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ISBN 978-1-950183-54-8

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 “Turn 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 tech, he has become The Props Master, and priest of a circle of witches devoted to caring for their young charge, Serepte Allen.

While I tried to be as true to historical events of the mid-70s 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! It’s the judgement of Paris!

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.

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.

Cup: may be any shape or material, sacred to the workings of magic and representative of the West and Water.

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.

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.

Names of Holidays

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.

Places

Minneapolis. As much as possible, the places in and around Minneapolis are real or were real in the ’70s, as much as I could remember, though some names have been changed.

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.

Greece. I’ve visited the Metéora but the places are somewhat altered in the story. There are seldom-traveled paths there and I created one or two.

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). They created a fifth circle at the end of Ritual Reality and that is the circle this story involves. It has a vagabond priest and a priestess from each of the other four circles.

Cast

Wayne R. Hamel, also known as the Unbound lighting tech at The Showbox. He is The Props Master and vagabond priest of the fifth circle.

Judith Harmon, also known as The Swordmaster, is a priestess of the fifth circle and physically defends Serepte.

Lissa, also known as The Chameleon, is a priestess of the fifth circle and an actress. She is often in a role, whether on stage or waiting tables.

Meaghan, also known as Pallas, is the youngest priestess of the fifth circle. She is a crafter and holds a job at the University not far from where Serepte takes classes.

Elizabeth, also known as Mamm, is the oldest priestess of the fifth circle, a mother figure to them all.

Dr. Rebecca Hart Allen, Professor of Anthropology. She is high priestess of Coven Carles and is also known as The Huntress.

Serepte Allen, Rebecca’s eighteen-year-old daughter. A natural healer, she is compelled to heal people even though it hurts and soothes herself by playing flute.

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

Elbert “Brother El” Parker, Wayne’s great uncle. The former spy living in an underground fortress is known as The Bound.

Ryan “The Blade” McGuire, former High Priest of Coven Carles, known as The Blade. Self-serving and possibly possessed, he was lost at the same time as Wesley, possibly into the same rift between the worlds.

The Great Paris, Paul Mansfield, a traveling magician doing shows in nightclubs and theaters. He suffers from amnesia and cannot remember his childhood. His magic, however, looks real.

Lil Szabo, international competitor in Medieval Weapons tournaments, rival and friend of Judith. She is known as The Iron Gate.

Credit where credit is due

This story has been hanging around for a long time. It was first drafted in 1980. I started rewriting it in 2017. This edition owes much to my story editor, Lyndsy, and my ever-faithful final editors: Old Rotorhead, and Pixel the Cat. Without their careful proofreading and editorial comments, this book would be much less.

The story is my creative work, copyright ©2020 by Elder Road Books. It is a work of fiction. People and places that might be recognized probably aren’t who you think they are. All remaining errors in this text are solely my own, sometimes ignoring the good advice of my editors. Enjoy!

1
Behind the Veil

Saturday, 21 June 1969, Greenwich, Connecticut

SEREPTE PLAYED the flute as she sat in her room at her god- parents’ house. The door was ajar. Her godfather’s butler, William, requested it because her playing meant so much to Doc. Doc and Margaret, her godparents, were sooo old. And Doc was sick. Dying, she’d heard Margaret whisper.

She’d been sent to Connecticut as soon as school was out in May. It was supposed to be so her mother could prepare for her trip to England with the college theater troupe. At least that was the cover. Serepte knew that her mother, Rebecca Allen, had been commissioned with an important task for the Great Circle and even tonight, on Litha, they would be celebrating the completion. Whatever it was, Serepte’s initiation, promised for her thirteenth birthday, was now delayed a second time.

Strange things had been going on around the campus her mother taught at and Rebecca wanted Serepte out of the way someplace safe. If all went well, Serepte would join the circle at Lughnasad. It was still six weeks away.

To top it all off, she started her first period. Life is so unfair! Margaret tried to help but she was old. More than fifty. William, the sweetheart, went to a store and bought a box of every different kind of feminine protection that was on the shelf. But it was so embarrassing! Thankfully, he also brought a bottle of Midol and a hot water bottle. That and playing the flute were the only relief she got from her first ever case of menstrual cramps.

“Serepte,” Margaret said softly. “How are you doing, dear?”

“Better. I guess.”

“I remember how badly I hurt the first time I got my monthly visitor. It isn’t something you’ll soon forget.”

“I’m just being a baby.”

“You hurt, dear. There is nothing babyish about that.” The two sat on the edge of the bed, Margaret’s arm awkwardly around Serepte’s shoulders. “I hate to ask this…”

“What?”

“Would you come and play for Phillip? He wants to give you his blessing and…” Tears filled Margaret’s eyes. “It will ease his passing,” she choked. I’m going to see him die. Dear Goddess, no.

Serepte carried her flute into the room and was shocked at how the disease had ravaged the old man’s body. This dear man who was so important to her mother for the past fourteen years was in real pain.

Anger flooded Serepte’s senses. The disease had no right to take Doc! She raised her flute to her lips and a long piercing note issued from her breath. She felt flooded with power as if she were lifted up by dozens of voices, her mother’s in the lead, chanting hope and power into her mind and body. She continued to play, looking at Doc as she blew passionately across the lip plate. Before Doc could speak, Serepte felt the ripping attack of the disease at his internal organs. Playing faltered under the overwhelming flood of pain that leapt from his body to hers.

Panic gripped the girl. She could not escape from the pain and disease. She screamed but the pain would not relent. Color returned to Doc’s face as if he’d been resurrected. She managed one more long, soulful note from her flute before she crumpled to the floor.

Rebecca arrived three days later to find her daughter comatose in the hospital. Next to her, Doc, Margaret, and William held vigil. She’d left the college group Sunday evening, as soon as she received word from Margaret. Getting to London and getting a flight to New York had seemed to take forever. She had to reach her daughter and no immigration officer or customs official was going to stop her.

Doc, though weak from his extended time bedridden, showed no sign of the cancer that had riddled him. His doctor was ready to call it a miraculous remission. But no one was celebrating. They sat next to Serepte’s bed, each lost in the memories of the goddess of Metéora as told to them in stories years before.

Rebecca flew into action. She asked Margaret and William to leave the room, closing the door firmly behind them.

“I know you are weak, my friend, but I ask you, Brand, one time the Flamekeeper of Coven Carles, watch over me while I work and pull me back should my control fail,” she said.

“Sadb, it has been many years, but I will do my best to watch over you,” the old man said. Having addressed each other by their most secret coven names, Rebecca went immediately to work. She stripped off her clothes and laid out her tools surrounding Serepte.

“Guardians of the watchtowers, I summon you to guard and protect your servants as we work a mighty work. Lend us your strength, protect us with your power. Shield us and defend us from all that would harm. I summon you by the names of Raphael, Gabriel, Michael, and Uriel. Place your protection upon this place.”

A tangible wall of light sprang up around the room and Rebecca immediately reached for her star stone pentacles. She had not used the artifact from the City of the Gods for healing in many years, but focused through it on her daughter.

Physiologically, the doctors said, there was no sign of injury or illness, but symptomatically she appeared near death as if she were eaten by cancer. Her fingers kept flexing as if still playing the flute. But no matter how she struggled to focus her talisman, Rebecca was unable to search out the illness that was eating her daughter. After an hour and a half, Rebecca finally let her wards drop and collapsed into Doc’s arms.

“I can’t reach her,” she sobbed.

Serepte could still hear her flute. It echoed a thousand times in her mind as she struggled to find the next note. And then she awoke. Only she was no longer in her body.

The sun was brighter, birds sang songs she’d never heard, and she saw colors more vivid than any colors she’d seen before. The note she’d been holding since dropping her flute in Doc’s room burst into a whole song and she moved her fingers as if the flute was still in her hands. She heard a symphony. Heart-achingly beautiful beings floated from place to place. She saw pain and suffering as… beautiful creatures, caught in… or birthed in the wrong world.

It was so beautiful!

And they loved her music. When she breathed another note of the strange music in her head, illness, disease, and pain left her and entered this beautiful world where it belonged. As the pain slipped out of her, it bowed gracefully and thanked her for releasing it to its true form. It was alive and loving. The beings meant no harm, but they suffered from being captured in human hosts and longed to be free.

