Behind the Ivory Veil
14 The Cup
Thursday, 28 July 1955, Edinburgh, Scotland
REBECCA AWOKE alert and refreshed. She’d had uncommonly restful nights for the past two weeks, possibly related to the exhaustion she experienced, first through her research and second through the instruction she had been receiving from Mrs. Weed. The sun cracked through the fog that seemed present every morning in this part of Edinburgh, and streamed through her window. The amount of energy she felt this morning crackled up and down her spine. The gift she had received from the woman sleeping in the second bed across the room seemed to lift her up.
Alice Weed, her sponsor and friend and now roommate, slept on noisily into the dawn. Rebecca smiled. In the weeks since her initiation, the woman had become a mother to her.
Friday, 24 June 1955, Edinburgh, Scotland
Three days after her initiation, Dr. Reston, her advisor, approached Rebecca following his lecture.
“How are you settling in, Mrs. Allen?” he asked.
“Life has been a bit hectic,” she admitted. “I spent part of last week at the embassy getting my passport changed to my married name. I didn’t anticipate such difficulty. This week… Shall we say I discovered resources I never imagined existed.”
“I’m not surprised. All the older legends of the British Isles are heavily dosed with the worship of the goddess. How are your lodgings?” asked the professor.
“I admit the boarding house is a bit stressful,” she answered. “Mark it up to my being a spoiled American. We always expect a level of, shall we say, convenience.”
“Or to be pandered to,” laughed Dr. Reston. Rebecca knew he was at least partly serious. “Sharing a bath with four other women, I assume could be a hardship. That is why I took the liberty of talking to an old friend. She has expressed a willingness to board you in more private quarters for the summer if you’d like.”
“I would be interested in speaking with her.”
“Her cottage is in Musselburgh, so you might need a bicycle to get to the university, but the opportunity to have quiet while you study will likely be worth the seven miles you need to pedal. I’ve written down her information for you. She is expecting your call. It is a quick trip by black cab.” He handed her a slip of paper and Rebecca started as she read the information.
“Is this…?”
“The widow of Dr. Weed, whose treatise you investigated this week. I told her of your interest and she suggested you visit her. She still has many artifacts from Dr. Weed’s illustrious career. You should go today.”
Rebecca found herself on the doorstep of a lovely cottage, in sight of the Firth of Forth. When the door opened a smiling Mrs. Weed greeted Rebecca.
“Mrs. Weed…”
“Alice, dearie. We know each other well enough to be first name friends when we are together, don’t you think?”
“You can’t imagine how happy I am to see you. I was afraid that… I don’t know. It seemed almost like a dream.”
“Now, Becca, you have adequate evidence, I think, that what has happened has indeed happened. Come in. Come in, girl. You must have a thousand questions.”
Rebecca did have questions but scarcely knew where to start. The two women had ‘tea’ from four in the afternoon to nearly midnight. Rebecca was shown a room with two single beds where she and Mrs. Weed would sleep. It was still better than the five women in the boarding house. Their conversation centered on the craft and thealogy, reflection on the feminine divine.
“You have come one long step, Becca. You have entered inside the circle of the goddess. But that does not necessarily mean that you must go further. Perhaps you already have enough information to write your thesis.”
“I certainly have more than enough to satisfy my degree,” responded Rebecca. “But I have not begun to satisfy myself. When I entered the circle, there was a feeling of warmth, even overcoming the fear I had. It was a sense of homecoming. It’s strange, isn’t it? I thought I would feel dirty or sinful, but I don’t sense a conflict between being a good Christian and being a good witch. It was like God was there with me.”
“That He was, child. Our coven has never denied His presence or workings. We simply accept that there is more to the universe than is revealed in one set of holy writings,” Mrs. Weed said.
“How can I learn more?”
“Well, now, since you’ve asked, I suppose that I can teach you. I wouldn’t consider it but what you insist. It’s no place for a fine young Christian girl like yourself.”
“Alice,” laughed Rebecca, “you can’t be serious!”
“I’m very serious. I would not consider teaching you the craft if it were not that you asked, and then only because I think it may stand between you and danger.”
Rebecca remembered words that continued to haunt her dreams. The best guides in the world cannot always get you safely through the gates of hell. She could certainly not be guided unless she devoted herself to learning.
