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“Oh no, we’re too late! Look at these photos Jezeel just sent!”
“Well at least Jez is there with her. Why didn’t you wake me up sooner?”
Truella rolled her eyes. “Come ON! Imagine the mess Eris is going to make at breakfast with that trunk!”
“It’s the telephantom! You know what this mean, don’t you.” Truella sounded ominous. Frella shook her head. “It’s Punic magic, and it’s almost impossible to reverse. You need a piece of Hannibal’s tunic for the spell, and you can imagine the difficulties.”
“Surprise!” Truella called, rapping on the caravan door. “Surprise breakfast outting!”
“What? It’s 7 o clock in the morning and it isn’t even light out,” Frella answered groggily, “And I don’t want breakfast yet.”
“You will by the time we get to Madrid!”
Frella mananged to rouse herself. “Why? What’s happened?”
“It’s Eris. She’s had an altercation with an elephant in a bar. We’ll have to teleport, there’s no time for the fast train. Not if we’re to get there before something…..happens…”
“Happens like what? Stop being so mysterious!”
“Put it this way, Frel. Jez is on her way too. It’s all hands on deck so I suggest you get a move on. I’ll be waiting.”
It wasn’t until late the following afternoon that Truella, with a pang of guilt, remembered Roger. Frella grinned sheepishly and said that she had forgotten him too.
“But you know what? Wait, let me show you the tile I bought in Brazil.” Frella trotted off to find her suitcase.
“Look what it says on the bit of paper that came with it:
Function: The Freevole tile embodies the essence of empowerment and autonomy. It serves as a reminder and a guide for those standing at life’s many crossroads, facing decisions that may seem overwhelming. This tile encourages the holder to recognize their inner strength and the ability to choose their path confidently, even when faced with seemingly insurmountable challenges.
At the center of the tile, there is a small vole standing at a crossroads where waters intersect, with dry earth visible behind it. The scene depicts sheets of water overlapping on both sides of the vole, creating a sense of inundation, yet there is an opening ahead, suggesting a path or choice to be made.We need to backtrack a bit with Roger. Look what it says here:
What that vole hadn’t realized was that he had to backtrack a bit. There was no way ahead or to the sides, but the way out was behind him.
See what I mean?”
Truella squinted at Frella. “What?”
Sighing, Frigella thrust the bit of paper at her friend. “Read the rest of it!”
The Vole: The vole symbolizes the individual facing a decision point or crossroads in life. Its presence suggests vulnerability, but also resilience and adaptability.
Crossing of Waters: The intersection of waters represents the convergence of different paths or possibilities. It symbolizes the complexities and challenges of decision-making, where multiple options overlap and intertwine.
Dry Earth Behind: The dry earth behind the vole symbolizes stability, past experiences, or familiar ground. It represents the foundation upon which decisions are based and serves as a reminder of where one has come from.
Overlap of Drowned Sheets of Water: The drowned sheets of water on both sides signify the potential consequences or risks associated with each choice. They represent the unknown and the possibility of being overwhelmed by circumstances.
Opening Ahead: The opening ahead signifies opportunity, hope, and the possibility of forging a new path. It represents the future and the freedom to make choices that lead to growth and fulfilment.Families: This tile is aligned with the Vold family, known for their connection to transformation, challenge, and the breaking of old systems to make way for the new. The Vold energy within the Freevole tile emphasizes the importance of facing challenges head-on and using them as opportunities for growth and empowerment.
Significance: The scene depicted on the Freevole tile, with the vole at a crossroads between inundation and dry earth, symbolizes the moments in life where we must make significant choices amidst emotional or situational floods. The waters represent challenges and emotions that may threaten to overwhelm, while the dry earth symbolizes the solid ground of our inner strength and determination. The path ahead, though uncertain, indicates that there is always a way forward, guided by our autonomy and personal power.
