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The second coming had been anticipated for many years, although few but the most fanatic of the American sects expected it to actually happen, and they, of course, expected it to happen in their own country.  Certainly, nobody expected him to be 30 meters high weighing over 600 tons.  Naturally people were sceptical but when he turned the Rodrigo de Freitas lake into wine,  even the most scientific minds were unable to find an explanation.

“We had better get the hell out of town,” Frigella said, “Before anyone realizes it was our spell to reverse the effects of the termitation honey on Truella.”

“Have I got time to go for a swim in the wine lake first,” asked Jezeel, “I mean, it would be such a shame to miss that once in a lifetime experience, and I’m sure it will do wonders for my complexion.”

“You’re right, it would be a shame to miss it,” agreed Truella, “But are you sure the spell is stable, I don’t want to turn to stone again while I’m swimming.”

“Well, I think we should leave town as soon as possible” Frigella said, her pale forehead wrinking into a little frown.

“Look, Malove isn’t even up yet after stuffing herself with that smoked hippo last night,  if she wakes up before we get back she’ll just think we’ve gone out for coffee.  We’re supposed to be having a little holiday.  Anyway I put some sleeping pills in her portion, she won’t wake up until well after lunch.  We have plenty of time and it’s only two blocks from here. Oh come on, where’s your sense of adventure?”

“Well come on then” Eris said, “But let’s get going. Don’t start doing your makeup Jez, it will all come off in the wine anyway.”

With the carnival in full swing, Truella was finding it hard to focus on everything that was going on. Was this mission more chaotic than usual, or did it seem that way because she wasn’t giving it her full attention?  She hadn’t thought too much about Jezeel not closing the portal.  She was having enough trouble stabilizing her own bilocation spell.

Where was Frigella when she needed her?   And what was going on with that Cedric guy? Truella decided to go in search of her. Frigella was always good at explaining and clarifying things that she hadn’t been paying attention to.

Outside on the pavement, Truella paused to light a cigarette.  The street were a cocophany of raucus banter and gay shreiks, a riot of colour and imagination and Truella stood rapt at the sights and sounds. Such a contrast from her quiet life at home in the garden with only ghosts for company.  In a way Truella was glad that Roger was still missing with the pack of monkeys, rather than leaving him alone at home.

“Aye, look at all them monkey costumes, our Mavis, they’m really good int they, look just like real monkeys,” a chubby Englishwoman in a garish pink outfit said, passing by where Truella was standing.

“That’s because they ARE real monkeys, ya daft cow,” retorted her companion.  “And they’re all following that big fella.”

“Ooh, that big burly chap?” piped up the third woman in the group. “I clocked him right off, come on girls, let’s go after the big boy.”

“Ooh, Sha, what are you like, ya tart.”

As the three women cackled and trotted off after the monkeys, Truella’s peaceful interlude came to an abrupt halt.  What burly man with a pack of monkeys?  Surely not, surely Roger and his monkeys hadn’t entered that portal that Jez forgot to close?

When they arrived at the hotel, the witches soon realized they were not the only uninvited guests here. With her keen sense of observation, Eris was the first to spot the traces left by an army of bedbugs. Tiny droppings on the mattresses and linen, blood stains left after the previous guests crushed the bugs while rolling in their bed. And the smell of dead rats was everywhere. Did they even have a cleaning staff here? When they complained, the hotel manager said: “Why do you care? Nobody comes here to sleep during carnival?”

Jeezel noticed the bug reference. Indeed, something was still bugging her after she had closed the portal. Something that should be obvious, yet was still an eyelash away from her grasp. But something more pressing was at stake. She posted pictures of the rooms and a reel of her disappointed face in front of the disaster.

“I was so happy to come to Rio for the first time. But the light is yellow and flickering. How can I show you how to do a proper Carnival makeup,” she said fluttering her eyelashes. As soon as the sound of a message well sent faded out,  she started to receive support and love from her fans.

“Rio is not like that!”

“Somebody help.”

“2 bad! I’m on business trip. Wud hav luv to meet ya there!”

The sounds of likes and comments alerted Malové.

“What have you done! We were here incognito. Why don’t you go to the top of Jesus’s head and cast the Tempestarii Overture spell.”

