Ritual Reality
13 Just Between Friends
Monday, 2 June 1969
Wayne stared at the contents of the crate with the declarations slip in hand. It would double as inventory when they packed and unpacked. He was ready to close the lid.
“Gail, is that everything from your end?” he called.
“Just a minute,” she called back from the dressing room. She entered with a plastic box of assorted thread, needles and buttons. “Don’t know why the last thing anyone ever thinks to pack is a sewing kit,” she said. Wayne noted the addition on his list.
“Well, there shouldn’t be anything else left in there for you to bring. We’ve packed everything the theatre owns.”
“You didn’t do too badly yourself,” she said looking around at the clean and stripped-down shop. “You coming down for the party tonight?”
“Naw. I haven’t even begun to put my own things together yet,” he answered. “I’ve got two days of laundering to do before I can pack.”
“Well, I’m off and out of your hair then,” she answered. “You’ll lock up?”
“Yeah, I’ll check everything.” She left and Wayne shifted the lid of the crate into place. He carefully hammered down the nails and secured the metal straps. It would travel just fine if anyone could lift it. Finished, he sat at the workbench where he had done so much props work in the past year. His art box sat in front of him on the bench. He had finished a couple of other projects in the last three days as well. His hickory stick lay across the bench, glistening with a fresh coat of tung oil. In his hands lay two polished pieces of rosewood. He carefully wrapped them in a piece of tissue and laid them in the box, then closed the lid.
“This place sure looks empty,” said Judith from behind him. He jumped.
“Judith. My god, I didn’t hear you come in,” he said turning toward her.
“I’m a silent walker,” she said. “Like a cat on the prowl. Meow.” She did remind him of a cat the way she sidled up to him.
“The fog creeps in on little cat feet,” Wayne quoted. There was a moment of silence as they looked at each other. “I… uh…” he started. “I’m sorry about Saturday.”
“I came over to apologize, so don’t take the words out of my mouth,” she said. “Unless you intend to do it lip to lip.” She kissed him. “I’m sorry. I haven’t been much of a girlfriend lately. Too many things happening. Too much to regret.”
“I haven’t exactly been the King of Hearts,” he answered. “I don’t know what to say or do to make it better.”
“Let’s not muddy the water with anything but our apologies tonight,” she said. “That way when we meet next time it can be fresh and new. You can find some clever way to introduce yourself.”
“Hello. I love you. Won’t you tell me your name?” he sang.
“Not bad, but I’m sure you can be more original than that.” She leaned down and kissed him again lightly on the lips before she turned and left the room. Somehow, Wayne thought, there was a note of sadness in the way she had kissed him. He couldn’t quite place it. Maybe he should go after her now.
No. He’d made a promise.
He picked up his walking stick and art box and checked to see that all the doors were locked. He took a quick glance at his watch then shut out the last of the lights. He was late already. He’d told Rebecca he’d be over at eight o’clock.
Rebecca met him at the door and assured him that his late arrival had only allowed her enough time to finish getting ready. She led him to the kitchen. The table was arrayed with artifacts, among which were her walking stick and knife. When they entered the room, Wayne stared at the array. He felt a sudden shiver down his spine. Rebecca turned toward him from the kitchen door. In some way, he felt as though he had just been locked in. It didn’t strike him as sinister or threatening. He felt secure, accompanied by a sure feeling that they would not be interrupted. He returned his attention to the table as they sat.
In addition to her walking stick and knife, the other staff that Wayne had brought to her was on the table and Wayne laid his own next to it. Two goblets were also on the table. One was pewter. The other was silver, set in a bronze stem and base. Both were heavily inscribed with some foreign letters. Wayne detached himself from the scene in his mind and tried to get a better view of the layout on the table. There was something special about it. Rebecca’s staff, Wayne’s staff, and the one that had been delivered lay side-by-side-by-side. Opposite them at the far end of the table lay a small ring, set with a black star-stone. Wayne’s hand went automatically to his throat. Rebecca’s knife lay on the table opposite the two cups. She had lit a candle in the center of the table.
“What are these things? I should know. I should put this over there,” he said with his hand pulling the chain from his shirt.
“It’s not necessary. You should keep it on. This is my circle and your tools are welcome guests.”
Wayne’s head had that cottony feeling that he got when something important was just beyond his reach. He knew something, but he couldn’t bring it together. And the dreams this weekend confused him. Sometimes he couldn’t separate them from reality. He really needed to get more sleep.
