Once upon a time, as the saying goes,
there wandered a Bull with a coat
as brilliant as the snow in sunshine and
subtle as A Pearl Shimmering in Moonlight.
The creature was, some said, related to the Minotaur
skilled in the ways of mazes and hidden roads
and able,
when need was great,
to create a passage where none had been before.
So, my dears, if you have lost your way or find it blocked, you can always hold out a handful of oats and ask for aid.
For though he is a magical being, he has a
Bull’s heart and will respond nobly to a sincere offer of food,
and friendship.
But take heed,
for you must offer true friendship and nothing less. If his path leads to danger, he may call upon you,
and your peril may be greater than you can imagine,
for he has enemies
and they are myriad.
His trespasses have threatened those who keep their secrets in shrouded places,
and he has offended those who view the
boundaries he crosses as sacrosanct.
But most of all, his freedom challenges those that seek dominion, for they are suspicious of his motives and jealous of his knowledge.
For you should know, my dears,
that knowledge is power.
And power creates its own enemies.
Interlude 1
Master snaps and snarls. Festival tonight, and Titania gives him a place in the procession — a rare honour. He growls, and we polish the trophies until the old bone gleams like silver.
Chapter 1
- David -
I still say it was a light that woke me — a green flash, bright as spring. Yet I saw nothing but black when I opened my eyes. There was sound, though — the hushed swirl of snow against the front window. I opened the curtains to see the first snow of the season, carrying the streetlight from the front of the house to the back, through a million frosted mirrors.
Gazing out, rapt as a child, I saw it. The falling snow shimmered, the flakes spinning, shifting, between silver and white, and then coalescing into the form of a white bull cantering toward the narrow concrete alleyway between my house and the next. Then, before the frisson of shock had finished travelling up my spine, a gust of wind blew it out of existence. I had almost convinced myself this was some lingering fragment of a dream when I noticed tracks in the thin patina of snow. I got up, threw on my running shoes and bathrobe, and walked down the creaky stairs to the outside. As the door clicked shut behind me, two figures in evening wear came walking up either side of the street.
As I watched them, the wind gusted, cutting through the thin flannel of my pyjamas. The robe was more a futile gesture than anything resembling warmth, but even as I contemplated going back inside, another chilling gust brought the man’s voice to me.
"Babe, lad, where are you? C’mon now," he said.
It occurred to me that any two odd events must be related — surely there had to be some quantum rule about that somewhere — so I asked, "Are you looking for your dog?" It seemed safer not to mention an ethereal bull.
"Actually, no," replied the young woman. She had pale skin, long black curly hair, and wore an elegant velvet evening dress with a fur-trimmed stole. I couldn’t help noticing that the outfit was capped off by a pair of bright-yellow, shit-stained rubber boots. "We're looking for our bull."
I glanced down at the tracks that headed down my alleyway, already drifting over in the accumulating snow. "Ha, I think he might be in my backyard," I said, gesturing at the faint hoof marks.
"Oh, wonderful! We were terribly worried," said her companion, a young Asian man dressed in a tuxedo — with ruffles, no less. He somehow made the ensemble look wry and stylish, an exceptional accomplishment, given he was also sporting rubber boots. Or perhaps they’re what made the ensemble work.
"Follow me," I said and led them down the alleyway, pointing out faint divots in the snow.
Now, my house is a narrow, semi-detached, three-storey Victorian in Toronto. It’s not some fancy heritage home, but one of those sturdy old brick buildings in a constant state of renovation and historic enough that the glyphs against magic in the cornerstone were weathered and faded. The only access to my backyard was through that alleyway. The yard itself was quite small, a flagstone patio surrounded by a few clusters of bushes and the remnants of annuals, all enclosed by a border of high fences that gave it the impression of a small, slightly rundown courtyard. A bit shabby, but it was all mine, a comforting thought given my past economic challenges.
The wind was calmer here, due to the many trees and the other three story Victorians on my block. The lack of wind made me realize just how much the temperature had fallen since I’d got to bed, and a shiver passed through me. A table and two simple chairs, along with a low bench, were getting slowly buried by the still-falling snow. The tracks ended at the fence separating my yard from my neighbour’s. It was a good seven feet tall, and I couldn’t imagine a bull jumping that high. It just didn’t seem possible? Sure, I’d been a city boy for a long time, and I had tried to forget everything I’d ever known about the farm, but that still seemed implausible.
"He’s not here," she said. It was an accusation if I’d ever heard one, and I’ve heard a few over the years, especially from the women in my life.
