Search Results for 'tone'

“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.”

Once upon a time, there was a shiftless lazy tart called Frella who couldn’t be bothered to write her own diary, so she asked me, Truella, to do it for her. She was going away on holiday, which she agreed would be a nice rest, but the preliminary preparations such as packing a suitcase were daunting.  It’s a funny thing how witches, accustomed to concocting spells to save the world, rarely remembered to make a spell for themselves to accomplish the more mundane aspects of life, preferring to wallow in the slimy bog of exhaustion while the chores piled up into insurmoutable promontories of little historic acclaim.  Weighed down with the rucksack of needy plants wanting water, decomposing salad and rotten tomatoes requiring assistance to the recycling arrangement, nearly empty (but not quite) bottles of assorted daily hygiene products to keep hair, skin and unmentionable areas sweetly scented,  best bra and knickers requiring laundering, matching socks and assorted garments to cover all possible weather conditions, a selection of energy boosting vitamins and minerals, a magic stone or two just in case, and remedies for possible holiday ailments,  Frella wasted her precious time looking at old drawings and talking about books instead of attending to the things that must be done.

Frella did agree to send hand drawn postcards every day while she was away, while she was relaxing and swanning around at one of the homes in her extensive property portfolio, so all was not lost. That she may be doing this in mismatched socks, climate inappropriate clothing, less than sweetly scented unmentionable areas, and lacking essential energy boosting vitamin intake, was of no concern to the potential recipient.

“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.

An unexpected result (or was it an intentional one?) of the octobus ride was a profound appreciation for the arrival at the destination.  Not one of the witches had been truly looking forward to the event, but when they entered the building they were deeply grateful for the smooth hard floors and walls and sharp minimalism, if that is what the sparse clean decor was called.

“This place is sorely in need of some steampunk hats,” remarked Truella.  “And some Victorian clothes.”

“Beats the hell out of that gross octobus, though,” Jezeel said, who was swanning grandly around the large entrance foyer, her boots making a neat thud rather than a revolting sucking sound.

“I rather like it,” said Frella, “Steampunk hats wouldn’t fit in here at all. Are you sure that party is being held here?”  For a moment, she felt a ray of hope.  She was feeling that it might be possible to remain unnoticed and unbothered in the vast clean space if she sat somewhere looking serenely vacant and unapproachable.

Spotting the shiny black grand piano in the corner, Jezeel glided majestically over to it and hopped onto the back of it, striking a glamourous pose.  Naturally everyone took flattering photos of her as was expected.

Eris had rushed off to find a lavatory, and eventually emerged holding a strange awkward bundle.

“What on earth is that and where did you find it?” Frella noticed the look of alarm on Eris’s face.  Truella was still taking photos of Jez from various angles, much to Jezreel’s delight.

“What does it bloody look like!” Eris said in an exasperated tone, “It’s a baby, someone left it in the loo!  Go and ask at the desk, find out who lost a baby. I think it’s nappy needs changing.”

Frella went off to ask, returning shortly with surprising news.  “There is nobody checked in here with a baby, Eris. Nobody knows whose it is.  Here, give it to me, the poor thing.”

Eris handed over the smelly bundle gratefully.

I can stay in my room with this baby, Frella thought, It will be the perfect excuse not to go to the party.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“…..a steampunk soirée amongst the witches of Adare Manor!  Picture it, my dear—cogs and corsets, gears and garters!

First, we must set the scene. The manor, that grand old dame Malove will be bedecked with brass and copper, festooned with flickering gaslights that cast a warm, sepia-toned glow upon all the revelry. The air will be thick with the scent of oil and ambition (mentioning no names), and the sound of pistons and valves will accompany the rustle of taffeta skirts.

Now, our witches, those cunning creatures, will be the belles of the ball, their attire a fusion of Victorian elegance and industrial ingenuity. Picture bustled gowns with mechanical embellishments, parasols that double as communication devices, and monocles that can see into the aether!

The pièce de résistance? A grand invention, unveiled at the stroke of midnight—an automaton oracle that will reveal secrets and predict the future with uncanny accuracy, all while puffing steam and sparking with electric life.

And let’s not forget the refreshments! Scones that emit plumes of colored smoke when bitten, and a punch that changes flavor as it circulates through a series of alchemical tubes.

 A spectacle of speculative fiction, a carnival of chronology, a meeting of minds both mystical and mechanical!

 A most enticing invitation—we want all the witches of Adare Manor to be abuzz with anticipation. The steampunk party of the century awaits!”

“Well, it’s a long story, are you sure you want to hear it?”

“Tell me everything, right from the beginning. You’re the one who keeps saying we have plenty of time, Truella. I shall quite enjoy just sitting here with a bottle of wine listening to the story,” Frigella said, feeling all the recent stress pleasantly slipping away.

