The Props Master 1: Ritual Reality

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Art by Mikhail Bakunovich

Second eBook Edition

ISBN 978-1-939275-17-2

Prologue

If you grew up in America during the ’60s like I did, you are probably still humming Beatles tunes and wondering whatever happened to the good music. You might even have spent hours running the Abbey Road vinyl backward to hear the message “2Turn me on, dead man.” You may have fought in Viet Nam or narrowly avoided the draft. Either way, it affected you and you knew people who were killed or wounded there. You were probably old enough to understand what happened when Kennedy was shot, to have joined the world in sadness when Pope John XXIII died, and may even have been on the streets protesting during the 1968 election campaign or when Bobby Kennedy was shot. You knew segregation, integration, the Great Society, busing, and the words of Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr.’s, “I have a dream.”

Maybe more than any other generation, growing up in the ’60s marked its progeny deeply with the culture of Woodstock, whether you were there or simply heard about it later. Even if you didn’t participate in all the drugs, sex, and rock & roll, you knew it was happening. The pill launched the sexual revolution. Women’s Lib promoted the burning of bras in the same fire some of us burned draft cards. We all had a glimmer of an idea that Haight-Ashbury was a Mecca for potheads, we’d been told to never trust anyone over thirty, and we knew the peace sign and were ready to fight over it.

We’d also seen race riots in Watts and Detroit that nearly burned cities down. With our long hair, beards, beads, music, and braless tits we went out to change the world.

Maybe we weren’t as successful as we wanted to be. Maybe we’ve forgotten the fervor and passion we once had. Maybe we didn’t use all the right methods. Maybe there were some people who were working toward other ends who knew the power that lay beneath our feet and to whom goddess-worship and magic were more than hippie fads. When we were standing on the pavement holding signs protesting carpet-bombing in Cambodia, the invasion of Laos, and the draft, maybe we should have been chanting spells around a fire as we did a naked spiral dance.

That’s the world Wayne lives in. Your typical, everyday theatre student, he is drawn deeper into the pagan cult that draws its power from the earth and uses it to repair and heal.

Of course, where there are good witches there are wicked witches. The whole thing just changes the battlefield.

While I tried to be as true to historical events as possible, keep in mind this story is fiction. But you’ll find a lot of things that ring true and you might get sucked into the magic the same way you get sucked into an enchanting performance on the stage.

If we shadows have offended,
Think but this, and all is mended,
That you have but slumber’d here
While these visions did appear.

Now on with the show! The play’s the thing wherein I’ll catch the conscience of the king.

Vocabulary

Some ritual words are used in this that may be unfamiliar.

Tools:

Athamé: is a knife or sword—a blade—sacred to the workings of magic and representative of Air and the East. The ritual Athamé of Coven Carles is named Creüs and was in the keeping of Ryan McGuire, The Blade.

Wand: may be a short wand (think Harry Potter) or a full staff (think Gandalf), sacred to the workings of magic and representative of Fire and the South. Usually, but not always, made of wood. The ritual wand of Coven Carles is named Iäpetus and is sometimes referred to as the ‘Staff of the Vagabond Poet’. It was in the keeping of Doc Heinrich, The Flame Keeper.

Cup: may be any shape or material, sacred to the workings of magic and representative of the West and Water. The ritual cup of Coven Carles is named Cottus and was in the keeping of Mrs. Weed, The Water Maiden, and then of a witch called The Cupbearer.

Pentacles: May be a star, star-shaped stone, medicine bag with symbols on it, or a disk, usually also engraved with a magic symbol or star. Sacred to the workings of magic and representative of the North and Earth. The ritual pentacles of Coven Carles is named Enceladus and was in the keeping of the high priestess, “Magda” Harmon.

Special Note: My use of the word ‘pentacles’ may differ slightly from that of other practitioners, but to keep terms straight for readers of fiction, I offer the following. The tool referenced herein is always referred to as a plural. The use of ‘is’ or ‘are’ is based entirely on what sounds better in the context, but as much as possible, ‘pentacles’ always refers to the tool, no matter what shape it takes. The singular form, ‘pentacle,’ is the design on the tool. The design is not necessarily star-shaped. Of the forty-four known pentacles of Solomon, only two designs (the second pentacle of Venus and the first pentacle of Mercury) have a five-pointed star. In magical workings, however, a five-pointed star is often drawn on the floor or even in the air. This specific symbol is a ‘pentagram.’ There are many ways of drawing the pentagram (forward, backward, upright, inverted) and each has its own use. But all are five-pointed stars.

Witches often name each of their tools, but I am only listing above the names of the Four Faces of Carles, the sacred tools of the grand coven.

Names of places and things:

Old Celtic words are sometimes used when those intimate with the circle are speaking. Coven Carles might be referred to as Cobhan Carles and the children or members of the coven might be referred to as cildru.

A grimoire is a book of witchcraft with spells, chants, rituals, and various charm-making recipes. It is usually intended to be copied and/or passed on to another witch.

A Book of Shadows is a journal kept by a witch, chronicling what he or she has learned, including dreams, rituals, spells, and lore. One witch’s Book of Shadows may become another witch’s grimoire.

Pagan holidays fall at the quarters and cross-quarters of the year, in other words, the four celestial holidays and four between them. They are:

Yule, the winter solstice. This is considered by some traditions to be the start of the pagan year. ~December 21.

Imbolc, in the United States it is Groundhog’s Day and in the Catholic church is marked as Candlemas. ~February 2.

Oester, the vernal equinox. Originally the feast of Astarte, near Jewish Passover and Christian Easter. ~March 21.

Beltane, or May Day. The first of May has long been celebrated as the great fertility festival. May 1.

Litha, the summer solstice. While westerners largely consider the quarters to be the beginning of the season, old references point to the fact that these were considered mid-season, as in A Midsummer Night’s Dream. Longest day and shortest night of the year. ~June 21.

Lughnasad, also called Lammas or first harvest. This festival celebrates the death of the corn king. ~August 1.

Mabon, autumnal equinox. End of the harvest season and sometimes celebrated with the burning of a wicker man. Current celebrations in the U.S. that arise from the tradition include Burning Man over Labor Day weekend. ~September 20.

Samhain, or All Hallows Eve, Halloween. This celebrates the end of the pagan year as it descends to the darkness of Yule. It is said that on this night, the veil between the worlds (of the living and dead) is thinnest and both humans and spirits may walk between them. October 31.

Indianapolis. As much as possible, the places in and around Indianapolis are real or were real in the ’60s, though some names (especially around the college) have been changed. And yes, there really was a tour of Hamlet to England, but in 1970, not 1969, and the people who went on the tour would recognize little about this story other than the locations. As it happens, the calendar days and days of the week in 1968-69 align exactly with the calendar days and days of the week in 2013-14.

England. As nearly as I can remember them, the locations in and around Keswick, England are described accurately for the time, and the geography is at least nearly the same, though some landmarks have been moved for convenience.

The Grand Coven Carles Castlerigg (Cobhan Carles) comprises four smaller circles, named for the landmarks that surround the stone circle, Skiddaw (in the north), Threlkeld (in the east), High Lodore (in the south), and Braithwaite (in the west).

Theatre. Okay, maybe it was pretentious of us, but when I majored in it, a theater was where you saw movies and the theatre was where live performances were given. Therefore, we majored in theatre and went to movies at the theater. Live with it. Oh. And my sister, bless her little old Hoosier heart, pronounces it with the accent on the second syllable and a long a, as in “rate.”

Cast

Wayne R. Hamel, junior Theatre Major at Indianapolis City College. He is the Props Master and Technical Director for the college theatre. Initiated into the Art by his uncle and given the secret name Promethean, to be known as The Unbound.

Judith Harmon, sophomore standing, transfer student from England majoring in English Literature. She’s actually a few years older than her classmates. Involved as a consultant in the theatre’s production of Hamlet. In the Great Coven of Carles Castlerigg, she is known as The Swordmaster.

Dr. Rebecca Hart Allen, Professor of Anthropology. In the Coven she was known as The Hart, but after last year’s challenge at midsummer she is also known as The Huntress.

Lissa, the doughnut lady. Just a late-night doughnut stop for Wayne until she learns he has been introduced to the Art. Under her coven name The Chameleon, she undertakes some of his training.

Elbert “Uncle Bert” Parker, Wayne’s great uncle. The former spy living in an underground fortress quickly initiates Wayne into the Art and gives him his first tool. He also gives him a robe and a Book of Shadows. His secret name is Prometheus, and is known as The Bound.

Dr. McBride, the High Priest of Coven Carles, also known as The Barber.

“Magda” Harmon, High Priestess of Coven Carles and bearer of the Fourth Face of Carles, the pentacles, Enceladus. Judith’s mother.