“Let me help,” Rebecca said. She placed her hands on his temples gently rubbing to relax him. He smelled something that opened his senses.
“What is that?”
“Tiger balm. It will help to clear your head. You’ll be able to focus. Now what you are seeing is a set of items that are said to work together as a focus for psychic power. You are working on one of the items—the knife you know as Elhin—so it was only fitting that the other items in the set be present for the restoration.”
“Are you some kind of psychic?”
“Some kind. Most people have psychic power of one sort or another. If you are ready, you can begin with Elhin. Can I pour you coffee?”
His cup was missing. And his knife. That’s what was needed. He should have brought them with him, but he’d already sealed them in the crate.
“Yes, thanks,” he said sitting down at the table. His eyes came back once more to the array of objects as he opened his art box. There was a kind of sense to the way they were laid out on the table. He set to work on the small knife with carving tools and pliers.
“This arrangement reminds me of something. I should know it. Did I sleep through that class?”
“Yes, you should—and probably do—know it. But it wasn’t covered in class. She’s told you. It’s just locked inside until you need it. I’ll tell you, too, and put my own seal on your memories so you will dream true. They represent the four cardinal directions.” A light came on in Wayne’s mind.
“East for air,” he said. “South for fire. West for water. North for earth.”
“Right,” Rebecca answered. “And the tools represent those elements. The Athamé or knife for the East, the staff or wand for the South, the cup for the West, and the disk or pentacles for the North.”
“What is the language inscribed on the cup and staff? Is it Greek?”
“No. Not exactly,” Rebecca said. “Why?”
“The letters are on my cup and knife and pentacles, but I don’t know what they mean. I know the knife came from Greece, so I thought the letters might be Greek.”
“Well, if you don’t know Greek, it would be easy to confuse. I don’t know the actual origin of the symbols. The alphabet is called Theban. It’s a mystic rune alphabet. Each letter stands for a certain story, in addition to the letter itself.”
Wayne carefully pried off the last of the charred handle from Rebecca’s knife. He worked with the practiced ease of a skilled craftsman. He smoothed the shank with fine sandpaper and steel wool until it glistened.
“Now,” he said to Rebecca. She sat across the corner of the table next to the ring watching every move. “I think you will like this.” From his art box he produced a small, tissue-wrapped bundle. “Would you like to open it?”
“This is exciting,” she said, accepting the bundle. She had not let him take the knife out of her sight to work on it, but she was far less reticent about letting him touch it. If he had the choice he would have done all the work in his shop and brought her the finished product. But she had insisted that the actual repair work be done in her kitchen. He watched as she unwrapped the little package and exclaimed in delight.
“It’s beautiful!”
“I’m glad you like it. I know it means a lot to you,” he said with obvious relief.
“Oh, I knew I’d like it,” Rebecca answered. “But it is so much more wonderful than I imagined.” She unwrapped the other half of the rosewood handle. In her hand, it was like a fine piece of red silk. With the limitation of only three days to complete the project, he had gone for simplicity and elegance. They were two smooth perfectly shaped and polished pieces of wood with one, almost overlooked, surprise.
“Wayne, what is this?” she asked. He was blushing. His cheeks felt like they were on fire.
“In all the best romantic literature, it’s always a jeweled dagger. It’s the only jewel I had. I hope it’s okay.”
“Okay? It’s wonderful! But how did you ever…? You didn’t buy this, did you?”
“I had an aborted engagement a couple of years ago, just out of high school,” he explained. “I had the ring and… well, I wanted to do something special with it, but I couldn’t exactly give it to another girl if I ever decided to get married, and…”
He was cut off by the woman’s arms wrapping around him, pulling him up from his chair so she could kiss him as she hugged him tightly.
“Thank you, oh, thank you, my friend.”
Wayne was confused. She was a professor. She’d nearly flunked him out of school. Now they’d just kissed, and it wasn’t just a friendly peck on the cheek or stage kiss. He’d become aroused and now—shit!—she was crying. He fumbled for a moment and pressed a clean handkerchief into her hand. She took it, but reached out to wipe a drop of moisture from his own cheek before using it.
“I’m sorry, Dr. Allen,” he said. “I didn’t mean to overstep…”
“Oh hush. And don’t ever call me Dr. Allen when we are in a protected circle. No one has ever given me a diamond before.”
They both started laughing, giggling as she pushed him down in his chair again. Wayne checked the fit of the handle on the shank of her knife, mixed epoxy, and spread it on the surfaces. He pressed the pieces together. Rebecca poured fresh coffee while he held them. He handed her the freshly hilted knife, its rosewood handle lying in her palm, the single diamond eye winking out at them.