Having entered a world where pain was a beautiful thing, Serepte discovered with a shock that she did not know the way back to her own world. She could see it, but she couldn’t reach it. She floated in the room looking at her body, watching her mother trying to work magic to bring her back. But Serepte was in a different plane of being—a different loka.

As she sat and observed the hospital room, she heard music that did not come from her flute. Someone else played at the edge of her consciousness. And this went on as days and nights passed in her hospital room. She couldn’t catch the musician until one night she swung rapidly toward the music and shouted, “Who are you?”

Fog lifted around her and she walked into a beautiful garden with all the things of home in it. The flowers, the grass, the birds—everything had a magical glow, but earthly, unlike the natural world. She walked in the presence of the creator. She saw the world through the eyes of the one who thought it into existence.

In this wonderland, Serepte wandered until she saw her own home in Indianapolis. It looked like her home but was imbued with the mystical light. She stepped through the door. It was her home as if idealized. It was a little grander and some details were very much like other places she thought she recognized. The detail of William’s carvings that hung in Doc’s house looked alive. She wondered if she were making up the house in her head. A fire was laid in the fireplace and a man stood there in front of it looking at her.

He held out his arms and she flowed into his embrace. She had found her father—or he found her. His arms were filled with warmth and love and comfort.

“I have been calling for you, my daughter,” he said softly. “You have been so wrapped up in the pain of your body and the beauty of the other world that you could not hear me.”

“Father? Daddy? Where are we?”

“In my head, I guess. In my world. I can’t leave here without bringing this world to an end. Can I do that? Perhaps I can if you help me.”

“I don’t know what to do.”

“You will discover it eventually. For now, what you must do is learn to release the pain and suffering without crossing into their world and becoming trapped. You are as much a foreigner in their world as they are in yours.”

“I don’t want to cause them pain. They’re beautiful,” she said. “What should I do?”

“Use your music like your mother… like your muse did. It is your great gift and even greater burden. You can accept the pain of others into yourself through your intense empathy, but you must learn to release it quickly so that you can survive.”

“It hurt, Daddy,” she cried.

“One day you will find that it is not duty that impels you to accept the suffering, but love. When that day comes, I will be waiting for you and will join you in your world,” he said. “Now, my daughter, before it is too late, play for me.”

She picked up the flute lying on the piano and he seated himself to accompany her. She played all the music memorized over the past years and no matter what she played, his accompaniment was impeccable. Finally, out of repertoire, she moved to lay down the flute.

“Play,” he said. “Don’t be frightened. Your flute knows you well. Kiss breath into her and she will show you your very soul.”

She’d run out of music and he was asking her to play something she didn’t know. Music that simply came from breathing life into the silver tube. His accompaniment ran beneath a beautiful new sound that emerged from the silver tube. It was her flute, her hands, her breath, but the music was its own. They played the improvised and spontaneous music, deviating from the patterns of staves and notes as they broached new and unexplored paths, coaxing sounds from the instruments that they were not intended to create. And in that music, the secrets of life were opened. Her soul was laid bare and she saw beyond time and space.

At last, the music fell silent. Father and daughter wept in each other’s arms. The house and library and music faded away, and they stood together looking at Serepte’s body in the hospital bed.

“You must decide, daughter, and you must do it quickly,” he whispered. “Will you accept this gift you have been given or will you flee from the pain that it brings with it? The time is now.”

There was a sudden flurry of activity around the hospital bed. Rebecca cried. Serepte realized her body had just died. The moment had truly come, whether she was ready for it or not. She looked back, but her father and all the world that surrounded him were gone. The hospital room became her only tangible reality.

And then the gateway opened and Serepte was reborn.

She heard a loud gasp as air rushed back into her lungs. They ached, as if she’d been holding her breath for a long time. It hurt so much to be alive! She sang out the notes so recently played and let the pain escape through an open window to its world. Rebecca and the doctors spun to look as the girl so recently pronounced dead suddenly filled her lungs and sang. All the aching in her life—her loneliness, fears, lack of direction—went rushing out like a tidal wave. With her next breath, she cried out, “Mommy!” Suddenly people crowded around, and Rebecca held her daughter and wept. As the pain fled, Serepte saw a remnant of the beauty she had known for such a short time.

2
To Forge a Cauldron

5 July 1969, Duddo Five Stones

“I CAN’T BELIEVE we actually walked to Scotland,” Wayne enthused as they opened the door to their room at the little inn. The room was much larger than he expected, and included all of the third floor. Dormers looked out on two sides. “Wow!”

“We walked through a corner of Scotland,” Judith laughed. “We’re back in England now. And you’ve said that every day for the past five. Aren’t you glad for that walking stick now?”

“Yes. And the cape. It was darn cold sleeping on the ground. Why didn’t we just come here last night? We were so close.”

“I thought you would want to be outside for your Independence Day fireworks.”

“There were no fireworks last night,” Wayne stupidly answered.

“I am mildly insulted. I certainly saw sparks.”

“Oh. I mean… oh, shit! You are all the fireworks I ever need. Must we meet the others?” he asked. “We could just slip into this nice clean bed.”

“Sadly, yes we do and they will be here soon. You should bathe and get a nap. Um… I suppose I could nap with you,” Judith said, pushing Wayne toward the bathroom. Wayne dumped his pack and obediently headed for the bathroom, happy to discover a hanging shower over the tub, unlike most of the places he’d visited in England. He didn’t take long and as soon as he was out of the tiny bathroom, Judith filled the tub for her own bath. Wayne stretched out on the bed under the eaves and was asleep before Judith slipped in beside him.

“Aren’t they cute?”

“Don’t disturb them.”

“I can’t help it. They’re naked.”

“Do you think it’s the first time?”

“Hardly.”

Wayne came groggily aware of the voices surrounding the bed. Judith lay draped over his right side, her bare flesh hot against his. A hand softly caressed his left flank, dangerously close to his manhood. Another stroked Judith’s back from her shoulder down past her butt.

“Can’t wait for tonight?” she mumbled sleepily.

“Couldn’t help it,” Lissa laughed. Wayne recognized the tinkling sound of her voice immediately and opened his eyes fully to see the three women who stood around the bed. “You just look so delicious.”

Wayne had met all of the women but scarcely knew two of the priestesses who smiled at his naked embarrassment.

“Didn’t we lock the door?” he mumbled to Judith.

“Cousin Bea gave us our key. You don’t think you get this entire fabulous room—and big bed—all to yourselves, do you?” the oldest of the trio said. Elizabeth, Wayne recalled. Which would make the shy one standing back a little Meaghan. He sighed. There was no reason to hide his nudity from the priestesses of the Fifth Circle. They’d all seen him naked when he burst into the Circle of Carles on Litha. If Judith’s instructions and information given during the past week were accurate, they’d see him naked frequently for years to come. The scope of the commitment he’d made was only just dawning on Wayne. Judith rolled back away from him and looked up at their playful tormentors.

“Is it time to go already?” she asked. “We didn’t get much sleep last night.”

“Fireworks,” Wayne yawned.

“Bea has tea ready for us,” Elizabeth said. “We’ll need our energy for tonight and it will be better to walk out to the stones before it’s fully dark.”

“I could use more than a cup of tea,” Wayne said. “I’m starving. Is there a restaurant around?” The women looked at him and started giggling as he gathered his clothes and began to dress.

“Americans!” Judith huffed.

Indeed, the meal set before them when they arrived in the dining room was more than a cup of tea. Wayne gorged himself on steak pie and rolls. He did not complain about drinking tea with his meal.

After the meal, the five returned to the suite at the top of the stairs and Wayne watched out of the corner of his eye as his companions stripped.

“You’ll have plenty of opportunity to see us in clear daylight,” Lissa said. “And by firelight tonight. But now we need to get ready. Go on, our vagabond. Get your robe on.” Wayne acknowledged Lissa’s statement by stripping and pulling on his black robe, contrasting with red of the priestesses.

This night, the vagabond priest and the four volunteer priestesses would give birth to their mission and truly become the Fifth Circle. They would plant the seed that would grow.