"I’m sure I saw him," I said, the surreality of the situation making me doubt the evidence in the snow. Then we heard a faint lowing, followed by gravelly muttering from the direction of the fence.
We all turned — the fence seemed to cast a faint green light, like sunlight filtered through branches just gone green in early spring, but it didn’t seem quite real, more as though there had been a brilliant flash and we, somehow, were left with the afterimage on our retinas. It reminded me of the light that had woken me. Amid that green, an image hovered in my mind; a white bull on a distant field. I shifted to look at my companions, but they were looking only at each other. It wasn’t until they felt the weight of my stare that they turned to me. None of us spoke, none of us wanted to say the word. Really, it was an absurd thing, the idea of it. But for a moment, it seemed like magic.
That sense of light passed without any commentary. No one wanted to be involved in pointless questioning by some Inquisitor looking for a case. So when I looked around, I was relieved to see that all the blinds facing our backyard were closed.
Then the noise came again, and the young man seized upon that excuse for action, and broke the awkward silence, saying, "That sounds like him." He jumped, grasped the top of the fence, and, in a surprisingly fluid motion — especially considering the tuxedo and rubber boots — vaulted over it. His voice came floating back, and we could hear snow crunching under his steps. "Ellen, go the other way. Make sure he doesn’t get away."
Ellen ran back out the way we had come, and I followed her, somewhat bewildered. I had seen the bull walk down the alley-way which dead-ended in my backyard; hell, there were even tracks in the back, ending at the fence. What was going on? I immediately dismissed my earlier supposition. Magic, well, it was absurd. It was simply the disorientation of being woken from a deep sleep that was making me ridiculous. Only the credulous and, of course, the fundamentalists like my brother, believed in magic anymore.
I heard the man’s voice again. "Here, boy." And then I heard that lowing and odd muttering again.
When I got to the front of the house, the bull was just coming out of the neighbour’s alleyway, accompanied by the man.
It was huge, its coat blending with the snow, so that when the storm swirled, it faded into the wind like a primal, otherworldly spirit — though I could sense the bulk of it from several feet away. The beast seemed torn between heeding its owners and bolting. It made another sound, reminiscent of an old man complaining to himself. I didn’t think farm animals should make noises like that, and wondered if it might be sick. From the concern evident on the couple’s faces, they were thinking the same thing. I crept closer to get a better look at the bull. There was something compelling about him.
"Anything I can do?" I asked in a whisper. The bull started slightly and looked at me. I swear it opened its mouth as if about to respond, but at that moment Ellen interjected, soft and stern.
"No. Don’t move; keep quiet." She stepped closer to the animal, murmuring quiet nonsensical reassurances, and slowly stretched out her hand. Now that I was close, I saw it was wearing a halter as white as its hide. As she reached out to grasp it, I heard one word carry through the wind, emphatic, confused — a curse, a plea?
"Poseidon?"
We exchanged looks, as the bull shuddered once and seemed to settle into itself, less a wraith of the snow, now just a bull — if one that was out of place in the city.
In the uncomfortable silence, the bull looked at each of us in a most un-bull-like way. A flurry of snow enveloped us. Finally, the beast pawed the ground.
"Well, um, we should, uh, get back to the Royal Winter Fair. Thanks for all your help in finding Babe here," said the young man, petting the giant bull on the neck.
"No problem," I said, then the question occurred to me, "Is that his name? Babe? Isn’t he a bit large for that?"
The young man laughed. “He’s named after Paul Bunyan’s bull. He had a blue tint to his fur when he was born, and it really struck me, so gave him that name. Over Ellen’s objections, I might add."
"It’s grown on me," muttered Ellen.
"Well, thanks for a fascinating evening Babe," I said, giving a little bow to the bull. Then, looking at the man and Ellen, "It’s always nice to have an adventure that ends well."
Ellen laughed, a bit nervously, I thought. "Yes, well, that’s true. Good night."
"Good night," I said.
Despite the humour of my little adventure, I had a troubled sleep that night. The evening’s chill had gotten into my bones, and the look the bull had given me disturbed my dreams. The whole thing should have been nothing more than a charming cocktail party anecdote. Instead, I dreamt of the bull proffering muttered warnings in some dead language, while pawing at the leaf litter in my backyard to reveal the night sky beneath my feet.
I stood there, frozen by vertigo — staring across a hole in the world — at the great bull; acutely aware that nothing more than a thin layer of half rotten foliage supported my weight. Then, a series of pings and vibrations reverberated through my precarious footing, causing it to crumble. The bull sadly shook its head even as it dissolved into a gust of snow while I tumbled into the cosmos.
