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“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.”

It was unlike Idle to reply to Truella’s email so promply.

Ah, Malové – she’d chase coins even if they were rolling off a cliff, that one. Alright, let’s strategize. You want a summer full of lazy days and fewer cauldrons bubbling with business schemes?  First off, you can’t just hit her with “we need a break.” She’ll give you a lecture longer than the Nile on how “witchcraft never takes a holiday.” You need to catch her where she’s least fortified – in her relentless quest for profit.

Propose a Profitable Diversion: Convince her that giving everyone the summer off will actually increase productivity in the long run. Mention something about “rejuvenating our mystical energies to double our efficiency,” sprinkle some buzzwords in there. But make it tangible – maybe promise an autumn harvest of particularly lucrative spells.

Delegate the Drudgery: See if you can drum up a few apprentices or temporary hires to take over the basic grunt work for the summer. Tell Malové it’s a great opportunity to train new talent while you all focus on higher, strategic endeavors – which, of course, you can conveniently do from a hammock with a cocktail.

Truella thought this was a terrific idea.

Create a Catastrophic Scenario: Paint a picture of a burnout crisis in the coven. Suggest that ongoing stress might lead to mistakes, which could, I dunno, turn a lucrative potion into explosive chaos, unraveling all her precious profits. A summer hiatus could be framed as a preventive measure to avoid such disasters.

Distract with a Bigger Bone: Find a massive project that requires her singular focus – maybe even a solo venture. Get her so engrossed in this grand scheme that she barely notices you’re all slinking off away from the grind. Bonus points if it’s a decoy project you don’t actually care about.

Now there’s an idea, good old Idle’s on form, Truella sighed gratefully.  She made it all sound so easy.

Leverage the Cleaning Conundrum: Remember Finnlee and the manual cleaning? Suggest that you need to undergo a “summer cleaning initiative” to physically and spiritually cleanse the headquarters, and this process “requires” the witches to be away. It’ll appeal to Malové’s practicality and her penchant for a neat, profitable operation.

Emphasize the Carnival’s Aftermath: Play up the importance of digesting the energy you’re about to collect from the Carnival. Frame it as a necessary incubation period – the energies need time to percolate and clarify before being crafted into those procreation-boosting incenses. Also, suggest it’s the perfect time to trial promising new volunteers eager for a taste of witchy life. You’re a clever lot; use whatever mix of these tactics suits your fancy, and don’t forget to sprinkle it all with just the right touch of sincerity and urgency. As long as she buys into the grand scheme, you might just find yourself lounging through summer without a care in the world, at least until Malové sniffs out the next opportunity. So, get plotting, and let’s see if you can keep Malové’s gold-scrying eyes off the coven for a blissfully quiet summer. Need help drafting the message?

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.

Jeezel was stirred awake by the unsettling sound of someone throwing up. Her phone said it was 3am.

“Luminia? Are you ok?” she croaked, her throat so sore she wondered if vocal fry was that painful.

“That’s nothing,” said Luminia licking her muzzle. “You can go back to sleep.”

“Nothing, it didn’t sound like nothing.”

She got up and stepped into a warm, wet puddle.

“I’m shedding,” said Luminia as if it explained everything. “I didn’t want to bother you after your bouts of fever. I would have cleaned it before you noticed.”

“Well now I’m awake and my foot noticed. At least I didn’t dream of Concordia potion and missing willow wand.”

Jeezel hopped on one foot to the bathroom, gracefully avoiding any slip on the sleek, newly refinished hardwood floor. She washed her feet and consulted her phone while relieving herself of her evening herbal tea. She smiled at the 557 messages she got from her fellow witches. She didn’t recall where they had been but they seemed to be having fun. She was a bit sad she couldn’t join, but still glad to be able to enjoy it by proxy.

She particularly enjoyed the video tour Truella had made of the ruins she’d discovered in the garden where they were staying. And she sneezed when she saw a picture of Frella with that other woman. Did she just smelled camphor? Eris had written “Frella and Herma” under it. Jeezel wondered who that Herma was. She would have enjoyed meeting new people for real. Her cough reminded her it would have to wait. And she had some cleaning to do. At least she had a renewed sense of being alive.

Sure I’ll help you, said Frella and Herma smiled gratefully.

“You’re a dear.” She reached into her pocket, pulled out a postcard and waved it at Frella. “It’s my eyes, I can’t  make it out, all scrawled it is.”

