Wolf in Shadow-eARC

by John Lambshead

  Frankie reached into her linen bag and rummaged around, eventually hauling out a wooden container. She handed the box to Rhian, who opened it to find dried herbs mixed in with newly chopped-up leaves that smelt of mint. Frankie took out a tiny electric oven, and, after some thought, placed it on a desk by the air-conditioning outlet.

  “This is where air is piped in from the sky,” Frankie said, licking her finger and holding it up to detect air movements.

  The little oven had an open bowl of the sort used by jewelers. Frankie plugged it in and let it stand until red hot. She took the wooden box off Rhian and sprinkled the plant material into the bowl. The chopped leaves curled up, turned brown and smoldered. White smoke drifted up towards the ceiling. It scattered as it hit the turbulent flow from the air-conditioning outlet.

  Rhian used her hand to waft some of the vapor towards her and cautiously sniffed at it.

  “It smells quite pleasant,” Rhian said. “I suppose it works like an air freshener, but surely it won’t last long.”

  Frankie gave Rhian what her grandmother would have called ‘an old fashioned expression.’ The woman took her glasses off and fiddled with them, wiping the lenses with a piece of felt. Rhian had once had a boss who had the same habit. He used it to pause the conversation while he considered how to phrase a statement he found difficult. Rhian waited patiently.

  “It’s a little more than an air freshener. You see, I’m a pagan,” said Frankie, diffidently.

  Rhian wondered what in the world the woman meant. Arsenal football team were “The Gunners,” Southampton “The Seagulls,” England “The Lions,” but who were “The Pagans”? She had a vague idea that there was a motorcycle gang of that name, but the thought of the intellectual Frankie in a black leather jacket, perched on the back of a bike, with her arms wrapped around a hairy-arsed gang-lord stretched credulity.

  Frankie rushed on, almost garbling her words in an effort to get them out.

  “A pagan, Rhian. You know, a Wicca.”

  A stray memory popped into Rhian’s head of comedienne Jo Brand on a quiz show being asked to define Wicca. “Wicca—isn’t that Old English for a mental basket case?”

  Rhian’s face had a tendency to reflect her thoughts, something that had got her into trouble before. She did her best to blank her expression, but, as usual, she was not entirely successful.

  “You’re thinking of Jo Brand, aren’t you,” said Frankie, accusingly. “There’s a woman who needs a good slapping. Still, what can one expect from a woman who chose to be educated at a jumped-up poly like Brunel University of Technology? It doesn’t even have a History School.”

  Rhian deduced from this that Frankie had read history at one of England’s more traditional establishments. As Rhian had never got beyond the sixth form of a Welsh comprehensive school, she tended to view graduate academic squabbles with a degree of detachment. She pointedly failed to ask Frankie the name of her old college.

  Frankie mumbled something.

  “What?” Rhian asked.

  “I’m a witch,” Frankie said. “I perform magic spells for people. I’m a consultant in white magic. I don’t touch anything nasty. My previous tenants all left as soon as they found out. I thought that if you could see what I actually did, then you wouldn’t be scared of me. I haven’t spooked you, have I?”

  Rhian stared at Frankie. This nice, silly, bespectacled, middle-class, new-age earth mother actually thought that Rhian might be frightened of her. Frightened because she made a living burning herbs and chanting spells for deluded businessmen! Rhian, frightened of a Wicca?

  Her lip twitched. She tried to keep a straight face but she just couldn’t. Her shoulders shook and an explosive guffaw burst from her lips.

  “What?” asked Frankie, affronted. “I don’t see what’s so funny. One of my ex-tenants organized a candle-lit vigil of Evangelical Christians outside my door.”

  Rhian laughed all the harder until tears ran down her cheeks.

  “There’s nothing funny about a dozen loonies screaming ‘burn the witch’ and ‘you’ll rot in Hell’ all night outside your flat window. You try it some time. The neighbors didn’t speak to me for weeks.”

  Rhian clung to a desk for support.

  Frankie lost the outraged expression and laughed along with the girl. “Enough,” Frankie said. “So I may assume that you do not intend to flee in maidenly terror any time soon?”

