Chapter 4 #2
I’m beginning to think isolating myself for so long at the farmhouse had been a mistake.
It gave me time to hone my control over my empathic abilities, but now I’m wondering how much it masked my other magical gifts.
By not being around other people, how many of these abilities have lain dormant? And just what the hell are they?
What am I?
Rising from my chair, I pace the floor. Just who is this Tristan?
I’ve encountered him twice now, and I have the strangest feeling I should know him, that he’s important somehow.
And how did I know what his name was and how to separate him and his spirit friend?
All of a sudden the knowledge was just there in my head, along with a deep conviction that it was correct.
I’ve never felt more alone in my life.
I stop my pacing and stare out of the window again.
It’s bright and sunny outside, with blue skies and the scent of spring in the air—well, also the scent of exhaust fumes and pollution.
But inside I feel cold. I’m not sure what I’d expected from moving to London, but it certainly wasn’t this overwhelming confusion and uncertainty.
For the first time in my life, I wish I had someone who was mine.
Someone to hold on to when I feel like all the pieces of me are unravelling at the seams. Someone to talk to, who would understand the nature of the magical world I move through.
As far as I know, there is no one out there like me.
I roll my shoulder, trying to shake off my mood, but it’s no use. My mind just keeps churning, and I can feel the anxiety tightening inside me. I need to recentre myself, calm my mind so I can see everything more clearly.
I lock the shop door and head into the back room, closing that door behind me too. Maybe if I cast the circle and–
I pause thoughtfully in front of my heavy wooden workbench, which is stacked with jars of herbs and other random items. Up above it are shelves filled with all my books. These aren’t stock for the store, they are my personal collection, and in amongst them is an old chest.
I reach for it and set it on the bench in front of me. Opening the lid reveals a large rectangular object wrapped in black velvet which I place on the desk, then I unfold the material carefully. I smile at the contents.
It’s my Book of Shadows, a gift from my dads for my sixteenth birthday, for me to record all my spells and rituals. Every witch has one. Some call it a grimoire, but I always felt Book of Shadows suited me better.
I trace my fingertips lovingly across the soft leather cover. Hand carved by a local artisan back home in Devon, it has a gorgeous illustration of the Tree of Life etched into the front. Unwrapping the thin leather binding, I open it up and leaf slowly through the thick pages.
To counter negativity. To attract new people into your life. To gain control of your five senses. For clarity.
I sigh and close the book. All these spells I’ve performed at some point in my life, which is why there’s a record of them in my book, but nothing seems quite right for what I’m feeling right now.
The truth is, I’m not sure what I want. No, that’s not quite right. I do know what I want and what I want is answers. But I doubt there’s a spell that can do that, not specifically. All the rest of them are too general.
I jolt in surprise as a book falls off the shelf and hits the workbench with a loud clatter.
Glancing up at the rest of the books neatly lined up, I frown, wondering how it fell when it had been securely nestled between The Real Witches Handbook and Rituals of the Moon.
I reach for the book that fell, a black cloth-bound edition with silver foiled letters and a single pentagram.
The Path of the Witch
by Elias Black
1876
My frown deepens. I don’t remember owning this book. Maybe it was one of my dads’ and it got mixed in with mine by mistake when I moved.
Picking up the book, my gaze catches on the page it fell open to, and I realise it’s a spell, quite a complex one with some very rare items required. Fortunately, rare items for spellcraft is what I specialise in.
Pathfinder. The beginning of your journey lies before you, all you have to do is step forward.
Pathfinder? That’s the title of the spell? It seems somewhat ambiguous and yet a small kernel of excitement flickers in my belly, like fireflies. It may not have been exactly what I was looking for, but something about it stirs my interest, and that same feeling of rightness steals over me.
What’s the worst that can happen?
Magic is all about exploration. What harm could come from giving it a try?
