-
Search Results
-
In reply to: The Incense of the Quadrivium’s Mystiques
Jeezel tilted her head, scrutinizing the frame with the practiced eye of a social media sorceress. The lighting was perfect—each flickering hue of orange and blue cast an ethereal glow over the witches’ relaxed forms. It was the kind of aesthetic her followers adored: ancient mysticism meets futuristic chic. The “techno-witch” hashtag would trend for weeks.
She whispered a quick spell under her breath—just a touch of glamour magic to ensure the shadows curved flatteringly across their faces. Never leave it all to filters, she reminded herself. Technology might be powerful, but spells were eternal.
As the camera hovered over Eris, Jeezel panned dramatically, emphasizing the stiff pose that made her friend look like an extra from an undead fashion campaign. “Timeless and terrifying,” Jeezel murmured approvingly. Frella’s melancholic pout came next, her expression so perfectly tragic it might summon a thousand sympathetic comments. #WitchSadGirlAesthetic.
And Truella—oh, Truella. Jeezel stifled a laugh as she zoomed in on the haphazard limbs sprawled across the pod, her fingers angled like she was trying to signal something in a forgotten language. Maybe a plea for help from the gods of symmetry.
“Goddess-tier content,” Jeezel whispered as she adjusted the selfie stick for the final shot: a dramatic sweep across the room, showing the full ambiance of their enchanted retreat. The subtle hum of spells harmonizing with the VR pods’ whirring was audible in the background. She imagined the caption now:
“Modern coven vibes; Ancient spells, virtual worlds, and one unforgettable vacation. #TechnoWitchLife #VacationMagic #TimeTravelGoals”
Perfect. Another masterpiece to feed the algorithm.
With a satisfied smirk, she hit “post” and leaned back into her own pod. Her followers would marvel at the blend of mystique and modernity—and probably try to copy the look themselves. As the first comments rolled in, Jeezel couldn’t help but think, The real magic these days isn’t just in the spells we cast—it’s in the stories we tell.
In reply to: The Incense of the Quadrivium’s Mystiques
Although the small hotel was tucked in a relatively quiet corner, and despite the authentic but delightfully shabby interior of soothing dimensions ~ roomy and airy, but not vast and terrifyingly empty ~ the constant background hum of city life was making Truella yearn for the stillness of home. Not that home was silence, indeed not: the background tranquility was frequently punctuated with noises, many strident. A dog barks, a neighbour shouts, a car drives past from time to time. But the noises have an identifiable individuality and reason, unlike the continual maddening drone of the metropolis.
She was pleased to find her room had a little balcony. Even if the little wooden chair was rickety and uncomfortable, it was enough to perch on to enjoy a cigarette and breathe in the car fumes. Truella slept fitfully, waking to remember Tolkeinesque snapshots of dreams, drifting off again and returning to wakefullness with snatches of conversations in unknown tongues. Sitting on the balcony in the deep dark hours of the night, the street below, now quiet, shivered and changed, her head still swimming with dream images. She caught glimpses of people as they passed, vivid, clear and full of character. Many who passed were carrying bunches of grasses or herbs or wildflowers in their hands, the women with a basket over their arm and a shawl draped over their head or shoulders.
Hardly any men though, I wonder why?
When Truella mentioned it over breakfast the next moring, Eris said “You’ve been reading too much of that new gender and feminist anthropology stuff over on GreenGrotto.”
Laughing, Truella tipped another packet of sugar in her coffee. “I love the colour of the walls in here,” she said, gazing around the breakfast room. “A sort of bright but muted sun shining on a white wall. Nice old furniture, too.”
“Tell me about the old furniture, the mirror in my room is all speckled, makes me look like I have blemishes all over my face,” said Zeezel with a toss of her head. “Can I have your sugar, Frella, if you’re not having it,” adding I’m on holiday by way of excuse.
Absentmindely Frella passed over the paper packet. “I had strange dreams last night too…about that place we’re supposed to be going to a picnic to later.”
Catching everyones attention, she continued, “The abandoned colosseum with Giovanni, with all the vines and flowers. It was like a game board and the stone statues were the players and they moved around the board, Oh! and such a beautiful board it was with all the vines and flowers ….. ”
“Gosh” said Truella, leaning back and folding her hands. What an idea.
In reply to: The Incense of the Quadrivium’s Mystiques
Jeezel was reading the ‘Love Among the Ruins‘ by famous author Liz Tatler, sitting comfortably in her favourite chair.
“Celestine, darling,” Vivienne St Clair exclaimed, her perfectly arched brow lifting as she set down her champagne glass, “you mean to tell me you’ve been lounging by your pool on what might very well be the throne of some Roman goddess? And you wouldn’t let me near it? Honestly, the nerve of you!”
She adjusted her silk scarf with a dramatic flourish, her green eyes sparkling mischievously. “Though I must say, I do admire your determination to get that pool built before I could turn it into some excavation site. Practical as ever, aren’t you, darling?”
As the mention of the mosaic came up, Vivienne St Clair froze mid-sip of her drink, her expression an artful mixture of shock and indignation. “Lost? The Aramanthus Mosaic, lost? Oh, Celestine, this is beyond belief. It’s a tragedy of epic proportions! Worse than the time Aunt Agatha’s pearls were stolen during the garden party—at least we found those under the butler’s cushion.”
She leaned in conspiratorially, her voice dropping to a whisper. “Celestine, my dear, if the Barcelona museum can’t find it, then someone must! Perhaps I should enlist one of my… shall we say… resourceful acquaintances. A charming rogue with a penchant for treasures, perhaps?”
Then, with a dramatic sigh, she sank back into her chair, looking every inch the heroine caught in a whirlwind of intrigue. “Celestine, life is simply too absurd sometimes. Roman ruins, lost mosaics, and a bench fit for an empress—I can hardly keep up.”
Jeezel almost choked on a mint leaf. What a bunch of amateurs, if they had to deal with a tenth of what her coven had been through these last few months…
In reply to: The Incense of the Quadrivium’s Mystiques
All their owls screeched at the same time across the vast distances separating them.