“What do you mean by standing between me and danger,” she finally asked.
“I saw a spark of recognition between you and The Blade at the circle. Yes, I know you have had doubts—or perhaps hopes—but it was he. I don’t know what is between you, but I dare say it has to do with dear Phillip and the adventure your husband is on. You and The Blade are now members of the same coven, though of different circles. He is of Threlkeld and you are of Braithwaite, my circle. The Flame Keeper, whom you also know, is a coven brother, but he chose not to pursue the craft, only to link in fellowship through the circle at High Lodore. The Blade follows the craft with a vengeance. He might be the best ritual magician I’ve ever met. I suspect, however, that he dabbles on the dark side. I fear for him.”
“What should I do?”
“Do? Why, doing nothing is always the best defense, but not if faced by a demon. The Blade is under the protection of the circle, just as you are, but God knows what he might do if you meet outside our sphere of influence. If you have any talent at all, I can teach you enough arcane wisdom in a fortnight to counteract most of what he might throw at you magically. However, his passion and skill with a knife are unmatched.”
“How did he get so attached to knives?”
“That’s a fine place to begin your teaching. A witch, which you must know we are still called, uses four tools in the ritual practice of her craft…”
Wednesday, 27 July 1955, Edinburgh, Scotland
“Every member holds responsibility in a coven,” Alice instructed. She was preparing Rebecca for the coming ritual at Lughnasad in just ten days. It would be the first time she had returned to the stone circle since her initiation and Rebecca was thrilled. “In Cobhan Carles, the tool keepers are of great significance. They are all brought together only for the working of powerful magic. It has happened during the times when there was open revolt in our country, when a tool needed to be replaced, when danger to the coven arises, and even to help Britain withstand the assault of the Germans.”
“You went to war?” Rebecca asked.
“In a manner of speaking. You must understand that magic is a very real thing and Hitler was known to employ his own dark coven to attempt to weaken his enemies. We bound ourselves together with other covens throughout the country and fought the battles on a spiritual plane.”
“What are the tools and who keeps them?”
“The First Face of Carles is the Athamé, called Creüs, ruler of the air spirits. It is in the keeping of The Blade. You saw him as the gatekeeper of the circle, but that is a position that is delegated for each gathering. The gatekeeper is responsible for the integrity of the wards around our circle—to see that nothing malevolent gets in. The Second Face of Carles is the wand, Iäpetus, ruler of the fire. It is a staff about chin-height in length that you have seen in the care of the one we call The Flame Keeper. The Third Face of Carles is in my keeping. It is the cup called Cottus, ruler of the water. And finally, the Fourth Face of Carles is the pentacles, Enceladus, ruler of earth. It is currently in the keeping of our high priestess, The Earth Mother. While the bearers of the tools may change, it is always a member of the circle charged with its keeping.”
“What responsibility will I have in the coven?” Rebecca asked.
“When it is time for you to take responsibility, the coven will direct you. You need time to be instructed in the workings of the circle first. Sometimes it is several years before a member is called to her full charge.”
“Would a tool do to me what it has done to The Blade? Take over my personality?”
“Power is neutral. People make such decisions, not the tool. The Blade had a fascination with knives long before he became a keeper. His little girl is much the same way. She is ten years old and is already training as a fencer with Olympic hopes when she is sixteen.”
“She seemed so young and innocent. I was surprised to see a child in the circle,” Rebecca said.
“Her mother is the high priestess and she was conceived during the raising of power as we fought the Germans. So, you see, she has been part of the circle since conception.”
“What is she called?”
“Last time we met she was just The Point. The time before, she called herself Epi. She is young and not fully initiated into the circle, which cannot happen until her first woman’s blood flows. Until then, she chooses a name according to her mood at the moment.”
Alice rose to retrieve her own sacred tools from a shelf. These she set on the table between them. Then she also brought a pewter goblet, heavily engraved with runes, to the table.
“We need a space in which to work. Follow me and repeat the words I say. As we finish each spell, draw a summoning pentagram in the air. We will begin in the East.” Mrs. Weed had often cast a warding circle when she taught Rebecca rituals, so the words and gestures were familiar to Rebecca as they worked from east to south to west to north and finally, back to the east where they closed the circle.
