By Flame

by T Thorn Coyle

  Finally, a sense of himself returned. He actually found his center again. From that place, he visited his sorrow. He felt the anger just beneath the tears. His sense of helplessness. His constant, ticking rage.

  Then he started over. He picked up his blade, the tool of his will, and drank from the cup of wisdom. He remembered that he was a witch, dedicated to the Goddess Brigid. She of the forge, of poetry, and of healing. Tobias’s special matron.

  Tonight was Imbolc, Brigid’s day, and he really hoped tonight’s ritual was going to help.

  Maybe in order to be healed, I need to be forged, he thought, as he combed the baskets of supplies on one of the low bookcases. There they were, a stack of creamy beeswax tapers, just where Raquel had said they would be. Maybe in order to be strong enough…I need to set myself between the hammer and the anvil. Let the Goddess do what she will.

  He didn’t want that, had never wanted it, but nonetheless, those words rang true inside. Maybe, just maybe, in order to truly heal, he had to give control over to something greater than himself.

  Not that there wasn’t still fear. The face of the Goddess as the metalworker, the forger, wasn’t an aspect Tobias worked with much. Had he been running from it? Unwilling to go through the necessary process of softening, being hammered into shape, and then submitting himself to the shock of hardening again?

  It seemed easier to remain either soft or hard. The thought of putting himself through the ordeal of becoming who he was only to make himself vulnerable again? What if he shattered? What if the Goddess couldn’t put him back together again?

  Through the open attic door, he heard the other coven members arriving downstairs, greeted by Raquel’s son, Zion. That was a pretty special kid. Tobias wondered if he would join the coven someday. Raquel said he had to wait until he was fifteen to make that decision. Seemed wise.

  Tobias looked around, making sure that there was a bright velvet or patchwork-patterned cushion for each coven member, set out in a more of an oval than a circle, given the length of the room.

  He filled the great dark bowl that would represent Brigid’s well with water from a pitcher, and checked to see that Epsom salts and alcohol were ready for the cauldron fire. And last? Arranging the nine beeswax tapers—one for each coven member—into a fan around the central pillar candle.

  “Okay, that’s it,” he said, right as he heard footsteps on the stairs. Raquel poked her head in. She was a beautiful African American woman with waist-length dreadlocks and a brilliant smile. Her high cheekbones grew even more pronounced as she smiled at him.

  “You ready, Tobias?”

  “Yep. Everything’s in order,” he said.

  “Okay,” she exited again, he heard her saying something and the sound of a dozen footsteps followed.

  Moss, a Japanese American man, gave him a hug and plopped bonelessly on the pillow to his right. He was an activist, and, being close to Tobias’s age, it seemed like they’d hang out more often. But though Tobias liked Moss, he always seemed a little too intense. Selene, on the other hand, he loved. An eighteen-year-old artist, Selene was kind and wise beyond their years. Always elegant in their black clothing, with perfect ruby lips and winged eyeliner, Selene squeezed his arm and sat on his left.

  The others smiled at him and took their places.

  Tobias dropped his attention into the stillness in his belly, a place he imagined resting between his navel and his pelvis. He took three deep breaths and relaxed his forehead, relaxed his hands, relaxed his feet. Allowing his attention to travel outward, he tried to imagine the boundary around himself where his energy bled into Moss on his right and Selene on his left. They felt solid and liquid, each in turn.

  Tobias smiled. Coven was family. Coven was home. If anything would help him, ritual would.

  He felt movement. Tempest stepped forward, shimmering blade in her small, strong hand. The sides and back of her head were shorn close as usual, only a fall of hair from the top was long. This month, it was dyed a magenta red. Tobias closed his eyes again, deepening his breathing. He imagined the blue fire that had snaked its way from the double-sided blade, forming the sphere of protection, the sphere that delineated this place and time from ordinary place and time. The sphere that marked holy ground and sacred space.

