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  • #7387

    The full moon was rising behind the mountains as Frigella turned off the road for the last lap of the journey down a dirt track.  Daunted at first by the thought of the long drive, the prospect of a weeks holiday had lifted her spirits. There was altogether too much going on of late for a simple country hedge witch, and that carnaval mayhem had made her grumpy and withdrawn, but the drive had restored her equilibrium.

    Truella rolled down the passenger window and laughed as the cool night air rushed in.  “Nearly there now, I can hardly believe I made it back in one piece.”

    “You and me both,” laughed Frigella.  “There’s nothing I fancy more now than a couple of glasses of your lovely red wine but we’d better make a start on the spell to bring Roger back right away. This moon is perfect tonight.”

    “I can’t see any reason why we can’t do both,” Truella grinned.  Frigella started to object, and then stopped herself. They had arrived and she was on holiday and she deserved to sit and enjoy a drink with her friend and her responsibilities and obligations would just have to wait, at least for an hour or two.

    “Why not indeed,” she said, “Why the hell not.  You can tell me about finding the hippocampus statue in the dig. Great timing I must say, and the smoked hippo bones as well, just when we need to use that spell.”

    “And a full moon as well. And it’s full all night long, we have plenty of time.”

    #7381

    Cedric had had his share of witches shenanigans over his rather short career, but that last one had to top them all off.

    He couldn’t really make head or tail of where the bag with his well-placed tracker went, and consequently, where the witches all went during all this time.

    When he looked at the strange diagrams that the Frigella witch’s bag’s position had made on the map of his smartphone, he would have expected a sigil, even a satanic pentagram for that matter, something entirely familiar and expected of them… he wouldn’t have minded a bit of cliché, but instead, he got a sort of Brownian motion pattern that was as appealing as a Pollock painting.

    Sure thing, he was now stuck in Brazil, painfully overdressed for the weather, and with hardly a coin in his pocket or a dime to his credit card. He would have to call his employer… or maybe worse, his mum.

    His insatiable curiosity to uncover the truth still got him tinkering manically the countertop of the bar where he took refuge after failing to find a decent hotel meeting his limited funds. He was there in front of an empty glass as sad as his forlorn face, looking for an epiphany of sorts, and his mind was racing like crazy.

    Ei! pare com isso seu maníaco!” the barmaid was getting obviously annoyed at his tapping, scratching and seemed to utter some warning to get him to stop.

    She switched the TV on. Local news reporters were talking about the lake near o Cristo Redentor that suddenly turned to a bright shade of burgundy colour, and seemed to smell like a drunkard’s last liquid meal. Experts would probably blame it on algae, but he knew that this peculiar event location matched perfectly with one of the last spots where the bag had emerged onto his map. Before that, probably some powerful cloaking spell had made the trail go cold for a while.

    And after that: poof, they were gone. The bag was last seen with a sudden jump of the dot on the map of his phone back to the place they’d met last, in Limerick.

    That was it. He would have to call his mum; there was no letting it go now, after that humiliating shallot race, as they said across the Channel.

    #7379

    From the moment they had stepped into the gorgeous villa, Malové had felt it was a trap.

    It all went very fast and messily after that.

    The memories were a bit blurred after all the manic rush of events.

    One thing was sure: her little plan of a new smoke fragrance had to be the biggest fiasco since she took the reins of the Coven’s Quadrivium ventures.

    Well, there wouldn’t be a huge point to go through the minute details of events that went down after that, would it.

    Suffice to say that someone had snitched about their incognito presence directly in the ears of the Elder, and they would have been toast were it not for her quick wits.

    A few curious souls would love to know how they ultimately escaped the clutches of the Brazilian witches. But that story would be one for later.
    Carnival was over, and she for one, had never been big on feathers and glitter.
    Lent and its Quadragesima austerities was more her style.

    In the end, they’d only be gone for less than a week and like that, they’d already come back to the Quadrivium.

    It was luck really that Jeezel had been so good at producing the cascading portal just in time, and they could all slip through it, in spite of the sudden explosion of fireworks and the mad run ensuing. One of the pygmy hippos that was sent to chase after them had paid the price of Jeezel’s quick thinking this time, as she’d severed the portal at just the moment for the hippo to be bisected in a rather gruesome fashion.
    Well, she’d never tasted smoked hippo, but she’d heard from her Tanzanian witch friend that one could find decent recipes, and it would do wonders with a garnish of orange marmalade.
    And on top of that, she’d recently acquired a wardrobe sized smoking room that would do perfectly well for a trial run.

    She had to hand it to Frigella that she also did well with the hedgehog enlargement and armoring spells – the spikes throwing had really made a splash. Malové didn’t know she was so good at battle magic she even didn’t have to use her dragonage master spell.

