by Melanie Rawn
Elias groaned. Holly shushed him.
“No, really,” Kate insisted. “It was the oddest feeling. So I did some checking, and it turns out that a group of kids had met on that hill in back of my house and were messing around with magic.”
“For you to feel it,” Elias commented, “at least one of them must be Talented.”
“Exactly. One of my apprentices is a senior at the local high school, and he did some nosing around. The boy’s name is William Scott Hungerford Fleming.”
“Junior?” Elias sat up a little straighter. “Can’t be.”
Holly frowned. “What am I missing?”
“Flaming Fleming,” Kate said, “is a fundamentalist reverend with a thing about pagans.”
“That’s one way of putting it.” Elias set down his coffee. “Kate, what’s his kid doing fooling around with magic?”
“The boy doesn’t know enough to call up anything really vicious, but there were some nasty little phantoms hovering around. Evidently he’s gotten a Pylon together and they’re going to try something spectacular on Imbolc. Now, my problem is, do I let them try, and maybe call up things I don’t even want to think about, which will scare the crap out of them, or—”
“—or intercede,” Elias finished succinctly. “This isn’t a problem, Kate. It’s a no-brainer. Where are they meeting, and what time?”
Thus it was on the night of February the second—Imbolc, the Feast of St. Brighid, Candlemas, or Groundhog Day, depending on one’s orientation—Holly picked up Elias in her black BMW for the drive out to Long Island.
“I always liked Imbolc,” Holly said. “Right turn or left?”
“Left.”
“Aunt Lulah and I always got our candles from Cousin Clary Sage. Beeswax from her own hives. One in each window—was it six lights to Kate’s street?”
“Seven.”
“Okay. We’d draw sun circles in the snow around the house and barn.”
“Any more pastoral lore you’d like to share?”
“C’mon, Your Honor. I’m trying to make nice here with the man who’s sleeping with my best friend.”
“All right,” he replied genially. “I’ll make nice with the woman who’s sleeping with one of my marshals.”
“How do you get away with this, by the way? Sneaking around sans escort? I thought you were supposed to have an armed guard at all times.”
“Only in court and chambers.”
“These days there are quite a few otherwise law-abiding citizens who think all you judge-types should be horsewhipped at the very least.”
Reluctantly, Elias pulled up the hem of his fisherman-knit sweater to reveal the tidy little pistol tucked into his belt. Holly whistled under her breath.
“I really hope that’s not a MacGuffin.”
“No,” he said mildly, “it’s a Beretta nine-millimeter. What’s a MacGuffin?”
“Hitchcock. You show it, you have to use it by the end of the movie.”
“I’ve never had to use it yet.” Settling back in his seat, Elias changed the subject. “How many of you country cousins are there down in Virginia?”
“About ninety, when we all get together from three states and the District of Columbia. Not all Witches, but all Catholic.” Holly laughed. “Clary calls Imbolc her St. Brighid’s Day clan reunion, which makes it acceptable to the ones who haven’t inherited the magic.”
“Turn here. The last house on the cul-de-sac. Careful—they don’t plow this road.” Reaching into the backseat for the two black hooded robes he’d brought along, he mused, “I wonder if we’ll ever be able to celebrate the Sabbats without cloaking them in ‘acceptability.’”
“Ain’t gonna hold my breath.” She used the gears to slow the car to about five miles an hour. “Besides, to become official we’d need rules and regs just like every other belief system on the planet. Part of what’s kept us safe for thousands of years is that no six of us believe exactly the same thing.”
“Would it have to be that way?” he mused. “Believe this, do that, spread the faith, march in lockstep or get excommunicated?”
“Even the possibility of it horrifies me,” Holly confessed. “And it would kill what we are.”
“Ah, but there’s the real question, isn’t it?” he asked, smiling a little. “What exactly are we?”
She shrugged. “The pallid remnant of an ancient religion, according to some. The vanguard of the new millennium to others. No, Elias, if we became a codified religion, with a scripture and a hierarchy and so forth, we’d become visible enough to celebrate whatever and however we chose, just like any other faith—but then people like us would become visible, too.”
