Search Results for 'hear'

Penelope Pomfrett: Let’s start with Penelope, shall we? She’s a statuesque woman with a sharp, angular face that could cut through butter – not unlike an Egon Schiele painting, if you’re familiar. Her hair’s a spun silver waterfall, always meticulously pinned up but with just a touch of wildness trying to escape, like she’s taming a tempest on top of her head. Her eyes are a piercing cerulean blue, always calculating, always observing; she’s the type who looks right through you and into your deepest secrets.

Personality-wise, Penelope’s got the demeanor of a headmistress crossed with a lioness. She’s precise, a bit of a perfectionist, never suffers fools gladly. But beneath that stern exterior, she’s got a heart of gold, especially when it comes to her coven sisters. Stern loyalty and high standards, that’s her in a nutshell. And she’s got this dry wit that’ll catch you off guard and have you chuckling before you know it.

Sandra Salt: Now Sandra, she’s a different kettle of fish altogether. Think earthy, grounded; she’s got that warm, approachable vibe that’s almost tangible. Picture her with curly auburn hair, always escaping its braids to frame her face in a halo of fiery ringlets. She’s got freckles smattered across her sun-kissed cheeks and a smile that feels like coming home after a long journey. Eyes? Warm hazel, like caramel with a hint of green, always twinkling with some hidden mischief or gentle wisdom.

Sandra’s personality is as grounded as the soil she loves to dig her fingers into; she’s the heart and soul of the crew, with an infectious laugh that could light up the darkest of days. She’s nurturing, perceptive, and has an uncanny knack for making everyone feel at ease. But don’t mistake her kindness for softness – she’s got a spine of steel and can summon a fierce storm if she’s wronged.

Audrey Ambrose: Now, dear Audrey, she’s a bit of a mysterious beauty. Think raven-black hair that falls in silky waves down her back, always perfectly styled without a hair out of place. She’s got porcelain skin, smooth and almost ethereal, like moonlight itself took her under its wing. Her eyes are a deep, striking emerald, always seeming to know more than she lets on. Add to that a penchant for elegant, vintage clothing, and you’ve got yourself a picture of classic, timeless beauty.

In terms of personality, Audrey’s a quiet storm. She’s enigmatic, often found lost in thought, with a deep, contemplative nature. While she may come off as aloof, she’s deeply empathetic and has an old-soul wisdom that guides her every action. She’s the sort you turn to when you need profound insight or a steady hand in times of chaos. And that wit – it’s as sharp as her fashion sense, subtle, and spot-on.

Sassafras Bentley: Lastly, let’s paint a picture of Sassafras. She’s vibrant and flamboyant, tall, thin and athletic, with hair dyed in shades of a peacock’s feathers – blues, greens, purples – ever changing with her whims. Her outfits are always eclectic and bold, but practical. She’s got a long hatchet face, and eyes that are a sparking topaz, full of zest and life ~ and secret undercurrents.

Sassafras is the party animal of the lot, always bringing fun and chaos in equal measure. She’s got a joie de vivre that’s downright infectious, a real firecracker with boundless energy. Her natural charisma draws people in, and her laugh – oh, her laugh! – it’s the kind of sound that warms the soul and invites everyone to join in her revelries, unless she’s being rude, aloof and secretive. Underneath all that sparkle, though, she’s fiercely protective of those she loves and more insightful than she lets on.

A little unwilling to proceed, and privately wishing she was back on the comfy sofa with the fat cushions, Frella took a moment to center herself. She reminded herself that being a witch was a high calling and often what we need will find us. It sounded like a lot of Malove’s baloney to be honest but she took a deep breath and muttered a few words of wisdom from Lemone, which often worked better than any spell:

“The key to unlocking mysteries is often found within, where the mind meets the heart.”

“You wait here, Herma,” said Frella holding a warning hand in the air. “I don’t know what magic this is yet but I sense something amiss from that shed.”

Frella approached the ominous shed with caution but renewed determination. The shed door creaked open without resistance and she saw the chest immediately though it was piled on top with boxes. After carefully removing the boxes and putting them to one side, she examined the chest looking for any inscriptions or hidden compartments that might give a clue to its origins. She sensed the camphor chest was from a very old witch family and therefore may contain protective spells and traps. Best to proceed with caution.

She went to the shed door and waved at Herma, shouting for her to go and get some salt. While she waited for Herma’s return, she examined the chest further. It had a lock, but no obvious key; clearly a bit of witchy ingenuity was going to be required. A simple unlocking spell might suffice, or if spells fail, perhaps Herma knows an old trick or two for picking locks!