  He opened his eyes as he caught the scent of damp pine moving forward. Cassiel. She always smelled like a forest in the rain. He wondered if she knew that. Her brilliant red curls cascaded down her back tonight and she wore loose, black wool trousers, topped by a flowing white shirt.

  Tobias could feel the energy of the sphere humming around his shoulders.

  Cassie turned to the north and began to recite the cantrip that would call the Elements and seal the sphere. “By earth…” She turned, following the energy laid down by Tempest’s blade. “By wind. By flame, by sea. By moon, by sun, by dusk, by dark, by witch’s mark…”

  He felt all the elements called in turn and felt the energy in the room begin to shift and deepen.

  “We consecrate this holy ground, with sight, and sound, and breath twined ’round. With will and love, from below to above…” Cassiel swept her hands in an arc, then brought her palms together in front of her heart. “Let the magic portals open.”

  Tobias felt his spine straighten. It was as if every part of him, body and spirit, had aligned with the cosmos. He felt a sense of rightness for the first time in what seemed like weeks.

  Raquel, Brenda, and Alejandro stepped forward then, to call on Brigid herself.

  The three wove in and out among each other, tracing one another’s footsteps, twining their voices.

  “Exalted One!”

  “Fiery Arrow!”

  “Brigid of the green mantle, Brigid of the forge!”

  “Lady of the healing waters, Keeper of the flame!”

  They raised their arms to the peaked, white-painted ceiling. Tobias lifted his own arms, calling the Goddess in his heart.

  “Come to us!”

  “Be with us!”

  “Shape us! Inspire us! Make us whole!”

  Then the whole coven began to chant. “Sacred well and rising fire, kindle now our soul’s desire! Sacred well and rising fire, kindle now our soul’s desire!”

  They chanted and chanted, words and breath rising with the candle flames, building power in the attic room, until the air was thick with it.

  “She is here,” Raquel announced.

  “Blessed be,” Alejandro and Brenda replied.

  Tobias could feel dampness on his cheeks. It had been a week of tears. Tears were cleansing, the coven had taught him.

  He didn’t like to cry; he’d been trained, quite brutally, not to. But as a healer, he knew that sometimes tears were the only way through. For other people. And maybe now, for him. Shit. He swiped at his face and took a shuddering breath.

  One by one, each coven member stepped forward and dipped their hands into the water of the well and swiped a palm across the blue flame of Epsom salts and alcohol fire that danced in the cauldron. Then each person picked up a beeswax taper. The scent of the fragrant wax increased as the room heated with the fire from the cauldron and the heat of their bodies. Every person said a prayer and made a pledge, then lit their candle from the large central pillar candle that Alejandro ignited from the cauldron itself.

  And then it was Tobias’s turn. His mouth grew dry, any shreds of peace inside his soul having fled. He knew that Brigid could be harsh, like Brenda. Like Raquel. Like healing, he thought.

  He knew it wasn’t always easy, but that didn’t make him feel less afraid. He stepped forward anyway, taking a deep breath, and then sank to his knees on the carpet in front of the cauldron and the well.

  “Holy Brigid,” he said, kneeling in front of the altar, “help me to know what I must do, help me in my work. Help me to find the next turning on my path. Triple-faced Goddess, forge me. Make me strong. Then show me the way.”

  He breathed deeply, and blessed himself with the waters of the well, an
d passed his palm over the flames of the cauldron, feeling the heat just touch his skin.

  I don’t know what to pledge, he thought. His prayer had come fairly easily, but the promise? His mind was empty as he gazed into the flames. “Brigid help me.”

  :Forge the fires of justice within the fires of love.: The voice rang through his head like a hammer striking a sword upon an anvil. Sharp and bright, it rang through his whole being. He felt filled with sound, with fire, with water. But how? he thought. And really? Love?

  :Love is the strongest force in the world,: the voice said. :Stronger than anger, fear, or hate. Just speak the words, my child. Speak the words.:

  The voice echoed in his mind. He didn’t know what the words meant yet; he just knew he had to say the words aloud to seal his fate, to seal his pledge, to make good on whatever it was he was promising. He just hoped it wasn’t going to bring disaster. He hoped it wouldn’t kill him.