As an advice: When encountering the Freevole tile, take it as a sign to pause and reflect on your current crossroads. It urges you to tap into your inner resilience and recognize that you have the power to navigate your life’s journey. The choices before you, while daunting, are opportunities to assert your independence and steer your life according to your true desires and values. Trust in your ability to make decisions that will lead you to your chosen path of fulfillment and growth. Remember, the floods of challenge bring with them the nourishment needed for new beginnings; it is within your power to find the opening and move forward with courage and confidence.
The motif of the Freevole, standing determined and attentive amidst the forces of nature, serves as a potent symbol of the power within each individual to face life’s uncertainties and emerge stronger for having made their own choices.“Ok so in a nutshell,” Truella replied slowly, “Roger’s crossroads took him to Brazil and ours took us here, and that’s all that needs to be said about it. Right?”
“Exactly!”
During the renovations on Brightwater Mill Truella’s parents rented a cottage nearby. It was easier to supervise the builders if they were based in the area, and it would be a nice place for Truella to spend the summer. One of the builders had come over from Ireland and was camping out in the mill kitchen. He didn’t mind when Truella got in the way while he was working, and indulged her wish to help him. He gave her his smallest trowel and a little bucket of plaster, not minding that he’d have to fix it later. He was paid by the hour after all.
When the builder mentioned that his daughter Frigella was the same age, Truella’s mother had an idea. Truella needed a little friend to play with, to keep her from distratcing the builders from their work.
And so a few days later, Frigella arrived for the rest of the summer holidays. He father continued to camp out in the mill, and Frigella stayed with Truella. But even with the new friend to play with, Truella still wanted to plaster the walls with her little trowel. Frigella didn’t want to stay cooped up all day in the dusty mill with her father keeping an eye on her all day, and suggested that they go and dig a hole somewhere in the garden to find treasure.
Truella carried the little trowel around with her everywhere she went that summer, and Frigella started to call her Trowel. Truella retaliated by calling her friend Fridge Jelly, saying what a silly name it was. It wasn’t until she burst into tears that Truella felt remorseful and kindly asked Frigella what she would like to be called, but it had to be something that didn’t remind Truella of fridges and jellys. Frigella admitted that she’s always hated the G in her name and would quite like to be called Frella instead. Truella replied that she didn’t mind being called Trowel though, in fact she quite liked it.
The girls spent many school summer holidays together over the years, but it wasn’t until Truella was older and staying in one of the apartments with a boyfriend that she found the trunk in the attic. She put it in the boot of the car without opening it. She only had the weekend with the new guy and there were other activities on the agenda, after all. Work and other events occupied her when she returned home, and the trunk was put in a closet and forgotten.
It may surprise you, dear reader, to hear the story of Truella and Frella’s childhood at a Derbyshire mill in the early 1800s. But! I hear you say, how can this be? Read on, dear reader, read on, and all will be revealed.
Tilly, daughter of Everard Mucklewaite, miller of Brightwater Mill, was the youngest of 17 children. Her older siblings had already married and left home when she was growing up, and her parents were elderly. She was somewhat spoiled and allowed a free rein, which was unusual for the times, as her parents had long since satisfied the requirements for healthy sons to take over the mill, and well married daughters. She was a lively inquisitive child with a great love of the outdoors and spent her childhood days wandering around the woods and the fields and playing on the banks of the river. She had a great many imaginary friends and could hear the trees whisper to her, in particular the old weeping willow by the mill pond which she would sit under for hours, deep in conversation with the tree.
Tilly didn’t have any friends of her own age, but as she had never known human child friends, she didn’t feel the loss of it. Her older sisters used to talk among themselves though, saying she needed to play with other children or she’d never grow up and get out of her peculiar ways. Between themselves (for the parents were unconcerned) they sent a letter to an aunt who’d married an Irishman and moved with him to Limerick, asked them to send over a small girl child if they had one spare. As everyone knew, there were always spare girls that parents were happy to get rid of, if at all possible, and by return post came the letter announcing the soon arrival of Flora, who was a similar age to Tilly.