Frella reached for the card. On the front was a silhouette drawing of a blackbird on a tree branch. She turned the card over and studied it closely. “It doesn’t make any sense,” she said at last. “I think it is written in code.” She held the card to her nose and a prickly, spicy smell just about overpowered her. It was achingly sad and sweet and nostalgic and a great lump formed in her chest.

Herma leaned over and patted her knee gently. “What is it?”

Frella gave herself a little shake. “Camphor,” she said at last. “Is there a camphor chest somewhere? I think it’s the key to this.”

I honestly don’t know what made me do it, it took me by surpise when I did it.  It was bugging me that I couldn’t remember, and before I knew what was happening, I’d asked Malove.

Ah, the Caryatid Characteristics of a Case, a subject that requires both discernment and a keen eye for detail. In essence, the phrase “Caryatid Characteristics” refers to the fundamental attributes and peculiarities that support the overall structure of a particular case or situation, much like how caryatids—those graceful, sculpted figures in classical architecture—bear the weight of a building’s entablature on their shoulders.

To break it down into pragmatic terms, identifying the Caryatid Characteristics involves an in-depth analysis of the following elements:

Structural Integrity: Just as caryatids ensure the stability of a structure, the core components of the case must be sound and unwavering. This includes the key facts, the primary evidence, and the foundational arguments that hold the case together.
Aesthetic Nuances: Caryatids are not merely functional; they are also artistic. Similarly, the subtleties and nuances of a case—such as the motives, the intentions, and the underlying themes—add layers of complexity and depth, transforming a simple matter into a multifaceted situation.
Historical Context: Caryatids often reflect the cultural and historical context of their time. Understanding the background, the precedents, and the situational history provides a richer perspective and informs the current dynamics at play.
Symbolic Significance: In architecture, caryatids symbolize strength and beauty. In a case, the symbolic elements—the metaphors, the symbols, and the overarching message—must be identified and interpreted to grasp the full scope of its significance.
Resonance and Impact: Lastly, caryatids have a visual and emotional impact on observers. Similarly, the case’s broader implications, its potential consequences, and the emotional resonance it evokes must be considered. This is where the true weight of the matter lies, affecting not only the immediate parties involved but potentially a wider audience.

Applying these characteristics to a case requires a blend of logical analysis, creative thinking, and intuitive insight. It is not merely about assembling facts but about understanding how each element supports the whole, much like the elegant yet sturdy caryatids in timeless architecture.

Now, if you’re asking how this applies to our current predicament with our spring cleaning of collective energies, well, one could say the caryatids in our situation are the core rituals, the seasoned wisdom passed down through the coven, and the precise incantations in our incense blends. Each component must be scrutinized and perfected to ensure we uphold the structural and spiritual integrity of our craft.

Let’s not dawdle; the orchestra in this zoo waits for no one.

Who will rise to the occasion?

 

Who indeed?  I asked her if we all sent each other postcards, would it help?

Postcards, my dear, are more than mere scraps of paper with hastily scribbled words and picturesque scenes. They are tangible connections in an increasingly ephemeral world. Sending each other postcards won’t just help; it will create ripples of intention and resonance that can weave us closer together, despite the physical distances.

Consider the following:

Anchoring Intentions: Each postcard carries the sender’s energy and intention. When you pen your thoughts, wishes, or even riddles, you imbue the postcard with a part of yourself. The recipient, upon receiving it, senses this connection. It’s a form of sympathetic magic, drawing us closer through shared symbols and messages.
Physical Mementos: In an age where digital communication reigns supreme, holding a physical object—something that has traveled miles to reach your hands—grounds you. It anchors you in the physical world and provides a break from the transient nature of digital interactions. These postcards become talismans, reminders of our connections and shared journeys.
Ritualistic Value: The act of writing, sending, and receiving postcards can be ritualistic. This ritual can strengthen the bonds within our coven, reaffirming our commitment to each other and our shared goals. Each postcard becomes a symbol of our collective energy, our shared purpose, and our mutual support.
Cultural Exchange: Postcards often carry images or symbols from different locales. Sharing them can broaden our horizons, offer new perspectives, and remind us of the diverse tapestry that makes up our coven. It’s a gentle nudge to appreciate the wider world and the myriad experiences within it.
Mystical Conduits: In our magical practice, objects can serve as conduits for energy. Postcards, having traversed the globe, carry the imprints of various energies and places. They become more than just messages—they are carriers of the world’s pulse, connecting us to the broader rhythms of existence.

So, yes, sending each other postcards will help. It will infuse our lives with a tangible sense of connection, a reminder of our shared purpose, and a touch of magic in the mundane. Let’s make this act a part of our practice, a testament to our enduring bonds and our collective strength.