Serepte Allen, Rebecca’s thirteen-year-old daughter. Already savvy about the workings of the coven.

Jim Richards, Theatre Professor at ICU, just trying to get a show on the road.

Glenn Little, Wayne’s best friend and fellow theatre person.

Gail Bremen, student costumer at ICU and on-and-off girlfriend of Glenn.

Beth Donaldson, student lighting tech for the theatre.

Joe Hamel, Wayne’s cabinet-maker father.

Dean Krannert, Academic Dean

Dr. Crowell, University President

Lena, Chuck, Steve, Phil, Carol and other theatre people.

And people who are present only in their absence:

John Keats, English romantic poet (1795-1821) who once got lost while on a walking tour of Northern England and to our cast is known as ‘The Vagabond Poet’.

J. Wesley Allen, Rebecca’s husband caught in a rift between the worlds in Greece in 1955. Missing ever since.

Ryan “The Blade” McGuire, former High Priest of Coven Carles, known as The Blade, and bearer of the First Face of Carles, the sacred Athamé, Creüs. Judith’s father. He was lost at the same time as Wesley, possibly into the same rift between the worlds. The Athamé called Creüs was also lost and has not been seen in fourteen years.

Benjamin “Firebrand” Wilton, a scholar and adventurer whose legacy was to bear the staff until he gave it to Doc Heinrich. Wilton was sometimes known as The Firebrand and was the only one this century who was known to actually call fire with Iäpetus.

Mrs. Alice “Hebe” Weed, The Water Maiden of Carles and Rebecca’s sponsor for initiation fourteen years ago. She keeps the Third Face of Carles, the Cup, Cottus.

Doc Heinrich, The Flame Keeper, bearer of the Second Face of Carles, the Staff of The Vagabond Poet, Iäpetus.

1
Opportunity Knocks

Friday, 18 October 1968

Wayne was cold, tired, and hungry, wandering through a desolate countryside. Firelight glowed at the top of the steep hill… if only he could make it that far. Warmth and rest—maybe even food.

He crested the hill to see the looming shadows of a great stone circle with a fire at its center. “Toto,” he whispered to himself, “I’ve a feeling we’re not in Kansas anymore.”

He crawled forward toward the fire, insinuating himself between dark shapes that seemed not to notice him. What a stupid thing to do. Finally feeling the warmth of the blaze penetrate his freezing hands, he raised his head. And stared straight into the eyes of Dr. Allen—auburn hair, falling loosely from her normally severe bun; dark brown eyes probing his soul; lips pursed. They knelt stark naked facing each other across the fire.

“My god!” he whispered and stood to run.

The dream abruptly ended with the class bell jolting Wayne awake to gather his books and join the exodus of students. He hadn’t meant to sleep. It was so hard to keep his eyes open through these 7:30 a.m. lectures—especially since he hadn’t had more than three hours sleep any night this week. He should have just cut class but the slide presentation on Druidism sounded interesting. As soon as the lights were out, so was Wayne.

As his eyes focused on his surroundings, he saw no student exodus taking place. In fact, the lecture hall was empty.

Empty, that is, except for Dr. Allen, standing behind the podium staring at him.

“I’m still dreaming,” he pled with himself struggling to wake up. “Please let me still be dreaming.”

Dr. Allen was still staring and Wayne could only assume that he was facing reality.

“Hamel, Wayne R. Correct?” asked Dr. Allen

“Yes, Dr. Allen. I’m sorry…”

“For being who you are?” the professor asked. “I’m beginning to worry about you, Mr. Hamel. Are you well?”

“I think so, Dr. Allen.”

“You have slept through every class this week. Is there a reason you come here at all?”

“I try to never cut classes,” he answered truthfully enough.

“I ask you again, Mr. Hamel: Are you ill?”

“No, ma’am.”

“Are you on drugs?”

“No, ma’am!” Wayne exclaimed. “Never!”

“Is it then that my lectures are simply so intensely boring that they put you to sleep? Please be honest, because I do make every effort to make these classes interesting and if I am failing, I would like to improve.”

“Why couldn’t I be dreaming?” Wayne muttered to himself.

“I beg your pardon?”

“Nothing, Dr. Allen. I just… I’m sorry.”

“You mentioned that.” The professor moved around the podium and walked toward Wayne. She carried a sheaf of papers in one hand and her walking stick in the other. Exhausted and humiliated, Wayne was about ready to disgrace himself.

“I’ve taken the liberty of checking your records, Mr. Hamel. Many professors are quick to judge and all too slow to consider potential problems with promising students. You are a junior?”

“That’s right.”

“Excellent grades in English literature. Straight As in Theatre. Your major, I believe.”

“Both of them.”

“You are an intelligent student, Mr. Hamel. There is no reason for you to be failing my course.”

“I have to have this class, Dr. Allen,” Wayne pled. If he missed this he’d drop below the minimum number of credits for the term and that spelled draft. He had no intention of ending up in Viet Nam.

“If you were not a bright student, or had a reputation as a troublemaker, or if I had any reason to suspect you were on drugs, I would dismiss you from this class and simply submit an involuntary withdrawal for you,” Dr. Allen said. “But after thirteen years at this school, I am inclined to offer redemption rather than punishment. Do you like opportunities, Mr. Hamel?”

“Yes ma’am. Uh…What kind of opportunity?”

“What—during your waking hours—has interested you most in this class?” Her biting sarcasm was not lost on Wayne. Somewhere along the line she’d dumped the sheaf of papers on her desk and approached with her ever-present walking stick. It made him nervous. She seemed to sense his discomfort and leaned the stick against the podium.

Wayne quickly called into focus a few things that he had heard in class before production got into full swing. The past two weeks he’d spent every night until early morning on stage.

“The uh… myth… mythology parts. It’s uh… a different perspective than we get in literature. I uh… think the part about, uh…”

“Don’t overtax yourself,” Dr. Allen broke in. “You’ve proven that you heard something. Have you read much mythology?”

“A bit,” he answered. “They had mythology comics when I was in junior high. It was my favorite reading.”

“Comic books?” She actually laughed. She wasn’t bad looking when she smiled. “To what is the world coming? You learned more from comic books than from this class?”

“No ma’am,” he said. “It just got me started. Mythology plays a very important part in all literature. Take the show—er… Hamlet—that opens tonight. In one scene Hamlet confronts his mother because she has married her husband’s brother,” he rattled on, caught up in his narrative. “He pulls out the locket that he wears with a picture of his father and the locket that she wears with a picture of his uncle. Then he compares them, ‘Hyperion to a satyr,’ he says. Without studying mythology, who would know that he was referring to his father as the great and glorious sun-god and to his uncle as a goat-legged drunk?”

“Very insightful, Mr. Hamel. There is hope. Now about your opportunity.”

“Usually when my dad says he has an opportunity for me it means more chores to do.”

“Your father is wise. You have the opportunity to pass this course.”

“Thank you, Dr. Allen. What do I need to do?”

“Two things. I am not going to ask you to stay awake during my classes, only that you not sleep in them. That’s right. Stay in bed. I don’t want you in class if you can’t listen to what is being said. As it seems your schedule makes an early morning lecture impractical, I am changing you to independent study, though you may attend class whenever you can stay awake.”

“Yes ma’am!” This was too good to be true.

“Don’t be too relieved,” she continued. “There are two things.”

“What else?”

“This class normally requires a fifteen-page term paper at the end of the semester. Your ending term paper—write this down—will be to trace a mythological image, since that interests you most, through a phase of literature—one of your majors. Take the image you just described of Hyperion and a satyr, for example. You might analyze Shakespeare’s perspective as reflective of the Elizabethan era and compare and contrast his view and expression of the myths with the anthropological perspective. Are you taking this down? The paper should include both the analysis of the era which you choose and the cultural origin of the myths. Is that clear?”

“Yes ma’am.” Wayne scribbled the notes rapidly. “In fifteen pages?”

“No. It would be unfair of me to limit you to fifteen pages for a paper of this scope. To do the subject justice, your paper would be no less than, say, fifty pages, but you are not limited to that, either.”

“Fifty pages?” he breathed trying to think if he even had a notebook that big.

“Typed. Double-spaced. One-inch margins. Not including the bibliography and end notes. A wonderful opportunity, right?”

“Right,” he sighed. Dr. Allen stood to leave. “You’d love my dad,” he said.

“Mr. Hamel,” she said, “do you have any friends and neighbors back home you’d like to hear from?”

“Well…” he began then let his mouth hang open as he gathered in her reference. “No, ma’am.”

“Believe me; I don’t want you to hear from them either. This is…”

“…a wonderful opportunity, Dr. Allen,” he finished for her. She smiled at him and then turned to leave.