  Rhian shook her head. It was a few moments before she could trust herself to speak. “Sorry, Frankie, it’s just that I had trouble seeing you as an emissary of Beelzebub. The, um, plant mix smells rather nice.”

  “I have a mix of air herbs in here—witch’s broom, holy vanilla, sweetgrass, lavender, and, of course, mint. I need to activate the spell now, if you can contain yourself? ” Frankie asked.

  “Carry on,” said Rhian. “I’ll be good; I promise.”

  “Well, please keep quiet and don’t do anything to break my concentration.”

  The woman closed her eyes, and, stretching up her arms into the air like a Mexican priest hailing the Sun, she began to sing.

  “Great Jupiter, cleanse the air,

  Holy Indrus, give power of thought,

  Swift Mercury, send agility of intellect,

  “Sylphs of the air, grant concentration.”

  Frankie repeated the song over and over, adding more of the herbal mix to the heater whenever the vapor flow diminished.

  Scent drifted through the office. Rhian felt light-headed, and her fingers and toes tingled. She felt tired, so she sat on one of the swivel office chairs, rocking it gently. Frankie droned on, her voice retreating into the distance. Rhian closed her eyes and her head drooped. She drifted away and began to daydream.

  Frankie’s voice was a distant murmur and was overlaid by the sound of leaves rustling in a breeze. The wind increased in force, gusts buffeting Rhian’s ears and whipping her clothes against her legs. She opened her eyes. She stood one leg each side of a great ridge that was surrounded by ice-capped mountain peaks. Splintered rock fell away precipitously each side of her for hundreds of meters, gradually disappearing into clouds.

  Rhian could see as well as hear the wind. It caressed her with sub-zero icy tendrils, but she felt no pain. Faces in the gusts called to her, and she felt a compulsion to step off the ridge into empty air, to lose herself, to walk in the wind. She took a tentative step, adjusting her balance.

  “Rhian.” Frankie’s voice sounded from a long way away. “RHIAN!”

  Hands shook her shoulders and she opened her eyes.

  “Snap out of it, Rhian. Air magic is very powerful in high buildings. Don’t go to sleep on me, honey,” Frankie said, smiling at her, “You had me worried for a moment there.”

  The little oven was unplugged and looked quite cold. Rhian glanced at her watch and was astonished to see that she had lost half an hour. She rubbed her eyes.

  “I must have dozed off. I haven’t been sleeping well lately,” Rhian said, by way of explanation.

  “I know, honey. I heard you,” said Frankie, in a noncommittal tone of voice.

  This was not a conversation that Rhian wished to pursue, so she changed the subject.

  “Are we finished?”

  “The air spell is finished but I still have to work water magic. Are you okay to continue?” asked Frankie.

  “Sure, you go ahead,” Rhian replied.

  Frankie moved her apparatus to the other side of the open-plan office, near to the washrooms.

  “This is where the water is piped in from the ground,” Frankie said. She smiled at Rhian. “I will use water plants, coltsfoot, bulrushes, water lily, and mint for this spell,” Frankie said, getting another box out of her bag.

  “Mint, again?” asked Rhian.

  “Mint is a connecting plant that links water to the sky,” said Frankie. “It magnifies the effect of the two spells synergistically. That is why it was so important for us to get some this morning.”

  She placed the o
ven on a metal tray on the carpet and knelt in front of it. Dropping the new herbal mix into the red-hot bowl, she sang again. This time, the vapor was heavier than air, flowing across the floor like mist.

  “Great Poseidon, cleanse the waters,

  “Coventina, give placid flow,

  “Nammu, send depth of thought,

  “Undines of the water, grant concentration.”

  This time Rhian kept a firm grip on reality when she felt the tingling in her fingers and toes. She forced off fatigue and kept her eyes wide open, but, even so, she seemed to see two realities simultaneously. Around her was a normal office, empty except for Frankie and herself. Overlaying it, a wild grey-green sea phased in and out. Huge white-topped waves swept over her head and then dropped away beneath her. Frothy faces formed in the in the surf. Watery fingers beckoned to her, but she resolutely ignored them, concentrating on reality. She dug her fingernails into her hands until they hurt. Pain was good. Pain was a friend. Pain was absolution.