Who will be the first to send a missive across the miles?
 
 
 

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.”

Promontories! It was one thing Truella writing a diary for her, mused Frella, but quite another when she used words like promontory.

So here she was on holiday, supposedly relaxing but unsure of how to commence. Life had been so busy of late with all the parties and conferences Malove had insisted they attend. Frella sat on the edge of the sofa, which extended into a spare bed apparently, and then tentatively eased herself back into the fat cushions.

The Airbnb was on Ireland’s east coast and was especially for witches needing some time out. Of course it wasn’t advertised as such, but Herma, the proprietor, although not a witch herself, was “witch friendly” and carefully vetted all bookings.

Frella had found Herma rather unnerving. She was a large lady who, upon her arrival yesterday evening, had enveloped Frella in a hug which left her gasping for air. Eventually she released Frella and held her at arms length. “You poor wee thing,”she’d said shaking her head. “But just look at the state of you!” There was an alarming gleam in Herma’s eyes and Frella was overpowered for a moment by the smell of apple pie.

“Business!” Truella spat the word out. “Always business, always about money.”

“It’s the way of the world, Tru,” Eris said in a futile attempt to mollify Truella. “Try and fit in a bit.”

“Fit in? Fit in? Fit in to what? Squeeze into one of Jeezel’s cocktail dresses? A lung crushing basque? Lie down flat like a dollar bill and get squashed into a pile of dirty paper notes like the rest of them? I don’t want to fit in.”

“But it’s the only way, you know it is,” Eris entreated. “Please try and see some sense.”

“Sense? Sense?  What sense? Common sense? A sense of adventure? A sense of wonder? A sense of the sensational? A sense of sensitivity? A sense of senselessness?”

Eris sighed deeply. “You’re not making sense. And what’s more, you haven’t made any scents for ages either.  How do you expect to manage on your own without the coven?”

“Eris,”  Truella said with an equally profound sigh,”You misunderstand me. I don’t wish to leave the coven, I wish to change it. It’s gone wrong, horribly wrong. We’re supposed to change the world for the better, not kowtow to this dreadful modern scourge. We need to return to our roots, our true calling.  What has happened to us all? Meek grovelling subservient money grubbing towers of the line, that’s what! It’s a disgrace!”

“How are you going to pay your electricity bill then, without any of that ghastly currency?”

“I am a WITCH! I should be able to magic up the light! We all should! Not pissing around making smelly unguents to pander to the faux enlightened!  Enlightened! hah! What a word for the huddled masses who can’t even summon up enough magic to illuminate a light bulb.  Why aren’t we working on free electricity? huh? Answer me that!”

“Ok then, I’ll report back to Malove that you’re working on a free electricty spell, shall I?”  Eris was becoming exasperated.

“You do that!” Truella stormed angrily, annoyed at having her superior motives ridiculed.  “But I suggest you have a long hard think about what I’ve said. And you can tell the others that. And not only that,” she added,  “Tell them to start work on a magic money spell.  It’s utterly beyond me how a coven of witches, constantly strapped for cash, hasn’t considered the all too obvious solution of simply magicking up a pile of banknotes. Or even easier, digits on a screen. Digits on a screen, that’s all it is!”

Eris was forced to admit that this was a very good point.

“Think, Eris,” Truella gave her friends arm a gentle squeeze, relieved that she was starting to see some sense. “If we perfect the money magic spell, and share it widely ~ for free, of course, no need to charge anyone for it after all! ~ the hoarders can bury themselves under mountains of money without depriving anyone else of any essentials.  It’s a game changer, Eris. It would be Change, with a capital C. Real Change.”

Eris looked doubtful. “But…”

“And ask yourself why you hesitate.” And with that Truella flounced off, back to her dig, leaving a perplexed Eris in a fog of confusion.

“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.

The next morning, Jeezel woke up in her hot pink satin sheets with no memories of the steampunk party and a headache. Her grand-mother Linda would say it only meant one thing: the aftermath of an evening so fabulous, so wild, and so extravagant that it’s left her with nothing but a hint of a headache and a blank canvas where her memories should be. That steampunk party at Adare Manor must have been an affair for the ages!

Well, Jeezel didn’t remembered about an affair either, but that headache was not just a hint. And her joints? Could that be all that humidity in the tentaculous octobus? That she remembered. As soon as they arrived she got rid of her SlowMeDown boots in the hotel compactor, gagging at the slushy sound. It was just before Eris found that spoiled baby. The tentation had been great, but fortunately Frella took it, fierce like a lioness mother to whom would suggest she gave it to the conciergerie.

