Chapter 8: A Little Wind

Thursday, 20 March 1969, Indianapolis City College

Half a world away, Wayne Hamel was watching the sunset from the school park in Indianapolis. It had rained most of the day as it usually did in March in Indiana, but the evening sky had cleared and he determined to go through with his experiment in spite of the wet ground.

He’d been to see Lissa last night ... well, this morning would be more accurate. Somehow, he never showed up at Donut World before three a.m. She always had advice for him, even though he never actually remembered talking about the things that he remembered later.

He sat chatting with her—the friendly banter they’d had every night this week. He’d decided to stay on campus instead of going north to visit his family during the break. Last week, Carl had brought over the concept sketches for Antigone to show Jim and Wayne had impulsively volunteered to make the Greek masks. That kept him busy in the shop each day and let him watch daily for intruders. He’d been leaving the shop about two in the morning all week and heading to see Lissa. He kept telling himself he’d get up earlier, but always slept past noon. It seemed he stayed at Donut World for hours.

Lissa set a cup of coffee in front of him with a couple of doughnuts. Then casually reached across the counter and touched the pentacles at his throat. Wayne entered a different world. He could suddenly remember everything he’d been taught—every word he’d read.

“Why is it that I always have this feeling that I should be remembering something but can’t figure out what it is?” Wayne asked. “Like my pentacles. Until you touch it, I forget it’s there. Then all of a sudden, I remember everything.”

“You have it all down inside. Don’t worry. You practiced setting wards, right?” Lissa asked.

“Yeah. I’m sure I got the words right and everything, but I can’t feel anything. I could just walk right through them.”

“Don’t. You need to believe in them. If you believe you can’t walk through them, then no one else can either. Even if you don’t have confidence in them yet, you still respect them and practice them. The Zen masters say it takes a thousand repetitions to make something a part of you.”

“I’ve got a few dozen to go,” Wayne laughed. “What is next?”

“I think it’s time you tried it out,” Lissa said. “You need to perform a ritual. And Oester, the spring equinox is a perfect time to do it. I’ve written you a simple wind ritual.”

“Sure,” he said. “I just go out under the next full moon and dance naked around a fire and see if I blow up a storm. If it’s a tornado, I know it worked.”

“Mind if I watch?” she said with a wink.

“I never dance naked in front of strangers,” he smiled.

“Might have to sometime. The secret is to focus on the ritual. It isn’t about the nudity, it’s about being The Unbound,” Lissa said. “And you shouldn’t wait for a full moon. Tonight is the Vernal Equinox. It’s the perfect time to engage in some playful ritual. Do you have a place to do it?”

“I suppose I could go out in the school park. The gate is locked at sunset if they remembered to unlock it that day at all. I happen to have a key. I go out there sometimes when I really want to be alone in the city.”

“Okay,” Lissa instructed him. “You are going to have a day of intense clarity. Memorize this ritual, take your tools out into the park at sunset, and try it out. Don’t try for something too big, just make it your own.”

“Won’t you come with me?” Wayne asked.

“You are a solitary, not part of a circle. You need to work alone before you begin working with others. I’m just a teacher. Now it is time for you to practice what you’ve learned.”

“If you think so.”

“Go get some sleep,” she said, touching the necklace again. “Tomorrow it will be clear.”

He was getting the slightly muzzy-headed feeling of having been sleeping at the counter again. “Well, I better get some sleep,” he said turning to leave.

“I’ll see you tonight,” Lissa said. How did she know he’d be back tonight?

Now Wayne sat overlooking the small outdoor amphitheater that in years past had been used for theatrical performances. That was why he had a key to the gate on the theatre key ring. It had been an incredible day—well, afternoon. He still didn’t wake up until almost noon, but when he did, he knew exactly what he had to do. He cast a circle in his dorm room, donned his black robe, and retrieved his uncle’s Book of Shadows. The first time he read through the simple ritual in his hand, he remembered a similar ritual in the book. He found the reference and instead of memorizing from the slip of paper, he memorized from the book. He liked this one better. It appealed to his sense of theatre. He memorized the lines and blocked the scene in his room as if he were going on-stage.