It was a long strange journey for little Flora, and she arrived at her new home shy and bewildered. The kitchen maid, Lucy, did her best to make her feel comfortable. Tilly ignored her at first, and Everard and his wife Constance were as usual preoccupied with their own age related ailments and increasing senility.
One bright spring day, Lucy noticed Flora gazing wistfully towards the millpond, where Tilly was sitting on the grass underneath the willow tree.
“Go on, child, go and sit with Tilly, she don’t bite, just go and sit awhile by her,” Lucy said, giving Flora a gentle push. “Here, take this,” she added, handing her two pieces of plum cake wrapped in a blue cloth.
Flora did as she was bid, and slowly approached the shade of the old willow. As soon as she reached the dangling branches, the tree whispered a welcome to her. She smiled, and Tilly smiled too, pleased and surprised that the willow has spoken to the shy new girl.
“Can you hear willow too?” Tilly asked, looking greatly pleased. She patted the grass beside her and invited Flora to sit. Gratefully, and with a welcome sigh, Flora joined her.
Tilly and Flora became inseperable friends over the next months and years, and it was a joy for Tilly to introduce Flora to all the other trees and creatures in their surroundings. They were like two peas in a pod.
Over the years, the willow tree shared it’s secrets with them both.
One summer day, at the suggestion of the willow tree, Tilly and Flora secretly dug a hole, hidden from prying eyes by the long curtain of hanging branches. They found, among other objects which they kept carefully in an old trunk in the attic, an old book, a grimoire, although they didn’t know it was called a grimoire at the time. In fact, they were unable to read it, as girls were seldom taught to read in those days. They secreted the old tome in the trunk in the attic with the other things they’d found.
Eventually the day came when Tilly and Flora were found husbands and had to leave the mill for their new lives. The trunk with its mysterious contents remained in the dusty attic, and was not seen again until almost 200 years later, when Truella’s parents bought the old mill to renovate it into holiday apartments. Truella took the trunk for safekeeping.
When she eventually opened it to explore what it contained, it all came flooding back to her, her past life as Tilly the millers daughter, and her friend Flora ~ Flora she knew was Frigella. No wonder Frella had seemed so familiar!
I’ll sneak out after Truella’s gone to bed.
“I heard that, Frella,” Truella smiled affectionatly at her old friend, “If you really want to go out for a walk now, you’ll just have to magic me up some more get up and go.”
“I forgot to buffer you out that time, Trowel,” Frigella laughed. It had been many years since Truella and Frigella had called each other by their childhood nicknames. It wasn’t generally known that they’d grown up together. “I’ve got just the right potion for you!”
Was it safe to just leave Frigella and go to bed? Truella was exhausted. But Frigella was losing her mind. How could anyone possibly mistake a nice syrah for a zinfrandal? And why did she keep calling her Sanso?
“No, not now!” Truella said, starting to get exasperated. “It’s time for bed now. I meant go and get some fresh air tomorrow.” She couldn’t go to bed and leave Frigella wandering around in the dark, not after the Hippocampus fiasco. “Time for bed,” she said firmly, standing up. “You must be tired after all that driving. Here, let me show you to the caravan where you’ll be sleeping.”
Obediently Frigella stood up, downing the remains of her wine. I’ll sneak out after Truella’s gone to bed.
“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 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.”
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.”
The cauldron of characters was bubbling over, the sub plots and side trips had risen like a tray of cupcakes in a fan assisted oven, and the kettle of confusion was roiling and steaming like fault line geyser. Lisia hadn’t offered much in the way of clarity with her rambling gush, but when she said “upon receiving such an invitation to a villa, what is one to do? Why, attend, of course, darling!” it all seemed so much easier.
With the carnival in full swing, Truella was finding it hard to focus on everything that was going on. Was this mission more chaotic than usual, or did it seem that way because she wasn’t giving it her full attention? She hadn’t thought too much about Jezeel not closing the portal. She was having enough trouble stabilizing her own bilocation spell.
