Samhain Chanted Evening

"There was a time when you believed in Magic," Lenore said quietly, all the while staring at me with those weird, gold cat's eyes of hers. "Believed in the land of the Summer people."

I hated it when she sprang that old soul shit on me. Not only was it creepy as hell, but the last thing I needed was to have to worry about past lives. I was having a bitch of a time just dealing with the one I was in, thank you very much. But I knew better than to argue with her.

"Okay whatever, there was a time when I believed in Santa Claus, too, and that passed."

Lenore shook her finely braided head, setting off a soft musical swish of bells and beads. "You would be so much happier if you'd just try this. Really, a couple of good healing spells and some herbs and you'll feel a whole lot better."

"I still think a good curse or two would satisfy me a lot more," I groused. "And if you aren't willing to help me there, than what good are you?"

She sighed. She was talking to a stone wall and she knew it. "Arthur, how many times do I have to tell you, The Law of Three would turn that into a disaster for you."

I knew she was serious about this. Lenore Pell is nothing if not serious. She's my roommate and probably my best friend, but her one fault is that she's totally lacking in a sense of humor. Especially when it comes to paganism, which she practices diligently.

"Yeah, yeah," I grumbled. "What ever you do to someone else, good or evil, will return to you thrice fold." I rolled my eyes. "You Wiccans certainly take the fun out of witchcraft. You know, it's just my luck that I end up being friends with the only black chick from New Orleans who doesn't believe in Voodoo."

She snorted regally. "That is not the path to spiritual harmony."

"Fuck spiritual harmony; I just want a little human revenge!"

So started my rant. Lenore sat back and listened calmly, not even showing by so much as a curl of her lip that that she'd already heard my sad tale practically every day for the last year or so. But then I told you she was my best friend. When I'd found myself homeless she was the first person I'd called, and ten minutes later she had me sitting in her kitchen drinking some god-awful weed tea while I cried on her shoulder.

It wasn't a very original story. Just the same old sordid number where the poor schmuck, me, Arthur, comes home and finds his one true love, Quinn by name and queen by game, in bed with a set of twins who's combined ages wouldn't have gotten them into an AARP meeting. At 34, I wasn't ready myself, but still I was aware enough of the onset of my maturity that I was a little touchy when the subject of age came up. So it's not much of stretch to figure out that finding two kids barely out of puberty rolling around on my Egyptian linen sheets pissed me off. A lot.

Quinn, of course was nothing if not contrite. He swore he'd been drunk. He swore he didn't know what came over him. He swore he'd never do it again. I let him grovel for a couple of days before I forgave him.

Then I looked up a private investigating agency and had him tailed.

It didn't take long for them to report back that the twins were only the last in a long line of guys willing to sink to their knees or spread their legs for an aging pretty boy who still looked a lot like Brad Pitt albeit after a heavy night on the town. Pretty soon I realized that it wasn't so much a question of who'd slept with my boyfriend, but who hadn't.

I'm one of those butch types, and I was very manly about it. I threw a hissy fit that would have made a diva blush. Quinn just shrugged his shoulders and gave me his best sad puppy look. He could make his eyes glisten with tears on cue. "Think about it... I mean, we've had four good years. How many people can even say that?" Since we'd been together for seven, this didn't make me any calmer. I pointed to the door and asked him to leave. He went to the safe and pulled out the deed to the old Victorian I'd bought and showed me his name.

I'd forgotten about that. It'd been on our fifth anniversary, and I thought we were still a couple so... I'd added his name to the deed. My work had me traveling a lot around that time, and to a lot of places that weren't all that safe. So being the kind of guy I am (or was, — I'm a lot more cynical now, post Quinn) I'd put him on the deed so if anything did happen to me, he'd be all set.

He was all set, all right. He celebrated with an 18 year old in the hot tub we'd installed that summer. Yup, Quinn Vere was all set.

But even after I realized my mistake, I still didn't really think I'd lose the house. After all, I'd bought it, paid for it and dumped enough money into the renovations to fund a small country or two. For his part, Quinn hadn't done anything so mundane as contribute financially. Even if he'd had a dime of his own, it would never have occurred to him. Instead, he'd wandered around with ba-gua charts and talked a lot about space and light and feng shui. He said we needed a welcoming house. Silly me. I didn't realize he wanted to welcome every guy in the tri state area.

