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  “There are various plants and flowers that they’re very fond of and drawn to,” Magda told me as we continued toward her house, me limping quite a bit, not to exaggerate my condition but because it hurt like hell. Magda broke into her explanation to commiserate. “Poor dear,” she murmured. “It’s your wound, isn’t it?”

  “Yes,” I said.

  I felt another surge of warm relief as Magda kissed me on the cheek and said, “We’ll fix you up when we reach the house.” I almost wished the lawn was wider, I felt so comforted by her arm around my waist, her warm hand on my arm, her very presence. “What other plants and flowers?” I asked, wanting the moments to last.

  “Mistletoe, foxglove, and poinsettia are popular among the faeries,” she went on. I had to chuckle at the word “mistletoe.” Magda looked at me suspiciously until I explained about Christmas kisses. She smiled and continued to enumerate various trees also “popular” among Middle Kingdom citizens—birch, willow, oak, and rowan being most “popular.”

  She was starting to tell me what shiny stones the faeries favored (another passable combo), their most “sacred” stone, the green emerald. “Naturally, I wouldn’t dispose of them to slow down pursuit,” she said, a smile of suppressed amusement on her lips—which I, suddenly (why had it taken that long?), noticed how full—and kissable—they looked, although I doubt the notion of kissing Magda actually occurred to me at that instant, just the general (I think) observation.

  At any rate—I’ve asided enough; we reached the house and Magda helped me in. Before we entered, though, I asked, “What about the water? Also protection?” Now I was fully aware of catering to her. I wondered if she knew it (probably), but she only smiled. “That’s right,” she said.

  “And the dry leaves on the door?” I asked.

  “Now you’re overdoing it,” she told me.

  I winced. She knew, of course. “I’m sorry,” I said. I really was.

  She closed the door, and for a moment, the gloom of the interior gave me a sense of uneasiness. I had to—quickly—remind myself that Magda had just—I might as well admit it—saved me “at the crunch,” as Mr. Churchill would have put it.

  My vision focused then, and I made out the familiar room, most notably the candlelit portrait of Edward smiling serenely above the fireplace mantel.

  My leg and hip were really bothering me now, and Magda, without another word, helped me across the room, past the ceiling-high bookcases. Not into the bedroom, I thought. I simply wasn’t ready for that, although, it seemed that she might do that, having me lie on her bed to rest.

  Instead, she aided me into the kitchen.

  I was charmed—but not surprised—by the appearance of the room. It was as warm in invitation as Magda was, mostly light-textured wood paneling and a ceiling painted pale yellow. Against the wall, farthest from me, was the cast-iron stove, dark utensils hanging from overhead bars, three on the left, two on the right. The stove itself, recessed in a black brick wall (black, I assumed, from the heat and flames of the fire underneath). At the moment, only a footing of red coals glowed across the bottom. On the left side of the stove was an oven door, a black cloth hanging from its handle—or its knob, I couldn’t tell which.

  In the center of the room was what looked like—and was—a heavy oak table, one (oak) chair pushed under it, a large candlelit lantern hanging above it, so close to the ceiling that the candle smoke had left a black patch on the ceiling.

  Magda led me to a voluminous oak armchair standing to the right of the stove. Magda told me later that it was an antique, deliberately voluminous to accommodate hoopskirts. She helped me to sit down. As I did, the pain in my hip and leg flared sharply, and I uttered a soft involuntary groan. “Oh, darling,” Magda said, obviously concerned.

  “I’ll be all right,” I said. Already the pain was lessening.

  “You’re very brave,” she told me. “I hope Edward was able to control pain as you are.”

  What if he was killed in a moment? The cruel thought jumped into my brain. Thank God I didn’t voice it. All I managed to say was, “I’m sure he was.”

  She stood gazing at me for what seemed to be a long time, her expression, again, indecipherable. (I do like that word.) “You look like him,” she said. Then, turning so quickly that her long skirt rustled, she moved to a small wall-hung cabinet and opened it, removing several earthenware containers, two cups and saucers, and a covered cracker box. She looked, at that moment, so domestic, reminding me of my too-soon-lost mother that I had to know—I had to. “Mrs. Variel,” I began.