Not only was this a rotten way to start his morning, but when Wayne glanced up at the clock he realized he was late. And late was much worse than asleep. Dr. Allen might have had a great opportunity for him, but it couldn’t compare to the one he was missing right now. With a howl of distress, he grabbed up his books and ran out of the classroom, out of the Lily Science Hall, and across the parking lot with Dr. Rebecca Allen watching in amazement.

Wayne ran full tilt through the empty lower hall of the Academic Building, which also housed the theatre. Sitting quietly on a box outside the scene shop was Judith Harmon, perhaps the most exquisite woman Wayne had ever laid eyes on. She was going to give him fencing lessons and she had waited!

It was not often that Wayne attracted the attention of a woman. Certainly, he had his share of girlfriends, but Judith was electric. Her short blonde hair framed a lightly freckled face with slightly upturned nose. Very British. She exuded energy and sparkle that was way more than her diminutive frame. Someone had packed a bigger than life woman in the body of a pixie. Of course, there was nothing serious between them. Not yet. But she had waited for him, even though he was very late.

“I’m sorry I’m late,” he began sputtering before he had come to a stop. “You wouldn’t believe what a rotten morning I’ve had. I’m really sorry I’m late and I’m glad you waited.”

“Hi,” she said. “Are you all right?”

“You’re the second person who has asked me that this morning. I guess I’m better than I deserve. I just got out of my 7:30 class.”

“Your professor must have been long-winded,” she responded. “It’s after nine.”

“No, I mean…yes. She sort of kept me after class,” he said. “But I got out of it. Not that I’m sure I’m better off than if I was in it. But I’m out of it and I don’t have to go back, but I can if I want to and I probably will just to show that I’m not taking unfair advantage of her or anything. I just have to stay awake when I go back.”

“You Americans are very confusing sometimes,” she said.

“Yeah, I know what you mean,” he said. “I’m just glad you waited. How are you today?”

“A little peckish. I’m afraid I skipped breakfast to meet you,” she said smiling.

“Oh geez! I’m sorry. Look. We don’t have to do the fencing lesson,” he kept apologizing. He was always apologizing to someone. “I owe you—just for waiting. Let me buy you breakfast.”

“You don’t have to do that, Wayne,” she smiled. “But I’ll join you if you’re interested.”

“I’m interested,” he said, regretting that he had sounded so interested. “I know a little doughnut shop, unless you like bacon and eggs and stuff.”

“Continental breakfast would be fine.”

“What’s that?”

“Just tea and rolls.”

“Great! That’s just what a doughnut shop is,” he bubbled. “At least, I think they serve tea. I always drink coffee. If not, I’ll buy a teabag and make you a cup.” They left their books in the scene shop and Wayne picked up motorcycle helmets from the workbench. “You don’t mind a motorcycle, do you?” he asked.

“Sounds like fun!” she answered.

As they rode to Donut World, Wayne luxuriated in the feel of her arms around his waist. Life was just too much!

Judith liked Wayne. In fact, as a new student at the college she found him one of the few people who were approachable. She’d had to scramble when she enrolled late this fall. It was all she could do to get a study visa and get to America before it was too late to enroll at all. Then she had to catch up.

She would never have become involved in the theatre this term if it had not been for Wayne. He approached her after hearing her voice in the one class they shared. She was English, right? Would she help with accents in their production of Hamlet? When the director found out that she was also a fencing master, she was sucked into the fathomless commitment of the Theatre Department.

Well, she was more at home on stage than faking her way through her academic classes. Even her professors were a little curious about why an English girl would come to Indiana to study English poets. She just couldn’t risk getting into courses she hadn’t already studied. She had to be just another ordinary student, even though foreign.

Over doughnuts, Wayne explained what had happened to him in his early class. Judith laughed with him over his apparent good fortune; but when Wayne mentioned his professor’s name, she became much more interested in his project.

“Dr. Allen?”

“Yes,” Wayne said. “Do you have any classes with her?”

“No. I’ve heard she’s very tough, though,” Judith probed.

“Hard as nails,” Wayne said. “I have to say, she’s more than fair, though. She could have just flunked me on the spot.”

Judith calculated the possibilities in her mind and decided to push ahead. She’d come to America to protect Dr. Rebecca Allen. It suddenly seemed possible to get a message to her without risking exposure. She was not happy to use her new friend as an unwitting conduit, but if she helped him pass his class, then Wayne would be the beneficiary, she reasoned.

“Did you think about the possibility of combining the project with one for another class?” she asked. “Perhaps you could select a poet for the English Romantic Literature paper that used a mythological image.”

“Great idea,” he answered. “I couldn’t hand in the same paper, but that doesn’t mean I couldn’t use the same research to write both. All I really need is a good angle on a poet. Got any tips?”

“Well, I’ll think about it,” she said. It wouldn’t be good to give him too much at once. Let him think he discovered The Vagabond Poet on his own.

Wayne took her back to the scene shop to collect their books before they went to their 11:00 classes. He was stalling, fumbling with the key, clowning. She could tell that he was trying to say something else, but she was halfway out the door of the shop before he finally got it out.

“Oh, Judith,” he said as she was leaving.

“Yes, Wayne,” she answered pleasantly. Encouragingly, she hoped.

“It’s opening night tonight.”

“Wonderfully exciting, isn’t it?”

“Yeah, but… We have a tradition here of having an opening night party after the show.”

“Really? How delightful!”

“I was wondering if you were planning to go.”

“Well, I hadn’t thought about it.”

“Actually, I was wondering if I could take you.” He’d got it out and was blushing under his shaggy beard.

“Wayne, do you mean take me, as in ‘give me a lift,’ or take me as in ‘on a date?’ I’m still getting used to American idioms.”

“Well… I mean… like… on a date, you know?”

“I was hoping that’s what you meant,” she smiled. “See you tonight then.”

She knew he was watching her back as she left and hoped he understood she meant yes.

Tuesday, 22 October 1968

Scarce images of life, one here, one there,
Lay vast and edgeways; like a dismal cirque
Of Druid stones upon a forlorn moor,
When the chill rain begins at shut of eve,
In dull November, and their chancel vault,
The Heaven itself, is blinded throughout the night.

“Thank you, Judith,” Coop said. “It’s lovely to have the words of English romantic poets brought to life by a lovely British voice.” Professor Cooper had begun each class this semester with Judith reading a short passage and the wistfulness of his voice indicated that he would gladly listen to her for the entire class if he didn’t have others around. Wayne had become acutely aware of the professor’s apparent fondness for Judith and over the past week had found himself a little jealous. He and Judith had only had one date, but it was really nice. He liked the way she hugged herself to him on the back of the motorcycle and was thinking of ways to get her to do it again—for longer.

“So why do we look at the one piece that Keats didn’t finish?” Coop asked. “Surely, we could study a Keats masterpiece like ‘Endymion’ or his sonnet, ‘Bright Star!’ and learn more. Let’s look at the words he used when abandoning ‘Hyperion.’ He said it had too many Miltonian inversions. What does that mean?”

Coop went on. Once he started rolling, he was so enthusiastic that the small class couldn’t help but pay attention. For the most part. Wayne was still a little distracted and just enough of a romantic to imagine himself a consumptive poet like Keats, pining for the love he knew he could never have. After lines for Hamlet were down cold, he’d practiced memorizing poems from the class while he worked on the set. He loved the fierce defiance of Shelley’s Prometheus Unbound declaring to Jupiter that “One only being shalt thou not subdue…” As Coop continued to describe inversion—“Ten paces huge He back recoil’d”—and doodled on his pad of paper. The words came to him and he jotted them down, scratched them out and wrote again.

Are you my Bright Star, myst’ry of my morn—
Love’s light seen afar as new day is born?

“Well it isn’t Keats but not a bad couplet,” Coop said. When did he start wandering around the room? Wayne looked up at the professor in panic. Coop was smiling. “I withdraw the question.”

“What question?”

“That’s why I’m withdrawing it.” The class laughed. “Now here’s the difference, class. There are fifteen of you here—make that fourteen as I see Boomer didn’t make it again today. How many of you have written words of poetry? Be honest, now. I’m not going to ask you to read it.” Everyone raised a hand. “Good. You see if you don’t write poetry when you are a teen or in your twenties, you have no heart. Of course, if you are still writing poetry when you reach my age, you have no brain.” They all laughed. “But that’s the difference. Keats, Shelley, Wordsworth, Blake—they didn’t just write poetry. They studied it. They criticized the works of Milton and Spenser and Shakespeare. They learned everything they could and criticized their own works based on what they learned, perfecting the craft and allowing themselves to reject their own works if they didn’t measure up to the standard.”

“Were you writing a poem?” Judith asked as they left class and headed to lunch. They’d been walking a lot together this week.

“Just doodling with words, really,” Wayne dissembled. “Nothing I’d show anyone. I wrote it as a rhyming couplet but the fifth syllable of each line rhymed, too. A quatrain in a different meter. I’m embarrassed Coop saw it.”