Unknowingly I'd given him every opportunity. Like I said, I was gone a lot, traveling for my job as an expansion analyst for a multinational conglomerate that was particularly fond of Central and South American locations that featured peasants who'd work for almost nothing and no pesky environmental regulations. Quinn didn't have that kind of job. Or any job, for that matter. Quinn was an artiste, a painter; though what the hell he painted was a mystery to me. Every time I got near the studio I'd added on (cedar and southern exposure, and a couch that folded out to a bed) he'd scream and tell me he wasn't ready to show anyone his work.

This sounds like I was the biggest dope in the world, but I had seen some of his stuff, that's how we met. Quinn drew caricatures, really witty little sketches that he'd do at parties and give them out to friends – or enemies – of his victims. And even though they could be cruel, they were so funny. And he was so charming. Of course, everyone wanted him to do one of them.

But that's all he ever did. The paintings he talked about, the sculptures he planned, never materialized and after a while I realized they probably never would. I was disappointed, but I figured what the hell. I made a very good living, and if he wanted to stay home and be a househusband it didn't matter to me.

Then came the twins.

I took him to court. I had all the legal papers, the bills, the check stubs with my signature. All Quinn had was that damned deed and photographs of an empty studio that he said was the only way he could now support himself. He also claimed that I'd insisted that he stay home. That my job and my hours had made me worry about the amount of time the house would be empty if he found other (any) employment. He cried when he told the judge that it hurt his pride to have to live off me, but he'd done it because I'd begged him too. It was laughable. My attorney told me it was going to be piece of cake.

It was cake all right. Sponge cake, and Quinn used it to soak up everything he could. The house, half my assets and the little BMW he'd just had to have. I'd only made 3 payments on it before the Hardy Boys showed up in my bed. I even had to pay the court costs. Sometimes I think Quinn must have fucked the judge. After the last court day, he took fifty of his nearest and dearest out on a chartered yacht and celebrated. I know he'd done most of them.

Once again, I was finishing up my story to Lenore, and bless her heart, she was still awake. "You know, I really don't care about Quinn anymore. I mean, sure I'd enjoy hearing how his dick fell off. And maybe if he could develop a terminal case of anal warts..."

"It would only be fair," Lenore agreed quickly, nodding when she was expected to, but concentrating on that damn cat of hers. "Sweet Oscar," she called him. Sweet Oscar hated me, because I knew him for what he was. The Devil's Own. Oscar stretched and jumped down, looked me over like I was something in his box, and flipped me off with his tale.

"Exactly," I smiled mistily, this was always the part that really choked me up. Thinking of all that lost money always had that effect. "But really, it's the house I miss. Damn, I just loved that house."

"I know sweetie, that's why I want you to try these new herbs and this spell. I've been doing some research and..."

"Oh God, Lenore, don't you ever give up with that stuff?"

She shook her head, "Not when I know it will make you feel so much better. Lot's better than that glass of scotch you're sucking on. Especially in the morning." She stood up and dug into the pocket of her jeans. "Here's the address of a shop. I want you to go over there and ask for Abigail Williams, she's the woman I've been talking to about this." She fixed those gold eyes on my baby blues and squinted as she took on a warning tone. "She's very nice and quite knowledgeable, and you better be polite to her. Don't be yourself. She won't think much of some smart ass who thinks Magick means pulling a rabbit out of a hat."

I'd heard this before, and I caught that thin smile on her lips. "I get it now. Someone got an eye for a bit of new carpet?"

I'd wondered what brought on this sudden concern for my happiness. Usually Lenore thought it was enough to just listen to me moan once or twice a day. She'd even stopped offering me the weed tea after the first week. But Lenore was a dyke with a sexual appetite for women that almost rivaled Quinn's for men, although she was a hell of a lot more honest and up front with her tricks than he was. So if she was trying to get the franchise on this Abigail woman...