  “Magda, please,” she corrected me pleasantly, now checking an oversize pot on the stove, satisfied, at the pot’s water level.

  I braced myself; you might say I girded my mental loins.

  “Yes?” she said, turning from the stove.

  I drew in a fitful breath.

  “What is it, Alex?” she asked. I’d have preferred that she called me “dear” or “darling”—but there was no time for such an irrelevant disappointment.

  “Magda,” I said.

  “Yes, dear, what is it?”

  I had to ask, as awkward as it was. “My roofer,” I said.

  “Joe, yes, I remember,” she replied.

  She waited then. Oh, god, I wish I’d never started this! my brain lamented.

  “What is it, darling?” Magda said. She’d called me “darling” now. That only made it worse.

  Tongue-tied is a legitimate description. My tongue was double knotted. I could only stare at her.

  “What about Joe?” she asked. So God damn understandingly that I would have welcomed a giant crack in the kitchen floor, swallowing me whole.

  “Alex, what?” she asked. She sounded worried now.

  The words came tumbling out. “He said you were a witch.”

  * * *

  Magda stood before my chair and gazed at me with what I can only describe as a fixed expression. Anger? Disappointment? I wasn’t sure. Finally, she spoke. “Would you say that again?” she asked. Or was she asking? Maybe she wanted to hear me speak the words again. But why? If she was a witch, was she going to zap me (1982 slang) with a bolt of lightning?

  I knew I had to repeat what I’d said. I did so, but so softly, I could tell she couldn’t hear my voice. I tensed myself. The action made my hip-leg pain amplify again, making me wince. I hoped she wouldn’t think I was sympathy seeking (another possible phrase: A.B. circa 1982) as I repeated the words again, slowly and distinctly. No point in trying to obscure them. They were what they were. “He said you were a witch.”

  More fixed gazing. Then Magda turned and moved to another armless oak chair to the left of the fireplace. The grating noise the chair feet made as she drew it over to mine made me wince again. (I was definitely wince prone that afternoon.)

  Placing the chair across from me, she seated herself. She even sits gracefully, it came to me—true but not exactly the point.

  “Alex,” she began.

  Oh, Christ, don’t lecture me! My brain rebelled instantly. Captain Bradford Smith White, USN, commenced too many lectures with my name, in that exact tone.

  “What?” I heard myself reply, responding not to her but to my father.

  “Let’s not be truculent,” she said.

  At least the Captain had never used that word. I doubt he knew it.

  I controlled my unthinking reaction, reminding myself that she had, in all probability, saved my life. “Sorry,” I muttered. I was but didn’t sound it.

  “That’s all right,” she said. “I suppose I am what your roofer said, at least as he interprets it. To him, I’m a witch. That’s true. I am.”

  I shivered so violently in my voluminous chair (my shiver more voluminous by far) that it creaked beneath me.

  Magda was amused by my reaction. “Alex, Alex,” she said, “what on earth do you think a witch is? And I must tell you, I dislike the word, it rouses such grotesque images. Isn’t that what’s been making your behavior so guarded since your ro
ofer told you what he did?”

  I had to admit the truth of that. Crones with cone-shaped hats addressing black cats? Her words rang true. But not enough.

  “You aren’t sure yet, are you?” Magda said, “You still believe I’m something to be frightened of. As you’re now, I’m glad, frightened by the little people. They are something to be frightened by. I’m not. Can’t you see that?”

  Her words—and voice—were so persuasive that I almost lost my apprehension about her. Not quite, though. There was still a lot about her I had no comprehension of. (Apprehension, comprehension. If Black had written poetry, he might have rhymed those two.)

  “Let me tell you what a witch—as you refer to it—really is,” Magda said.

  She went on to explain that so-called witchcraft was a religion—“and it is a religion,” she emphasized—called Wicca, a feminine form of the Old English word wicce, meaning “witch.” A sizable cult, its membership was extensive. (Although, as far as she knew, she was the only one in Gatford.) In common with more orthodox religions, Wicca has worship as its main goal. The cult is primarily matriarchal, its high priestess “not me, a far greater person,” Magda emphasized, though not identifying her. “She’s respected as the Queen of Heaven, her symbols the moon and stars.”