    The only issue was for Truella. Termitated by honey that was served by their cunning hosts, her duplicate self had been turned to stone instantaneously. That’s how Malové had known they were not meant to escape. Luckily for Truella, this was just her duplicate from the bilocation spell. On Malové’s orders, Eris had turned this second body into a miniature statue so that Eris could carry her away to safety during their mad escape.

    Now, they would have to merge this stoned Truella back with her original self, so that Truella wouldn’t suffer from any tinkering effects afterwards.

    #7376

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

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

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

    “Rio is not like that!”

    “Somebody help.”

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

    The sounds of likes and comments alerted Malové.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

    #7375

    “The very image of a spy from a cheap novel. Perched behind his newspaper, peering through holes like a child with a telescope. He’s a creature of shadows, blending into the background, always watching, never seen. He thinks himself clever, but he’s as subtle as a cat in a fishbowl. He’s drawn to Frigella like a moth to a flame, but can’t shake off his ingrained caution. Intrigued yet wary, like a mouse sniffing a piece of cheese in a trap. He needs to make up his mind before his tail gets caught.”

    “What’s on your mind, Needles?” Frigella inquired of her hedgehog familiar.

    “Nothing,” replied the hedgehog cryptically, returning happily to his strawberry snack. “But you’ll soon find out…”

    Cedric Spellbind found himself woefully unprepared for what was coming after the jump into the weird glowing vortex. On a hunch, he’d followed the enigmatic Miss O’Green. Something about her, her diaphaneous looks…

    His wool tweed cap wasn’t the best attire for wherever he had jumped into. The damp smells, the warm humid air filled with electricity —something told him he wasn’t in Limerick any more,… but where.

    The group Ms Frigella was with had moved swiftly, nonchalantly going in the streets after the boisterous tall figure with the black curly wig had made a string of light glow on the ground, evanescent trail they followed unhesitant to somewhere only them seemed to know.

    He was struggling to keep the pace. At some point, the blue-haired one had turned suspiciously casting her glance, and he’d managed to dart in a nearby alley. They’d resumed their stroll, but she’d done something after that, some sort of dark magic that made their group seem to disappear in a fog, the sounds they made suddenly all muffled.

    Accustomed to tracking witches, he’d discreetly put a findmystuff tracker on the bag. Wherever that bag would go, he would follow. He opted to let them proceed unhindered, for now.

    He checked his phone. He couldn’t catch the signs in the streets during his shadowing. His phone had started buzzing as soon as he’d emerged from the vortex, so he was surely in another country. The SMS he’d received confirmed that hypothesis: he was in Brazil.

    5 missed calls. His mother… He couldn’t call her back now, it would cost him a fortune, and his witch tracking wasn’t exactly paying the bills. She would hate him for it, but she would have to wait. Maybe a bit of worrying for him wasn’t bad. One could hope.

    His last witch hunt hadn’t been the most successful. Bulgarian witches were fierce. To be honest, it had been a fiasco, and he was posted in Limerick as a consequence —on desk job only. He knew there were worse places to be, but he was missing the action of the field… He shouldn’t have followed these witches, but again, following orders had never been his strong suit.

    #7374

    Jeezel had quickly come back to her sense, despite the gnawing sense that she should have closed the portal quicker and that something —someone?— could have followed them here. She could have done a debugging spell, but for now it would have to wait. Malové was growing antsy, and was getting prone to fits of winking that couldn’t bode well.

    Jeezel had found the perfect spot for them to install the apparatus that was hidden inside the bag of infinite depth that Fingella was carrying with her. Truth was, Echo had been of help. When asked, the familiar sprite had quickly scanned the area and shared: The Sambódromo, too obvious. Copacabana, too crowded. Try the old district of Santa Teresa. Charm, history, and the right kind of energy, plus the tourists tend to overlook it. 

    Meanwhile, Truella was suffering from the side effects of the portal’s severance, finding it more difficult to maintain her bilocation across the continents without the supporting effect of the portal. She was given a potion to realign her energies that gave her chills down to her teeth, and had chosen to go for a rest here in Rio, which could allow her to focus on her other self as it was still late afternoon in Europe.

    “Only three days before the grand finale of the Carnival, where energies will be at their peak!” Malové had encouraged them. “Let’s get moving!”

    Eris who’d remained quiet, patrolling the energy perimeter they’d set up to cloak themselves looked at them with a concerned look. “It shouldn’t be the case with the protection spells, but I think we are being observed.”

    “Time to switch disguises maybe?” Jeezel was yearning for a change, as the lycra of the nurse outfit was not mixing well with the damp weather.