“Must not have been too racy, at least. I’m sure he would have made fun of that. Maybe someday you’ll write something I can read.”

“We’ll see.”

“Any great inspirations for your big paper? It was an interesting class this morning.”

“Yeah. I was actually thinking of using the Shakespearean image of Hyperion vs. the mythological version of the ancient Greeks, but I didn’t think I could develop fifty pages around four words from Hamlet.”

“Keats certainly made more out of it. That fragment of only 880 lines makes it sound like Hyperion was the king of the Titans instead of Saturn.”

“Hey. Maybe if I used the Keats fragment for a good analysis, I could turn that part of the paper in for Coop and use most of it for Allen as well.”

“Wow! What a great idea. Pay Tom and Tim with the same coin. Personally, though, I’m sticking with Prometheus Unbound for my paper. There was something about Shelley that just calls to me.”

To suffer woes which Hope thinks infinite;
To forgive wrongs darker than death or night;
To defy Power, which seems omnipotent;
To love, and bear; to hope till Hope creates
From its own wreck the thing it contemplates;
Neither to change, nor falter, nor repent;
This, like thy glory, Titan, is to be
Good, great and joyous, beautiful and free;
This is alone Life, Joy, Empire, and Victory.

“Your accent is getting quite good, you know?” Judith said when Wayne finished the quote.

“Why thank you, my lady,” Wayne bowed. “I know it’s rather late to be asking, but if you don’t have a date for Brown County Day tomorrow, I’d love to take you. As in give you a ride on my bike and have a date.”

“I love the idea of a date, but what is Brown County Day?”

Wednesday, 23 October 1968

Wednesday dawned crisp and clear, a beautiful day for a ride to the state park in Southern Indiana. “Ha!” Wayne thought. “Southern.” For those who bothered with maps, it was obvious that the north and south were divided by U.S. Highway 40 through Indianapolis in the middle of the state. Now it was Interstate 70. But if you grew up in Northern Indiana, you knew that culturally the south lay just across U.S. Highway 30 running from Ft. Wayne to Chicago. It even bore the name “Lincoln Highway” along most of its length. Heck, the Grand Poobah of the KKK lived in some Indianapolis suburb. But the landscape was beautiful south of Indianapolis if you stayed off Interstate 65 and followed the state highway down to Nashville.

“Are you sure you guys don’t want to ride with us?” Gail asked after we’d all met up at breakfast.

“On a day like today? This weather was made for a bike,” Wayne laughed. No way was he sharing Judith with Glenn and Gail today. Let them figure their own relationship out.

“I’m not sure I want to be trapped in a car alone with Glenn,” Gail laughed. “He farts,” she whispered to Judith.

“Hark, the cannon roars,” Wayne said in response.

“I’ll take my chance on the back of the scooter,” Judith said. “More ventilation.”

“Well, if it starts to rain, you can ride back with us,” Glenn said after punching Wayne in the arm. “He can ride the death-mobile on the wet pavement.”

“No rain today, my friend. But let’s meet in Nashville for a late lunch. How about two o’clock?”

“Great! See you guys there!” With that, Glenn and Gail piled into his Corvair and were off.

“They’ll be there half an hour before us,” Wayne said. “But you know what Nader says: ‘Unsafe at any speed.’ Would you believe Glenn volunteered to pick him up at the airport when he came here to speak last year?”

“And your motorbike is safer?” Judith asked, smiling.

“Just hang on tight,” Wayne smiled back. She did.

In the park, the two walked around, greeting the few upper classmen friends they met and watching the freshmen vs. sophomores tug-of-war. Someplace between the contest and the barbecue, Judith’s hand slipped into Wayne’s. They took only a single hamburger from the grill and split it with some chips since they were meeting Glenn and Gail in Nashville.

“We didn’t plan where to meet,” Judith said as they shared the burger. Is there someplace special?

“Last time I was in Nashville, there was only one street and it had a burger joint at the east end. We’ll just cruise down the main drag and watch for them. Most of the folks there will be students. We’re talking Nashville, Indiana, not Nashville, Tennessee.”

They held hands as they walked the trail from Hesitation Point to the fire tower and then climbed the tower to look out across the valley. When they were at the top, Wayne slipped his arm around Judith’s waist and held her to him. He was intent on being polite and not pushing his luck, so was busy pointing out the sights to the East and missed her upturned face. He led the way down the ladder, looking up at her approaching derriere. By the time they got back to the parking lot, it was already past two.

Wayne gunned the motorcycle out of the lot and headed into Nashville. The little town was rapidly becoming an enclave of hippie-types from Indiana University who had begun to remake the area into a Christmas village. Several shops had opened along the main drag featuring crafts by IU students including Christmas ornaments, candles, leather goods, and art. It had grown since Wayne last saw it a year ago. They met Gail and Glenn at the burger shop and by four they were on the road again. Wayne savored the feeling of Judith cuddling up to his back and didn’t push the speed limit heading back to campus.

Sunday, 27 October 1968, early morning

“What ho, fair maiden?” Wayne said as he entered Donut World, his helmet tucked under his arm.

“Now aren’t you a gallant gentleman,” the doughnut lady drawled. “Did you tie your steed at our hitching post? You must want a strong cup of coffee and nourishment before you ride off into the sunset. Or, I guess at this hour it’s into the sunrise.”

“Lissa, you’re a card,” Wayne said. “Now that accent was pure Georgia, but Wednesday night you were Mexican. What’s a guy to think if he can’t get a handle on where you’re from?”

“Just keep guessing, dahlin’. That’s all I can say.”

“Well, coffee and a couple doughnuts sounds like a good idea. I haven’t decided whether I’m going to bed or not.”

“What’s up?” she asked as she put a hot cup of coffee and two of his favorite chocolate coated old fashioneds on the counter for him. Wayne dumped half a cup of cream in his coffee and started to eat.

“We closed the show tonight,” he said. “You know, Hamlet, over at the college.”

“I didn’t get to see it. But that had to be hours ago. It’s almost three o’clock in the morning, sugah.”

“Well, we had to strike the set and get it off stage so the stupid music department can put risers in tomorrow for their fall concert. Sharing a stage sucks. But, I guess it’s good experience for when I’m doing rep work. And I get paid for lighting their concerts. The theatre work is all volunteer. I don’t think there are any musicians strong enough to lift anything heavier than a checkbook.” He felt talkative tonight and realized he’d better slow down. But Lissa was a good listener. He’d found her here on his first midnight doughnut run in September.

“Still, the show had to end hours ago. How big was your set?”

“Well, it was pretty big, but there was a cast party after. I just got tired of the inane conversation and had to get out of there. And my girlfriend… well, I think she might be my girlfriend… wasn’t available.”

“Why not?”

“Oh. It’s the first day of her period and apparently she gets really bad cramps. She went straight back to the dorm and her heating pad after the show.”

“Happy First Day to you,” Lissa sang.

“Shh. She’d kill me if she knew I said that.” Wayne paused. “Actually, she probably could.”

Wayne finished his doughnut, showing Lissa the copy of the review in the Indianapolis Star. “With Wayne Hamel, quite good as the Player King.” It was his first review for a performance. It was past four when he pulled into the dormitory parking lot and locked up his bike. The dorm monitor scarcely looked at him as he went through the lobby and up to his room. Hamlet was over. Now it was time to sleep.

2
Midnight Caper

Thursday, 31 October 1968

Judith tucked her hair up under the short black wig until no blonde strands could be seen. She positioned the black broad-brimmed hat on her head and fastened the cape neatly around her black bodystocking, its red silk lining adding the only color accent to her costume. The cape also served to cover the black shoulder bag that was slung behind her. Finally, she fastened her rapier to the belt.

This was her third date with Wayne in two weeks—a kind of dating speed record in her experience. The first date had been the cast party on opening night. The second was Wednesday for ‘Brown County Day,’ when the entire school took a day off to go play in the woods at the state park near Bloomington. She’d ridden the sixty miles on the back of his motorcycle with her arms wrapped around him. They’d held hands all day as they walked through the park and on the return trip she’d made sure her hands were kept warm under his leather jacket. Of course, she didn’t count the group outings after the show each night when they went to the Waffle House or the TeePee. Nor did she count meeting in the lobby of the dorm to study together or to walk to class in the morning. Perhaps it was odd to have a date on Thursday night, but tonight was Halloween and they were going to a theatre costume party.

She turned toward the door and then turned back. One more thing. She knotted the black mask over her eyes. She had designed it so that a corner could be pulled down to fairly cover her entire face. That would come later.

The knock at her dorm room door was perfectly timed. She opened it to Wayne, who stood gaping at what he saw. She was pleased with his response.

“You are gorgeous!” he exclaimed. “Zorro never looked so good.”