I looked down at the card she'd handed me, and then I really did laugh. Salem's Odd Lots, it read, in big Gothic letters. Specialty Goods for the Special Arts was just below it. Something else, too, but hard to see. I could barely make it out, but I held the paper up to the light better and squinted. Hey, I'm in acquisitions, after all. You've got to check the fine print. A Loki International Company.

"God, you are so crude. Not everything is about sex." She shook her dark head and tried to look disgusted, but I knew her too well to miss the predatory gleam that had come into those funky eyes.

"Yeah, that's what this is all about," I smirked. "You want to snack on some new Berber and you're using me as a way to get this chick to come around with her samples."

She flipped me the finger and went into the kitchen to whip up a little tofu Wellington and that was the end of the conversation. I jammed the card back in my pocket and forgot about Salem's Odd Lots and didn't think of it again until three days later when I stopped off at TheaTrix, which claimed to be a theatrical supply company, although God knows how they made ends meet out here. If there was any theatre in the area, I didn't know about it. But apparently they had no qualms about offering up their inventory for the holiday season. I'd called around in desperation, because I'd put Halloween off like I put off everything these days, and finally came across it in the yellow pages. A woman by the name of Elizabeth Parris said she had something that would be perfect for me.

"You don't even know my size," I'd growled at her.

"Trust me," she'd said, and hung up. I copied the address and wondered why it sounded familiar. I drove across town to get there and the door was locked. I swore. Then I saw a note taped to the door with my name on it. "Turn left. See Abigail at SOL. She's waiting for you." The initials said EP.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a sign with an arrow that said Salem's Odd Lots and pointed down an alley. At first, I couldn't remember why I knew that name, but then it came back to me. I wasn't going to stop, but then I'd remembered all the nice things Lenore had done for me in the last year and thought fuck it. And I did need that costume. I'd go see Lenore's little girlfriend and try and push the course of true lust a little farther along the path. Sure I didn't believe in all those herbs and spells and crap, but it wouldn't hurt either and it would make Lenore happy.

I walked into the alley. Jesus, it was cold suddenly. The sun had been out, but as I stepped in between the two tall old buildings that flanked the entrance it went behind a cloud and an icy wind swirled up from my feet and found it's way to the back of my neck. I shivered and looked for the store so I could get away from it.

It was pretty gloomy in that alley and at first I couldn't see much. I heard the sign more than saw it. A metal plaque that hung on a rod set at right angles over the door. It screeched as the wind caught it, the sound like fingernails on a blackboard. Automatically I walked over and reached up to hold it and it was then that I saw it was the place I was looking for.

I tried to look inside through the door but there was a drape over the window so I gave it up and opened the thing. It opened silently and I walked into a room that looked to be even darker than the alley. My eyes struggled to adjust and my nose twitched with the urge to sneeze from the strong smell of dust and mold and incense. But I was beginning to be able to see and the place looked clean enough, just your average New Age shop with lots of old books and shelves packed with jars and plastic bags full of weird plants and big brown pills an elephant would have trouble swallowing. Yeah, it looked normal; at least there was nothing there that I could see to explain to me why the whole place gave me the creeps.

"Can I help you?"

"Shit!" I jumped and turned in midair to face the female with the low voice that seemed to whisper right in my ear.

I looked up. And kept on looking. This had to be the tallest woman I'd ever seen outside of the WBA. I'm not short at 6 feet, but she had me beat by at least 4 or 5 inches. She was pretty though, maybe sexy, too, if you're into that side of things, which I definitely am not. She had wild, curly strawberry blonde hair that hung down to her ass and the long flowery dress she wore enforced the image of gypsy's and crystal balls. Her eyes were blue, but dark, almost purple, and they weren't cruel, but they weren't kind either. She looked at me like she was taking stock and the results were somewhat less than impressive.

I cleared my throat, "Are you Abigail?"

"Yes. And you, I think, are Arthur Moineau…" she said with an appraising look. "I've been expecting you."

My eyes widened and I grinned, "Of course... Lenore must have told you I'd be stopping by."

This made her almost smile, "Well, something like that." She nodded and then turned and glided away until she disappeared into the gloom of one of the back corners of the shop.