  “Oh, stop being dramatic,” he muttered. He took another deep breath and said out loud in front of the eight members in his coven, “I will forge justice within the fires of love.”

  Then he lit his beeswax taper from the central flame and moved back to take his place within the circle.

  10

  Aiden

  Aiden walked like a man with a purpose. Wool cap tucked over his ears, long underwear on beneath his heavy work pants. Boots. And the ever-present waterproof winter jacket over it all. His chin was covered with the ubiquitous long navy scarf wound one hundred times around his neck. He carried two medium-sized pieces of cardboard tucked beneath his left arm.

  He walked past houseless folks gathered in clumps on the sidewalk. He strode past shops and coffee kiosks, restaurants and the taller buildings that held who knew what sorts of corporate offices. There were people everywhere, all hurrying to get somewhere warmer than these downtown city streets.

  Working the soup kitchen that day had been really hard. Everyone was upset about Mary Jo, including all the guests, of course. People were grieving. A lot of tears went into the giant soup pots. A couple of fights broke out in the yard, but luckily those were pretty quickly diffused.

  The fact that any one of them could die at any moment was a bleak reminder of just how hard the day-to-day was when you didn’t have a house to call a home. The world was against these people, including nature itself, it seemed.

  Times like these, Aiden wished he could fix the whole world.

  “What would you fix it to?” Reggie would ask.

  Aiden didn’t have an answer to that question. So he just kept showing up.

  Some of the kitchen workers were planning Mary Jo’s memorial and had invited Aiden to stay after shift. He couldn’t do it.

  Everything was still roiling inside of him—her death, his intermittent fury, that weird fire that still burned in his chest…and his confusion over Tobias. He was really attracted to the man, but there was something strange about him. He had all that stuff on the dresser in his room. It looked like an altar, but it had some pretty strange looking things on it. Like a knife. What was that about?

  But there wasn’t time to dwell on it right now.

  The only thing that Aiden felt clear about was what he was about to do. That was the thing that should have been taking up his attention.

  It was still cold, icy even, and clouds were gathering overhead again. He couldn’t tell if it was for snow or for rain. All he knew was the fire in his heart was guiding him. Maybe it was St. Brigid. Maybe it was his own certainty. Maybe it was even foolishness. It didn’t matter. What mattered was, he was carrying a piece of cardboard downtown and he was going to kneel in front of the police station, and he was going to remain there as everyone got off work and walked past by him. And he was going to pray.

  It was the one thing he knew: out of all of his confusion, he could pray.

  He approached the station, a fortress of grayish-tan slabs of concrete, with a two large safety-glass windows flanking wide glass doors crowned with concrete that framed in three other windows forming an arch. The building itself rose up in a tall promontory to the darkening skies, the only relief being a strange concave sweep of mirrored windows in the middle.

  There were no welcoming steps. No broad sidewalks on which people could congregate. The City of Portland Police Bureau was not a place to rest one’s bones or chat with a friend. It was a place you came only when you had business there, willing or not.

  Some officers hurried in and out of the big, glass doors. People passed by, mostly office workers, heading to the buses or street cars that would take them home. Aiden ignored them. He wanted just the right spot. A spot that wouldn’t get him moved along too quickly, but a spot where everyone who walked by or through those doors would see him. It was going to be tough. The sidewalk was broad enough for two or three people to walk abreast, but not so broad that he couldn’t be seen as an obstruction.

  Oh well. So be it.

  He doubled over one of the pieces of cardboard under his arm and set it on the sidewalk closest to the building entrance and knelt down. Good. Plenty of space for a wheelchair user to get by him if they needed to.

  The second piece of cardboard read—“Houseless people shouldn’t have to die. I pray for the city of Portland.” He propped that onto his thighs, turned his gloved palms upward to the clouds, bowed his head, and began to pray.