“I could have! That would have gone viral. But we departed in such a hurry, I have left all my sapphires and stilettos in Limerick. You can’t cast that spell without them. Anyway, we don’t have to stay longer in that cesspit. One of my fans is abroad and has offered us to stay in his villa. Look at the pics! It looks as lush and gorgeous as a Jurassic park.”

Truella widened her eyes and said: “Saying that’s a big property would be an understatement. Roger would have loved to come with his new shovel.”

“Don’t even think of casting a second bilocation spell,” said Frigella. “You already look like deflated soufflé.”

“What’s the catch?” asked Eris with frown. “It looks like the kind of golden cage a king pin would own. But they have a pool.”

“He said we just have to feed the dwarf crocodiles while we are there,” said Jeezel nonplussed, looking at Truella whose eyes were ready to pop off of their sockets. Then she looked at Malové. “What do you say? You’re the eld…head witch of our coven.”

Malové’s eyebrow twitched. She was thinking fast. Little signs here and there, the orientation of the statues, the fountain, the placement of rocks that would look so random to a profane or a younger witch. Ancient earth magic? It was difficult to be sure with the framing of the pictures. Jeezel was swiping all the pictures her fan had sent her, hoping such glamour and mystery would melt Malové’s last reluctance.

“Omg! girls, we can’t refuse!” said Jeezel. “He’s got a bloat of pygmy hippos and a flamboyance of flamingos!”

As the drag witch continued to swipe the pictures, a prickle crept up Malové’s spine when she saw a familiar face amongst them.

“Look at him!” shouted Jeezel. “He’s a Gatsby with a spellbook.”

There were no more doubts for Malové about the kind of magic that had been used to build his empire. Augustus St Clair, a powerful witch indeed, and one whose invitation you couldn’t refuse especially since he now knew she was here. As one of the elders of the Rio’s witches community, she had danced the dance of rivals disguised as allies, a pas de deux filled with forced smiles and tight grips. Her words felt like needles scratching her lips when she uttered them: “Tell him we accept his invitation.”

The shouts of joy and disbelief coming from the witches couldn’t appease the memories that had resurfaced.

What with Roger and the monkeys still on the loose and the ghastly stench of the bowels of Limerick,  it had been an unsettling and unproductive couple of days and Truella responded to the urge to forget it all as quickly as possible. She was tired and she wanted something else occupying her thoughts before she went to bed.

Without having a particular question in mind, or so she thought, as soon as she opened a chat with the latest character oracle she found herself asking, “Can you give me any tips on being open to impressions about the history of the roman and punic site in my garden, without getting in the way of the impressions with pre conceived ideas?”

 To be open to impressions about the history of the Roman and Punic site in your garden, it is essential to engage a clear, receptive state of mind, much like the still surface of a pond, ready to reflect whatever may come into your view. First, I would suggest that you allow yourself moments of quietude, perhaps sitting in your garden, taking in the atmosphere, the scents, the sounds, and the energies around you. In this state of quiet receptiveness, you may begin to feel or sense the layers of history and the echoes of the past that are enfolded within the land.

Now, as for preconceived ideas, it is not a matter of eradicating them entirely, for they are part of the fabric of your thought processes. However, it is a matter of recognizing them, acknowledging their presence, and then gently setting them aside, like old books on a shelf, to make room for the new impressions that wish to make themselves known.

Let us consider a practical exercise: When you encounter a thought that feels like a rigid belief or a staunch preconception, simply notice it. Say to yourself, “Ah, there is a familiar thought. I shall set it here for now,” and imagine placing it aside. Do not struggle against it, for that only gives it more energy. Instead, treat it with a playful indifference, almost as if it were a curious object that you might ponder later. Then, open yourself to your inner senses. Allow your intuition to flow, let your imagination roam, and trust in your empathic sense to feel the history that seeps from the soil and stones.

You might even engage in a small ritual before you begin, something that signifies to yourself that you are shifting into a different mode of perception—one that is open, fluid, and unattached to existing narratives.