Where was Frigella when she needed her? And what was going on with that Cedric guy? Truella decided to go in search of her. Frigella was always good at explaining and clarifying things that she hadn’t been paying attention to.
Outside on the pavement, Truella paused to light a cigarette. The street were a cocophany of raucus banter and gay shreiks, a riot of colour and imagination and Truella stood rapt at the sights and sounds. Such a contrast from her quiet life at home in the garden with only ghosts for company. In a way Truella was glad that Roger was still missing with the pack of monkeys, rather than leaving him alone at home.
“Aye, look at all them monkey costumes, our Mavis, they’m really good int they, look just like real monkeys,” a chubby Englishwoman in a garish pink outfit said, passing by where Truella was standing.
“That’s because they ARE real monkeys, ya daft cow,” retorted her companion. “And they’re all following that big fella.”
“Ooh, that big burly chap?” piped up the third woman in the group. “I clocked him right off, come on girls, let’s go after the big boy.”
“Ooh, Sha, what are you like, ya tart.”
As the three women cackled and trotted off after the monkeys, Truella’s peaceful interlude came to an abrupt halt. What burly man with a pack of monkeys? Surely not, surely Roger and his monkeys hadn’t entered that portal that Jez forgot to close?
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.
Trying not to smile too broadly, Truella was delighted with Malove’s latest idea. An inveterate and unrepentant smoker, she had often wondered what the hysteria about cigarette smoke was all about. It seemed as ludicrous as the Victorian fashion for hiding immodest table and piano legs with voluminous paisley shawls while sending children up chimneys to clean them. Those who railed against tobacco smoke filled their rooms with the noxious fumes of incense or toxic “air fresheners”, their fridges with smoked bacon and smoked salmon, delighted in “real fires” with nostalgic wisps of smoke curling from country cottage chimneys, and sitting around a smoking barbecue or campfire. Humans had lived in smokey hovels and caves since the beginning of time.
Frigella noticed Truella smirking and shook her head, tutting. With a devilishly wide grin, Truella whispered, “Meet me in the pub afterwards, need to talk.”
“Perhaps we can count on your full and undivided participation for once, Truella,” Malove said, who hadn’t missed anything. “With your penchant for filling public spaces with smoke, this mission will no doubt appeal to you greatly.”
“Indeed,” she replied, endeavouring to look demure and obedient.
Truella ordered another round of drinks and some more peanuts and then went to the toilets. When she got back to the table on the sidewalk, Roger’s glass was empty and the peanuts had been eaten but there was no sign of Roger. Truella assumed that he’d also gone to the toilets, but after a quarter of an hour and he hadn’t returned, she asked the waiter to check on him. The waiter returned and informed her that nobody was in the mens toilet, and then a woman on the next table said that she’d noticed Truella’s friend making strange noises and that he had wandered off up the road.
“What kind of strange noises? And which way did he go?”
“Well, to be honest, monkey noises. He sounded like a chimpanzee,” the woman replied, looking a little embarrassed. “And he went that way,” she said, pointing towards where the monkeys had been trampolining on the shop awnings just down the road.
Truella looked in the direction she was pointing. “But where are the monkeys now?”
“Well,” the woman replied looking even more embarrassed, “They all followed your friend down the road. I don’t know where they are now.”
Truella took a hasty gulp of her drink, stood up and called the waiter over and asked for the bill. Without waiting for her change she ran down the street calling Rogers name. It crossed her mind that a locating spell would have been useful but she didn’t have time for that. Instead she asked some passers by where the monkeys were now.
The young couple turned and pointed behind them. “They all ran down that way, right down the middle of the road, crazy it was, stopped all the traffic. And they were all running after that big man!”
Truella started running in that direction and then stopped, gasping. It was no good, she’d never catch them up. Slowly she walked back to her car, wondering what to do next.
By the time night fell over the Mediterranean village, the monkeys were still on the loose, having defied all attempts to capture them. Truella decided to go and see for herself, having noticed that all the photographs in the news were rubbish. She knew she could do better than that. The authorities were supposedly trying to capture them, but all she’d seen from the photos were the police standing in the narrow streets looking baffled, staring up at the primates scampering all over the rooftops and swinging from balcony to balcony.