    #7373

    The disturbance had been felt in the bustling heart of Rio.

    The warmth of the night had amplified the vibrant energy of the Carnival in Rio, a pulsating heart that reverberated through the city’s veins. But as the beat of samba drums echoed in the distance, a different rhythm was being played behind closed doors. Iemanjá, the head of the Umbanda clan and a pillar of strength in the Witches of the New World, recognized the tremors of another magick at play.

    Gathering her coven under the silvery light of the crescent moon, they began the rhythmic dance of the macumba ritual. The air grew heavy, scented with copal and the salty tang of the ocean. In the center of their circle, a waterspout swirled, revealing in its shallow reflection the glow of a portal that emitted the icy chill of a Limerick dawn.

    Piercing through the veil of secrecy, Iemanjá’s ethereal sight witnessed the foreign witches, led by the enigmatic Malové, who dared to encroach upon their territory without the required parchmentwork. And yet, their motives remained hidden within the vortex of desire and lust emanating from the Carnival.

    A murmur of discontent rippled through the Umbanda clan. Mesmirah, her second, couldn’t stop herself shouting Sacrilégio! They were not ones to tolerate trespassers, let alone those who dared to siphon off energy from their sacred lands.

    Silêncio! Iemanjá commanded the crowd. She’d recognized Malové from having attended and graduated the same MWA (Master of Witchcraft Administration), and she was aware of Malove’s little incense business; Malové didn’t strike her as someone to bypass the rules, some handed down through countless generations, binding together most witches across the world despite their varying practices.

    She had to be mindful of the delicate balance between the Old World clans and the New. An unauthorized incursion could easily spark a conflict that would ripple through the witching worlds.

    Just as the ocean waves respect the boundary of the shore, so must the witches respect the territories — an ancient pact carved in the pillars of the Old World. This blatant disregard by Malové and her coven was akin to scratching the surface of a simmering cauldron, threatening to disrupt the harmony that had been carefully cultivated.

    As the revelation sunk in, Iemanjá knew they had to tread carefully. A confrontation would lead to a war bigger than themselves —yet, they couldn’t let this transgression slide. Their pride and the protection of their territory demanded action.

    Mesmirah! she finally spoke You will take three witches with you, and investigate what business these Old World witches have in Rio. You will report to me.

    Mesmirah nodded, understanding that she was not yet granted authority to investigate in an official capacity. Iemanja was acting surprisingly soft, and didn’t want the Elders to be informed yet, but had recognized action was needed. Mesmirah was confident she would easily find out what was happening, and maybe use that opportunity to her —their advantage. The game of power was on.

    #7370

    She knew she was being followed even before her familiar started to psst her about the dark haired cloaked stranger.

    Eris couldn’t pinpoint precisely what drove her to leap headfirst into the swirling vortex. Perhaps it was a misplaced sense of duty —it was certainly not the sentiment of thrill that Malové had attempted to instill. It was probably the same habit that compelled her to eat the repulsive morsels off her plate first, working her way up to the more palatable fare.

    Kirottu juoma, she muttered under her breath as she forced down the bitter potion Frigella had provided, intended to counteract the disorienting effects of the displacement spells within the vortex. Their abrupt arrival in the sultry heat of Rio caught them off guard, despite the stillness of the night.

    “Would go down better with a dash of brandy” Truella said, wincing. She appeared on and off, and seemed to struggle to remain focused.

    “I can’t believe it! Are you actually on a bilocating spell?” Malové asked reproachfully to Truella. “I thought it was obvious I needed your undivided attention!”

    “Sorry,” Truella said after a moment of absence and a burp. “Was talking to Roger at the same time.” Then catching up with the remark, she shrugged and retorted “must have missed the fine print.”

    Malové remained stoic like a serene swan above water, her mad paddling never perceptible. “No time to dawdle, we have to make preparations for the gathering of essence. “Jeezel! Are you listening?”

    “Yes, M’am,… I mean Grand Hexmistress.”

    The other witches looked at her like she’d blurted out something out of place. Malové chose to let it pass. “Quick now, you’re the one with the sigils to find us the perfect spot to set up our equipment.”

    “Yes, yes! I’m on it!” Jeezel replied, so visibly distracted that her wig went askew by a millimeter without her noticing.

    “Have you forgotten proper decorum in addressing the Head Witch? What’s happening?” Frigella drew Jeezel gently by the sleeve.

    Jeezel’s eyes widened in mild panic: “I think I may have forgotten to close the portal.”

    #7366

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

    #7365

    They had to wait for Finnlee to diligently do the first room, her morning routine starting with the hall.
    Malové knew better for her effects than to try to speak in the middle of all that cleaning. Luckily for them, Finnlee was anything but quick and efficient, so it didn’t take long for the sound of the hoover and the slurping noises of the mopping stick to move to another room, resorbing in the background.