“Now, Hart, we are within our circle of power,” she said, switching to their coven names. “May the words of our mouths and the meditations of our hearts be sweet savor to the powers we invoke.” She picked up the pewter goblet and caressed it in her hands. It was heavily engraved both inside and out. As Rebecca looked at it, she realized the engravings had been done by hand, not with the popular electric engraving tools. Mrs. Weed smiled at her.
“This was my husband’s cup, Hart. He used it as a member of our fellowship for thirty years.” The older woman’s voice became wistful as she remembered her husband. “The etching is all in his own hand—symbols of spells and rituals that you may find useful in the future. I give this cup into your hands and consecrate it to your good works. With this cup, I give you a secret name that you will not share with others unless you are working deep magic with them. This name is Sadb. You are named for the Celtic goddess of transformation. She herself was transformed into a hind, the female counterpart of the hart that is your name in the circle. You will have the transforming power of both. With your name, I give you mine.” The old woman took her knife from its position on the east side of the table and asked for Rebecca’s hand. She pricked a tiny spot in the left palm and then did the same to her own. She grasped Rebecca’s hand in her own so the two drops of blood would mingle.
“I am Hebe. Your blood now runs in my veins, my blood in yours, Sadb. We will always be bound. Let all that passes between us be sealed in our hearts in trust and friendship,” she intoned. “May your cup be always filled with joy. May it work blessings for you ever.”
Rebecca was overwhelmed. She whispered the words of acceptance, “So mote it be,” and rushed to embrace her friend.
“When you have gathered all your tools, you will be fully in your power, but they shall all come to you from the hands of others. Be careful that you consecrate each to the service of the goddess.” Rebecca could see herself gathering the sacred tools of her craft.
“How do I consecrate them?”
“Ah. That is for tomorrow.”
Thursday, 28 July 1955, City of the Gods
Wesley stood at the center of the rostrum slowly turning to his right as he looked out toward the edges. The strings partitioning the surface had been removed for the day a little early. All the explorers were weary after over a month of daily trips to the City of the Gods. Doc and Margaret collapsed next to the rostrum and leaned back against it. Pol watched as Wesley slowly completed one revolution of his languid spin.
“Perhaps we should take a break,” Margaret sighed. “We could go down and spend a few days with the family and get re-energized. It would do us all a world of good.”
“What do you think, Pol? Could we take a break and then come back to the City?” asked Doc.
“Yes.” The answer was simple and unlike Pol’s usual gregarious nature. Doc looked over at the boy and saw his gaze fixed on Wesley. Doc and Margaret both turned to look at the man on the rostrum.
Wesley continued his slow spin, images flaring before him from the symbols on the rostrum. Light and dark were important images, but so also were water and fire, earth and air. They spun around him like horses on a carousel. He felt the dip in his legs as one image receded and another arose. His voice joined the calliope in the joyous spinning of the ride.
Calliope, muse of eloquence and epic poetry with a voice of ecstatic harmony. It seemed the chief of the muses leant her vocal support to Wesley as mixed harmonies seemed to rise from the center of the rostrum.
Here rise to life again, dead poetry!
Let it, O holy Muses, for I am yours,
And here Calliope, strike a higher key,
Accompanying my song with that sweet air
which made the wretched Magpies feel a blow
that turned all hope of pardon to despair*
* Dante’s The Divine Comedy from “Purgatorio”, Canto 1, Lines 7-12
His feet picked up a rhythm from what he was singing. The great wheel of the rostrum was like a hopscotch board. The pattern of where to place his feet was as clear as if Terpsichore, muse of dance, were guiding them. To his side, he heard Pol’s voice join his in wordless harmony, calling forth a dance that Wesley would never have considered properly Methodist.
They’re quiet enough in the morning hours,
They’re quiet enough in the afternoon,
Reserving their terpsichorean powers
To dance by the light of the Jellicle Moon.*
* T.S. Eliot’s “Jellicle Cats” from Old Possum’s Book of Practical Cats
Doc and Margaret stood and began to clap in rhythm with Wesley’s feet. Pol joined them and they circled the rostrum contretemps to Wesley. Images of lovers entwined together nearly cost Wesley his rhythm as his wife of so few days embraced him and they danced together.