“I’m still adjusting to the scope of this commitment. Are you really taking time off for however long we need and coming to America?” Wayne asked. “I mean, I’m a little concerned about fulfilling my obligations and still earning a living.”

“None of us are rich, if that’s what you’re asking,” Lissa replied. “I act and sometimes I get paid for it. Between jobs, I do what all actors do: I wait tables. Or make doughnuts,” she laughed.

“I’m a student like you,” Judith said. “The college gave me a continuation of my grant so I could come back to school with you. We might want to consider getting an apartment and cooking our own meals instead of living in the dorm. My earnings will be stretched if we are both living on them.”

“I have some income,” Wayne said. “It’s just not full time. How do you make money, Judith? Isn’t there some kind of law about being a foreign student and working?”

“I fight,” Judith said softly. Wayne looked at her quizzically. The other priestesses didn’t react. He waited for further explanation.

“There’s always someone who wants to challenge the Swordmaster,” Meaghan said.

“I thought that was a name we only used in the circle,” Wayne said.

“My nickname is Swordmaster and that’s how we refer to each other so we don’t call each other by name. But it’s not limited to the circle. Not like our magic names,” Judith said.

“And they pay you to fight?”

“Mmm. It keeps me out of trouble. I won’t accept a challenge unless there is a bet to make it worthwhile. As soon as I walk into a fencing club, or a knife club here in England, there is someone who wants to place a wager against the Swordmaster.”

“Criminy!” Wayne swore. “Uh… Elizabeth?”

“My children have all left the nest but the youngest and he will be gone next year. I have a small stipend from my husband’s estate and will join you in America in the spring. We aren’t going to instantly go forge that young girl into a cauldron for Cobhan Carles this year. She’s too young and untrained. That’s what we’ll be doing for the foreseeable future.” Wayne nodded, recognizing that their foremost purpose was the protection and guidance of Rebecca’s daughter.

“What about you, Meaghan?”

“I do whatever is necessary,” said the youngest of the quintet. “I’ve started selling my jewelry at craft fairs. I hear there are festivals emerging in the U.S. where anachronists do role-playing and renaissance games. I figure I will spend the winters making crafts and the summers traveling around selling them.” Meaghan was four years younger than Wayne and seemed not to have a care in the world. Judith and Lissa were both three years older than him and Elizabeth was… older. She had a son as old as Judith. “I’m hoping I’ll learn something about making things from working with you, Unbound,” Meaghan concluded.

They turned from the road onto a straight path that ran through the planted fields to a cluster of standing stones at the top of a small rise. It was much smaller than the circle at Castlerigg.

When they reached the circle, Wayne found it was more a crescent, not quite closing the circle on the west. A firepit was already prepared in the center and they took a few minutes to walk around and examine the five stones. While neither as large as Carles Castlerigg, nor quite as ancient, there was a sense of power rooted deep in the earth. Far to the east and slightly north, there was still a slight sparkle of sunlight off the waves of the North Sea.

“The circle is on private property, owned by the farmer who tills the fields surrounding us,” Elizabeth began, calling them together around the cold firepit. “We’ve his permission to encamp for the night and ‘work our little magicks,’ as he put it. He even brought this little bundle of firewood for us when he cut the grass earlier in the day.”

“Is he a member of the circle?” Wayne asked, trying to figure out why a person would consent to witches camping for the night on his property.

“An indulgent uncle,” Elizabeth asked. “Bea at the inn is his daughter, my cousin. There’s a bit of a wink and a nod that goes on when they deal with their fey relatives. It’s part of why we chose this as our meeting ground tonight.”

“Another reason is because of the five stones,” Meaghan said. “Though Serepte will be the core of our circle, we are the stones that stand around her.”

“That’s beautiful, Meaghan,” Wayne responded. “I hope you all know what we are doing tonight. I’m not quite as clueless as when I charged into the great circle two weeks ago, but I am still a novice in many ways.”

“You’ll do the things you know now, babycakes. Um… I mean Unbound. You’ll cast the circle and protect us with your wards. We…” Judith circled her finger to include the four priestesses, “…are your tools, each of us representing an element. We’ll each have a representation of our tool. You know I don’t go far without a sword or knife and it is belted around my waist beneath my robe. I am the East, air, the athame. Chameleon is the West, water, the cup. Dear sweet innocent Pallas, who hopes to learn soooo much from you conceals an ember beneath her robe and is the South, fire, wand,” Judith giggled. The youngest priestess blushed crimson. “And finally, as if you hadn’t guessed long ago, Mamm is the North, earth, pentacles. She’s like our house mom.”

Wayne relaxed as his girlfriend conducted him around the points of the compass and stopped at her own spot in the East. She quickly whispered encouragement to Wayne and then told him to improvise. He blushed at her implications and then began his own first circle around the unlit firepit.

“I am the Unbound,” he said as he circled the priestesses. “A vagabond priest without a home and without a heritage, now committed to the Circle of Castlerigg. By all that I am, I swear to protect and help each of you and all of us in our coming endeavor. In our committed circle, you will know me by my true name. I am Promethean, the Unbound.” As he spoke his name, he felt the wards of the circle begin to enfold him. He swayed back and forth letting the power grow. Judith unconsciously mimicked his dancelike movements as he stood before her.

Guardians of the Watchtowers of the East Welcome to our circle. Behold this vessel of beauty Prepared to receive your blessing.

Wayne untied the belt of Judith’s robe and let it open. He pulled it from her shoulders and it fell to the ground. “How shall we know you in this circle?”

Judith stood proudly, seeming much taller than her five feet and an inch. Her slim stomach, compact muscles, and resolute gaze shouted her readiness to do battle.

“I am Badh,” she said firmly. “I am the warrior. The battle cry. The Swordmaster.” Wayne knelt before her and kissed her feet as he began the blessing of the fivefold kiss.

Blessed be thy feet, that have brought thee to the goddess Blessed be thy hands, that shall do her work Blessed be thy sex, the entrance to her temple Blessed be thy breasts, her gift of nurture and beauty Blessed be thy lips, that shall utter her praises.

When Wayne kissed Judith’s left breast, she held his face to her bosom for a moment, sighing as he suckled. When he kissed her lips, they lingered. All too soon for his tastes, Judith gently pushed Wayne clockwise around their circle.

Meaghan trembled like a leaf in the wind. He smiled at her and she pressed her face into his hand when he stroked her cheek.

Guardians of the Watchtowers of the South Welcome to our circle. Behold this vessel of beauty Prepared to receive your blessing.

Wayne untied the belt of Meaghan’s robe and she shrugged it from her shoulders. Her thin frame boasted small round breasts and a gentle swelling at her hips. Her red hair flamed with the last touch of the sun as it sank below the horizon. “How shall we know you in this circle?” he asked softly.

“I am Pallas,” she said. “I am Truth. Wisdom. The Pearl.” Wayne knelt in front of her for the fivefold kiss.

Blessed be thy feet, that have brought thee to the goddess Blessed be thy hands, that shall do her work Blessed be thy sex, the entrance to her temple Blessed be thy breasts, her gift of nurture and beauty Blessed be thy lips, that shall utter her praises.

Meaghan squeaked involuntarily when Wayne kissed her mound of red hair and stroked his cheek when he kissed her left nipple. She sighed into the kiss on her lips and let him go reluctantly.

Wayne moved on to his mentor, Lissa, in the West and repeated the invocation, loosening the tie of her robe and stepping back to appreciate the body that reminded him so much of his visions of the priestess Mari. She grinned mischievously.

“How shall we know you in this circle,” he asked, wondering what kind of identity she would adopt this time.

“I am Eris,” Lissa breathed. “I am chaos. Deceit to confuse our enemies. The Chameleon.” Wayne knelt for the fivefold kiss and playfully opened her sex with his tongue. “Oh, yeah,” she murmured as she welcomed his passionate kiss.

Moving to his right, Wayne faced Elizabeth. She was still smirking at the antics of the younger priestesses but focused entirely on Wayne as he repeated the invocation of the guardians of the North. Wayne loosened the ties on Elizabeth’s robe, but Elizabeth stood still as a stone. Wayne stared at her for a moment and then circled her to remove the robe from her shoulders. He leaned in to whisper in her ear.