Herma returned with the salt and Frella sprinkled it liberally on the chest, chanting a protective charm to ward off any nefarious spells. “There,“ she said with satisfaction. “Fingers crossed that ought to do it.”

The chest seemed strangely willing to reveal its secrets for the simplest of opening spells worked. Once it was opened, they sifted carefully through its contents, mostly old documents and letters, looking for anything which might hold the answer to the postcard.

“Look for anything bird-related—feathers, sketches … “ instructed Frella.

“By golly!” cried Herma triumphantly holding up a postcard. “It’s the same one!”.

When Truella had stopped reacting, she had another look over the memo, noticing the location of the preposterous sounding coven they were to associate with.  She had assumed that it would be in the north, or at least in Madrid, but was astonished to discover they were based very close to her village. She wondered why she had never heard of them. She supposed that they did their money minded business elsewhere and were merely based here, hidden in the cork woods, masquerading as one of those ghastly upmarket hotels for corrupt politicians.  One could only see the distinctive tower from the roads, as the old convent was hidden deep in the woods.  Nobody Truella knew had ever had any money to get through the gates and have a closer look.

This gave Truella an idea. What an opportunity!  It would give her a way in.

Actually, I think it might be a great idea, girls. Let’s give it our best shot. Austreberthe has my support on this.

Eris, Frella and Zez nearly dropped their gadgets when they read Truella’s latest message.  Frella was the first to respond.

Go on then, tell us. What changed your mind?

Location, location, location! Truella replied. Check out where they’re based!

After a few minutes, Frella replied.

You better spill the beans and tell us what you’re planning. That is, if you want us to cooperate with you and go along with this latest trashy money grabbing fiasco in the making.  I thought our plan was to have the summer off?  What does the location mean to you?

Speak for yourself, Frella, Eris replied, rather miffed. At least she’s going to go along with it, for Flove’s sake, let’s just do what we’ve been asked to do without complaining for once!

I’m with you, Eris, Jeezel piped up, I quite fancy a flamenco puffer jacket.  Or a nice knitted sombrero.  And we can visit Truella while we’re there on business.

Outnumbered, Frella sighed. I still think Truella should explain. Explain fully. And don’t expect me anytime soon, either. I have to solve the mystery of the camphor chest first.

As the crow flies, the Airbnb was about 500 meters from Herma’s cottage. Frella had been too exhausted yesterday to appreciate how pretty the mossy brick path was, lined either side with a profusion of colourful flowers. But was it really just yesterday, she wondered? So much had happened back at the coven — as recounted in a relentless flow of messages from Truella. Time was a funny beast.

As they walked the winding path, Herma explained that, many years ago now, the prior owner of the cottage had left behind a number of his belongings with the promise he would return for them as soon as he was settled. “But the blighter never did come back and I never heard from him again.” She stopped just short of the gate to her cottage and waved an arm towards a big old shed with a tractor parked outside and a couple of sheep grazing contentedly. “We stuck his stuff in there in the end when he didn’t come back. I know there’s a camphor chest — it nearly broke my back — but I don’t know what’s in it. Do you think that might be it?”

Unfortunately Frella was distracted from replying right away by another volley of messages from Truella with the latest mind boggling developments.

“What’s so bad about the Middle Ages, Eris?” asked Truella, bridling. “I’ve been saying all along, we need to return to our roots, get back to the real thing, ditch the modern corporate world that has nothing to do with witchcraft.”

“It won’t be all lutes and jesters, you know,” Frella said with a frown. “I think you’re romanticising it.  They did all sorts of dreadful things for money, even back then.”

“Gorgeous pointy hats though, Frell, and richly embroidered gowns and robes, men in tights and pointy shoes….”

Eris glared at Jez. “Who’s romanticising now?  You’re forgetting the rank smell of unwashed bodies, the foul rotten food..”

“We’re not literally going back in time!” Truella said in exasperation. “Just adopting a different outlook, we can still wash for Flove’s sake!  I don’t like the sound of Austreberthe though,” she added.  “Sounds like a character out of a 1940’s German coven of the worst possible sort.”

“That’s a step too far, Truella,” Frella gasped. “You can’t say things like that about people, especially your superiors.”

“What do you mean can’t, I just did,” Truella retorted hotly. “And that right there is the problem, can’t you see? Nobody is superior! Anyway, how do we know Malove appointed her? Maybe she’s just seized the opportunity, a chancer in a power vacuum, and here you all are, just drooling at the opportunity to kowtow to yet another old dragon past her sell by date.”