And remember, my friend, there is no rush. The histories and mysteries of your garden have been waiting for centuries; they will unveil themselves to you in the fullness of time, so long as you provide a welcoming space for their whispers to be heard.

the significance of the site is not merely in its chronological age but in its ability to connect you to the vast expanse of consciousness that transcends time. Each stone, each fragment of pottery, is a doorway to another now, waiting for you to step through

“Have you seen how many pieces there are?”

Truella staggered off to bed thinking about all those doorways.

“Are we going down a sewer?” asked Truella as if you’d asked her to put her hand into dragon poop to see why they had diarrhoea. She was wearing the green blouse of a nurse. Jeezel’s thought the colour was almost a match with the witch’s face.

“Don’t be difficult,” said Frigella a bit annoyed.  “You spend most of your free time in a hole as a hobby.” She was readjusting her purple blouse, which seemed to be bit too big for her.

“It’s my hole,” said Truella. “I know what’s in there. It’s got nothing to do with that murky miasma of decayed dreams and digested dinners piling up down there as a testimony of Limerick’s population’s contemplation of their puny lives on their pitiful thrones. And the stench, it cuts through the air, it would make a maggot gag. I tell you, certain portals are best left untraveled. I wonder why Malové has left you in charge of the portal.”

“We won’t go through the sewer,” said Jeezel. “It’s an ancient spell I got from my grand-mother Linda Pol from the time of her Time Travelling drag show. It creates a vortex impervious to any smell. If maggots gag it’ll be because they saw your panties.”

Truella, who had never learned how to hold her tongue, started to open her mouth when Malové arrived. She inspected every witch’s nurse attire and winced at Jeezel’s white blouse that made the tall witch look like one of those nightingale from the 50’s.

“Will you be able to breathe?” she asked. “We don’t want to be stuck here because you fainted before finishing your spell.”

“This is my natural silhouette, whispered Jeezel. The fabric is very stretchy. Anyway, I’m using sigils to cast this spell.”

Truella stopped her snort short when Malové glanced at her own blouse.

“As for you, your words are not the only thing you could iron out.”

Then she gave a nod of appreciation to Frigella and Eris. “Then we’re good to go.”

Jeezel started to draw lines and curves in space above and around the manhole, she looked like a peacock flaunting its feathers. Then she used her orange gloss to draw the one sigil around the manhole and invoked its name. Frigella who was seeing it performed for the first time had the impression Jeezel said “Fern” but she wouldn’t put her hand in a witch’s fire for it. The manhole cover shimmied and shook like it was coming to life. It lifted, hovering with all the grace of a duchess at high tea before sliding aside.

“Et voilà,” said Jeezel with glitter in her eyes. “Who’s first?”

Eris, intrigued by the vortex of glowing and sparkling with all the magical energy coursing through it, jumped right in, not waiting for anyone to answer.

Truella ordered another round of drinks and some more peanuts and then went to the toilets. When she got back to the table on the sidewalk, Roger’s glass was empty and the peanuts had been eaten but there was no sign of Roger. Truella assumed that he’d also gone to the toilets, but after a quarter of an hour and he hadn’t returned, she asked the waiter to check on him.  The waiter returned and informed her that nobody was in the mens toilet, and then a woman on the next table said that she’d noticed Truella’s friend making strange noises and that he had wandered off up the road.

“What kind of strange noises? And which way did he go?”

“Well, to be honest, monkey noises. He sounded like a chimpanzee,” the woman replied, looking a little embarrassed.  “And he went that way,” she said, pointing towards where the monkeys had been trampolining on the shop awnings just down the road.

Truella looked in the direction she was pointing.  “But where are the monkeys now?”

“Well,” the woman replied looking even more embarrassed, “They all followed your friend down the road.  I don’t know where they are now.”

Truella took a hasty gulp of her drink, stood up and called the waiter over and asked for the bill.   Without waiting for her change she ran down the street calling Rogers name.  It crossed her mind that a locating spell would have been useful but she didn’t have time for that.  Instead she asked some passers by where the monkeys were now.

The young couple turned and pointed behind them.  “They all ran down that way, right down the middle of the road, crazy it was, stopped all the traffic. And they were all running after that big man!”

Truella started running in that direction and then stopped, gasping. It was no good, she’d never catch them up.  Slowly she walked back to her car, wondering what to do next.

