Some heads nodded in agreement while other faces scowled in displeasure. The knot of academics unraveled as the discussion broke into smaller trios and pairings. Alessandro asked Elizabeth if she had made any plans for dinner yet.
“Why, yes,” she replied. “A group of us is going to dinner at a place in the Old Town recommended in someone’s guide book but…. Why not meet for a drink or two after that?” She ran her tongue along her upper lip. “I’m sure that all the talk at dinner will leave me feeling rather parched!”
They laughed and agreed to meet after dinner in the Old Town Square, under the Astronomical Clock.
Elizabeth was waiting under the clock when Alessandro arrived there later that evening. They leaned towards each other and lightly kissed each other’s cheek in greeting. They strolled away from the square, Elizabeth slipping her arm into the crook of Alessandro’s elbow. They chatted about homes and families and opinions of the papers they had heard thus far. Without having made any firm plans, they seemed to be slowly headed towards the bridge. They passed along cobblestone Karlova Street, joining the tourists as the street turned and narrowed and then broadened again. Restaurants and bars and souvenir shops dotted the sides of the road.
They paused, along with everyone else, where Karlova Street ended and another, more modern street crossed it. Traffic flew past them until the green light gave way to red and the people stepped quickly across the street and into the plaza that lay on the other side where the great bridge began its graceful arc across the river. Alessandro pointed to the Little Town and mentioned an old tavern he had seen earlier in the day during his sightseeing. Elizabeth agreed that his description made it sound like a delightful place for a nightcap and they stepped through the guard tower gate with its palindrome to confuse the devils, setting out across the bridge.
The moonlight was magical. Clear and bright, the river shimmered and the statues glistened. The bronzes on the base of St. John’s statue glittered through the crowds that still filled the bridge even at this late hour. The band at the other end of the bridge played Dixieland-style jazz. The whole bridge seemed like a nightclub. Alessandro steered them to the side of the bridge. As he leaned against the stone railing, facing Elizabeth, he felt at peace, as he had not felt in years. He pulled his arm free from hers and took her hand, gently pulling her towards him. Although known as a flirt back home and much experienced with women, this first kiss always made him nervous. A relic of some long-forgotten fear of rejection. Elizabeth leaned towards his face, her lips parted ever-so-slightly, expectantly. Her eyes closed.
He leaned forward, his other hand still in his sport coat pocket, nervously clenching and unclenching. Deep in the folds of the material, he found the medal of the Infant of Prague he had gotten that morning at the Our Lady of Victory church. For lack of anything better to hold on to, he folded it into his clenched fist.
He glimpsed something horrible, and waves of revulsion swept over him. He thought he would vomit right then and there. He dropped everything, almost throwing away Elizabeth’s hand and the medal, reaching out to steady himself. Could he really have seen that?
For less than an instant, in less time than it takes to draw a breath, he would have sworn Elizabeth had vanished and he had been about to kiss a leering, doubled-over hunchback draped in a ragged red cloak. The face had been that of a woman with barely enough flesh to cover the skull beneath her skin, and yet her cloak’s tattered folds—stirring in the night breeze—revealed ponderous breasts that swung loosely under her garment. Ragged wisps of hair stuck out from her voluminous hood. Her scrawny, almost skeletal hand held his with grimy talons and her eyes were filled with desire and expectation, a sharp hiss escaping her razor-sharp teeth. It was the shock of this vision that made him feel sick, throwing away her hand, which was just as suddenly Elizabeth’s again as he let go of the religious medal with his other.
“Alessandro? Are you all right?” Elizabeth peered anxiously into his face, clearly concerned that he was about to be sick.
He slowly shook his head, rubbing his eyes. He swallowed and breathed deep. “I… I don’t know. I guess so,” he stammered. He breathed deeply again, the fresh air filling his lungs. “Yes, I’m okay.” He shook his head again. “I’m not sure what hit me,” he apologized. “I must be more worn out than I thought. Maybe it’s time to call it a night.”
“If you’re sure,” Elizabeth replied, looking deep into his eyes. “If you really think you’ll be all right….”
“Yes, I’m sure,” he repeated, grateful for her concern. He turned towards the Little Town. “I think I just need to rest.” They walked to the hotel and entered the dimly lit lobby.
“All right, Alessandro. Good night.” Elizabeth reached over and gave him a peck on the cheek. “Get some rest and I’ll see you at breakfast.”
“Sounds good to me.” Alessandro smiled at her and turned to head up the stairs.
Magdalena had everything set out on her table that George had mentioned. Her dagger, known by its occult title of “athame,” used only for ritual purposes—like the night she had used it to trace the magic circle when she had set Madame de Thebes free from the Nazi hex or the night she had conjured Flauros and Halphas. She also set out her chalice, the cup she had also used the night she had conjured the two demons. The small staff or wand was next to them and the incense burner on a platter etched with a pentagram, stocked with charcoal and frankincense, waited to be lit. A bottle of red wine and a bottle of water sat slightly apart from the four basic occult tools. A kettle of red wine simmered gently on the stove, spices slowly circulating through it. She’d made spiced wine for Christmas before and was unsure if there was any way to make it that didn’t involve heating the wine. Warm wine, though welcome in midwinter, seemed unappetizing in the summer heat and humidity, but that was what George had asked for. She had also lined up on the table a selection of bottles from her spice rack, unsure of which George would be wanting when he arrived. She had wanted to light a candle as well but had been unable to find the green candle she had always used before.