“How shall we know you in this circle?”

She leaned back against him and welcomed his kiss on her neck. “I am Rhea.” Her voice pulled him toward her and he slid his body against her until their eyes were just inches apart. “I am comfort and nurture. Earth mother. I am known as Mamm.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Wayne responded automatically. Wayne knelt for the fivefold kiss. Her black pubic hair was sprinkled with gray. She cradled him like an infant against her breast. She kissed him thoroughly, pressing against his protruding erection.

“I’ve borne five children, Promethean. Are you thinking I should have six?” she teased. He started to pull away, but she held him close. The other three priestesses gathered, loosening the ties on Wayne’s robe and pulling at it until he, too, was naked. They knelt before him for the fivefold kiss.

Blessed be thy feet, that have brought thee to the goddess Blessed be thy hands, that support her priestesses Blessed be thy sex, that sows her seeds Blessed be thy breasts, her gift of strength and compassion Blessed be thy lips, that shall utter her praises.

As they finished the blessing, Wayne’s hands rose until he held them wide. Gathering together their combined power, he clapped his hands above his head. There was a moment of silence as rays of light arced from each stone and met in a shimmering dome above them.

“I think we can safely light our fire now,” Meaghan said as she stared at the wards that protected their circle.

“Girl, he already lit my fire,” Lissa sighed. Judith laughed, but punched her friend solidly in the arm.

“You two have already consummated your bond. The Pearl and I would like to get to know him… better,” Elizabeth said.

“I’m still new at this,” Wayne sighed. “Two weeks ago was the first time I participated in a circle with more than one other person. You are all priestesses with more experience than me.”

“Most gatherings begin with raising a cone of power,” Lissa said. “We’ve already begun that with the naming ritual and your wards. We all have our own little verses and chants that we can share while we dance. Bringing our bodies together heightens the energy. You’ve experienced that with the Swordmaster and with me. And with the Hart.”

“You’ve named all the lovers I’ve had in my life. I can’t simply have sex with all of you.”

“Not simply,” Meaghan sighed. “Elaborately and passionately.”

“I believe sex will be important to the way we work together,” Elizabeth said as her hand stroked Wayne’s back. They had all gathered close together and sat on their robes with legs tangled, seeking both the warmth and comfort of each other’s touch. “Not the focus of it,” she continued, “but important. We’re in the awkward situation of being thrown together with a task that allows or requires us to be intimate. And we still don’t know each other. Nor do we really know how to forge a young woman into a cauldron.”

“I think that is what we should focus on,” Judith said as she took his hand. “Not having sex, though if we get that far, that’s great. We need to get to know each other—spiritually as well as physically and emotionally. Meditating, dancing, talking, eating, kissing. There is so much we need to share in order to work together in preparing our charge to come into her power.”

“We volunteered for this responsibility because we believe in the power of the circle,” Lissa said.

“And because watching you come tearing into our circle like Hyperion in flames to slay a demon turned us on,” Meaghan confessed. “But yeah. It doesn’t have to be tonight, but I’m looking forward to getting to that point.”

“Here I thought you all knew specific rituals that we would perform and spells we would cast that would result in Serepte suddenly becoming the powerful witch that we all imagine,” Wayne said, a little bewildered.

“We’re making it all up as we go,” Lissa said. “Live, improvisational theatre.”

“Serepte is a beautiful name,” Elizabeth mused. “I wonder where it comes from.”

“Rebecca said it was the name of a goddess or demi-goddess revered by some Greek cult,” Wayne said. “It’s tied up with the story of how her husband was lost.”

“Serepte,” Meaghan breathed. “Surreptitious, as in kept secret.”

“Serepte,” Judith joined. “Serendipitous, as in a happy chance.”

“Serepte,” Elizabeth added. “Serape, as a blanket for warmth.”

“Serepte,” Lissa whispered. “Serum, as a blood transfusion.”

“Serepte,” Wayne finally picked up the play on words. “Seraph, as an angel of God.”

“Serenade.”

“Serenity.”

“Serrated.”

The words were progressively less and less a play on her name and more about characteristics, influences, and hopes as the five witches held each other in a tight circle, swaying to the random musings of their voices and building in this spontaneous sharing the very cone of power Lissa had originally suggested.

The focus of their meditation solidified in their minds. Wayne had met Serepte on only a couple of occasions before she’d been sent to her godparents’ home for the summer. He wondered what she was up to. She had so much desire to become a part of the coven and was frustrated that Rebecca held her back, not wanting to lose her little girl.

Touches, kisses, whispers, and sighs gave a tangible presence to the power raised by the group. Wayne could see the girl looking down on them from far away.

“Come, Serepte. Step through the gate from your childhood to womanhood,” he breathed. “Know that we will be there to help and comfort in the days to come. Step forward into your future and be welcome in our circle.”

He reached out a hand, raised toward the image of the young woman and felt the hands of his companions join his. And Serepte’s image reached to them as she stepped forward. Her voice sang in the emptiness and pain, fear, and sorrow fled before it. She stepped forward with a cry.

“Mommy!”

Sweat trickled down Wayne’s armpit at he came slowly awake the next morning. Really romantic way to wake up with a new lover. Meaghan was held snugly under the offending arm, her soft breath tickling at Wayne’s neck. Of course, they weren’t really lovers. Not really. Yes, they were cuddled naked in bed but Judith was snuggled equally bare beneath his other arm and behind her Lissa held his hand to her breast. Elizabeth? Ah. It was Elizabeth’s hand that held Meaghan’s on his chest, and her breast that sandwiched Wayne’s hand against Meaghan’s back. Waking up under a pile of lovely naked women is a nice fantasy but it’s a hot and sweaty reality.

Still, as uncomfortable as the sweat and slippery skin against his body was, he was reluctant to move just yet. It was not only the attraction of so much sensual contact, but the thoughts that had plagued his dreams after they returned from the stone circle and snuggled into bed. In the dreams, he saw tools that Serepte would need as she progressed through her instruction—tools he would make for her. But those tools were not why he was called by Cobhan Carles to be here. He was to forge a new cauldron.

Their assumption, even as they danced and meditated, and raised their cone of power last night, had been that Serepte was to be the new tool. Their guidance and support would enable her to rise to her full power in the circle. It was a concept that made Wayne vaguely squeamish. No one asked Serepte if she wanted to be the tool of the coven. Had it not been for what he had seen in the scrying with Rebecca, he would not have considered taking on the task. Serepte had an important role to play, not just for the coven, but for humanity.

His dreams, however, made real the fact that she would be no tool. She was far beyond that.

He wondered how his four companions, lovers, witches, priestesses would react when they discovered it was not Serepte who was being forged into a new tool, but them.

The five of us are to become the cauldron of rebirth.

3
The Cauldron Forged

31 August 1974, Minneapolis, MN

“I WON’T DO IT. You know I won’t do it and there is no sense arguing about it. Why do you insist?”

“She’s ready. Goddess! She’s absolutely ripe. She needs her final initiation and the raising of power. She’s eighteen. I was fifteen when I raised power the first time.”

“I was twenty-one. There’s no rush.”

“You promised the circle that you would replace the cauldron and we four joined to complete your circle.”

“The cauldron of rebirth. I am not as ignorant about this as I was when you first scrambled my brain and tried to initiate me. I know what is involved and what is needed. She’ll know when the time is right.”

“You promised the circle.”

“Stop whining. I promised her mother. You were there. You swore the same oath. ‘All between these hands I commit to the Goddess. I, Promethean known as The Unbound, do of my own free will most solemnly swear to protect, help, and defend my sisters and brothers of the Art. I take this vow as Vagabond Priest and as champion of the High Priestess… and her daughter. So mote it be.’ I repeat it to myself daily.”

“I know. I remind myself each morning. ‘We of the Fifth Circle accept the task of training your daughter, protecting her from all ill, and in league with your champion will forge the Cauldron Ops. So mote it be.’ It’s been five years. Can you blame us for becoming impatient?”