Malové’s voice on them. “I just got off the phone with the Headwitch of Salem. Witch hunting season is back on, can you believe it? Didn’t we have countermeasures in place? Who was in charge of the Lump thwarting warting spell? Come at once!”
In Limerick, Finnley snickered, only mildly annoyed at the sound of all the parked owls in the mostly empty Quadrivium building. Oh, I see. It’s all gone pear-shaped, has it? Witch hunting season indeed! You’d think by now they’d have sorted their spells and counter-spells like a proper orderly lot. Honestly, if it were up to me, I’d have those countermeasures filed, organized, and triple-checked like my cleaning supplies. As for whoever’s in charge of the “Lump thwarting warting spell”—sounds like someone needs a good talking-to. Probably spent too much time nattering about and not enough focusing on their spellwork. Typical, isn’t it?
Elsewhere in the Northern forest, Eris shrugged at the sound hooting echoing. “When I told them something was wrong with Malové, it was her charge all along. Now, let’s wait and see to find someone brave enough to say it to her face.”
Somewhere and somewhen else, Truella and Frella and Jeezel were probably thinking the same, unless they got lost themselves in the Well of Crom, a surefire way to stay clear of Malové’s screeching owls.
In reply to: The Incense of the Quadrivium’s Mystiques
“You’re too kind!” Truella said, hugging Frella. “I love this box! However did you guess it was just what I wanted!”
Frella bit her lip and smiled sweetly. She had no option as she was wearing her pyjamas of politeness. She felt a strong urge to go and change out of them and put something else on, but it was nearly bed time and she didn’t want to have to explain to Truella why she was getting changed again.
“What a funny mix up with those Cromwells, eh,” Truella said conversationally, after wrapping the sharing shawl round her shoulders. “You must tell me ALL about Oliver. Did it all start with the postcards like me and Thomas?”
Frella groaned inwardly, but continued to smile patiently. “Er no, actually it was that mirror in the camphor chest. Here,” she said, handing Truella the slippers of sleepiness, “Keep your feet warm.”
“You’re so kind,” Truella said, yawning. “You can tell me all about Oliver tomorrow, I’m off to bed.”
As soon as she was alone, Frella pulled off her pyjamas, rolled them into a bundle of blunder, and threw them across the room. The bundle knocked the mirror off the Queen Anne pie crust end table, which landed at her feet, shimmering like mother of pearl. Frella looked down in horror at the face in the mirror looking up at her. She was wearing nothing but socks of shame.
In reply to: Two Aunties au Pair and Their Pert Carouses
“Oh sweet revenge…” November was looking gleeful, and truth be told, too smug. With a tinge of orange anticipating a delectable tapestry of chaos.
The results had come as cold as an early winter for a world standing on the precipice of another era under President Lump’s reign.
“The winds of change rustling the curtains of the Beige House once more. And amidst this swirling tempest of political intrigue, our story unfurls with the maids au pair at its heart.”
“Liz, are you sure this is wise to pursue?”
“Oh stop, it Godfrey, the harm is done, November was written already in that story; I knew she would spell trouble from the beginning. And please, don’t interrupt.”
As April and June departed to pursue their ventures—perhaps April embarked on a global crusade for environmental stewardship while June disappeared into the realms of espionage, her whereabouts known only to the shadows—November emerged, a true force of nature. With an iron will and a meticulous attention to detail, she transformed the Beige House into a bastion of order amid political disarray under old Joe Mitten—bless his bumbling heart. Her reign as the clandestine conductor of this domestic symphony was nothing short of legendary.
During those four years, November proved herself indispensable. She orchestrated everything from state dinners to covert intelligence briefings, all while maintaining the perfect façade of domestic tranquility. The press would whisper her name, speculating on her true influence behind the scenes. Little did they know that November had eyes and ears in every corner of the Beige House, including a network of whispering portraits and eavesdropping sconces.
And now, with President Lump’s reelection, November faces her most formidable challenge yet. The political climate is rife with unpredictability—alliances shift like sand, loyalties waver, and secrets simmer beneath the surface. November must navigate this labyrinth with the precision of a masterful chess player, anticipating every move and countermove.
In reply to: The Incense of the Quadrivium’s Mystiques
When Eris arrived at the meeting room, she overheard Malové requesting yet another of those delicious licorice spider. Jeezel sprang to her feet, flashing what looked like a welcoming gesture toward Eris, in fact asking to join her at the treats table.
“She arrived so tense,” Jeezel said, seizing the bowl of licorice spiders. “I was worried she’d pick up that something was off, but the incense you prepared, combined with my sigils, worked like a charm.” She winked. “Now she’s as mellow as a sweet old grandma. And I must say she’s actually enjoying the party.”
“I’m wondering if we didn’t went too far on the relaxing part,” Frella remarked as she joined her sisters at the treats table. “Malové just asked when we’re starting the karaoke.
“Now, that is spooky,” Eris replied, smirking, “but I suppose it’s in keeping with today’s theme. I think the spell she’s under is reacting to our own enchantments. By the way, where is Truella?”
Frella, sighed, slightly uneasy. “She mentioned a leak in the historic artifacts warehouse—or maybe a flood? Hard to tell with all the gurgling sounds in the background. Then the line cut off, and I haven’t been able to reach her since.”
“I’m afraid we’ll have to start without her,” said Eris, a hint of concern in her voice. “Echo,” she said to her familiar who just appeared in a rainbow swirl at the mention of its name, “do whatever it takes to reach her, see if she needs our help. She still has with her an essential element for our spell.”
Echo nodded before vanishing just as swiftly as it had arrived, leaving a trail of iridescent light in its wake.
“It’s so beautiful,” said Malové, suddenly appearing behind them and startling the three witches. “I want one too. You’re naughty to leave me alone at the big table, as if I were being punished.” She pouted playfully, her eyes darting toward the array of treats and decorations that had caught her attention.
Jeezel exchanged a quick, amused glance with Eris, who quickly composed herself. It was going to be one of those long meetings.