  Wicca recognized responsibility toward nature and sought to live in harmony with the environment. They did not accept the concept of supernatural, believing that true power was naturally available. They recognized both outer and inner worlds and interaction between them. There was more, which I fail to recall. Wicca was (is?) basically a fertility cult, its festivals geared to the seasons.

  “Most memberships meet at certain dates,” Magda told me. “The spring equinox, the summer solstice, the autumn equinox. I attend them when I can. Mostly, I worship alone. I tried to start a coven once [a “working unit,” she later explained], but it didn’t work—the others were dismayed by my proximity to the Middle Kingdom. They thought it was damaging to the religion.”

  “And is it?” I asked, trying to involve myself in the moment.

  Magda smiled. “I don’t think so. But I’m what you’d call a dilettante wicce. I go my own way.”

  I started to cough, clearing my throat. “And magic?” I asked.

  She looked at me, a curious expression on her face. “Magic?” she said. “Why do you ask that?”

  Already I felt awkward and embarrassed. Why had I asked such a question? Was I psychic? Or just stupid? No way of knowing. Then.

  “Well,” I said, voice trembling. “I just assumed—”

  “That witches performed magic?” she asked, but said, “I don’t. Hardly ever. On occasion, I perform a ritual during which what you assume to be magic occurs. But nothing more. Any other questions?”

  I knew she was becoming impatient with me, but there was another question preying at my mind (my brain). “Why did you become a witch?” I asked, adding quickly, “I mean a wicce.” I hoped I pronounced it right.

  She gazed at me silently, and I wondered if she was going to answer. Or had I asked another offending question?

  “I was a Lutheran,” she said. “Most Scandinavians are.” Scandinavian? I thought. She didn’t look it. “My parents half were, my mother English,” she explained. “They came to Northern England when I was three—I never knew why. Faithfully, I went to church with my husband and Edward. Then my husband was killed and then Edward was killed. I was completely devastated. The religion didn’t comfort me. I left the church and lived awhile without religion. During that time, I turned to nature for comfort. And when I accepted that Wicca was a nature-oriented faith, I turned to it—four years ago. Now are you appeased? Or am I still a menacing creature in your eyes?”

  I was bereft of words. I felt only shame that I’d doubted what was so clearly the kindness of her nature. All I could murmur, humbly, was, “Forgive me.”

  “Oh, my dear.” All impatience vanished from her voice and posture. How it happened, I do not recall, but suddenly she was on her knees in front of me, arms around my body, clasping tightly. “Thank you, darling. Thank you,” she whispered.

  I guess that was the moment I fell in love with Magda Variel, my beautiful red-haired witch.

  Mistake.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Let me alter this to chapter fourteen. Thirteen being a proven problem (I like that combination) of a number. Look it up yourself; it won’t be difficult. For instance—in tall buildings, there are no thirteenth floors.

  So I do the same for my written building—not, too bad, my written skyscraper. There will be no thirteenth story.

  Chapter Fourteen

  I moved in with Magda soon after our flight from the faeries. No lovemaking involved. That surprised (frankly, disappointed) me. But I could not romantically approach my new mother. It seemed as though she had assumed that role.

  I had to hold on to Comfort Cottage (what a joke) for three months. I’d paid that much in advance, and my landlord balked at returning money. So I had a rented residence in addition to my residence with Magda. An entrepreneur at eighteen. Not bad.

  The first accommodation Magda provided was to perform a ritual titled Drawing Down the Moon.

  I wasn’t sure why she did this. To reassure me how benign Wicca was? To give me a demonstration of genuine Wicca magic? To acclimate me to her way of life?

  No. She had something far more memorable to “exemplify”—as they say in Northern England. An easier word? Something far more “remarkable,” then. To demonstrate—to prove.