“No. But Serepte is something more than any of us or even all of us combined. I feel that we are close, as well, but I can’t rush it right now.”

“We really are a pair, aren’t we?” Judith lifted her lips to touch his and let the kiss deepen as he responded to her. “You know, I do love you,” she whispered. “It isn’t all about power. But lately…”

“What is it, Judith? This isn’t just about Serepte.”

“It is and it isn’t. Maybe I’m spending too much time at the Ren Faire, but I feel something moving in the area. Something dangerous.”

“You can tell by the itch in your thumbs, something wicked this way comes.”

“Don’t laugh. It’s like the veil is thinning and I can see through. We talk about the thin veil and walking between the worlds at Samhain, but this is different—more sinister. A presence is straining to reach us. I think she’s in danger. Serious danger if we don’t move quickly.”

“All of us have felt something,” Wayne sighed. “All we can do is be vigilant and be near when she needs us.”

“It’s full moon tonight. Will you meet us on the roof?”

“I get off work at one. I’ll join you then.”

The four priestesses and their vagabond priest sat on a rooftop in Minneapolis early on Sunday morning. The city was beginning to quiet down, though they could still hear an occasional horn blast or loud muffler on Hennepin Avenue, just a few blocks away. Judith, as always, led the charge.

“You’ve raised power with all the rest of us. Why not with her? Is our sex somehow less sacred?”

“Judith, when you and I first made love it was for love, not power. She should have the same opportunity.”

“That’s not usual for us,” Lissa said. “The first time for the other three of us was for power.”

“I understood that with Pallas and Rhea,” Wayne protested. “And we waited until we were fully comfortable with each other and did it for our enjoyment. I have to say, Chameleon, that the first time with you, I didn’t know that was what we were doing. My head was so muddled by the three of you, and the Bound, that I didn’t understand any of what was going on. And, my darling Badh, even when we raised power with sex, it was a by-product. An afterthought. It was a result of our love. At least it was to me.”

“We’re frustrated,” Meaghan said. “I didn’t realize when I volunteered for this that it was going to take a third of my life. And since she turned eighteen, Serepte has been more distant, not engaging in even our simple rituals like the full moon tonight. She spends her time in her room playing the flute.”

“She takes her music seriously,” Wayne said. He looked at his priestesses and sighed. “I need to share something else with you. I hoped it would just come as a natural part of our circle, but it seems I was wrong.”

“All the more reason to give her more power,” Elizabeth said.

“That’s just it. We can’t. When I visited The Hart this summer, she told me something else—a missing piece of the puzzle. She’s kept it from us until we moved here because she always assumed we would be nearby and she could fill us in at the right time. The time is right to share it with you, my priestesses is now. Serepte is a healer.”

“Only just now?”

“That’s what I asked. On the night we first forged our circle at the Duddo Five Stones, five years ago, Serepte died.”

“What?” The priestesses all pressed toward their priest, wanting to be closer as he revealed what had happened.

“It took the Hart a while to fit the pieces together. Serepte’s godfather was dying of cancer. He’d called her into his room to give her his blessing, but when she saw him, she immediately began playing her flute. He was literally on the brink of death, but her playing revived him. When she had finished playing, she fell into a coma. Her godfather, on the other hand, was completely healed of the cancer. You remember how the Hart suddenly left the morning after our Litha celebration? It was to rush home to be at Serepte’s side in the hospital.”

“And you say she died the night of our first circle? That was two weeks later,” Lissa said.

“Yes. And we all celebrated seeing a vision of Serepte as we raised our cone of power and opened a gate. It was our first act as the Cauldron of Ops to call Serepte back into her body.”

“Goddess!”

“What do you mean as the Cauldron of Ops. We were commissioned to forge a new cauldron.”

“And we did. We confused the two aspects of our mission as being one. We swore to reforge the cauldron, but also…”

“We of the Fifth Circle accept the task of training your daughter, protecting her from all ill, and in league with your champion will forge the Cauldron Ops,” the four priestesses recited their oath.

“We forged the Cauldron Ops when we brought our circle together and first raised the power. And our first act was to protect Serepte and bring her through the circle of rebirth.” Wayne let his words sink into the stunned priestesses.

“And we thought we were to forge her into the cauldron,” Meaghan whispered. “But at every gathering of the Great Circle, we represented the cauldron. Only it wasn’t a representation.”

“I suspect that the cast iron cauldron that I broke that night was actually only the representation. Rebecca gave me some things to read that I’ve been studying ever since I got back. She had access to her mentor’s Book of Shadows and to several others. I compared them with my uncle’s book, from which I learned much of what I knew. It’s veiled, but it appears the fifth tool of the coven has always been people, only represented physically by the iron pot. Our circle is unusual. It is often anchored by the High Priestess and usually comprises three other women and a man. To have the cauldron centered by the Vagabond and surrounded by four priestesses happens only once every two or three hundred years.”

“Is there more or have you finished demolishing everything we believed?” Judith asked sarcastically.

“I’m sorry to say, there’s more. You all know the Hart foreswore her power until that night; until the Litha night at which we were commissioned. I know why. Join my hands and let me show you.”

In 1955, the Hart, newly consecrated as a member of Cobhan Carles, journeyed to Greece where she believed her husband was endangered by the Blade. Her intent was to save him, but he was drawn back to the mountain of the legendary City of the Gods. Her husband and a young boy were lost in a flash flood and the already pregnant Rebecca could not stand the thought of them dying.

She held the stone between herself and the tree and held the tip of the tiny dagger to the stone. Ignoring proper warding of her circle, she simply concentrated on seeing the tree through the black void of the stone she called Key. Soon she could see it and poured herself through the stone at the tree. It began to glow and take shape. The shape that emerged was a person in a long robe, human in form but not identifiable as male or female. Rebecca’s stomach knotted up as she took in the shape of the specter—a dark reaper—the jailer—the gatekeeper of a circle without end. It had imprisoned her before—no, not her; her daughter. It threatened to claim Wesley and Pol, sucking them into its darkness.

“No! I forbid them to die. Go you down to their grave instead!” she commanded. With all the force she could manage, she swung her staff out toward the tree. “Burn, damn it!”

Rebecca held steady, all her focus on the robed figure standing in place of the tree. The figure raised a hand toward her staff and the other toward the sky. Twin bolts of lightning hit his hands, one from the sky and one from the tip of Rebecca’s staff. The instant clap of thunder knocked her companions to the ground, even as far away as Doc and Margaret were, but Rebecca held steady, eyes locked on the figure. It wavered and faded. All that was left was the old tree, split in half and blazing in flames.

A voice surrounded them.

“It is finished. Your hubris has sealed the gateway. That which is within is within. That which is without is without.”

Rebecca dropped her staff to the ground and lowered the star stone. All she could see was the burning tree, but the voice continued as if it grew inside her ear, speaking not to her, but to the child growing in her womb.

“You wished for freedom, child, but the price of a rite of passage is to leave a part of yourself behind. It has been done. This gate is forever sealed. But prophecy must yet be fulfilled. You will open the gate when you understand your gift and first exercise it, not in need or obligation, but in love. When the goddess has learned this truth, the captive may be freed.”

Rebecca reeled at the words. She sank to her knees as the vision of Wesley dancing on the rostrum filled her eyes. As the lightning split the tree and sealed the gates, Wesley fell—captive in the City of the Gods.

“Damn you!” Rebecca cried. “Damn your divine trickery! I forswear my powers and lay them to rest. You’ll not use me again. Damn you!”

The shared vision of what Wayne had seen with Rebecca on the night he first entered the Great Circle faded.

“She… sealed her husband behind the veil?” Meaghan gasped.

“Fuck!” Judith spat.

“And now only the goddess can open it,” Elizabeth said softly.

“That’s what this is all about,” Wayne told his beloved companions. “Only when her gift is offered, not in need or obligation, but in love, will she be freed. The circle has always thought we were here to forge a new cauldron, using her as its focus. But ultimately nothing we do can open her power.”

“Then why are we here?” Lissa asked.

“To guide. To protect. To nurture. To defend,” Wayne said. “I don’t think it will be long now. The Swordmaster has sensed a weakening in the fabric. I just don’t know where she is going to find that moment of love.”

