked.

Star smiled, “Oh, she’s an old friend. She’s really kind. Won't spin you out. Just makes the music sound better and helps you remember that you know... it’s all good.”

“We’ll take an eighth of that,” Jessica said, pulling out her wallet. “And maybe one of those... rainbow-colored Rice Krispie treats?”

Jonathan pointed to a small, dark bundle of dried herbs hanging near the register. “What’s the deal with the smudge stick? The energy in here is great, but it feels like it hasn’t been cleansed since 1998.”

Star beamed. “That’s mugwort, harvested last fall. A friend makes them. Good for clearing psychic dust. $8, cash only.”

“We’ll take one of those, too,” Jonathan confirmed.

“Cosmic. You got it.”

As they left, Jessica turned to Eddie. “Okay, that was definitely an experience. I feel like I need to wash my hair.”

“I liked it,” Eddie said. “It was honest.”

Stop 3: Terra (The Apothecary)

The last stop was in a quiet, wealthy hill town just north of Northampton. ‘Terra’ was in a small, freestanding building that looked like a modern barn, all reclaimed wood and dark-green trim.

The moment they walked in, Eddie stopped. His headache from ‘Aether’ and the psychic "fuzz" from ‘The Hazy Grove’ vanished. This was different.

The shop was bright, but not with artificial light. A large skylight opened to the afternoon sky. A living wall of moss and ferns covered the space behind the counter. The shelves were polished oak, and instead of just packages, small, potted cannabis plants were displayed like works of art. The air smelled of clean earth, pine, and citrus.

“Oh,” Jessica breathed. “This is nice.”

The energy here was alive. Eddie could feel the hum of the living plants, a bright, green-gold light that connected to the products. The owners, he sensed, didn't just sell this; they practiced it. This was an apothecary. This was folk magick, whether they knew it or not.

A budtender who looked like a yoga instructor—calm eyes, simple linen shirt—approached them. "Welcome. Feel free to look around. Let me know if you have any questions about our growers."

Eddie found himself at a display of tinctures. He picked one up, ‘Turmeric and Black Pepper CBD Oil,’ and a jolt went through his hand. He could feel the intention. Protection. Boundaries. Calm. This was American Folk Magick, bottled and sold for sixty dollars.

“You feel that, don't you?” the budtender said quietly, coming up beside him.

Eddie looked at her. “You can tell?”

She smiled. “Some people just look at the labels. You’re listening to the plant. This one,” she said, tapping a different bottle, “is ‘mugwort & THC.’ For dreaming.”

Eddie looked at the small bottle, then at the budtender, whose aura was a clear, steady indigo. He saw a brief flash in his mind: this woman, walking through a field, cutting herbs by the light of a full moon.

Jonathan was over by a shelf of seeds and organic fertilizer, but he caught the end of the exchange. “That mugwort is the good stuff. Plant spirit communication. Take it, Eddie.”

“I’ll take it!” Eddie said.

They left with the dream-tincture, a pre-roll of a strain called ‘Storyteller,’ and two bars of dark chocolate infused with chili.

Back in the car, Jessica looked over at their haul from the three stops. The high-tech mints, the "cosmic" Rice Krispie treat, the clearing smudge stick, and the earthy, magickal bottles from Terra.

“Well,” she said, starting the car. “We are officially prepared for the apocalypse.”

Eddie was quiet, holding the mugwort tincture. It was warm in his hand. He wasn't looking at the product. He was looking at the way the low sun hit the dashboard, kitchen light in a Honda, at the complex, magickal, and truly bizarre world they lived in, where you could buy folk magick in a barn-themed strip mall and still make it home before dark.

“Yeah,” he said, finally turning to her. “I’m ready for Jesus to come back. Or aliens.”

“Or both,” Jonathan finished from the back, a small, satisfied smile playing on his lips.