He had added some of his own touches and wrote them in the little journal that he now considered his own Book of Shadows. It included stripping down to his skivvies and then pulling the black robe over his head. The ground was wet beneath his bare feet and squished with each step, but he didn’t find it unpleasant. Almost as an afterthought, he slipped out of his underwear as well and added it to the pile of clothing in his knapsack. Now he was truly ‘unbound’. He would feel like a fool if anyone saw him like this and was glad he had locked the gate of the park behind him when he came in.

Dressed in the black robe, he experienced the feeling that Bert had described as having his body disappear in the lengthening shadows of dusk, especially when he pulled the cowl up over his head. Finally, he pulled a small dish with incense in it from his bag and the burlap and silk wrapped shape of the knife his uncle had given him. He lit the incense and held the knife hesitantly in his hand. He was ready to begin. In his mind, he imagined a curtain going up and himself lit on stage. It was just like a private rehearsal. He had done it a hundred times. He shook off his stage fright and proceeded.

First, draw a circle to stand in, he thought. All these rituals were done in a circle, it seemed. As an afterthought, he remembered his uncle’s secret cavern with its white star on the floor. He drew a five-pointed star in the center of his circle. He set his wards in the way he’d practiced dozens of times in his room. Even though he couldn’t feel them, he’d never been interrupted. The curtain was rising. It was time to begin. He cleared his throat, but the first words of his chant almost choked him anyway. He coughed again, scowled at his own shakiness and started over.

Winds of the east, winds of the west, winds of the north and south:
I summon you to meet me here and dance around about.
Ring my circle. Ring my fire.
Dance a dance as I desire.

An unnatural stillness settled over the clearing. Wayne breathed deeply of the heavy air and then decided to keep going.

Hern, the god of woodland fair;
Ariel, goddess of the air.
Move the currents, make them dance.
Fill the air with sprite romance.

The invocation was almost sung. It was a damned good thing Wayne was trained in theatre. He could never have voiced these words if he weren’t used to rehearsing and performing.

At the edge of Wayne’s vision, there was movement in the shadows. A shape seemed to emerge to his right that seemed human but had unmistakable horns on its head. Or maybe it was a bush and a tree-limb. Wayne looked the other way and a diaphanous mist crowned by the crescent moon low in the sky shifted and gave Wayne the feeling of a person taking shape. He almost ran, but then centered himself. After all, he called them. They should appear if any of this worked. He just wasn’t expecting it to be so literal.

He began circling his little pot of incense and chanting the words over again. Now he could feel palpable movement in the air. He found a rhythm to the words he had memorized and practiced during the day. They moved his feet as he chanted them now and he began to spin as he circled the incense. His right hand, still holding the knife, raised in the air of its own volition as he spun, pointing his left hand down toward the damp grass beneath him. He was as much caught up in the chant and dancing as he was directing it.

The shapes he had summoned were caught up in the dance as well, and though they stayed outside the circle he had drawn, he could see them clearly—two robed figures, red and green. The one dressed in green wore a headdress decked with the horns of a stag. The other, obviously female beneath her crimson robe was crowned with a crescent moon on her head. The two were not, however, focused on Wayne. He could feel a tension building between the two and lances of light seemed to shoot from one to the other, deflected and piercing the night sky. Even when Wayne collapsed on the ground exhausted from his dancing, the two continued to circle him, locked in their own combat.

His head kept spinning as well. The point of the knife that he held in his right hand continued to circle in front of his eyes, and to Wayne’s affected sight, it looked like it was glowing. In fact, if it weren’t for the witness of his hand holding it, he would swear it was glowing hot. His hand jerked involuntarily as the sense of touch caught up with the sense of sight and he realized he was holding a red-hot brand. It flew from his hand straight up in the air, turned twice at the peak of its flight and came hurtling straight down. Wayne stepped aside just in time. The missile stabbed point first into the ground at his feet.