“Not a happy thought.”
A few minutes later, Kate welcomed them into a very modern ranch house that she shared with five cheerfully disreputable mutts, three identical Burmese cats, a brace of guinea pigs, a housebroken lop-eared rabbit, and a tame squirrel. The hearth-warmed air smelled of diverse herbs and spices and perfumes; Elias saw Holly scratch at her nose, and smiled.
“Tea?” Kate offered. “I know you prefer to Work on an empty stomach, Eli, but just a little something to take the chill away? I’ve got soup for later.”
“No, nothing right now, thanks. Have the kids arrived out back?”
“In about half an hour, maybe less.” Plucking the squirrel off a brass baker’s rack, Kate stroked its luxuriant tail. “Sorry, Percival, you’re for the cage tonight.”
“Percival?” Holly asked, bemused.
Kate shrugged. “He answered to it. All my companions are Arthurian.”
“Really? All our cats are criminals—Bandit, Mugger, Ruffian, Swindler—”
Elias shifted impatiently. “Fascinating, ladies, but can we get this show on the road?”
“And a fine show it will be,” Holly replied, unfurling the cloak Elias gave her. “Is this theatrical enough, Kate, or should we have brought our wands?”
With Percival the squirrel and Ban the bunny safely caged from mischief, and the dogs and cats shut inside the house for their own good, lights were extinguished and three figures in hooded cloaks left the house through the back door. A low fence was climbed, a quarter mile of snowy hill was traversed, and a convenient stand of trees was found for shelter. Though exercise had warmed Elias’s muscles, it was very cold and very dark, heavy cloud cover hiding the moon.
“I’m freezing,” Holly whispered.
“Bonfire soon,” Kate promised. “They’re here.”
Ten, eleven, twelve—finally the thirteenth arrived, stumbling in shin-deep snow. There was a brief confusion while the Pylon arranged itself around a small wooden table one of them had lugged up the hill.
Holly leaned close to Elias and breathed in his ear, “What’s in the sack?”
One of the black-robed figures—it was impossible to tell male from female—had carried a squirming burlap bag up the hill, and now set it on the ground near the altar. Elias shrugged. “Whatever it is, it’s alive.”
“Oh, swell—the whole show, complete with blood sacrifice.”
In the center of the circle of hooded black figures was a pile of wood and kindling, presumably to be lit by the candles each person held. All these were black, except for one slim white taper placed on the right side of the makeshift altar.
Elias focused his attention on that—the flame that in this ritual symbolized the path held in contempt. The right-hand path. His path. This was the fire he would use tonight if necessary. And when he heard the opening of this ritual, chanted as some sort of thick, heavy incense was ignited in a ceramic altar bowl, he was depressingly certain that it would indeed be necessary.
“Gloria Deo Domino Inferi, et in terra vita hominibus fortibus. Laudamus Te, benedicamus Te, adoramus Te, glorificamus Te, gratias agimus tibi propter magnam potentiam Tuam: Domine Satanus, Rex Inferus, Imperator omnipotens.”
The young man’s Latin was almost priestly—something his fundamentalist Protestant preacher of a father would d
oubtless find horrifying. Elias had heard it all before, the adulteration of the Catholic Mass to suit other purposes.
Glory to God the Infernal Lord, and on earth light and strength to man. We praise Thee, we bless Thee, we adore Thee, we glorify Thee, we give thanks to Thee for Thy great power; Lord Satan, Infernal King, Almighty Emperor.
Beside him, he felt Holly shiver, and not with the cold. For a moment he wondered how someone raised Roman Catholic would react to this deviant Mass—and then nearly got lost in speculating how one could be a Roman Catholic Witch.