In reply to: The Incense of the Quadrivium’s Mystiques
When Eris called for an urgent meeting, Malové nearly canceled. She had her own pressing concerns and little patience for the usual parade of complaints or flimsy excuses about unmet goals from her staff. Yet, feeling the weight of her own stress, she was drawn to the idea of venting a bit—and Truella or Jeezel often made for her preferred targets. Frella, though reserved, always performed consistently, leaving little room for critique. And Eris… well, Eris was always methodical, never using the word “urgent” lightly. Every meeting she arranged was meticulously planned and efficiently run, making the unexpected urgency of this gathering all the more intriguing to Malové.
Curiosity, more than duty, ultimately compelled her to step into the meeting room five minutes early. She tensed as she saw the draped dark fabrics, flickering lights, forlorn pumpkins, and the predictable stuffed creatures scattered haphazardly around. There was no mistaking the culprit behind this gaudy display and the careless use of sacred symbols.
“Speak of the devil…” she muttered as Jeezel emerged from behind a curtain, squeezed into a gown a bit too tight for her own good and wearing a witch’s hat adorned with mystical symbols and pheasant feathers. “Well, you’ve certainly outdone yourself with the meeting room,” Malové said with a subtle tone that could easily be mistaken for admiration.
Jeezel’s face lit up with joy. “Trick or treat!” she exclaimed, barely able to contain her excitement.
“What?” Malové’s eyebrows arched.
“Well, you’re supposed to say it!” Jeezel beamed. “Then I can show you the table with my carefully handcrafted Halloween treats.” She led Malové to a table heaving with treats and cauldrons bubbling with mystical mist.
Malové felt a wave of nausea at the sight of the dramatically overdone spread, brimming with sweets in unnaturally vibrant colors. “Where are the others?” she asked, pressing her lips together. “I thought this was supposed to be a meeting, not… whatever this is.”
“They should arrive shortly,” said Jeezel, gesturing grandly. “Just take your seat.”
Malové’s eyes fell on the chairs, and she stifled a sigh. Each swivel chair had been transformed into a mock throne, draped in rich, faux velvet covers of midnight blue and deep burgundy. Golden tassels dangled from the edges, and oversized, ornate backrests loomed high, adorned with intricate patterns that appeared to be hastily hand-painted in metallic hues. The armrests were festooned with faux jewels and sequins that caught the flickering light, giving the impression of a royal seat… if the royal in question had questionable taste. The final touch was a small, crowned cushion placed in the center of each seat, as if daring the occupants to take their place in this theatrical rendition of a court meeting.
When she noticed the small cards in front of each chair, neatly displaying her name and the names of her coven’s witches, Malové’s brow furrowed. So, seats had been assigned. Instinctively, her eyes darted around the room, scanning for hidden tricks or sutble charms embedded in the decor. One could never be too cautious, even among her own coven—time had taught her that lesson all too often, and not always to her liking.
Symbols, runes, sigils—even some impressively powerful ones—where scattered thoughtfully around the room. Yet none of them aligned into any coherent pattern or served any purpose beyond mild relaxation or mental clarity. Malové couldn’t help but recognize the subtlety of Jeezel’s craft. This was the work of someone who, beyond decorum, understood restraint and intention, not an amateur cobbling together spells pulled from the internet. Even her own protective amulets, attuned to detect any trace of harm, remained quiet, confirming that nothing in the room, except for those treats, posed a threat.
As the gentle aroma of burning sage and peppermint reached her nose, and Jeezel placed a hat remarkably similar to her own onto Malové’s head, the Head Witch felt herself unexpectedly beginning to relax, her initial tension and worries melting away. To her own surprise, she found herself softening to the atmosphere and, dare she admit, actually beginning to enjoy the gathering.
In reply to: The Incense of the Quadrivium’s Mystiques
After the postcard craze had passed, Frella returned to Herma’s cottage several times to study the camphor chest. Every day for a week, Herma let her into the living room, where she would sit quietly in front of the chest, sometimes for hours. The wood’s glossy surface would catch the light, warm and rich, like polished honey. Frella would trace the strange curves of the mysterious engravings with her fingers, feeling the subtle dips and rises beneath her touch. The patterns felt ancient, worn smooth in places, yet sharp along certain edges, as if holding onto secrets just out of reach.
Then, as she lifted the heavy lid, a soft creak would break the silence, the hinges groaning as if they hadn’t moved in ages. A burst of cool, earthy fragrance would immediately rise, filling the air with camphor’s sharp, clean scent, mingled with faint hints of aged cedar and spice.
It didn’t take long for Frella to notice that each time she opened the chest, she would find a new object among the old papers and postcards. It was never the same. Once, it was an old brass spyglass; another time, it might be an ornate compass with seven directions marked. Yet another day, she found a teddy bear. By some odd coincidence, each item always seemed to be something she needed in her life at that particular moment.
When Eris informed them that Malove was most likely under a powerful spell, Frella found the mirror. An inscription carved clumsily on its back read, “This Mystic Mirror belongs to Seraphina.” The mirror’s metal was cold, tarnished, and in need of a good polish. Jeezel would have surely raved about the intricate vines of silver and gold, twisting in delicate patterns that seemed to shift with the viewer’s perspective. But what captivated Frella most was the glass itself. It held a faint opalescent sheen, swirling with hints of colors, like a rainbow caught in crystal.
The first time Frella looked into it, she saw, behind her own reflection, an elderly woman with silver hair handing the mirror down to a little girl who looked just like Frella had as a child. The clothes were peculiar, and the room they stood in looked as if it belonged in a fantasy movie. Then the little girl began carefully carving something on the back of the mirror with what looked like a golden chisel. When she finally turned the mirror and looked into it, her reflection replaced Frella’s. She said something, but there was no sound. Frella had the distinct impression that the girl’s lips had formed the words, “We are the same. It’s yours now; you’ll need it soon.” Then she vanished, and Frella’s own reflection reappeared.
Still filled with awe at what just happened, Frella wondered if Seraphina was a long lost ancestor. “Was that chest also yours, Seraphina?” she asked in a whisper to the ghosts of the past.