“You’ll end up in the stocks on the village green, you will, being pelted with tomatos by the peasants, if she hears you.”  Jez was examining her nails. “Did they have nail varnish in the Middle Ages?”

“The world is vast, and we are not alone in our quest for magical mastery. We will forge new partnerships!” Malove’s voice had reached fever pitch. She had expanded her map, showing potential allies and strategic locations across the globe. Reactions in the audience varied, but there was an overwhelming unspoken consensus of a growing rebellion towards the unsettling increase in Malove’s dictatorial ways.

Perhaps nobody will ever know for sure whose private spell did the trick, or whether it was the combined effort that brought about such an unexpected chain of events. Maybe it was none of those things, and just the way things worked out.

The vast world that Malove had cried out heard her call and sucked her forthwith into the steamy depths of a hitherto unknown equatorial location in search of potential allies.  An unexpected invitation from a long lost cousin, it was said, although nobody in the coven knew for sure.  There was more lively interest in the coven and more communication between the witches during those days when Malove disappeared without trace than ever before.

On the twelfth day after her disappearance, the cryptic messages started arriving. On the 15th day, experts were examining the selfies for signs of tampering and pronouncing them to be be true images.

It wasn’t easy to imagine Malove swooning in her tropical lovers arms under parrot filled jungle trees, sheathed in gauzy crumpled linen and with a vapid expression of a Cartland character, but the photos kept coming.

It seemed too bizarre, too good to be true, when Malove sent a voice message  in her unmistakable voice, but with an uncharacteristic lazy, sultry tone.

“Darlings, you won’t beleive it. I’ve fallen in love!  I’m taking an indefinite leave of absence.”

Truella sighed.  She was making good progress with the dig, the weather was favorable and not too hot yet.  It was only a matter of weeks before she would have to start at first light before the sun became too intense, and reverse her current habit of  a slow morning and a busy afternoon.  Perhaps she should wait before filling in Frella’s diary entry.  Was she going to write it herself this time?  If only Truella knew for sure.  At least Jeezel was feeling a bit better, which was a relief to them all, and it seemed that Eris was lightening up a bit now too.  Thank Flove for that!  Better not let Malove know too soon though, or she’d have them all off on another of those tedious conferences.  Wouldn’t it be nice if Malove let them all have a long summer recess, Truella thought, without much hope. She sighed again, wondering if Frella had progressed any further with the mystery of the camphor chest.

Truella had heard of camphor, of course, but associated it with moth balls, not chests. Camphor chests were a Chinese thing, and none of her studies or interests had ever taken her that far east.  It struck her that a camphor chest would be a good place to store the fragments of Hannibal’s tunic safely, until such time as they required another antidote to an ancient Punic spell. And it could happen.  Truella wondered if she could order a small one off Oboy.  One could order anything one could imagine these days, from anywhere in the world, but a guaranteed delivery to Truella’s village was another matter.

The pale blue sandals had arrived yesterday though, much to her delighted surprise.  It had helped when she recognised the postman as a Roman basket seller in a previous life. At that moment, Truella’s postal delivery experiences changed.  It was as if the unwinnable battle with giant delivery companies morphed into a cooperation of village tradesmen.  Glancing admiringly at her pristine new sandals, Truella smiled with satisfaction.  Things could change for the better. Indeed, they could.

“Don’t be so quick to Judge, Frel,” I tried to point out to her that she was being put off by the womans garrulous ways and sheer bulk.  “She may have a heart of gold underneath, notwithstanding her taste in doormats.”

“I came here to relax, though. Maybe I should go to Madeira after all, if she’s going to keep barging in here,” Frella sighed.

I reminded her that Herma had asked for her help, and that she knew perfectly well that it was a dishonour to refuse a request for help.  Frella reminded me that it was also acceptable to refuse a request based on the Caryatid Characteristics of the Case.  This was no doubt true, but I was struggling to recall what I’d learned about such cases. Something about shouldering a shared burden.

Madeira! Good grief,” murmured Frella when she read Truella’s message. Of course Madeira! Not some godforsaken Airbnb on a gloomy coast that smelt of rotting fish and doom … and just because Malove recommended it! She felt the familiar wave of anxiety which thoughts of Malove tended to evoke in her and took a couple of deep steadying breaths. Why Malove had recommended this place was beyond her comprehension but there had surely been strange undercurrents in the coven of late.

