by Steve Alten
They followed the South Downs for much of the afternoon. Sometimes the downs were visible as a blue smudge on the southern horizon. Sometimes the road climbed their steep slopes or passed through them in cuttings through the blinding white chalk. They stopped once more, briefly, to buy gas and stretch their legs. Then it was back to the car and a long, dull crawl through the traffic jams on the outskirts of Eastbourne. As the afternoon wore on, Charly finally succumbed to boredom and drifted off to sleep. Sam carried his small traveling bag out to the car and dropped it into the open trunk. As he turned to go back into the house, he noticed a group of figures across the street, loitering by a phone booth. They were dressed all in black, long coats and leather jackets, dark hair, pale faces, nose rings, and pierced eyebrows. Sam paused. He had seen groups of Goths and bikers hanging around in town, but it was unusual to see them out here in the quiet suburbs. They were standing in silence, staring sullenly at the ground or out into space. But as Sam was about to turn away, one looked up, and their eyes met for a moment. Sam felt a shudder start at the base of his neck and run down through his shoulders. Turning quickly, he headed back into the house.
Ten minutes later, his father eased the car out of the driveway and turned left into the road, passing the phone booth. Slumped in the back seat, Sam gazed out of the window with a feeling of mild anxiety, but the group had vanished. He settled back and closed his eyes. As the car pulled away smoothly, a handful of dry leaves, ragged survivors of the previous autumn, swirled briefly into the air and danced along the pavement. As quickly as it had arisen, the vortex of air collapsed, and the leaves whispered to the ground once more.
‡‡
Charly awoke to find that they had arrived in Hastings. The car had slowed to a crawl in the holiday traffic pouring down into the town from the high ground to the north. Twisting her head from side to side to loosen the stiffness in her neck, she peered out of the window. The streets were teeming with holiday visitors, brightly colored hordes in T-shirts and shorts despite the weak spring sun. Tour buses were pouring out more of them every minute. The car reached the bottom of the long hill and crept around the corner onto the seafront. To her left, along a side street, Charly saw the cluster of strange buildings, narrow and dark, that loomed above the crowds. They looked like wooden sheds, painted a somber black, but they were three stories high, as if a collection of garden sheds had stretched upward to find the sun.
Megan, tired and irritable after the long journey, swerved out from behind a tour bus that had stopped to drop off its passengers and sped off along the seafront. Soon after, however, she turned inland again and slowed as the streets became narrow and choked with parked cars. The engine began to labor as they climbed back up the hill. Rounding the squat bulk of the church of Saint Clement, patron saint of fisherfolk, Megan turned into a tiny side street and pulled to a halt. Above them, sheltering under the bulk of West Hill, towered the faded paintwork of the Aphrodite Guest House. Leaving Amergin and Charly to struggle with their bags, Megan strode inside to find the landlady, Mrs. Powell.
“My dear!” cried Mrs. Powell as Megan entered.
“Hello, Mrs. P.” replied Megan with a tired smile, bending slightly to embrace the old woman.
“You look dreadful. Come on in. I’ll put the kettle on.”
Mrs. Powell bustled off to the kitchen at the rear of the building, and Megan could hear the comforting clinks and clatters of tea being prepared.
As she wandered through to the kitchen in Mrs. Powell’s wake, she heard the front door open and Amergin and Charly shuffle in with the luggage. She shouted, “This way!” over her shoulder and made her way to a battered old chair by the stove, where she collapsed with a sigh. Charly burst in moments later and ran over to Mrs. Powell. Grabbing her in a boisterous bear hug, she shouted, “Hi, Mrs. P.” and stepped back.
Mrs. Powell turned and fixed her with a penetrating stare from the palest of blue eyes, then broke into a grin. “My dear,” she said, “I swear you’re prettier than ever! And so tall!”