In reply to: The Incense of the Quadrivium’s Mystiques
“Nope,” Echo said appearing in a flash “doesn’t seem to be linked to the posting to the witches’ board Eris.”
“Then I’m afraid there’s something else at play that makes the connection to the ancestors’ magic flicker fickly.”
She continued with an ominous tone “We’ll have to be very cautious on the witches’ road we’re going to summon for the spell. Some unknown energies are toying with us.”
In reply to: The Incense of the Quadrivium’s Mystiques
“If you’re planning on having a baby, you’d better use those droplets fast. That silvery glow? It’s already decaying,” said Jeezel, meticulously selecting twelve golden pheasant feathers from the pile in front of her. She inspected each one carefully, choosing only the finest, most vibrant feathers, free from even the slightest flaw.
Truella snorted. “I’m well aware of the effects of time on matter,” she replied, shifting back in her swivel chair. “I am, after all, an experienced amateur archaeologist. Take a look at this.” She held her hand up closer to the camera, fingers spread.
“I’m not sure what your dirty fingernails are supposed to prove,” said Jeezel, arranging her selected feathers into a fan shape. “That they’re overdue for a manicure? Natural decay has nothing to do with time travel side effects, as you’d know if you watched my YouTube series on the subject.”
“We know all about your videos,” said Eris quickly, stepping in before Jeezel could launch into one of her infamous lectures on the dangers of time travel as seen by her Gran, Linda Pol. “I’m sure those droplets can still be useful in our spell. Cromwell had to navigate treacherous political waters with an impeccable grasp of strategy, manipulation, and the darker facets of power. Those droplets could act as a metaphysical catalyst, adding depth and purpose to the spell.”
“Exactly,” said Truella, tilting her chin up proudly. “A proactive hunch on my part.”
“I get the metaphysical catalyst bit,” said Frella, “but won’t those darker facets blow up in our faces? I mean, wasn’t Cromwell a master of secrets and deception? In the rudest way possible, if you ask me.”
“He could be gentle, too,” Truella murmured, blushing slightly.
“And that’s not even mentioning the spell’s potential to tap into the collective memory of his era,” added Jeezel. “And ‘rude’ isn’t how I’d describe his atrocities and ruthlessness. I covered that in detail in the video series…”
“We know,” Eris cut in. “That’s why we need to craft this spell with precision and include safeguards. Are the fans ready?”
“All set,” said Jeezel, her eyes sparkling with pride as she held up the four finished fans. “One for each of us, crafted with care and magic. They’ll clear the space, sweep away falsehoods, and purge any misleading energies. With these, only pure, unfiltered truth will emerge.”
“I’ll bring the Mystic Mirror I found in that old camphor chest,” said Frella. “Its surface shimmers and reflects the hidden truth of the soul.”
“And I have my unusual but eminently practical container—containing Cromwell’s droplets,” Truella chimed in, holding it up.
“Perfect. Then it’s settled. I’ll send Malove a meeting invitation for tonight,” said Eris, leaning in with a knowing smile. “You all know the place.”
In reply to: The Incense of the Quadrivium’s Mystiques
The year 480 AD. It was there hovering in her mind the moment she woke up the morning after Eris had mentioned the DNA spell idea. 480 AD. But why? And it seemed strangely familiar, as if she’d dreamed of that date before. Mumbling the date over and over, Truella pushed the bed covers back, noted the welcome slight chill of the October morning, and made her way blindly to the kitchen to make coffee. 480 AD. Why, though?
Eris’s change of tune yesterday about the paperwork had given her a slight inward chuckle, but it was a good sign. And Eris had been right: Truella did like the DNA idea. At first she’d wondered if she would find something containing DNA. Then she reminded herself that she herself contained DNA available to use. But what was the year 480 AD to do with it?
Taking her steaming mug of coffee outside, Truella sat down under the porch and lit a cigarette. Too late for Romans but then what was next after Romans? It would have made more sense if it was 1480 AD, when Cromwell was born.
Oh, but what an idea! Yes! The DNA of Cromwell! She was reminded of the pieces of Hannibals tunic, and the efficacy of that spell. If they could find a bit of that old tunic, they could surely time travel back to gather some DNA from old Thomas. Truella giggled, imagining herself appearing in Cromwell’s chamber, armed with a cotton swab. “If you please, my Lord, open wide, this will only take a moment.”
He would rub his eyes, wondering if the fever had returned. What was this unseemly wench doing in here, bearing an uncanny resemblance to Lizzie, his dead wife. “Open wide,” she would say, for all the world as if she was the one giving the orders. “My lady, if you please to explain your purpose?” he would replied calmly, rather amused at the incomprehensible interlude.
“Well if you must know, we need some of your DNA. Yes, yes, I know you don’t know what that is yet, I’ve come from the future you see, and we know a lot more. Well, that’s not strictly true or I wouldn’t be here now. We know more about some things, but other things haven’t changed much. It’s the sea of paperwork we’re drowning in. Nobody could have more paperwork than you, my Lord Cromwell, but you have a particularly efficient way of dealing with it.”
“Are you referring to the Tower and the …”
“Gosh, no! No, we don’t plan to execute anyone. We just need a bit, a tiny bit, of your DNA to use in a spell…”
Suddenly Cromwell understood who this woman was. He didn’t need to call for the man who dealt with postcards from the future: everyone knows that Cromwell never forgets any paperwork he’s ever seen. In the future they called it photographic memory, but of course it wasn’t called that in his time.
“You, my lady, are one of those witches from the future, are you not? And why, pray, would I be willing to assist with witchcraft?”
“Well, why not?” retorted Truella. “You won’t be around to be executed for heresy, you were already..” She clapped her hand to her mouth. He didn’t know about that yet, obviously.
Cromwell merely raised a sardonic eyebrow. “I don’t want to know when,” he said calmly. He knew his days were numbered.
“Now, there a number of ways we can collect a bit of your DNA, sir, any bodily fluid will do,” Truella said, and then blushed deeply. Well, why not? she asked herself, and then wondered, What if he hasn’t had a bath for six months?