I groped, with some half-understood instinct, towards the noise that had cast me adrift, my hand landing on my phone. I sat up, still in my bedroom, gasping from the sense of falling. Blearily, I glared at the offending screen, wondering what had set the damn thing off. Wiping the sleep from my eyes, I pulled myself upright and began scrolling through the messages. "Holy shit," I said to the empty room.
It is encouraging to read an article on Voudoun that focuses on the congregation’s communion with God. Too often the media fixates on the sensational aspects of this religion, pandering to the history of fear and hatred of the syncretic religions and the people who practice them.
It was one of, what… over three thousand comments in my stream for an article that I’d just done for the Globe about my local Roman Catholic parish? They had an activist priest who was trying to reinvigorate attendance in an increasingly diverse population; so they’d opened their doors to a small Voudou congregation, allowing them to use the church hall for their ceremonies. The local priest had argued that Voudou practitioners considered themselves Catholic, so it was simply outreach to a… neglected branch of the church.
Of course, not everyone approved of this outreach, as evinced by other comments,
Andrews is a reckless idiot. Not all belief systems are created equal — Voudoun is magic, not religion, and should be treated as the lawless abomination it is.
This was amazing!
I’d actually pitched an entire series on alternative religions to the Globe, and they’d, rather hesitantly, agreed to the first story. As I continued to scroll my feed, a text pinged to the top. It was my editor, and the message was typically to the point: "Get Going." I had my series.
"Yes!" I shouted to my empty room.
* * *
I called Anne Phillips, a Prof at York university, who'd done work on characterizing the minority faiths. The religious colleges associated with the University had objected to her appointment; but the university had argued that her work didn’t support the practice of illegal magics, just catalogued them. Anne felt their fussing was simply the traditional religions were trying to maintain their influence. I told her about the series, and that the next piece would be on Wicca.
"Oh, that would be fabulous — I’ve been corresponding with a few people, including one woman who’s running a store, if you can believe it. I mean, it’s not a ground-level storefront, but she’s surprisingly blatant about the whole thing."
"Do you think you could give me a few names for a meetup?" I asked.
She hesitated. "I think it’s best if I initiate contact, David. People are skittish about getting in trouble with the Bureau. Let’s see who’s willing to talk."
"That would work for me," I said.
* * *
Two days later I woke in the dark of a winter’s morning to the faint murmurings of my clock radio. I could hear the wind howling around the house and headed into the kitchen to make some coffee, my mind distracted by half-remembered fragments of legends and archetypes from the texts I’d been reading to prepare for the meeting. Gazing out the back window, frenetic gusts of snow glowed faintly with the city’s light. The porch lantern created a spot-lit whirlwind, and I felt a chill at the stark chaos of winter just outside my warm kitchen.
Then a fox, eyes of green and amber, entered my backyard’s centre stage. She looked at me through the window, pausing, and for the life of me, I thought I saw her frown as she took me in. Then she gave a dismissive shake of her head and trotted towards Babe’s fence. I tried to keep sight of her, but the porch light wasn’t up to the task.
I continued to strain for some sight of her and finally turned away, unnerved. It was the second time in little more than a week that the creatures in my backyard seemed to have more intelligence than they should.
I’d always known there was a good deal of animal life in the city, but until now it had always struck me as picturesque. The raccoons, like neighbours given to the occasional drunken binge, or the squirrels akin to the presumptuous neighbour constantly borrowing sugar. But that fox was something else, primal and just a little unnatural, like Babe. It unsettled me. I felt as though there were forces at play in the world beyond my control, disturbingly akin to those tales that I’d been studying.
The mood stuck with me as dawn crept quietly across the grey sky. The glyphs and sigils of faith and power kept distracting me from writing my interview questions. I pondered the strange power these symbols possessed to make people fear and revere them so. I had to remind myself that the only powers they possessed were the ones we gave. Anything else was to admit that magic might be real, and not some left-over superstition from the middle ages. I had a job to do, and that, most certainly, did not include becoming some crystal-wearing crackpot.
By the time I finished, I really had to hustle to get to the meeting, so I took a shortcut, hopping the fence surrounding the Parkdale Capstone. Like many Capstones, it was right beside one of the traditional churches. It was supposed to be restricted space, maintained by the Inquisition – sorry – the Bureau of Ecclesiastical Orthodoxy. However, it was shovelled, unlike many of the sidewalks, so it let me cut off a minute of my trip without stuffing any more snow into my shoes.
