8 Hours Of Wizard World Sleep Stories

Keep the sweet dreams coming all night with this collection of wizarding bedtime tales. Visit the magical shopping corridor of Surrey Alley, learn to brew classical potions, practice alchemy, and celebrate holidays at the School of Sorcery. Then relax into a dreamy meditation for deep sleep.

Music: Sense of Relief by Hanna Lindgren, via Epidemic Sound

Transcript

You've been anticipating this day for weeks now, Ever since you received a letter informing you that you were chosen out of many people with magical potential to enter an apprenticeship with a great sorcerer. Though at first, You thought it to be someone's idea of a joke, Soon after the letter arrived, Delivered by a raven no less, Strange things began to happen all around you. Flowers began to open into full bloom as you walked by. Your morning coffee would inexplicably turn to juice. Animals, From street pigeons to neighborhood dogs would give you knowing glances, And even in one instance, A rather obvious wink. Along with sparse details about the apprenticeship, The letter included a long list of supplies essential to your education. Just as you were beginning to fret over where to find such arcane materials, You read to the bottom where the writer provided directions to a hidden commercial corridor right in the heart of London. You pulled out a map of the city to compare to the directions, Which seemed to point toward an alley in Covent Garden. At this, You scoffed, Prepared once more to dismiss the entire thing as a joke. But then, Before your eyes, The map began to shift. Where before Floral Street met the winding Rose Street, Now a tiny alley seemed to draw itself onto the map, Squeezing the businesses and side streets out of the way to make room. Squinting, Hardly believing your eyes, You watched the map reveal a scribble of writing on this new addition, Surrey Alley. You pored over the letter again and again on the train journey to London this morning, As though concerned its contents might change or evaporate if you looked away for a moment. Even now, You check the breast pocket of your coat to ensure it's still there, And you breathe a sigh of relief to feel the thick parchment and wax seal. In the days since the letter, And the strange redrawing of the map, You've held onto these secrets like a little flame, A calling to transcend your ordinary existence and enter a world of adventure, A world you always suspected was there, Waiting for you. Now, As you exit the Covent Garden tube station, Rolling your heavy suitcases behind you, That little flame burns with anticipation. It's hardly a hundred meters from the tube to the newly revealed point on the map, Surrey Alley. Around you, Families go about their shopping, Tourists gawk at the street performers, Young people home from university laugh and clink glasses from their outdoor tables at a trendy pub. You turn up Rose Street and take the first left, Immediately noticing the laughter and cheers for the street performers become muffled and quiet, As if a curtain has fallen between you and the rest of London. Your heart flutters as you glance around for the landmark that will determine whether your adventure is indeed to begin. Just as you are about to lose hope, Your eyes land on a faded hanging sign outside a Georgian building. The letters on the wooden sign are, At first, Too worn to read, But as you fix your gaze upon them, They start to darken and fill themselves in, Until you can clearly make out the Witch's Brew in gothic lettering. You let out an alleviated sigh. Glancing left and right, And realizing that no one else is around, You head for the entrance to the Witch's Brew. There are a handful of steps up to the door, And you huff and puff as you lift your heavy bags. A moment later, However, You feel their weight ease. To your surprise, Both bags hover a few inches off the ground. They release themselves from your grip and float upward toward the door. You now notice that the door has swung open and an outstretched hand holds an elegantly carved stick of wood which seems to be guiding the suitcases. Allow me, Says a friendly voice as the possessor of the hand steps into view. He's a rather eccentrically dressed bellboy with a characteristic hat and floor-length purple robes. You have to tell yourself to stop gaping. He gestures to invite you in and motions toward a check-in desk, Assuring you that your belongings will be taken care of. From the outside, The building looked long abandoned, But upon entry, You take in the light of a charming, If peculiar, And well-cared-for bed and breakfast. Certainly it shows signs of age, But there's a loved and lived-in quality of the place that immediately makes you feel at home. A fire roars in the grand fireplace, And seated beside it in pinstriped armchairs are a man and woman, Evidently locked in an intellectual debate. You pick up a tone of friendly rivalry between them, But you cannot identify some of the strange words that pepper the disagreement. They may even, If you are not mistaken, Be in Latin. In a corner of the lounge, A decrepit old man sits before a chess set, Pondering the next move he'll make against himself or an invisible partner. The chandelier in the foyer catches your eye, For it's not only an exquisite piece, But it's lit with candles that float and bob in the air. A kind-looking elderly woman sits behind the check-in desk that the bellboy indicated, Engrossed in her reading. Behind her, A vintage key rack holds keys of every shape, Size, And color. There must be hundreds of rooms, You think, Trying to count the keys in your head, But surely there couldn't be. The witch's brew looked on the outside barely the size of a three-bedroom townhouse. The floor creaks beneath your feet as you approach the reception desk, And the elderly woman looks up from her reading. You notice a newspaper in her hands, And could one of the pictures be moving? She smiles at you and asks for the name on the reservation. Taken aback, You explain that you haven't made a reservation, But that you received a letter two weeks ago and were looking for Surrey Alley. The woman nods knowingly and asks again for your name. You say your name, But as you try to explain once more that you have no reservation, She heaves a massive book from beneath the desk, Dropping it with a thud, And opens it to a bookmarked page. Muttering to herself, She runs a thin finger down the handwritten columns, And stops and says, Pointing out your name in the reservation logs. One night, All booked and paid for? You are speechless, But the woman continues to rummage through the shelves behind her desk. Something was left here for you too, She says, And sets a small leather purse on the counter before you. Curious, You open the purse and look inside. To your surprise, It's filled with thick gold and silver coins. For your supplies, The woman says, Anticipating the flood of questions on the tip of your tongue. That money in your wallet's no good here, The wizard what made your reservation left it for you. Studying the coins more closely, You see that they appear to be hand-carved, With arcane symbols and runes, Worn down with age. The old woman shuffles to the key cabinets behind her and scans the racks, Humming softly to herself. With an ah, She locates your key, And pulling a thin piece of dark wood, A wand you now recognize, From a holster at her hip, And giving it a wave, Levitates the key down from its hook and into your hand. The thick, Brass key has a pleasant weight to it, Turning it over in your hands, You see that the head is engraved with a design that resembles feathers. The old woman nods toward the hall and tells you that Ogden, The bellboy, Will take your bags up to the room and show you around. You follow Ogden, Who still expertly levitates your suitcases down a narrow hallway and up a creaky, Carpeted staircase. When you reach the second floor, He waves his wand nonchalantly, And your bags fall to the floor. He indicates the door to your room. You turn the key in the door, Stealing a glance down the hallway, Which seems to stretch on for miles in each direction. Ogden follows you into the room with your bags, Then tips his hat and wishes you a pleasant stay. Rummaging through the leather purse, You pull out one of the silver coins and hold it out to him. You're unsure of the value of the coins and hope the amount is not insulting, But Ogden takes it with immense gratitude. Once he leaves, You take in the first impression of the room. It's of a modest size, But more than enough space for your short stay. Like the lounge, Your chamber has the appearance of once lavish accommodations that, Though a little worse for wear, Are still entirely endearing. At the heart of the room is a four-poster bed with crimson damask curtains, Tied back with gold tassels. The fabric has faded with time, But it's still possible to see the curly Art Nouveau flowers and birds embroidered into the cloth. There's a writing desk, Bedecked with an ornate bronze lamp in the shape of a peacock. The wide window allows soft morning light to fall delicately into the room. On the wall opposite the bed is a framed painting of a landscape, A rolling Arcadian scene modeled on the pastoral English countryside. Gazing at it with fondness, You realize with delight that a gentle breeze has blown through the painting, Causing the grass along the hills to dance. In the background of the painting, A shepherd and his grazing sheep move slowly across the scene. You could spend hours spellbound by the minuscule and hypnotic movement within the painting, But the chime of an antique grandfather clock from the hall reminds you that there is much to do today. You step into the washroom to freshen up after your journey. There's a cloth foot tub with gold trim, And a grand mirror hangs over the basin of the sink. You splash some cool water on your face, Then pat dry with a thick, Soft towel which smells faintly of lavender. Taking the letter and shopping list with you, You descend the staircase back into the lobby and lounge. Ogden is in the foyer assisting another guest, But another bellboy stands by. You ask for directions to the shopping corridor of Surrey Alley, And he leads you past the reception desk to an atypical alcove. Against the wall is a monumental antique mirror framed with luxurious gold trim. It must be twice your height and more than two meters wide. At the very top, You can make out an engraving in the frame, Modo Somnium Est Vita. You wish you had paid more attention in Latin classes at school. The bellboy gestures toward the mirror, And you respond with a quizzical glance. He explains to you that the way to Surrey Alley is straight ahead, Through the mirror. You take a deep breath, Your mind racing with excitement and images of Alice passing through the looking glass, Or Orpheus in the Cocteau film. Could this really be? Are you about to enter another world? You feel as though your life has been leading to this. Even before you received the Ravenborn letter, You always felt as though there was another world somewhere, One filled with magic and mystery. There have been many times in your life when you felt close to the entrance to this world, That if you just took the right steps, Found the right entrance, Turned the right key, You might be able to pass through. And now, Standing before the mirror, Gazing at your own reflection, You stand upon the threshold of your own wonderland. Will you take the leap of faith? Hesitating no longer, You close your eyes and step forward, Bounding into and through the surface of the mirror. For an instant you feel the uncanny sensation of stepping through cool water and rushing wind as the little hairs on your skin stand on end. Your whole body tingles and your skin tightens, But a moment later you feel the warmth of bright sun upon you. You open your eyes and squint in the sunlight as your ears let in the sounds of buzzing laughter, Conversation, Footsteps, Shop bells, And a descant of twinkling music hanging somewhere above it all. Blinking as you adjust, You take in the sight of a bustling commercial artery. You twirl around just in time to see the mirror you passed through suspended momentarily inches above the cobbled street dissolve into silvery smoke and vanish. On the other side of the mirror, The alley is alive with people and businesses, And there's no sign of the witch's brew. You hold a hand into the air where the mirror once stood and are amazed to feel the same watery, Windy sensation as your hand vanishes. The mirror is still there. An amusing thought crosses your mind as you picture the bellboys and proprietor of the disembodied hand appear in their alcoves. You make a mental note of a few nearby landmarks. A greenish lamppost with a lion's head carved into the top and thick paws at the bottom. A charming bookseller with a sign reading, Bob and Wheel Books. This is how you'll return to your rooms for the night. A bit overwhelmed at the sights, Sounds, And tantalizing smells, A winding current of cinnamon wafts from a nearby cart selling tubular pastries filled with ice cream. You pull the shopping list from your pocket and focus on the first few items. The list starts with a handful of herbs, Some of which, Like sage and poppy, You recognize while others, Vervain, Mugwort, And belladonna, For example, Are less familiar and certainly not something easy to find at your neighborhood supermarket. You scan the shops on either side of the street for a promising first stop, And your eyes light upon Florinda Bain's potions and apothecary. You fold up the supply list, Stick it back into your pocket, And maneuver around the throngs of shoppers toward the entrance. A bell tinkles as you push open the door to Florinda Bain's, And at once you are greeted by the warm, Complimentary aromas of lavender, Sweet orange, And juniper. The cozy shop is a feast for the senses. You take in the sound of bubbling potions, Curious what each boiling cauldron holds. Along one of the walls, Live flowers of vibrant color burst forth from hanging buckets. Along another, Tiny drawers with handwritten labels indicate strange and rare ingredients like eye of newt or powdered unicorn horn. Bunches of dried herbs hang from the ceiling. A customer settles up with the cashier at the back of the store, Then breezes past you with a friendly nod on her way out, Clutching a paper package that leaves the scent of sandalwood in her wake. You approach the cashier, A middle-aged woman with ebony curls, Draped in silk scarves and crystal jewelry. She smiles warmly, Introduces herself as Florinda Bain, The owner and potion maker, And asks what brings you into the shop today. A love potion, Perhaps? A sleeping draught for deep rest? You hand over your supply list, And ask if she carries the ingredients listed. Recognizing the penmanship, She congratulates you on achieving a coveted apprenticeship with such a renowned sorcerer. With a wave of her wand, She summons a bevy of dried herbs which float down from the ceiling, A few live flowers from the wall, And a vial of sparkling powder from one of the drawers. She packages the ingredients securely, Then adds that she'd like to give you an additional gift. A sample, If you like. Florinda glides across the shop to one of the bubbling cauldrons. She conjures a glass bottle from thin air and ladles a scoop of shiny, Purplish potion into it, Then pops in a stopper. Adding this to your bag of supplies, She explains that it's a very popular sleeping draught. The original sweet dreams potion of her own recipe. It's scented with lavender from the fields of Provence, And it is designed to send you into a deep sleep with comforting, Pleasant dreams tailored to the individual. Before you head off on such a prestigious apprenticeship, She insists you should treat yourself to a night of restorative sleep. You pay for the items and thank Florinda for the assistance, Then ask if she might recommend shops that carry the other materials on your list. She happily agrees to offer suggestions, And with a feather quill makes notes in the margins of your shopping list, Tossing out glowing reviews of the other businesses in Surrey Alley. Taking your smartly wrapped package with you, You bid Florinda farewell and exit the shop. Next on your list is a set of robes. This rather excites you, For in your street clothes, You feel as though you must stick out like a sore thumb amongst the other denizens of Surrey Alley, Who all look as though they've stepped out of a production of Macbeth. You make your way up the alley toward Florinda's recommended robe shop, Enchante. However, You encounter a bottleneck of people crowding the cobbled road. As you inch around the throng, You realize a wide circle has formed around something in the middle of the road, Which all the gatherers are watching with delight. You find an opening in the crowd and slip through to see what all the commotion is about. Feeling as though you've walked into a mirror version of the Covent Garden you came through, You realize the crowd has gathered around a street performance. But unlike the living statues, Fire eaters, And buskers of the London you know, This is something entirely different. At the center of the circle of gawkers are two people, A man and a woman, Dressed and made up in similar fashion to renaissance clowns or comedia characters. At least they are when you first see them. A moment later, You watch as the man transforms into a full-grown lion, And the woman conjures a hoop from thin air. Exclamations of awe and delight surround you as the lion leaps through gracefully. Next, The lion shrinks and morphs into a yellow canary, Which flits around the crowd, Singing a sweet song. It lands on the woman's outstretched hand and she gives the bird a charming kiss. The canary then shifts into a capuchin monkey and climbs onto the woman's shoulder, Kissing her on the cheek to shrieks of amusement from the audience. Finally, The monkey climbs down to the ground and transforms back into the clownish man. The performers raise their hands into the air and receive thunderous applause. The crowd disperses as the performers take exaggerated bows, Dropping a hat onto the cobblestones before them. Several watchers toss coins or paper bills into the hat. You pull a small silver coin from your bag and drop it into the collection, And the performers give you a silent gesture of thanks. Only a short walk further, You arrive at the garment shop, Enchante. Stepping inside, You find a shop much grander and more spacious than the cozy apothecary. There are several customers undergoing robe fittings before three-sided mirrors. A tape measure, Clearly bewitched, Ravels and unravels itself, Taking measurements of its subjects. A salesperson approaches you and comments on your street clothes, Remarking that it's time to get you into a set of custom robes. They walk you around the edge of the shop, Where bolts of fabric cascade over the shelves, Impeccably placed and organized in an ombre of every color imaginable, And even a few shades you've never seen before. "'Anything catch your eye? ' asks the salesperson. You drift toward your favorite color and indicate a neutral variation in a thick but breathable fabric. "'An excellent choice, ' the salesperson says. They guide you toward one of the mirrors and ask you to step onto the platform, Draping the soft fabric over your shoulders. One of the enchanted measuring tapes snaps into place, Taking a measurement of your shoulders, Your arm length, Your waist, And so on. It even wraps around the circumference of your head, Measuring you for a matching hat. This sends light tingles through the back of your head and neck. The salesperson, Realizing you've never worn wizard's robes before, Describes the various popular cuts and designs, Draping and re-draping the fabric across your body to show you the impression. Feeling somewhat overwhelmed by the choices, You ask for the most common version. "'Of course, ' says the salesperson, The druid cut it is. Piling the fabric into a mountainous heap, The salesperson gives you an estimated time to return for your finished robes. This will give you plenty of time to complete your shopping and pick them up on the way back to the witch's brew. You pay the deposit, Thank the salesperson, And leave enchanté. The next item on your list is extraordinarily vague. It reads, An animal familiar of your choice. Beside the item, Florinda has scribbled the name of another business, The Wild Hunt. You find this shop on a tiny side street just off the main Surrey alley. Inside the front window, You see a few cages, One containing a flying squirrel, Another a beautiful barn owl, And another a still and silent iguana. And you know you've come to the right place. Entering The Wild Hunt, You realize you are the only customer inside. The shopkeeper, A tiny man with thick, Round glasses and sharp features that give him a bird-like appearance, Greets you enthusiastically. A small owl perches upon his shoulder, Rotating its head forward and backward in a circular motion. The resemblance between the shopkeeper and the owl is remarkable. He introduces himself as Arn Hagen and explains that the creatures in his shop are carefully chosen for their magical sensitivity and affinity for humans. Many are collected from his travels around the world, Or simply followed him home from the park. You ask how one should go about choosing an animal familiar and he clarifies that it is not about choosing, But about feeling. An animal familiar, As he explains, Is a kindred spirit, A recognition of one's magical potential in another creature's