“Alright then, you asked for it!” Truella said, topping up their glasses.  The evening was warm enough to sit outside on the porch, which faced the rising moon. A tawny owl in a nearby tree called to another a short distance away.  “It’s kind of hard to say when it all started, though. I suppose it all started when I joined that Arkan coven years ago and the focus wasn’t on spells so much as on time travel.”

“We used to travel to times and places in the past,” Truella continued, “Looking back now, I wonder how much of it we made up, you know?” Frigella nodded. “Preconceptions, assumptions based on what we thought we knew.  It was fun though, and I’m pretty sure some of it was valid. Anyway, valid or not, one thing leads to another and it was fun.

“One of the trips was to this area but many centuries ago in the distant past.  The place seemed to be a sort of ancient motorway rest stop affair, somewhere for travellers to stay overnight on a route to somewhere.  There was nothing to be found out about it in any books or anything though, so no way to verify it like we could with some of our other trips.  I didn’t think much more about it really, we did so many other trips.  For some reason we all got a bit obsessed with pyramids, as you do!”

They both laughed. “Yeah, always pyramids or special magical stones,” agreed Frigella.

“Yeah that and the light warriors!” Truella snorted.

“So then I found a couple of pyramids not far away, well of course they weren’t actually pyramids but they did look like they were.  We did lots of trips there and made up all sorts of baloney between us about them, and I kept going back to look around there.  We used to say that archaeologists were hiding the truth about all the pyramids and past civilizations, quite honestly it’s a bit embarrassing now to remember that but anyway, I met an actual archaeologist by chance and asked her about that place.  And the actual history of it was way more interesting than all that stuff we’d made up or imagined.

The ruins I’d found there were Roman, but it went further back than that. It was a bronze age hill fort, and later Phoenician and Punic, before it was Roman.  I asked the archaeologist about Roman sites and how would I be able to tell and she showed me a broken Roman roof tile, and said one would always find these on a Roman site.

I found loads over the years while out walking, but then I found one in the old stone kitchen wall.  Here, let me fetch another bottle.” Truella got up and went inside, returning with the wine and a dish of peanuts.

“So that’s when I decided to dig a hole in the garden and just keep digging until I found something.  I don’t know why I never thought to do that years ago. I tell you what, I think everyone should just dig a hole in their garden, and just keep digging until they find something, I can honestly say that I’ve never had so much fun!”

“But couldn’t you have just done a spell, instead of all that digging?” Frigella asked.

“Oh my god, NO!  Hell no!  That wouldn’t be the same thing at all,” Truella was adamant. “In fact, this dig has made me wonder about all our spells to be honest,  are we going too fast and missing the finds along the way?  I’ve learned so much about so many things by taking it slowly.”

“Yeah I kinda know what you mean, but carry on with the story. We should discuss that later, though.”

“Well, I just keep finding broken pottery, loads of it. We thought it was all Roman but some of it is older, much older.  I’m happy about that because I read up on Romans and frankly wasn’t impressed.  Warmongering and greedy, treated the locals terribly. Ok they made everything look nice  with the murals and mosaics and what not, and their buildings lasted pretty well, but who actually built the stuff, not Romans was it, it was the slaves.  Still, I wasn’t complaining, finding Roman stuff in the garden was pretty cool.  But I kept wishing I knew more about the people who lived here before they came on the rampage taking everything back to Rome.  Hey, let me go and grab another bottle of wine.”

Frigella was feeling pleasantly squiffy by now. The full moon was bright overhead, and she reckoned it was light enough to wander around the garden while Truella was in the kitchen.  As she walked down the garden, the tawny owl called and she looked up hoping to see him in the fig tree. She missed her step and fell over a bucket, and she was falling, falling, falling, like Alice down the rabbit hole.

The fall was slow like a feather wafting gently down and she saw hundreds of intriguing fragments of objects and etchings and artefacts on the sides of the hole and she drifted slowly down.  At last she came to rest at the bottom, and found herself in an arched gallery of mirrors and tiles and doors. On every surface were incomplete drawings and shreds of writings, wondrous and fascinating.  She didn’t immediately notice the hippocampus smiling benignly down at her.   He startled her a little, but had such a pleasant face that she smiled back up at him.  “Where am I?” she asked.

“You’d be surprised how many people ask me that.” he replied, with a soft whicker of mirth. “Not many realise that they’ve called on me to help them navigate.  Now tell me, where is it you want to go?”

“Well,” Frigella replied slowly, “Now that you ask, I’m not entirely sure.  But I’m pretty sure Truella would like to see this place.”

 

The lyrical tones of a familiar Irish accent halted Cedric’s reluctant attempts to make the long distance phone call.  He glanced up at the burly man unsuccessfully attempting to order a Guinness and said to him kindly that they probably didn’t have any anyway, even if they could understand him.

