It happens every year - some not-so-pretend witch opens a not-so-pretend portal to a not-so-pretend Otherworld and I end up knee-deep in daemon claws and orc snouts, a freaked-out kid clinging to my cloak.
But this Halloween, there seemed to be a witch that was very much of purpose and power, very much aware of what and who he was and seen fit to awaken his full potential.
The man [indeed, contrary to popular belief, male witches are simply called that - witches] was in his mid-thirties, a late bloomer so to speak. Lithe in build, dark of eye, hair, and intention, he gathered the Fey within himself, drinking in both Dark and Light in alternate doses, becoming one of those Grey creatures that are so very unpredictable and dangerous.
Greys have virtually no emotion when it comes to exacting what they deem justice, no regard for anything other than the good of the balance as a whole, and often do what pleases them in the moment as long as it doesn't hurt anyone physically. whatever the consequence. They have no set standards or rules of right and wrong, only what is good for the moment in question for the benefit of all, not the least of themselves.
It was my duty to rein in this renegade or put him down, depending on his willingness to be taught, to submit to the edicts of the High Coven. The way this one's power was manifesting, manipulating, however, told me this would be no easy task.
Unlike the usual child-with-a-new-toy conundrum, his moves were methodical, conjurings calculated to the necessity of his desires. He was a rich man in a very short time, his gallery one of the best in the city, least of all the world. It was his works that had caught the attention of the High Coven, though, bold as he was in his presentation and display.
Julian's portraits had always been something of note to me, always had that je ne sais quoi that bespoke a passion far beyond mere skill of the craft. Yet recently, they veritably moved, lived, breathed with color and expression. Even inanimate statues seemed to speak their glory and grief through his Third Eye, taking on an ethereal quality expressed normally only in animate beauties like the butterflies that seemed to pose for his pleasure.
The clouds, however, were what swayed most to sighs and heart palpitations, me included. Each portrait was a study on the composition, beauty, and intricacies of cloud formation. From stratus, to cumulus, to astrostratus, they all hearkened to the Call of his Third Eye in a most amazing array of patterns and postures.
"Photoshop," he would chuckle jokingly at the gallery patrons urging to know his secret.
But I knew better.
Photoshopped clouds do not move across glossy prints, imperceptive to the untrained eye yet changing just enough for a piece of the soul to be captured with each repeated viewing. Photoshop does not align perfectly the horizon with sun, shadow, and structure to the enchanting perfections exhibited in his visions.
No, this one was surely a Cloudmaster, and as such, master of the winds, storms, and lightning held within. The deluge caused by his first Conjuring - done last night, Halloween night, at the drunken behest of friends - nearly washed the city into the Thames, yet he proved a quick study in controlling his powers.
He turned to face me, singling me out with his gaze from among all others seeking his attentions, his smirk telling me he knew all too well what I was. The center crease of his forehead opened slightly, Third Eye peeking out before popping open to take the breath right out of me.
I had thought his Third Eye to be just lens and negative, mechanics capturing the images and Conjuration bringing them to life, yet there he stood, the sliver-dollar sized orb imprisoning me with its glacial gleam. Try as I might to Shield myself, I felt my feet being drawn forward, wondering how the people around could not feel the Fey snaking around him, let alone notice the eye burning inside of his brow.
He had opened his Third Eye with no coaxing, no training, none of the intense study some take years to complete before even a squint is offered from their Eye in return for their efforts. It had taken mere hours for Julian to accomplish this, not even a day, and to have the gall to Call me to him in such an overt fashion was not only foolish but dangerous indeed.
"You find my works pleasing, Milady?" he intoned, his voice silkily accented, words expertly pronounced, dripping from his lips like wine.
"That's not why I'm here." I looked up at his smile, gracious and predatory at the same time, a wolf that had at last cornered his prey. "What say you to the recent storms?"
"Mere amusement, nothing more." He leaned in, breath caressing my neck, my feet leaden and refusing my commands. "It's so hard to properly photograph lightning - so unpredictable, unmanageable."
"You learn quickly the Arts." I shivered, his lips barely brushing my cheek as he moved back to regard me with an arrogant raise of his brow. "Yet you are still untrained, unmanageable yourself...."
His laugh sent tremors through me, a genuinely amused tone, but with a tinge of cynicism. "Milady, I have long studied the Arts, if not been so much a purveyor, so I believe I know well how to manage."
His Eye closed, becoming again only a crease on his brow, but the cement of the spell with which he had me chained under still held fast. Guiding me gently by my arm, he directed me to a portrait, one of a man in Medieval dress, clearly one of the cosplayers around the old part of town where the tourists chose to dwell.
"What do you See, Storyteller?"
His moniker for me was correct, the horror rising in my chest as it was evident he knew more about me than I did him. I was indeed a Storyteller, a Spellwriter, one with gift of words and rhyme, one who could reason with an errant novice and make them see clear the choice to submit to the Coven.
All but this one.
He had me free and clear with that inquiry, for the weakness of a Storyteller is the need to tell the tale, a need to construct in words what is Seen or Heard either on a whim or in a calculated work of Prophecy. The portrait shown rose within me an epic tale of such triumph and woe I could scarce keep from whimpering for a laptop or even simple pen and paper to write. Julian's smile grew even more predatory when he saw my eyes glass over with the first signs of a Seeing, the knowledge that I was now his slave prickling upon his psyche.
"Please don't do this, Julian."
"Oh, come, now, it won't be so bad." His arms went around my waist, hugging me to his chest possessively. "Images to fill your mind with such tales as to be only imagined by the gods themselves."
"And in return?" Arrogant prick, thinking to have me in his thrall permanently.
"Let me be, screw the Coven and their antiquated ideas of control and let me do what I do...." The winds kicked up outside, howling to the astonishment of the gallery guests before tapering off to a quiet breeze. ".... whilst harming none."
The Rede resonated well within his spirit, the knowing of meaning and purpose behind it seeping through the Grey mists of Fey surrounding him. I knew him then to be of power and passion, but not without compassion and sense of honor. I gazed around the gallery, his other works Calling to me in a language known only to those whom they were wrought for, begging for their full tales to be told, reaching out to me with hands and wings and buttresses, all a whirlwind grasping at my consciousness.
Yet it was the clouds that moved me to greatness, to the sounds of seraphs on the wind, the Sight of Fey glittering on the breezes that carried them. Oh! What language sprung forth from their wispy mouths! What fury and serenity inspired their disposition!
"If I refuse?" It was my turn to be dangerous and foolish. I was no match in my powers to a true Cloudmaster, not to mention one who could chain me so with his knowledge of my Achilles Heel, but surely he did not know I could barely lift my hand, never mind my Fey against him?
"There will be no refusal." Again his warm breath against my neck. "The portraits already sing to you, plead for you to compose their litany."
He did indeed know. Their voices, weeping and shouting and whispering their tales would not cease ripping my brain to shreds. Their words had to come out, had to be writ, or I would go mad with the noise of it all. Tears formed in my eyes, more out of frustration that I'd fallen into Julian's trap so easily, so perfectly blind than out of sorrow for the Coven I would betray.
No longer a slave to the Coven's suffocating rote and edict, no demands for Prophecy on ones they had no business meddling with.
I could finally tell stories, real stories, those that need to be told, the ones that mere humans feed upon as if they were the only sustenance they required.
Stories told first by portrait, then prose.
For as I always now say, it is his Art that tells the story, I merely elaborate.
Copyright ©2009-2010 Spiritwind Studios Ltd
photography by
Jun Tuazon