soul. You will not choose your animal familiar, He explains. You will know your animal familiar. A familiar is not a pet, And more than just a companion. They will be guide and guardian to you in your magical practice. They will enhance your magical abilities by contributing their own. And, Unlike a pet, They will continue to live free, Coming and going if they wish, But will always be there when you need them. Arn invites you to walk around the shop, Following your instincts, And see if there's an animal who calls to you. So, You begin to stroll around the edges of the room. Some animals are caged, Like the birds and small rodents, But you notice a large tabby cat grooming itself on the counter, And a bearded dragon crawling slowly over a shelf of merchandise. A tall hare catches your eye, Its nose twitching gently as it freezes upon your approach. You are briefly intrigued by a green tree frog that climbs the glass of the window. Meanwhile, Arn collects a few species that might have potential, And arranges them before you. He's chosen three magnificent animals. First, He presents you with a dark grey cat with a round head and expressive golden eyes. The cat purrs deeply as it winds around your legs, Rubbing her sides against you. You reach down to scratch behind her ears, And she lets out a friendly chirp to indicate that she approves. Next, Arn shows you a fire salamander. Its smooth scales are a shiny black with bright yellow spots along its body. Arn places the salamander in your hands. It looks up at you, And what looks like a smile crosses its lips. You feel your heart soften at such an expression. Lastly, Arn presents a caged falcon, A merlin, He explains. The feathers on his back are a slate bluish grey, And his breast is streaked with white and brown feathers. He's about the size of a common pigeon and lacks the fierce expression of his falcon cousins, But despite his size and relative cuteness, You sense that he's a fiery hunter and ferociously loyal companion. You puzzle over the decision, Your gaze falling from the cat to the salamander to the merlin, And then to the other animals in and out of cages all around the shop. But then you think of Arn's words, That it's not a choice, But a recognition of a kindred spirit. You take a deep breath in, Then close your eyes and exhale, Trying to tap into your deepest instinct. And there, Like a tiny spark, You feel an inexplicable pull toward one of the creatures. When you open your eyes, You find that you're gazing directly at the animal you were thinking of, And you share a moment of intense and powerful eye contact with it. The creature's gaze becomes soft, As does yours, As you recognize mirrors of yourselves in each other. Arn lets out a little gasp of recognition, Then clasps his hands. The owl on his shoulder releases a contented coo. You've found your familiar, A kindred spirit, On your journey into the world of magic. Arn conjures a safe enclosure for the creature, And fills a bag with necessary care and feeding supplies. Behind him, An enchanted feather quill scribbles notes onto a piece of paper. Taking notes on the care instructions he lists off while helping you shop. You ask Arn if your familiar has a name. He raises his eyebrows and says dreamily, Don't ask me. Then gestures to the animal. You look at your familiar, Who locks eyes with you once again. A moment later, As if a clear voice has spoken, The creature's name sounds in your mind. It's a very fitting name. Leaving the wild hunt, You can hardly believe your shopping isn't complete. You are laden with bags, Packages, And now an animal enclosure. But there's only one item left. Every witch, Wizard, Warlock, Or sorcerer you've encountered today has had one thing in common. They all carried wands. Checking the margins of your list for Florinda's recommendation, You see she's written a few words. Only one choice. Silver spell wand shop. As you continue down the cobbled streets of Surrey Alley, The afternoon begins to wane to early evening. Some establishments, Taverns, Inns, And restaurants begin to light their lanterns, Which give off a hazy orange glow. There are fewer people on the street than before, And the energy of the alley has become peaceful and pleasant, Shaking off the bustle of the afternoon rush. You hope the wand shop will still be open when you arrive. You find Silver Spell Wand Shop, A stately corner business, Just as a clock somewhere in the alley, Or indeed somewhere in the London beyond the Vale, Strikes five o'clock. You can tell from the faint glow behind frosted windows in the shop that you're not too late. The shop bell jingles as you enter, And you hear an elderly woman's voice call out from somewhere in the back that she'll be with you in a moment. You set down your packages and bags beside the front door, And take in the marvel of the wand shop. Compared with the other establishments you've visited, It's immense, And yet there's very little room to walk or maneuver. Winding, Narrow pathways are purposefully carved between stack after stack of boxes, Shelves, And racks. There's a dark wood counter in the center of the store, Behind which lie even more boxes and shelves. The boxes are long, Thin, And hand-numbered. Presumably they house individual wands. Lanterns float lazily through the shop, Illuminating corners and crannies with even more inventory. You reach for a box stacked beside you and lift the cover to reveal a simply carved wand made of a light-colored wood, Perhaps birch? You run a hand across its smooth surface. Already found one you like? Calls the woman's voice. You look up to see her peeking out from behind a stack of boxes near the counter. I, You say, I'm sorry. She waves off the apology and waddles toward you slowly. She's exceedingly small, As though the weight of years has pulled her down toward the earth. Behind her spectacles are deep, Kind eyes. So, She says, Looking for a replacement wand, Are you? What happened to your old one? You inform her that no, This will in fact be your first wand, And that you know very little about magic. You're to be apprenticed to a great sorcerer. When you mention his name, The woman's eyes light up, And she congratulates you on the honor. It will be her pleasure to guide you to your wand. She introduces herself as Agatha Silver, And waddles off through one of the narrow pathways. You follow her and watch as she traces a bony finger over a shelf of wand boxes, Stopping on one labeled number 314. She slides it carefully out from its stack, Opens the box, And presents you with the wand inside. Older wood, She says, One of my own designs, At its core a mermaid scale. The wand is long, But light in your hand. At its base is carved a delicate pattern that resembles waves of the ocean. She instructs you to try a gentle wave, Which you do. Nothing happens. But Agatha assures you not to worry. Some wands are particular and will only conjure magic for their true master. She weaves across the store to find another option. Blackthorn. The core is powdered horn of a minotaur. This wand is denser, Darker in color, And shorter in length. It's carved with concentric circles that travel from the base to the end. You wave the wand through the air, And for an instant, The lantern lights dim and the shop gently quakes. Agatha quickly takes the wand from you, Warning that too much uncontrolled power is not to be desired. You try a few more, One containing leprechaun's hair, One carved to resemble the twisted horn of a unicorn. Then, Agatha pulls a green box from the counter, A twinkle in her eyes. This one, She tells you, Is very special. All of her wands are, Of course, But this, One of her own creations, Is carved from a branch of the holy thorn, The twice-flowering hawthorn tree at Glastonbury. As she slides the cover from the box, Agatha tells you of how the original tree was planted at Glastonbury by Joseph of Arimathea, When, Returning home with the holy grail, He thrust his hawthorn staff into the earth. The tree was propagated many times, And now the hawthorn that grows in Glastonbury is a descendant of that original. Just as each year a sprig of that tree is sent as a gift to the British monarch, Another is sent to Agatha Silver to be fashioned into a wand of extraordinary power. While no magical substance is enclosed in the wand's core, The tree itself is nourished with the everlasting waters and regenerative energies of the holy grail. When she places the hawthorn wand into your hand, You can feel right away that there is something different about it. The base is carved with graceful vines and leaves, A kind of warmth builds in your hand as you hold it, And with a swish, You float the bags and packages you set down near the door. Even your familiar makes a sound of approval. Agatha's eyes sparkle, And she congratulates you on finding your wand, And such a unique and powerful one at that. She wraps the box in brown paper and ties it with a cord before handing it to you and asking for your word that you'll take good care of it. By the time you leave Silverspell, Thanking Agatha for her guidance, A bluish dusk has settled upon the alley. Only a few shoppers still tread the cobbles with their bags, But you hear laughter and music spilling out of the taverns and pubs, And smell the comforting scents of pies and curries on the evening air. You stop at Enchanté, Who are just getting ready to close for the day, But have set aside your new robes and hat. You add the boxes to your already towering heap of items, And retrace your steps back to the Witch's Brew. Just as you feel you can go no further, Feet aching, Bags dragging against the cobblestones, You spot the sign for Bob and Weal books, And sigh with relief. You set down one of your bags to free up a hand, Which you reach outward to feel around for the enchanted mirror. Waving your hand fruitlessly through the air, An idea occurs to you. Unwrapping the box from Silver Spell, And removing your new wand from its packaging, You concentrate on your objective to reveal the mirror. Taking a deep breath, You give the wand a wave, And before you, The stately mirror materializes in the streetlamp's glow. You stash your wand in a pocket, Pick up the bag at your side, Give a little wink to your familiar, And step confidently through. Stepping back into the cozy Witch's Brew gives you a feeling of comfort and accomplishment. You can hear a number of voices from the lounge. Ogden, Who is just coming down the main staircase, Spots you and hurries to help you with your bags. He takes out his wand and floats all your belongings up the stairs toward your room, And assures you everything will be taken care of. He'll even be sure to feed your familiar, For there's dinner ready in the lounge, And you should help yourself while there's anything left. You do help yourself to a plate from the buffet, Which is rich with variety, From fresh fruit and homemade pies to cured meats and heaping potatoes. You eat slowly by the fireplace, Tuning out the sounds of conversation. You hadn't realized how hungry you were, And after scarfing down everything on your plate, You feel contented and drowsy in the warmth and low light of the room. So you make your way up to your chamber. Opening the door, You see your familiar already asleep by the wide window. You notice that the bed linens have been turned down, And the bed looks oh so inviting. Pulling the wand from your pocket, You magically open your suitcase and call your pajamas over to you. You change into the comfy PJs, And just before heading to bed, You remember the potion Florinda gave you as a gift. You're entirely certain you don't need it after such a tiring day of errands, But you will take Florinda's advice and seek restorative sleep before your apprenticeship begins. You summon the little bottle with your wand, And uncork the sweet dreams. The scent of Provencal lavender instantly fills the room, And you carefully drink down the potion, Which warms the back of your throat and chest. You climb into bed, Turning off the bedside lamp, And pulling the covers up to your chin. Your body almost hums with the energy of the day as it adjusts to stillness. The only light is the soft, Blue spill from the window. You consider waving your wand again to close the curtain, But you're so comfortable, So exhausted, You don't even want to move your hand to the side table. And besides, With the little bit of light from the window, You can just make out the painting across from the bed of the arcadian landscape. It appears to be be nighttime in the painting too, A gentle night breeze rustling the trees and grass. You can almost hear the swishing sound of the leaves in the breeze. Beyond the veil of the Witch's Brew and Surrey Alley, The ordinary world carries on without you. You've taken the first steps into a new world, The one you've always sought to find. Tomorrow, You will begin your training in the ways of magic, And yet, You feel the spark of it already in your heart. The leaves and grasses in the painting sway with a hypnotic motion as you allow your eyes to close. A powerful wand rests at your bedside table. A kindred spirit sleeps in your window. Tomorrow is a beginning. Get some rest tonight. The chill of oncoming winter turns the mist to icy crystals that hang on the very shoulders of morning. You pull your cloak tight, Grateful for its thick barrier to the cold. Your exhale escapes visibly, Spectral spirals on the air. You lean for a brief rest on your walking stick and peer through the mists. This is how Glastonbury Tor appears in your imagination and in your dreams, How it always appears. Mist-shrouded and cold, As yet untouched by the first true frost, But bracing itself against winter's breath. The persistent green of the grass, Gold-edged by morning's hazy light, Waits for a translucent kiss of ice, Then blankets of powdery snow. A gauzy glimmer of dawn on the horizon breaks the opal-white sheen of sky. And this image of mist-muddled dawn at Glastonbury holds sway over your memory, So that this annual journey, Though you've made it many times, Collapses into a singular tableau. Your senses remember the sight, The smell, The sensations. Your muscles remember the steps, The climb, The motions. A bloom of recognition energizes this private ritual. You remember the first time you made this pilgrimage, How much younger you were then, Naïve and unflinching. You smile to think of that time in your life when you had such independence as you could not yet understand. The days of your apprenticeship with the great wandmaker Lucan Le Fleur. He was a splendid teacher, But he gave you great creative freedom and encouraged you to explore the world beyond your upbringing. To expand your knowledge, Experience, And inspiration. You owe so much to Le Fleur, Not least the inheritance he left you. After you studied under him to become a successful wandmaker in your own right, He bequeathed you his beloved storefront in Surrey Alley, The nation's epicenter of magical commerce. Along with the shop came its inventory and contents. Thousands of handcrafted, Exquisite Le Fleur wands, As well as decades of records, Sketches, And journals. While you donated much to magical museums and archives, You chose to reopen the store, Under a new name. With the blessing of your late mentor, You sourced wands from all over the world and crafted and sold your own. Now, All throughout the magical world, Your name is synonymous with wandcraft, And you're respected as highly as Le Fleur was. But, Tied now to a storefront, And motivated to keep your business thriving, You can appreciate how untethered you once were. Adventures, Flights of fancy were accessible to you then. Now, You must carve out time and space to reflect and withdraw from responsibility. You suppose that's always the challenge of growing older? Finding ways to recapture the freedoms of youth, While still loving and cherishing your obligations to work, Family, Or community. You regret nothing. You love the wand shop, And the craft itself with a passion that shows no sign of abating. But this annual escape from the four walls of the store, With all the planning and preparation that comes with it, Always rejuvenates you. It feels like a return home to your creativity, Your past, And yourself. And on that first journey to Glastonbury so many years ago, Your head buzzed with ideas and ambition. You had traveled the countryside seeking new materials and inspiration. Le Fleur was known for wands that were so light and thin, They were almost weightless, Which presented the challenge of enclosing a magical core. The wand's magic, After all, Depends on the potency of the core, Whether it's unicorn hair, Mermaid scale, Or dragon's tooth. That whole year, You went around in search of delicate, Yet spiritous, Magical materials to serve as an arcane power source. You collected the feathers of a prophetic raven who resides in the Salisbury Plain. You bargained with a sad-eyed unicorn in the Caledonian forests of the North. You joined the excavation of an ancient magical site and traded for the horn of a minotaur. Which, Powdered, Might yield a powerful yet temperamental wand. Le Fleur always taught you that a great wand was made through the thoughtful and focused marriage of wood and core. He favored Hazel, Holly, And Youwood for wands as they yielded consistent results, Though they were rarely the most powerful. He sometimes worked with hawthorn and alder, And rarely with evergreens. Your own wand of his make is a special blend of woods, Honeysuckle, And hazel. Le Fleur designed it as an homage to a poem he loved, One of the lays of Marie de France. Who wrote charming stories of Arthurian romance. The lay in question, Chevrois, Describes the true and forbidden love between Tristan and Isolde. So bonded they were in love, Marie says, They were like the hazel and the honeysuckle, Which may grow entwined around one another, Sustaining each other. If one is cut, The other will die at once. So they are like two hearts that beat as one. Of such importance is the relationship between the wood and the core. Without each other, They cannot survive. Together, They make something greater than themselves. Magic. But under Le Fleur's tutelage, You opened your mind and began to rethink the practice of wandcraft, The theory of it. What if, You thought, The wood itself were treated somehow with natural magic, Infused even? Could wands be made even lighter, More delicate if they didn't require a magical core? Because the material itself already contained potent magical properties. You shared your theory with Le Fleur, Who had his doubts, But always encouraged you to follow your instincts. Even now, All these years later, You feel uplifted by the faith he had in you, By the steadfast trust with which he sent you to explore this theory. It was here, Beneath the majesty of Glastonbury Tor, That your exploration began. An experiment that would become the seed of your signature wand, And a revolution in the craft. Glastonbury is a site long associated with myth and legend. It is the highest of the hills in the surrounding region, Looming over Somerset, Like a great sleeping giant. Around its girth is a ring of terrace-like grooves, Interpreted by many as the remnants of millennia-old terraforming, Perhaps in the form of a mystical pattern or maze. It has been long thought to be the site of ancient pre-Christian worship, And magic users like yourself have come to the site for generations, Seeking to steep in its mystical energies. Glastonbury is also the cradle of British Christianity. It was here that, According to legend, Joseph of Arimathea brought the Holy Grail and buried it. Supposedly, A spring began to flow at the site of the burial, And that spring still flows. Pilgrims come from all over the world to drink of its waters, Hoping it will grant them healing. And extended youth. This Joseph walked with a staff, And legend also holds that when he struck it into the ground at Glastonbury, The staff grew roots and flowered into a hawthorn tree, One that miraculously bloomed twice each year, Instead of once. It was this part of the legend that drew you to Somerset. For if it was possible to craft a wand that needed no magical core, What better wood to work with than that of the Holy Glastonbury Thorn? Wood from a tree out of legend, Which drunk of the waters of the Holy Grail. Today, Gazing out toward the Tor, You feel the same electric excitement as you did on that first journey. The sense of uncertainty and anticipation, The prickling fire of passionate trust in your vision. The mist swirls over the town so thick and opaque it resembles a body of water. Long ago, A thousand years or more, The spot on which you stand would have indeed been lake. For Somerset, The summer country, Was all marshland. At times when the fens flooded, Just as the Tor now rises from the mists, It would have emerged an island from shallow lake. A boat would have been necessary to cross to it. And that's what earned the Tor its other great legendary connection, Beyond the stories of Joseph and the Grail, Its association with the magical Isle of Avalon. A place of power, Enchantment, And mystery, Avalon is the legendary resting place of King Arthur. In the romances, He's ferried across the lake by his half-sister, Morgan le Fay, And taken to the sacred isle to heal his wounds. Here, The once and future king awaits the hour of his people's need, At which time he'll awake once more and come to their salvation. You take a frosty inhale, On which the scent of sweet grass and winterberry glides, And you shift your weight from your walking stick. It's been enough of a rest now, And with