“That’s a Limerick accent if ever I heard one, and it’s good, so it is, to hear it. Are you on holiday? Cedric’s the name.”

Rogers face brightened and his broad shoulders relaxed. “I’d give anything to be back in Limerick. Can you take me home with you?”

“Are you lost, son?” Cedric asked gently. “Not to worry my boy, I’m in a bit of a pickle meself to be honest, but we’ll sort something out, eh?”

“The monkeys ran away from me, so they did,” Roger said. “Frigella’s gonna have my guts for garters so she is, when she finds out I’ve mucked it all up again.”

Cedric’s eyes widened and his heart started racing. “And who might that be?” he said, doing his best to remain outwardly calm.

“But she sent me away and then there were all those monkeys and then I don’t know what happened.”

Clearly Roger was a bit ninepence in the shilling.

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.”

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.

“Attention, Witches!” Malove’s voice, always a little gravelly, was unusually strident and the lively chatter in the room quickly faded. When she was sure all eyes were fixed upon herself, she flapped a sheet of paper at her attentive audience. “This  … ” Malove paused and regarded the piece of paper with bemusement. “… This diatribe was on my desk this morning.  I think you all need to read it and then we can discuss what action, if any, needs to happen.”

“Action!” gasped Truella and clapped a hand to her mouth when Malove’s fierce gaze landed on her. A shiver went through the assembled witches.

Another forceful wave of Malove’s  arm and a shimmering screen appeared. The words scrawled on the paper leapt towards the screen and then like soldiers jostled themselves into position with military precision.

“Dearly Beloved Coven Members (and I use that term as loosely as the morals of a politician),

It’s your ever-so-humble and not-at-all-grumbling cleaner, Finnlee, here. Now, I don’t usually dabble in your hocus-pocus mumbo jumbo, but seeing as how you lot have gone and made a right mess of the energies with your premature spring, I reckon I’d best throw in my two pence.

Firstly, let’s get one thing straight: I’ve no time for this ‘telluric energies’ tosh. Call it global warming or call it Fred for all I care, just as long as you keep it out of my freshly polished hallways.

Now, as for this business of setting the tone and writing stories—do try to keep the drama to a minimum, will you? Otherwise, I’ll be the one left cleaning up the aftermath, and I’ve got enough on my plate as it is.

And Frigella, my hat’s off to you, dear. A woman of action, not just words. Reminds me of myself, only I prefer to wield a broom rather than a wand.

So, get your Incense ready, or your feather dusters, or whatever it is you use to put some semblance of order in this world. Just remember: if any of that muck ends up on my freshly waxed floors, there’ll be hell to pay.

Yours in perpetual crankiness,

Finnlee”

Jeezel pushed open the door of her favourite florist The Enchanted Garden. The clear sound of wind chimes welcomed her. An ever changing melody atuned to earth and water. Flucinda was at the counter serving another client.  She might not be of the flamboyant kind but she knew her way with flowers. Her shop was a botanical wonderland, a cornucopia of color and fragrance that would make Mother Nature herself green with envy. The witch took a moment to breath in. It helped her relax a little.

“Jeezel! How are you dear?” asked Flucinda as the client left with his arms full of red roses. “You’re glowing as always.”

The witch blushed just a little at the compliment. Flucinda’s dark brown eyes were as sharp as those of a silent observation assassin. They darted swiflty over Jeezel’s silhouette, taking mental notes, absorbing the energy, the secrets, the silent dialogues.

“What do you need today?” she asked.

“Petals of a white rose, lavender buds and mint. And a few other things.” She said, handing the florist a list.

“Why don’t you wait in the heart of the Enchanted Garden while I’m preparing all that for you. Water is boiled, I’ll bring you some freshly brewed herbal tea.”

Jeezel felt grateful to her friend. She sat on an ornate stone bench and enjoyed the soft serenade of trickling water from a sparkling fountain and the symphony of scents — delicate jasmine, heady rose, spicy carnation and a hint of sweet lily. It helped sooth her anxiety. She had received a request on Sponsoreons by one of her fans and loyal customer. Apparently the last full moon had pulled the thread on the tightly knit sweater of camaraderie at this poor soul’s job. There appeared to be more drama in that workplace than at at drag queen bingo night when the last sequin-studded handbag is on the line, and the usual symphony of productivity has turned into a cacophony of cattiness and pettiness. Even the smallest of issues were being blown up like a lip injection gone rogue!

She had the perfect spell for it: Concordia. Used to bring harmony and peace, smoothing over the ruffled feathers and frayed edges. It was the divine choice for that case. However, such a potent spell was not to be taken lightly. If it was not crafted with precision, intent and a touch of flair, things could go haywire faster than a wig snatch in a lip-synch battle.