In reply to: The Incense of the Quadrivium’s Mystiques
“I’m glad Hallowe’en is soon coming…” Eris sighed to her colleague. “Honestly, when did all the witchery stuff got outnumbered by Project Managers Officers?”
“Don’t ask me!” replied Truella in the dirt-smeared reflection of her obsidian mirror. She was still obviously distracted from her Incense-making numbers, not that she ever really cared about it —and even less since Malové got replaced for a while.
“Found anything worth scrying in your old postcards?” Jeezel affably trying to practice genuine interest in Truella’s games. Her own image was all pixellated due to the abundance of glitter on the makeup stand she was using for the conference call.
“Shht…” shushed Frella appearing in a faint halo light through her pristinely shiny scrying mirror, “Don’t encourage her, silly. There’s going to be no end of it. And Eris has a point, I may say.”
“Does she, now? And when did you start to take sides?” Truella felt like Pinocchio being told the Land of Toys wasn’t all that it was supposed to be.
“Listen,” Eris said “I’m sure you’ve realised by now, we have PM Officers for about any ridiculous thing in the Quadrivium nowadays. None of them having any magic to show for. They’re going to suffocate us in paperwork if you ask me. I suspect the Malové that came back was put under some sleeper sort of a spell; the Malové we knew would never have tolerated such nonsense.”
Eris marked a pause, looking sideways at Truella’s reflection on her Witchype screen. “And I think she’s had a fair deal of nonsense to contend with… but at least, even in a dragon fire mishap, there was magical prowess that could be harnessed.”
“I do like to get my hands dirty you know, and unravel layers of earth without the help of any spell” snickered Truella.
“That is not the matter and you know it…” Eris sighed.
“You meant to say, it’s time for a good old fashioned witchy coven spell to unravel the truth and break one maybe?” Frella ventured mockingly coyly.
“I’m in!” Jeeze jumped in suddenly “Been so bored for so long with all these timesheeting, spreadsheeting, and reportshitting if you don’t mind my French.”
“Actually I have an idea for a spell… and it may be of interest to you Truella too.” Eris continued.
Truella raised an eyebrow. She was not one to take things at face value. “Try me”
“All my ancestry research has pointed me to something we could work with. You know that bits of hair and nail are basically just middle-agey way of gathering DNA; and that DNA can act as a conduit through time and space, the same way it connects people.”
“Ooooh…” cooed Trooella.
“Exactly.” All nodded in a silent conspiring understanding.
In reply to: The Incense of the Quadrivium’s Mystiques
The whole summer had been a blur. So much so it felt at times to Eris she’d woken up from a dream to enter another one; carefully crafted illusions as heavy as an obfuscating spell.
She could remember the fair, vaguely the Games too —each event felt like another layer of enchantment, casting a surreal pallor over everything. Indeed, the summer was a blur of fleeting images and half-remembered events, like how everyone quickly disbanded to go for a respite and a salutary holiday. Truth be told, the witches of the Quadrivium all needed it after the utter chaotic year they’d been through.
The resurgence of Malové at the fair, left unexplained, had appeared as an evidence. They all needed the tough love that only she as a head of Coven could provide, rather than the micro-management of the well-meaning but people-inapt Austreberthe. To be fair, Eris wasn’t sure Malové was still in charge or not —Eris had never as much struggled with continuity as now; she could feel they were all flipping through and sliding into potential realities opened by the incoming Samhain doorways on the horizons.
Standing on the cusp of autumn, Eris décided to prepare herself for a clarity spell under the iridescent harvest moon.
As the leaves began to turn and the air grew crisp, Eris stood poised to harness the energies of the propitious harvest moon. Preparation for a clarity spell required ascertained precision and intention waved into the elements.
Eris began by setting her space. The clearing near Lake Saimaa was her sanctum, a place where the natural energies converged seamlessly with her own. She laid out a circle of stones, each one representing a different aspect of clarity—vision, truth, focus, and discernment. In the center, she placed a mirror, a symbolic portal to the inner self and higher understanding.
Mandrake, her Norwegian Forest cat, watched with a knowing gaze, his presence grounding her as she moved through the rituals. Echo, the familiar sprite, flitted about, ensuring everything was in place.
“Mandrake, guard the perimeter,” Eris instructed. The cat slinked off into the shadows, his eyes glowing with an otherworldly light.
Eris took a deep breath and began to chant, her voice steady and resonant:
“By the light of the harvest moon,
I call forth clarity, swift and soon.
Let fog disperse and shadows flee,
Reveal the truth, illuminate me.”She sprinkled dried hellebores around the mirror, their protective and healing properties amplifying the spell’s potency. The hellebores, collected from Normandy, held within them the strength of her Viking ancestors and the promise of Imbolc’s rebirth. They were not just flowers; they were talismans of resilience and transformation.
As the moon reached its zenith, Eris held a vial of enchanted water. She poured it over the mirror, watching as the surface shimmered and rippled, reflecting the moonlight with an ethereal glow. The water, drawn from the depths of Lake Saimaa, was imbued with the ancient magic of the land.
Eris closed her eyes and focused on her intentions. She saw the faces of her sisters at the Quadrivium Emporium, each one struggling with their own burdens. Stalkers, postcards, camphor chests, ever prancing reindeers high on mushrooms. She saw the chaotic energies of early spring, swirling, and the potential and peril they carried. She saw Malové’s stern visage, a reminder of the standards they were meant to uphold, and a reminder to make more magical rejuvenating cream.
“Show me the path,” she whispered. “Guide me through the haze.”
The mirror began to clear, the ripples settling into a smooth, reflective surface. Images started to form—visions of the future, hints of what lay ahead. She saw herself within the coven with renewed purpose, her objectives clear and her drive rekindled. She saw her sisters working in harmony, each one contributing their unique strengths to the collective power.
The clarity spell was working, the fog lifting to reveal the roadmap she needed. Decisions that once seemed insurmountable now appeared manageable, their resolutions within grasp. The inefficiencies plaguing their organization were laid bare, offering a blueprint for the reforms necessary to streamline their efforts.