your strength renewed, You shake off the onslaught of memories, Preparing to approach the Tor. On a morning like this, With the mist so thick it's almost solid, You summon one of your favorite forms of magical transportation. Focusing your intention and gesturing deliberately with your hazel and honeysuckle wand, You call it up from the mists. The first part to emerge is the carved wooden bow in the elegant form of a dragon's head. The rest of the boat follows, Dark wood and just large enough to hold one or two people. You climb into the stern, Feeling it rock beneath you on the steady sway of morning air. The mist behaves like water, Gently lapping the sides of the boat. Then, Using your walking stick like an oar, You cut a straight path through the layer of mist toward the shining green hill ringed now in golden dawn. It's exceedingly peaceful, Gracefully gliding across the surface of the misty morning. The haze is thick enough that even the earliest risers in the town would not see the hull of your vessel from the ground below. As you approach the tour, A chorus of birdsong, Larks and firecrests whistles merrily over the fog. You feel weightless, Suspended over the village. Time seems to slip away and collapse in on itself. For now you sail across a glassy lake, Just as the pilgrims of the ancient world did, Toward the mysterious isle. Toward this gateway between worlds, This locus of magic, Worship and myth. The boat comes to a pause just as its bow brushes the soft grass of the hill. You disembark, Then wave your wand to send the vessel sinking once more into the mists. Your feet treasure the sensation of solid ground, Even grass slippery with dew. Here you can feel the gentle kiss of sunlight on your face, The sun's warmth at last slicing through the frosty air as it crests over the landscape. Your body knows the grooves of the hillside, And your legs carry you over the ringed earthen terraces in a slow, Meditative gait. No one knows the origins of the terracing, Whether they served an agricultural or defensive purpose, Or, Rather, If they followed mystical patterns and pagan tradition. Were they created thousands of years ago to serve as a labyrinth? A caerdroia for pilgrims to follow on their journey to the top of the Tor? A solemn path that encouraged focus, Meditation, And slow revelation. Whatever their original purpose, This is how you employ the terraces now. There's a quicker path, One that cuts right up the side of the Tor, And even a concrete walkway for tourists. But you are no tourist. Your craft brings you here, And the ancient energies that resonate in the Isle must be harnessed through intention and devotion. Your walking stick springs back against the spongy earth as you go round the rings of the Tor, Supporting your weight. You're not as young as you once were, But you can feel the presence of your youthful self like an imprint or a glittering shadow walking just steps ahead. You follow faithfully behind. As you circle the Tor via the terraces, You intersect again and again with the footpath. This early, There are few visitors to the site, But once or twice, You encounter hikers on their way to the zenith. You greet them with a friendly nod, Ignoring the puzzled looks they give, Observing your unusual method of climbing. Surely they think it would be much easier to follow the concrete path. But on you perambulate, Round and round the rings of the hill. The sun crowns the monolithic St. Michael's tower, And the morning mist begins to shift and break over the town. All those years ago, When you were first testing your new theories of Wandcraft, You came to Glastonbury looking for the Thorn Tree of Legend. Certainly the original tree, The one that sprung from the staff of Joseph of Arimathea, Was long gone, But the gardeners of Glastonbury had taken meticulous cuttings and grafts over the centuries. New trees were planted, Cultivated, And maintained from that original. Each year at Christmas time when the tree flowered, A budded branch was sent to the British monarch and set with the feast table. The tree that now provides this branch has been kept on the grounds of St. John's Church. So, To the churchyard you went, Hoping to procure a branch of your own. Le Fleur taught you much of the technique of Wandcraft, But he emphasized more than anything the importance of relationships to the art. The relationship between wood and core, Of course, But also the relationship between the wand and the wielder, The bond created through the performance of magic, And the relationships you, The wandmaker, Form with your community. With this in mind, And a desire to ethically retrieve the material, You sought out the head gardener responsible for the stewardship of the Glastonbury Thorn. He was a kindly man, Just past middle age, And endearingly enthusiastic about his work. He agreed heartily to give you a tour of Glastonbury Abbey and St. John's Church with an eye to the horticultural history of the place. You admired the way his eyes lit up when he described the species of the Glastonbury Thorn, Its unique characteristics, And its remarkable tendency to flower in both winter and spring. You listened faithfully as he explained the process by which he made cuttings and grafts to cultivate new descendants of that original tree. Preserving the bifloral behavior. It struck you at the time that his process, Scientific, Precise, And grounded in natural principles, Was not so unlike yours, Not so unlike the working of magic. Both require, After all, Specificity, Intention, And proper conditions. They simply access different kinds of natural energies, Though both are of the natural world. While the practice of magic, And the whole community of magic users worldwide, Depends on careful secrecy given the unpleasant history of persecution, You held Le Fleur's comments about relationships at the front of your mind when you made the decision to be honest with the gardener. You had no intention of stealing a sprig of the Glastonbury Thorn from under his nose, And certainly you did not feel good about glamouring or hoodwinking the gardener through spellwork. Instead, Heartened by his bright-eyed devotion to the art of horticulture, You chose to share with him your own craft. Of course, He didn't believe you at first. He thought you were a charlatan or a prankster. But when you showed him what you could do, You demonstrated a bit of harmless magic that made the berries of a holly bush turn briefly to rubies and back again. He began to soften. Over a cup of tea to calm his nerves, The gardener finally admitted that somehow, Perhaps after living here in this mystifying place for so long, He'd always known there was some greater force, Something just outside his reach or just beyond his sight. He'd always felt the presence of magic, He'd just never been quite able to grasp it. It was as though he'd always stood beside some translucent curtain, Watching vague forms and figures move behind it out of his comprehension. And it had always been there, So he'd simply grown to ignore it. But now, You'd lifted the veil and given him a glimpse of what wondrous things lie beyond. And that was the beginning of one of the most important friendships of your life and career. You and the gardener came to trust one another, And he agreed to help you obtain the branch you desired. Together, You returned to the churchyard to find the tree. That was on a snowy afternoon. At the winter solstice. When you came to the churchyard, You found a gaggle of school children from the nearby nursery gathered for their annual visit to the thorn. You watched with amusement, Faces pink in the chill, As their teacher circled them round the trunk and led them in the singing of carols. Their voices were high and clear, Climbing the wintry air like the ringing of tiny bells. The tree towered over them, Its widespread branches aburst with the miraculous holiday blossoms, The white flowers like puffs of snow. After the children departed, Leaving snow trails in their wake, A frosty, Sparkling peace settled in the courtyard. You watched with admiration as the gardener lovingly approached the tree to take a cutting of a small branch. Only one, You asked for. You couldn't hear what he was saying, But you're certain he was speaking to the tree as he cut the branch, Perhaps reassuring it that this sprig was destined for something great. You took that branch back to London, Where you studied under Le Fleur, And you carved it into your very first coreless wand. Just as you had hoped, The wand performed beautifully and consistently, Even without the magical core. For its mother tree had flourished on the waters of the chalice well. Its ancestors had sprung from the source of the holy grail. Le Fleur was proud of you. He even remarked that you might change the face of wandcraft forever. With a kind of tragic pride, He expressed that his way was the old way, The way of the past. But no, You assured him, His method would persist. You promised to keep it alive as long as you practiced. And you kept your promise. When you inherited the wand shop, You still sourced and created wands in the old tradition. But you also made wands in your new style, Seeking out trees of power, Ones that sit near healing wells or that house rare magical creatures. These wands would serve caregivers, Healers, Gardeners, And magic users whose power relies on the cooperation of the natural world. You became renowned across the world for your innovation. Each year, You returned to Glastonbury near the wintertime. Each year, The gardener met you in the ruins of the abbey, And you accompanied him to cut a sprig from the thorn tree. Each year, Before you departed the town, You walked together over the tour, Sharing stories of the past year, Then laughed over drinks in a local tavern. Things have changed since those early years. You've grown more skilled and independent as a wand maker and as a magic user. LeFleur was right in emphasizing the power of relationships. The one you've cultivated with your craft and with your own wand is particularly strong. And though you've made many powerful, Extraordinary wands in your time, You've never given up the honeysuckle and hazel wand LeFleur made for you. Like the symbiotic metaphor of the woods themselves, You feel intrinsically connected to the wand. It feels warm, Comforting in your hand. It knows and anticipates your every gesture. After the death of the first thorn you used in your wandcraft, The gardener kindly sent you a large branch of the tree as a memorial. It was perfectly timed after the passing of LeFleur. The gardener knew you could hardly make effective wands from the deceased limb, But he thought you might find some use for it. And indeed, You did. The walking stick that now supports you on your journey up the tour is fashioned from it. You've made this walk ever since. Something about the journey upward, The spiraling pattern of the walk, And the reconnection of the thorn to its homeland is a restorative practice for you, And a focus of magical energy. The air is clean and frosty as you finally reach the crest. St. Michael's tower looms. You can feel a kind of hum in the earth that ripples through your body from your feet to your head. The walking stick feels alive in your grasp. A pair of young hikers, Ones you encountered on the pathway, Are standing beside the tower, Admiring the view from the top of the tour. They wave sweetly as you approach, Then bid you a good morning and depart. You're alone. The view is magnificent, As always. The mist still lingers, Translucent over the village, Shifting and twisting slowly. The town must be waking up, For smoke is issuing now from chimneys, And a sense of movement begins to break through the stillness and peace of the dawn. You feel very far away from it all, From civilization. And yet, As though you've gathered up all the vibrations of the hillside, You feel surrounded by human energy. The ghosts, Perhaps, Of all who've made this pilgrimage, Or worshipped or meditated here. Of your past selves, The echoes of every walk you've made around the rings of the tour. The shimmering shadows of you. You take a moment to bask in their presence, The wisdoms they bring, Even from youth. With the hikers out of sight now, Disappearing beyond the slopes, You close your eyes, Feeling the warmth of the sun on your face. Your craft has changed. You've changed. You no longer follow the gardener into churchyards, Cutting the branches of young, Flowering trees. You've moved beyond that. With a deep breath, Hearing the whisper of music on the wind. Whether it's really there or in your mind, You cannot say, But it recalls the songs of children in a winter chorus. You summon up a wellspring of magical energy within yourself. Gathered up from the climb, The circling, The ancient mystical pattern. You grasp your walking stick, The memory of an ancient thorn in both hands, And with an issuing forth of your energized breath, You strike it into the soft, Grassy earth. The sound of trickling water. A shimmer of sunlight behind your eyes. You open your eyes. Where your staff thrust upon the ground now flows a tiny stream, And now something sprouts from beneath the soil, Twisting and yearning upward toward sunlight. A small and simple eruption of life, Reborn from the old thorn, Made from the bond of earth and intention, Magic and nature, Past and present. You watch as the little thing, No taller than your knees, Spreads tiny branches that flower with tiny blossoms, White and pillowy as snow. You blink against a glassy layer of tears. You cannot help but feel overwhelmed at the sight, Though you've seen it before. Each time this spontaneous surge of life shakes you to your core, You are astounded and grateful for the magical gift the earth gives you. You do not take it for granted. For some time, You sit beside the tiny thorn tree, Resting your weary bones and recovering from the outpouring of magical energy. You watch the village come to life, Take in the spectacular vistas of the countryside, Green meadows and farmland, The forest and fen. The earth itself seems to recharge you from below. When you've rested and restored your strength, You harvest the tiny tree, Gingerly and with loving hands, And store it in your satchel. The little spring that flowed forth from the strike of your walking stick slowly dries over the flattened grass, Leaving beads of dew like minuscule crystals against the blades. Then those too evaporate into the mists. The morning wanes and you take your time descending the tour. This time you take the footpath, And you meet many visitors on their way up. Tour groups and families with eager faces or weary children. You share kindly smiles and salutations. Chalice Hill lies beneath the tour, And houses a quiet, Contemplative garden. Somewhere a lark is singing as you enter the gates. Ivy climbs the walls and stones surrounding the red spring, Named for the red sediments left by the flowing water. Small shrines decorate nooks and crevices filled in with holly and evergreen sprigs. The chalice well, Too, Is wreathed with holly, Ivy, Mistletoe, And fir. The red hollyberry is bright against such deep green. The well cover is adorned with the symbol of the vesicapiscis, Two overlapping circles. You meditate on the meaning of the symbol, The unification of opposing forces above and below. This world and the other world, The natural and the spiritual, The masculine and the feminine. You can feel a soft hum in the atmosphere. It takes some effort to pull yourself from the exquisite peace of the chalice well gardens. You seem to be the only person wandering between its walls. But you have an appointment to keep, And you must depart. It's a short walk to the center of the town of Glastonbury, And just a bit further to reach the abbey, Which by now entertains many tourists and visitors. The morning grows late, And the sun stretches over the ruins, Warming the chilly air of late fall. You sneak past a tour group, Admiring the rectangular plot and plaque that indicate the supposed location of the tomb of King Arthur. It was excavated, Records show, By monks in the 12th century who found the remains of the king and his wife, Along with an inscribed cross that read, Here lies buried the renowned King Arthur, With Guinevere, His second wife, In the Isle of Avalon. You smile to yourself as you overhear the ooze and awes of the tourists, And the mysterious affectation of the guide's voice as she tells the remarkable tale. The companion you seek is standing under a ruined archway, Seemingly preoccupied with something no one else notices. As you draw closer, You see that he's studying a weed that sprung from underneath the stone. He doesn't even notice you approaching, Until you crouch beside him to observe the weed yourself. Honeysuckle, You say. The gardener looks up, And his face splits into a grin. You embrace, Feeling between you all the distance of a year's time. Together, You walk to a nearby cafe for an early lunch, And to catch up. The gardener is long since retired, But he still visits the abbey and the churchyard regularly, Sometimes as a volunteer landscaper. He can't help himself. You can understand this, Given the hold your craft has always had over you. You share stories of the past year with each other. He shows you pictures of his new grandchild, A wide-eyed little girl named Violet. Between the two of you, He thinks she may have magical inclinations. He tells you to watch out. In a few years, She might show up at the wand shop. Later, You visit the churchyard together, Admiring the new thorn tree, Which has grown massively over the year. The buds are just beginning to flower in anticipation of the winter holiday. Before you leave, The first snow flurries of the year begin to fall delicately on the green grass and melt upon the branches of the thorn. You show him the tiny tree you brought up from the magic of the tour. His eyes sparkle, Impressed with how far your sorcery has come, That you can hardly such energy to create new life. As twilight eventually swells its tide over the summer country, Earlier and earlier as you creep toward the close of the year, You and your dear friend part ways, Looking forward to next year and another reunion. Heartful and mind at peace, You prepare for the journey back to London. Mist is gathering once more over the village, And you might be able to call up the boat again, At least to bear you as far east as Bath. The smells of the wand shop, Old parchment, Cedar wood, And dried ink greet you warmly on your return. The night is dark, And the usually bustling corridor of Surrey Alley is as quiet as the chalice hill when you arrive. Lanterns glow amber in the street, Casting soft light on the cobblestones. You weave through the stacks and mountains of wand boxes that cover nearly every square inch of the large store, Making your way to the workshop in the back where you light a candle. As weary as you are from travel and the long hours on your feet, Some part of you still feels energized and incomplete. You retrieve this sweet little thorn from your satchel. Its flowers are wilted but still just attached. You admire the tiny thing for a moment, Its delicate branches and twisted roots, How time and space have crystallized within it. As always, You are in awe of and grateful for your access to magic. Le Fleur once sat in this very workshop and crafted some of the most powerful, Cherished wands of all time. Now, With your little thorn as muse and material, You sit down to carve a very special wand. Each year, Your Glastonbury wand is used your favorite to create. You feel close to it as you yourself cultivated the material. This year it feels even more special, More resonant. As you carve away at the fine branch, Unearthing the hardy yet flexible wood at its core, You can almost see the wizard who will one day wield the wand. You see wide eyes, Rosy cheeks, And focused determination. And violence. Who knows? As the wand takes shape under your knife, You trace elegant vines, Leaves, And flowers around the base so it looks alive and festive. You smooth the wood with sand, Then polish it to a subtle shine. It's effortlessly light in your hands. Just holding it makes you feel younger, Nimbler than before. You feel deeply bonded to it. But you never keep the Glastonbury wands. You're happy with the honeysuckle and hazel. You're bound to it. These thorn wands deserve to find a match like the one you have with yours. This one deserves to find a truly devoted, Curious, And intuitive sorcerer to work with. You can almost see her now, Even if it may be a few years before her arrival. Carefully placing the wand in a velvet-lined box, You snuff out the candle on the table. Your bones ache from the arduous, Yet glorious day. You can hardly believe that you stood on the tour only hours ago. It seems like a lifetime since. For cases when you find yourself at the workbench late in the night, You keep a bed made in the storeroom. It's nothing fancy or luxurious, But it's a comfort that you don't have to leave the shop and make the trip home. Tonight is one of those nights, You decide. The bed fits snugly in a corner between shelves and shelves of archives and core materials. And boxes of extremely rare or valuable wands. These are kept out of public view, But brought out for interested customers from time to time. They're all of Le Fleur's make. You climb into the little bed and draw the covers up to your chest. It's pleasantly warm in the storeroom. Waving your wand, You extinguish the lamp by the doorway, Ushering in a windowless, Enclosing darkness. Your eyes drink it in, Savoring it, Before you let