Shaking himself mentally, he watched the boy who was acting as high priest. Very tall, all leg, and lanky in the way of young men who’ve grown too fast for their reflexes to catch up with, his only visible identifying feature was his hands. These were long-fingered and bony, scarred with cuts and burns—not souvenirs of attempts at ritual, but from his hobbies of woodworking and stained glass. Bradshaw had done a little research this week, and learned that Flaming Fleming’s namesake was nineteen years old, artistic, rebellious, his mother’s much-indulged darling and his father’s much-reprimanded despair. Watching him now, Elias saw the restless intensity common to that age—he could just about recall that same seeking uncertainty in himself during his college years—but, more significantly, he sensed a real talent about the boy.
The choice of Imbolc was an odd one for a ritual of this kind. A Sabbat of Light, not darkness; perhaps young Fleming was testing himself, trying out his power by challenging the fire. Or perhaps he knew, consciously or instinctively, that dark wraiths banished by life-affirming light would be attracted to a place where fire celebrated destruction.
The ceremony progressed, with Fleming in charge. A bell was rung nine times while he turned counterclockwise; a silver goblet was charged and filled—with wine, mercifully, not with other fluids Elias had witnessed on occasion. The four quarters were ceremoniously sprinkled with an aspergillum in the shape of a nine-inch ceramic phallus. Satan was called at the South, Lucifer at the East, Belial at the North, and Leviathan at the West. A sword that could have starred in a Conan the Barbarian movie was waved about rather amateurishly before it was touched to the bent hooded head of each participant. A gong was rung to herald every “dubbing” by the high priest, right after he called the name of an archdemon.
“Adramaleck, Prince of Fire! Meririm, Prince of Air! Rahab, Prince of Oceans! Rimmon, Prince of Lightning and Storms! Mammon, Prince of Greed! Agratbatmahlaht, Princess of Whores!”
“Whoever she is,” Holly whispered. “I’m impressed that he even tried to pronounce it.” Elias elbowed her, wanting to hear the remaining names Fleming called, but she was relentless. “That gong is giving me a headache. Let’s do it, huh, and get the hell out of here?”
So casual—hiding nervousness? No, he decided, glancing at her. She didn’t sense what this boy had called. Hell was indeed hovering around this hillside. And it was up to him to get it out of here.
He fixed his gaze on the white candle that trembled all alone in the darkness. We are strong enough, you and I, he thought. Tonight is Imbolc, when Light returns.
Willing the slight flame to grow and brighten, he began to chant very softly.
“Brighid of the hearthfire, Brighid of the braided hair,
Brighid of the fair sweet face, Brighid of the women’s wisdom,
Brighid of the healing hands, Brighid of the sacred fire—”
By now he was walking from behind the sheltering trees, his voice ringing, the poetry of three thousand years shaping his words. This was power; this was magic, living inside him, awakening the flame to confront the chill that fire challenged and defeated. His will and his gift became one.
Fleming stood with the sword held limply in his left hand, gaping at this hooded apparition that had appeared out of nowhere in the trees—to be joined by another figure just as anonymous around which fresh pure fragrances whirled, banishing the cloying odor of the altar incense. And then another cloaked shape, standing at the edge of the darkness and singing, singing the Latin words in a high, clear soprano, calling and lauding the Lady:
“Salve, Regina, mater misericordiae,
Vita, dulcedo, et spes nostra,
Salve, salve Reginal!”
Elias strode into the very circle itself, breaking its outline with Light, drawing the necessary Fire from the white candle that he took into his hand as he kicked the altar table over into the snow.
“Brighid of the triple flame, Brighid of the kindling,
Brighid of the waters, Brighid of the power of shaping,
I call on the Gracious Lady of tender blessing—
That all might be healed, that all might be transformed,
That darkneee shall flee and Light shall reign.”
Very suddenly, in the circle’s center, the bonfire flared to sudden brilliant life. Elias flinched. The fire wasn’t his.
Some of the Pylon simply screamed, broke, and ran. Others held their ground for a moment, perhaps three—and then fled down the hill, slipping in the snow, too frightened even to cry out. The sword fell to the ground. The ceramic phallus, the goblet from which none had drunk, the bell, the gong, the black candles—all lay abandoned in the cold snow.
