CHAPTER SEVEN
Alex’s face went blank as he processed what had to be one more gag in this evening of the absurd. “Aren’t witches usually women?”
“I assure you, some of us are men. I offer myself as evidence.”
“I see. And where’s your coven?”
“I’ve none right now.”
“I see. But have you communed with the devil?”
“Notwithstanding the inquisitorial undertones of that question,” Jago said, his voice at last wavering with annoyance. “I cannot commune with a being that to the best of my knowledge, does not exist.”
“Uhuh. Right. And the tarot?”
“One doesn’t need to be a witch to read the tarot.”
“I’ll bet it doesn’t hurt.”
“My insights may certainly be sharper, but the methods remain just as I described them to you. Anyone can read tarot in a way that’s right for them. Some draw insights from the supernatural. Others from plain old human wisdom.”
“And can anyone levitate themselves and their partner mid-coitus as well? Or is that your special trick to whip out at parties?”
“You might have phrased that differently.”
Alex took a patient breath, doing his best to understand. “Jago, if I don’t start getting some answers that make sense, I swear…”
“You’ll what? Run to your friends? The police?
I imagine your levitation story would make for a compelling anecdote.
Tell them there’s a male witch flying up and down the Gran Via looking for the perfect pair of red shoes.
I would have had the apartment building propped up on chicken legs, but it’s so expensive to do that in Madrid these days. ”
Alex flinched as Jago took hold of his wrist, but didn’t pull away.
“Alex? It is a huge deal for me to reveal this to you. It’s only disbelief that keeps people like me safe, even in the twentieth century, at least in Spain. There’s a reason I’ve been living abroad all this time.”
“Abroad?” Alex shook his head, every doubt that had occurred to him in the short time he’d known Jago now crowding his brain, demanding to be heard.
“That’s another thing that doesn’t make sense.
You look… what? Twenty-four? Twenty-five?
My age. But you talk about years spent in Mexico and Colombia.
You use words like ‘abroad.’ How old are you, really?
You said thirty-eight, but I don’t believe you! ”
“If I said that magick helps me appear younger than my years, would it release me from having to contrive a number for you? I am old enough to have become the man I am now. That man, Alex, would like very much to help you, if you’ll let me.”
“Help me how?”
“I’m still an admirer of the arts. I have an eye. I have money. I have the trust of your Joanna too, I think.”
“The trust of my Joanna?” Alex blinked several times, but Jago’s expression remained earnest. “You will not tell Joanna or Vicente what you just told me.”
“What else must I do to win your confidence? To convince you of how rare it is for someone to earn mine? I understand if my nature frightens you. I’ll understand if you choose to leave.
I’ve cast no love spells on you, nor made you drink any potions.
You’re not a prisoner, Alex. I want us to be clear on this.
As for the levitation…” Jago shrugged, guilt at last seeping into his face.
“I wanted you to experience something extraordinary, and it blew up in my face. I’m sorry. ”
In a more playful mood, Alex might have pointed out that nothing had blown up for either of them, but the moment had passed. “And what about the pigeon? The taxidermy story? You did bring a dead pigeon inside.”
“I did,” Jago admitted, standing and walking over to a large oak closet.
He propped open both doors, revealing four shelves stocked with bottles, pots and jars of every shape and size.
He carefully placed the ointment he’d used to massage Alex on the lowest shelf, and stepped aside, letting Alex get a good look at the pantry of horrors that included a jar full of bird’s claws and what looked to be a pickled frog surrounded by seaweed.
Alex checked out once he spied the jar full of tiny eyeballs.
“I’m not above shopping for supplies, but many of the necessary ingredients must be sourced first-hand.
I’m happy to describe them for you, though I see by the look on your face that we are not going to share this interest. At least, not yet. ”
“I…” Alex began, still trying not to gag. “Disinterested is not the word I’d use.”
“Horrified, then? I can accept that.”
“Oh, come on, man. You’ve got to admit this is a lot to drop on someone.”
“For both of us.” Jago closed the cupboard and locked it. “I said that to you the moment I knew we would be having this conversation. I learned very early what my gifts made me, especially in Andalusia.”