Frella was still wondering how to respond to Truella’s message; it was galling to have to admit she was right, when there was a sharp knock on the door. In no mood for visitors of any description, Frella considered ignoring it. Next moment there was a sound of the key rattling in the lock.

“Look at that! You are here!” cried Herma as she burst into the room. Her voice held a hint of reproach and Frella stuttered awkwardly that she’d been about to answer.

“Oh tut tut don’t you worry!” She plonked down next to Frella on the sofa causing it to creak under her not inconsiderable weight. “Ah, that’s better, haven’t I been racing around all morning.” She smiled at Frella. “Lordy, but I know what you witches are like; I’ve had enough of you lot stay here through the years. I’m surprised you didn’t cast one of them invisibility spells you’re all so good at!” She laughed heartily and Frella forced herself to chuckle in response. Then they lapsed into silence.

“Can I get you a cup of tea?” asked Frella eventually, much as she was loath to encourage Herma who appeared to be fixated on the mat. Frella couldn’t see anything amiss although the mat was arguably a little garish with its multi-coloured checkerboard pattern.

“It’s not tea I’m after,” said Herma. “It’s your help I need.”

“Not another one!” exclaimed Truella. “Another time and money wasting conference in another bloody castle!”

Eris sighed. “It’s a party, a birthday party, not a conference. You know, one of those fun things that people do for entertainment.”

“If Malove planned it there is bound to be a catch. It’s another money making pushy sales thing, I bet.”

“Actually,” Frella ventured timidly, “You’re right, it’s not just a birthday party.”

“How would you know?” Jez was blunt.

Frella stammered nervously, “Well I, er, I overheard a snatch of conversation, you see…”

Jeezel gave her a piercing look and said “And? What did you overhear?”

“Something about the pink spider. We have to find it for some reason, before the others do. Well of course Malove was going to tell us,” Frella rolled her eyes at Truella, “But not until we got there, at the last minute. And no, I don’t know why. And I don’t know what the pink spider is, either. But maybe we can find out before we get there.”

“What’s the castle and where is it?” asked Truella.

“It’s the Flossy Liar Chateau,” replied Eris, “In France somewhere.  Maybe you can find out some of the history, Tru. Frella, do some research on the botanical garden. And Jez, the costumes…”

“Getting a bit bossy, aint she,” Jez said to nobody in particular, and to Eris she asked sweetly, “And you, dear? What will you be researching?”

“Why, the legends of witchcraft, obviously. There are bound to be some legends and witchcraft.”

“In the shadow of monumental discovery, the heart races with the rhythm of ancient drums; yet often, silence follows the fanfare, leaving the soul to dance alone in the quiet aftermath.”

~Echoes of Antiquity, Amish P. Lwellmon.

“Good morning.” Truella started nervously. “Good morning!” she repeated in a more confident tone, remembering her intention, as she scanned all the attentive faces in the audience.

“You are gathered here, my friends, colleagues and competetive others,  to hear me talk about new sales channels, market studies, double digit growth, and all the rest of it.  But I am not going to talk about that. I am a witch, not a business woman.  I am an amateur archaeologist, not a business woman.  And I am not a competetive witch.” she added, glaring pointedly at some of the witches in the audience. “And I know nothing about sales and marketing.”

“I am an honest witch! A straightforward well meaning witch with a desire to help others, and that has little to do with marketing and digits, double or otherwise.  My words of widsom to you all this day is this: this coven has taken a destructive turn, and it’s time to return to our roots. The timeless duty of the naturally helpful community member with special skills. Not the self serving profit and sales motivated capitalist modern witchery that we see here, with these modern money and time wasting conferences.”

Frella glanced worriedly at Malove, whose face was puce with rage.  Truella had avoided looking in the direction of Malove but Frella’s movement caught her eye, and she faltered for a moment before continuing.

“I’m here to tell you, it’s time to take direct action and strike until the leaders of this shambolic institution return to proper and honourable witchy ways.”

A few gasps were heard in the audience, breaking the uncomfortable silence. Then Eris started to clap, quietly and slowly at first but then louder. Others started joining in.  Eris and Jez stood up, raising their hands above their heads to clap loudly.  Frella remained seated with the baby on her lap, although she held the baby’s hands and patted them together in a show of solidarity.  With that, the baby turned into a seal and soon slithered off Frella’s lap and humped off to find the ornamental lake.

“Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have spells to do for the needy ~ for free, as a good witch should.” And with that Truella flounced out of the conference room.