  As he prayed, a slight wind came up, threatening to take his cardboard sign away. He clutched at the edges with the fingers of both hands. He could sense some people pausing as they walked by, reading his sign.

  “Amen man,” a deep voice said.

  “You should go home,” said another. “Leave the police alone, it’s not their fault.”

  He didn’t care. He didn’t care what anyone said. The fire in his heart had told him to come and pray.

  Despite all of Aiden’s layers, the cold settled in fast. It still wasn’t as bad as houseless people had it. They slept in this every night. They wandered around in this every day, saving enough coins to sit in a coffee shop for a while, if the coffee shop would even let them. Sitting through sermons at the rescue missions that insisted if people wanted to get fed they had to hear the word of God. Riding buses from the beginning to the end of the line. Some of them turned to prostitution or petty thievery as their best choices for survival.

  It was so clear to him now, all the things he hadn’t seen growing up as a pretty solidly middle-class child. A lot of the things that his parents said were bad, some people didn’t have much of a choice around. They didn’t have much of a choice because the world was set up against them.

  There was pain in the world, and there was suffering, and “That suffering is caused by greed,” he said out loud.

  “And that suffering is caused by avoidance,” he continued. “And that suffering is caused by lack of attention and lack of care. Don’t we see?” he asked, opening his eyes. He stared at the traffic going by, at the people walking. “Can’t we see, we need to rebuild this world? Can’t we see that your pain is their pain is our pain? Can’t we see?”

  A few people stopped to listen for a while, then shook their heads and walked on. His heart was aching now, burning. The image of St. Brigid rose up in his head, her stained glass eyes staring down at him.

  “Holy Brigid, I don’t really know who you are, but you seem to know who I am and I don’t really know what I’m doing, but I need you to help me.” A warmth suffused his body and a sense of calm surrounded him, as if someone had wrapped a warm shawl across his shoulders. He shuddered, and then inhaled and sank back into prayer.

  He would be here for as long as it took. For as many days as were needed.

  11

  Tobias

  The coven was in the big Unitarian church downtown. It was a beautiful old brick church with a large Black Lives Matter banner hanging outside.

  Tobias actually loved the sanctuary of this church. But that wasn’t where they were tonight. They were in one of the big meeting rooms in th
e more recently built center off the main church. The room was a regular utilitarian space, white walls, a dry erase board, and stackable, gray padded chairs.

  The room was full, with maybe fifty or sixty people gathered, facing the front of the room where a couple of couple of facilitators sat conferring with each other.

  “You see them staring at us?” Raquel said. She did not look happy. The whole coven was jammed into the back of the room, just inside the door, looking for places to sit. Even the coven members who hadn’t yet unzipped their coats didn’t quite look run of the mill. Selene, in their Goth wear. Moss, in his anarchist black. Brenda, in her flowing skirts… None of them was ordinary.

  “Yeah,” Tobias responded. “Think they’re not happy with our pentacles?”

  “Screw them,” she murmured. “We have just as much right to be here as the Baptists. Besides, we were invited.”

  Tobias scowled, “Yep. Well, a lot of religious people have trouble with witches, I guess it’s to be expected.”

  Moss interjected, “Come on, it’s twenty-seventeen, this is Portland, Oregon. I mean it’s not like we’re in the middle of Podunk-nowhere and no one’s even heard of witchcraft.”

  “Yeah, well, hearing about witchcraft and having to deal with witches at your interfaith meeting are two different things, I guess,” Tobias replied. “Let’s try to get seats before they’re all gone.”

  They squeezed past some of those aforementioned Baptists. Tobias made sure to smile broadly at them. He got a couple of timid smiles in response. The rest of the people looked away. Oh well, their loss.

  The pastor of the Unitarian Church had invited the Arrow and Crescent Coven specifically.

  “We need to shake this interfaith group up,” he had said. “There are too many complacent people, too many people who think interfaith means Baptists, Presbyterians, a Unitarian, and a Catholic. Oh, and if we’re lucky, maybe a Jew.”