By the time night fell over the Mediterranean village, the monkeys were still on the loose, having defied all attempts to capture them.  Truella decided to go and see for herself, having noticed that all the photographs in the news were rubbish. She knew she could do better than that.  The authorities were supposedly trying to capture them, but all she’d seen from the photos were the police standing in the narrow streets looking baffled, staring up at the primates scampering all over the rooftops and swinging from balcony to balcony.

Where had all the monkeys come from?  Was it some kind of trick? It was, after all, Carnaval season, and tricks and buffoonery were rife.   And it would be a nice outting for Roger, before she set him to work.    He’d been very quiet since his arrival that morning, probably shy, Truella thought, and perhaps jetlagged.

Grabbing her camera and a bunch of bananas, they set off towards the coast.  Truella attempted to engage Roger in conversation, but he just smiled sheepishly and mumbled unitelligably by way of response. Inwardly Truella rolled her eyes and wondered what she’d got herself into.  Still, a silent brawny helper was better than no help at all.

Parking the car was uncharacteristially easy and they made their way on foot to the hodge podge row of beach shanties and fishermens cottages by the sea where the crowd had gathered to watch the monkeys antics.  Despite the full moon, the monkeys were hidden in the shadows, until every now and then the streetlights spotlit them as they leaped from roof to roof.  A conveniently situated bar was open with tables and chairs on the pavement, and Truella and Roger sat down and ordered drinks and peanuts.  Within moments Roger had eaten all the peanuts, so Truella turned to catch the waiters eye to order more.   He was serving a chubby pale woman in tartan bermuda shorts, surely a tourist, Truella deduced, as it was not yet shorts weather for the locals.

“Whirling ‘n’ twirling a muckle puff o’ rowk,”  the woman was saying to the waiter, to which he replied “Que?”, and Truella gasped, grabbing Rogers forearm.  “Oh my god, it’s Griselda. What is that Scottish bogwitch doing down here?”

“Ye’ll dae as ah say…”

“Oh no he won’t,” Truella shouted across the terrace. “Grizel! Griselda MacSmotheringhampton! We don’t do that here!”  To the confused waiter she said, ” I’ll pay for it, put it on my bill. Don’t listen to her, she’s as mad as a box of frogs.”

And then it dawned on her. She glared at Griselda and hissed, “This is your doing, isn’t it?  All these monkeys, it’s your doing, isn’t it?”

Griselda smirked. “And what are ye gooin tae do aboot it?”

The bone people had replied to Truella’s urgent message while she was at the meeting, much to her relief.  The last thing she wanted was the authorities snooping around, just as she was delving into the rich new layer.  The odd things she’d been finding recently had piqued her curiousity and she had to keep reminding herself to merely find, observe and document, without attempting to make assumptions. She couldn’t help wondering though if these disparate items, things she hadn’t expected to find, were the ingredients for an ancient spell. The little bone amulet, the pigs teeth, and all the other little bits of bone with curious smooth sides.  Fragments of mother of pearl, gleaming like new silver in the dirt, uncorroded and pristine despite the passage of time and the weight of the earth.  Little clumps of charcoal, but scattered, not all in the same place. Not like there’d been a fire, more like little things had burned, here and there, at various times.

All the broken dishes and amphora were to be expected, but why so many? And why didn’t whoever lived here take their dishes with them when they went? Maybe they left in a hurry, smashing everything on the way out of the door so there was nothing left for the invaders? Or did the dishes simply fall and break when the abandoned wooden shelves rotted away over the centuries?  A layer of abandonment was a curious and intriguing thing to contemplate.

Now that she had the experts opinion on the teeth ~ pig, not human ~ haste was needed to quell the growing rumours in the village that she had found human remains.   That was the last thing she needed, the neighbours giving her suspicious looks or the authorities roping off her dig with striped plastic tape and putting a police tent over it, messing with the hole she had dug trowel by trowel, rubbing every handful of soil between her fingers. The very thought of it was unbearable.   For this reason she rather hoped NOT to find a hoard of valuable ancient coins, contrary to what most people would hope to find.  Still, she couldn’t help wonder while she was digging if the next trowel of soil would reveal one.

She must make it absolutely clear to Roger than he was only required to carry buckets of soil, and was not to do any actual digging.