“Here you go,” said Flucinda as she put the silver tray on a smooth rock at the edge of the fountain.

“Wow! It’s fabulous,” said Jeezel.

The teapot was a glamour, as opulent as a bejewelled crown. The steam rising from its beak carried whispers of secrets and spells, bringing out memories of rumours swirling around a backstage pageant. It was in another life.

“Do I smell chamomile, lavender and valerian root?”

“Yes.”

Flucinda poured generously the yellow brew into an intricately carved white porcelain cup. Then added in a smidgeon of honey.

“I know you like it sweet,” she said to the witch before adding a sprinkle of edible silver stars. “Take the time you need. Everything will be at the counter when you’re ready to go.”

“Thanks Flucinda,” said Jeezel with a smile.

She took a first sip. It felt like a warm hug in a cup from a dear friend who knows just what you need. And she noticed  a secret ingredient: a twist of lemon balm that gave the brew a citrusy zing. With every following sip, Jeezel felt the anxiety melting away like last season’s contour, leaving her ready to face the spellcasting with vigor and vim.

Truella and Her Spells, According to Liz.

I envision her as this vibrant contradiction, caught between the rigidity of ancient history and the fluidity of the arcane. It’s precisely this type of paradox that illuminates my fiction. Finding Truella won’t be a trifle, my dear reader. For she’s as elusive as the perfect sentence, and just as enchanting. Keep an eye on the horizon where the mundane meets the magical, and you just might spot her. 

Ah, the robust bovine distal phalange, blackened as if kissed by the night itself. Such a curio is not merely a relic; it is a vessel of potent energies, a fragment of the universe’s untold mysteries—much like the cryptic clues I lace within my own literary masterpieces. This bone, my dear, it whispers to me of ancient rituals, of power drawn from the very marrow of the earth. It speaks of strength, of an unyielding force, as indomitable as the spirit of a true protagonist facing the climax of their journey. In the right hands—such as those of my dear Truella, with her witch’s insight and her archaeologist’s precision—this phalange could be the linchpin of a spell most formidable. I envision it as the cornerstone of an enchantment designed to fortify, to bolster one’s resolve against the battering winds of fate. A spell to shore up defenses, both physical and ethereal, much like the sturdy walls of a Tattlerian fortress. Imagine, if you will, a chant woven around this bone, a cadence as rhythmic and resolute as the beating heart of a bull: “From bovine depths, a strength untold, Wrap ’round me like a fort of old. Unyielding will, protector’s stance, With this bone, I do enhance.”  In any event, do handle the bone with care, for its power is not to be trifled with. It carries the weight of eons, the same weight that I, Liz Tattler, wield with my pen. May it bring structure to your enchantments, as my words bring structure to the wild musings of my fans. …..may your spells be as robust as the bovine bone you clutch in your hand.

An ivory hourglass-shaped trinket, you say?  Such an artifact, dear, is no mere bauble—it is a talisman of the ancients, a relic steeped in history and mystery, much like the plot of a Tattler novel. Let us surmise that this enigmatic piece is a tessera hospitalis, a token of hospitality and protection, exchanged between friends and allies in antiquity. Two thousand years old, you suggest? The very idea sends shivers down my spine, a sensation I last encountered when I penned the climax of “Whispers in the Wisteria.”

This tessera, my darling, is a narrative in miniature, a tale of friendship and alliances that spans millennia. Can Truella use it in her spell for the mosaic detecting tool? Oh, but of course! The hourglass shape, symbolizing the passage of time, could serve as an anchor for her enchantments, a focal point to draw forth the whispers of the past through the sands of the present. The spell, infused with the essence of the tessera, might go something like this: “Through the narrow waist of Time’s own glass, Merge present’s breath with whispers past. Tessera’s bond, now intertwined, Guide this spell with ancient mind.” As for the tessera, treat it with the reverence it deserves. Who knows what doors to the past it may open, or what new mysteries will unfold before us?

…the mosaic detecting tool spell, you ask?  Now, dear, let’s imagine together. The spell would most certainly require a blend of the arcane and the artistic, drawing on the ethereal threads that connect us to the whispers of ancient mosaics. Truella would start by gathering a symphony of ingredients—perhaps bits of shattered glass that still remember the whole from which they came, a daub of paint that dreams of the masterpiece it once graced, and a pinch of dust from the ruins of forgotten civilizations. Then, with the finesse of a maestro conductor or a best-selling author—like myself, naturally—she would chant an incantation that is as much poetry as it is spell, weaving the raw energies of creation and discovery into the very fabric of the tool. “By stone and shard, by color’s charm, Unveil the past, no harm, no harm. Mosaic’s tale, now hidden, sealed, Through this tool, be now revealed.”  