“Who is Zorro?” she asked.

“The Spanish noble who put on a mask and cape and took on all the Mexican injustices in the California territory. Isn’t that what your costume is?”

“No. It’s the Highwayman, from the poem by Noyes,” she answered.

“I thought the Highwayman was a dandy in scarlet and doeskin!” he said.

“Poetic license. He dresses in what makes him look good and so do I.”

“No kidding! That is…” Wayne paused while he looked her over carefully. Very carefully. “That is really sexy.”

“Now, let me guess you.” She walked around him, giving him just as thorough a once-over. He was resplendent in a gold lamé tunic. He wore gold tights and sandals. He did look good in tights. He had an ivy wreath in his hair and carried a strange stringed instrument beneath his arm.

“You must be an angel with that harp,” she said, pointing at it.

“Lyre.”

“Am not.”

“No, this is. A musical instrument of the ancient Greeks.”

“Hah! Gave it away. Apollo,” she guessed.

Yes, said the supreme shape,
Thou hast dream’d of me; and awaking up
Didst find a lyre all golden by thy side,
Whose strings touch’d by thy fingers, all the vast
Unwearied ear of the whole universe
Listen’d in pain and pleasure at the birth
Of such new tuneful wonder.

“From the Keats poem I’m doing for this paper. It’s great, don’t you think?”

“Fantastic. I should have known,” she answered. “I think I’ll still call you my angel.” Actually, she did know. Wayne had taken her hint to analyze Keats’s use of mythological imagery in his fragment “Hyperion” and thought the idea had come from Dr. Allen when he quoted a line from Hamlet. It was a good idea, she justified to herself. She was taking advantage of the situation, not really using him. He would do very well on his paper and never mention to anyone that she had suggested it.

And tonight, she would see to it that he could find the appropriate references. That made her edgy. Judith was more than she appeared to be and had learned her craft from some of Britain’s finest teachers. They could never have anticipated how she intended to use it.

The party was all theatre people who had access in one way or another to resources of costumes and make-up. The result featured characters from plays that had been performed over the years at the college. There were also a good number of people who had set their imaginations loose to develop costumes that were out of this world.

It didn’t take long before the party was swinging. There was plenty of food and lots of music. In passing a closed door, Judith could smell that there were things more exotic than beer available as well. To each his own. It didn’t seem that she had to worry about Wayne. He never made a move toward the room, but was quite the attentive date. For her part, she made a show of getting fresh beers frequently. Each, however, she would take a careful sip from and conveniently lose.

As the evening wore on, the party mellowed out and the group sat around telling ghost stories. Judith tipped her head against Wayne’s shoulder and looked up at him.

“I think I’ve had too much to drink,” she said. “I’m feeling rather squiffy.”

“Oh god!” he answered, suddenly alert to her needs and remembering how many beers he’d seen her open. “Is there anything I can do?”

“Oooo. I hate to ruin your night,” she moaned.

“No, no. Don’t worry about that,” he said. “Here, lean against me. Okay?”

“Would you take me home?”

“Sure. Can you stand the ride?”

“I’ll make it. But I think I’d better go.”

“Okay.”

“Sure you aren’t mad at me?”

“Hell, no. This ghost story stuff always freaks me out anyway,” Wayne confessed. “Much rather take you home. The fresh air will do us both good.”

It was just after eleven when they reached the dorm. She leaned heavily on him as they walked in. The dorm monitor at the desk carefully turned his head away as they signed in. As long as they weren’t disorderly, he wasn’t going to turn them in as drunk, even though it was obvious.

Wayne walked Judith to the door of the women’s wing and then paused. She tilted her head toward him, and for the first time their lips touched. Talk about electric. Judith almost forgot she was supposed to be sick.

She broke away from him suddenly and looked him straight in the eye.

“Can you hold that thought till later?” she said.

“Sure,” he answered.

“Like tomorrow?” she asked.

“Okay.”

“Good.” She covered her mouth, turned and bolted through the door to the women’s wing. Wayne started after her to help, but it was after hours and the dorm monitor was glaring at him now. He turned and went slowly to his own room.

Judith didn’t even slow down at her room. She continued right on past and out the back doors. She had jimmied the alarm earlier and set the doors so she could get back in. With a quick check to see that it was still set, she hurried out into the cool night air.

Samhain—last spoke of the wheel of the year. She wished she could take even a short step between the worlds tonight, but it simply wasn’t possible. Wayne had already started his research in the library. She wouldn’t have another chance without being obvious. She wrapped her cape around her and hurried on, keeping to the shadows—just another kid in a Halloween costume.

She had spent Thursday, Friday, and Saturday nights during performances of Hamlet prowling the Academic Building, timing security guards, and locating the most vulnerable entry and exit routes. When she reached the building, she pulled down the mask to cover the rest of her face. Tonight, she was a shadow—part of a nether world that to most people did not exist.

No one bothered to check for vulnerabilities on the slightly elevated main level and Judith had discovered a casement window with a broken ratchet. Four feet beneath the window, she paused to center herself. There were lights on this side of the building illuminating the stainless steel letters on its side. Indianapolis City University—ICU. She cringed at the idea. Tonight, she wanted to be seen by no one.

Eventually satisfied that no one could see her, she jumped. Her hands found the window ledge and she hoisted herself up, hooking a small jimmy beneath the casement window and swinging it open. She dove through the opening into the library, pulling the window closed behind her. She stood there catching her breath and reached to straighten her mask and hat. It was gone. Looking out the window, she saw the hat she had forgotten to secure lying in the bushes.

“Blast it!” she whispered. Well, she’d just have to pick it up on the way out. She shut the window and turned toward the interior of the library. She’d done her share of library research in the past week and didn’t need to use her flashlight until she reached the card catalogue. Interpreting the Dewey Decimal system and cross-referencing her entry had been the most difficult part of her task. She had taken blank cards from the back of a drawer, carefully dipped them in tea to turn them brown and old-looking, and had typed the information on one of the free manual typewriters in the library. The electrics cost ten cents for ten minutes. Now she quickly placed the entries in the main card catalogue.

That was the easy part. The real task was about to begin. The Rare Books and Manuscripts Collection was on the third floor behind locked doors with a new electronic alarm system. She had been at the library the moment it opened three days in a row. Luckily, she had a good ear for tones and was certain that she had the disarming sequence down pat. If not, her caper—and her study visa—would end quickly.

The key she stole earlier in the week made getting into the room easy, but when she opened the door she saw the red flashing light to her left. Forty-five seconds to touch the right keys in the right order. One error or one second late and the alarms would go off. The panel was shaped like the keys of a touchtone telephone. The tones were the same. She had practiced the four-note sequence over and over on the payphone in the dorm lobby. Now her hand was shaking as she pressed the keys. The red light went out, the green came on. She was clear.

Her plan was simple. Rebecca Allen had been given a task that endangered her life and anyone else’s she involved in it. It had been Judith’s fault. If she had not challenged Rebecca’s nomination as high priestess of Coven Carles, the door would not have been opened for the power-hungry high priest to twist it into this impossible task. Judith had inadvertently led Rebecca into the middle of a power struggle, and after that night four months ago, she would never listen to Judith again. She might, however, be persuaded to heed a different voice. Judith went down the rows of file boxes on the shelves until she found what she was looking for: Benjamin Wilton.

Rebecca’s husband had catalogued all the personal papers of Benjamin Wilton fifteen years ago and Rebecca had been obsessed with Wilton’s esoteric writings since her husband disappeared shortly afterward. The story of The Vagabond Poet was a little-known treasure of Coven Carles. Judith had copied it once in her own Book of Shadows. Carefully worded and with her handwriting as disguised as she could make it, she had recopied it on old scraps of paper, treated much like the catalogue cards had been. She coded them to match the library’s catalogue system and dropped them in place behind Wilton’s other writings.

Judith was closing the file drawer when she heard a key click in the door. She flicked out her torch just in time to see the red alarm light flash as the door opened. The newcomer was more adept at the security code than Judith. The tones sounded without so much as a flashlight directed at the keypad. The light turned green.

Judith was flattened against the file cabinets at the end of the room, scarcely breathing. There were no windows up here, so she could only hear the steps of the intruder. They moved to the side of the room opposite Judith and she heard another key in a lock. She edged her way around the center row of files to see a figure suddenly silhouetted in the moonlight streaming through a high-placed door to the roof.

The robed figure that Judith saw stopped her heart. Rebecca Allen stepped through the opening and disappeared, not letting the roof door quite close behind her.

Judith allowed herself only enough time to swallow her heart and then moved back to the entry door. She opened it and saw the red flashing light appear. Her hands were shaking as she reached for the keypad. Her finger slipped on the first key she touched. The red light held steady for a second just before the piercing scream of the alarm system filled the room.