“I guess we’re ready to go to England now, Hart. Or are you now The Huntress?”
“I am known by both names. But let me tell you about consecrating a tool,” she said. “In the process, I’m going to set up a sign between us so that what we say will be kept where you can process it but not talk about it until it is released. Look into my eyes.”
Somewhere in the back of his mind, he remembered being hypnotized by Chameleon. There was nothing to worry about. The Swordmaster had placed a spell around certain memories so they would only come to him in dreams. There was nothing to worry about. Even his uncle had forbidden him to talk about the book and set a seal on his memories. There was nothing to worry about. The Hart entered his mind through his eyes. As he looked into their green depths, he could feel the locks being put in place that would let him access memories but not talk about them. Rebecca touched the pentacles at his throat to seal the covenant and Wayne knew that when she touched it, he would have full access to all he had learned. There was nothing to worry about.
He realized that Rebecca had his hickory staff in her hands and the point of her knife against it. He nodded.
“And what name has been given to this wand?” she asked formally.
“Er ist der Zauberlerling,” Wayne answered. “I took a German reading class with Frau Doktor Mueller last year and we read Goethe’s Sorcerer’s Apprentice—Der Zauberlerling. With my record, it seemed like a good reminder.”
“I don’t know your record, but I wish I’d had that reminder when I was starting.” She began to scratch into the wood with the point of her blade. Wayne cringed at first, but trusted her. He saw the shape as she inscribed it. “This first sigil is a name sign. It is the name of the staff. This second symbol is a gift sign.” He watched her carve, carefully removing slivers of wood, as he drank his coffee. “Trust,” she said almost to herself, “is the basis of friendship. It is why I let you work on my knife. It is why you let me share in your staff. It is why we must mend bridges between our brothers and sisters. Remember this. You are always welcome to enter the circle of my friendship if you come with perfect love and perfect trust.”
“I come with perfect love and perfect trust,” Wayne recited. The words were familiar. He knew he had said them before and would say them again.
“You wrote a paper last fall that I criticized harshly. In spite of the paper on which you based your research being a fake, the story it told was true.”
“I know,” Wayne said. “I dream things sometimes—well, a lot of the time. I was even dreaming in your class the day you kept me to give me an opportunity. I’d dreamt the entire story before I found the paper in the library.”
“A true dreamer? I should have let you sleep.”
“I met someone who… knew…” Wayne was struggling against something, but if he didn’t say his uncle’s name or talk about his gifts he should be okay. “…who knew Wilton. I found out the story was true.”
“I would like to know more about him sometime.”
“I can’t now, but when we can.”
“They say The Vagabond left his spirit near Keswick as price for passage across the Derwentwater and it still walks the moors with its stick in hand.”
“This stick,” Wayne reached out and touched the walking stick still lying on the table next to Rebecca’s. “This is Iäpetus, the staff of The Vagabond Poet.”
“Your recognition is good. Do you recognize the cup as well?”
“No.”
“It is Cottus, the cup of power. Now as to the dedication of your own staff, some of the older folk of the area are inclined to ask strangers on walking tour of the district if theirs is not the staff of The Vagabond Poet. If you are ever asked that question, you must show them this inscription and say simply, ‘The Hart is in the Circle.’ It will be a sign of recognition and any service they can render you, they will.”
She handed the walking stick back to Wayne and he stared at the simple but elegant carving. Two tongues of fire crowned a heart. The whole was enclosed in a circle.
“You are The Hart,” he said.
“I’ll share my secret name with you, Unbound. In the circle I am Sadb, The Hart, now called The Huntress. Will I know your name?”
“I am Promethean, The Unbound.”
Rebecca pondered that a moment and reached for a pad of paper from the kitchen counter. She carefully drew a sigil in the ancient rune alphabet.
“Here. I am giving you this name sign. You should carve your own sigil in your staff to bind it to you.”
Wayne pulled a carving tool from his art box and traced the sigil onto his staff below the heart. In a few minutes, he admired the finished work.
“Merry meet and merry part and merry meet again,” Rebecca said.
“Blessed be,” Wayne responded automatically.
“Hold my secrets here in your heart,” she said, touching the pentacles. He felt the release in the air almost as if he had been holding his breath. Rebecca moved to the right around the table, touching each of the objects as she went and placing the ring on her finger.
“Now, my friend,” Rebecca said, “I’ve a favor to ask. I have a packing problem.”