Luckily, it was only a few blocks to travel to my meeting. I’d arranged it at a café that was a regular haunt of mine. Last year it had been a boarded up storefront, split into two or three shops, all defunct. Now it was a single large space renovated with a retro feel. As part of the renovation, they'd freshened the protective sigils against magic on the lintel, although I suspected they were, now, decoration more than anything else. I was no expert, but they didn’t look quite right. Rather ironic, given the folks I was about to meet. This place was a stark contrast to my previous café, a CoffeeTime Donuts just across the street. They still served the rougher side of the neighbourhood, those folks whose life here had preceded the latest wave of gentrification.
If you discover this tale on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation.
The mismatched wooden floors had been polished to a brilliant shine, with the gaps and scars lovingly preserved. An old espresso machine gleamed bronze on the counter by the entranceway, though it was, as far as I could tell, just for display. The barista, a bored, but efficient young man in overalls, flannel shirt and Leafs toque, was putting together a mocha chai latté with almond milk for a woman in a long black coat over a jade green turtleneck paired with a black wool skirt. She had a slightly distracted air as she juggled her drink and a tote bag stuffed with papers. The barista glanced up as I entered, gave me a nod, and started getting my americano ready. "Good morning, Dr. Phillips." I said.
"What?" she responded, glancing up. "Oh, hi, David." She fumbled with her papers and managed to shake my hand without dropping anything.
"I see our group has arrived," I said, glancing over at the crowd clustered around one of the larger tables, mostly younger, black-clad and covered in silver jewellery. Pentagrams were prominent, though to be honest, if they weren’t such a large group, they’d have fit in with much of the rest of the alterna-hipster clientele of the place. I began to roll my eyes, but then I looked down at what I was wearing. Black on black. I sighed.
She smiled, recognizing my glance, "Well, at least our clothes won’t alarm them."
As we approached, the mood of the table was looking tense, with most in attendance looking down at their drinks or wistfully at the exit. The conversation at the table was dominated by a heavy man taking up an inordinate amount of space. He had floppy black hair in a style unsuited to his developing bald spot — an incipient tonsure, I thought. His tone was nasal and aggravating, more for its dismissive arrogance than anything else. Our arrival did nothing to interrupt him.
"Any effective magic," he opined, "must include some element of sacrifice, and blood is the most powerful of these. If you want a ward to be anything more than symbolic, then something must die."
As Dr. Phillips and I took our seats, we exchanged slightly alarmed glances. It was this kind of talk that made people call the Bureau. Until recently, their history spoke of an iron cruelty; though these days, they were little more than a vestigial appendage of the police. Thankfully, this place was hipster enough that the only raised eyebrows were of the goth variety, more annoyed by the Tonsure’s grating intonation than what he was saying.
Just as I was about to interrupt him, a woman at the table decided she’d suffered enough. She was distinct from the others; in her early fifties, with long curly salt and pepper hair, and dressed in khakis with a white shirt. Her Jane Goodall style clashed dramatically with the predominant black. Despite her dashing appearance, her voice held a certain resignation, as though she couldn’t stop herself from countering the Tonsure, but also recognizing the likely futility of doing so.
"A ward does not require blood," her voice clear and firm, with a faint Dutch accent. "Even if one did, it would not necessarily require a sacrifice. It would depend on the practitioner’s intent." Her wording was careful, never indicating that she had ever cast a ward herself. She sounded like an academic, perhaps a colleague of Dr. Phillips?
My musings were interrupted by the Tonsure’s response.
"A ward is for protection," he sneered, “thus the name — and any idiot knows that the best protection is a good offence.”
"You’re the only offence here," came the muttered response of one of the younger women, and the Tonsure reddened at the slight.
"If you knew anything about the original texts," he huffed, "rather than some crap you read on the internet, you’d know better. I have an excellent translation of a Romanian spell book that makes these things quite clear. In fact –"
The tinny jangle of the café door interrupted his comment. Something about its tone made everyone look up. I smelled something too, some sort of synaesthetic connection to the sound, a faint smoky and bitter smell, like burnt herbs.
"Oh," said the new arrival, dropping a pile of bags and books next to the Tonsure, forcing him to yield space and the seat beside him, "are we discussing Romanian wards? That’s wonderful. I found a lovely 13th century text in Hungarian, of all things, discussing the wards of the practitioners in the lower Danube, mostly to prevent attack by wolves and bears. They used honey and urine as the key components," and she pulled out a book, brandishing it with a smile, leafing through the pages, she dropped it in front of the Tonsure, and smiled. "Sorry, it’s untranslated. Do you read Hungarian? Such a fascinating language!"