“Perhaps it rolled under the couch or behind a bookcase or something when George knocked it off the table,” she mused. “That was the last of the green candles I got for my meditations!” By the time she realized the green candle was nowhere to be found, it was too late to find an open store to buy another. So she set out an all-purpose white household candle. Though she had meant it to be ready for an electric power failure, it would have to help supply a different kind of power tonight. She set it on the table next to the four tools: chalice, athame, pentagram, wand. All she had to do now was… wait.
Wait she did. Sitting on her couch, she entertained memories of the previous night as one of her classical music CDs played quietly. Would tonight’s ritual magic include a repetition of last night’s sexual encounter? She hoped so. She had read that some serious occult practitioners always performed their rituals in the nude. Was George one of those? She had read that in addition to performing the rituals naked, many occult devotees utilized sexual energy to give the spells an extra boost. She imagined several different ways in which she and George might kindle that energy and then release it for whatever George hoped to accomplish that night.
The fragrant scent of the mulling wine wafted through the apartment. She turned off all but one light in the living room. The candle from the kitchen area shed a soft glow throughout the space.
When the doorbell finally buzzed, she was so caught up in her imaginings that she was startled and nearly jumped off the couch. She let George in and stood facing him, waiting for his instruction.
He looked around the apartment, then closed his eyes, breathed deeply and smiled. He opened his eyes and faced Magdalena. “Excellent preparations. You’ve done well, Magdalena.”
She beamed in response and gestured towards the table where everything was set out. “Thank you. I was hoping everything would be in order for you, as you wanted it to be.”
He strode
to the table and set the briefcase in his hand on a nearby kitchen chair. He bent over it, snapped it open, withdrew a sheaf of papers, and snapped it shut again.
“I have some notes here to consult, if needed, but I’m hoping not to need them. I’ve found that it disrupts the flow of the ritual to stop and consult notes. But they’re here, just in case.” He set the papers on the table, off to one side.
“I’m afraid I have no ritual robes,” Magdalena blurted out. “Did you intend to wear any particular garments? Or should the ritual be performed nude? I’ve read…”
“No. No ritual garments or nudity will be required,” George interrupted her. “Either could be distracting in its own way.” He winked at her. “Besides,” he continued, turning to the table, “a small part of the ritual must be performed outside and we don’t want to attract any unwanted attention in the streets of Prague, do we?”
It had never occurred to her that part of the ritual might be conducted outdoors, as she had performed the earlier rituals. The one for Madame de Thebes had at least been across town, away from any residential neighborhood. But performing ritual magic in her own neighborhood, in front of her apartment? “No, no we don’t,” she stammered in agreement. After a pause, she asked, “How do we begin? What are we aiming to accomplish tonight?”
“Tonight? Tonight we will conjure and awaken the judgment due Prague because of Fen’ka’s burning in the Old Town Square,” George answered as he picked up and inspected the bottles and jars of herbs. “Of course, we will have to make do with what we have available to work with.” He looked back over his shoulder towards Magdalena. “After all, the most efficient way to do this would involve sacrificing a black rooster, but I don’t think there are any places that provide live roosters nearby, are there?”
Magdalena moved to stand next to George at the table. “It was never something I was interested in tracking down,” she blushed as she admitted something George might consider a deficiency.
“No problem,” he replied. “I didn’t really think the black rooster was an option. Even if we did find someone to sell us a live rooster, how slim is the likelihood that a black rooster would be available without some special order?” He chuckled and winked at Magdalena again. She relaxed and began to feel comfortable. Safe. She had evidently already passed whatever test George had deemed necessary and was eager to begin the magical work of the night.
George pointed around the apartment and instructed Magdalena, who scurried about to do as she was told. “First, we will need the kettle of wine moved to the table here, with a ladle and a whisk. You will also need your keys in your pocket; do you have those? Good. We will also need your tarot deck, which should be here on the table as well. Is that everything now? Excellent. We can begin.” He pointed to a spot on the floor next to him and Magdalena took her place, standing at his left side.
“Are you prepared for this, Magdalena?” he asked, looking ahead and not at her. “You will see and hear things that may seem strange to you, things that may frighten you. We will be reacting scenes of judgment and condemnation. We will be awaking the judgment due those who killed Fen’ka and enacting consequences of their actions, bringing down condemnation on their heads. Are you ready for that?”
Magdalena drew a breath and nodded. She felt herself tremble. Excitement? Fear? Both. She could not have turned away from this moment even if she wanted to. Looking at the table before her, she nodded. “Yes. I am ready.”
George stood there a moment, eyes closed, lips moving slightly as he seemed to recite something quietly to himself. His breathing was slow and deep, his fingertips resting lightly on the tabletop before them.