Come, tuneful Muse, Erato,
begin the melodious song,
in praise of the lovely Samian youths,
sounding the strings of the delightful lyre.*
* “Rhadine” a lost poem quoted in Strabo’s Geography
As the four people sang, whistled, and danced around the rostrum, it seemed their voices were joined by others. The pillars around them sang.
On Doc’s first visit to the City, Pol had mounted the rostrum and sung. His voice echoed with so many harmonies that Doc thought he had been joined by the gods themselves. Subsequent visits to the City had less ceremony, but the team always seemed to hear faint voices singing as they made their way through the fog at the beginning and end of the day.
Now, it seemed the voices came out of the fog and joined in clarity. Wesley’s own voice dissolved to whistling as he mimicked a flute spinning to face the setting sun. Standing on the rostrum and facing Libra, Wesley began to raise his hands to the sun in the western aisle. Pol, Doc, and Margaret stopped around him, watching the sun illuminate their musician as all the muses seemed to raise their voices in concert.
Kleio, Euterpe, and Thaleia,
Melpomene, Terpsikhore, and Erato,
And Polymnia, Ourania, Kalliope too.
Of them all the most comely Euterpe,
for she gives to those who hear her sing
delight in the blessings of love.*
* Hesiod, Theogeny (with great liberties taken)
From beneath Wesley’s feet another song arose. It must have been a trick of their ears and their eyes, for as the flute music mounted, the rest fell silent. From Wesley’s outstretched arms, light began to flow to meet the setting sun. In his eyes, he could see his beloved Rebecca and feel the outpouring of the spirit of love emanating from his body to hers across the miles.
There was still an echo of the flute as Pol led them down the western aisle and into the fog.
Thursday, 28 July 1955, Edinburgh, Scotland
“First,” instructed Mrs. Weed, “you must cast a circle. We will place your cup in the center of our altar and create a safe space in which we can work.”
The two women were in the garden of Mrs. Weed’s little cottage. It was not large, but a tall hedge shielded it from view of her neighbors. In the center of the garden was a flagstone patio with a circular stone bench in the center. Upon arriving at the open area, Mrs. Weed had wistfully described how she and her husband would often celebrate the lunar cycle in this garden, dancing and loving, praying for a child. That desire had been unfilled during her husband’s lifetime, but even after both were well past an age of childbearing, they still came to dance and celebrate beneath the full moon.
In preparing for Lughnasad, Rebecca had sewn herself a deep red robe of the type she’d seen the members of the circle—the cildru, as they were called—wearing when they were not naked. Mrs. Weed had helped her select the fabric and used her own red robe as a pattern. The women wore these robes—and nothing else—into the garden for the consecration of The Hart’s cup, the first tool that she would consecrate to the service of the goddess.
“Your tools can enhance any magic that you work, dearie, but they are not necessary. The magic comes from within you and is blessed by the powers you invoke. You can raise a cone of power simply dancing alone in the moonlight. You should be able to invoke wards—a circle of protection—with no more than a few gestures and a whispered prayer. You will have doubts. You will wonder if you truly see a glowing dome over you, or if you merely want to see it. But that is the magic—when what you want is real to you. So, even when you have doubts, you must respect the powers. When Satan teased Jesus by instructing him to cast himself from the cliff because the angels would not suffer his feet to be bruised, Jesus responded that you should not tempt God. It is a good teaching. Do not test the powers of the mighty ones. Trust them. Now, you have learned the words for casting a circle. Pour forth your spirit as you say them and believe.”
Rebecca was more nervous about this—casting her first circle—than she had been about her initiation. Somehow, it was comforting to know that the gathered coveners had all been through the same thing she had been and witnessed her becoming one of them. Now, however, only Hebe, The Water Maiden, would watch. It was embarrassing to raise her hands and begin speaking. Her voice seemed weak. She concentrated on imagining the circle Hebe instructed her to cast. Imagination. Image. I, Mage. Magic.
Guardians of the Watchtowers of the East
Michael, wielder of the sword of God,
Powers of the Air, I invoke your presence.
Guard us with your watchfulness
As we consecrate this tool.