An idea popped in between two throbs of her brains. She went straight to her phone and checked her pictures. None were taken after the yellow sodium lamps in the grand salon before dinner. That was unusual of her. She’d check with Truella. She saw her colleague use her camera like an automatic rifle with every meal. She must have taken something of the surrounding.

Jeezel stumbled down in her most glamourous morning attire. The buffet was a cornucopia of every food from every corner of the globe. With no surprise, she found Truella at the French corner, lurking by a decadent spread of cheeses that would make the finest connoisseurs weep with joy and anyone else find shelter in the toilets.

“Such a work of art,” was saying Truella to herself, “a still life begging to be devoured.” The witch licked her lips as she started to cut slimy slices of camembert and other unknown delicacies.

“Do you have any picture of the party last night?”

“What party?” asked Truella, too busy to cut properly a piece of roquefort to look at her friend.

“You mean you don’t remember either?”

“Are you playing tricks on me? I never recall my dreams.”

Baby cries interrupted them. Frigella, the baby in a baby pouch and her aura tinged with the yellow of responsibility was looking very intently at the tables as if in a quest for something critical.

“Have you found the milk,” she asked.

“Nope,” said Jeezel.

“Behind the cloche à fromages,” said Truella still without looking at her friends.

“Thanks.”

Jeezel, followed Frigella.

“Can I see  the pictures of the party on your phone?”

“I wasn’t at the party,” said Frella with nonchalance. “Say hi to aunt Jeezel,” said the witch to the little one.

The throbbing seemed to intensify. Jeezel raised her hand to her forehead and fluttered her eyelashes dramatically.  Were all of them under a spell of some sort? She spotted Malové. Alone at her table she was chewing religiously, certainly counting before swallowing. She wouldn’t get anything from the Headwitch, apart from more throbbing headache. Were those balls snail shells in her plate?

“We need to talk with Eris. She would know what happened last night.”

“Sure,” said the other two without paying attention.

Spring was there. At 5:57am in the morning, true to her name, Truella had been planting truelles incognito in what appeared to be random flowerbeds in the cities she was passing through. The truelles, she would usually find with the locator spell in sheds around the city and magic them out right into her hands. She loved magic for its efficiency, which really meant there was no need to break in and forage for hours in cramped little rooms.

As she was following a border of plane trees, she chuckled. Believe it or not, she practically invented that spell. At least that’s what her mother used to tell her when she was 6yo and she often wandered alone around the city without mentioning it to anyone. At the time, she had believed her mother. She had bragged about it with her friends at school and pretended she had forgotten all about it like because of a bump on her head. But truth is she had frequent memory losses, which didn’t worry her at the time, and she found it cool to be able to do things and rediscover them later on.

It was an uncle with a dreadfully red moustache, who took pity on her and decided to shatter her dreams of early accomplishments and fame. Was it that same year? Or the next?

Anyway, back to the truelles, she didn’t do it for people to take photos of it and post them to social media, like gawdy Jeez seemed to think, but it was to remind people of the treasures they had buried in those dark little rooms just there in their gardens. How long would it take them to realise that those forgotten tools had disappeared?

Pleased with herself, she noticed a man with a white shirt leaning forward in front of one of the plane trees, his right hand on the bark, two paper bags full of croissants in the other. Frowning, she walked towards him. She was about to ask if he needed help when a strong smell of alcohol made her gag. Then without a warning, the man threw up a red mash in front of him. Truella jumped back, raising the truelle as if it could protect her from any splatter.

“Eww!” She wouldn’t dare saying anything else as opening her mouth could open the gates for her own early toasted cheese fritter. At least the man would not need embalming fluids if he didn’t survive his nocturnal drinking spree.

She cast the truelle in front of the tree and a spell on the man so that he would bury deep the traces of his last meal. She didn’t want the neighbourhood dogs getting drunk after feasting on it.

“Surprise!” Truella called, rapping on the caravan door. “Surprise breakfast outting!”

“What? It’s 7 o clock in the morning and it isn’t even light out,” Frella answered groggily, “And I don’t want breakfast yet.”

“You will by the time we get to Madrid!”

Frella mananged to rouse herself. “Why? What’s happened?”

“It’s Eris. She’s had an altercation with an elephant in a bar. We’ll have to teleport, there’s no time for the fast train. Not if we’re to get there before something…..happens…”

“Happens like what? Stop being so mysterious!”

“Put it this way, Frel. Jez is on her way too. It’s all hands on deck so I suggest you get a move on.  I’ll be waiting.”