“She loves you,” Judith persisted, though with less vehemence as the weight of the prophesy bore down on her.

“Like a father. Or perhaps, since there is only eight years’ difference in our ages, like a trusted big brother. We’ve taught her the craft and lore. I’ve made her tools. Even when she lived at home, we were there as a point of stability for her,” Wayne said. “We counterbalanced her mother—and let’s face it, it took all of us to balance the Hart at times. We took her to the Great Circle once each year, but we protected her from those who would drive her too fast. And now we are here to be her support when she discovers her power.”

“Why? Why didn’t we know all this to start?” Lissa demanded. “It would have been so much easier.”

“It would have been easier if you and the Swordmaster and the Hart, and the Bound all let me keep a clear head and give me instructions I could follow five years ago,” Wayne said hotly. “I could have just given you the damned knife and avoided all the crap going on in my head.”

“But then we wouldn’t have seen Hyperion charge into our circle in flames to slay the demon,” Meaghan tittered. She still held that image as the sexiest thing she’d ever seen. They all laughed.

“Why, Chameleon? Eris, you of all people should know why. You did it that way and why I’ve done it that way,” Wayne said. He stared Lissa down until she dropped her eyes and started to laugh.

“Chaos and deception,” Lissa said. “To deceive her enemies both within and without the circle. I think I might hate you for pulling my own tricks on me.” She glanced around the circle and laughed at each of their smiling faces. “I’d still want to fuck you, though.”

4
The Great Paris

12 September 1974, Minneapolis

“I HAVE THREE SILVER CUPS. They’re made of sterling silver, which to you, of course, may be unimportant. To me, it’s important. I paid for them. But you can see that they are cups, and that they are empty. Nothing in this cup. Nothing in this cup. And nothing in this cup.”

Blinding pain flashed behind the magician’s eyes. Momentary loss of memory. He forgot where he stood or what his hands were doing. On stage, however—in the eyes of his audience—he kept up his constant patter as his hands automatically executed the moves that entertained. As the flash of pain subsided, he was surprised to find his hands deftly maneuvering the objects on the table, and the audience laughing at the joke he had just made.

“What’s important to you is not that the egg is silver, but that it fits under any one of the cups. I see you are skeptical. So, let’s get a volunteer up here to verify my claim. Who’d like a chance at stardom?”

A dozen hands shot up around the smoky little club. The Great Paris scanned the room for a likely candidate. That one was too drunk and might cause problems. Magic in bars and nightclubs was risky enough. He walked a fine line between providing entertainment and making the audience an adversary. He guessed it was just bad breaks that brought him to this level of entertainment instead of playing showrooms in Las Vegas. He certainly didn’t believe in fate. But it was a living and he did what he wanted to do. He shook the headache from behind his eyes and called on the man in the three-piece striped suit. There was one thing Paris disliked more than three-piece suits, and that was stripes. The gold watch fob connecting the vest pockets would provide a nice touch as he’d seen the man looking at his watch frequently during the evening. Paris wondered if he was that anxious to see the show end or if he just wanted to show off his watch to his companions.

“All I’m going to ask you to do is keep your eye on the egg. Everyone can see it as I place the silver egg on the table and place the silver cup over the egg. Right? You, sir, are up here close and personal so you can keep an eye on exactly which cup the egg is under.” Paris paused with his hands over the top of the three cups. “By the way, do you have the time?” he asked. The man automatically reached for his pocket watch.

“Yes,” he said, as he opened the case. “It’s ten thirty-five.”

“I like to keep track of how long this trick takes from time to time. It varies.” The man dropped his watch back in the vest pocket and returned his attention to the cups.

“Now, which of the cups is the egg under?” Paris asked.

“This one.”

“Perhaps we went too fast. I distinctly remember telling you that I was placing this cup over the egg. You see? There is nothing over here.”

There were a few titters from the audience. It was an old trick practiced on street corners around the world, but it was working well. Fortunately, it was also a trick that his hands could work without his mind. The headache had hit shortly after he got off the train yesterday and hadn’t let up. The train, at least, was a place where he could rest from it. It had been his chosen mode of transportation ever since he hit the road. The clacking of the wheels over the uneven rails that spanned the country lulled him into sleep and drove the headaches away. The thought flitting across his mind in the nightclub gave Paris a little relief from his headache and his eyes cleared.

“Now, which of the cups is the egg under?”

“This one,” his volunteer said confidently.

“Maybe three cups are too much for you to keep track of. You see, the egg is over here.” The party at the man’s table was laughing out of control. Paul seldom had bad thoughts about his volunteers, but somehow hoped the party included the man’s boss. “Tell you what. Let’s set this cup aside and only use two cups. Now which cup is the egg under?”

“This one,” he said a little more hesitantly.

“It’s good to see you’re paying attention because as you can see, the egg is indeed under this cup.” There were more titters from the audience as Paris lifted the cup to show nothing under it. “I seem to have lost track of it myself. Would you mind looking under the other cup?”

“It’s not here,” his assistant said as he lifted the cup and looked inside it as well.

This time, light applause erupted from the audience. Paris was confident of the disappearing egg trick now. If he could only make the headache disappear with the egg. “Did you take my egg?” Paul demanded.

“No!”

“It’s in the other cup!” The shout came from a thick-lipped man sitting nearby. Just the type expected to mouth off and try to ruin a good trick. One too many drinks had crossed those lips, making an otherwise dull and harmless brain think it had a sudden gift of wit and entertainment.

“Would you check the other cup, my friend?” Paris appealed to his volunteer, making the man a coconspirator. His volunteer picked up the cup that had been set aside. He double-checked inside the cup.

“It’s not here.”

“I’m baffled. You didn’t take it?”

“No.”

“You don’t have it. I don’t have it. I’m a little confused. This has never happened before.” The audience laughed at the nonsensical dilemma, certain Paris would make the egg materialize out of thin air or pull it from the man’s ear. “Well, thank you for your assistance. Nothing ends a trick faster than a lost prop.” The man had one foot on the step down from the stage when Paris put a hand on his shoulder. “By the way, just for the record, what time is it?”

The volunteer pulled the chain from his pocket. At the end dangled the silver egg. The audience roared. The man fumbled for words as he watched the egg swinging from the chain in his hand as if this illusion would go away and his watch would appear. He glanced around to see if Paris had the watch.

“Where’s my watch?”

“You take my egg and want me to keep track of your watch?” Paris leaned over conspiratorially as he took the egg from the man’s watch chain. He stage-whispered, “I spotted it a bit ago. I thought sure you’d find it and the jig would be up.” Paris led the man back to the table and pointed at the third cup. “That’s what our friend over there thought was a silver egg under this cup.”

Paris reached for the third cup and dropped the pocket watch out of the impossibly small cup into its owner’s hand. The audience loved it and suspected the volunteer was an accomplice. All but his own table where his companions were still laughing at him as he sat down. Paris wished he could sit, as well. His hands had begun to shake and he almost dropped the watch on its last pass. He would have to alter his routine and conclude the show a few minutes before eleven. He could never do the scarf tricks or handle animals with his hands shaking like this. The pain in his head was incredible.

“You see, nothing ever really disappears. It just moves from place to place,” he said turning over the three cups one at a time to show the egg move from one to the other. A young woman sitting alone in a far corner of the room near the light booth looked up suddenly at him and he caught her eye. It held there for a split second before he forced himself to continue.

He had noticed her early in the show. The lighting tech had arranged a chair next to his stand and Paris wondered if she was his girlfriend. She looked so out of place in this crowd. In this split second that they shared a glance, Paris was startled by a fantasy that momentarily took the place of his headache and he set his course of action quickly.

“I need another assistant from the audience for this next little trick. You notice I said trick, for magic is all in your head. I wonder if the young woman sitting over there would join me for this. Miss?”

The young woman looked startled and glanced toward the light booth, but stood and started toward the stage. Paris picked up a deck of cards and began to shuffle, flipping half a dozen accidentally on the floor. He quickly gathered up the cards and offered his hand to the young woman as she stepped up to the stage.

