baby, you love my Lollipop shoes.

A Witch’s Destiny

Cats are secretive by nature. Cats have split personalities. Cats run scared at a breath of wind. Cats can see the spirit world, and walk the line between light and dark.

Red good luck sachets over the door and saucers of bread and salt on the step, she spoke of fairies, and little gods, and animal totems, and candlelit rituals, and drawing down the moon, and signing to the wind, and Tarot cards, and cat babies.
There’s the Ear if Maize, for good luck. Two rabbit, who made wine from the maguey cactus’ Eagle Snake, for power. Seven Macaw, for success; One monkey, the trickster; the Smoking Mirror, that shows you things that regular people don’t always see; Lady Green Skirt, who looks after mothers and children; One Jaguar, for courage and to protect you from bad things, and Lady Moon Rabbit, that’s my sign , for love.

... the red circle of Lady Blue Moon, the seductress, the Eater of Hearts

... a kind of thrill … the kind you get when something bad happens … and its your fault ... but no one knows

Asafetida --- that’s rank --- and patchouli because its supposed to be spiritual, and dragon’s blood, that gets everywhere and leaves these red stains.
A dose of cactus root, died and powdered and infused in hot water, helps to achieve the required state of mind. This is pulque, the divine intoxicant of the Aztecs, reinvented a little of my own purpose. Then comes the sign of the smoking mirror, scrawled on the dusty floor at my feet.

… a motley collection of tales, ricks and glamours, medicine bags to keep out the spirits, songs to quiet the winter wind to keep it from blowing the away. But why would the wind blow you away? … It just does. What song do you sing? She snag it to me. It’ an old song --- a love song --- I think, wistful, just a little sad.

I’d expected fireworks … magic wands and broomstick rides … all the spells and candles and crystals and cards. And little by little the tarot cards were put aside, and the herbs went unused, the special days were unmarked, and the waxing moons came and went, and the signs inked into our palms for luck faded and were washed away.

Magic of charms and cantrips, of slat by the door and a red silk sachet to placate the little gods, had turned sour on us that summer, somehow like a spider that turns from good luck to bad at the stroke of midnight, spinning its web to catch our dreams. And for every little spell or charm, for every card dealt and every rune cast and every sign scratched against a doorway to divert the path of malchance, the wind just blew a little harder, tugging at our clothes, sniffing us like a hungry dog, moving us here and moving us there.

For good or for ill. It’s your choice.

... a piXie’s, too

The 3 faeries: Pic Blue, Pic Red and Colegram. Pic blue looks after the sky, the stars, the rain, the sun and the birds of the air. Pic Red looks after the earth and everything that grows there: plants and tress and animals. And Colegram, who is the youngest, is supposed to look after the human heart. But Colegram can never get it right; whenever he tries to give anyone their heart’s desire, someone always get hurt. One time he tries to help a poor old man by turning autumn leaves to gold, but the old man is so excited at seeing the money that he tries to get too much into his knapsack, and is crushed to death beneath the weight. I don’t remember how the story ends; just that I felt sorry for Colegram, who tries so hard and always gets it so wrong. May be I’m like that, too. May be I just can’t do hearts.

A gYpsy’s leaving...

Ehecatl, the Changing Wind.

But don’t think I’m blind to what’s going on. If I look, I can see behind the scenes --- the subtle gilding of the place; the cluster of bells in the window; the charm that I mistook for a Christmas ornament dangling above the threshold; the signs, the symbols, the figures in the Advent house, the everyday magic I had thought of abandoned springing to life in every corner ---

And outside I can hear a tinkle of chimes, as the wind begins to stir again.
We came on the wind of the carnival. A wind of change, of promises. The merry wind, the magical wind, making March hares of everyone, tumbling blossoms and coat-tails and hats; rushing towards summer in a frenzy of exuberance. Anouk was a child of that wind. A summer child; her totem, the rabbit – eager, bright-eyed, and mischievous.

But the wind was still blowing in my ears, and the sound of the trees around us made it immense, like an ocean, like a monsoon, sweeping the sky with dead-leaf confetti and the scent of the river, that winter, that wind.

... imaginations can be infectious that I find myself almost carried away, seeing things that cannot be there.

... and Hot choc’late

But there’s always time for hot chocolate, made with milk and grated nutmeg, vanilla, chilli, brown sugar, cardamom and 70 percent couverture chocolate --- the only chocolate worth buying, she syas --- and it tastes rich and just slightly bitter on the back of the tongue, like caramel as it begins to turn. The chilli gives it a touch of heat – never too much, just a taste, and the spices give it that churchy smell that reminds me of Lasquenet somehow, and the night s above the chocolate shop.

A breeze, vanilla-scented, nutmeg milk, dark roast of cocoa beans over a slow fire. Scent of woodsmoke in a cup; a dash of cream, sprinkle of sugar. Bitter orange, your favorite, 70 percent darkest chocolate over thick-cut oranges from Seville.

Try me. Taste me. Test me.

Milk in the pan, couverture, sugar, nutmeg, chilli. A coconut macaroon on the side.I sipped mine; it tasted of autumn and sweet smoke, of bonfires and temples and mourning and grief. I should have put some vanilla in, I told myself. Vanilla, like ice cream – like childhood.

... like makin’ lov

Slowly, he kissed my fingertips, putting them one by one in his mouth. He grinned. “You taste of chocolate.”
Hot chocolate, to my special recipe. Chilli and nutmeg, with Armagnac and a dash of black pepper. Come on arguments. Bring the brat.

... 3 reds hairs had caught between my fingers … whatever it costs. He may not want to, but he’ll come --- even if I have to call the Hurakan to drag him here.

... catch the scent … and in they come, looking a little dazed, perhaps at the many scents and colours and all their favorites in their little glass boxes --- bitter orange cracknel; mendicants du roi; hot chili squares; peach brandy truffle; white chocolate angel; lavender brittle --- all whispering inaudibly –-Try me. Taste me. Test me.

... that One chance

Outside the wind chimes sounded, once, and without thinking I forked the sign against bad luck. Old habits die hard, of course. I haven’t made the sign in years. But I couldn’t help feeling uncomfortable, and even such a small thing might reawaken the changing wind. And when Thierry had gone … and I was alone. I though I heard voices on the wind, the voices of the Kindly Ones, and the distant sound of laughter.

And anyway its too late. We cant stop now. We’ve come too far to turn and run. Just one more working should do it. I think. One more call to the Changing Wind. Perhaps we got something wrong last time: a color, a candle, a mark in the sand.

This time we’re going to put it right ... once and for all.