Charly was, in fact, about the average height for her age, but even so, the top of Mrs. Powell’s head barely reached her chin. The old woman was dressed all in black—a long black skirt and a baggy black sweater with a large and saggy turtleneck. Like Megan, Mrs. Powell was a practicing Wiccan, but unlike Megan, she believed in looking the part. In addition to her preference for black, she was festooned with an assortment of beads, chains, and mystical amulets. Her hair was dyed an alarming shade of foxy red, fading to a line of gray at the roots. All in all, she looked as excitingly witchy as anyone Charly knew. Mrs. Powell suddenly noticed Amergin, who was lurking by the kitchen door looking uncomfortable. She raised one eyebrow.
“Oh, sorry, yes,” said Megan, “Mrs. P., this is Amergin. Amergin, Mrs. Powell.”
“My dear lady,” began Amergin, striding across the room with one hand extended, “delighted . . .” and then he faltered under the force of those piercing blue eyes.
“A pleasure, I’m sure,” replied Mrs. P., shaking his hand as if it was a dead fish. “Megan has told me all about you.”
Amergin gave her a nervous smile.
Mrs. P., her eyes never leaving Amergin’s, said, “Well, you’re very welcome in my house, Amergin.” She turned to Megan, and the wizard visibly sagged with relief. “I’ve given you your usual rooms—first floor, with a view of the sea. Oh, my dear, it’s super to see you again! I’ll make a spot of dinner. No, I insist! Off you go! Freshen up! Come back down at six.” And with that she began to clatter around the kitchen once more.
‡
Precisely at six, they assembled in the dining room, taking their places around a battered old table. Mrs. P. bustled around with steaming bowls of food before collapsing into her chair in a jangle of beads.
“So,” she began, “Charly. Tell me, has your mother spoken to you about your initiation?”
“Mrs. P.,” interrupted Megan, “it’s a little early to be thinking about that. She’s only—”
“Megan,” said Mrs. P. sternly, “look at the child.”
“What about it?” Charly looked from Mrs. P. to her mother, then back again.
Megan sighed, looking suddenly tired.
“I think it’s time, my dear,” said Mrs. P. “From what you tell me, she’s had, shall we say, adventures already. Who knows what the future holds?”
“She’s too young.” Megan frowned down at her plate.
“And besides, we’ve only just got here. There are preparations to be made, correct ways of doing things. We can’t just rush into it.”
“Flimflam,” replied Mrs. P. “And you know it.”
“If one of you doesn’t tell me what you’re talking about soon, I think I’m going to scream.” Charly folded her arms and looked exasperated.
Mrs. P. looked from mother to daughter, marveling again at the similarity. “Have you been reading your books, my dear?” she asked.
Charly turned toward her. “Books? Oh, those books. Yes. I have my own Book of Shadows, and I’ve learned all the responses to the rituals. But . . .”
“Good,” said the old woman decisively. “Eat up. I’ll get my things together.”
“You mean, I’m going to be initiated now?” asked Charly, grinning from ear to ear. “Cool!”
“We need to assemble a coven,” Megan pointed out, “if we’re going to do this properly.”
“Not necessary,” said Mrs. P. “We can do it just as well with three.”
“I could help . . .” began Amergin.
“This,” said Mrs. P. pointedly, “is women’s business. Now come along. No time like the present.”
‡
“Where are we going?” demanded Charly, struggling to keep up with Mrs. P. as she strode out of the house.
“The Firehills,” the old woman called back over her shoulder. “It’s a favorite place of mine for this sort of thing.” She was carrying a large and mysteriously lumpy backpack and had a very businesslike air about
her. Charly looked to her mother but received only a rather worried smile.
They scrambled into Megan’s car, and she raced off into the twilight, down to the seafront, past the net shops, and then climbing up once more, heading inland. Leaving the last houses behind, they emerged onto the windswept ridge high above town.