    While Malové had made herself comfortable in a neon green armchair with a peppermint tea, the other witches had used the noise coverage to whisper to each other concerns and hypothesis. “So what is this about?…”

    Malové relished in the waiting obviously. After the silence had come back, save from a few clangs and humming cursing sounds in the background, she started to expose the reason they were all here.

    In her most dramatic fashion, Malové began, “Ladies, we’re off to Rio. The Carnival awaits. Get your sequins, feathers, and your most daring dance moves ready.”

    “But why?” Truella asked, her eyes widening. “I mean, I love a good party, but why Rio?”

    “Because, dear Truella,” Malové smirked, “where else can we find such a delicious blend of desire, passion, and pure, unadulterated lust?”

    Jeezel piped in, “You mean we’re going there to… collect?”

    “Oh, we’re going to do more than just collect,” Malové replied, an unruly gleam in her eyes. “We’re going to distill it, bottle it, and use it to create a new line of incense and smokes. These will not just spice up the lives of those around us, but aid in procreation. After all, the world does need a bit of a… boost.”

    “A bit risqué, don’t you think?” Frigella said, raising an eyebrow.

    “Darling, risqué is my middle name,” Malové retorted. “Now, pack your bags. The Carnival won’t wait for us, and we have some serious samba-ing to do.”

    Eris, who had been silent till now, finally spoke, “This could either be the most ingenious plan you’ve ever concocted, or the most disastrous. You surely have heard about the dengue outbreaks?”

    “Well,” Malové smiled, “of course I have. That’s why we’ll have the perfect cover. We will be blending in as nurses part of the relief effort locally. And anyway, there’s only one way to find out. To Rio and the Sambadrome, my witches!”

    The quartet of witches looked at each other, clearly not unhappy to leave behind for some time the chill of Limerick for the wild heat of Rio, the promise of adventure twinkling in their eyes of some.

    #7364

    “Witches, assemble!” It was hard for Malové to forget the theatrics, even in presence of a limited number of persons.

    The three witches had come in a hurry, summoned for some of them by a loud howler in the early light. Admittedly, Malové had to compensate for the usual tardiness of some, and her impeccable spells had been calling for the trio at just the right time for each to arrive precisely to the Quadrivium’s Headquarter in less than a minute’s space one from the other.

    “Unbelievable” Frigella had muttered when she saw Truella already there.

    “Hoy, don’t get your knickers in a twist Love, I’ve been called to that meeting only two days ago!”

    Frigella didn’t have time to retort with a snark that she’d been summoned less than fifteen minutes before, as another popping sound and a flush indicated the arrival of Eris from the Quadrivium’s Emporium backdoor in the lady’s room.

    “And where is Jeezel?” Truella wondered. “I haven’t seen her yet.”

    “Oh, you know, there’s no accounting for wig time preparation even with Malové superb spells skills” Eris said pragmatically.

    “I wouldn’t say that.” The voice of Malové, stern but not devoid of warmth, signaled the end of the chatty banter. “She was doing some chores for me, but she’ll be back in a second.” She clapped her hands elegantly, each hand barely touching the other, yet ripples of powerful energies resounded throughout the space.

    The doors flung open, revealing Jeezel in a gorgeous golden fitting ensemble, the chiffon kerchief she had before to do her chores replaced by a subtly glittering tiara standing proud on the loveliest curly wig of luscious magpie dark hair reflecting a striking metallic blue in their shine.

    Jeezel, who had been secretly crying over the punishment touched her cheeks for signs of blurred cracked mascara, but instead, she could feel her cheeks were delicately powdered, her eyes contoured to perfection.

    “What?…” she for once couldn’t voice her emotions.

    “Silly goose,” Malové smiled in a hard to decipher rictus. “You have forgotten the evil witch and the fairy godmother are all part of the same cabal. Now,” and she turned intently to the other assembled witches.

    “Are we getting punished too?” Asked Truella who couldn’t refrain to hide her rebellious nature “I won’t…”

    Before she could say more, Malové raised her hand and said “Enough with this punishment nonsense. Even that foul-mouthed Finnlee with her down-to-earth mores knows that there is nothing like a little cleaning to clear up the space.”

    A sigh of relief from the four friends. So if punishment wasn’t in order, what was it about?

    “So where was I? It’s going to get me a whole new comment to get to where I…” She started to get flustered with exasperation from all the interruptions. The four witches were silent except for long agitated side glances at each other.

    That’s when the door bell started to ring relentlessly. She thought to let it pass, probably a delivery person for the staff. But it wasn’t stopping.