Judith glanced behind her to see the roof door open as she bolted down the stairs from the room. Brilliant, she thought. Just what she needed. Caught between The Hart on the roof and security guards already at the front doors of the library.

She ran to the window she came in by, but could see a patrol car parking across the street. She slid down the stair rail to the basement and dove into one of the soundproof typing rooms. Lights came on all over the library. Well, Hart, I don’t suppose everyone knows you’re up there either, but that is your problem. Mine is getting out of here.

Judith climbed onto the desk in the private room and peered into the darkness of an air vent above her. She worked the grate loose and slid it inside, then, using the coin-operated Selectric on the desk as a stepping stone, she hoisted herself up into the darkness. It was a good thing she was small. The air duct gave her just room to edge into and smelt of dust. She wiggled her way down the pipe, nearly choking on her cape until she pulled it loose. She wrapped it around her sword to muffle its clatter against the duct. At least she should be safe here until the search died down, but she’d better start working on a way out. She pushed the grate back into place with her foot and began crawling.

After what seemed like hours in the air duct, she came to a vent that looked out into a darkened room. She was out of the library. She stuck her dusty head through the opening, flashed her light around what proved to be the theatre’s prop shop. This was where Wayne spent so much of his time as props master and student technical director. Judith slid head first through the opening, scraping her hand on the shaft as she did. It hurt. She could feel the warm pulse of blood from the scrape. She quickly wrapped it in her loose cape as she headed for the door.

At least the doors to the outside of the building weren’t alarmed. The school’s minimal budget directed that alarm systems be placed only on their most valuable areas: the rare books room, the vault, the women’s dorm, and the cafeteria. Judith took the first available exit and raced for the shadows. She zigzagged her way from bush to tree until the Academic Building was out of sight before running like blazes for the back door of the dormitory.

From the rooftop, Dr. Rebecca Allen, The Hart, watched the unknown figure disappear into the darkness.

It made no difference, really. Her rituals were never what they once were. There was no real power. It was just a beautiful ritual that soothed her. She’d lost so much of the beautiful music of her art, so short-lived that she sometimes had trouble remembering what it was like. Had she really called fire?

She let the door to the stacks close before the police arrived. She had an alternate way off the roof through the theatre fly space. But she didn’t need to go yet. No one would come to the roof. She went back to where the pentagram was sketched out on the roof of the academic building—where for fourteen years she had performed rituals eight times a year if she was in town.

“Powers of air, the East, the rising sun, attend me this night. Protect and guard me and take sweet perfume from my gift to you.” She knelt, facing east and lit a small incense burner. She paused to inhale the smoke and felt the first wave of peace wash over her. She moved on to the South. “Powers of fire, the South, the burning embers of my soul, attend me tonight. Protect and guard me and take this tiny flame to be your home.” She lit a candle, then rose to move again. “Powers of water, the West, the vast oceans, attend me tonight. Protect and guard me and quench your thirst from my cup.” Moving to the North she made her final salutation. “Powers of earth, the North, the rock beneath my feet, attend me tonight. Protect and guard me and take this offering of salt to flavor your feast.” Rebecca sprinkled salt around the saucer she laid at her northern gate. She turned the full circle again, depositing her Athamé at the East, her wand in the South, her cup in the West, and her pentacles in the North. Then she spun. She let her robe fall to her feet, and naked under the Samhain stars she spun in place until dizziness overcame her and she collapsed on top of her robe.

She could feel a shimmer of power around her, subtly glowing on the darkened rooftop. She giggled a little. She still had power. At least a little. She hoped the glow wasn’t visible from across campus. The glow dampened, but she could still feel the power.

“World of flesh and world of spirit,” she whispered, “part and let me walk between. Bring to me that which my heart desires.” If she could summon the sacred tools of the coven in a small ritual, her task would be complete. It would be a relief and she could take the position of high priestess of Coven Carles. She’d been so isolated and alone; she couldn’t imagine why the coven wanted to elevate her when she was nearly four thousand miles away. Perhaps it was time to move to England. But then Serepte… Her daughter would be taken away from her friends and the only home she’d known. At thirteen, that didn’t seem right.

Rebecca drifted in the midst of her circle, waiting. Perhaps she slept, but she noted that new incense had been lit to keep the Eastern Gate active. When had she done that? And why was she not cold? It was the end of October and even though Indianapolis hadn’t become really cold yet, there was the likelihood of frost before dawn. As Rebecca pulled back into herself, she realized there was a difference in air. It was somehow pure. Her eyes focused over the Eastern Gate and she saw a figure approach.

At first it looked like two people, but as they drew nearer, they merged and Rebecca’s heart sped up. Her summoning had not been for the tools of Carles, but rather for her heart’s desire.

“Wesley? Is it you?” The figure sat opposite the incense from her and smiled, somewhat wistfully. As they sat looking at each other, he gained more substance and finally found a voice.

“My darling Rebecca,” came the whisper through the night air.

“Oh, Wesley. Does this mean you are dead and speaking to me through the veil of the worlds?” He looked around, puzzled.

“I don’t think so. I don’t feel dead. Just trapped. Or transported. I just don’t know how to get back. I’m so sorry I abandoned you, my darling.”

“But you are back. You are here.” She reached out for him as he reached toward her but their hands passed through each other. She could feel the tingling up her arm as his insubstantial form caressed her.

“I think I cannot fully pass through. So sad, though, to see you here, naked in front of me and not be able to touch those beautiful breasts.” Her nipples hardened as she felt the tingling pass across her body. It had been so long. Her body was responding even to the insubstantial presence of her husband. And it was apparent that he responded as well.

“I can’t stand not having you,” she said. “How long will we have to be apart?”

“Apart? There really is no apart, darling. We are here now. We will always be here now.”

“I feel so alone, but I try, Wesley. I try to be a good mother. Our daughter is so beautiful. You would be so proud of her.”

“I am proud of her. Don’t worry love. We talk. She knows I am here. She is the key.”

“They’ve set me the task of gathering the tools of the coven,” Rebecca said. She didn’t know why, but she assumed that Wesley would know what she was talking about, even though her membership in the coven occurred so quickly after her marriage that they’d had little time to talk about it. There was too much going on in Greece. “The Athamé was lost at the same time you were.”

“Yes. I think this is important. You can’t achieve your goal without a partner. I can’t be there and would be a poor choice for what you have to do. Choose wisely and do not be afraid to take him to you. I don’t know why I know this, but he is important to all of us.”

Wesley’s shape wavered. Beyond him, Rebecca could see the lightening eastern sky. Rebecca looked down and saw the smoke from the incense dying.

“No! Don’t go.” She scrambled to get another stick lit from the ember of the dying fragment. Wesley’s shape was almost gone.

“We are always here now,” he whispered. “Always. Here. Now.”

The sun crested the horizon and Rebecca had only the voice in her head. She quietly moved contretemps around her circle, gathering her sacred tools, whispering her thanks to the spirits of the earth, water, fire, and air, releasing them back to their elements.

She was suddenly chilled. She pulled on her robe, gathered the evidence of her circle into her bag, and moved to the fly space of the theatre where she could ease herself through the fire window and down into reality once again.

3
Revelation

Friday, 1 November 1968

Wayne remembered the kiss. But to his credit, he didn’t dwell on it when he saw Judith Friday morning, much as he wanted to simply crush her to him and passionately devour her. She came down at her usual time, though, and the two walked together to the cafeteria.

“Are you feeling better?” Wayne asked.

“Do you mean am I hung over?” Judith laughed. “Not too bad. Some American coffee should help. I’m not ready for steak and eggs.”

“I’m glad to hear that. I suppose we shouldn’t make a habit of going out to party on a school night.”

“I’m so sorry I spoiled our date. I haven’t done that in ages—not since my wild days in London.”

“I’m a sheltered Hoosier boy. These are my wild days in London. Um… Indianapolis. You’ll have to tell me about yours someday so I’ll know what I’m missing.”

“Still, I’m sorry. Let me make it up to you. Please?”

“Not that it’s necessary, but what were you thinking of?” Wayne was thinking of the kiss. He could only hope she was, too.

“Katherine Hepburn.”

“You want to give me the incredible Kate as a make-up present? I guess I can’t really turn that down,” he laughed.

“The Lion in Winter just opened. I know it’s not usual for girls to ask boys out here, but if you are free tomorrow evening, I thought we might have a date that’s my treat. You can still provide the transportation, though. I rather like sitting on your bike.” Something about the way she said that sent shivers up Wayne’s spine.

“That really sounds wonderful.”