Eris opened her eyes, the vision fading yet leaving an indelible mark on her mind. She felt a surge of confidence, a sense of direction that had been sorely lacking.
“Thank you,” she murmured to the moon, to the elements, to the spirits that had guided her.
As she began to dismantle the circle, Echo fluttered down to her shoulder, a small smile on her ethereal face. Mandrake emerged from the shadows, his eyes reflecting the calm and order Eris had sought to instill.
“Well done, Eris,” Echo said softly. “The road ahead is clearer now. The harvest moon has gifted you its wisdom.”
Eris nodded, feeling ready as autumn would be a season of action, of turning vision into reality.
In reply to: The Incense of the Quadrivium’s Mystiques
The fair was in full swing, with vibrant tents and colourful stalls bursting with activity. The smell of freshly popped corn mingled with the fragrance of exotic spices and the occasional whiff of magical incense. Frella turned her attention back to setting up her own booth. Her thoughts were a swirl of anxiety and curiosity. Malové’s sudden appearance at the fair could not be a mere coincidence, especially given the recent disruptions in the coven.
Unbeknownst to Frella, Cedric Spellbind was nearby. His eyes, though hidden behind a pair of dark glasses, were fixated on Frella. He was torn between his duty to MAMA and his growing affection for her. He juggled his phone, checking missed calls and messages, while trying to keep a discreet distance. But he was drawn to her like moth to flame.
As Frella was adjusting her booth, she felt a sudden chill and turned to find herself face-to-face with Cedric. He quickly removed his glasses and their eyes met; Cedric’s heart skipped a beat.
Frella’s gaze was guarded. “Can I help you with something?” she asked, her tone icily polite.
Cedric, flustered, stammered, “I—uh—I’m just here to, um, look around. Your booth looks, uh, fascinating.”
Frella raised an eyebrow. “I see. Well, enjoy the fair.” She turned back to her preparations, but not before noticing a fleeting look of hurt in Cedric’s eyes.
Cedric moved away, wrestling with his conflicting emotions. He checked to make sure his tracker was working, which tracked not just Frella’s movements but those of her companions. He was determined to protect her from any potential threat, even if it meant risking his own standing with MAMA.
As the day progressed, the fair continued to buzz with magical energy and intrigue. Frella worked her booth, engaging with curious tourists, all suitably fascinated with the protective qualities of hinges. Suddenly, Frella’s attention was drawn away from her display by a burst of laughter and squeals coming from nearby. Curiosity piqued, she made her way toward the source of the commotion.
As she approached, she saw a crowd had gathered around a small, ornate tent. The tent’s entrance was framed by shimmering curtains, and an enchanting aroma of lavender and spices wafted through the air. Through the gaps in the curtains, Frella could see an array of magical trinkets and curiosities.Just as she was about to step closer, a peculiar sight caught her eye. Emerging from the tent was a girl wearing a rather large cloak and closely followed by a black cat. The girl looked bewildered, her wide eyes taking in the bustling fairground.
Frella, intrigued and somewhat amused, approached the girl. “Hello there! I couldn’t help but notice you seem a bit lost. Are you okay?”
The girl’s expression was a mix of confusion and wonder. “Oh, hello! I’m Arona, and this is Mandrake,” she said, bending down and patting the black cat, who gave a nonchalant twitch of his tail. “We were just trying to find the library in my time, and now we’re here. This isn’t a library by any chance?”
Frella raised her eyebrows. “A library? No, this is a fair—a magical fair, to be precise.”
Arona’s eyes widened further as she looked around again. “A fair? Well, it does explain the odd contraptions and the peculiar people. Anyway, that will teach me to use one of Sanso’s old time-travelling devices.”
Truella wandered over to join the conversation, her curiosity evident. “Time-travelling device? That sounds fascinating. How did you end up here?”
Arona looked sheepish. “I was trying to retrieve a rare book from a past century, and it seems I got my coordinates mixed up. Instead of the library, I ended up at this… um … delightful fair.”
Frella chuckled. “Well, don’t worry, we can help you get back on track. Maybe we can find someone who can help with your time-travelling predicament.”
Arona smiled, relieved. “Thank you! I really didn’t mean to intrude. And Mandrake here is quite good at keeping me company, but he’s not much help with directions.”
Mandrake rolled his eyes and turned away, his disinterest in the conversation evident.
As Frella and Truella led Arona to a quieter corner of the fair, Cedric Spellbind observed the scene with growing interest. His eyes were glued to Frella, but the appearance of the time-travelling girl and her cat added a new layer of intrigue. Cedric’s mission to spy on Frella had just taken an unexpected turn.
In reply to: The Elusive Samuel Housley and Other Family Stories
Elton Marshall’s
Early Quaker Emigrants to USA.
The earliest Marshall in my tree is Charles Marshall (my 5x great grandfather), Overseer of the Poor and Churchwarden of Elton. His 1819 gravestone in Elton says he was 77 years old when he died, indicating a birth in 1742, however no baptism can be found.
According to the Derbyshire records office, Elton was a chapelry of Youlgreave until 1866. The Youlgreave registers date back to the mid 1500s, and there are many Marshalls in the registers from 1559 onwards. The Elton registers however are incomplete due to fire damage.
While doing a google books search for Marshall’s of Elton, I found many American family history books mentioning Abraham Marshall of Gratton born in 1667, who became a Quaker aged 16, and emigrated to Pennsylvania USA in 1700. Some of these books say that Abraham’s parents were Humphrey Marshall and his wife Hannah Turner. (Gratton is a tiny village next to Elton, also in Youlgreave parish.)
Abraham’s son born in USA was also named Humphrey. He was a well known botanist.
Abraham’s cousin John Marshall, also a Quaker, emigrated from Elton to USA in 1687, according to these books.