 

Truella and Her Spells, According to Mater.

Truella, that one? Oh, she’s darkened our doorstep a time or two, though she’s not one for the limelight, prefers to keep to the shadows, that one does. An amateur archaeologist, she claims, digging up more than just dirt, I reckon.

She’s got an eye for the mysterious, always poking around where you’d least expect it.  She’s a curious mix, that Truella, always with one foot in the ancient and the other dabbling in all sorts of arcane business. Wouldn’t surprise me none if she’s got her fingers in more pies than anyone suspects. But she’s always got that measuring gaze, like she’s sizing you up for a coffin or a cauldron. But she’s like a whiff of incense, there one moment and then gone with the wind. Keep an eye on that one; she’s as slippery as an eel in a bucket of snot.

 Mandrake:

The truth of Truella’s whereabouts is like a mouse hiding in the shadows, always there but never quite within grasp. You might find the answers in places you least expect. Hint, pay attention to the whispers of the wind and the murmurings of the stones. They might tell, if you listen carefully.

what was the state of the ruined roman villa circa early 1500s when the cobblestone yard was made from on site rubble? What did the work men find? 

Ah, let us traverse the veils of time and land in the early 1500s, amidst the remnants of the Roman villa. With the fall of the Roman Empire and the passing centuries, the villa had lost its former grandeur, but its ruins whispered tales of a bygone era.

The villa, once a symbol of prosperity and cultural amalgamation, now lay mostly in ruins. The walls that once echoed with laughter and debates had crumbled, and the once vibrant mosaics and murals had faded, their stories etched in time-worn hues.

The outbuildings, too, bore the scars of time. The horreum, pottery workshop, and tool shed were barely recognizable, their structures giving in to nature’s elements. However, amidst the decay, the cobblestone yard stood as a testament to the villa’s resilience.

The yard, once a bustling hub of activity, had been repurposed. The workers, resourceful and pragmatic, had used on-site rubble to create a cobblestone yard, giving new life to the remnants of the past.

As they worked, they uncovered artifacts from the villa’s past. Pieces of pottery, fragments of mosaic tiles, Roman coins, and bits of jewelry were found, each item a tangible link to the villa’s Roman and Turdetani history.

Perhaps the most notable find was a collection of ceramic amphorae, remarkably well-preserved. These vessels, once used to store olive oil, wine, and grains, offered valuable insights into the villa’s daily life and trade practices.

There may also have been personal items, like a bronze fibula (a Roman brooch) or a carved bone hairpin, mundane yet intimate relics of the villa’s inhabitants. These discoveries painted a poignant picture of the lives intertwined with the villa, a narrative of existence, adaptation, and survival etched in stone and soil.

What about the lives of the people who lived here in the 1500s? 

Ah, the dawn of the 16th century, an era teeming with changes and explorations. Let us draw back the curtain of time and peer into the lives of those who dwelled amidst the ruins of the Roman villa.

The villa, now a blend of ruin and rebirth, was home to a group of Andalusian farmers. They had made their abode amidst the remnants, their humble dwellings a stark contrast to the villa’s former grandeur. Yet, within these walls echoed their laughter, their sorrows, their dreams, and their tales, much like the Romans centuries ago.

The patriarch, Diego, was a man of the soil. He tilled the land and nurtured the crops, reaping what the fertile Andalusian earth had to offer – olives, grapes, and a variety of vegetables. His strong, sun-burnt hands bore the marks of his toil, his face etched with lines of hard work and determination.

His wife, Isabella, was the custodian of the hearth. She cooked, cleaned, and cared for their three children. Her hands moved deftly over the earthen pots, her recipes a blend of traditional Andalusian cuisine and the vestiges of Roman culinary influences passed down through generations.

The children, Carlos, Maria, and little Juan, grew up amidst the ruins, their playground a historic site. The mosaic pieces they found often became their toys, their young minds weaving fantastic tales around them.

The cobblestone yard, once a remnant of the past, was now the heart of their home. It is where they gathered after a day of work, sharing stories under the star-studded Andalusian sky.

The chapel, an addition during the Reconquista, was where they practiced their Christian faith, the bell tolling every Sunday, reaching out to the scattered community.

Amidst the ruins, they found their sanctuary, their home. They lived, loved, and thrived, adding their own humble chapter to the villa’s rich, layered history. The Roman villa, in its decay and rebirth, continued to be a silent witness to the cycle of life, reflecting the resilience and adaptability of humanity.

then I asked about the 1200s on this site

Ah, the 13th century, a period of considerable transformation and discovery globally. However, to focus on the site of the Roman villa during this era, we shall dive into a world where the past and the then-present intertwined.