“A brujo?”
“In plainest, most reductive terms. In Mexico, that word has other, more positive connotations. You must go. A beautiful culture, Mexico. Catholic faithful? Yes, but they celebrate death for what it brings to life. The brujo and the bruja are revered for the wisdom they bring to a community. Not that I was open about things, you understand, but I’d at least no fear of growing my talents.
Before that? In Colombia, magick is accepted as a silent yet active part of everyday life.
It offered me the perfect place to observe how it worked until I was ready to embrace it myself.
Such ways we’ve lost here. A great nation with one of the richest histories on Earth, lasting hundreds and hundreds of years.
Visigoths, Moors… and what are we known for?
The genocide of the New World, a murderous Inquisition, and a miserable dictator who murdered poets to make his point. ”
“So why don’t you go back?”
A sly smile made Alex wonder if Jago was about to make some flippant remark, but none came. “The most valuable thing I’ve learned in Colombia, Mexico, Spain, or the realms we traverse beyond—”
“The what, now?”
“Let’s come back to that. The most important thing is to follow the power. When you feel something—a force, a person, a place—drawing you, to resist is to invite disaster. Or, at least, to invite stagnation, which is its own disaster for a curious mind.”
“If you plan on making me your student, I’m not interested.”
Jago’s boisterous laugh filled the tiny room as he put his clothes back on. “If it were only so simple, I might have taken a companion long ago. No, Alex, you’re not my acolyte. I desire nothing more than to see those who catch lightning in a bottle fulfil their potential. It empowers me.”
“Empowers?” Alex asked, reaching for his own pile of clothes. “You mean it fuels your magic?”
“Again, reductive, but astute. I nourish them as they nourish me. You’re familiar with the rule of three, of course?”
Alex’s elementary witchcraft was rustier than his French.
“Whatever you put out into the universe, returns to you threefold. A wise caution against casting spells of destruction, anger, manipulation, or vengeance. I grow my powers through creation, Alex, just like yours. It is merely a different kind.”
Fully dressed, Jago swung open the door that had admitted them to his sacred space. His chamber of potions, spells, meditation, conjuring, incantation and… who knew what else. “I’d invite you upstairs, but there is somewhere else I need to take you.”
“Somewhere else? Jago, I’m very tired. It’s almost…” He trailed off, realising he’d no idea what time it was.
“Early enough. Please?”
Alex flipped through all the possibilities in his mind. Jago silently let him, until he reached the door, unable to ignore one final question. “Lorca?”
“What of him?”
“You speak as if you knew the man. Dali and Bunuel, too, for that matter.”
“I know the poet better than anyone. But I think you’ve a story far more your own to tell than Blood Wedding, yes?”
As Alex put on his shoes, he found himself unable to dispute either statement.
* * *
Perhaps it was the effects of the massage, the levitation, learning Jago’s true vocation, his tiredness, or the sudden abundance of streetlights that had disoriented him, but Alex had no idea where he was.
Not one street into which they turned seemed familiar, and by the time—ten minutes, twenty, or an hour, Alex couldn’t say—they reached their destination, a dark entryway lit only by a small, glowing red sign that read La Otra Cava, he was no longer certain how to get home.
“Jago?”
Instead of answering, Jago knocked four times on a door made of the shiniest black wood Alex had ever seen.
When no response came, he knocked again, four sharp raps, then one with such force, Alex half expected him to break a hole in the door.
A panel slid noisily aside. From behind it, came steady, heavy breath, thick with wheezing, as if every breath was pure labour.
“Karpvus vak, tel Vach?” the voice rasped without further explanation.
“Vien. Toch. Vach matg. Krrrrr.”
The breathing continued, a solitary sound in the otherwise still night.
It unnerved Alex, to whom Madrid and silence seemed the most unnatural bedfellows.
A loud clang startled him before the door slid aside, revealing not a speaker, but a long corridor as dark as the door.
A dim red light marked the corner around which they should turn.
There was no sign of the gravel-voiced speaker anywhere.
“What was that language?” Alex asked, curiosity holding back anxiety as he peered down the hall.
Jago squeezed his hand. “I honestly don’t know.”