them fall closed. Sleep is upon you in moments, Like a shroud of mist. All around you, Wands are nestled in their boxes, Humming, Unheard, To an ancient frequency. There's fervor in the streets, The melodic ring of people's voices, Lightly singing their Merry Christmases and Happy Holidayses. Holly and evergreen deck every doorway, Red ribbons tied on every lamppost, Every window lightly frosted. The scents of bayberry, Orange, And spices float on the sweeping breeze, All tangled up with the pealing of bells and laughter. Little noses and cheeks glow rosy in the cold. The air is thick with the chilly anticipation of the long night and morning to come. In all this splendid energy, It can be no other day but Christmas Eve. And there's nowhere you'd rather be on Christmas Eve than right here, In the bustling corridor of Surrey Alley, Where every shop is a magic shop, And witches and wizards come to buy their wares. You savor the feel of the cobblestones beneath your feet, The cold air on your face. You stay close to your best friend Brom so you don't lose each other in the crowds. Though you're on holiday from the school of sorcery, You both still don your cloaks bearing the school insignia, Half out of pride, And half because they're the thickest, Warmest cloaks you own. But underneath the cloaks, You wear cable-knit Christmas sweaters, Handmade by Brom's mother for each of you. It was a kind gesture for her to include you in that family tradition. You and Brom could be siblings in your matching attire. Now that you're of age, You're excited to venture to Surrey Alley on your own. There's something so gleeful about coming by yourselves with your own gold to spend. A delicious sort of freedom in this wonderland of endless delights. And Surrey Alley does not disappoint at Yuletide. The hidden promenade tucked away behind London's Covent Garden, Behind a magic veil that only those in the know can pass through, Is positively alive with joy and cheer. There are carolers on the corners, And floating baubles in the sky above the street as though in search of a Christmas tree to hang themselves on. Snow coats the rooftops of the little crowded shops and cafes like powdered sugar, Making them look like frosted gingerbread buildings. Tiny icicles shine like diamonds from awnings and eaves. With so much excitement and such delights around every corner, You feel almost overwhelmed. But Brom nudges your arm and gestures off to the left, Where you spot the famous bookshop Bob and Wheel Books. Good idea, You say, As the two of you weave through the throngs to the bookshop's entrance. The real mission today is to gather up last-minute Christmas presents for some of your friends and family. Your other best friend, Violet, Who's spending the holiday with her parents in Australia, Is an avid bookworm. So Bob and Wheel is the perfect place to locate a gift for her. A bell rings on the door as you step inside from the street. Immediately, A rush of warmth falls over you after the blustery cold of the alley. You haven't set foot in this bookshop since your first year at the School of Sorcery, As you've opted to have your school textbooks delivered ever since. But the familiar smell of leather-bound books, Vanilla, And coffee bring back all sorts of childhood memories. You think of how timid you were the first time you shopped here, How much you've grown in the intervening years. The bookshop, By some enchantment, Is larger on the inside than it appears from without. Rather than a narrow red-brick building with two stories, It's a cavernous space with spiral staircases and magical lifts that go to countless floors, Each holding a vast inventory of books on certain subjects. It's busy with customers flipping through pages, Carrying stacks of volumes, Or watching their Christmas gifts wrap themselves in neat little packages. You and Brom split up to track down presents for Violet. She has a voracious appetite for books, So the real challenge isn't finding something she'll like, But finding something she hasn't yet read. As Brom disappears up a stairway toward the section on plant and herb lore, You step on a hovering platform and say clearly, Magical history. The platform begins to slowly convey you upward, Past stacks of books toward your chosen floor. You watch the customers and shopkeepers grow smaller as you drift up. Clerks follow customers around, Scrolls of parchment floating behind them scribbled upon by quills that move independently. Even years after your initiation into the secret world of magic and sorcery, Such a sight still makes you swoon with delight. The lift comes to a halt at the history floor, Which is peaceful and quiet compared to the main thoroughfare. You suppose history books aren't most people's idea of a thrilling Christmas gift, But you can understand the appeal. They're a window into the great mysteries, Movements of people and ideas across time. You wind your way through the stacks of books, Reading the lettering on the spines, Biographies of great witches and wizards, Monographs on magical empires. The choices are seemingly endless. But as you round a corner, You find a small display table of books with brightly colored binding and covers. It's a whole collection of books by a celebrated magical historian, All reissued with beautiful designs and gold-trimmed pages. You pick one up, Open the cover and feel the spine pleasantly crackle in your hands. It's the exhaustive history of the School of Sorcery, Founded centuries ago by Merlin himself. You think of Violet, Whose own copy of this book is second-hand, Tattered and worn from pouring over it again and again. Edges frayed, Pages falling out, Gold lettering faded on the cover. There's a certain charm about that old book, But you have to imagine she'd appreciate the opportunity to set it upon the shelf and crack open a beautiful new copy. There are full-color illustrations within that move and wink as you flip through. It's a beautiful addition. You tuck it under your arm, Feeling light and cheerful as you return to the lift. You wish you could see her face tomorrow morning when she opens the package and sees the beautiful cover and the image of the renowned wizard smiling back at her. You rendezvous with Brahm in the checkout line, Which snakes through the bookshelves behind the register. The shop echoes with happy chatter as you slowly inch toward the front of the line. Brahm has selected a book of magical herbs and their uses in healing and medicine. It's full of elegant botanical sketches and even has pages for the reader to fill out with their notes and experiments. At the register, The smiling clerk offers to gift wrap your items and ship them directly to the recipient. You watch as a shining red ribbon ties itself around the book of history, And you scribble a short note for Violet. Then the clerk drops both books into a small cabinet and closes the door. You hear a sound like the tinkling of bells and see a puff of silver smoke rise from the cabinet, And you know the books have been instantly transported to Violet's door. You leave Bob and Wheel Books as light as you came in, But with a wave of relief, Knowing you've crossed such an important person off your Christmas gift list. The sun is starting to set on Surrey Alley, And lamps are springing to life around you. The dim late afternoon brings a new surge of cold over you. You shiver as you move down the alley with the flow of the crowd. Brahm's teeth are chattering, And the two of you agree to duck into the first place you can find to procure some hot drinks. As luck would have it, You're only steps from Pepper's Pies and Potions, A cafe that looks shabby from the outside, But makes the most delicious pasties and drinks. You step in off the street, Relieved to see it's not mobbed with patrons. The owner, Pepper herself, Is behind the bar, Slinging drinks for the few customers at tables. You order hand pies to snack on, And peruse the menu of winter drinks. There's hot mulled cider, Hot chocolate with every flavor imaginable from peppermint to lavender, And Pepper's famous Mystery Potion. You've never tried the Mystery Potion before, Afraid to go out on a limb when more people familiar options are available, But everyone you know who's tried it has described it differently. Pepper claims the drink transforms to please the taste buds of the drinker at the moment it's drunk. Today, You're feeling adventurous. You and Brahm both order the Mystery Potion. When he takes his first sip, Brahm's eyes light up. It tastes like hot buttered rum with a sprinkling of cinnamon and something like cardamom. Brahm exclaims that he didn't even know he liked cardamom until now. You take a cautious sip of yours, And immediately, You feel it warm you from the inside. The taste is hard to describe. It's somehow herbal and sweet, Delicate and strongly spiced. It makes your throat tingle and your head feel clear and bright. You struggle to decide what it reminds you of, But your mind fills with childhood memories and broken images of Christmas' past. You thank Pepper for the delicious refreshments and breeze back out the door, Drinks warming your hands. Your cheeks flush as you meet the cold, But it can't break through the spell of warmth cast by the Mystery Potions. The lamps burn bright with flickering gas flames, And the lit up shops lining the alley look like miniature buildings in a Victorian Christmas snow globe. There's another gift you and Brahm need to find on this trip to Surrey Alley, And this one must be especially heartfelt. You're looking for something for Brahm's mother, Who has graciously opened her home to you for the past six Christmases. She's as dear to you as your own family, A generous woman who makes every room she enters feel like home. So off you traipse down the cobbled alley, Inhaling the sugary, Spicy fragrances that waft from the doors of cafes. You carry your drinks in takeout cups, Feeling the warmth against your own hands and warming you from the inside out with each sip. A quartet of carols trill a sweet song. You catch one or two lines of lyric, Which describe a magical Yule bonfire that burned for the whole month of December. Long, Long ago. There's a line out the door at the apothecary, A tiny shop that sells cauldrons, Potions, And magical ingredients. You spot a friend from school in the line, Waiting with a small group of people who must be her family, As they all sport nearly identical button noses and sparkling green eyes. You and Brahm give her a cheerful wave as you pass by. You peek briefly into a shop called Sight and Seer, A dimly lit boutique that sells crystal balls, Scrying glasses, Casting runes, Oracle decks, And other supplies for the arts of divination and prophecy. The shop smells of sage and incense, And a faint haze seems to float in the air around you as you explore the displays. While the objects certainly pique your interest, You aren't sure anything here will do for Brahm's mother. There's a ginger cat winding its way under table legs, And it chirps merrily as it rubs against your leg. You stoop to give the cat a friendly scratch on the head. Back on the street, Brahm nudges you to go with him into the hat shop. Bettina's best, Intrigued by their window display. Behind the glass is a charming tableau featuring mannequins made of snow, Modeling increasingly elaborate hats and hair accessories. You give Brahm a smirk, And he insists he's heard his mother lamenting the state of her old hats. This shop must have just the thing to delight her. So you stumble inside out of the cold. As Brahm heads for the classic witch's hats, You marvel at the more extravagant headwear on display. There's a fascinator made of realistic butterflies, Flapping their iridescent wings. A headscarf made of black fabric that shimmers like the night sky riddled with stars. Brahm selects a pointed witch's cap in the traditional style, Made festive by a decorative sprig of holly. He asks, Earnestly, If you think she'll like it. You reassure him that it's just perfect. But you still aren't sure what to get for her. How do you say, With only a small gift, How thankful you are for a person's hospitality? How lucky you are to be welcomed into the family. Now, A flush of blue evening casts its veil over the shopping corridor of Surrey Alley. You're coming to the end of the main drag of shops, But you haven't yet given up hope. After all, There's a little square just ahead, Where a magical Christmas market has sprung up around the great, Festive tree. You can see the tree now, A great spruce stretching high into the darkening sky, At least 20 meters tall, And towering over even the tallest of structures around. The chime of a clock tower suggests that it's already half past five. There's plenty of time to get a good vantage point to watch the tree lighting ceremony. A spiral of snow flurries are falling delicately around you, Melting as they reach the cobblestones. As you approach the square, Your heart flutters. Little wooden stalls, Roofs dusted with blankets of snow, Encircle the tree. Food stalls sell hot pastries rolled in sugar and cinnamon, Steaming sausages, And fresh salted pretzels. Mulled wine and hot cider flow. Vendors sell handmade items and wares, Rustic wands, Unique broomsticks, Pottery, Candles, Paintings, And hand-carved marionettes. You and Bram amble around the perimeter, Buying the marvelous toys, Gifts, And magic supplies for sale. You can't remember ever feeling so charmed as you do now. It's as though you've stepped into a Christmas card. And as you weave through the stalls, Admiring watercolor paintings of Surrey Alley through the seasons, Paintings with leaves or snow or rain that really falls before your eyes, Or gasping at exquisitely made garments, You keep your eyes peeled for a special gift for a very special person. And you know it as soon as your eyes fall upon it. You don't say anything, But you begin to drift effortlessly toward the tiny stall. Bram has to hasten back to catch up with you after realizing you're no longer by his side. There's nothing so magical about it, Really. But something about it catches your eye, Captures your heart, And doesn't let go. Behind the stall's birchwood counter sits a small, Middle-aged woman, Bent over something in her hands, Which move with a careful, Deliberate activity. All around her, On the counter, On shelves behind her, On floating shelves and hanging from the ceiling are hand-carved wooden nutcrackers, Each unique and unalike as snowflakes. There must be hundreds of them, Every size, Color, Shape, And style. Some are classic, Some minimalistic, Some flamboyant, And some fantastical, Each alluring in its own way. And from what you can tell, There's nothing inherently magical about them, But their charm is undeniable. The maker sits there, Carving away, Not noticing you just over the counter, With an expression of peaceful concentration. She looks miles and miles away, Unobservant of all the hustle and bustle around her. The snow could be coming down in droves, You think, And she might not look up from her work, So consumed is she by focus. There's one nutcracker among the hundreds that you're drawn to. It's small enough to fit in your hand, You think, And it hangs from a red ribbon on a hook within the stall. It might hang nicely on a modest Christmas tree. This nutcracker is intricately carved and hand-painted in shade after shade of green. Around its arms, Twist tiny vines of decorative ivy, And holly leaves and berries stick out of its white beard. It wears a crown of holly, Too, And a cape of luxurious green velvet trimmed with fur. As small as it is, It looks regal and impressive. Somehow, You have no eyes for the other items in the stall. This one alone calls out to you. You approach the counter, Hoping not to startle the woodworker, But her eyelids lift slowly to meet your gaze, Then wrinkle into a warm smile. The piece in her hands is mostly unfinished, But you can see the start of another unique creation coming to fruition there, As though the nutcracker is emerging from the raw wood. When you ask about the little green nutcracker, The maker's eyes light up. It's one of her personal favorites, She says, Pulling out her wand and summoning it down from its hook. She wraps it in brown paper, Ties the small package in green ribbons, And hands it to you, Bidding you take good care of the green man. You thank her, Tuck the package into the pocket of your cloak, And depart. You can't stop smiling. You hope Braum's mother will find the gift as enchanting as you do. A crowd is gathering now around the base of the great spruce tree. You and Braum angle to get a good spot where you can see the whole tree without craning your neck. The giant arbor is decorated with red and silver baubles, Bows, And candy canes. All around, Bright colors shine through the approaching darkness, Voices ring clear and strong, And a shiver of anticipation strings all souls together like one grand musical instrument waiting to ring out one silver note on the night air. It's such a feeling as can only be felt this time of year. A collective in-breath, A quiet expectancy, A quivering hopefulness, Even on the darkest of nights. The hour is approaching now, And you wait with bated breath for the tree to be lit. You've never witnessed this spectacle yourself, Though Braum has told you many times that it's the most magical thing he's ever seen. The anticipation mounts as excited voices carry throughout the crowds. Braum checks his watch, Only minutes to go. As the seconds tick by, You scan the crowd, Taking in the cheery, Rosy faces of everyone around you, All waiting for the same thing. The same moment. All waiting to be amazed. It's only been a few years since your initiation into this secret, Magical world. A mere moment in time, Really. But it feels somehow as though you've always been a part of this community. Or rather, That it's always been a part of you. Like you and the world of magic were only waiting to find each other, Always just one step out of sync. Now, You feel attuned to the magic, Inextricably bound to it. It flows through you in every moment, Infuses your every choice. And here, Among so many others, Many who must have felt just as you did the first time they witnessed the miraculous, It feels stronger than ever. As though your magic reaches out to grasp others, Creating a powerful, Ritual connection, Even among strangers. It's almost time. A voice rings out from somewhere unseen among the throng, Counting down from ten, Eleven, Ten, Nine, Another voice joins in, And then another, Eight, Seven, And more voices, Six, More voices still and more until the whole circle speaks in one strong, Unified voice. Five, Four, Three, Two, One. And for just a moment, The square goes entirely dark. A hush falls over Surrey Alley, And it's briefly so silent, So dark, You can't believe it. It's like a dream. And then, With a burst of color and light and sound, It begins. The sparking of golden flames dancing like ribbons or wisps of smoke from the base of the tree, Circling it in spirals all around. At first, It appears only abstract, Just an enchanted flame climbing the tree, And yet not even singeing its needles. But as it circles the tree once more, Activating the twinkling lights it passes one by one, You catch a glimpse of the form within the formlessness. There, Flickering in and out of visibility, With a long tail whipping behind it, Is a magnificent bird made of fire. On its trail echoes a note of song so bright and beautiful, It softens your heart and brings tears to your eyes. The tree springs to life beneath it, The baubles catching the light of the flame and sparkling like stars. The bird ascends higher and higher around the great spruce, Ringing out its joyful song. Oh, That song. It's like the taste of the mystery potion, Spiced and sweet, Hopeful and nostalgic, Evocative and elegiac all at once. And at last, Climbing higher into the night sky, The bird, The flame-tailed phoenix, Comes to rest at the very pinnacle of the tree. Its wings flutter and rustle, Then settle into stillness, Its tail relaxing. And there it burns. The boughs of the tree catch not the flames but glow greenish-gold under its constant flicker. And then there is an eruption of sound, Cheers and shouts from the crowd. You clap your hands together with an unexpected ferocity, Whistling your approval. Laughter, Cries of merriment, And a milling and a mumbling and a marveling. And slowly the celebration diminishes, And the sizzle of sausages on the grill can once again be heard above the din. The crowds resume their shopping. The phoenix burns on above the square, Little snowflakes dancing in the glow of its flame. A halo of warmth remains in the wake of the ceremony, Even as the crowds disperse, And a heaving sense of dénouement settles over you. The anticipation passed, You feel your muscles relax and your mind soften. And now you feel a glowing tiredness and a longing to rest. Brahm agrees and the two of you slip down a side street. There's a station at the end where you can pay a penny each way to travel anywhere in the magical network of mirrors. Coming down from all the excitement, Giddy with exhaustion, You pay your fares and step through a narrow mirror, One at a time, Right into the den of Brahm's family home. Before the room even materializes before you, You hear an exclamation of delight. From a familiar voice. Then several more join in. It's Brahm's mother who cries out first, And she runs to embrace you both as your feet fall upon the rug. There's a roaring fire in the hearth, And Brahm's whole family is here. Some lounge in armchairs by the fire or stretch