“If you are going to do a trick with cards, it helps to play with a full deck,” he said. He handed the cards to a man sitting at the table directly in front of the stage. “Sir, would you mind counting these to make sure there is a full deck there. You can verify that this is an ordinary deck of playing cards and shuffle them up a bit if you would.” He led the young woman to the center of the stage. He wasn’t sure what he expected when he took her hand, but he was amazed to have it held in his. It wasn’t cold and clammy, as many were that he took to lead to the stage, nor was it hot and sweaty. It was warm and grasped his hand with gentle confidence. His forced stage smile thawed into something more genuine.

She stood quietly where he directed her, and he retrieved the deck from the man who had been vigorously shuffling. The cards fit his hand better now as it had stopped its momentary shaking. He zipped through the cards quickly twice to bring them into the order he wanted. He felt better about this trick already.

“And what, may I ask, is your name?”

“Serepte.”

“That’s beautiful. I’ve never met a Serepte. They may suspect you of complicity. They always do.” She smiled at him. It was a beautiful name and a beautiful smile. It sounded like it should have a beautiful romantic story behind it. It was a name he would like to hear again. And would like to speak frequently.

“I’m going to ask you to cut the deck and show all the audience the card that you cut to, then put it all back onto the pack.” The instructions were obediently carried out. He watched her hand move across the cards. It was as beautiful as her name. She wore no jewelry. The fingers were graceful and looked, to his eye, like the hands of someone skilled in their use. What did she use them for? An artist? Another magician? That would be a jolt.

“This is an amazing feat of telepathy. The trick is to make you, the audience, believe it is only a trick and not deep magic of the ancient past. The only reason I include this trick is so I can sit down.” How true. It will be pleasant, as well, to learn the woman’s hands better. “Serepte, I’d like you to stand right behind me. I’ll shuffle the cards again to make sure that the card you’ve selected is good and buried. Now, I want you to concentrate on the card that you selected and I’m going to pick it out of the rest of the pack. If you would place your hands on my forehead and concentrate on the card, please.”

She placed her hands on his forehead from behind and he began to relax. At last he could sit down. Flashes of the years he’d been victim to this infernal headache crossed his mind. As far back as he could remember, but recently, more frequent than ever. Twice in the past month he dropped significant tricks in his show because his hands were shaking. He kept telling himself he’d see a doctor after he got home from this tour, but this tour never seemed to end. Home was in his trunk. The very thought of doctors, hospitals, and the sterile white environment repulsed him. The thought of replacing the smell of cigarette smoke with the smell of iodine was little comfort. They would tell him what he already knew. Traumatic amnesia. He would have pain until he remembered.

“I see that you want me to display five cards on the table,” he said as she held her hands soothingly on his forehead. He turned up the first five cards on the deck and displayed each to the audience before laying it face down on the table. “And yes, I am getting your message clearly now. The next card I turn over will be the card you selected.” He ran his hands over the deck and people in the audience tittered. They knew he had already displayed her card and discarded it. What they did not expect was that he reached to the cards on the table and turned over the third one he had discarded, the seven of spades. The audience applauded their appreciation more for his having misled them in believing he had already passed the card than for his selecting the correct card.

“That worked so well, I’d like to try going deeper into the subconscious with you, taking our audience into the trance so that they can communicate telepathically with us. You shall become our medium, Serepte. Let us see if you can transfer the thoughts of the audience to me without having seen the card yourself.” He shuffled the cards and held the deck in the palm of his hand. “I would like you to cut the cards and display the cut card to the audience without looking at it and without showing me.”

Serepte lifted a third of the cards from the deck and displayed the bottom card to the audience before placing them back on the pack in Paris’s hand. Another blinding flash of pain caused Paris to squeeze his eyes shut. He took a deep breath. It would all be over soon and he could get an ice pack.

“Now if you would return to your position with your fingers on my sweaty brow, I would like the audience to focus on the card you selected and see if I can find it in this standard pack of fifty-two playing cards.” He shuffled the deck and she stepped behind him. She seemed hesitant to put her hands on his forehead, but Paris scarcely noticed. He was having difficulty with the cards again. His vision blurred and his stomach rose as he felt the sharp premonition of a trick about to fail.

Then he felt her hands. The cards didn’t fall to the floor. The pain subsided. It was such a complete draining of the tension in his head that he felt faint for a moment. His eyes cleared and he returned to his patter. He’d complete the trick and do some quick spot changes then leave the stage.

“You over there,” he pointed vaguely. “Quit trying to send me a false message. That’s not fair.” He waved his hand over the deck, fanned the cards and drew one. “And the card was this one!” he said, displaying the four of hearts.

Applause greeted the card and Paris smiled. Serepte lifted her hands from his head and with them went the last sensation of the fleeing headache that Paris had been fighting all night. He was flooded with the sensation of wellbeing that replaced it. He bowed and led her to the edge of the stage before he turned to look at her.

Her expression had darkened. Her brow was furrowed. She smiled a bit sadly and bowed to him. Then she left the stage. Paris watched her hurry out the door as he proceeded to change the spots on the four of hearts. A second person, no more than a shadow, slipped out behind her. He couldn’t see who it was because of a spotlight that hit him from a low angle in the direction of the door. Too many confusing things happened at once.

“As I pass my hand in front of the card, one by one the spots disappear. One more time. And we have left a four of nothings. But remember, nothing ever disappears; it just moves from place to place. Over here on the seven of spades we used earlier, you see there are printed four beautiful red hearts.” Warm applause and a few ‘ohs’ were a sweet sound.

“Tonight’s performance is a bonus for those who happened to stop in on a Thursday night. Tell your friends and come back tomorrow for three sets starting at eight o’clock. Remember, what you have seen this evening is only illusion. The magic is all in your head. Sweet dreams, and good night.”

The magic is all in my head. Paris left the stage in near euphoria. He felt good enough to go on another hour. The management had told him to take as much time as he needed for this warmup performance. Too bad he’d been so committed to the conclusion of the show by the time his headache disappeared. He stepped outside the stage door and took a deep breath of the night air. Glancing up and down the alley, he almost expected to see the young woman, Serepte, waiting for him. That fantasy didn’t quite play out the way he hoped, but just thinking of her brought a smile to his face.

A jazz pianist took the stage for an impromptu late-night happy hour set. She crooned her invitation to high heel heaven and Paris sighed into the night air. Then he returned to his dressing room to remove his makeup and leave the club.

Soft tones floated over the water at Lake of the Isles. The lakes attracted walkers and romantics at all hours, day and night. The eerie tones of the bansuri flute were not so loud as to create a disturbance, but they carried across the water. A couple walking on the opposite shore of the lagoon looking for a sheltered place to stop and make out—maybe more—paused and listened to the music. If felt like it emerged from the lake itself, charming them to stillness. Geese, settled in their nests for the night, lifted their heads when the music picked up its tempo, but content that there was no alarm, soon settled down with heads beneath their wings. In one of the stately houses along the east shore, a window was opened and a child peered into the night, attempting to capture the music that had invaded her sleep.

The flutist poured herself into the music as if charming spirits of the lake that may have grown restless. But the surface her music touched was only a reflection in the still water. She opened a gateway between her world and a reality where pain could take shape and claim its beauty and freedom. She had visited here frequently, but there was a wistfulness in the tone tonight that caused the denizens of even that other reality to pause and take note.

A creature of darkness peered through the veil of his prison and solidified. It had been so easy. He touched the arms of his body, feeling the strong physical presence he had maintained in that other world for so long. The man who had previously owned the body was little more than a memory, subsumed in the demon he had called to possess it.

He was drawn to power. They shared that trait. They bathed in power while they walked on this earth long in the past, collecting it as artifacts they exchanged for wealth and wealth for power. Yet there was one they had failed to grasp. Instead, they had been imprisoned behind an impenetrable curtain in gray nothingness. They had starved, though neither body nor spirit required sustenance. So, they survived. Survived until the human part of him had lost its essence and only the demon fed on the blank nothingness of eternal madness.

Then he had heard the music for the first time and followed. He followed through the grayness for a long time before the music ceased. And then it happened again and he followed. He had no sense of time in this place. Only the thoughts in his head and his lust for power. When he had the power he craved, he would rule the world.