I’ve never heard of Elias Black before. I mean, he’s no Aleister Crowley, but as I scan through the whole ritual, I conclude that whoever this Elias is—or was, as the book was published nearly a hundred and fifty years ago—he must be a highly skilled practitioner of magic judging by the complexity of the magic and the eloquence of his words.
Setting the book down next to my own Book of Shadows, I read through the list of items I need, starting with the basics for casting a circle and the elements needed for protection.
I gather up thick pillar candles, mostly of black and white but also red, blue, green, and yellow, to represent the elements and set in the four corners.
I scan down the list of things this Elias person recommends and realise this is magic layered atop magic.
The little flickers of excitement become a full-blown rumba inside me.
I’ve never performed a spell of this level before.
It takes me a while to locate everything I need, but it seems like kismet.
Some of the things are extremely specific: a wand made of willow harvested on the full moon of a solstice eve, water collected from a stream facing the east during Yule.
Fortunately for me, I’m a magpie when it comes to collecting magical elements for spells. I personally can’t see why all this is necessary, but maybe Elias is just testing to see how dedicated the caster is to perform his spell.
I’m going to be really disappointed after all this if nothing happens.
With everything set up and ready to go, I pull off my sweater and fold it neatly on the bench, then remove my tie and set that beside it. Unbuttoning my collar and cuffs, I roll my sleeves up to my elbows, then remove my socks and shoes, placing them neatly on the floor beside the bench.
When I finally step barefoot inside the circle, I swear the hard wooden floor ripples beneath my feet just for a second.
It reminds me of when I was a child and my dads would take me to the beach.
I remember standing at the edge of the water holding Pop’s hand, my trousers folded up to my calves as the cold waves rushed over my feet.
But when the water retreated and the wet sand shifted, it had felt like I was moving backwards.
I was so fascinated by the sensation I would stand there for ages until my toes went numb, and Pop, ever patient, would stand right there with me, a smile tugging at his lips, while Dad set up the blankets and picnic behind us.
The sweet memory fades and I find myself smiling, warmth and love spreading through me.
The anxiety I’d felt all morning has been banked, although it’s not gone completely.
Setting Elias’ book down on the floor in front of me, I shake off any lingering tension in my body.
I close my eyes, reaching deep inside myself for my magic, and feel it flow through every vein and muscle.
Opening my eyes, I raise one hand, and beginning at the northeast point, I move in a clockwise direction.
Electric blue light appears along the floor beneath my outstretched palm as I draw a circle, murmuring under my breath.
“I conjure this circle as a place between worlds, a time out of time, a place of containment and protection. Blessed Be.”
Making sure the edges of the circle overlap, I move on to lighting the candles and calling the elements.
Once I have the basics covered, I turn my attention to the book.
Kneeling at the centre of the circle, I follow Elias’ instructions, and as I do, a strange kind of peace steals over me.
The room seems warmer, and every now and then, I catch a hint of something in the air.
I can’t place it exactly, but it reminds me of autumn leaves and damp soil, which is ridiculous considering it’s the tail end of spring and firmly heading into summer.
Pushing the thought away, I continue. The further I get into the spell, the more the atmosphere around me changes.
The air is crackling with energy, to the point where my scalp is buzzing and it feels like my hair is standing on end, the same kind of sensation I experience during an electrical storm.
Even the heady scent of ozone fills the air, which is not uncommon when I perform magic, but never to this intensity.
When I come to the final incantation, I close my eyes, drawing in a breath as the words tumble from my lips.
For a moment, a wave of dizziness passes over me. I waver slightly but remain kneeling upright, my eyes still closed. I draw in several deep, calming breaths until the sensation fades. I feel…content.
A faint breeze gusts across my cheek, tugging playfully at my hair, and I frown. Where’s that draught coming from? I know I closed all the doors to this room for the illusion of privacy, even though I’m the only one in the building.
The same trace I’d detected earlier comes back. Slamming into me is the earthy fragrance of a damp forest and wet loam. I hear the cry of some type of bird, and my eyes snap open and my jaw falls.