I was visiting a friend in a coastal town. Finally I had time to relax and just take in the sea air. My friend is a non-pagan with an open mind to all of my ways. Her partner calls me a Wiccan and I don’t object; it is a conceptual handle on what I am, as anything beyond that starts to sound a little too Middle Earth for him.
It was a bright but cold day when we headed to the sea. We found a café along the pebbly beach and settled in to be chilled by the wind and warmed by coffee. I offered to buy the second round and headed to the small wooden hut that served as kitchen and counter. A man stood there already waiting for his double latte with chocolate sprinkles. He eyed me suspiciously, a look that became rather sharper when he noticed my unicursal star broach. He nodded at the broach and said, “Love is the law… ” Suddenly I felt like a German spy from the Quiller Memorandum, “No, zes are not ze braend of zigarettes dat I normally smoke …” I replied “Love under will” and then stood awkwardly looking at him, feeling like we should now do some kind of black ghetto secret handshake ending with us bumping shoulders.
He grinned and I wondered if I should have just feigned ignorance and said my broach was a pretty star and that it went with a super-duper outfit I had at home.
He asked me if I was from the area, I said no and studiously avoided saying exactly where I was from. No need to worry about intrusive questions, he was more interested in telling me about himself, ending with, “Don’t you think I look like Crowley?” You and all the other overweight bald Thelemites, I thought. “Oh, yes,” I said. “Definitely a resemblance.” I made regretful noises about how I must return to my friend who was starting to look in need of coffee-defrosting. I saw him gearing up to ask to swap contact details. On his in-breath I jumped in firmly and said, “SO nice to meet you. LOVELY talking to you. MUST go.” And I trotted back to my friend, coffees in hand. I prised her chilled fingers off the old cup and slotted in a new cup which started to send heat up through her arm, enough for her to bend her elbow and swig a few gulps.
“Who was that?” she asked.
“Oh, just another Aleister wannabe.”
She looked at me confused. I gave a big ‘never-mind’ smile and toasted her with the coffee.
“Is that how much I owe you? I thought it was your round …”
I leant across and gave her a big kiss on the cheek.
“I must teach you the Secret Handshake of Middle Earth at some point …”
©StarofSeshat 2009 This is a work of fiction, any resemblance to persons living, dead or other is purely coincidental.
“Come hither little Wiccaling…” he said in enticing tones.
“Who? Me?” said the little Wiccan, batting her eyelashes as if beating back a sandstorm.
“Hmm,” replied the magician, tossing his lank locks deftly over his shoulder.
She felt her little knees tremble.
“Oh,” she sighed.
“I haven’t seen you ’round here before. Are you new to the path?”
Her eyes widened at his acknowledgement that she HAD a path.
“Why yes, how did you know?”
“I know many things. It’s a gift. Fancy a shag? I mean, a coffee?”
Her mouth dried up in expectation and she managed but a mute nod.
Two witches stood and watched.
“He scents his prey, watch him swoop for the kill.”
“Shouldn’t we warn her?”
“And rob her of a learning experience? We’re not Christians dear.”
“The magician shall be known by his chat-up line…”
“Fancy being my virgin sacrifice?”
“Ah, the hopeful magician!” laughed the witch.
“Wanna do it with me in circle?”
“Oh, crass, very crass.”
“I have a big wand, come watch me use it?”
“Eewww. You know where he could stick his wand!”
“I can initiate you into great knowledge.”
“Yes, most likely the inside knowledge of an STD clinic!”
“Okay, so how about: be my priestess?”
“Shades of Valiente. Stamp me with a shelf-life and trade me in for a younger model when I’ve expired. No thank you.”
“So how should a pagan man approach a witch without the fear of having his scrotum turned into a spell pouch?”
“He should tell me things I don’t know. He shouldn’t underestimate my own knowledge. Don’t show me a symbol that you swear is mysterious, when actually it’s known to everyman and his dog. Show me the dark, guide my hand through the shadows, let me touch the unknown.”
“And the chat-up line to launch such a magical mystery tour?”
“Who knows? But part-time pervs like Magister Eros over there don’t even know the alphabet let alone the words.”
“You are a mare. Be prepared for spinsterhood, sister. A man of words AND magic?”
“C’est vrai. He will be nothing less than a god to me.”
“So mote it be.”
“And so it shall be.”
© starofseshat 2008