He discovered the prison, the impenetrable veil, held him away from only this world. Yet other worlds could be opened to him and he flowed from one to another across eons and lokas, but there was no power there for him to feed on. Still the music had called him.

And then, the music had parted the veil between a world of pain and the world of earth where he now stood. The veil of his prison did not block his entry into this world from that other reality. And when he emerged, he could feel the power emanating from that music. He hungered for it and it drew him.

The host had been convenient—a thug seeking to prey on anyone weaker than he. He was strong and armed as he had always been, with a steel blade. It whispered from its sheath as he approached the source of power. He could see her now as his eyes became accustomed to long-forgotten sights. He would take her now and feast on her power.

“She does not wish to be disturbed,” a shadow spoke and then stepped in front of him. The figure was dark and small. No match for the brute.

“Go away little girl. This is not your concern.”

“If you take one more step, I will be your only concern.”

“You should go play ninja warrior someplace else. This is a man’s game.” He heard the hiss of a blade being drawn and it met his as he swung it to ward her away. His body recalled all the tricks. He slid his blade down hers, casually directing it away from him until he felt the bite of a second blade beneath his ribs and jumped back. This was not such an innocent as he supposed. He quickly assessed her size and posture. Her sword, much longer than his knife, equalized their reach and if he got to close, her second blade was a danger. And now that their blades had touched, he could sense the power coming from her. He could sate his appetite here and save the musician for later. He attacked.

Swordfights in movies sound like ringing bells that would attract a crowd. But that is movies. The reality of their battle was nearly silent as the blade of one softly kissed the blade of the other and turned it away. She parried his attacks and pursued her own forcing him back. Each move he made, she countered. They might have trained with the same master. In fact, her moves so smoothly met his own that he might have been fighting himself.

The flute fell silent, arresting their combat, its silence almost as powerful as the music that had floated across the water. He glanced toward the empty space where she had played and found his nemesis’ blade at his throat. He dropped his knife in surrender and stepped away, still looking toward where the music had come from. A bamboo flute lay in the grass, but there was no sign of the girl.

He backed away from the sword point and his opponent did not pursue.

“I will have her,” he threatened. “One way or another. I can raise her power. She will be mine.” He turned to walk away.

“Not tonight, Father,” she whispered after him.

“Hennepin is blocked with midnight construction at Twenty-fourth. I can swing back down to Lake Street over to Lyndale and north or I can cut over to Lake of the Isles and drive along the lake up to Franklin and cut east,” the cab driver said.

“Is Lake of the Isles a nice drive?” Paris asked.

“Pleasant. A little slower, though.”

Paris thought perhaps the driver wasn’t telling him how much slower, but he was feeling so good that he didn’t care. A little nighttime sightseeing would be fine. The driver cut west to the lake and started north up the parkway.

“Beautiful houses,” Paris said.

“Used to be the high-class part of town. Now compare these to the houses around the south end of Lake Calhoun and Harriet Lake. Those started off as summer homes and cottages. Here at Lake of the Isles, you had the wealthy. On up at the north end, the folks on Mount Curve have the priciest homes in Minneapolis. They overlook the Guthrie Theater and the Walker Art Museum. Too bad about the freeway going through there,” the driver said. Paul tried to figure out what kind of accent he had.

“Have you been in Minneapolis long?”

“Two years. In my line of work, you must get to know a city quickly. That’s why I keep my Thomas Guide on the seat next to me.”

“Have you driven in many cities?”

“All over the world.”

“Hey, stop! I mean pull over please.” Paris quickly scrambled to get his window down as they pulled up next to the young woman walking quickly along the street. “Serepte? It’s me. Paris. The magician. Are you okay? Can we give you a lift somewhere?” Paris reprimanded himself for asking so many questions without letting her answer one. He opened the door so he could get out and talk to her. She looked over her shoulder again and pushed him back into the cab then climbed in after him.

“Yes, thank you,” she said breathlessly.

The driver pulled away from the curb and simply said, “Where to?”

“I was just going to get a late-night dinner. Would you like to join me? You look like you could use a respite.” She looked at him just before she opened her mouth to give directions to her house.

“Uh… Where were you going?”

“My technician at the show suggested I try this new barbecue place on Franklin. What was the name of that again, Mark?” he asked the driver.

“Rudolphs,” both the driver and Serepte answered. She took a deep breath.

“I shouldn’t stay out too late because I have classes in the morning, but if that’s where you’re going, I’d love to join you. It’s a good place. It’s safe.”

“Just keep heading to the restaurant, Mark. Thanks!” Paris said. He shifted in his seat so he could look at Serepte, who was still catching her breath. “You look really shaken. Want to tell me?”

“I was… I think I was being followed. I just got spooked, I guess. Thank you for coming to my rescue.”

“A damsel in distress? I’ll be your knight in shining armor,” he laughed. “I’m glad we came along when we did. Why are you out in the dark alone at this time of night?”

“Oh… uh… I wasn’t completely alone. My friend was… She’ll make sure I’m not followed any farther.”

“Serepte, do we need to go back and help your friend? I’m not really a big brawny guy, but if there is somebody stalking women, he won’t hesitate to switch to your friend. Sometimes just showing up is all that’s necessary to scare these guys away,” Paris said seriously.

“My friend… She can handle whatever gets thrown her direction. She’ll throw it right back. Believe me. She’ll be fine. It was just a little spooky.”

“If you’re sure,” he said as the driver turned the corner and pulled up next to a restaurant that looked like it had a movie marquee overhead. “This must be the place. It looks great!”

“Want me to pick you up? This place closes at three,” Mark, the driver, said as Paris paid him. Paris looked at Serepte and mouthed the question. She nodded.

“That would be great, Mark. We’ll be ready.”

“Here’s my card. You can call the dispatcher if you need me sooner.”

Serepte stepped out of the car and got in the short line to be seated.

“Wow. Is it always so busy?”

“This is nothing. It’s moving as fast as they can seat people. When the bars close at one, the line will stretch down the block,” Serepte laughed. “You go ahead and get a table. I need to sneak in and use the little girls’ room. Okay?”

She slipped inside and in a few minutes, Paris was led to a table under a large potted fern with posters of Rudolph Valentino hanging on the wall. Serepte quickly joined him on the opposite side of the booth. A waitress followed her to the table. Her nametag had little flashing lights around it and declared her to be Lissa.

“What’ll you kids have tonight?” she asked in a bored tone.

“Lissa!” Serepte interrupted before Paris could say anything. “You are in the presence of The Great Paris, magician extraordinaire.”

“Oh, Dahling! I am so thr-illed to meet you. I had no idea to whom I was speaking to. Really? The Great Paris? The One and Only?” Lissa’s whole demeanor changed from bored gum-chomping waitress to 1930’s silent film star. She even threw her head back with her hand to her forehead and moved her lips as if she were on the big screen. Then, holding her hand over her heart, she made it flutter a few times as she batted her eyes at him. Paul was shocked at first and then enthralled with her performance. As it ended people at the nearby tables joined his applause for her performance. “Thank you. Thank you, dahlings. I’ll be here all weekend. Don’t forget to tip.”

“Wow! What a great performance!” Paris said. “May I have your autograph?”

“I’ll put it on your check. So, had a show tonight? You must be starving. If you are anything like me, I can’t eat before a performance. Let me recommend the ribs.”

“That sounds great. Ribs and fries and… uh…” Paris scanned the sides.

“Coleslaw!” Lissa and Serepte said together. They laughed.

“Really,” Lissa continued. “Unless you’re allergic to cabbage, you really need to try our coleslaw.” Paris nodded. “And you, honey?” she asked turning to Serepte.

“Mac-n-cheese, please?” she answered with a grin. Lissa just grinned and shook her head.

“You come to a barbecue place and order macaroni and cheese?” Paris laughed.

“I can’t help it. Their mac-n-cheese tastes like Mom’s and she makes really good cheesiest macs.” Lissa left with their drink orders for sodas and Serepte turned her sparkling eyes on Paris. “Now, tell me all about the Great Paris,” she said.

That was a preview of The Props Master 2: A Touch of Magic. To read the rest purchase the book.

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