  Rhian checked her watch every few moments, and the illusion of time speeding by happened again. She was beginning to suspect that Frankie added some pretty powerful dank to her herbal mix.

  Frankie’s voice faded into silence, and the seascape dimmed until it disappeared. Frankie hung her head as if she were exhausted. It was some time before she spoke.

  “Will you rearrange the furniture, Rhian, while I rest for a bit? We must give the punters their money’s worth by showing them what they expect to see.”

  Her voice was thick, like she had the first symptoms of a head cold.

  “Sure, Frankie.”

  Rhian pushed and pulled various objects around into artistic curves and patterns while Frankie watched.

  “You’re a lot stronger than you look, aren’t you?” said Frankie. “You know, that went really rather well. I thought that this might be a difficult one, but it all worked first time. Do you notice any change in the office?”

  Rhian considered. “Yes, it feels airy and light, and my headache’s gone.”

  “There is nothing better than air and water magic for sick building syndrome,” said Frankie complacently.

  It was Rhian’s night off, as Gary had another barmaid on the shift. Frankie prepared a potato salad, then she and Rhian shared a bottle of Californian rosé in the garden, watching the play of light as the day changed imperceptibly into twilight.

  “Thank you for being so welcoming, but you don’t have to look after me,” Rhian said. “I am used to living on my own.”

  “To be honest, it’s rather nice to have someone around,” Frankie said. “What with my work and Pete, my partner, I never really made civilian friends.”

  “Civilians?” Rhian asked. “Were you in the army?”

  “Good Lord, no,” Frankie said. “I worked for a close-knit organization, and civilians are what we called outsiders, silly really. How about you? What brought you to our fair neighborhood?”

  “I just needed a fresh start.” Rhian shrugged.

  “Boy trouble,” said Frankie, raising an eyebrow.

  “There was someone, but it didn’t work out, so I left.” Her tone was designed to discourage further questions.

  It was a moment Rhian relived over and over in her dreams. The heavy iron bar smashed James’ head, with the sound like you get from crushing a beer can. His skull pulped. Blood and dark brain matter spurted from the wound. The bar swung back for a second hit, trailing a fan of red droplets that glittered in the streetlights.

  Frankie took the hint. She got up and, wandering to the curtains, peered around them. “The Moon’s up. Would you like to see my moon garden?”

  “Moon garden?” Rhian asked.

  Frankie was just full of strange surprises, as mad as a March hatter. Hang on, that wasn’t right. Frankie started talking again, interrupting Rhian’s thought process.

  “Night flowers, Rhian. I have a witch’s herb garden, and one corner is devoted to night flowers. Come on. Switch the lights off because you just have to see it in the moonlight.”

  Rhian was intrigued, it sounded wonderfully exotic. Outside, Frankie steered Rhian to the right area, knelt down, and pointed to some round white flowers that were about three inches across.

  “This patch is the Arctic globe thistle, Echinops.”

  Rhian knelt beside her. “They’re beautiful, Frankie.” She touched the petals and then smelled her fingers.

  “Mind the leaves, honey, they are very prickly.”

  “The flowers seem to glow in the moonlight, like when you wear a white top in a club with ultraviolet lights.”

  “You see that, do you, Rhian? That’s very interesting.”

  Rhian looked up sharply. How could she not see something so obvious? Something about the tone of Frankie’s voice bothered her, but the woman’s face was in dark shadow, making her expression unreadable.

  Frankie moved to a trellis where a climbing plant grew. She teased out a bud so that she could display it in the silver moonlight.

  “This is the moonflower, what botanists call Ipomoea. One afternoon, these buds will open and the large white flowers will bloom all night under the Moon. A heavy scent will flow out of them, a scent that only a few can smell, filling my garden and attracting moths. With the moths will come bats, Hecate’s bats, and in the morning the flowers will die.”

  “That’s a sad fate,” said Rhian. “To grow all year and have just one night to bloom.”

  “We all have only a short time to bloom; it’s only the scale that differs. Not even the gods are immortal.”

  “I still think it’s sad,” said Rhian.