    “What is it?” her voice as honey-coated as the raspy tongue of a feral hellcat.

    “It’s Finnlee, M’am Witch, erm, HeadTwitch. I forgot my keys, open the door if you don’t want this place to go to more waste. Mark my words. So much staff has come and gone, it’s a miracle I’m still here with …”

    Malové rolled her eyes, and flipped her hands in a savant motion, opening the gates remotely for the cursing cleaning lady. She was right, one couldn’t get the staff these days. And there was nothing like a good solid floor scrubbing, no magic involved but elbow grease. Magic rarely stuck enough, and honestly, it would be such a waste of energy.

    #7359

    Head witch Malové must have been used to it, for having seen that magic at play a number of times… there was nothing like the strange serendipity of chaos.

    After the smoke had finally cleared, Malové couldn’t bear to stand amidst the wreckage of their once impeccably arranged ritual space. She looked at the mess, the sheer ridiculousness of it all, and decided to go for a brisk walk in the streets of Limerick. The light drizzle and sharp sting of the winter air brought back some pink to her pale face. To cover her perfectly coiffed head, he wrapped her shawl, black and shiny as a dung beetle, and moved swiftly cutting through the crowds effortlessly, parting the human congeries like Moses did the Red Sea. She was never unnoticed; her tall lean silhouette, accentuated by the sleek robe noire, the vertigo of her stiletto, the cheekbones so sharp they could kill — there was nothing common about her frame; and after the years, and all the side glances, she’d clearly lost practice on how to give a damn.

    It was at the turn of a dark corner illuminated by the neon sign of a Chinese local eatery under which the delivery guy was having a break that the synchronicity stuck her. A slow smirk tugged at the corners of her mouth. From chaos, clarity had emerged.

    Vaping, hookah, e-cigarettes —all the rage among the mindless masses. And there, in the plumes of artificially flavoured smoke, was their opportunity. A new way to infiltrate the consciousness of the people, to subtly attune their energies and guide them towards emotional management —or at the very least, less stupidity.

    She imagined their Incense —the sacred concoctions of herbs and essences, entwined with potent spells— being drawn into eager lungs, seeping into the bloodstream, entangling with the very atoms of their being, a sweet balm better than the usual deleterious micro-plastics. The witches wouldn’t just be casting spells; they’d be weaving their magic into the fabric of life itself, one puff at a time.

    The more she thought about it, the brighter the idea seemed. It was audacious, unconventional, bordering on scandalous. A few days ago maybe, she would have balked at the mere thought. But desperate times called for this… elegant, simply perfect. For the witches of the Quadrivium Coven of Mystiques, she had even less doubts or concerns about warming them up to such iconoclastic idea. She knew a group of them, those black sheep never to shy away from a little controversy. And if they could use the vaping trend to spread their influence, then why not? Enough with surviving on the Chinese New Year only, the whole world was ripe for extended incensing.

    #7356

    “Would you be looking for me?”

    Cedric jumped. Where on earth had she come from? It was the blond witch from the cafe, but what was she doing sneaking up behind him when he’d seen her rushing off down the street not a minute before! And yet here she was, smirking at him like butter wouldn’t melt!

    He studied her. She wasn’t conventionally pretty he decided, with her thin, sharp features. And she had no meat on her bones. Cedric liked women who were soft and had a bit of something he could squeeze. And she was so … white … almost like one of those albinos … still, there was something he found strangely compelling about her.

    She’s a witch, he reminded himself. “What on earth gave you the idea I was following you?” He twisted his mouth into an amused sneer, hoping it showed the contempt she surely deserved.

    “You’re not then?” Her gaze was unswerving and Cedric had to look away, pretending to take a great interest in a black poodle peeing on a nearby lamp post. Cedric liked dogs and up until six months ago had a miniature schnauzer called Mitzy. Thinking of Mitzy, he felt the familiar little squeeze in his chest.

    “I’m Frigella O’Green,” she said, still studying him intently.

    Reluctantly he pulled his gaze back towards her. “Oh, ah … Cedric … just Cedric.” He’d nearly told her his surname which didn’t seem a good idea, all things considered.  Out of habit, he raised his hand to take hers, then remembering, thrust it awkwardly in his jacket pocket.

    “Well, just Cedric, if you’re not looking for me, I’ll be off … I’m in a bit of a hurry.” Then she smiled at him, properly this time, and Cedric wondered why he hadn’t thought she was pretty a moment ago. “Nice hat by the way, Cedric. Stylish.” She turned then and Cedric watched her stride down the street until she was no longer visible. Distractedly he brushed the wool tweed of his cap.

    Frigella O’Green is a witch, Cedric, he told himself sternly.