It was early morning, too early if you asked some. The fresh dew of Limerick’s morn clinged to the old stones of King John’s castle like a blanket woven from the very essence of dawn. The castle was not to open its doors before 3 hours, yet a most peculiar gathering was waiting at the bottom of the tower closest to the Shannon river.

“6am! Who would wake that early to take a bus?” asked Truella, as fresh as a newly bloomed poppy. She had no time to sleep after a night spent scattering truelles all around the city. “And where are the others?” she fumed, having forgotten about the resplendent undeniable presence she had vowed to embody during that day.

Frigella, leaning against a nearby lamppost, her arms crossed, rolled her eyes. “Jeezel? Malové? Do you even want an answer?” she asked with a wry smile. All busy in her dread of balls, she had forgotten she would have to travel with her friends to go there, and support their lamentations for an entire day before that flucksy party. Her attire was crisp and professional, yet one could glimpse the outlines of various protective talismans beneath the fabric.

Next to them, Eris was gazing at her smartphone, trying not to get the other’s mood affect her own, already at her lowest. A few days ago, she had suggested to Malové it would be more efficient if she could portal directly to Adare manor, yet Malové insisted Eris joined them in Limerick. They had to travel together or it would ruin the shared experience. Who on earth invented team building and group trips?

“Look who’s gracing us with her presence,” said Truella with a snort.

Jeezel was coming. Despite her slow pace and the early hour, she embodied the unexpected grace in a world of vagueness. Clumsy yet elegant, she juggled her belongings — a hatbox, a colorful scarf, and a rather disgruntled cat that had decided her shoulder was its throne. A trail of glitters seemed to follow her every move.

“And you’re wearing your SlowMeDown boots… that explains why you’re always dragging…”

“Oh! Look at us,” said Jeezel, “Four witches, each a unique note in the symphony of existence. Let our hearts beat in unison with the secrets of the universe as we’re getting ready for a magical experience,” she said with a graceful smile.

“Don’t bother, Truelle. You’re not at your best today. Jeez is dancing to a tune she only can hear,” said Frigella.

Seeing her joy was not infectious, Jeezel asked: “Where’s Malové?”

“Maybe she bought a pair of SlowMeDown boots after she saw yours…” snorted Truella.

Jeezel opened her mouth to retort when a loud and nasty gurgle took all the available place in the soundscape. An octobus, with magnificently engineered tentacles, rose from the depth of the Shannon, splashing icy water on the quatuor. Each tentacle, engineered to both awe and serve, extended with a grace that belied its monstrous size, caressing the cobblestones of the bridge with a tender curiosity that was both wild and calculated. The octobus, a pulsing mass of intelligence and charm, settled with a finality that spoke of journeys beginning and ending, of stories waiting to be told. Surrounded by steam, it waited in the silence.

Eris looked an instant at the beast before resuming her search on her phone. Frigella, her arms still crossed and leaning nonchalantly against the lamppost, raised an eyebrow. Those who knew her well could spot the slight widening of her eyes, a rare show of surprise.

“Who put you in charge of the transport again?” asked Truella in a low voice as if she feared to attract the attention of the creature.

“Ouch! I didn’t…”, started Jeezel, trying to unclaw the cat from her shoulders.

“I ordered the Octobus,” said Malové’s in a crisp voice.

Eris startled at the unexpected sound. She hadn’t heard their mentor coming.

“If you had read the memo I sent you last night, you wouldn’t be as surprised. But what did I expect?”

The doors opened with a sound like the release of a deep-sea diver’s breath.

“Get on and take a seat amongst your sisters and brothers witches. We have much to do today.”

With hesitation, the four witches embarked, not merely as travelers but as pioneers of an adventure that trenscended the mundane morning commute. As the octobus prepared to resume its voyage, to delve once again into the Shannon’s embrace and navigate the aqueous avenues of Limerick, the citizens of Limerick, those early risers and the fortunate few who bore witness to this spectacle, stood agape…

“Oh! stop it with your narration and your socials Jeez,” said Truella. “I need to catch up with slumber before we arrive.”

“I don’t,” chipped in Frella. “I don’t like hats. I don’t like parties either. I don’t like large crowds of inebriated people and I don’t like loud music, unless it is music of my choosing, which it never is at parties. I don’t like shouting to be heard and I don’t like all the stupid hullabaloo that an event such as this inevitably entails.”

Frella’s perfume, still a closely guarded secret, was nearly completed to her satisfaction. A consequence of working out what she loved, and adding the corresponding olfactory notes to her concoction, was that she had become very definite about what she didn’t like.  It wasn’t exactly making her popular she realised as she noticed Truella’s pained expression.