  “I’ll harvest the flowers with the Sun, saying the right ritual so that the dried petals, when burnt, will make incense suitable for divination.”

  “Divination?” asked Rhian, doubtfully.

  “Fortune telling, honey, I will inhale the vapor before sleeping, and in my dreams I will see the future. At least that’s the theory. Sometimes all I get is heartburn,” Frankie said. “You know, the spells today were almost too powerful, as if something else was pushing my magic along.”

  “Such as what?” asked Rhian.

  “It could be any one of a number of things,” Frankie replied. “For example, an artifact or haunting in the office that acted as a magical amplifier, but I think that unlikely, don’t you?”

  “I don’t know,” Rhian replied, politely. Frankie was very weird. Harmlessly weird in an eccentric English sort of way, to be sure, but definitely not quite in phase with reality.

  Frankie continued as if she had not spoken. “Or it could be another witch pushing my spell along, someone who could see the moon-glow of Arctic thistles, perhaps?” Frankie looked at Rhian and raised an eyebrow.

  “You think that I’m a witch?” Rhian laughed. She knew that was impolite, but she couldn’t help it.

  “Not consciously, honey, but you may have untrained powers. Do strange things happen to you?” Frankie asked.

  “Like what?” Rhian replied, answering a question with a question, as this was tricky ground.

  “Oh, it could be something quite trivial. Do you ever know who’s on a ringing phone before you pick it up? Can you predict the results of random events more often than not? Does your toast always land butter side up?”

  Rhian shook her head, laughing. “No, nothing like that ever happens to me. I am just an ordinary girl from the valleys.”

  “Do you mind if I tried a little experiment?” asked Frankie, clearly unconvinced.

  “An experiment, that sounds fun,” replied Rhian, tolerantly.

  Frankie cupped her hands together, as if she was holding something in them. She sang softly, too quiet for Rhian to hear the words. Then she blew on her hands and opened them.

  A beautiful white sphere of light hung there, making Rhian gasp. This was magic—real magic. Maybe Frankie was a witch. Six months ago Rhian did not believe in magic, but that was before the wolf.

  “You can see it, can’t you, Rhian?”

>   Rhian nodded, not trusting herself to speak.

  “Put your hand into it so I can see the color of your aura. Let’s find out what sort of witch you are.”

  Rhian tentatively reached out her finger to the ball of light and poked it. For a brief instant the ball resisted her touch, deforming and moving away. Then it exploded soundlessly into shards of white light. They writhed like streamers before fading away in hissing sparkles of silver.

  “What!” said Rhian, startled. “Is it supposed to do that?”

  “No,” Frankie replied. “It’s just a simple marker spell. If you have no talent, then it stays white. If you’ve talent it changes color, the shade and intensity indicating your power and skills. It’s not supposed to run away. One might almost think that it was frightened of you.”

  CHAPTER 5

  THE WOLF

  Rhian scrabbled inside the darkest reaches of her wardrobe to obtain her coat. She looked it over critically. It was definitely showing signs of wear but would have to do until she had built up some savings. She slipped it on and headed for the front door.

  “Bye, Frankie,” she yelled at the closed lounge door.

  It opened abruptly and Frankie shot out.

  “Wait a moment, I have something for you,” Frankie said.

  She produced a twisted posy of half-dead plant material that she attached securely to Rhian’s lapel with an old-fashioned hat pin.

  Rhian inclined her head to study the posy.

  “It’s, um, very nice,” she said weakly, wondering at the woman’s taste in decorations.

  “It’s not supposed to be nice. That is a good luck charm,” said Frankie.

  “Like the gypsies sell?” Rhian asked.

  “Sort of,” Frankie replied. “I want you to promise me that you will wear it, please.”

  “Sure,” Rhian replied, humoring her. “But I really must go now or I’ll be late for work.”

  She gave Frankie a half smile and disappeared through the door.

  She hurried, taking the short cut through the path at the end of the road. She dodged the traffic on the Mile End Road rather than going round by the subway. She arrived at the Black Swan a few minutes before opening time. She was forced to bang on the door for some time before Gary appeared and let her in.