    #7355
    ÉricÉric
    Keymaster

      Interpretations

      Truella

      Frigella

       

      Eris

      Jeezel (Jeeze the hair!)

      Malové

      Other characters

      Fringella (and not Frigella, who’s blonde like Tilda)

      Specializing in elemental and herbal magic, Fringella has an intimate connection with the natural world. She is an adept healer and potion-maker, often creating remedies that blend traditional herbalism with powerful enchantments. Her signature spells often involve fire and earth, reflecting her passionate and grounded nature.

      While she shares a name with Frigella, the two are quite different in both temperament and approach. Their interactions are marked by a mutual respect, though Fringella’s fiery disposition often contrasts sharply with Frigella’s more traditionalist and meticulous nature.

      Eris’ aunt: Amara ()

      Amara, a woman of gentle yet resolute nature, provided Eris with a grounded upbringing amidst a world filled with arcane mysteries. Despite lacking magical abilities, Amara’s wisdom and nurturing spirit played a crucial role in shaping Eris’s character and guiding her through the complexities of her witch heritage. Amara’s home was a sanctuary where the mundane and the mystical coexisted harmoniously, offering Eris a unique perspective on the balance between everyday life and the magical realm.

      #7354

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

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

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

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

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

      “Ye’ll dae as ah say…”

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

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

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

      #7353

      Cedric peered through the peephole in his newspaper. He’d have recognised that bogwitch anywhere. Drat that blonde one grabbing her arm, he’d have been able to catch her red handed and arrest her.

      Cedric was ambitious.  He’d been working for MAMA for thirty years as an agent and wanted a promotion, a nice cushy office job where he could sit in comfort dishing out orders.  He’d had enough of traipsing round the countryside and sitting in draughty pubs in the back of beyond and felt it was high time that the Ministry for the Abolition of the Magical Arts recognised his potential as a leader.

      Who was that blonde one anyway? Another bogwitch no doubt, covens springing up everywhere these days, defying proper law and order, it was an outrage.  She hadn’t seemed too happy to see that old tart Aggie, though. Maybe there was a rift between covens that he could exploit for his own ends.  Cedric decided to keep an eye on her, perhaps mislead her into thinking he was on her side.  It gave him a frisson of pleasure to think how clever he would look when he made his report.

      Frigella her name was, Cedric heard Aggie ask her why she was rushing off.

      “Gottta run, I’m babysitting. And just you behave yourself Aggie, I told you, we don’t do things like that around here. It’s witches like you that give us all a bad name.”

      Cedric rolled his newspaper up and pulled his deerstalker hat low over his eyes and followed Frigella out onto the street.

      #7352

      “If it’s nae Frigella O’green! Fancy seeing ye ‘ere!”

      Frigella stiffened. She’d know that accent and the dank tang of peat moss anywhere. She’d have smelt it sooner if it weren’t for the brewing coffee. She must be getting soft … or maybe it was the sour smell of smoke clogging up her nostrils; she’d not been able to shake the stench since the debacle that morning. Turning away from Aaron, the pleasant young barista serving her, she willed her lips into a smile – no harm in being civil! It was a long time since all the Scottish shenanigans and word amongst the witches was the Scots Coven were trying to tidy up their act.

      “Well, If it’s not Aggie Bog now!” Frigella leaned in for a cool peck on the cheek. “And what brings you to these parts? Let me buy you a coffee and we can catch up?”

      Aggie sniggered. ” Ye pay for it?” She pushed Frigella aside and approached the counter. Aaron’s eyes widened and Frigella had to admit Aggie cut a striking figure in her tiny black top and leather leggings. As a child she’d been taunted and called fat, but now she was best described as Rubenesque, and clearly had learned how to use her assets.

      I bet those pants squeak when she walks.

      Aggie leaned forward and Aaron’s gaze flicked toward her abundant cleavage. “A double black insomnia fur me, on the hoose.”  As Aaron started to protest, Aggie waved several plump fingers towards his face and Frigella saw his eyes were now dark and glazed. “Whirling ‘n’ twirling a muckle puff o’ rowk,” crooned Aggie. “Ye’ll dae as ah say or caw intae a ….

      Frigella clasped Aggie’s wrist. Thank god the lunch crowd had gone and the cafe was nearly empty apart from an older man reading his paper by the window. “Aggie Bog! Shame on you! That’s not the way we do things here.”

      #7350

      Eris did portal to be in person for the last Ritual. After all, Smoke Testing for incense making was the reverse expectation of what it meant in programming. You plug in a new board and turn on the power. If you see smoke coming from the board, turn off the power. You don’t have to do any more testing. But for witches, it just meant success. This one however revealed itself to be so glorious, she would have regretted sorely if she’d missed it.

