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1 AN OLD LAND ROVER
STORY 10 WITCHERY PART 2
My Beloved maker of nightmares says she can tell when people are going to die, and tells me that we will both be together for the duration, and live to a ripe old age. This has depressed me somewhat. To think of another few decades of this existence fills me with foreboding. Most couples when they get older settle into a cosy mundane life, they find contentment in routine and habit, one day melds seamlessly into the next. Not so my existence, I have learnt to expect the unexpected, the unexpected caused by her total inability to lead a normal life, I want and crave for “sameness” and tranquillity; instead my life is just one long eternal line of ups and downs.
My wife started using the village hall as a venue for her Thursday night meetings. The tools required for coven meetings are a working robe, an Athame or dagger, a wand, and a Book of Shadows or spells. Much as in the Wicca tradition, although her customs pre dated the Wicca by many centuries. One problem with using the hall on a Thursday was that she had to share with the WI keep fit group. The arrangement being that the stage at the end of the hall would be curtained off for my wife. With the keep fit taking up the bulk of the space, and judging by the size of the keep fitters they needed all the room they could get. A meeting of a coven is not a quiet affair, first is the chanting, then the skipping; or in my wife’s case hopping about in circles, hands joined whilst the high priestess (my wife the high velocity megaphone), spoke in a very loud voice the name of the deity she was trying to contact. Her wooden leg did not help, beating out a rhythm entirely at odds with the slow, 1 2 3 of the exercises at the other end of the hall. The keep fit was being run by ex Sgt Major Judith M, a large chested lady with a very loud voice and straight back who, fed up with this noisy intrusion from the oiks at the end of the hall, shouted out the exercise tempo louder and faster, my wife at the other end, her summoning being drowned out by the very loud Sgt Major, got her two acolytes to bellow out the summoning in unison. The Sgt Major whose voice could shatter glass at forty paces now yelled as she would on the parade ground, her voice reaching every nook and cranny of the hall. The old biddies who minutes before had been doing sedate calisthenics were now suffering heart attacks, palpitations, and feinting fits, falling in pools of their own sweat unable to take the punishing pace being demanded by Ms M.
When summoning spirits be they good or bad, a great deal of care is needed. The words should be chosen carefully so that no loopholes may exist that would allow a really nasty creature to emerge. My wife throwing caution to the wind in her efforts to out shout Ms M was getting the words wrong. Were those really dark swirling shapes starting to appear at the back of the stage? Lacking substance but definitely trying very hard to enter this world, ferried by my loved ones words. But by now she did not care, the two acolytes seeing the shapes emerging threw themselves under the table. There was a loud noise as of a great door banging, the drapes at the back of the stage parted, and before them stood a 5 foot tall thin fellow, dressed in gold lami shorts and very tight emerald sequined tee shirt, the ensemble was finished off by a huge pair of moon boots below and coiffured hair on top. It spoke. “Hello sweeties, bona to see you”. Just at this moment Ms M burst through the curtains ready to “kick goddam ass”, stopping dead when she saw Mr gold lami. A dreamy expression appeared on her face. What to anyone else would be a stick insect in boots was to her an Adonis. He Anthony to her Cleopatra the fact that she was over six foot tall, weighing in at 17 stone of muscle seemed to make no difference to her. Six stone Mr. Gold lami wondered why him, minutes before he had been drinking Babycham with his friend Roger, before another bout of hell and damnation. Then, a gust of wind, and here he was. The problem with being “here” was that at huge muscled lady was bearing down upon him arms outstretched, lips puckered. All he could manage was a gulp before he was crushed to the ample bosoms of Ms S. The last that was seen of him was in her arms of as she exited the hall, lust and passion her only thought, we dread to think what Mr. Gold lami’s thoughts were, hopefully they ran along the lines of “a change is as good as a rest”.
My wife would like to think she had summoned a demon and the “stick insect” was it, maybe they do come in all forms. Why should they all involve dead skin dropping off, fangs and running blood? Had Clive Barker got it all wrong? Or had Mr. Gold lami inadvertently come through the wrong door at the wrong time.
The Council hearing of this fracas and angry that Ms M had disappeared so depriving them of much needed revenue** told my wife she could no longer hold her meetings in the hall. So a new venue would have to be found.
** The local Mafia demands a percentage of all revenue, from the coin boxes in the public loos to the collection money taken during the Sunday church service. It is widely believed that the Mafia are the ladies of the local WI who wear floral dresses and blue rinses instead of dark suits and fake moustaches but such is their reign of terror and intimidation that no one will speak out, not yet anyway.
To be continued