The room fell silent at that comment and there were a number of looks exchanged, amused at how this chatty invasion had completely decapitated Tonsure’s argumentative momentum.
I studied the new participant. She was plump, with short black hair cut in a stylish pageboy framing a round face. Under her heavy coat she wore a plain black skirt with a matching blazer, very conservative and business-like, but her blouse was an imperial purple with a variety of mystical symbols embroidered onto it. On her jacket, one lapel had a row of those symbols iterated in a line of small, tasteful silver medallions. She was self-possessed and rather unlike many of the willfully iconoclastic group that sat around the table, with the exception of the woman who’d spoken so carefully against the Tonsure.
"David Andrews," I said, holding out my hand, pleased at her intervention, but only now realizing that she’d been outside for the bulk of the argument, so how had she…?
"Hi," she said, before I could consider the matter further, "so you’re the one who wrote that Voudou article."
"Yeah, that’s me," I said, blushing a little. "I’m doing a full series now."
"That’s great! It’s nice to see someone looking at Wicca seriously. I’m Louise Beacon."
Introductions around the table came smoothly after that, and the conversation grew much more productive. Even Mr. Tonsure (whose name turned out to be Alan) was, when restricted in his volubility, a good source of information about the various groups in the city. He’d known a lot of them, though I got the impression much of his experience was about how he came to be excluded from them. Though perhaps shunned might have been the more accurate description. Interestingly, though, he was the only one that spoke openly of actually casting spells. The others talked about ‘studying’ magic, and about spells that they had ‘encountered’. All careful words should the issue of actually doing magic ever come up in court.
I asked Tonsure, er, Alan, "Don’t you worry about speaking so openly about your, ah, practice?" I found his brazenness shocking. Despite the relaxation of attitudes, magic was illegal, as were many spiritualist and indigenous practices. With the Voudou, they’d been careful to focus on worship; no invocations, no spells, no ‘hoodoo’. The priest and Houngan had insisted upon this to their congregation. I’m sure the spells happened, but in the public ceremonies, they’d been very, very careful. It helped that their rites happened within a church that was rife with glyphs of protection, along with a Capstone under the pulpit.
As I scribbled in my notebook, I realized that something about his talk unnerved me. Not the illegality, but rather his practical talk about his experimentation; what he claimed worked and what didn't. He was so concrete in his language that I had to remind myself that there was no reason to believe that magic still existed, if it ever did.
Alan seemed immune to my unease. "Pfft, why?" he responded. "I know my rights. They haven’t tried to prosecute any real magic in what, thirty-odd years? The last case that actually came to court was a bunch of housewives playing at ‘magic’ by getting stoned on peyote and dabbling in visions. They got off with what, a little community service? The advantage of having a husband who’s a cabinet minister, I guess. The only thing the ‘Bureau’ gets involved with these days," I would have heard his sarcasm, even without the finger quotes, "are the gangs who claim their coke or weed have magical properties. Or when they use magic glyphs to mark their territory. But it’s only an excuse to arrest. They never prosecute. They know that they’re one Charter of Rights challenge before the entire section in the criminal code gets struck down. Nowadays, the Bureau is just another word for pig."
"Are you hoping that you’ll get arrested?" asked Jean, the curly-haired woman who had challenged Alan previously. "You want to initiate a Supreme Court challenge?"
Her pointed question punctured his bombast. "Well, no, but they wouldn’t dare, would they? It would be more trouble than it was worth."
"Maybe not. Still, have you ever been arrested? Do you have a plan if you are?" Jean actually seemed genuinely concerned.
"No, but jeez, ever since those housewives…"
"But those ‘housewives’, as you called them — it wasn’t just that one of them was married to a cabinet minister, they were all members of the establishment — married to judges, high-profile doctors and a few bankers. Sure, they were prosecuted and convicted, but the court only gave them a minor drug charge. I don’t know about you, but I wouldn’t likely be able to arrange a suspended sentence after a few weeks of community service."
"So, sure, you’re right," she continued, "They never prosecute for Witchcraft, and even if you don’t end up with a criminal record, let me assure you, you don’t want to spend the night in the Don Jail. It’s very… unpleasant."
"Oh." said Tonsure.
"You have?" I asked Jean.
"I’m not here to talk about that," she said, definitively.
"But you are here to talk, so how do you thread that needle, yourself?" I asked.
"Carefully," she replied with a wry smile. There were some chuckles around the table. "I began studying the history of magic while I was in grad school. It was a challenging time in my life. I’d come out as a lesbian, so my church had shunned me. Not long after this, I had my first genuine encounter with the occult. I was lucky. The lesbian community back in the early 80s was quite exploratory about faith issues; and it helped me find an alternative path that echoed the Beguine tradition of women’s faith community from the 13th century."