      “Someone tried to jinx my blog with black magic emojis! Quick, give me a Nokia!” Jeezel sharp cry was the innocent trigger that dominoed the whole ceremony into mayhem. With her clumsy hand gestures, she inadvertently elbowed Frigella as she was carefully counting the last drops of the resin, which spilled over to the nearby Bunsen burner.

      From there, the sweet symphony of disaster that unfolded in the sanctified chamber of the coven could have been put to a choral version of Tchaikovsky’s Overture 1812, with climactic volley of cannon fire, ringing chimes, and brass fanfare. Only with smoke as sound effects.

      In the ensuing chaos of the Fourth Rite, everything became quickly shrouded in a thick, billowing smoke, an unintended byproduct of the smoke test gone wildly awry. Truella, in her attempts to salvage the ceremony, darted through the room, a scorched piece of fabric clutched in her hand—her delicate pashmina shawl that did more fanning than smothering and now more charcoal than its original vibrant hue. Her expression teetered between horror and disbelief as she lamented her once-prized possession, now reduced to ashes.

      Jeezel, ever the optimist, quickly came back to her senses choosing to find humor if not opportunity amidst disaster. Like a true diva emerging from the smoke effects, she held up a singed twig adorned with the remains of decorative leaves and announced with a wide grin, “Behold, the perfect accessory for the Autumn Pageant!” Her voice was muffled by the smog, her figure obscured save for the intermittent glint of her eyes as she wove through the smoke, brandishing the charred twig like a parade marshal’s baton.

      Meanwhile, Eris was caught in a frenetic ballet, attempting to corral the smoke with sweeps of her arms and ancient spells, as if the very air could be tamed by her whims. Her efforts, while noble, only served to create an odd wind pattern that whirled papers and loose items into a miniature cyclone of confusion.

      At the epicenter of the pandemonium stood Malové, the High Witch, her composure as livid as the flames that had sparked the debacle. Her normally unflappable demeanor crumbled as she surveyed the disarray, her voice rising above the cacophony, “Witches, have you mistaken this sacred rite for a comedy of errors?” Her words cut through the haze, sharp and commanding.

      Frigella, caught off-guard by the commotion, scrambled to quell the smoky serpent that had coiled throughout the room. With a flick of her wand, she directed gusts of fresh air towards the smoke, but in her haste, the spell went askew, further fanning the chaos as parchments and ritual tools spun through the air like leaves in a storm.

      All the witches assembled, not knowing how to respond, tried to grapple with the havoc.

      There, in the mist of misadventure, the Fourth Rite of 2024 would be one for the annals, a tale to be told with a mix of chagrin and mirth for ages to come. And though Malové’s patience was tried, even the High Witch couldn’t deny the comedic spectacle that unfurled before her—a spectacle that would surely need to be remedied.

      #7339

      4pm EET.

      Beneath the watchful gaze of the silent woods, Eris savors her hot herbal tea, while Thorsten is out cutting wood logs before night descends. A resident Norwegian Forest cat lounges on the wooden deck, catching the late sunbeams. The house is conveniently remote —a witch’s magic combined with well-placed portals allows this remoteness while avoiding any inconvenience ; a few minutes’ walk from lake Saimaa, where the icy birch woods kiss the edge of the water and its small islands.

      Eris calls the little bobcat ‘Mandrake’; a playful nod to another grumpy cat from the Travels of Arona, the children book about a young sorceress and her talking feline, that captivated her during bedtime stories with her mother.

      Mandrake pays little heed to her, coming and going at his own whim. Yet, she occasionally finds him waiting for her when she comes back from work, those times she has to portal-jump to Limerick, Ireland, where the Quadrivium Emporium (and its subsidiaries) are headquartered. And one thing was sure, he is not coming back for the canned tuna or milk she leaves him, as he often neglects the offering before going for his night hunts.

      For all her love of dynamic expressions, Eris was feeling overwhelmed by all the burgeoning energies of this early spring. Echo, her familiar sprite who often morphs into a little bear, all groggy from cybernetic hibernation, caught earlier on the news a reporter mentioning that all the groundhogs from Punxsutawney failed to see their shadows this year, predicting for a hasty spring —relaying the sentiment felt by magical and non-magical beings alike.

      Eris’ current disquiet stems not from conflict, but more from the recent explosive surge of potentials, changes and sudden demands, leaving in its wake a trail of unrealised promises that unless tapped in, would surely dissipate in a graveyard of unrealised dreams.

