The spell is deceptively simple, and surprisingly powerful. His coven teacher warned him not to seek this path but another secretly provided him with the books necessary to ascertain the spell he sought. Though, it is dangerous, he is done with searching the mundane physical world for the perfect spiritual life and love. The Fae by holy design are perfection; this is what he sought.
Everyday, about an hour before dawn, he hikes through the woods behind the English countryside castle – turned resort hotel. This hunt is costing him his small fortune but, if successful, he would not care.
He would find a small fairy ring of mushrooms, formed into a perfect circle, but they would always be too close together to perform the spell. But the following day he would always return to the location to find that his mortal energies had disrupted the holy locations causing the new, larger rings to not be uniform, thus ruining any usefulness to access the other planes.
He awakes two hours before dawn of the final day of his stay, his money depleted. His mind is wondering, unable to stay focuses on looking for any new ring of mushrooms; then he spots what he’s been looking for. The circle of mushrooms must measure close to thirteen feet across and comprises of exactly thirteen mushrooms – a true spiritual number – each spaced evenly around the circumference. Each mushroom is so close in similar size that he could see no difference between the tan and red bulbs.
He removes all of his clothing to stand natural in the cool dawn air; dew from the nearing morning mists to his skin.
He patiently clears all debris from inside the ring of mushrooms: rocks, fallen leaves, pinecones, and other items, leaving just the bed of moss-like grass. He then finds five dry branches, each three feet in length and as thick as his wrist. He lays them out on a bed of kindling in the shape of a pentagram in the center of the circle; placing a single pinecone on top.
He then stands at each of the compass points and asks each of the four winds for their protection and guidance. Then he lights the wood.
Sitting inside the circle he meditates while staring into the fire.
The flames become figure-like, dressed in fluid silk gowns of red – oranges – yellow. Their little bodies obviously naked beneath their gowns of flame. The figures would come together in pairs – threes – mores. Hot hands caressing each other. Spirits of fire aroused with magic. Masculine flames licking and mounting feminine. He watches the orgy of elemental fairies.
Then a cooling wind flutters across his back; the embrace of a soft feather; a whisper through the grass: “What do you desire.” The words not on the breeze but of the breeze.
He is afraid to answer. Wisps of green dance just outside the circle; a fog makes it difficult to see what they may be. The twirl of a ballet dancer or leaves blowing in a twist above the forest floor. A bare leg, gone when he looks; a pale green of an uncovered breast tipped with an evergreen nipple, or just imagination; the tease of green hair between quick legs, or the flutter of firm hanging low from a branch.
Winds twirl together to form a single, fluttery voice; “He should leave if he does not know.” Then the voice of the gentle roll of pebbles on the bed of a flowing brook; “We will take him if he does not answer.”
“He is for me;” snaps the green, brown voice of branches, old and dieing, falling in a storm.
He finally finds his own voice; “I wish to give my spirit to the trees.”
The whisper of the rustle of leaves as the wind flees; “And do you know what is asked of you?”