Saturday, 2 November 1968

Wonderful only began to cover it. From the moment Judith opened the door for Wayne, they held hands. She greeted him with a soft kiss on the cheek and they went to the motorcycle. It was too bad he didn’t have a car as he was sure if he did that she’d have worn a skirt instead of the brown wool slacks. The light blue angora sweater under her jacket, though, was a delight to touch as she kept hold of his hand placed carefully around her shoulders in the theater. Their seats in the balcony caused a little distortion in the Panavision image seen from slightly above. Wayne had a hard enough time focusing on the film, though, with Judith cuddled against him.

After the movie, they walked around Monument Circle at the heart of Indianapolis and even ventured north along the grassy plaza. Rather than simply holding hands, Judith pulled his arm around her waist and held his hand firmly against her side, just touching her stomach above her hipbone. For Wayne it was like walking through a dream. When they reached the steps of the World War Memorial, she turned in his arms and as naturally as long-time lovers pressed her lips against his. He bent his head to meet her and their kiss intensified. When it finally broke, they were both panting. Wayne’s arms were wrapped all the way around her small frame and his fingertips were pressed lightly against the sides of her breasts. What a glorious feeling. She pushed away from him.

“We’d better go back now,” she whispered.

“I’d rather stay with you,” he answered.

“Yes, well every family has their ups and downs,” she quoted. For Wayne, it was definitely up at the moment. They held hands as they walked back to the motorcycle and she gripped him tightly as they rode back to campus. She didn’t give him a chance to catch her in another clinch in the parking lot, but led him immediately up the steps to the dorm lobby. At the door to the women’s wing, where they were in full view of the monitor, she met his lips again.

“Judith,” he said as they caught their breath. “Do you have plans for the holiday?”

“Holiday?”

“Thanksgiving. We have Wednesday through Sunday off and I was thinking that if you’d like, you could come home with me and… uh… meet my parents and stuff.” Especially stuff.

“Oh, that holiday. I forgot. Actually, I already accepted Gail’s invitation to her home. I wish I’d known this first.”

“Well. That’s okay. I mean. Maybe it’s a little too early to meet the parents.”

“Maybe so. Let’s just take it slow. But you could kiss me again.”

Wednesday, 27 November 1968, early morning

“Just stopped to wish you a Happy Thanksgiving, Lissa,” Wayne said as he entered Donut World. It was nearly one in the morning on Wednesday. Wayne and Judith had been out with friends for a drink and then parted at the dorm. He simply didn’t feel like sleeping yet, even though he faced a 140-mile bike ride in the morning.

“Vy tank you, dahlink. You are so… how you say?… thoughtful.”

“Are you Russian tonight?”

“You are American ven you come in for coffee; Russian ven you leave. And ven you get home? European.” Wayne howled.

“You are so funny, Lissa. I guess I’ll have that coffee. And a doughnut. It will be my last one for a while. I’m headed up north in the morning.”

“Taking your little girlfriend with you?”

“She had other plans. I’m still not sure she’s my girlfriend. I want her to be. I’m not dating anyone else and I don’t see how she could be, but the idea of going steady is foreign to her.”

“So, you haven’t gone all the way?”

“Just barely touched second base. I’m trying not to rush, but damn she makes me hot. I tell you Lissa, even without petting, I could sit and kiss her all night long.”

“You need to think ahead.”

“What do you mean?”

“When do you get back from your break?”

“Oh. Monday.”

“And how long before your holiday? I mean Christmas vacation.”

“Just two weeks. We’ve got the Holiday Musicale the first week and finals the second week. Having Thanksgiving so late in the month this year really plays havoc with the schedule.”

“So, from right now you have two weeks to pick the perfect Christmas present, make arrangements for a special date, and charm the pants off her. You shouldn’t have too much trouble with that. No?”

“Yes. Oh man! I completely forgot how soon Christmas was and that I need to give her a present before she goes home. What am I going to do?”

“Something she loves and something that is a part of you—so inseparable that she can’t abandon your gift and she can’t face it without thinking of you.”

“What?”

“How vould I know? You haf never brought her to meet me. Are you ashamed of your leetle Russian doll?”

“No! I’ll bring her in as soon as I can.” He looked around and grabbed a napkin. His pen started sketching. Of course. There was only one thing that Judith loved enough to never give up. “I have to run, Lissa. Thanks for the coffee.” He laid three dollars on the counter—easily twice what his late-night snack cost—and headed for the door.

“You see?” Lissa called after him. “Now you’re a-rushin’.”

“Dad, do you mind if I use your shop for a while this weekend?” Wayne had only been home two hours. They’d just had lunch and his butt was still tingling from the two-and-a-half-hour ride from Indianapolis. Still, he wanted to get right to work on his project.

“Sure. Anything special you need?”

“Do you have any black walnut out there?”

“Black walnut? I’ll come with you.” His dad followed him to the workshop. For half of Wayne’s life, his father had been a cabinetmaker. He’d seen the demise of Studebaker looming on the horizon and knew he needed a skill. From 1959-1961, he’d commuted to Nappanee to study woodworking with an Amish cabinetmaker. Before Studebaker closed up shop in 1963, Dad had left and was established in his woodworking shop. They passed the ’56 Golden Hawk under its canvas cover on the way to the shop.

“Is it still running?” Wayne asked.

“I’ve got the engine torn down. Needed the valves ground. Have it ready to drive this summer.”

He unlocked the woodshop and they went in. The shop always made Wayne smile. It smelled like fresh wood and tung oil.

“Now what’s your project?” Wayne pulled out the sketches he’d made the night before after talking with Lissa. It was perfect. “You love making boxes. Who is this one for?”

“My… uh… girlfriend.”

“It’s a little big for a jewelry box.”

“Yeah. You know what I worked on all last summer? I need to put a matching handle on it.”

Wayne and his dad worked side-by-side in the shop all afternoon. He’d taught Wayne everything he knew about woodworking and was happy to show him some new techniques as well. Wayne planned to use a mortise and tenon corner joint, but his dad had a new machine that would cut a blind secret mitered dovetail. When the pieces slid together, you couldn’t see the corner joint at all. Wayne cut the sides out of two matched four-foot black walnut boards. The reversed grain looked like the sides of the box grew together. When the lid hinged closed, it made it look like a solid block. His dad’s tips and an occasional extra pair of hands helped move the project along. But Joe, Wayne’s dad, was careful to let him manage his own project. He never tried to do something for him. Wayne loved working with him.

Once the box was assembled and drying, Wayne put a six-inch-long block of the dark wood on the lathe and his dad helped him align the pattern jig.

“Dad? How do I know if she’s the right girl?”

“Mmm. Well. Didn’t we talk about this once? Let me see.”

“Don’t strain yourself. How’d you know Mom was the right woman for you?”

“Well, I still don’t know for sure. Seems okay today, but Monday I was sure I’d made a mistake marrying her.” Wayne laughed. They’d been married twenty-five years last August. Popped Wayne’s sister out nine months later. He couldn’t figure out why it had taken four years to get the second kid on the ground. “I guess, it’s a lot like your box there,” he finally said. Wayne looked over at it. “All the parts have to fit together perfectly. Of course, you get a lot of marriages where the lid is warped a little or where there’s a gap in a joint or two. Most of them still hold together. Some of them are just so sloppily made, though, that there’s no chance for them to last. And some look well-made, but are used so roughly that they finally fall apart.”

“So, I want to find a woman whose parts all match mine and then keep them well-oiled?”

“Don’t tell your mother I said anything like that!”

Friday, 13 December 1968

All Wayne did the next week was type his paper, work in the props shop, and run lights for the Holiday Musicale. Then it was finals week and he still had to type the bibliography and end-notes. He must have dumped about thirty dollars into those coin-operated typewriters in the library. Ten cents for ten minutes, then deposit another dime. But he got it done and handed to Dr. Allen on Wednesday. He was reasonably sure she’d be pleased. He’d even made it to about half her classes.

He was surprised to find a message waiting at the dorm monitor’s desk on Friday morning requesting his presence in Dr. Allen’s office at ten o’clock.

“While there is no concrete proof that Keats was the Vagabond Poet referred to in early 19th century mystical writings, Wilton’s conjecture explains in part Keats’s fascination with the Titans and his glorification of them. If what Wilton says is true, Keats participated in a pagan ritual in which four of the Titans were said to have appeared—Iäpetus—drawing so much strength from the poet that Keats was sickly until his early death just two years later.”

Dr. Allen looked up from reading the paper aloud and stared at the student standing in front of her. She could feel the heat in her cheeks as her anger swept over her again. Control. He looked so smug—so pleased with himself.

“Who do you think you are?” she growled. “Did you honestly think you could pass off this rubbish as legitimate research?” Wayne’s mouth sagged open as her words sank in.

“What? It’s all there, just like I said,” he stammered. “Wilton said…”

“Wilton said no such thing, nor is there any such paper in his files,” Dr. Allen blazed.

“I have copies of them,” Wayne said. “Right here.” He produced a notebook from his pack and flipped over several pages then turned it around to face her. “Here. In Wilton’s own handwriting.”