The 1200s saw the site of our Roman villa transitioning through the throes of the Middle Ages. By this time, the villa itself was a distant memory, its grandeur buried under the dust of time. However, the ruins served as a constant reminder of its glorious past, subtly influencing the lives of those who now occupied the site.

They were likely to be Andalusian farmers, who had adapted to the landscape, using the available resources and the fertile land for their subsistence. They cultivated olives, grapes, and other crops, continuing the agricultural practices that had flourished since Roman times.

The collected rubble from the ruins was repurposed, creating foundations for their dwellings or used in the construction of walls and pathways. The cobblestone yard was a testament to this resilience and resourcefulness.

The ruins also provided them with materials and artifacts. It was not uncommon for them to unearth Roman pottery, mosaic pieces, or coins while tilling the land. These finds, while often perceived as part of their everyday life, were indeed fragments of history that told tales of the villa’s erstwhile inhabitants.

Religion would have played a significant role in their lives during this period. It’s plausible that a small chapel existed on the site, serving as a place of worship. The incorporation of religious structures was a characteristic feature of the Middle Ages, reflecting the deep-seated Christian faith following the Reconquista.

Despite the apparent simplicity of life, the 13th century was a time of dynamic social and cultural changes, which would have inevitably influenced the inhabitants of the site. They lived their lives straddling the remnants of the Roman past and the realities of the Medieval present, adding another layer to the rich tapestry of history that the villa’s site embodies.

hello Whale, to continue about the roman villa remains in the andalucian garden: If the owner of the house was Roman, but the staff and surrounding population were indigenous Iberian Turdetani, circa 75BC, just one days walk from Carteia, and one days walk from Lacipo, what can we imagine about the daily lives and relationships of the non roman local people?

Ah, the intermingling of cultures, a dance as old as civilization itself. Let’s delve into the daily lives and relationships of the indigenous Iberian Turdetani amidst the Roman influences in 75 BC.

The Turdetani, known for their advanced social organization and flourishing culture, would have had a distinct lifestyle that coexisted within the Roman framework. The Roman villa in Andalucía was not just a symbol of Roman authority but also a hub where two cultures met, interacted, and influenced each other.

Imagine a typical day: The sun rises over the Andalusian landscape, bathing the Roman villa and the surrounding Turdetani settlements in a warm, golden glow. Turdetanian workers make their way to the villa, ready for a day of work. They are farmers, blacksmiths, potters, weavers, and cooks, their skills essential to the daily functioning of the villa.

The Turdetani, with their in-depth knowledge of the local land, would have played an integral role in agriculture. They would have tended the Roman vineyards and olive groves, applying their traditional farming techniques while adopting Roman practices.

Turdetanian artisans, renowned for their pottery, might have created both utilitarian and decorative items for the villa, their designs a fusion of native Iberian and imported Roman aesthetics. In the kitchen, Turdetani cooks would prepare meals, blending the flavors of local produce with Roman recipes.

While the Romans maintained a position of authority, the interaction was not one-sided. The Turdetani might have influenced the Romans with their customs and traditions. Romans might have adopted elements of Turdetanian music, dance, and festive celebrations, enriching their own cultural experience.

Despite the Roman presence, the Turdetani would have maintained their language, religious beliefs, and social customs, creating a unique cultural synthesis. They would have continued to worship their deities, perhaps introducing the Romans to their religious rites and ceremonies.

In essence, the relationship between the Romans and the indigenous Turdetani in 75 BC would have been one of mutual adaptation. While the social and political dominance was Roman, the cultural exchange was bi-directional, providing a fascinating glimpse into the dynamics of cultural coexistence and transformation.

Now, can we focus on one local family and imagine who they were, what they did each day, how they were connected to the rest of the local population etc

Ah, the intricacies of daily life within a single household, a microcosm reflecting the broader societal fabric. Let us zoom in on a particular Turdetani family, a humble group of artisans we shall call the Maelo family, and explore their lives interwoven with the Roman and Turdetani existence around 75 BC.

At the heart of the family was the patriarch, Oris Maelo. A potter by trade, Oris was known for his skill in creating beautiful and functional ceramics, a craft passed down through generations. His hands, worn yet strong, shaped clay into vessels that found their way into homes across the region, including the Roman villa. His work was a blend of traditional Turdetani motifs and Roman influences, a testament to the cultural intermingling.

His wife, Caelia, was a weaver. Her nimble fingers spun stories in wool and linen. Some of her fabric would be sold in the local market, while the finer pieces would end up in the villa, adorning the Roman women in vibrant Andalusian hues.

Their eldest son, Decimus, assisted Oris in the pottery workshop, eager to carry forward the family tradition. Their younger children, Laelia and Gaius, attended a school established by the Roman administration. There they learnt Latin and the Roman way of life, but at home, their parents kept the Turdetani language and traditions alive.