"And you didn’t run into problems with the Inquisitors?"
“Oh, they fussed; but the Beguine communities were definitely Christian, though more mystical than the authorities liked. And while we did some, shall we say, research, outside of the strictest of Christian traditions – Christian it was, and thus protected under the Act. There were rumours about our ‘unnatural practices’, so our circles were raided, much like the gay bath houses were. Honestly, it was more about homophobia than anything else. I think that the only reason that we didn’t get as much press coverage as the bath houses is because we weren’t naked as frequently."
"But occasionally," I couldn’t resist.
She gave me a delightfully wicked smile. "There are a lot of different magics out there. Some are more fun than others."
"That would be an interesting story," I began.
"And that’s all I’ll say about the matter." Jean finished.
I smiled. "Okay. So, what about now?"
"I’m still interested in the older traditions, when Christianity was more mystical, and incorporated traditional magics – especially the nature traditions that underlie contemporary Wicca. Before I dropped out of grad school, I’d found an amulet. It had some, well, some interesting properties. It was a, um, a code key of sorts, able to read and understand text that had been hidden by, ah, various means, in other manuscripts so that I could look at old texts with fresh eyes.
"So it was a cryptomantic artifact?" Alan interrupted enthusiastically, “Did it decode texts, or reveal hidden ones?"
"Let’s say it was revelatory, shall we?" was the inevitably coy response.
There was a harrumph from Alan, but he didn’t push her. He knew better by now. But Jean gave him a small smile. He and shrug that seemed to disarm his frustration, and he settled back with a roll of his eyes.
"So what did this artifact reveal for you?" I asked.
"It gave me some insight into the Beguine community’s day-to-day life. A lot of household spells mostly, wards against vermin, for example." She gave a sidelong glance towards Alan, who flushed, but seemed to take the gently delivered jibe in stride.
The modest nature of her claims surprised me. I was accustomed to the wide-eyed exhortations of the true believers, with claims as extravagant as they were poorly defined. Yet this very sensible woman was very carefully not stating that she possessed a magical artifact. She wasn’t using it for some megalomaniacal power, but to answer obscure questions about mediaeval history. The others around the table simply nodded, as if charms and spells were tools as practical as any other. Even Tonsure, despite his disappointment, was kinda nodding along. He might be an arrogant know-it-all, but he acted as though magic were simply, practically real.
Her response ran against the lurid stories that I’d been exposed to when I was a boy in Sunday school – tales of those who’d found a grimoire and how it all ended up in some sort of magical disaster. As I’d grown older, I’d recognized them as blatant morality plays.
Indeed, it had been this flagrantly biased messaging that made me question whether magic, or religion, was real at all. Now, like any sensible person, I believed that both were mere superstition.
But old imprinting dies hard and I felt uneasy as the others, emboldened by Jean and Alan’s conversation, described some of their own experiences. Initially, everyone was careful to make some disclaimer about not doing spells themselves, that it was only stuff that an ‘acquaintance’ had done. But as their enthusiasm got the better of them, and as conversation flowed freely, these careful statements were abandoned.
They universally complained about the hypocrisy of the ‘Protection against Sorcery, Witchcraft and Maleficium Act,’ their animated voices drowning out the chatter of conversation in the café. Most of the group were seeking Wiccan as an alternative spiritual tradition and while it included some banned rituals, the act of doing magic was part of their spiritual journey. This rather conflicted with my Sunday school indoctrination; the search excited them; a desire to see the world in a new way, not satisfy some terrible thirst for power.
Indeed, when Alan, of all people, expressed his rapturous delight at the simple act of lighting the wick of a candle through a spell, there was a chorus of affirmation — along with enthusiastic interjections outlining at least four methods of doing this. They also described the various methods they used to escape the damping effects of the Capstones, and other protective sigils, that the Bureau used to reduce the natural flow of magic through the ley-lines. As fascinating as they found the technical aspects of spell casting, it was certainly not anything I could publish.
Then Louise spoke, "In my shop, I have at least fifteen methods to do a candle lighting, from eight different traditions, not only Wiccan."
There was stunned silence at this pronouncement, and before they could inundate Louise with questions, I interjected, hoping for something I could write, "So, could you tell me about the traditions that each of you follow?" Hoping I could get a story that would actually be legal to publish. From there, the focus was much more on the spiritual aspects of their beliefs, and would be something that would be a nice follow up to the Voudou article, but with a touch of magic to keep the readers excited.