“That is not Wilton’s handwriting,” Dr. Allen responded immediately. “Nor is this in the catalog of Wilton’s papers,” she continued producing a handwritten file from her own desk. Wayne looked at the writing on his papers and on the ones in Dr. Allen’s hands. They were undeniably different.

“Is this Wilton’s handwriting?” he asked pointing at the folder.

“No. This is my husband’s handwriting,” she answered. “He cataloged all Wilton’s writings in 1954. I have read all of them in this library and all his pseudonymous writings in the Edinburgh University Library as well. This is not Wilton’s writing. Now where did you get it?”

“I swear, Dr. Allen,” he said plaintively. “It was listed in the card catalog in the library and I got it out of his file in rare books. The librarian handed it to me herself and made the copies for me while I was there.” The professor was softening as things began to come into focus.

“Rare books,” she muttered. “Mr. Hamel, we have been had. If the paper is indeed in rare books, I will fulfill my end of the bargain and pass you for the course. However, as a teacher, it is my responsibility to instruct you. Your paper is based on a cleverly conceived fraud. It has no scholarly value. Unless you found reputable primary sources, like an eyewitness account or Keats’s diary, to back up your quotes, the entire academic value of the paper is zero. And I assure you that you will not find primary sources to back up your research. If any of what you quoted regarding the pagan rites that Keats supposedly participated in were true, it would be buried in secrecy and heavily protected against just such academic research.”

“Shi… uh… da… uh… darn it!” he swore.

“I understand your feelings,” she smiled. “They are very similar to my own. I must know who advised you in your research, subject selection, everything that led you to precisely this study. In the world of academic fraud, this could be very important.”

“How?”

“‘There are stranger things in heaven and earth than your philosophy has imagined, Horatio.’”

“Hamlet, act two, scene three,” Wayne responded automatically.

“Very good,” she answered. “Now who else knew about your research?”

“Well, gee. Everyone knows what I was doing the paper on. All my friends. And Mr. Cooper. I got clearance from him to use the same research for my Romantic Poets course. When you gave me this opportunity, I quoted the line from Hamlet about Hyperion and a satyr. I thought it was cool when that same week we read Keats’s ‘Hyperion’ in class. Miss Wilson in the library told me how to go about researching it. That’s it.”

“Miss Wilson is definitely out. Cooper? No, I don’t think so. Did you use any of the Wilton material in your paper for his class?”

“Just in the bibliography. He was interested in poetic structure and interpretation, not anthropology or social studies. He gave me an A for it.”

“I’m sure you deserved it. You’ll make a fine teacher someday, if you stay awake.”

“Thank you, but I want to stick to theatre if I can. You know what they say: Those who can, do; those who can’t, teach.” Dr. Allen looked at him and raised one eyebrow. “I mean… no offense, Dr. Allen. Anthropology is different than theatre. I mean there isn’t really anything to do in anthropology except teach. You know?”

“I know, Mr. Hamel. That will be all,” she said.

“I passed?”

“You passed. I would like to keep these copies from Wilton’s file, however.”

“I sure don’t need them anymore,” he answered. He left. Rebecca assumed he’d never again take a 7:30 a.m. class.

She quickly read through the papers Wayne swore came from Wilton’s files. To her eye, even from the photocopy, it was obviously a fraud. Disguised handwriting, she assumed. It bore some similarities to Wilton’s handwriting. Fortunately, Wayne had limited his references to the evidence that Keats had developed his poem based on experiences in pagan rituals. He had not gone so far as to tell the entire story of the Vagabond Poet, one with which Rebecca Allen was casually familiar. It was part of the secret writings of her circle of friends. It told of a wandering vagabond, sucked into the circle during the creation of a new tool, the staff—Iäpetus, the Second Face of Carles. It never mentioned the poet’s name, though.

The story was retold in such a way as to make it plausible to be in Wilton’s writings, especially if one understood the old man’s connection to the coven as a vagabond priest himself. But what caught Rebecca’s attention and held it was the final sentence the forger had written in Wilton’s supposed hand. “The Hart will see and understand.”

Someone knew the paper would find its way to her. A warning to her. The last time a new tool was forged for the coven, both the vagabond priest and the high priestess had died.

She thought back to the night when alarms had gone off in the library as she prepared her Samhain ritual on the roof—the shadowy figure running from the building. Rebecca opened the door of her credenza and pulled out the black hat that she had found when searching for signs around the building. So, this was the work of a Child of Coven Carles. But who? And why?

Saturday, 14 December 1968

Judith sat in front of the mirror in her dormitory room. Her bags were already packed for the return trip to England. Everything she owned. Her flight was tomorrow morning. She sat staring at herself, not wanting to finish, not wanting to leave.

Technically she had completed everything that she intended to do when she came to America. With Wayne’s paper submitted to Rebecca Allen, there was no doubt that she would check the reference in the Wilton file. She would have to understand how dangerous it was to create a new tool for the circle, and that she was being used in a power play.

Judith could leave now—go back to England and wait for Rebecca to quit or to go ahead and make the new Athamé, with the power-hungry high priest right there to snatch it from her hand when it was complete. Judith was finished—if it weren’t for this one other little problem in her life—Wayne.

It had begun as a simple flirtation and had taken on new focus as a means for her to accomplish her goal of getting a message to The Hart. But it kept developing. She’d tried not to lead him on, but he was so nice. She had every reason to believe that he was in love with her, and her own feelings defied her resistance. She didn’t have to go back to England, after all. There was no hurry. If she returned to classes in January, Wayne would be there. And that was something to consider. She really, really liked him. She was even picking up colonial idioms. Maybe he’d consider visiting her in England and they could sit in front of the fireplace, just…

A knock interrupted her fantasy. Well, we’ll see, she thought. We’ll just have to see.

“God, you’re beautiful,” he said when she opened the door. She lifted her face to receive the soft kiss that he offered. She had chosen a Victorian look tonight—not exactly her usual style. She wore a high collared white blouse that had taken her a quarter of an hour to button up the front. Her blue maxi-skirt had a dozen buttons as well—the last seven of which she had left undone, showing her left leg above the knee.

Wayne had raided the costume shop and came out with tails and a top hat. That he was wearing them with grey corduroys and tennis shoes didn’t seem nearly as comical as it should have. She handed him her cape and he laid a gift-wrapped box on her bed before helping her put it on.

“Are those flowers for me?” she asked sweetly.

“Well, uh… you’ll just have to wait and see,” he said. “Our cab is waiting to take us to dinner.”

The maître d’ at the King Cole looked at his outfit curiously, but he was within their dress code and did have a reservation. With a sniff, he led the two to a private booth out of the line of sight. They sank side-by-side into the deep leather seats and slid to the back. The long red tablecloth was draped nearly to the floor in front so that when Wayne sat behind it he really did look fine. Aside from his shoulder-length hair and ragged beard, he appeared to be just like any other patron of the swank restaurant. Judith’s sophisticated form beside him helped.

Even the wine steward did not blink when he ordered sparkling wine. He did cock an eyebrow when Wayne ordered Cold Duck, but quickly went to fill the order. When the wine arrived, Wayne slid the box toward Judith and raised his glass in a toast.

“Here’s to you, with all my love.” She smiled and touched her glass to his.

“May there be many more toasts between us,” she said. They drank, and then Judith began unwrapping her present. “It’s too heavy for flowers,” she said. “At least for any species that I know.” The paper came off a shiny walnut box, over three feet long and six inches across. She breathed a sigh of amazement as her hand slid across the glossy surface. At first it looked like a solid block of wood save for the tiny ridge of a brass hinge on one side and the golden clasp and lock on the other. “Oh Wayne, it’s beautiful,” she said. She turned to kiss him, but instead found him holding up his hand. Between his fingers was a small key.

“There’s more,” he said simply. She took the key and opened the lock on the box. When she saw the sword against the red velvet lining she was speechless. Her initials were emblazoned on the walnut hilt that matched the box. On the blade were engraved the closing words of Keats’s sonnet ‘Bright Star’.

Still, still to hear her tender-taken breath,
And so live ever—or else swoon to death.

There was little Judith loved more than medieval arms but this was more than she could have imagined. She turned to him in amazement, shaking her head to get the words to come out. This time he did not stop her offered kiss. The kiss might have continued much longer had the waiter not arrived, clearing his throat at the tableside. They broke apart, embarrassed.

“Are you really old enough to be ordering alcohol?” the waiter asked snidely as he set down their entrées. Judith lifted the short sword from its case and slowly swung its point toward the waiter.

“Would you like to try to take it away?” she asked. There was a cold hardness in her voice that frightened even Wayne. The waiter backed away at once.

That was a preview of The Props Master 1: Ritual Reality. To read the rest purchase the book.

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