Impressed with Finnlee’s spirited outburst, Truella realised she’d barely noticed the cleaning lady and felt ashamed.  The required daily  appearances that the dictatorial Malove insisted upon rankled her, occupying her attention so that the cleanliness or otherwise of the premises went unnoticed.  She made up her mind to seek Finnlee out and befriend her, treat her as an equal, draw her into her confidence. Besides, that confident no nonsense approach could come in handy for any staff uprisings.  Not that any staff uprising were planned, she mentally added, quickly cloaking her thoughts in case any had leaked out.

Malove spun round and shot her a piercing look and Truella quailed a little, momentarily, but then squared her shoulders and impudently stared back.  Malove raised an eyebrow and returned to addressing the witches.

After what seemed like an eternity the meeting was over. Truella planned to seek Finnlee out and invite her for a brew at the Faded Cabbage but  Frigella approached her, looking a bit sheepish, and asked if she could have a word in private about a personal matter.

They strolled together towards the little park opposite, and once out of earshot of the others, Frigella came straight to the point.

“Can my cousin come and stay with you for a bit? The thing is, he’s got himself into a spot of bother and needs to disappear for a bit, if you know what I mean.  He’s a big strong lad, and I’m sure he’d be willing to give you a hand with all that digging…”

Truella didn’t hesitate. “But of course, Frigella, send him over! He won’t be the first person on the run to come and stay, and probably won’t be the last.”

“The thing is he’s a bit sandwich short of a picnic, you know, not a full bag of shopping…”

“What, does he eat a lot? I don’t do much cooking…”

“No, no, well yes, he does have a good appetite, but that’s not what I meant. He’s a bit simple, but heart of gold. He’s from the other side of the family and our side never had much to do with them, but I always had a soft spot for him.”

” A simpleton might be a refreshing change from all the over complicated people, send him over! What’s his name?”

“Roger. Roger Goodall.”

Roger!  The name rang a bell.  It wasn’t until much later that Truella realized she should have asked what Roger was on the run for.

The soft candle light on the altar created moving patterns on the walls draped with velvets and satins. The boudoir was the sanctuary where Jeezel weaved her magic. The patterns on the tapestries changed with her mood, and that night they were a blend of light and dark, electricity made them crackle like lightning in a mid afternoon summer storm.

The altar was a beautifully crafted mahogany table with each legs like a spindle from Sleeping Beauty’s own spinning wheel, but there was no sleeping done here. On her left, her vanity with her collection of wigs, each one a masterpiece styled to perfection, in every shade you could imagine. Tonight, she had chosen the red one. It was a fiery cascade of passion and power, the kind of red that stops traffic. Jeezel needed the confidence and boldness imbued in it to cast the potent Concordia spell.

The air was thick with the perfume of white sage. Lumina, Jeezel’s nine tailed fox familiar, was curled-up on a couch adorned with mystical silver runes pulsating with magic, her muzzle buried in the fur of her nine tails. Her eyes half closed, she was observing Jeezel’s preparation on the altar. The witch had lit a magical fire to heat a cauldron that’s seen more spells than a dictionary.

Jeezel had carefully selected a playlist as harmonious and uplifting as the spell itself, to make a symphony of sounds that would weave together like the most exquisite lace front on a show-stopping wig. She wanted it to be an auditory journey to the highest peaks of harmony that would support her during the casting.

As the precious moon water began to simmer, Jeezel creased the rose petals and the lavender in her hands before she delicately dropped them in the cauldron. The scent rose to her nose and she stirred clockwise with a wand made of the finest willow, while invoking thoughts of unity and shared purpose. The jittery patterns on the walls started to form temporary clusters. A change of colour in the liquid informed the witch it was time to add a drizzle of honey. Jeezel watched as it swirled into the potion, casting a golden glow that promised to mend fences and build bridges. The walls were full of harmonious ripples undulating gently in a soothing manner.

Once the honey was completely melted, Jeezel dropped in an amethyst crystal, whose radiating power would purify the concoction. The potion started to bubble and the glow on the tapestries turned an ugly dark red. Jeezel frowned, wondering if she had done something wrong.