Where had all the monkeys come from? Was it some kind of trick? It was, after all, Carnaval season, and tricks and buffoonery were rife. And it would be a nice outting for Roger, before she set him to work. He’d been very quiet since his arrival that morning, probably shy, Truella thought, and perhaps jetlagged.
Grabbing her camera and a bunch of bananas, they set off towards the coast. Truella attempted to engage Roger in conversation, but he just smiled sheepishly and mumbled unitelligably by way of response. Inwardly Truella rolled her eyes and wondered what she’d got herself into. Still, a silent brawny helper was better than no help at all.
Parking the car was uncharacteristially easy and they made their way on foot to the hodge podge row of beach shanties and fishermens cottages by the sea where the crowd had gathered to watch the monkeys antics. Despite the full moon, the monkeys were hidden in the shadows, until every now and then the streetlights spotlit them as they leaped from roof to roof. A conveniently situated bar was open with tables and chairs on the pavement, and Truella and Roger sat down and ordered drinks and peanuts. Within moments Roger had eaten all the peanuts, so Truella turned to catch the waiters eye to order more. He was serving a chubby pale woman in tartan bermuda shorts, surely a tourist, Truella deduced, as it was not yet shorts weather for the locals.
“Whirling ‘n’ twirling a muckle puff o’ rowk,” the woman was saying to the waiter, to which he replied “Que?”, and Truella gasped, grabbing Rogers forearm. “Oh my god, it’s Griselda. What is that Scottish bogwitch doing down here?”
“Ye’ll dae as ah say…”
“Oh no he won’t,” Truella shouted across the terrace. “Grizel! Griselda MacSmotheringhampton! We don’t do that here!” To the confused waiter she said, ” I’ll pay for it, put it on my bill. Don’t listen to her, she’s as mad as a box of frogs.”
And then it dawned on her. She glared at Griselda and hissed, “This is your doing, isn’t it? All these monkeys, it’s your doing, isn’t it?”
Griselda smirked. “And what are ye gooin tae do aboot it?”
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.
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.
The bone people had replied to Truella’s urgent message while she was at the meeting, much to her relief. The last thing she wanted was the authorities snooping around, just as she was delving into the rich new layer. The odd things she’d been finding recently had piqued her curiousity and she had to keep reminding herself to merely find, observe and document, without attempting to make assumptions. She couldn’t help wondering though if these disparate items, things she hadn’t expected to find, were the ingredients for an ancient spell. The little bone amulet, the pigs teeth, and all the other little bits of bone with curious smooth sides. Fragments of mother of pearl, gleaming like new silver in the dirt, uncorroded and pristine despite the passage of time and the weight of the earth. Little clumps of charcoal, but scattered, not all in the same place. Not like there’d been a fire, more like little things had burned, here and there, at various times.
All the broken dishes and amphora were to be expected, but why so many? And why didn’t whoever lived here take their dishes with them when they went? Maybe they left in a hurry, smashing everything on the way out of the door so there was nothing left for the invaders? Or did the dishes simply fall and break when the abandoned wooden shelves rotted away over the centuries? A layer of abandonment was a curious and intriguing thing to contemplate.
Now that she had the experts opinion on the teeth ~ pig, not human ~ haste was needed to quell the growing rumours in the village that she had found human remains. That was the last thing she needed, the neighbours giving her suspicious looks or the authorities roping off her dig with striped plastic tape and putting a police tent over it, messing with the hole she had dug trowel by trowel, rubbing every handful of soil between her fingers. The very thought of it was unbearable. For this reason she rather hoped NOT to find a hoard of valuable ancient coins, contrary to what most people would hope to find. Still, she couldn’t help wonder while she was digging if the next trowel of soil would reveal one.
She must make it absolutely clear to Roger than he was only required to carry buckets of soil, and was not to do any actual digging.