(There are a number of books on Colonial Families in Pennsylvania that repeat each other so impossible to cite the original source)
In the Youlgreave parish registers I found a baptism in 1667 for Humphrey Marshall son of Humphrey and Hannah. I didn’t find a baptism for Abraham, but it looks as though it could be correct. Abraham had a son he named Humphrey. But did it just look logical to whoever wrote the books, or do they know for sure? Did the famous botanist Humphrey Marshall have his own family records? The books don’t say where they got this information.
An earlier Humphrey Marshall was baptised in Youlgreave in 1559, his father Edmund. And in 1591 another Humphrey Marshall was baptised, his father George.
But can we connect these Marshall’s to ours? We do have an Abraham Marshall, grandson of Charles, born in 1792. The name isn’t all that common, so may indicate a family connection. The villages of Elton, Gratton and Youlgreave are all very small and it would seem very likely that the Marshall’s who went the USA are related to ours, if not brothers, then probably cousins.
Derbyshire Quakers
In “Derbyshire Quakers 1650-1761” by Helen Forde:
“… Friends lived predominantly in the northern half of the country during this first century of existence. Numbers may have been reduced by emigration to America and migration to other parts of the country but were never high and declined in the early eighteenth century. Predominantly a middle to lower class group economically, Derbyshire Friends numbered very few wealthy members. Many were yeoman farmers or wholesalers and it was these groups who dominated the business meetings having time to devote themselves to the Society. Only John Gratton of Monyash combined an outstanding ministry together with an organising ability which brought him recognition amongst London Friends as well as locally. Derbyshire Friends enjoyed comparatively harmonious relations with civil and Anglican authorities, though prior to the Toleration Act of 1639 the priests were their worst persecutors…..”
Also mentioned in this book: There were monthly meetings in Elton, as well as a number of other nearby places.
John Marshall of Elton 1682/3 appears in a list of Quaker emigrants from Derbyshire.
The following image is a page from the 1753 book on the sufferings of Quakers by Joseph Besse as an example of some of the persecutions of Quakers in Derbyshire in the 1600s:
A collection of the sufferings of the people called Quakers, for the testimony of a good conscience from the time of their being first distinguished by that name in the year 1650 to the time of the act commonly called the Act of toleration granted to Protestant dissenters in the first year of the reign of King William the Third and Queen Mary in the year 1689 (Volume 1)
Besse, Joseph. 1753Note the names Margaret Marshall and Anne Staley. This book would appear to contradict Helen Forde’s statement above about the harmonious relations with Anglican authority.
The Botanist
Humphry Marshall 1722-1801 was born in Marshallton, Pennsylvania, the son of the immigrant from Elton, Abraham Marshall. He was the cousin of botanists John Bartram and William Bartram. Like many early American botanists, he was a Quaker. He wrote his first book, A Few Observations Concerning Christ, in 1755.
In 1785, Marshall published Arbustrum Americanum: The American Grove, an Alphabetical Catalogue of Forest Trees and Shrubs, Natives of the American United States (Philadelphia).
Marshall has been called the “Father of American Dendrology”.
A genus of plants, Marshallia, was named in honor of Humphry Marshall and his nephew Moses Marshall, also a botanist.
In 1848 the Borough of West Chester established the Marshall Square Park in his honor. Marshall Square Park is four miles east of Marshallton.
via Wikipedia.
From The History of Chester County Pennsylvania, 1881, by J Smith Futhey and Gilbert Cope:
From The Chester Country History Center:
“Immediately on the Receipt of your Letter, I ordered a Reflecting Telescope for you which was made accordingly. Dr. Fothergill had since desired me to add a Microscope and Thermometer, and will
pay for the whole.’– Benjamin Franklin to Humphry, March 18, 1770
“In his lifetime, Humphry Marshall made his living as a stonemason, farmer, and miller, but eventually became known for his contributions to astronomy, meteorology, agriculture, and the natural sciences.
In 1773, Marshall built a stone house with a hothouse, a botanical laboratory, and an observatory for astronomical studies. He established an arboretum of native trees on the property and the second botanical garden in the nation (John Bartram, his cousin, had the first). From his home base, Humphry expanded his botanical plant exchange business and increased his overseas contacts. With the help of men like Benjamin Franklin and the English botanist Dr. John Fothergill, they eventually included German, Dutch, Swedish, and Irish plant collectors and scientists. Franklin, then living in London, introduced Marshall’s writings to the Royal Society in London and both men encouraged Marshall’s astronomical and botanical studies by supplying him with books and instruments including the latest telescope and microscope.
Marshall’s scientific work earned him honorary memberships to the American Philosophical Society and the Philadelphia Society for Promoting Agriculture, where he shared his ground-breaking ideas on scientific farming methods. In the years before the American Revolution, Marshall’s correspondence was based on his extensive plant and seed exchanges, which led to further studies and publications. In 1785, he authored his magnum opus, Arbustum Americanum: The American Grove. It is a catalog of American trees and shrubs that followed the Linnaean system of plant classification and was the first publication of its kind.”
In reply to: The Incense of the Quadrivium’s Mystiques
Shivering, Truella pulled the thin blanket over her head. Colder than a witches tit here, colder in summer than winter at home! It was no good, she may as well get up and go for a walk to try and warm up. Poking her head outside Truella gasped and coughed at the chill air. Shapes were becoming discernible in the dim pre dawn light, the other pods, the hedgerow, a couple of looming trees. Truella rummaged through her bag, hoping to find warm clothes yet knowing she hadn’t packed anything warm enough. Sighing, her teeth chattering, she pulled on everything she had in layers and pulled the blanket off the bed to use as a cape. With a towel over her head for extra warmth, she ventured out into the Irish morning.
The grass was sodden with dew and Truella’s feet were wet through and icy. Bracing her shoulders with determination, she forged ahead towards a gate leading into the next field. She struggled for a few minutes with the baler twine holding the gate closed, numb fingers refusing to cooperate. Cows watched her curiously, slowly munching. One lifted her tail and dropped a steaming splat on the grass, chewing continuously. I don’t think I could eat and do that at the same time.