out on the floor. There's a small but richly decorated Christmas tree in the corner, Surrounded by a pile of gifts wrapped in brightly colored paper and tied up with red ribbons. It feels like home. Like childhood. Like magic. Being surrounded by so much love and gratitude. You're happy to take off your heavy cloak and sit before the fire. You can feel your icy nose and fingers defrost in its radiant warmth. Soon, There's tea and a heap of cookies on the coffee table, And there's music playing lightly under the cheerful conversation. Brahm tells everyone about the tree lighting. The best one yet, He insists. A rosy glow in his cheeks. Someone starts describing a cherished Christmas memory, And soon everyone is chiming in with jokes and stories from Christmas's past. Brahm's father is eyeing the pile of presents clandestinely, And even sneaks away from the table to shake one by his ear. Brahm's mother, With a knowing look in her eyes, Suggests everyone should open one gift tonight, A delighted surprise from her children. There's laughter and glee as everyone makes for the pile, Retrieving a gift with their name on the tag. Your stomach fills with butterflies as you see Brahm's mother take the tiny package wrapped in brown paper. You do hope she likes it. You watch as she unties the ribbon and removes the green-clad nutcracker. She looks up at you with glossy eyes and pulls you into a firm embrace. She doesn't say anything, But crosses to the tree and hangs the ornament from a prominent branch. Then she squeezes your hand. It seems for a moment that you can see in her eyes the same bright and moved expression as you noticed in the woodworkers when you selected the gift. It gives you some pause. The gift exchange continues until there's a clutter of wrapping paper strewn across the floor and a satisfied gleam on every face. Brahm's brothers wave their wands to clean up the debris. The music plays and the fire continues to burn. You feel flush with warmth and pleasure. You can see light snow falling outside the window. It strikes you that this, More than any spell or potion or charm, Is true magic. The delicate yet resilient ties that bind people together as family, Blood or chosen. The memories and private myths that spring from closeness over time. A tapestry of sentiment, The warp and weft of which creates something bigger than any one person or any group of people. And at this time of the year, With darkness creeping in at the corners, These shining threads are more important than ever. After a time, Family members start heading up the creaky stairs to bed. You're one of the last left in the den, Feeling yourself swoon with sleepiness near the fire. At last, You two climb the stairs to the room made up for you. Your eyelids droop as you climb, And you waste no time collapsing into the soft pillows on your bed. Your head swims in and out of consciousness, Then surrenders to sleep. You dream that you're flying through the night, Over snow-sugared rooftops and smoking chimneys, Unfazed by winter's icy bite. Behind you stretches a long fiery tail, And in the flames are the images and shapes of all the Christmases you've lived, And all the Christmases that ever were. You soar, Surging, Spurred on by the strength of the magic that abounds in quiet places, On modest boughs, And in the eyes and hands of loved ones. You shine on. It's been a busy season at the Witch's Brew. Night after night, You've had rooms packed with guests, Nearly selling out all the guest rooms in some instances. That does tend to happen as you near the start of term at the School of Sorcery, Some miles north of here. The inn's location at the doorstep of Surrey Alley, The magical world's most popular shopping destination, Makes it the lodging of choice for most families sending their children off to school. They spend their days milling up and down the alley, Procuring magical supplies, First wands, School robes, Potions, Ingredients, Cauldrons, And books. Then they settle in here, Enjoying supper in the barroom and a nice quiet rest in their chambers upstairs. This is the routine for weeks on end until school starts, When things settle into a quieter rhythm. Many of the local businesses make most of their year's profits between back to school season and the winter holidays, So they can breathe a sigh of relief when the alley settles down for the fall. Tonight is one of those quieter nights, And you're rather thankful for it. You love the hustle and bustle of the summer, Surely, But it's good to slow your pace for once and embrace the magic of an empty hallway, A quiet conversation, A leisurely evening. In fact, So marked is the difference on these off-season evenings that you've given most of your staff time off to recharge. With a lessened population of guests and patrons, You can handle most of the inn's operations on your own, With the assistance of your wand, That is. As early evening glitters through the kitchen windows, You set pots to boil with a wave and saucepans to sizzle with a flourish, Preparing tonight's dinner specials for whatever hungry locals might stumble in from the alley. It's years now that you've owned this place, And you've spent a whole lifetime loving it. It's been in the family as far back as centuries, With each generation taking over from the last in stewardship. You know every creaky step on the staircase, Every minuscule crack in the bathroom tile, And every pesky little pixie or gnome living in the wardrobes and under the beds. But none of these seem like faults to you, Only features that amplify the eccentric charm of this port. It survives despite its advancing age, Thanks to a number of powerful enchantments that not only protect it from depreciation, But keep it concealed from the world of non-magic users. To them, It appears as a shabby old building, Derelict and forgotten on a sorry London side street. For those initiates of the unseen arts, However, The Witch's Brew is a beacon of hospitality, Warmth, And welcome. It is the threshold of a world too wonderful to be believed by most. In the absence of your staff, You've developed a system of accepting and resolving the requests of your patrons. It's a rather clever system if you do say so yourself, Given you can't be in two places at once. A guest in need must merely scribble their behest upon a slip of charmed paper. The paper then folds itself into neat little airplanes that float their way to you wherever in the numerous corridors of the inn you may be working. One whizzes into the kitchen presently, Circling you once before landing in your open palm. From the guest in room six, You ask with a smirk, Your only overnight guest this evening. The paper airplane elegantly unfolds to reveal a brief line of script. It seems room six requires fresh towels. Casting a little halting spell upon the various pots and burners wouldn't want them boiling over in your absence, You stride over to the linen cupboard, Wave your wand to levitate a pair of clean, Fluffy towels, And send them zooming up the grand staircase toward room six. It isn't long before your first dinner guests arrive. As you expected, It's only locals tonight, Shopkeepers and folks who work in Surrey Alley. Arne, The kindly owner of the Wild Hunt, Where witches and wizards can find animal familiars, Comes in first. His own familiar is with him as always, Perched upon his shoulder. A tiny elf owl, Ironically named Ymir after Norse mythology's Ur Frost Giant. Arne greets you warmly and takes his usual table by the fire, And Ymir nestles into the crook of his neck. It's always amused you how much Arne and Ymir resemble one another. Other merchants and shopkeepers slowly trickle in. There's Percival Pell's, The lead bookseller from Bob and Wheel Books, A charming shop with the uncanny ability to change its size and scale in accordance with the needs of the consumer. During the busy holidays and summer rush, It's a large, Naturally lit, Multi-floored literary emporium, With every new title imaginable and an endless section of rare and occult classics. But in the off-season, When few curious customers wander into the bookshop, It shrinks itself down to a small, More intimate affair, Crowded with overstuffed bookshelves, Dimly lit with lamps, And smelling of old, Musty pages and aged leather. The perfect place to lose oneself in the magic and mystery of books. Tonight, The bookseller is the very picture of studiousness, With tweed jacket and elbow pads, Spectacles perched on the end of his nose, And a gold watch chain at his waist. He's brought a hefty tome which is tucked under his arm. Despite its size, No doubt it's what he might call a bit of light reading. And soon in comes Lucan Le Fleur, The illustrious wandmaker, With his young apprentice, Whose name you haven't learned quite yet. She's a young woman, Surely just left school and only at the beginning of her career journey, But there's a light and vigor behind her eyes that's rather promising. This looks to be all you'll get tonight, Patrons-wise. You take orders, Then retreat to the kitchen to make up plates and pour mugs of mead, Wine, And water. Once each guest is served and polite conversation has begun across the barroom, Folks discussing the latest news from their trade, Wandmaking innovations, Or new book releases that should excite readers, You remind them to send a note if they need you. There's lots to do, Even with few guests while you're shorthanded. Nightly duties at the inn are simple enough, Though often time-consuming. Usually a small team of staff members handle all the evening checks for you as you do the books, But back before you inherited the witch's brew, It was your favorite job, Moving through the many rooms and corridors of the inn, Making sure all was in order. It might sound tedious, But to you, It was always a space in which your imagination could wander and flourish. You could pretend you were a detective searching for clues to unravel an ancient mystery, Or you could make a game of how many cobwebs you could clear in under five minutes. You could even put your stealth skills to the test by trying to carry out all the little tasks without ever being seen, As if you had the gift of invisibility. Now it's not so much a game as a meditation. You know the labyrinthine halls and corridors so well, You can traverse them without thinking, Allowing your mind at times to go soft, Or even completely empty. A ring of keys jangles at your hip as you climb the aging stairs to the first floor of guest rooms. The hall stretches long before you, Lit by warm, Flickering lamps. You reach for the keys and select the skeleton key, Which opens every door in the building. One by one, You enter the uninhabited guest rooms to ensure the lights are extinguished and nothing major needs attending to. In the third room on the left, You check the wardrobe, Which is known for the occasional pixie infestation. Upon opening the doors, You hear the flutter of tiny wings and a chorus of high-pitched chuckles as the gaggle of little creatures scatter and try to hide in the corners. The pixies, All pointed ears and gangly limbs and raggedy green clothing, Cover their mouths with their hands in a half-hearted attempt to stifle their musical laughter, But still it peals like tiny bells from the echoey chamber of the wardrobe. You chuckle to yourself and put on a show of searching the wardrobe for the little folk, Acting as if you're unable to locate them when in fact, They're right there in plain sight. Finally, With an exaggerated sigh and a smile stretching the corners of your lips, You begin to close the wardrobe doors. All right, You say. I know you're in there. There's no one in here tonight, So you're free to stay, But next time I may not be so hospitable. This is a game you play most nights. Truth be told, You don't really have a problem with pixies taking up residence in wardrobes or cupboards or wherever. When shown a modicum of hospitality, They can actually be quite helpful around the place, Sweeping up cobwebs and picking up crumbs from the carpet. But you've had one too many late night calls from guests about the incessant giggling that keeps them up at night, So you've had to come to a compromise. Tonight, While the room is vacant, They're doing no harm, So you're happy to grant them a warm place to sleep. For all your talk of turning them out into the street on busy nights, However, You've always found some place for the tiny folk to stay, Even if it means letting them buzz about the key cabinet at reception all night. These are the types of little kindnesses you learned from your grandmother, The one-time proprietor of the witch's brew. Though the first bricks of the inn were laid before she was even born, You always think of her as its founder. It was she who opened the tavern to anyone, Not just guests of the inn, And renamed it the Witch's Brew. She had a vision of the establishment as a pillar of the magical community, A place to gather in safety, Comfort, And good company. She taught you all kinds of ancient wisdoms, From the art of cookery to the powerful magic of hospitality. You remember baking cookies by her side when you were very little. She had the uncanny ability to bake without keeping time or measuring ingredients. She just knew it all by heart. Exactly how much of what to mix in the dough, Exactly what moment to remove the tray from the oven when the cookies were just right, And soft in the middle, And just going golden brown on the edges. To you, That seemed a potent form of magic. It still does. And you remember, Too, That she never turned anyone away. Human, Non-human, Or somewhere in between. In fact, She took pride in accommodating all sorts of folks. She had rooms large enough to suit giants, And chambers warm enough for the yeti. She could fill a room with water for the comfort of a mermaid, Without damaging the carpet. And all regardless of their means, If someone needed a roof over their heads, Be they human or fae, Or a bite to eat, Or simply a place to sit and gather their strength, She always found a way to help. You try to carry that with you in your work. Even pesky pixies need a show of kindness and faith, And even they need a warm place to sleep. The same is true for the guest in room 6, Which you skip over now on your routine checks. As you pass the door, Noting the relative silence of the hallway as you do so, You wonder if they are hungry at all, And whether you should send up some food, Just in case. But they know how to reach you, You reflect, Recalling the paper airplane they sent before. While most of the rooms in the inn are opened traditionally with a key, There are a few outliers. Some are opened by secret spells, And some by words of power, And some by more esoteric means yet. The door to room 9, For example, Is hung with a painting of a sphinx, And can only be opened by answering its riddle. It's a charming attraction enjoyed by out-of-town guests, Who are often willing to pay a premium for the novelty, But come gasping down to reception at all hours, Insisting they've been locked out, Stumped by the riddles of the moving, Talking painting. Even you, The building's owner, Have to answer the smiling sphinx's questions to be granted access for routine maintenance, But you fancy you've gotten rather good at deciphering its puzzles. Tonight, The sphinx is curled up, Cat-like, On a crumbling column in her painting, But she is not asleep. With one eye open and a syrupy smile curled across her lips, She has been watching you come down the hall, Your keys all a-jangle. Now, On your approach, She picks up her head and stretches her front paws out before her. Her body is like that of a lioness, Though her head is of a human woman. Her riddling smile and knowing eyes always remind you of Mona Lisa. They betray little of the vast knowledge contained in her mind. Folded by her side are feathered wings, Blue and red and gold against her lion's fur. In the murky background of her painting lies the city of Thebes. She guards the gates as securely as the room beyond the door. You greet her with a lowering of your head, Which she returns. You state your intent to enter the room, Only to ensure that it's all in ship shape. The sphinx opens her mouth and begins her riddle. I am a creature without flesh, Without bone, Without vein, Without blood, Without head, Without feet. In field, In forest, Without hand, Without foot, I travel far. I am as wide as the surface of the earth. I was here before the flood, And yet I was not born. I am known by every living being, And yet I have never been seen. Who am I? You take a deep breath, As if trying to gather up all the wisdom contained in the building and absorb it into yourself. Field and forest, Not born, Never seen, But known by everyone, Wide as the surface of the earth. As you're pondering the question in your mind, You take a moment to appreciate the poetry with which the sphinx delivers her puzzling questions. You close your eyes, Searching your senses and thoughts for an instinct or an answer. You picture the globe, Clouds swirling over a blue surface, Waves churning in the seas, Fields of grass and floral meadows waving in the breeze, Trees with their leaves of flutter, Wind off the surface of a great lake. Then it comes to you, What creature is as wide as the surface of the earth, Has no hand, No foot, But travels nonetheless, Is known by all but remains unseen. You open your eyes and answer confidently, Wind. With an impressed air, The sphinx bows her head again and allows the door to slowly open. You enter and complete your checks, All is well within, And the rest of the rooms are well in order too, You find. It's about time you went back down into the barroom to see how your dinner guests are faring. The atmosphere is jocular despite a settling of sleepiness over the guests who've indulged in tonight's heartiest specials. It's that lovely haze of contentment that sparkles in a warm room, Surrounded by friendly acquaintances, And nourished by good things to eat. A few of the guests are curious about dessert, And you've got a delicious bread pudding already warming in the oven. Once served, The wandmaker Le Fleur wonders aloud if you'll join them for a nightcap or some tea. You've been working so hard, He says, We've scarcely seen you all summer, Can't you take a break? You hesitate, Thinking of the mess of dishes and pans in the kitchen that need tidying up, But on seeing the smiling faces of your fellow denizens of Surrey Alley, You eventually nod and take a seat among them. The second you sit down, You feel the weight of exhaustion you've carried throughout the day, And indeed throughout the season. With a heavy sigh, You seem to melt into the chair, Your muscles relaxing in places you didn't even know you were tensing. The crackling fire sends waves of warmth in your direction, Easing you into a state of peace and rest. The end of the busy season is like a deep exhale, You think, A release into the darker half of the year. Settling into yourself and your surroundings, You join a conversation already in progress. The various merchants and craftspeople of Surrey Alley are discussing new developments in magical technique and education that must be accounted for in their businesses. The School of Sorcery will soon be offering more advanced coursework in alchemy, For example, And the bookseller Percival looks forward to seeking out new translations of the Emerald Tablet and other Hermetic volumes. The wand-making duo, Master and Apprentice, On the other hand, Have challenges to face in their craft. Le Fleur is an internationally renowned wandmaker, And each handcrafted wand contains a magical item or artifact at its core, Typically gathered from fantastical creatures. Mermaid Scales, Unicorn Hair, And Powdered Horn of Minotaur are popular choices, And the combination of wood and coir determines the wand's strength and focus. Hazel wands are good for divination, And Mermaid Scales amplify the magic of dreams, So a likewise combination makes for powerful dream sorcery. But as the modern world becomes increasingly interconnected and wilderness dwindles, Magical creatures are pressed further and further into hiding. It's becoming harder, Le Fleur explains, For even the most experienced tracker to discover their hiding places. Arne can speak to this as well. But here, Le Fleur's Apprentice has insights to offer, And she speaks up for the first time. You learn her name, Agatha, And of her ambitious ideas to revolutionize wandcraft. She believes that the same or greater levels of potency can be achieved in wands without a magical core, Simply by infusing the wandmaking process with the energy of ritual. Harvesting from trees grown in magically saturated spaces, Or that absorb water from sacred springs and wells. Planting new trees with genuine intention. She lights up as she talks, And it gives you great pleasure to see how the others, Some decades her senior, Seem to be inspired by her ideas. Here's a young mind with commitment to sustainable change and to making the world even more enchanted. It's good to see her taken seriously, Even admired by the older generation. The evening slips slowly into more casual chat, No more shop talk. You learn about the goings-on with everyone's families, Familiars, And homesteads, Where they hope to travel this year. You're pleased that a space you've made, Inherited, Yes, But still shaped by your influence, Facilitates such joyful, Authentic connection between people. The hearth feels like a gift, A cherished space of abundance and intimacy. And soon, With side farewells and utterances of gratitude, The party disbands. One by one, The