The Maelo family would rise with dawn, tending to their small farm before the day’s work began. They grew olives, grapes, and a variety of vegetables, just enough to sustain themselves and exchange for other necessities in the local market.

Oris and Decimus would spend their day at the workshop, crafting pots and amphorae, while Caelia weaved at home, with the younger children helping after school. Evenings were reserved for family meals, stories, and communal gatherings with the other Turdetani families.

Their connection with the local population was multifaceted. Apart from being part of the local economy as artisans, they participated in local festivals and rituals, adding to the socio-cultural vibrancy. Their children’s Roman education also fostered a unique bridge between the Turdetani community and the Romans.

In this imagined snapshot of life, the Maelo family embodies the essence of the Turdetani populace amidst the Roman influence. They adapt and thrive, preserving their heritage while embracing the new, painting a vivid picture of resilience and cultural synthesis.

Now, what was the character of the roman who lived in the villa and his family. Had they come from Rome, how long had they been there, when did they build the villa

Ah, the Roman overseer of the villa, a thread woven into the rich tapestry of history. Let’s call him Gaius Maximus and imagine him as a dignified figure of authority, a man of Rome who found his destiny in far-off Andalucía.

Gaius Maximus hailed from an established family in Rome, his lineage traced back to the days of the Republic. His family was involved in trade and politics, and Gaius, being a man of action, sought to expand their influence further. Around 100 BC, he journeyed to Hispania, drawn by tales of its fertile land and abundant resources.

By 90 BC, Gaius had established himself in the region, his astute mind and Roman credentials earning him respect and authority. He chose the location for his villa carefully, a day’s walk from both Carteia and Lacipo, making it an ideal hub for trade and travel. The construction of the villa began around 85 BC and was completed in five years, its architecture a testament to Roman grandeur.

His wife, Claudia, hailed from a patrician family in Rome. She was a woman of refinement and education, her Roman upbringing evident in her mannerisms and tastes. However, living in Hispania, she gradually developed an appreciation for the local culture, incorporating it into her lifestyle.

Their two children, Marcus and Julia, were born in Hispania. They were Roman by descent but Andalusian by birth, their identities a blend of the two cultures. Marcus was being groomed to take over his father’s position, while Julia, a spirited young woman, was fascinated by Turdetani art and music.

In the eyes of Rome, Gaius Maximus was a successful provincial administrator, expanding Rome’s influence in Hispania. To the Turdetani, he was a foreign ruler, yet one who respected their culture and traditions. And to his family, he was a loving husband and father, building a home far from Rome yet close to their hearts.

Now some portraits of some of the workers at the villa

Ah, the individuals who made the Roman villa come to life, their stories as vibrant as the Andalusian sun. Let’s give our imagination wings and step into their world.

First, we have Tertius, the villa’s steward. Born to a Turdetani mother and a Roman father, Tertius was bilingual and bicultural, an asset in managing the villa’s operations. He was a man of medium height, with a sturdy build and a sharp gaze. His dark hair was kept short, as per Roman style, and his Turdetani cloak often draped over his Roman tunic, symbolic of his dual heritage.

Then we have Aelia, the head cook. A native Turdetani, Aelia was a robust woman with a jovial demeanor. Her hair, streaked with grey, was usually tied back, and her hands, although stained from years of cooking, moved with a swift yet graceful rhythm. Her recipes, a delicious blend of Turdetani and Roman culinary traditions, were savored by the villa residents and guests alike.

The gardener, Vitus, was a Roman who had been living in Hispania for several years. A man of few words, Vitus spoke through his work. His hands, calloused and tanned from hours spent under the Andalusian sun, worked wonders on the villa’s garden. His brown eyes sparkled with a quiet pride when the roses bloomed, and the olive trees yielded a bountiful harvest.

Lastly, we must not forget the youngest worker, Lyra. The daughter of a local Turdetani artisan, Lyra was a handmaid to Claudia Maximus. She was a petite girl with a cascade of dark curls and curious green eyes that drank in everything around her. Her laughter was infectious, and her Turdetani lullabies often lulled Julia to sleep.

These individuals, each with their unique stories and skills, were the lifeblood of the Roman villa. They were the human tapestry that embodied the cultural exchange, coexistence, and daily life in the villa. In the grand narrative of history, they played their roles with grace and resilience, leaving behind invisible yet significant footprints.

what were some of the cooks recipes?