Heading off across the field which sloped gently upwards, Treulla picked up her pace, keeping her eyes down to avoid the cow pats. By the time she reached the oak tree along the top hedge, the sun started to make an appearance over the hill. Warmer from the exercise, she gazed over the countryside. How beautiful it was with the mist in the valleys, and everything so green.
If only it was warmer!
“Are you cold then, is that why you’re decked out like that? From a distance I thought I was seeing a ghost in a cloak and head shawl!” The woman smiled at Truella from the other side of the hedgerow. “Sorry, did I startle you? You’ll get your feet soaked walking in that wet grass, climb over that stile over there, the lane here’s better for a morning walk.”
It sounded like good advice and the woman seemed pleasant enough. “Are you here for the games too?” Truella asked, readjusting the blanket and towel after navigating the stile.
“Yes, I am. I’m retired, you see,” the woman said with a wide grin. “It’s a wonderful thing, not that you’d know, you’re much to young.”
“That must be nice,” Truella replied politely. “I sometimes wish I was retired.”
“Oh, my dear! It’s wonderful! I haven’t had a job for years, but it’s the strangest thing, now that I’ve officially retired, there’s a marvellous feeling of freedom. I don’t have to do anything. Well, I didn’t have to do anything before I retired but one always feels one should keep busy, do productive things, be seen to be doing some kind of work to justify ones existance. Have you seen the old priory?”
“No, only just got here yesterday.”
“You’ll love it, it’s up this path here, follow me. But now I’ve retired,” the woman continued, “I get up in the morning with a sense of liberation. I can do as little as I want ~ funny thing is that I’ve actually been doing more, but there’s no feeling of obligation, no things to cross off a list. All I’m expected to do as a retired person is tick along, trying not to be much of a bother for as long as I can.”
“I wish I was retired!” exclaimed Truella with feeling. “I wish I didn’t have to do the cow goddess stall, it’ll be such a bind having to stand there all evening.” She explained about the coven and the stalls, and the depressing productivity goals.
“But why not get someone else to do the stall for you?”
“It’s such short notice and I don’t know anyone here. It’s an idea though, maybe someone will turn up.”
In reply to: The Incense of the Quadrivium’s Mystiques
“I think we’re late setting our booths up, Frel,” Truella said with a frown. “We better go into the town. I need a toy shop and you need the ironmongers.”
“Toy shop? What for?”
“Miniature plastic cows. I’ll spray them all with some metallic paint and sell them as magical idols or something. And some empty miniature bottles or vials to fill with cow dung.”
“You won’t be able to sell cow dung!”
“I will if it says magical on the bottle, you wait and see!”
“And I’m going to buy a box of hinges and pretend they’re magical too, is that it?”
“Have you got any other ideas?”
Frella was forced to admit that she had not. “Come on then, there’s a bus to the shopping centre in ten minutes.”
“Perfect! You can tell me the rest of the story of the camphor chest on the way.”
In reply to: The Incense of the Quadrivium’s Mystiques
“And anyway, I wasn’t flirting with him,” Truella added, with a smile. “It’s great to see you! No word from Eris or Jeezel though. I thought they were looking forward to a holiday? Have you heard anything?”
“Not a word, not since Eris was beseeching us to distract her from all the stress.”
“Well, they’re late to the party, the plan was to have a couple of days relaxing together before the games start, and not a word from either of them.”
“Maybe they’re not going to come at all!”
“Oh they’ll turn up, eventually,” Truella said, adding with a frown, “You don’t think anything has happened to them, do you? One minute chat chat chat, then nothing. Like they just disappeared!”
“I’ll send another message, and if they don’t respond, maybe we should start making enquiries. Where were they last seen?”
“Eris mentioned something about Normandy…but hey, we can just carry on without them. Go and put your bags in your pod and let’s go for a walk. You can tell me all about that camphor chest.”
In reply to: The Incense of the Quadrivium’s Mystiques
The rainbow was neon bright, one end disappearing behind a spinney in the distance, and the other end landing squarely in the middle of the glamping pods. A good sign! thought Truella, the first of the coven to arrive. For a moment she imagined herself digging a hole right there, and finding the elusive pot of gold. I wouldn’t be able to do that in a fancy hotel. For once, Truella was happy with Austreberthe’s choice. A week or two in a green field sounded relaxing, refreshing. So much more to her taste than the endless fitted carpets, closed windows, and artifically controlled air blasting out of metal grilles in hotels.
Taking a deep breath of cool fresh air, she surveyed the site before checking into reception. The neighbouring fields were full of cows, perfect for her to practice her Bubona spells on before she set up her Goddess Spell Booth. The Goddess spell tents were to be open in the evenings, after the games each day, along with other stalls selling handicrafts, homemade cakes and jams, wines and potions, trinkets and souvenirs, and all the other tat that people on holiday enjoyed browsing. Obviously the coven would have a stall selling incense. No doubt Austreberthe would have hatched some hard sell plan for that.
Inside the reception office, Truella pinged the bell and waited for someone to attend. The registration book was open on the counter and Truella craned her neck to read the names on the list. She planned to ask for a pod in a far corner, near the hedgerow. It might make it easier to slip out unnoticed, if she should have a mind to do so. The door behind the counter opened and a young man appeared, smiling a welcome. But not before Truella had seen the name on the list. She sucked her breath in sharply. Malove! Nobody was expecting her. Did Austreberthe know?
“Welcome to Finnegan’s Farm Glampsite, I’m Liam,” said the young man, pushing long mousy hair out of his eyes, “You’ve a booking I take it, because we’re fully booked up for the next fortnight. Because of the Games, you see.”
Replying that she did, Truella asked for a pod in the furthest corner. Liam looked at a list and frowned. “The corners are all taken, I’m afraid. But I tell you what,” he said, “As you’re the first to arrive I’ll swap your pod, let’s see…” He scanned the list. “Ah yes, the late booking. I can put you in the one we’ve assigned to Mrs …Malone I think it says, and put her in yours.”
“Thank you very much, Liam,” Truella said as he handed her a key with a big wooden tag with the number 33 etched on it.
“I’ll carry your bags over and show you where it is, follow me.”