“All this?”
“Yes. It’s one thing to carry a walking stick on board a plane. It’s another thing for two people to carry them. But when one person has two staves, it becomes awkward at best. I can’t travel without mine, and I must get this one back to England. Can we pack a couple of pieces in with the props?”
Wayne thought about the crate he had just sealed shut. But for Rebecca…
“Sure. We could take them over now if you’d like.”
“Thank you.”
Wayne pointed them away from the auditorium and down the street.
“We have to check in with the security guard,” he explained. “I don’t want to be caught down there after the building has been checked. We’ve had too many problems lately.” The guard recognized Wayne and offered to unlock the building. Rebecca indicated that she could handle the doors with her passkey. The guard made a note in his book and told them to go on; he’d be by in half an hour to double-check the doors.
They walked to the auditorium building feeling the security guard’s eyes on them the whole way. Rebecca’s passkey got them into the building and Wayne used his keys to unlock the shop door. Inside, the crate waited on its dolly, banded and sealed as Wayne had left it.
“Oh no! I didn’t know you had already closed it up.”
“It’s okay,” he answered. “It’ll only take a minute to open. Stand back.” He cut the bands and pried the lid open with a crowbar. “The straps and nails are just for transit,” he explained. “We know they’ll cut them in customs for inspection. After that we just snap on the padlock and go from there.”
Rebecca laid the staff and cup among the costumes. Then Wayne laid his own staff in the crate.
“You aren’t carrying Der Zauberlerling?” she asked.
“Well, I was just thinking of what you said about carrying a staff on the plane and luggage and all. I don’t particularly need to have him in hand until I’m in England.”
“You’re right,” Rebecca said. “That’s smart. If I could stand to be parted from Pele for that long, I would do the same thing.”
“I guess I’ll toss this in, too.” He pushed his art box into a corner of the crate. “Never know when I might have to make a repair on something small.” He made the necessary notations on the disclosure statement. As he moved items around to make room for the box, Rebecca saw the cloth wrapped shape of a dagger.
“Is that Hamlet’s poignard?”
“Yes.” Wayne didn’t mention that he’d packed his own ritual knife in the bottom of the box as well as an extra blank blade.
“Wayne?” Rebecca gently touched his shoulder as he fastened the straps again. He stood almost stumbling into the crate. “If I asked you sometime, would you make me a knife like that one? Could you do it?”
“Sure,” he answered. “But if you really want it, you can have that one when the show’s over. I bought the materials for it myself, so it belongs to me.”
“Really?”
“Yeah. I’ll sharpen it up for you,” he said. “I don’t think one that size would fit in your pocket, though.”
“I promise not to try to put it in a pocket,” she laughed. He finished fastening the new bands around the crate.
“Well, I guess that’s it,” he said. They turned toward the door. He snapped out the lights and closed the door behind them as they stepped into the darkened hallway.
He wasn’t exactly sure how it happened, but his hand found Rebecca’s waist and the gentle squeeze that he gave her turned to an embrace. Their lips met and parted. The passionate kiss robbed Wayne of his breath. His heart was pounding so loudly in his ears that he could hardly hear what she was saying as she gently disengaged his arms but kept tight hold of his hand. He was not insistent. In fact, if anything, he was dumbfounded at his own brashness. She leaned back into the encircling arm and Wayne saw in the diffuse light of an exit sign that her eyes were glistening.
“I’m sorry, Wayne,” she said softly. “Not now. There is such power in your kiss, I know that one day… Just not now.”
“It was my fault,” he said. “Please don’t be angry.”
“Don’t be so chauvinistic. It takes two to kiss like that. And what’s the fault when something is shared as deeply as that?”
She kissed him again. He swore he hadn’t moved. It was not the lingering kiss of passion that had just passed between them. Instead it seemed to Wayne, it was more like a promise—or at least a hope—of something to come.
“Will you walk me home now?” she asked quietly. They carefully avoided exiting where the night watchman could see them.
“It’s so cool,” Wayne jabbered on. “It’s carved and named and has my own sigil on it.”
“But you can’t remember any of the ritual?”
“No. Not exactly. I remember doing the ritual, but I don’t remember the ritual. Does that make sense?”
“Like you would not believe. So, it was The Hart.”
“The Hart is in the Circle.”
“What?”
“It’s part of my staff. A carving of a flaming heart in a circle.”
“Okay, Unbound, we have a lesson here. You need to know circle protocol for Litha.”
“How will I know this?”
“You’ll dream.”
Comments
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