guests depart, Cheeks rosy and ready for sleep. You see the last folks off, An invigorating wind, Fresh with autumnal chill, Blows in through the door before you secure it behind them. You think of the Sphinx's riddle, About wind as an unseen force that's ever-present, Always transmitting its own intelligences, Bringing messages about the changing seasons, And sweeping on the fragrance of long-forgotten places and moments. You plan to simply pass through the barroom on your way to the kitchen, The last guests having left. But to your surprise, The room is not empty. Seated at a table in the corner, Looking sheepish, Is a young woman. It's the guest from room 6, You realize. This is the best look you've had at her. When she checked in, There was a veil draped over her face. And the moment you handed her the key, She was off in a flash. She has long, White blonde hair and bright, Unearthly eyes. Got hungry, You ask? She nods, Trying to hold back a bashful grin. Well then, I can make just about anything you like. What strikes your fancy? A few minutes later, You return from the kitchen with the young lady's request. She gratefully digs in. You need anything else, You know how to find me. Before you walk away, You catch a glimpse of a silky something in her hair, What looks like a white feather sticking out beneath the dresses. So, At last, You take on the mountain of dishes in the kitchen. It's made easier by your skill at magic, Your wand as a helpful accomplice. But still, It's a large effort to orchestrate. The rinsing, The scrubbing, The drying, And the putting away. It's a ballet of pots, Saucepans, Plates, And bowls. You hum a little tune to keep up the effort, When your grandmother used to whistle, So you've never known the words. When finally, The last of the pans has found its graceful way onto its hook, And the last wine glass chimes delicately into place upon the shelf, You feel rather pleased with yourself. You step back out into the dim barroom, Where the young lady's table now sits empty in the corner, Her plate clear and gleaming in the firelight. You wave your wand lazily toward the fireplace, And the flames hush, Smolder, And go out completely. In the low light that remains from the lamps on the walls, And the gentle spill of moonglow from the window, You can see a trail of white feathers, Shining like drops of snow on the carpet, Leading up the steps toward room 6. You pick up one of the feathers and twist it between your fingers for a moment. Turn no one away, You think. Human, Non-human, Or somewhere in between. Everyone deserves a place to rest their heads. And at the thought, You realize how much you yearn now for such a place. You bolt the front doors for the night, Dim the lamps, And retire to your quarters, Which lie concealed behind the reception desk. You've got a window in your room onto the alley between buildings, Where the moon now slices through with a shimmery light. All is very quiet, Even the creaky floorboards beneath your feet seem more hushed than usual. They're getting used to the slower pace as well. You wash up in the bathroom and get ready for bed, Humming that same little tune to yourself, The one your grandmother used to whistle. You decide to crack the window a little, To allow in a gentle breeze. It has just the faintest edge of a chill in it, A harbinger of oncoming fall. And finally, You climb into bed, Drawing the covers over you snugly. Your body settles and softens and you close your eyes. As the breeze lightly curls around you, Freshening the room with the scent of summer's end, You think of the journey the wind takes each night and day. Wide is the earth, And always moving, Never seen. It's easy for someone like you to be unseen too. The makers of comfort and hospitality, The invisible forces who straighten the bedclothes and prepare the meals. But tonight, You were seen. You were witnessed and appreciated by your peers. You were invited to join the merriment, However quiet it was. You think of the pixies, Snoozing in their drawers and cabinets. The sphinx, Curled up on her pedestal, Dreaming up riddles. The guest in room 6, Finding shelter in a time of transition. And with a deep, Audible sigh, You feel your breath like wind in your body. You feel connected to everyone who shared this space tonight, And everyone who has ever passed through, And will pass through in the future. And you savor the sweetness of this season above all. You sleep on the edge of a glittering curtain of magic, In the space between riddles and spells. Let your body settle into place, Softening, Relaxing, Becoming as comfortable as possible wherever it is you're resting. Trying to let go of whatever happened today, And whatever may happen tomorrow. And just be here in the moment. Notice the little movements your body makes, Even at its most peaceful point of stillness. The breath moving through you, The constant cycle, The muscles of your face, The eyes behind your eyelids, And your nose. If it feels right, You can set an intention for sleep. Don't think too hard about it, Just allow it to arise naturally. If you need inspiration, You might try something like, I sleep deeply, Releasing worry. Or, I wake rested, Refreshed and energized. Hold your intention, Repeat it three times in your head, Feeling it as if it is deeply true. And then release it, As you allow your mind to soften, Just like your body. If thoughts rise to your mind, Simply acknowledge them, And let them travel on like wind. There is nothing quite like the hustle and bustle of a major train station. The echo of voices and footsteps that blend into a murky clamor. The dance of scents as you pass by the stalls of coffee and freshly baked pastries and pies. The mix of emotions and paces. Here, A woman sits reading a tattered old book, Lazily sipping her tea, Having undoubtedly arrived hours before her departure. There, A family sprints across the marble floors to make their train. You feel fortunate that you fall somewhere in the middle, With plenty of time to make it to the platform, But not enough downtime to succumb to boredom. That's all very well, You think, Until you consider that these are rather unusual circumstances, And that you're not really sure how to find the platform in question. All you have to guide your way, You and your admittedly overstuffed suitcase, Is a scroll of parchment. But the scroll of parchment, Currently rolled up tightly and tucked in your coat pocket, Is no ordinary piece of paper. It arrived one day, Nearly three months ago, Tied to the leg of a raven of all things. And on that day, The parchment appeared to be an acceptance letter. A notice informing you that you had been selected for admission at the most respected school of sorcery in the world. At the time, Though you thought it must be a prank, You coveted the letter and kept it beneath your pillow, Where you could pull it out each night and read it over and over by lamplight. But silently, You wished with all your heart for the message to be real. You've always believed in magic, Deep down, It would be a dream come true. The funny thing about the parchment, Though, Is that after some time, Its contents began to change. One morning, After waking from an unusual dream, You felt the sudden urge to check that it was still under your pillow. And, To your surprise, You found a new message that replaced the invitation to the school. Now, The curly script letters comprised a list of textbooks and magical supplies you would need to obtain before starting school. And directions to the recommended shops for purchasing. This was when you began to suspect something truly magical was at work. Had you not already been introduced to the hidden world of wizardry through your school supply shopping trip, You doubt you would have had the courage to show up at the train station today. But the enchanted scroll of parchment steered you true before. So only days ago, When its contents changed again, This time including a departure time, A platform number, And a packing list, Your heart began to flutter. Soon, You'll be on your way to study magic and sorcery. And now that you've arrived at the station, You refer to the parchment once more. It's changed again. And at this, You breathe a sigh of relief. Now, Along with the departure time, The elegant script displays step-by-step directions for accessing the platform. First, The parchment instructs you to locate the elevator bank. On the station's south side, Scanning the busy terminal, Your eyes land on a pair of elevators with ornate art deco design. Doors embellished with gold relief. These must be the ones. And indeed, As you glance down at the parchment, You observe a thin line of ink springing up from beneath its surface. Scratching through the first step, As if an invisible quill is marking it complete. So, You stride toward the elevators, Moving right through the foot traffic, With a studied nimbleness to avoid colliding with other travelers. Your unwieldy suitcase wobbles behind you, And you steady it as you approach the lifts. What's next, You wonder. According to your instructions, You are to press the up and down buttons at the same time, Calling both elevators. This you do, And the parchment scratches out step two on your list. There's an old-fashioned dial atop each elevator to indicate its present floor, Complete with brass numbers and arrows. You watch as the dials slowly move, Almost but not quite in unison, Toward the ground floor you occupy. But as you wait, Another traveler joins you. Clad in a three-piece suit and carrying only a compact briefcase, They check their watch and nervously tap a foot against the marble floor. You reference the parchment for what to do next. Before your eyes, Steps two and three begin to move apart from one another, Separating to accommodate the squeezing in of step two and a half. If non-magical travelers are present, Wait for an empty lift before boarding. That's certainly helpful, You think. As you look up, The lift on the right sounds a pleasant chime, And the doors open to allow a half-dozen or so people out. The impatient traveler boards the elevator as soon as there's an opening. Going up, They call to you. I'll get the next one, You say. Suit yourself, Says the traveler, With a look of mild puzzlement as the doors close. Only a moment later, There comes an identical chime from the elevator on the left. Its doors separate to reveal an empty lift, Into which you slide without delay. As the doors close behind you, The invisible quill strikes through step three. Board the elevator. Inside the elevator car, There is a resounding quiet, Especially compared with the cacophony of the station. You're grateful for the moment of peace and space to perform step four, Which involves your wand. At present, Your brand new wand is tucked away inside your coat, And save for the practice wave you gave it in the wand shop, You've not yet had occasion to try it out. At least here, In the privacy of the empty lift, You won't look foolish using it for the first time. You pull the wand from its hidden pocket and grasp it firmly in your dominant hand. Though you're still getting used to the curve of the instrument in your hand, You find that it has an innate warmth, A tenderness, As if it knows you to be its companion. This gives you comfort as you read step four carefully. In accordance with the instruction, You point your wand squarely at the empty space between two buttons and slowly turn your wrist, Muttering a strange incantation. As you perform the gesture, A funny sort of tingling feeling moves down your arm, As though something is activating, Channeling into the wand as an extension of you. The effect is near instantaneous, The light shifts within the elevator from a fluorescent white to a soft golden glow, And inches from the tip of your wand, There in the empty space of the elevator wall, An extra floor emerges. Unlike the other buttons, Simple and round, With standard numbers, This one appears framed by decorative flourishes and is marked with a roman numeral. On the parchment, Step four crosses itself out. Step five, Naturally, Is to push the button. As soon as you do, You feel the familiar sensation of momentary weightlessness associated with the start of the elevator moving along its track. But as the car moves slowly, You find it increasingly difficult to sense in which direction it's traveling, Whether up or down, Or even on some lateral or transverse plane. Vaguely, Though you're enclosed in a windowless space, You understand that you are leaving the confines of the ordinary train station, Moving into some other world, Or passing through a kind of enchanted curtain. At last, The elevator comes to stillness. In the instant before the doors open, You feel the swell of butterflies in your belly. As magical as everything that's led you here has been, This is the moment. What lies beyond these doors? A hidden world? An answer to all your impossible dreams? A call to a marvelous adventure? Or will you simply step back into the mundane frenzy of the station, The ordinary life you've led till now? Teased with the promise of a world of enchantment and tossed back, You take a deep breath to slow your heartbeat and calm your racing mind. Whatever these doors reveal, You are ready. After what seems like a lifetime, The doors at last part, Sliding open to reveal, Steam and stone. You step out of the lift onto the solid floor of the train platform, In the shadow of a great engine, Gleaming gold and black and scarlet, And issuing steam in voluminous clouds. Where are you in space, You wonder. The platform feels vaguely subterranean, Yet somehow not entirely of this Earth at all. But then come the sound of people's voices, Doting and laughing, The sounds of heartfelt goodbyes and sincere well-wishes, And all your pondering melts into your mind. What does it matter, Really? You're here, Among others, Standing before the train to your new life. You weave your way, Suitcase trailing behind you, Through the leagues of families and travelers on the platform. Also on the air are the sounds of owls hooting, Ravens croaking, Cats chirping, And other assorted animal noises. Some students, It seems, Already have their very own familiars to accompany them to school. You pass the time before boarding, Just observing the whimsies and eccentricities of your fellow travelers. Many of them don cloaks or floor-length robes, Only you wear what you'd consider relatively ordinary street clothes. And you see the most magnificent hats, Too, Some of which come to a point and some of which are elaborately decorated with florals, Crystals, And the like. Perhaps you think you should have dressed differently to blend in better here, But you do have your school uniform robes in the overstuffed suitcase. Soon you'll fit right in with these folks. You feel a rush again of butterflies as the conductor makes the boarding call. Every moment, Every move is a step closer to your new, More magical life. You make for the nearest door, Weaving through dozens of other young witches and wizards in their mountainous luggage. When you make the steps up, You find yourself in the kind of well-appointed luxury train car you thought hadn't been the norm since the 1920s or so. It exudes golden age glamour, From the mahogany siding and ceiling panels, To the art deco window frames, To the crimson velvet chairs and sofas strewn with throw pillows. At first, You think there are elegant chandeliers hanging from the ceiling, But on closer inspection, You find that the soft, Daisy light of the train car is coming from a series of floating orbs arranged in orbital patterns and gently bobbing in the still atmosphere. You can't stop for long to admire the furnishings, However, Because a steady stream of passengers are clamoring to board behind you. So on you move through the train, Passing through to the next car. Under normal circumstances, You might have taken the first open seat, And certainly those velvet couches looked cozy as anything, But curiosity and amazement compel you forward. Passing through the doors, You find that the next car is furnished entirely differently. It's altogether darker for one, But it's lush and opulent. The seating banks are upholstered with black and gold damask, Abutting the sills of pointed lancet windows. The walls are painted a deep, Engrossing plum, And in the spaces between windows, Gold candelabras hold violet candles that flicker and glow. Strange, However, That no wax drips from beneath the wicks of the tapers. They burn seemingly without melting, Like an eternal flame. The whole car radiates gothic romance and grandeur. On you go through another set of doors, Into what turns out to be a dining car. There are small tables lining the car, Covered with pressed white linens, And each with its own charming place settings. Silver gleams under natural light, And a little bud vase rests on each table, Containing a single spray or garden rose. In the center of the car is a rosewood bar, Curved and polished to shine, And behind the bar are shelves and shelves of the most curious-looking bottles, Containing liquids of every color. The sign on the bar reads, Today's Special Potions Laughing Juice Lavender Nap Water Ginger Draft for Motion Sickness Then there are platters and dishes of pastries and sweets stacked on the buffet. Fresh finger sandwiches, Candied apples and puddings galore. My, You think, What a wonderful assortment of snacks to be sampled. You make a mental note of the location of the dining car to return when you get hungry. You move through one more set of doors into the next car, Which has a narrow passage on one side and is lined on the other with private travel compartments. Feeling like now is a good moment to claim a seat, You duck into one of the open compartments. As the door falls closed behind you, A sense of calm and quiet falls. The very pleasant and specific feeling of having completed the most cumbersome steps of travel, And of having the freedom to spread out, Relax, And be borne away toward a new place. Then, Hoisting your suitcase up onto a luggage rack, You settle into the comfy, Cushioned seat on the forward-facing side of the compartment. In the passageway beyond the door, A line of other passengers glide by. You hear the sounds of muffled laughter and conversation. The compartment has its share of wondrous features you discover. There's a bank of buttons next to your seat, Marked with indications like recline, Heat, Cool, And sleep. You press this last button just to see what happens. Slowly, The cushioned bench shifts beneath you, Expanding and unfolding into a plush bed. Fluffy pillows appear out of thin air, Along with a thick comforter. Though it's early in the day still, The comfort of the sleeper set very nearly tempts you into a luxurious nap. But there's a part of you that can hardly bear to miss an instant of the journey. So you press the reset button to return your seat to its original state. As you're pondering which of the many buttons to try next, The door to your compartment swings open. Framed in the doorway is a witch about your age, With thick-rimmed glasses and dark green robes. Sorry, She says. It's filling up quite fast. Do you mind if I take that seat or are you saving it for someone? Not at all, You say, Gesturing to the open bench across from you. You're welcome to it. Thanks, She says, Flashing you a luminous gap-toothed grin. Despite her rather apologetic request, She exudes confidence. Her presence instantly makes you feel very at peace, As if you've known her for many years. She lifts her trunk into the luggage hold and flops down on the seat across from you. I'm Charlotte, She says. Is this your first year as well? You nod vigorously and volunteer your name. Good, She says with a sigh of relief. I was so worried I'd end up seated next to a fourth or fifth year, And they'd laugh at me bungling all my spells practice. You can do spells, You ask, A flame of curiosity rising in you. Oh, Not very well, She says with a flippant wave of her hand. But I grew up watching my parents do them all the time, And I've only just got my first wand. I can't wait to give some of them a crack. Charlotte goes on to list a dizzying number of spells she hopes to test out, So she'll be able to impress the teachers when she arrives at school. Spells for household chores, Spells for summoning items across a room, Spells for conjuring fire and water, And dozens more. Meanwhile, With a hiss of pistons, A high-pitched whistle, And a slow acceleration, The train begins to pull away from the station. Billowing clouds of steam obscure the onlookers and well-wishers who stand on the platform, Waving goodbye to their loved ones. And you ask Charlotte what it was like growing up in a family that practiced magic. You yourself never knew such a world existed, Until recently. For her, It all seems very matter of fact. Magic, Spells, Potions and the like were a part of her everyday existence, Just like brushing your teeth or combing your hair. You suppose it would be easy to take it for granted that way. Privately, You make yourself a little promise to never stop appreciating the wonder of magic and the good fortune you've had to be invited into it. The train passes briefly through a dark tunnel as it leaves the platform for good, Then emerges into cloudy daylight. The city is nowhere to be seen, Surely miles behind you already, And out the wide window there is only green and gold, Magnificent fields of wheat. You and Charlotte talk about the school that awaits you at the end of the journey. Her parents went there and apparently told her many stories about their time in its