A brief chill coursed through Sadb’s veins. Sadb, the witch. No longer Rebecca in this ritual. She had missed the casting of a circle at her initiation, being an outsider at the time. Of course, she had watched Hebe cast circles during her instruction, but had not understood the feeling of power as she invoked the guardians. Now she moved around the altar to the south.
Guardians of the Watchtowers of the South,
Gabriel, guardian of the gate of Paradise,
Powers of Fire, I invoke your presence.
Guard us in your watchfulness
As we consecrate this tool.
This time, Sadb felt no difference. Perhaps her concentration had faltered. She forced herself deeper—strained to see the light forming around her.
Guardians of the Watchtowers of the West,
Raphael, friend of humanity,
Powers of Water, I invoke your presence.
Guard us in your watchfulness
As we consecrate this tool.
Was this all it was? Her concentration wavered with the doubt Hebe had warned her of. Whether she could see the circle forming or not, Sadb determined that she would act as though it was there.
Guardians of the Watchtowers of the North,
Uriel, Regent of the Sun,
Powers of Earth, I invoke your presence.
Guard us in your watchfulness
As we consecrate this tool.
Tears squeezed between Sadb’s tightly closed eyelids. She simply must succeed in her first working of magic. She was trying. Trying too hard, perhaps. She completed the circle turning back toward the East. Sadb emitted a low moan of agony, trying desperately to see the wall of light behind her eyelids.
“Lord! Dearie!” exclaimed Hebe. “We are only warding the circle, not burning down the house. Ease your mind a bit.”
Sadb slowly opened her eyes to see the flaring white light that surrounded them on all sides. She wondered if it could be seen like a beacon out at sea. She squinted into the light to see her friend beside her.
“I have not seen so much power displayed in a novice,” declared Hebe. “You must promise that you will work no magic when you are alone and unwatched. Such power out of control could take possession of you instead of you possessing it.”
“What happened?”
“Why, simply that you have warded our circle as though we were under siege. Take it down a little.”
“How?”
“Just picture it dimmer, dearie. It will respond. You control it.”
And the light did respond, dimming to a point at which their eyes could function more easily. It is only imagination, she thought to herself again. Vivid, vivid i-magic-ation.
“Turn to your cup, Sadb. Imagine it filled to overflowing with the light that you have wrapped around us. Charge the cup with your energy.”
A peacefulness surrounded her as she turned to the cup on the altar. In her time with the older woman, she had discovered a great deal about the husband who wrote many of the manuscripts she studied at the university. She found he was a gentle and loving man, filled with good humor, sharp in his criticisms as in his witticisms. He had etched each of the symbols in the cup with his own hand. She thought of the gentle man and imagined the cup filled with his spirit. In the midst of her rumination about the man who had once owned the cup, she could see Wesley’s shining spirit reaching out to her as well. She had her own love and he supported her, even when his religious teachings discouraged it. He was her husband and he filled her with light.
She picked up the cup from the altar and paraded it around the circle, stopping finally facing the West. She lifted the cup and let the light flow into it.
This is my cup
My cup of life
Charged with my energy
Alive in my hands.
I name this cup Lear, ruler of the sea.
Oh goddess of many names,
May Lear be filled with your love.
In serving me, may he always serve the goddess.
May he be charged
with the power of the air to serve me in the East,
with the power of fire to serve me in the South,
with the power of water to serve me in the West,
with the power of earth to serve me in the North.
By all the powers surrounding here,
So mote it be.
If light could be said to overflow a container, this liquid luminescence spilled over the sides of Sadb’s cup and poured down on her hands, climbing her arms like a living being.
“Earth the power, love,” prodded the voice of Hebe. “You control it; it does not control you.” Gradually, Sadb regained control and the living light receded into the bounds of the pewter goblet. It disappeared completely as she set it back on the altar, placing both hands flat down beside it. She turned toward Hebe and found the older woman kneeling on the ground with tears streaming from her face. Sadb found her own face wet as she sagged next to the woman and embraced her. She was drained of energy after consecration.
“How did you know?” Hebe asked as the two women embraced.
“Know?”
“You named your cup Lear. It was my husband’s secret name in the circle. Blessings on you, Sadb. Mine and his.”
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