I stood there feeling disturbed and slightly foolish. Was it my breath, or did Lenore forget to give me the secret password? Then I realized something. I hadn't known I was going to come here, so how the hell had Lenore told this woman to expect me? "Dummy," I told myself. "It was Elizabeth Parris who told her."

It must have been five minutes that I waited for the mysterious Ms Williams to return. After the first couple, I forced myself to wander around and take a look at the place. I wasn't interested, you understand, I just thought I'd look less ridiculous if I pretended I was actually doing something besides waiting for the wicked witch of the Midwest to grace me with her presence.

There wasn't much to see unless you're seriously into paganism. This was the real deal for it if you were, though, even I could see that. This was nothing like those stores at the malls that had cute names like Do You Believe in Magick? and sold cute candles in the shape of dragons and hocked genuine bee pollen for men, with signs saying it was guaranteed to make your stinger bigger. This shop didn't go in for cute. If it carried bee pollen at all, you'd find it in little baggies, with hand-printed labels that had no instructions, the inference being, I presume, if you didn't know how to use it then you had no business buying it.

The books were equally as obscure. They were piled in odd corners with no thought to organization, at least as far as I could see, and cheap paperbacks were squashed between books that looked like they'd been around when witch burning held the same fascination that Monday Night Football does now. There was one that caught my eye, way up on the top shelf, a real page-turner called The Trials of 1692: The Question Comes to New England. But it had an interesting leather cover and I've always liked old books so I stretched my arm up to the shelf to take it down. Instead my hand brushed something that felt hard and scaly.

"What the hell?" I snatched my hand back and tentatively looked up. It was a stuffed bird. A small owl, actually.

"Where the fuck did you come from?" I muttered to it idiotically. I could have sworn it wasn't there when I'd first seen the book.

A shaft of weak light made it's way through a cracks of the curtain and as I watched, it seemed to aim for the owl's eyes and made them glow. I stared at it, mesmerized, and then horrified as those eyes slowly blinked at me. Involuntarily I backed up and might have kept on going if I hadn't bumped into something soft and warm.

"Dammit!" I shouted, and turned to see Abigail Williams once again standing directly in back of me.

"You know, you swear too much," she said calmly.

"And you should wear a bell," I muttered.

She ignored me and handed me a paper bag full of light and crunchy things. I looked in — herbs, lots of them.

"These should help you, ask Lenore for help if you don't know how to use them properly," the look on Abigail's face told me she didn't think there was a chance in hell that I did.

"Okay," I agreed meekly. "How much do I owe you?"

"$79.99."

"Holy shit! I had no idea it would cost this much!"

She sniffed, "Money is never a way to judge the true price of anything."

"It is when the VISA bill comes," I grumbled and shook my head, but dug my hand into my wallet until I located the little piece of plastic I never leave home without and handed it to her. She disappeared again, but not for so long and when she came back she had two packages in her arms.

"Here," she gave me the charge receipt, then the larger of the two packages. "Miss Parris says this is for you. She said you could discuss the price later."

I picked up the small package. My costume, I supposed. What did she save for me, underwear? "And I don't quite know where this came from," she continued, "but this seems to be for you, too." She said, handing me the second package.

It was a book, I could tell right away, a trade paperback of some sort. "What is it?" I asked suspiciously and added. "And how much?"

Abigail shrugged. "Your guess is as good as mine. I guess Lenore must have called back and gotten Luke, the new guy. And it says no charge."

I looked again; it did indeed. I said my goodbyes and left the shop. It was getting dark and the place was unsettling enough without that added touch of atmosphere.

I walked into the kitchen and dumped out the contents of the paper bag. Ugh! Most of it looked like the stuff that had been growing under the back porch at my old, sigh, house when I'd had it torn down. I picked up the other package and started to unwrap it. The first rip told me what it was or at least what kind of book my oh-so-funny roommate had decided I couldn't live without.

Wicca For Dummies, the yellow lettering on the black background blared out at me. Includes Software!!!, was what the red sticker on the corner of the front page added. Sure enough, inside the back cover was a cellophane envelope with a CD showing in the inside. "Warning," it said on the outside, "PC's only, not compatible with Macs. We don't do apples any more!"