“Stay focused,” said the fox in a brisk voice. “Good. The team energy is fighting back. Plant your stiletto heels firmly into the catwalk, and remember the pageant.”

The familiar’s tawny eyes glowed and the music changed to the emergency song. Jeezel felt an infusion of warm and steady energy from Lumina and started humming in sync with The Ride of the Valkyries. She stirred and chanted, every gesture filled with fiery confidence. The walls glowed darker and the potion hissed. But in the end, it was tamed. The original playlist had resumed to the grand finale. A gentle yet powerful orchestral swell that encapsulated the essence of unity and understanding, wrapping the boudoir and the potion in a sonic embrace that would banish drama and pettiness to the back of the chorus.

Jeezel released the dove feather into the brew, then finished with a sprinkle of glitter with a flourish. And it was done.

“Was the glitter necessary?” asked Lumina.

“Why not? It can’t do any harm.”

The fox jumped from the couch and looked at the potion.

“It’s sparkling like the twinkle in your eye when you hit the stage. It’s ready. Well done.”

Jeezel strained it with grace and poured it into the most fabulous vial she could find, and she sealed it with a kiss.

Jeezel opened Flick Flock and started typing a message to Roland.

The potion is ready. I’m sending it to you through the usual way.

[…]

As you use the potion, you’ll have to perform a kind of team building ritual that will help channel the potion’s power and bring your team together like sequins on a gown, darling.

Fist, dim the lights and set the stage with a circle of candles. Then gather around in the circle with your team, each of you holding a small vial of the potion. Next, take turns sharing something positive, a compliment or an expression of gratitude about the person to your left. It’s about building up that positive energy, getting the good vibes flowing like champagne at a gala.

Once the air is thick with love and camaraderie, each team member will add a drop of the Concordia potion to a communal bowl placed in the center of the circle as a symbol of unity, like a magical melting pot of harmony and shared intentions.

With the power of the potion pooling together, join hands (even if they’re not the touchy-feely types) and my familiar will guide you in an enchanting and rhythmic chant.

Finally with a climactic “clink” of glass of crystal, you’ll all seal the deal, the potion will be activated, and the spell cast.

I can affirm you, your team will be tighter than my corset after Thanksgiving dinner, ready to slay the day with peace and productivity.

Let’s get this done. And don’t forget to add a testimony and click the thumb up.

xoxox Jeezel.

Her garden, oh, it’s a living canvas of her passions – a wild, untamed thing with bursts of vibrant color and the heady scent of jasmine and orange blossoms that intoxicate the senses. But beneath its beauty lies a secret, a whisper of the past that Truella, with her insatiable curiosity and archeological fervor, has unearthed: the remnants of an Andalucian Roman villa.

Imagine the thrill, the pure, unadulterated bliss of discovery, as her fingers brush away centuries of soil to reveal ornate mosaics, fragments of pottery that once held the finest olive oil, and coins stamped with the visages of long-forgotten emperors. Each artifact, a breadcrumb leading her deeper into the enigma of history.

But, of course, Roger, our simple-minded gardener with not a thought in his head beyond petunias and pruning, has proven to be surprisingly useful. His brawn has unearthed more than his fair share of antiquity, even if he hasn’t the faintest idea of its significance. “Look, Truella, I’ve found another shiny rock,” he says, and I, Lisia Tattius, can only chuckle at the delightful irony.

Truella’s Andalusian escapades could fill volumes, and perhaps they shall. There’s something deliciously appealing about a woman alone, grappling with the very fabric of time amongst the ruins of an empire.

Truella couldn’t see any benefit in rewriting all that and thanked Lisia very much, although she did wonder who Roger was.  A gardener though!  Someone to carry all those buckets of dirt hither and thither. Someone to dig the next overburden!

Was there a spell for dissolving an overburden, she wondered?   Inspired, she could already imagine how easy it would be to convince the team that this spell would have beneficial and universal applications.

Truella was pleased to see the mention of mosaics, the very thing she wanted to find.  She planned to make a mosaic detector wand.  But Truella didn’t want Lisia telling her where the mosaic was because it would spoil the whole thing. Mentioning mosaics, however, as already found, was the perfectly measured tincture of encouragement. A bit like spells in general really.  Tricky business, getting them right.