I was drained but delighted by the time I was saying good bye to Dr. Phillips and thanking her for her help. "It was my pleasure, David," she replied, "all of my older contacts are far too leery of the Bureau to risk an interview like this; but this newer generation is impatient for change. It’s all very exciting." With that, she took her leave.
As I gathered my things, a gaggle of practitioners surrounded Louise, including Alan, who were talking to her excitedly about her shop. It occurred to me that both Dr. Phillips and Louise had their own incentives to be here. The former for more research options, and the latter for customers. I smiled to myself. It seemed all motives were mixed.
I found it stunning that she had opened a shop. There were stores that skirted the edges of the regulations, like the old head shops, but with crystals instead of bongs. But she was selling spells! Maybe Alan wasn’t aiming for a Charter challenge, but Louise was.
I bulled my way, gently, into the crowd to thank them all, especially Louise. She nodded at my thanks, but held my gaze. I shuffled a bit, feeling awkward and was about to make my excuses when she held up a finger to forestall me and began rummaging through her bags.
Then, with an exclamation of, "Aha!" Louise pulled out a small bag. "Would you humour me? I was wondering if you could cast the runes for me?"
I felt a deep unease — I really didn’t want to do this, but if Louise was willing to do magic in public, well, my editor would have my guts for garters if I didn’t play along. Still, what was it with these people? Did they want to get arrested?
The things we do for a paycheque.
"Ah, sure," I said, "can I ask why?"
She shrugged. "I am feeling a connection between you and me, and I’d like to get a sense of how these things might go."
I managed a queasy smile. "Forewarned is forearmed?"
She gave me a smile in return. "If you like."
I took the small bag of ceramic tiles, each inscribed with a single rune. At her instruction, I let them pour from one hand to the other, and then tossed them across the table. The crowd that had gathered around Louise watched intently. There was a small gasp from the crowd as some tiles skittered backwards. It was a disconcerting trick. But Louise didn’t look at me, to see if I was impressed with what must have been some sleight of hand. She just gave a small nod.
Before anyone could say anything, she scooped them all into the bag, far before I could make any sense of them. There was a small murmur of protest from the Wiccans, but Louise stopped any comment by simply saying, "Personal matter," with an air of finality that seemed to discourage the others from lingering.
She then reached into her bag and pulled out a business card:
The Flying Rowan
Supplier of Magical and Alchemical Materials and Texts
26A Corktown Lane,
Toronto, ON, M5A 3H2
Louise Beacon, proprietor
"So you know where to find me, when you need to, for either the small issue or the large one." She shrugged. "Of course, they’re probably the same issue, but it may be unclear at the time."
"Ahhh, okay." I held up the card. "Thanks," I said, and I gave her one of mine. I was still a little shocked that I’d participated in something that could be considered magic. But I wasn’t about to complain about her eccentricities. They’d contributed so decisively to the success of the meeting, as well as being a potential interview subject. I stared at the card. Heck, if she had an actual storefront, rather than operating on the black market, that would be a story in itself.
* * *
Jittery with caffeine, I crawled out of the third-story window of my house onto the flat section of the roof over the kitchen. I’d just finished a complete re-write of the Wiccan article and the sun had risen and set on me and several pots of coffee. By the time the ‘whoosh’ of my email program had told me I was done, it had been after eleven.
My long day had been the result of my editor's profound displeasure with my first draft. "A gutless rehash of your first piece," they’d said. "Give me something with edge, goddamnit."
Well, if they’d wanted something filled with magic and strangeness, then by God, they got one. I’d written about Alan and Jean’s experiences, about Louise’s spookiness, about the apathy of the cafe patrons, despite our talk of magic, and finally, about how disconcerting it all was for a boy raised in a conservative church.
Thing a deep breath of the cold winter air, I opened a small cupboard under the eaves and collected a pack of cigs and a bottle of cheap whiskey. Originally, it had held a fine single malt and imported cigarettes; intended as supplies for an impromptu night-cap on some idyllic post-coital evening. Lately, though, there’d been a profound dearth of these and I’d been reduced to Jack Daniels and duMauriers by myself.
I took the first drag of my stale cigarette and exhaled a profound sense of relief. Pouring myself a glass of hooch, I wandered to the back of the house and looked down at the backyard, covered in a layer of snow; disturbed only by the repeated tracks of my fox. It looked like she’d visited several times, all approaches terminating at Babe’s fence. Very odd.