The high priest remained, and two of his Pylon. Elias stared at the boy from the concealing shadows of his hood, seeing Fleming’s pallor and defiance—and his outraged knowledge that whatever malevolence had been attracted to this place had given up and fled. Dilettante, novice, dabbler—these things the boy was. But given years and learning, he would become powerful. Perhaps dangerous.
Kate’s herbs, thrown onto the bonfire, fragranced the air. Gently she took the last three black candles from the boys’ hands, extinguishing them with three soft breaths and a few whispered words of banishing, leaving only Elias’s white Light shining off the snow, and the roaring flames behind him. The trio of would-be Satanists clung together, two not much more than panicky boys, one still dark-eyed with rebellion.
“You don’t know what you were playing with here,” Elias said.
“We weren’t playing!”
“No?” He kicked at the goblet with casual contempt. “Wine stolen from your parents’ cellar, right? Go for the Château Margaux, forget all that stuff about drinking piss.”
“The piss,” said the Reverend’s son, “was in the clay dick.”
Holly approached to stand at Elias’s right hand. “Do you have any idea what you tried to do tonight? There’s no such thing as the Devil, despite what they teach you in Sunday school. But there are some repellent little entities just itching for a chance to make mischief in this world. You’re lucky a Witch or three came along to protect you.”
William Scott Hungerford Fleming straightened to his full six feet five inches. “I don’t need protection from anybody—or anything!”
“You’re Witches?” one of the other boys asked.
“If you are,” said Fleming, “why didn’t you join our ritual?”
Holly shook her head within her hood. “You’re so wrong about what a Witch truly is and what a Witch truly does that it beggars even my celebrated imagination.”
Elias made a grab for control of the situation. “Clean this mess up, please, while these gentlemen and I have a little talk.” He gritted his teeth, grateful for the concealing cloak as Holly gave him a purposely overdone bow, her hands folded inside wide sleeves, and joined Kate by the toppled table that had served as an altar.
A five-minute lecture later, the pair of acolytes had departed, expressing such sentiments as, “Never again—this is too bizarro!” and “If that’s power, I don’t want anything to do with it!” As Bradshaw expected, Fleming was harder to convince. It followed; he was the only one among them who had any gift. And he knew it.
“My preceptor says I can be a major power—and he’s right. I feel things—and it would’ve been awesome tonight if you hadn’t ruined it!”
“‘Preceptor,’” Elias echoed distastefully. “Did he happen to me
ntion that you can choose what you feel, and which path you follow?”
“We don’t choose our path. It chooses us.”
“Parrot,” Holly chided on her way past with an armful of black candles. “Speak—and above all think—for yourself!”
“What I think is that you’re all full of shit.”
“Yeah?” But whatever else she might have said was interrupted by a gasp as she slipped in someone else’s icy footprint and landed on her ass. The candles went flying. And so did the hood of her cloak, revealing her face and her freckles and her dark red hair. Elias took firm hold of his temper and bent to help her up. She waved him off, pushed herself to her knees, and started grabbing black tapers.
Fleming stood back, arms folded, and regarded them with the vastly tolerant gaze given only by the young to their elders. “You’re a Witch, you know about the powers of Satan.”
Elias sighed. “Is that your father talking, or your ‘preceptor’?”
For the first time there was a flinch of reaction. “How do you—what do you know about my father?”
“It seems to me that you’re caught between your father’s Bible and your preceptor’s—well, whatever version of that twaddle he subscribes to. Both affirm the power of the Devil from opposite directions. But did it ever occur to you that there are more than two paths?”
“These feelings you talk about having—” Holly had finished stuffing candles in her pockets, and rose gracelessly to her feet. “Ask yourself what the best use of those feelings would be.”
The boy turned to her. “You’re a Witch.”
“Yep.”
“And you don’t worship Satan.”
“Nope.”
“You were singing in Latin,” he accused.
“Sure was,” she drawled. “From the original version of the Mass. Much nicer, if you ask me.”