He opened his eyes and reached for the athame. He took it and traced a large circle on the floor. He looked clumsy, bent over and tracing the circle, which surrounded the kitchen table as well as the two of them. But Magdalena could feel a charge in the air, invisible sparks dancing up and down her bare arms and up the back of her neck. Setting the athame down, he gestured to both the thurible and the candle. Magdalena took one of the cakes of charcoal and held it in the candle flame. Sparks sizzled and flashed across the dusty black surface of the charcoal and she quickly dropped it back into the brazier. A small cloud of smoke puffed up from the charcoal as the other cakes within caught fire, and then the ropes of the fragrant smoke of the incense began to curl up into the air, mingling with the scent of the mulled wine. It reminded her of the smells of church services on Christmas Eve as a child.
George turned slightly and Magdalena realized he was facing north, just as she had done in the garden when invoking Flauros and Halphas last spring. She turned too, aligning herself with him. They bowed deeply to the north and George lifted his hands to cover his eyes, swaying gently as he muttered a ritual greeting to whichever powers he was hoping to contact. Another cake of charcoal sizzled and the smoke of the frankincense grew dense about them. Magdalena licked her lips. Her throat felt dry. She realized she should have had a drink of water before beginning, but it was too late now.
George turned back to the kitchen table serving as their altar and reached for the tarot deck, which he handed to Magdalena. “Shuffle three times and deal out five cards in a straight line, face down,” he told her.
The cards rippled between her fingers, which seemed to have become much more skilled at this activity without any effort. She dealt the five cards as instructed. George took the deck and set it aside.
“Shuffle those five cards and deal out a line of three, face down.” Magdalena heard George’s voice though his lips seemed not to move. She scooped up the five cards and delicately let them flicker between her fingers again before placing three of them back on the table. George took the remaining two and set them, face up, next to the deck.
Magdalena gasped. The top card George had exposed was the Six of Swords. He glanced at her and asked, “Do you recognize that card for some reason in particular?”
“That… that was the card that drove me to meet Fen’ka beneath the bridge last March,” Magdalena explained, having difficulty finding her vocal cords. “It was in my reading in New York and I dreamed of it and it was so real that I got up one night in the middle of the night and went down to the river beneath the bridge. Fen’ka came up to me there, in a boat on the river, and Jarnvithja paddled it.”
“Jarnvithja?” George didn’t seem to recognize that name.
“Jarnvithja,” his new apprentice repeated. “The troll who is charged with caring for the dead whose bodies are given to the river.”
George nodded, a flash of recognition playing across his face. Perhaps he had heard of her before, after all, thought Magdalena.
Her teacher turned his attention back to the three cards still lying face down on the table. “Shuffle them again and deal out one card,” he instructed.
She gathered the three cards into her hands. With care and difficulty, she shuffled them again and then set one down on the table. George took the others and added them to the bottom of the stack to one side, leaving the Six of Swords on top. He closed his eyes and gestured to the thurible. “Ask the fire, Magdalena,” she heard. “Ask the fire if this one card is the correct one. If it is, the fire will answer with a single ropy coil of smoke. If it is not, then there will be two or more coils of smoke and we will have to select a card again. Tell me what you see.”
“Ask the fire? Should I say the question out loud?” She had never read of such a practice and wanted to be sure she did it correctly.
“Aloud or silently. Either way, direct your attention to the fire.” He continued to hold his open hand out, palm up, towards the thurible. His eyes remained shut.
Magdalena swallowed. She looked intently at the charcoal. White ash had begun to accumulate along the edges of some of the cakes of charcoal. Pearls of frankincense continued to hiss and bubble, smoke spurting into the air. “Is this… is this the correct card?” she formulated the words aloud at last. “Is this the correct card or ought we select another?”
The smoke undulated and swirled, dipping and weaving before her eyes. To her amazement, it congealed into a single strand even as it continued to rise. Did it remind her of a cobra preparing to strike? Or was it more like the beanstalk that rose to the clouds in the old fairy tale? She wasn’t sure.
“It… it is the correct card,” she stammered. “There is a single coil of smoke.”
“Excellent.” George opened his eyes, reached down, and took the athame into his hand. He held it over the card a moment, its point hovering inches above the card.
“Svetovit, hear us! Svetovit, awaken at our call! Svetovit, we come to you as did your servant Fen’ka, who looked to you for protection and called on you in the fire to defend her.” George’s voice was quiet but rang with an authority that was unmistakable. “Come and aid us to avenge the death of her who called on you!” Without warning, he plunged the knifepoint through the card. It struck the wooden table with a dull thud and quivered a moment as George released his grasp.
Magdalena gasped, startled at George’s act. She looked at him in surprise. He closed his eyes and pointed at the knife, pinning the card to the table. “Repeat as I have done,” he told her. “Give yourself totally to the invocation. Unite the invocation to your body and soul. Let it arise from the depths of your heart. Its reality and your reality should be the same. This unity of invoker and invocation—that is more critical than the form of the words that you use.”
Come Hell or High Water: The Complete Trilogy Page 40