  It took place on a night when the moon was full. Build-up of power, Magda explained, was more achievable when all participants are unclothed. Since we were so newly acquainted, however, she would forgo this element of the ritual. She would, rather, attempt to “charge the atmosphere” by garbing herself in a thin silk robe, electing modesty for “dynamism.” She also chose to dance alone, since being a novice, I would, doubtless, foul up the procedure. She didn’t say “foul up,” of course; she suggested only “possible mitigation” of the ritual. No help for it, however. I remember disappointment on my part. Even beneath her usual impervious outfits (not, I swear, that I made any attempt to perviate them—is there such a word? I doubt it), I could tell that her figure was sumptuous. No other word is accurate.

  The ritual began. Low illumination—several candles only. Incense and burning herbs suffusing the air with an exotic, fragrant haze. Fireplace warmth heating the room to tropical sultriness.

  Magda twisting and turning in a ritual dance. I tried, very determinedly, not to look at her body. My mind succeeded generally. My eyes and groin had less success. Her figure was (by gods in Heaven or Hell) totally sumptuous, her breasts (I confess I absolutely gaped at them) close to immense. Her stomach ovoid and milk white. Except for the ebony triangle between her long, moving legs, which, I swear to you, I did not attempt (other than sporadically) to look at.

  Did I mention (no, I didn’t) that throughout her dance, the succulent Magda (she actually seemed to become more beautiful with every second) chanted softly. The melody was catchy, but the lyrics, if I may call them that, were in Latin—I believe they were in Latin. I got totally caught up by, lost in increasing entrancement. Maybe it was the dim, flickering light, perhaps the sinuous sweep (good combo) of her body, the lung-filling intoxication of the combined incense.

  Whatever it was, the miracle began.

  * * *

  I’m sure you’re all familiar with the word “electrify.” Of course you are. In this day and age, it has no more significance than the flicking up of a wall switch to turn on bulbs.

  In 1918, things were different. Electricity meant less than gas stoves to an Eskimo. I knew it existed; Tom Swift and His Electric Dog. (Just made that up.) I’d read about electric lights on the Titanic. I knew what electric power was supposed to be, but it had never affected me personally; that’s the point I’m trying to make. And even on that evening, I was not aware of what was taking place. Even now, I’m no
t quite sure. I know only that it had to be electric. Had to be.

  Initially, a tingling. I can come up with no more accurate description. Have you experienced acupuncture? If so, you know how thin wires are often attached to the needles, then fastened to some electric source—my guess, a battery of some sort. The feeling—I had it in my leg and hip—was a small intermittent electric shock—or tingling, to return to that more authentic word. It was not what one would term exactly pleasant. Neither was it painful. Especially since it was all located in the area of my shrapnel wound. I sensed—I know—it was deliberate. Clearly, Magda’s ritual was a healing one.

  Did I tell you?—probably not, it’s been a long time since I’ve written a coherent book—MIDNIGHT EROS, if I recall correctly. Anyway, in case I haven’t mentioned it—Magda bathed for a full hour before the ritual began. The candles she lit were thick and purple—five of them. She wore a heavy scarlet robe before she doffed it, revealing the near-transparent gown. Her hair was tightly bound around her head. There was no makeup on her face, not even lip rouge. Purity? I couldn’t tell you, but it seems a logical explanation.

  Back to the miracle. Next, my leg and hip were seized by numbness. Then, within this numb sensation, I felt what seemed to be tiny fingers manipulating nerves and tendons, altering an artery, pressing bone in place. Because of the numbness, I felt no pain. It was, instead, a weird experience, I tell you, unlike, to the slightest degree, anything I’d ever known before. It lasted, I would estimate, less than five minutes. During that time, Magda stood motionless, arms extended toward me, pointing a hazel wand at me. I knew what was happening but had no conception of how it was happening.

  Then a return of sensation in my hip and leg, a minute or so of new pain (slight). Was it cosmic recuperation? Once more, look not to me for clarification. I have none. All I remember is that brief period of new pain ending and the incredible realization that my shrapnel wound no longer plagued me. On the contrary, I felt no indication of the wound whatever—later, when I looked at my hip and leg, although there were faintly visible scars, there was no other evidence that my flesh had been torn apart by the grenade burst.