Under Mrs. P.’s direction, Megan parked the car at an overlook, and they clambered out. Off beyond the lights of Hastings, the sun was setting and the air was growing cool. They crossed the narrow road and marched down a rough track that dwindled eventually to a footpath. Charly soon lost all sense of direction and concentrated instead on the retreating backs of her mother and Mrs. P. They passed under trees, slipping and stumbling in the shadows, and finally emerged onto a hillside. The trees gave way to scattered bushes of gorse, jet black in the fading light. At the foot of the slope, the gray of the wild grassland was replaced by a different color, a vast expanse of pearl, tinged with the last light of the dying sun: the sea. Charly could hear its voice against an unseen shore, the eternal sigh and hiss of the ocean.
Mrs. P. had stopped and was looking around. She walked a few steps and stopped once more.
“What is she doing?” Charly whispered to her mother.
“Looking for somewhere suitable,” replied Megan.
“For the ritual?”
“Yes, dear. For the ritual.”
“But don’t we need a full coven for the Initiation Ritual?”
“Ideally, yes. As I tried to point out to her. But in exceptional circumstances, it can be performed with fewer. Fortunately, we have representatives of the three aspects of the Great Goddess—Mother, Maiden, and . . .Wise Woman.”
“Crone,” said Mrs. P., coming to join them. “Say it, I don’t mind. I’ve worked long and hard to earn the right to be called crone, nothing to be ashamed of. Maiden, Mother, and Crone: the Three in One. And here is the perfect setting. These, my dear”—she gestured around them—“are the Firehills, a very special place.”
“Why are they called that?” asked Charly.
“Well,” replied the old woman, “one theory is that it’s because of all the gorse.” She pointed at the dark mounds of the bushes. “Nearly all year, they’re covered in flowers, and it makes the place look like it’s on fire. A very pretty theory, if a little fanciful.”
“What’s your theory?” Charly knew Mrs. P. too well to think she wouldn’t have one.
“One of the ways of controlling scrub like this is to burn it every few years.” She smiled. “I know, not as romantic, sorry. Come on.”
‡
“We won’t do it sky clad,” said Mrs. P., taking her place, “it’s a bit chilly.”
Charly was relieved. Sky clad meant in the nude, and the evening was cool now that the sun was down. They had meditated for a while, each of them sitting with their own thoughts as the sun dropped into the sea out beyond Hastings. Now Mrs. P. had brought them together in a grassy clearing among the gorse bushes. The bright yellow flowers were still visible in the twilight, and their faint scent of coconut hung on the still air.
Mrs. P. took a wand from her backpack, a short length of wood bound with silver bands and with a piece of crystal at the end. Holding it before her, she walked clockwise around Charly and said:
Blessed be those within this circle;
Cleanse heart and mind,
That only truth be spoken,
Truth only be heard.
She fell silent for a space of thirteen heartbeats and then continued.
“A seeker is among us . . .” and here she spoke Charly’s secret name, the name she had chosen for herself and by which she would be known within the ranks of her coven
“proven by magic, who doth aspire to join with those who follow the way of the ancient craft.”
The ritual took its course, the ancient words familiar to Charly from her studies. At the correct points, she gave the appropriate responses to Mrs. P.’s questions.
“Do you seek the Way
That stretches beyond Life and Death?”
“I do.”
“Will you serve the Goddess
And reverence the God?”
“I will.”
“Will you guard that which is shown you
From the unworthy?”
“I will.”
Finally, Mrs. P. made the sign of the five-pointed pentacle with her wand and said, “In the name of the Lady and those covenanted to her, I place this threefold charge upon you: to know the Goddess and the God; to love the Goddess and Her Consort; and, through knowledge of the Way, to serve the Goddess and the Horned One. Do you”—and again she used Charly’s secret name—“freely accept the charge?”
“I do.”
“So be it. Blessed be and welcome, dear friend.”
After Charly had embraced her mother and Mrs. P., she stepped back, grinning. “So, is that it, then?” she asked.
“I’m initiated?”
Megan dabbed away a tear from the corner of her eye.
“Yes, sweetie. You’ve taken your first step along the Path. I’m so proud—” Her voice broke and she looked away.
“Mu-um,” sighed Charly, looking embarrassed.
“Come on,” said Mrs. P. “We should be getting back. It’s nearly dark, and your friend Sam will be arriving soon.”