Thursday, 20 March 1969, The Lake District, England

Four thousand miles away and six hours ahead, Rebecca picked herself up again. Her companion rose slowly. A shake of her head showed Rebecca blonde hair, but she quickly adjusted the hooded mask she wore. It was not the High Priestess. This naked woman was young—possibly younger than Rebecca. But she was giving great power to the ritual. Rebecca had stripped her own robe off after the sudden downpour had drenched her. When she finished the chant summoning Cottus to fill his cup and summon his brothers to the feast, the clouds burst without warning. Both women were knocked to the ground with the suddenness of the drenching rain. The cup had filled and the rain was gone.

The women had extended their wands toward the fire—Rebecca’s red walking stick, and the other’s short black wand. They moved together around the fire as Rebecca chanted the names of fire-gods and angels, summoning Iäpetus to bring fire and invite his brothers to the feast. The flames began to climb higher and the two moved back from them, keeping their focus until Rebecca shouted, “Iäpetus, come to me!” Lightning struck so suddenly and so near that the women were thrown twenty feet back from the fire that flared high into the night sky connecting heaven and earth. Witch’s fire.

Enceladus shook the earth, throwing the women to the ground a third time when Rebecca summoned the powers of the north, the earth, the Fourth Face of Carles, the pentacles.

Both women were panting as they stood for the final summoning. This needed more. This needed all they could give. Rebecca moved to her right around the fire wordlessly chanting. There was only one way to get this degree of power. The other sensed her intent and backed away. After a moment, her red robe dropped to the ground revealing the small blonde woman, The Swordmaster who had challenged The Hart at Litha last year. This was the woman who had stood before the coven and required that The Hart show her power before she inherited the mantle of high priestess. And now she was here.

No. It had not been she who had shaped the challenge into summoning the Four Faces together. That had been the conniving high priest, known as The Barber. But it was this woman’s fault. Now she was here in the circle lending The Hart her power. Could she be trusted?

Fully The Huntress, Rebecca closed the distance between them as they completed a full circuit around the fire, eyes locked on each other. The Huntress held out her left hand and pricked it with her Athamé, daring The Swordmaster to join it with her own. The Swordmaster grimaced as she pricked her own palm and reached to grasp The Hungress’s. Steel flashed in the firelight. The Huntress’s knife was met in the air by that of The Swordmaster.

“I am Sadb, the transformation,” Rebecca whispered. “Your blood runs in my veins. My blood in yours.”

“I am Badb, the cry of battle,” her partner whispered. “We are bound to each other. We are one in the fight.”

It was a dangerous game—a play for dominance—and Rebecca refused to submit. They moved faster and faster contretemps around the fire, pushing each other away and drawing each other back, their knives sparking against each other as their left hands gripped each other painfully, the blood mixing in their palms. Thrust, parry, counter. Their dance flowed as a mystery, steps advanced and reflected as they moved. An observer, had there been one, would not be able to tell if they were dancing, fighting, or making love. In fact, it was all three. Rebecca’s left hand found her partner’s sex and dipped within her. She could feel the response in her own womb as The Swordmaster plundered her with her fingers.

“Creüs!” Rebecca screamed. The other echoed her call an instant behind. “Windmaster. Spirit. Air. Archangel Michael. Dhritarashtra. Gandharvas. Awaken Titan! Awaken and let your presence be known. Your power. Your majesty. Master of the spring, of love, of fertility. Come to me, Creüs, the First Face of Carles!” The women were intent on each other, drawing closer and closer as they danced—their hands and knives touching, their breasts pressed together, their mounds with hands trapped between dripping with sexual passion, and finally their lips. Their knife hands stretched skyward together as they fell to the ground.

Soon after her initiation Rebecca had let the passion of ritual sex control her and light the sky on fire. Now she let the passion rule the wind. And both women climaxed.