(Grim has moved on after meeting an old man, a friend of a ghost he had seen in Boston.)
I continued down the side street, new knapsack on my back, with a bit more money and the intent on finding a something-mart to get some more clothes. At least I no longer smelled overly ripe. If that was one thing I realized I would never be able to survive without, it would be a hot shower at least every other day.
I turned the corner and found myself in the middle of a tourist trap. From relatively normal, sane, residential historical houses, to commercial center of town.
The center of a town of witches.
Every store had a witch in it, or had something to do with New Age baubles. The yoga studio had a stuffed witch out front, right next to the White Light Bookstore. At first I thought I had stepped into Los Angeles on a psychedelic trip, with all the twinkling lights, and magic wares – candles, incense, spells – and card readers, tarot readers, life readers, life coaches, guardian angel guides, mediums…
I would be lost here. Any spells I did would be lost in the doo-dads and magic that was here. That is, if it was real.
I stopped walking and took a breath, closing my eyes. “I wish to see the unseen, the energy that flows through,” I whispered in Latin, and then opened my eyes slowly. Good thing I did. This whole place sat on top of a huge ley line that showed bright in my eyes, like sparkling new snow on a sunny winter’s morning. Everything was bathed in it, a yellow, good light, not untouched but not corrupted. It ebbed and flowed naturally, like a tide.
I could smell the ocean from where I was. I saw spirits walking, knowing they were spirits because of their Puritan or Victorian dress. They were impressions of people in the area, lots of people here. I turned to look in a store, seeing people’s auras undulating among each other, getting into each other’s space, or flaring up as they spoke.
I closed my eyes, “Enough,” I whispered, and opened them. Only the sunlight greeted me.
“That was damn intense,” I muttered to myself, and looked around again. I kept walking, ending up in a group of stores that looked like old houses turned into storefronts. One was called “The Good Witch Shoppe” and advertised that the “Official Witch of Salem” resided there.
I smirked. Yeah, right. But it couldn’t hurt to walk in. I saw through the windows that it was crowded inside, mostly tourists. I held the door open for an older couple, and then ducked inside.
Right inside the door was a podium and someone standing there. He was tall, thin, and pale, and he gave me a stopping look. “Leave that here,” he said, pointing to my knapsack.
Other people had theirs. I guess I looked like a thief. I handed the empty knapsack to him and started going in the opposite direction of the crowd. Everyone was heading right – I headed left. Widdershins. Let’s see if they notice.
I found myself staring at a bookcase full of well-thumbed-through books. These were teasers – the newer books, ones not touched, were somewhere else, it seemed. I pulled one down, “The Secrets of Witchcraft” by Robin Greyhorne (probably not his real name). It was published by some independent company that I’d never heard of, Lleuad. A lot of books had the crescent moon and three stars logo on their spines from this company.
Anyway, I opened the book to a random spot – mostly for two reasons. One, to get my bearings on what to do next and two, to see how badly written this grimoire was. If it was even a grimoire. I started at the top of the page.
notes that you must be naked in your rites. This is optional, as Crowley was a great lover of nudity and the male and female form. You should be comfortable, and if that means wearing clothes, then you should wear special clothes for certain rites.
I closed the book and put it back, and went back around the store, contemplating. I opened the book with the intent of a prophecy. As with most prophecies, though, it came clearer a few minutes later.
“Can I help you with anything?”
An older woman singled me out of the crowd. She wore small braids in her brown, black, and blond hair, with feathers coming out of some of them. She had not spoken to anyone else in the room, but had come directly to me. Did I really have the word “Thief” tattooed somewhere? I wasn’t going to steal anything.
“No, I’m just looking,” I said. I wanted to be contemptuous and say, “At all the junk”, because that’s what it seemed like to me. Premade spells, that all you had to do was light a candle and poof! your bills would be paid? Crystal balls? Seriously, folks.
“I think what you need is this way,” she said with a knowing nod, and guided me past the tourists toward the stairs. I noticed the tourists didn’t seem to go that way, even though it was accessable to anyone – they just milled about down here. She brought guided me up the metal spiral stairs and we came out to a wide open room, with more items. However, these were different.
I could feel power in them. Seriously, it drummed across my body, making my hair stand up on end. She saw me rub my arms and she smiled. “You know what is here, don’t you? What’s your name?”
“Mike,” I said, walking further into the room. Now, here was stuff I knew about. Mandrake root. Potions. Oils. Stones. Amulets…
“No, your magical name.”
I didn’t want to tell her. If you tell someone your magical name, they can have power over you. Then I remembered, “You should be comfortable, and if that means wearing clothes, then you should wear special clothes for certain rites.” “I don’t have one,” I replied, looking over everything.
“But you know about magic, I can tell. You are very powerful.”
I turned to face her. Something didn’t feel right. Why was she flattering me?
“I’m the daughter of Alicia Stewart,” she said. I guess she saw my blank look because she continued, “The Official Witch of Salem.”
I laughed in her face – I couldn’t help it. “You expect me to believe that shit?”
Her face grew angry. “It’s true. She has a day named after her and everything.”
“Well, Miss Stewart – Miss?”
“Yes.”
“I think you should be forthcoming with your name too.”
“Morrigan.”
Of course. The name of the Celtic dark goddess.
“Is that your magical name or your real name?”
“It is what I am called,” she said, folding her arms against me. I know I must have been giving her a knowing smirk, and she frowned even deeper and deeper.
“I think I’ve seen enough, Morrigan,” I said, and started toward the stairs. She stopped in front of me, and put a hand on my chest. I know I stopped short, and pulled back like she was electrified. She smiled again, this time it was more predatory than anything. “Why don’t you stay and meet my mother?”
“Gotta go,” I said, and skirted around her, bolting down the stairs, making the metal stairs rattle and the tourists look up to suddenly see the stairs. I reclaimed my knapsack from the guy – who gave me a dirty look, and headed back out into the Wharf itself, looking for the address that Max had given me.
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