hallowed halls. All the great witches, Wizards, Warlocks and sorcerers of the last millennium were trained there, She says. The school is housed in a castle from the early middle ages, A castle to think you'll be spending the next several months of your life living in a medieval castle. And now Charlotte digs through her bookbag to produce a thick volume, Clearly new but already marked with a dozen dog-eared pages. It was founded by the legendary wizard and counselor to King Arthur himself, Merlin. You recognize the book, An exhaustive history of the school of sorcery, From your own packing list. Your unopened copy is stuffed somewhere in the pockets of your suitcase, Along with your potions book, Spell books, And grimoires. I wonder what sort of classes we'll take in the first year, You say. Oh, Just the fundamentals in the first term, Charlotte responds. Potions, Herbalism, Magical theory, And so on. But my mother said, When we're back from holiday, We can choose a special subject. At least, That's how they did it when she was at school. Things like divination, And alchemy, And creative magic. Creative magic? Another surge of interest and curiosity bubbles up within you. Sure, Says Charlotte. Channeling magic to make art, Or music, Or whatever you like. My mother says it sounds easy, But it's really challenging. I'd like to have a go at it either way. Me too, You say, Your head spinning at the amount of new information. You're not sure what you expected to find at the school of sorcery, But with every new thing Charlotte brings up, You feel more and more exhilarated, And as if you've only scratched the surface of what magic has to offer. Say, Charlotte interjects, As the countryside whizzes by outside. Are you hungry or anything? Fancy a dip into the dining car? You respond that you'd be thrilled to join her. Together, You exit the compartment and pass through to the dining car. You feel a little bit of a lift to know that already, You've made something of a friend. A few minutes later, You return to your compartment carrying armfuls of chocolates, Sandwiches, And other assorted treats, Which you dump across a pull-out table between you. You've each gotten yourselves a potion, Too, From the bar. Charlotte chose the special formula for sharpening one's mind, Flavored with pomegranate. You went for the relaxation blend. It's delicately fragrant and herbal. You take your first sip as you sit down once more. At once, You feel a delightful fuzziness fill your head, Muscles you didn't know were tensing swiftly release. Your shoulders drop from your ears, Your jaw unclenches, And your brow uncreases. You pour over the bounty you've pillaged from the dining car. Most of it is recognizable fare, But some of the sweets are unfamiliar to you. You're most intrigued by a package of funny-looking licorice twists. Oh, I've heard of these, Says Charlotte. You can only get them on board this train, They're a specialty. Look! She clears a space on the table and unwraps the package. She arranges the licorice twists meticulously, Joining up the edges, Until it's clear to you that the twists are molded in the shape of train tracks, Which fit together like pieces of a puzzle into a connected oval. Charlotte removes the final piece of licorice from the package. This one is in the shape of a little steam engine, Very like the train in which you now so comfortably ride. She sets the tiny train on the tiny track, And instantly it begins to chug along. You can't help but giggle, The thing is so charming and whimsical. Now, As the licorice train makes its jaunty way around the track, Making its own imitation of a steam whistle, Little wisps escape its smokestack. Puff, Puff, Puff, Each cartoonish wisp a different color, Floating up to your eye level. You reach out to pluck one of the puffs from the air, Discovering that it's made of candy floss. They're all different flavors, Charlotte remarks, Letting one of the puffs dissolve on her tongue. Yum, Lemon. Outside the train window, The landscape unfolds into a crescendo of undulating hills. The sun falls through breaks in the clouds into patches of gold on the grass. The train moves smoothly along the track, The sound of the engine, A steady hum all around. In time, The midday sun diminishes as grayish clouds gather in force. It doesn't look like rain exactly, But there's a simmering charge about it, A sense of nature bracing, Preparing for change. In turn, The landscape takes on a kind of pearly, Atmospheric luminosity that turns the mind toward magic and mystery. Charlotte pulls out her wand, An eager grin on her face. Now that you've enjoyed refreshments and are well settled in, She's anxious to start practicing some spells. You'd be welcome to join. You retrieve your wand as well. Charlotte expresses some admiration for yours, Which makes you feel rather pleased. Not that you had much of a hand in choosing it. You tried several out, And this was the first wand you came across in the shop that felt natural in your hand. The wandmaker insisted it was a perfect match. Charlotte pulls another book from her bag, This one titled, Simple Starter Spells for the Student of Sorcery. You try to read the title out loud, But it collapses into an ambiguous sussuration before you remark that it's quite the tongue twister. Charlotte laughs, Flashing her charming grin again. The book falls open between you to an early page, Its spine crackling pleasantly in the way that only happens with new books. The smell of freshly printed ink permeates the air in the train car. On the pages in question, The left-hand side includes a detailed description of what's called the color-changing charm. On the opposite page is an illustration of a young wizard holding his wand aloft. But as you look longer at the picture, You're surprised to see it shift slightly under your gaze. Yes, It's true, You think. The picture is moving of its own volition. Every few moments, A spark of light shoots from the wizard's wand, Which is pointed at a vase upon a pedestal. With each wave of the wand, The vase changes color. From pale blue to brick red, And from brick red to chartreuse. It says to choose an object within range, And to concentrate deeply on the color you'd like to change it to, Charlotte reads. She reaches for one of the unopened candies near the edge of the table, Wrapped in bright red paper. Right, She says, I'm concentrating on violet. She closes her eyes tightly, Scrunching up her nose along with it. Then, A wave of calm seems to flush over her from head to toe. You watch with amusement as her forehead, Eyes, And face relax, Taking on a serene expression. She opens her eyes, Which are now in a soft focus, And with a subtle gesture of her wand hand, Utters the incantation, Mutatio Viola. A wisp of pale purple smoke escapes the tip of Charlotte's wand, And you flick your gaze down to the candy wrapper. As if dipped in unseen dye, The brilliant red of the paper bleeds and fades to a soft brownish-purple, Almost a muddled mauve. Charlotte picks up the candy and holds it into the light. It's almost violet, You say, In a half-hearted attempt at validation. Not bad for a first try, I suppose, Charlotte says, Summoning a note of cheerfulness. Do you want to give it a go? You jump at the chance, Choosing a new subject, A spare button that's lingered at the bottom of your coat pocket for a year or more. You spin the book round to look closely at the instructions. There's the general incantation, Mutatio, And an index of different target colors and the magical utterance associated. You turn the button over in your hands, Feeling the smooth surface, The ridges, And the little pinholes, And imagining the shiny black button turning to its opposite, A pure white. And gripping your wand in the other hand, You close your eyes, Picturing the shining white button in your mind's eye. Your mind invites the image of a white swan gliding across the waters of a lake in the mist. And now, The image of a shimmering pearl in the chamber of an oyster. And now, The undisturbed surface of a snowbank, Bright under winter sunlight. Finally, All these images dissolve into a swirling brilliance behind your eyelids, And melt into a sensation of glowing warmth that travels throughout your body like a current. You take a deep breath, Easing into the sensation. It feels in the moment like you are entirely possessed by the embodiment of magic. If you could only harness it, Channel it, You feel like you could do incredible things. But it's almost overpowering the magic. The light longs to spill out from your fingertips into the world. And at last, When you feel so charged, So electrified that you can wait no longer, You open your eyes, Point your wand at the shiny black button, And say the incantation, Mutatio Albus. A shimmer of white light escapes your wand, And the button beneath ripples as if it's momentarily changed substance to a kind of liquid. In the ripple, A wave of white pigment rises, Then solidifies under the surface of the button, Swirled in a kind of marble effect within the remainder of the black coloration. Then stillness. A multi-hued button rests before you, Part white, Part black, Combined into an abstract sort of yin and yang. For a few moments, You sit in silence, A bit dumbfounded by what you've just experienced. You've cast your first spell, And it worked, Kind of. But more than that, You felt magic, In your physical presence, In your body, As part of you. It arose within you instinctive and wildly familiar, The provocation of something you've always held, Always guarded, Deep within. For the first time, You understand why you received the letter, And why you've been invited to study at the School of Sorcery. Because magic doesn't come from a wand, Or a cauldron, Or a book. It comes from you. The wand is just a tool, A focus. You are magic. The sensation of warmth and light is dissipating within you, Softening and dissolving like melting snow. But you can feel that it isn't leaving you, It's only taking a new shape, Resting deep beneath the surface, Until you're ready to awaken it once more, To kindle its bright fire. Wow, Says Charlotte, Picking up the button and inspecting it. That's really rather good, You know. Are you sure you've never done magic before? And now you're not so sure. Perhaps you've never performed a formal spell, Or brewed a potion, But this magic has always been a part of you. And perhaps it's made its mark on your world in unseen ways, Without you ever knowing, Showing you the better of two paths to take, Guiding your hand in any creative endeavor. Outside the train window, The sky deepens to a dramatic azure. The landscape grows rougher, More textured, And more immense as you go. Easy hills give way to towering cliffs and craggy emerald mountains. The train trundles now over a parapeted viaduct, All concrete and momentous arches. And off in the distance, Past a smattering of trees with bright pink blossoms, Is the dark, Turgid surface of a vast lake. Maybe it's all in your mind, Drawn out by the experience you've just had, But it's like you can feel your surroundings tingling, Opening, Unveiling to mystery. This is just the kind of place where you'd expect to see legends walking the earth and great magic reveal. With a sense of newfound confidence and self-awareness, You turn back to the book of spells and flip to the next page. Can we try this one, You ask, Pointing to a charm for levitating small objects. Charlotte grins, Eager to practice more. So, On you go, Moving through the beginner spells and charms, Casting meager beams of light from your wands, Invoking minor illusions, And freezing and unfreezing the last drops of your potions in their cups. At times, The results are so inadequate or humorous that you and Charlotte double over laughing. Other times, On the second or third try, One of you produces a near-perfect result. Charlotte manages to conjure a small mist that thoroughly fogs up the train window and the lenses of her glasses. You successfully clear it away with a well-placed wand wave and chant. With every spell, You feel your connection to the wand deepening, Your hand closing more comfortably around it, And a quiet warmth seeming to emanate from it. It's like the wand has a mind and a will of its own, Yet it bends with grace to your intentions. You nurse the last sips of your relaxation potion. Even in all the animated efforts of practicing spells with Charlotte, It softens your heart, Mind, And body. It eases you forward and onward, As though bearing you through an invisible portal toward a new, More present, More magical you. And as the day wanes and the sky darkens beyond the windows, The glittering highlands catching the sunlight and casting long shadows over the earth, It also soothes your spirit, Slows you down, Aligns your breath and body to the gentle rocking and rumbling of the movement of the train on the track. Without ever calling your practice to a formal close, And indeed without really noticing it yourself, You gradually drop your wands, Adopting a slower pace and a softer tone. You exchange theories about what you'll learn on the first day of class, What the teachers will be like, And which dormitory you'll be placed in. Mostly, Though, You listen to Charlotte's second-hand stories of the school, Gleaned from her parents' wistful waxings. You slip sweetly into a serene, Almost trance-like state. Your head falls gently against the window of the train, And you let go a carefree sigh. You wonder aloud how much further to the school. You've been traveling for many hours, Surely, But the time has flown by in friendly company. Stifling a yawn, Charlotte remarks that the school is way up north, But that's all she knows. The location is a bit of a secret, Naturally, But it can't be much longer. There's always a fabulous welcome feast, And it must be nearing suppertime. She reclines back in her seat, Lazily flipping through the pages of the history book, Eyes swimming sleepily behind her glasses. A spark of thrill and curiosity burns bright within you, But it's pacified by waves of stirring comfort, The sway of the carriage, The sound of steam-powered locomotion. You so want to be awake when you reach the school, To see the castle looming on the horizon, Illuminated by magic and moonlight. But it couldn't hurt to rest your eyes, Just for a moment. And just before you let your heavy eyelids fall, You cast first a glance at Charlotte, Peacefully reading and also seeming to fight off waves of drowsiness, And then out the window once more. The sun dips behind the rugged peaks, Sending splendid scarlet rays across the undersides of the moody clouds. You cling to the color, The sensation, And the intuition of the moment. The warmth of the wand still loosely gripped in your hand, The reassuring feeling of sharing space with a new friend, A companion with whom to navigate a new phase of your life, The quivering impermanence of the light and landscape outside, The lingering prickle of the warm, White magic within you, Waiting to be called up once more to serve an intention. All this, A swirling eddy of fleeting experience, The alchemy of a single perfect moment, Rocked tenderly like a cradled child, You succumb to the irresistible tug of sleep. The train carries on, Over earth and water, Toward a glimmer, A portal, A world of secret magic revealed. Though you're no longer a little one, The rituals surrounding All Hallows Eve never fail to send you into a state of pure, Childish glee. The feeling of bright giddiness runs through you like a current of electricity, Made ever more tingly and effervescent by the rush of students down the marble staircases toward the feasting hall. Voices, Laughter, And shouts and whispers bounce off the thick stone walls of the castle, Home to a centuries-old school of sorcery. Your feet, And the feet of hundreds of other young witches and wizards, Fall softly into well-worn grooves in the stairs, Steps once trod by the great sorcerers of the ages. This year, Your final year in school, You're keenly aware of the legacies and shadows in which you walk. Every time you climb or descend this staircase, You glide closer to a nebulous future beyond books and homework and classes. A strange freedom awaits, For which you are equally excited and desperate for time to slow down, So that you might savor the joys of this season. The Halloween celebration is the most highly anticipated annual event at the school. The staff pulls out all the stops in celebrating the occasion, Beginning with the most magnificent banquet supper. Even before you set foot in the hall, The sweet and savory aroma of the Halloween feast wafts toward you, So potent it's almost visible. Your mouth waters at the first whiff, And you feel almost dizzy with delight. The cooks must have truly outdone themselves this time. And as you pass through the doors, Arms hooked with your two best friends to avoid being separated in the supper rush, The sight of the feast nearly knocks you out too. On top of the glorious scent, The hall is decorated from stone floors to cathedral-high ceilings. There are pumpkins of all sizes, Some small enough to fit in your hands, And others nearly the size of houses. These, You know, Were grown in the pumpkin patch by the gamekeeper Caradoc. You could see them growing when looking out of your dormitory window, And you marveled, Each day, At their ballooning size. Some of the smaller ones bob and float in the air, And are intricately carved with enthralling faces, Magical symbols, Or exquisite patterns. Candles flicker in their centers, And across the hall by the thousands. The long tables that line the hall are dotted with magnificent centerpieces, Floral arrangements of pure black, Midnight purple, And deep crimson. Black dahlias, Bat orchids, Queen of the night tulips, And black roses. In between, Elegant gothic candelabras hold dripping white tapers with pooling wax. And oh, Such stunningly plated dishes of food. Rare delicacies, And comfort foods, And homemade candies and desserts are piled in dazzling abundance. A shiver runs up your spine. You and your closest friends, Violet and Brom, Hurry to your favorite table and slide into the benches before you lose the seats. You like to sit closer to the teacher's table on feast nights, And especially the Halloween feasts. This is for a few reasons. Ostensibly, It's to be in sight of the show-stopping centerpieces at the head teacher's seat. But more than anything, It's to get a close look at the teacher's Halloween costumes, For no one puts in such an effort as the teacher's. This year is no exception. There are several eye-catching ensembles at the staff table. Caradoc, Who towers over even the tallest wizards, Makes an exceptionally convincing Frankenstein's monster. The magical history teacher, Professor Lovage, An eccentric but likable character. Is dressed as what must be a 19th century vampire. And the head teacher, A stately, Usually straight-laced woman, Has done herself up as Queen Elizabeth I, Complete with powdered face, Lavish collar, And overstated gown. Decadent pearls and rubies are strung around her neck, And a sparkling diadem rests atop fiery curls. Most astoundingly, She appears to have enchanted the threads of her brocade. The Tudor roses embroidered in her gown bloom and close before your eyes. It's subtle, Captivating magic. As students hurriedly fill the benches, And as eyes widen and mouths water at the sight and smells of the feast, The head teacher stands. All eagerly await her command before digging into the mountains of food. She raises her arms, Gives a word of welcome, And then, With a sparkle in her eye, Cries, Enjoy. The word is hardly past her lips before hands begin reaching for drumsticks, Candied apples, And warm, Flaky hand pies, Where before there was laughter and conversation, Now the only sounds echoing about the hall are the clinking of cutlery and exclamations of culinary delight. It's the most sumptuous, Satisfying meal you can remember, And perhaps even more delicious for knowing that it will be your last Halloween feast here, At least as a student. Indeed, This realization seems to fall upon your shoulders like a cloak. There's a sweet sadness to it, A sense of being already past this moment and looking back upon it with nostalgia. You glance at Brahm and Violet surreptitiously as they gulp down their beverages and enjoy their suppers, And you smile to yourself, Aching to hold the moment just a little bit longer. The smell, And the taste, And the warmth of the feast, Let it sparkle upon your eyes and ears and tongue just a little longer. The student costumes provide a visual delight as well. Nearly everyone has traded in their school uniform, Black robes, Vests, Skirts, And slacks for over-the-top outfits. Plenty of goblins, Ghouls, And ghosts abound, But the best costumes are those that utilize some bit of magic, Like the headteacher's brocade roses. One student, Who you know to be gifted with conjuration, Is dressed as a kind of nature spirit. Birds and butterflies made of wispy smoke sit in her hair and on her shoulders to complete the effect. Another classmate, Who has a talent for pyromancy, Wears a crown of green flames. It's not long before bellies are full, Plates are clean, And the feasting hall reverberates with utterances of satisfaction. A most excellent feast, All seem to agree. The best in anyone's memory. Your cheeks flush with warmth and your head swims. Content and drowsy, You push away your clear dish. As subdued conversation begins again, Out of the corner of your eye, You see the headteacher stand once more. Her brocade blossoms quietly. And she speaks with calm