‡
Closing the door of her room, Charly flopped down on the creaky old bed and threw open her case. Rummaging frantically, she found her hairbrush and ran over to the mirror. A few minutes later, there was a knock on the door and her mother’s voice shouted, “Charly! He’s here!”
Charly yanked open the door with surprising speed and looking slightly flushed, stumbled out. Megan looked her up and down. “Your hair looks nice,” she said with one eyebrow raised.
“Mu-um!” groaned Charly, but one hand moved involuntarily to her newly plaited braid. Together, they clattered down the stairs and into the lobby.
“Sam!” cried Megan as she spied a familiar figure at the small reception desk. She gave him a peck on the cheek before turning to his father. “Paul. Good to see you again.”
They shook hands, Sam’s father glancing around sheepishly.
“Er, thanks for having him, Megan. Hope he won’t be any trouble.” He cast a sharp look in Sam’s direction.
“Look, I’d better be off. I’ll pick him up on Monday, OK?
Around seven?”
“That will be fine. We’ll see you then.”
With a look of obvious relief, Sam’s father headed for the door. He liked Megan and Charly, but the whole subject of last year’s holiday in Dorset made him intensely uncomfortable. Try as he might, he couldn’t remember anything after the first couple of days. He and his wife had come to an unspoken agreement. The subject of Dorset was not discussed. Frowning, he jumped back into the car and drove away.
In the street outside the guesthouse, a dust devil sprang up. Candy wrappers and cigarette ends danced briefly in the air and then, as if invisible strings had been severed, dropped to the ground.
‡
“So,” began Megan, “how are you?” She took a step back and looked Sam up and down. Sam, remembering her ability to read auras, felt nervous.
“Yes,” he stammered, “good. I’m fine. How are you?” he finished with a forced smile.
“We’re fine. Aren’t we, Charly?”
Charly was lurking somewhere behind her mother and had turned slightly pink.
“Hi, Sam,” she said, trying to look uninterested.
“Well,” continued Megan, “you two must have a lot of catching up to do. I’ll be off. I’ll send Amergin down.”
And with that, she clattered back up the stairs. Silence descended.
“So,” began Charly after a while, “you’re OK, then?”
“Mmm. Yeah. You?”
“Good.”
Silence returned once more.
“Look,” said Charly, “there’s a little sort of lounge thing just over her
e. Let’s go and sit in there. You can take your bag up to the room later.” With that, she turned and marched off through a nearby doorway.
With a sigh, Sam put down his bag and followed. He found Charly curled in an old armchair, a hideous thing with bowed wooden legs and tattered floral fabric. She had her mother’s way of sitting, legs tucked beneath her, very self-contained and still. She watched him as he lowered himself gingerly onto a sagging sofa. To avoid her gaze, Sam looked around the room. The walls bore a bold floral pattern in gold and burgundy, though much of this was mercifully hidden by a mosaic of old prints in illmatched frames. Local scenes rubbed shoulders with gilded paintings of saints and lurid pictures of women dancing in stone circles. Sam even saw the face of the Green Man, over in one corner, his ancient amber eyes gazing out from a mask of foliage.
When he looked back to Charly, she was still studying him.
“How are you really?” she asked. “You look . . . different.”
Sam looked down at the violent colors of the carpet. When he looked up, there was a sad smile on his face.
“I think that’s about the right word—different.” He sighed. “I’m OK, really. It’s just been a bit strange, adjusting.”
“I can imagine.”
“Can you?” Sam’s eyes flashed. “Can you really?”
“OK! Don’t get so worked up! Just trying to be sympathetic.”
“Sorry.” Sam looked sheepish. “How about you?”
“Oh, I’m fine. Very well, in fact.” Charly smiled.
“What? Why are you looking so smug?”
“I’ve just been initiated.”
Sam looked blank. “Oh. Initiated, huh? Well, that must be . . . nice.”
“You haven’t got a clue what that means, have you?” snapped Charly in irritation. “Sam, you’re so lame sometimes!”