Another sip, and my gaze wandered skyward. It was a spectacular winter’s night, the full moon shining through the branches of the ancient neighbourhood trees, and though they were bare of leaves, they still gave my backyard a dappled light. The shadows dark; the light eldritch, I smiled. I figured I was owed a sense of melodrama, given my hectic week.
As the patches of light and shadow crept across my backyard, I had a second cigarette and savoured the contrast between the still winter air and the comfortable burning of the whiskey in my stomach. Then the moon rose high enough so that its rays hit the fence, Babe’s fence, and it… changed.
It looked like an old film; a flickering and grainy image of the hosts of faerie mounted on magnificent steeds; some incredible silent film era rendition of Spenser’s Faerie Queen, with an eerie musical accompaniment.
Indeed, after the initial shock, I thought that was what it must be. I looked around, hoping to discover who was projecting the image. As I moved to get a less obstructed view, I realized the image wasn’t projected onto the fence; it had replaced it. As the moon rose higher, the image grew clearer and I now could hear the sounds of hooves and smell the fresh green of spring.
I stopped looking for a projector. I’m sure that the effects of horses and riders could be mimicked by a determined special effects expert, but not the smell of greenery. And why would anyone do this in my backyard? And, in truth, I knew it wasn’t some CGI wizardry, for nothing human could produce such a voice. It was truly unearthly. The music urged me to join the procession, and without thought, I moved forward, my feet compelled to move to the rhythm, until…
There was a discordant sound between a howl and a yelp that seemed to shake me from the music’s spell. I came to myself, flapping my arms frantically, for I was midway through a step that would take me off the roof. I flailed, one foot off the roof, balance forward, suspended, mid-air, like some cartoon character, just before a fall to the patio stones, eighteen feet below. A thrill of adrenaline shot through me and I gasped. My fingers grazed the side of the old kitchen chimney, no longer in use, but it saved me from my folly.
Tales of the loss of reason in the presence of the Fae came back to me, reminding me of the age-old arguments for the prohibitions against magic. I thought briefly of the many faded cornerstone sigils in the neighbourhood, how no-one would consider replacing them for fear of the cost of messing with a building’s foundation; of how many of the old sigils carved into the lintels of the exterior doors had been replaced by artistic interpretations, or ‘Welcome,’ or some variant of the ubiquitous ‘Live, Laugh, Love’.
The words ‘Perilous Beaty’ came to mind. An overwrought poetic flourish that now resonated powerfully enough to crack the faith I had that I lived in a world I understood; for despite my desperate embrace of the chimney, my feet still tapped to the piper’s tune. I clung desperately to the crumbling brick of the chimney as though it were a life buoy.
As I capered there, unwilling, shaking, my mind replayed the sensation of stepping into empty space over and over. I looked down to seek the origin of the discordant sound that had broken the music’s spell and discovered the fox hidden in shadow, her green-gold eyes glowing in the dark. She looked up, her eyes catching mine, and I felt the siren call from the other side of the fence fade to a distant background. She gave forth one more yelp, filled with derision and impatience, and then disappeared into the bushes.
I closed my eyes then, and turned away, muttering to myself, as much to counter the sounds of the slowly fading music as anything else. "It’s just stress, it’s just stress," like a mantra. But still I could not leave the roof’s edge, pulled between the lure of the music and the warnings in my mind until clouds occluded the moon and, daring to look through squinted eyes, I saw the image fade and my fence return.
It was only then that I finally noticed that an icy wind had risen, freezing the sweat of my panic.
A profound longing still burned within me; for delights beyond the bearing of a mortal body and mind. Pleasures that I would gladly give myself over to; accepting my own destruction as a fair payment for the faintest hope of fulfilment. I felt tears of frustration freeze to my cheeks as I gulped the chill and sterile air, trying to will my mind to overturn the treacherous promise of the music that still moved my feet and burned in my heart. Finally, the pain of the cold and my shivering displaced the last vestiges of the bewitchment.
Only then was I able to retreat indoors, body shaking, whether from nerves or the cold, I did not know. I didn’t sleep that night, just rested fitfully on the couch, watching late night TV and dripping melted snow on my throw rugs and couch as I tried to dismiss what I had seen. I tried to ignore the impulse that still wanted me to get a closer look, despite the peril. I had almost succeeded too when I wandered, once again, into the kitchen, trying to decide on coffee, tea or more whiskey as dawn crept up the horizon.
And there she was, staring at the fence. Once again, just a fence.
She turned then to look at me, a red-gold fox with uncanny intelligence in her eyes, her gaze evaluating. Then with a leap she disappeared, with unnatural agility, down the squirrel highway formed by the neighbourhood’s backyard fences.