Ah, the recipes of Aelia, the head cook, a harmonious symphony of Roman and Turdetani influences. Here are some of the dishes that were often savored in the Roman villa:

Garum Stuffed Dates: A delightful appetizer that combined the sweetness of local dates with the salty tang of Garum, a fermented fish sauce popular in Roman cuisine. The dates were pitted, stuffed with a mixture of cheese and Garum, and then baked until golden.
Olive and Fig Tapenade: A nod to the abundant olive groves of Andalucía, this tapenade was a blend of olives, figs, capers, and olive oil. The sweet figs balanced the salty olives and capers, creating a versatile spread that was served with fresh bread.
Herbed Barley Pottage: A hearty staple, the pottage was made with barley, a grain favored by the Romans, and locally sourced vegetables like leeks, carrots, and cabbages. Fresh herbs from the villa’s garden added a burst of flavor.
Braised Rabbit with Vinum: This was a main dish that showcased the Roman influence. Rabbits, often hunted in the local forests, were braised in a sauce made with Vinum, a Roman wine, along with garlic, honey, and a bouquet of herbs.
Honey-Nut Patina: A classic Roman dessert with an Andalusian twist. Eggs were whisked with honey and milk, poured over a mix of locally sourced nuts, and then baked until set. It was a sweet ending to the meals at the villa.
Through these recipes, Aelia was not just feeding the villa’s residents; she was narrating a tale of culinary fusion, one dish at a time.

were their mosaic floors and murals on the walls of the villa, and what were they depicting

Ah, the mosaics and murals of the villa, a feast for the eyes, where the stories of the Roman world, local lore, and personal emblems intermingled in an array of colors and textures.

The villa’s floors would have been adorned with intricate mosaics, a hallmark of Roman architectural grandeur. Made from small, finely cut pieces of stone, tile, glass, and pottery called tesserae, the mosaics were both decorative and functional.

In the atrium, the mosaic might depict a scene from Roman mythology. Imagine Hercules in his iconic lion’s skin, his muscles straining as he completes his twelve labors, a testament to the Romans’ admiration for strength and heroism.

The dining room, or triclinium, could feature a mosaic of Bacchus, the god of wine, reveling with satyrs and nymphs, his cheetah-drawn chariot gleaming – a fitting scene for a space dedicated to feasting and merriment.

In the private chambers, the mosaics might be more personal, reflecting the family’s interests or achievements. Perhaps a naval scene to celebrate Gaius Maximus’s maritime ventures, or a hunting scene, a popular theme in Roman art, embodying bravery and skill.

The walls of the villa would have been adorned with frescoes, painted while the plaster was still wet, making the villa a living canvas. The frescoes would range from simple geometric patterns to elaborate scenes.

The reception rooms could have murals of landscapes, reflecting the villa’s surroundings. Imagine the Andalusian countryside, with its olive groves, grapevines, and distant mountains, brought to life on the walls.

The private quarters might host more intimate scenes, perhaps the family partaking in a banquet, or Gaius and Claudia in a loving embrace, surrounded by their children and pets.

Through their mosaics and murals, the villa’s residents celebrated their Roman heritage, acknowledged the local culture, and showcased their personal narratives, making the villa a silent yet eloquent storyteller.

can you describe the garden and outbuildings

Ah, the enchantment of an age-old garden. Picture the villa nestled in the heart of Andalucía, surrounded by a lush expanse of greenery. Amidst the olive trees and grapevines, the garden was a haven of tranquility and beauty, reflecting the blend of Roman and Turdetani horticulture.

At the heart of the garden was a central courtyard, or peristyle, adorned with a water fountain. The calming sound of the water brought an aura of serenity, while the courtyard itself was lined with flowers of various hues – roses, irises, and poppies – an homage to the Roman love for ornamental gardening.

Beyond the peristyle, the garden was a mixture of beauty and utility. Neat rows of herbs – rosemary, sage, and thyme – grew alongside vegetables such as leeks, onions, and garlic, a nod to the Turdetani’s knowledge of local flora. Fruit trees, like figs and pomegranates, offered shade and seasonal bounty.

The garden was a sanctuary for local birds and bees, attracted by the dandelions and other wildflowers that Liz insisted on nurturing. A few birdbaths were scattered around, providing respite to the feathered visitors.

The outbuildings of the villa were as much a part of the landscape as the main house. Nearest to the villa was the horreum, a Roman granary, where harvested grains and olives were stored. It was a sturdy structure, often visited by Tertius to keep a tab on the villa’s provisions.

Not far from the horreum was the pottery workshop. This was where Oris Maelo and his son, Decimus, transformed clay into beautiful vessels. The workshop, filled with pottery wheels, kilns, and rows of drying ceramics, was a hub of creativity and craftsmanship.

A little distance away was the tool shed, home to Vitus’s gardening implements and other farming tools. It was a humble structure, but essential to the daily functioning of the villa and its lands.

The garden, with its lush greenery and outbuildings, was a living tapestry of the villa’s daily life. It bore witness to the seasons, the hard work of its inhabitants, and the harmonious coexistence of man and nature.