      Mandrake, in its relaxed feline nature, seemed to telepathically send soothing reminders to her. If he’d been able (and willing) to speak, with a little scratch under its ear, she imagines him saying  I’m not your common pet for you to scratch, but I’ll indulge you this once. Remember what it means to be a witch. To embrace the chaos, not fight it. To dance in the storm rather than seek shelter. That is where your strength lies, in the raw, untamed power of the elements. You need not control the maelstrom; you must become it. Now, be gone. I have a sunbeam to nap in.

      With a smile, she clears mental space for her thoughts to swirl, and display the patterns they hid.

      A jump in Normandy, indeed. She was there in the first mist of the early morning. She’d tapped into her traveling Viking ancestors, shared with most of the local residents since they’d violently settled there, more than a millenium ago. The “Madame Lemone” cultivar of hellebores was born in that place, a few years ago; a cultivar once thought impossible, combining best qualities from two species sought by witches through the ages. Madame Lemone and her daughters were witches in their own right, well versed in Botanics.

      Why hellebores? A symbol of protection and healing, it had shown its use in banishing rituals to drive away negative influences. A tricky plant, beautiful and deadly. Flowering in the dead of winter, the hellebores she brought back from her little trip were ideal ingredients to enhance the imminent rebirth and regrowth brought on by Imbolc and this early spring. It was perfect for this new era filled with challenges. Sometimes, in order to bloom anew, you must face the rot within.

      The thoughts kept spinning, segueing into the next. Quality control issues with the first rite… Even the most powerful witches aren’t immune to the occasional misstep. It may not have been voluntary, and once more, hellebore was a perfect reminder that a little poison can be a catalyst for change. No gain without a bit of pain… All witchcraft was born out of sacrifice of some form. An exchange of energy. Something given, for something in return.

      Luckily, she’d learnt the third rite had gone well even in her absence. Tomorrow was the final Ritual, that would seal the incense yearly recipe. The Marketing department would have to find a brand name for it, and it would be ready for mass production and release just in time for the Chinese new year. China was their biggest market nowadays, so they would probably make most of the yearly sales in the coming month.

      As she muses, Thorsten, her biohacking boyfriend, is coming back now the sun is getting down. A rugged contradiction of man and machine.

      “Have you managed to contact your friends?” he asks, his pointed question tempered by a calm demeanor. He doesn’t know much about her activities, not because she hides any of it, but because he’s not anxiously curious. He knows about their little group, with the other weirdoes in quest of some niche of freedom expression and exploration in the vast realm of witchcraft.

      “Yes, I did. We had a nice chat with Jeezel and she sends her regards…”

      “She bloody always do that, doesn’t she.” They had never met in actuality, but she would never fail to send her regards (or worse if crossed) even if she didn’t know the person.

      Eris laughed. “Well, Frigella was going to bed…”

      “If I didn’t know better, one could think she does it on purpose.”

      Eris continued. “Well, and get that; Tru was busy making some French fries.”

      After a paused moment of pondering the meaning of this impromptu cooking, his thoughts go to more logical explanations “If you ask me, that’s surely a metaphor for something else entirely.”

      “Meat and potatoes… And sometimes,… just potatoes.”

      “Or in this case, possibility for a hearty gratin.”

      They share a delightful laughter.

      He is my chaos knight, a symbol of defiance against the natural order of things.

      A quality she adores.

      #7338

      So engrossed was Truella in her project at home, she had failed to notice that there had been no word for days from Eris about her new ritual.  Not only did Eris not turn up for the obligatory daily meetings, she hadn’t even kept the rest of the witches informed of developments. The last anyone had heard about it was that there was a quality control issue, whatever that meant.

      So there we have it, my dear,  interjected Lisia. Eris’s new ritual spell is a work in progress, a symphony of the arcane and the algorithmic, and we are but eager spectators to its unfolding. One can only hope for a harmonious outcome, or at the very least, a tale worth the telling.

      One can only hope, muttered Truella.  We can hardly be expected to read her mind if she doesn’t keep us abreast of developments!

      Eris, a sorceress of the digital age, has been blending the ancient art of incantation with the pulsing rhythms of technology….

      So tell me something I didn’t know, Lisia, the question is, where is she up to now with it?  Or perhaps she’s told the others, and not told me?  I wonder if Frigella and Jezeel know anything?

      It’s a spell of both preservation and progress, a paradoxical potion that encapsulates the dichotomy of our current condition…..

      Our current position, Truella sighed, Is that we don’t know what’s going on. If only Eris would come to the next meeting and spill the beans.  How can I possibly try to incorporate my own spells into it if I don’t know what the current situation is?

      Maybe she’s been to Normandy collecting ingredients. I’ve heard the hellebore there are quite the best, Imp butted in, making Lisia wince.  He was so on point and not nearly wordy enough.

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