composure. Now that you've consumed your weight in sugar, She says, A smile breaking across her lips, Your teachers and I invite you to join us on the castle grounds for a most beloved tradition. For some of you, It's your very first Halloween or Samhain celebration at this school. For others, It may be the last before you leave our hallowed halls. You feel a small lump in your throat when she says this. I assure you, Wherever you may fall on that scale, This is a night you'll remember for years to come. Now, Despite it being the umpteenth time you've witnessed this exact spectacle, You have to stifle a gasp when the empty dishes and serving ware vanishes without a trace at the wave of the headteacher's wand, Cleverly disguised as a queen's scepter. In place of the tableware at each place setting now sits a small, Tightly wrapped bundle of herbs. You hear exclamations of amusement and delight from around the hall. Earthy floral and herbal perfumes now sparkle above the last traces of sweetness and fruit. Bring your bundle with you as you make your way to the grounds, The headteacher continues. Keep it close. You already know the meaning of the small gifts, And a bittersweet emotion washes over you at the sight. Your bundle, At a glance, Appears to contain sprigs of thyme, Sage, Dried chamomile flowers, And artemisia. You hold the bundle to your nose and inhale the blend of clean, Silvery fragrances. It's different from the herbs you received last year, Lavender, Rosemary, And vervain. You'll have to consult your herb lore texts to find out what these flowers mean. The headteacher urges the occupants of the hall to form orderly queues and travel outside in an organized fashion. She calls on student leaders to help shepherd the movement. There's a titter of anticipation over the crowds, A jumble of voices, Many turned up as questions posed by the youngest student sorcerers who have no idea what to expect. But for you and those who've been here for years, The excitement is no less palpable. You can hardly stop yourself from grinning as you, Brahm, And Violet join a queue toward the heavy oaken doors at the end of the hall. You clutch your bundle of herbs to your chest, Careful not to break the brittle, Dried leaves. There's a gust of crisp, Cool air as you pass through the doors and break from the crowd. The fresh air fills your lungs and dances on your skin, Invigorating after the warmth and drowsiness of the feast hall. The sky is clear, Black, And speckled with stars, Lit brilliantly by a yellow, Waxing moon. The night smells of cinnamon and sweet smoke, And over the rugged, Sloping grounds your eyes locate the source of the smoke and crackle. A large bonfire dances, Throwing orange light onto dark grass and illuminating the nearby circle of stones, The oldest known structure on this ancient, Magical site. Students and teachers spill onto the grounds, And shouts of delight echo into the darkening night. It's a beloved tradition indeed, The Halloween festival, An evening of gleeful activities, Festive customs, And impressive spectacles. Teachers are scrambling to station themselves near various activities and shepherd the crowds. You stick close to your friends. Ram mutters so that only the two of you can hear him. He's laying out a thoughtful strategy to hit all the most popular activities before the closing circle. We'll hit pumpkin carving with Caradoc first, Then flying for apples, Then wind down at the campfire for marshmallows and spooky stories with Professor Lovage. What about the costume contest, Pipes up Violet, Who's gone to great lengths to pull off her snow queen costume. Real snowflakes and icicles, Enchanted so they'll never melt, Speckle her hair, And hang from her shoulders. Bram, Who dons the same half-hearted werewolf costume as every other year, Doesn't seem too interested in the costume contest, But you convince him to at least go with you. To root for Violet. All in all, It sounds like an excellent strategy. Bram has clearly been thinking about this for some time. The crisp air of the night, The sounds of childlike elation on the air, And the growing feeling of nostalgia sends goosebumps down your arms. The back of your neck prickles pleasantly. There will never be another night like tonight, You think, And you intend to make the most of it. And while newer students and those lured by the nearest, Flashiest activities break off to have their faces painted or collect candies and bonbons, You and your friends tumble down the hillside toward the Gamekeeper Caradox cabin near the edge of the forest. It's lit with floating torches and the adjacent pumpkin patch looks just as inviting as the feasting hall, Albeit cozier and quieter. Caradox welcomes you with a jovial greeting. A few other students are not far behind. He encourages each of you to grab a pumpkin. But beware, Those big ones may look like a great blank canvas, But bigger squash means more seeds to scoop. Despite the warning, You, Bram, And Violet decide to carve one of the biggest pumpkins as a trio. It's about the size of a small pony. Violet directs you and Bram to perform incision charms to remove the top of the pumpkin. Part of you almost wants to scoop out the insides by hand. It's tradition, After all. The sensory experience of pumpkin carving. But Violet has a better idea. Being the whiz that she is, She magically transforms the pumpkin seeds into little floating orbs of light, Like will-o'-the-wisps. They float enchantingly inside the pumpkin's enormous cavity, Faintly glowing behind its skin. She's brilliant, Really, Admits Bram to Violet's bashful grin. You work together on the design, Using your perfected incision charms to cut into the pumpkin. As you chip away at the flesh, More of the wispy glow flickers from inside. And when you're finished, The three of you stand back to admire your work. Even Caradoc, Who's trying to instruct a pair of first-year students to manually scoop out their pumpkin as they haven't mastered many spells yet, Hurries over to heap praise on you. You've created a rather impressive design based on the three hares motif. The one with three rabbits, Or hares, Chasing each other in a circle. But instead of hares, Each of you has carved the likeness of your individual animal familiar. Violet's is a cat, Bram's is a falcon, And yours… well, You can remember like it was yesterday when you first sought to acquire a familiar. You went to the Wild Hunt, A shop that collects magically sensitive animals, And the owner instructed you to follow your intuition. You discovered your familiar that day, And the creature has been by your side ever since, Like a protective spirit guiding you through your childhood. While looking at the three familiar circle carved into your oversized pumpkin, You put an arm around Violet and Bram's shoulders. You can't imagine the last few years without them by your side, And you're confident that they'll still be with you on the next step in your lives. It's a comforting thought that no matter where life takes you, You'll always have your friends. As you wish Caradoc a good evening and walk back up the hill toward the castle, You turn back more than once to see how brightly your jack-o-lantern glows. You can see it from all the way up the hill, Steadfast like a beacon. According to Bram's well-thought-out plan for the evening, You make your way to the open pitch for Flying for Apples. In non-magical Halloween gatherings, The traditional activity is bobbing for apples. The fruits float in a barrel of water, And participants attempt to catch an apple between their teeth. But at the school of sorcery, There's a magical twist, As with everything. The apples instead float in the midnight air, And participants must mount flying broomsticks to retrieve one, Though they cleverly dart out of the way. An avid flyer, This is your favorite Halloween game. You borrow a school broom and weave in between the other players, Who are less adept at the art of flying. The cool breeze through your hair and against your skin is refreshing and enlivening. There's a piney, Coniferous scent in the air from the acres of forest beyond the grounds, Mixed with the rich scents of the bonfire and autumn spice. It takes you less than a minute to snag one of the floating apples, Despite its attempt to flick out of your reach. Coming to a smooth landing, You shine the ripe apple against your shirt and take a bite, Laughing as you watch your friends struggle to catch their own. Violet's snowflakes catch a glimmer of moonlight as she glides by. It really is a wonderful costume, You think. And next up, Indeed, Is the costume contest. Though Violet's hair is lightly tousled from the flying, She joins the line of contenders with a clear advantage. There are a few who give her a run for her money, The student wearing a crown of enchanted flames, For example. But Violet grins from ear to ear as she's pronounced the winner, An achievement for which she's striven since your first year here and never quite clinched. Violet takes her trophy with delight, Presented by the divination teacher, And she congratulates the runners-up on their excellent efforts. The stars blink brightly overhead as you endeavor toward your next spot, At the mouth of the forest, Where the magical history teacher leads a quiet campfire. You hear the end of a spooky story as you approach, And take open seats on the trunk of a fallen tree. There's a smattering of applause and a collective shiver among the spectators. You, Violet, And Brom pick up marshmallows and sticks with which to roast them as the teacher begins the next story. Watching your marshmallows slowly brown in the flames, You hardly take in the content of the story, But you enjoy the cadence of the storyteller and the atmosphere it conjures. There's something about Halloween, And you've felt this way since your young childhood, Wherein the scary and the spooky becomes softened somehow. As though, In their moment of most attention, They blur around the edges, Becoming cozy, Comforting, And safe. You're not sure how else to describe it. But the teacher's story evokes this feeling of warmth and unexpected sense of comfort even as it drifts past your lazy attention. The tempered heat from the fire begins to slow your mind down, As you fix on the unpredictable movements of the flames and the depth of its color. As the story comes to an end, You and your friends join the applause, And the teacher announces that it's time to make your way up to the closing circle. Slowly, You and the other students begin to hoist yourselves up from the seats, Moving from the campfire at the mouth of the forest to the larger bonfire atop the hill. The teacher's Victorian vampire costume looks most convincing as they magically extinguish the fire. And as you proceed up the hill, You can see that the other activities are winding down too. As the teachers encourage their participants to move toward the bonfire, It becomes a slow, Spectral procession, Lines of young people silhouetted against the brightness of the leaping flames. You check your pocket for the bundle of herbs you received at the feast. It's there, Safe and intact. The once shrieking student body assumes a quieter, More solemn demeanor as you all approach the bonfire. There's a quiver of something, Energy or magic, Between you, As though you can feel the electric presence of everyone else gathering in the circle, As though they are an extension of yourself. The heat issuing forth from the bonfire is pleasant and prickly. Slowly, All assume a circle around the fire. You stand a row back, Allowing the younger, Smaller students to move forward. Once the circle is assembled, The head teacher, Still resplendent in her queenly regalia, Magically amplifies her voice. She sounds commanding and confident as she speaks over the crackling of the flames. She casts the circle, Invoking the ancestors of all those within it, Inviting them to join this gathering in blessing. On this night, She says, We celebrate the joyful and magical rites of Halloween, A night of merriment and mischief beloved around the world. You've enjoyed your sweets and fun, I hope. But tonight also marks the ancient festival of Samhain, Dear to those who observe old ways and deeply significant to those of us who channel the energies of magic present in this place. You've heard this speech before, But it does not cease to impress you. The grace and poetry with which the head teacher describes the wheel of the year, She goes on. At Samhain, We recognize the changing season, The end of the harvest and the dying of the earth. In that death, The darkening of the skies and the bearing of trees and growth, We also look ahead to the promise of rebirth, The return to the light and the blossoming anew. On this night, We remember our ancestors, For the veil between worlds grows thin and we can feel their presence, Their love, And their blessing from beyond. And as you listen, You picture in your mind the veil manifest, Black and thin and a flutter in the breeze. It feels true, You think. The crisp air and dark sky and leaping flames, The gathering and the energy between all in attendance. There's something here at this fire that was not here before, Something that will dissipate at the moment you break the circle and will never come back again in this form. Again, You feel a sense of nostalgia and of out-of-body observation, As though you look on this as a memory from a great distance. You realize your eyes have swum out of focus, So fixated and mesmerized are you by the dancing fire bright and black all at once. The Head Teacher continues, Just as the days shorten and the leaves fall and the plants die in anticipation of that promised renewal, I invite you to consider how you may follow self-same cycles, How with each passing year you grow and change. Think of where you were, Who you were this time last year. Do you notice anything different? Have you let go of something? Or gained something? How well do you recognize yourself? The question sits like a mist upon you. Surely you've changed in recent months, Not suddenly or abruptly, But slowly and unnoticed. Things that were once important to you now seem frivolous, And things that once seemed like the stuff of a distant future are all at once upon you. As you breathe in the scent of cinnamon and soft smoke, You take stock of many of these changes, And then as you exhale, You feel yourself release them, Accept them, Bless them. The Head Teacher goes on, Is there something in the spirit of rebirth that you can let go of tonight? Each of you, At tonight's feast, Were given a bundle of herbs. The exact bundle you received was conjured specifically for you, By you, According to this point in your journey. I invite you, And please know that this is only an invitation, To think about what these herbs might represent for you. Why you might have pulled these into your hand through your connection to this magic. And consider whether you'd like to take that with you into the rebirth of the new year, Or whether you'd prefer to let it go. And if you choose the latter, I invite you to step forward. And cast your bundle into the fire as an offering. Remember, There is no right or wrong choice, Only truthful choices. Make your choice, In your time. A quiet rustle of whispers snakes through the circle. The Head Teacher steps back, Smiling quietly. For a while, No one moves forward. You retrieve your herbs from your pocket. You're not sure what you'll do. You hold the bundle to your nose and inhale once more. In the chill of the night, It seems different than before. The woodsy thyme and sage climb the ladder of the smoke. Then there's the subtle sweetness of chamomile. The bitter musk of the Artemisia. You wonder again what these herbs symbolize. Closing your eyes, You see vague forms, Human-like but somehow spectral, Gliding like wisps or floating perhaps, Running now, Through moonlit forests with wild abandon. Running alongside the deer, Flitting between the trees like birds. You can feel a smile dance across your lips. When you open your eyes, You know what to do. You are the first in the circle to stride forward. With a deep breath and confident gesture, You cast your bundle of herbs into the flame. As the bundle disappears and dwindles in the fire, You feel strangely light. Around you, Hesitations seem to fall away, And more students come forward, Casting their bundles on the fire. Some stay back, Clutching theirs tightly. Braum still holds his. Violet, However, Her stride loose and gallant, Comes forward with a look of pride. She squeezes your hand when she returns to your side. You continue gazing at the flame, Which swallows bundle after bundle. Pleasant, Flowery, And woodsy fragrances burst into the night briefly, Then dissipate. When stillness falls again over the circle, The headteacher speaks. She releases the circle, The ancestors, And the winds. As she magically dims the bonfire to a low flame, The darkness sets in slowly, And the moonlight takes on a silver-white glimmer. A procession of floating candles and cups appear. The cups slide into every open hand. You take hold of one and feel its warmth against your hand, Replacing the heat of the bonfire. You take a sip of the hot, Spiced cider and feel it warm your insides pleasantly. The circle breaks, And chatter fills in the quiet left by the dying fire. With teachers leading the way, The students make their way across moonlit grass, Toward the entrance to the castle, And ultimately to bed. But before you make it even halfway, You think about the burnt bundle of herbs, The act of letting go. You feel a surge of freedom and abandon, Of blissful and impermanent youth. You whisper for Brom and Violet to hang back a bit. The three of you casually slip back from the crowd, Under the guise of enjoying the moonlight. You've got an idea. Just as the headteacher said, It's a night for merriment and mischief. And you're only young once. There are only so many chances. This chance, Fine and fleeting, Will be gone before midnight. Your friends don't need much convincing. Quietly, And quickly, You steal away toward the pitch where an hour or so earlier you snatched floating apples out of the night sky. The pale moon gleams overhead. The heavy doors of the castle slowly close. You huddle, The three of you, Behind a tree, As Caradoc lumbers down the hillside toward his cabin. Not that he would chastise you if he found you, But it's all the more enjoyable for the secrecy, The mischief. Reaching the pitch, You find school broomsticks lined against the stands. Each of you takes one, Stifling giggles, Mount it, And kick off into the air. Soaring out over the glistening lake, Between the dark green highland hills, Your hair whips in the wind, And face splits into a grin. You skim the surface of the lake, Beneath which lie any number of magical creatures. Birds, Mermaids perhaps, Neptune's horses, Giant squids, The unknown. There's a rush of unbridled joy swelling in your chest, Growing sweeter and more uncontained for the thinness of the veil, This shining moment in the wheel of the year. As you circle higher above the grounds, You and Violet and Brom let loose wild whoops and laughter, You feel young and effortless and unbounded. The embers of your childhood burn low on the side of a mountain, Offered to the flames as a gift, Never again attainable, Yet never lost. In this clean and crisp night air, You and your friends are golden and great and endless. Children, Forever. Whatever lies ahead, Your heart will cherish these fleeting fancies. Feeling your heart open in a way it never has before, You surrender to the future, To the promise of rebirth and renewal, And to the unseen ways you'll change with each passing season. You let go, And in so doing, You fly higher and lighter than you ever have. Soon, You'll touch down again. Your feet will thud upon solid ground and green grass. You'll shush each other as you sneak back up to your dormitories and slide into beds beside your already sleeping classmates. But not yet. For now, You'll soar over mountain and vale and castle and lake, Beneath, Glowing ever on, A jack-o'-lantern lit with the will of the wisps, Enchanted by the bonds of friendship and love and innocence. You lay your quill down beside the scroll of parchment, Stretching your hand against a developing cramp. Picking up the parchment, You blow gently on the still wet ink to speed its drying. When it's sufficiently dry, You roll the parchment up tightly, Fasten a piece of twine in a knot around it, And tie the scroll to the leg of your patient and inquisitive raven, Nora. She does not take off straight away, But waits on the ledge, Her head cocked at an angle and black eyes shining. You roll your eyes, Relenting, And fetch a handful of crushed walnuts from your bag. Nora nibbles at them contentedly, Then affectionately nips at your hand before taking wing. You watch her go, The scroll of parchment secure against her leg, Her wingbeats fluid, Black against a still slate-gray sky. You watch her in flight, Your loyal bird, And imagine what it might be like to soar so. You've ridden a flying broomstick before, A liberating experience, But still you envy the birds, Their wings. She's carrying a letter to a loved one back home. With luck she'll return in a day or two with a response. You're no stranger to being away from home, This not being your first year at boarding school after all, But at the moment you've been feeling somewhat homesick. With Nora well out of sight, You take a deep breath of the frosty air from the window and turn to leave the rookery. A few of the other ravens croak to acknowledge your leaving. Down the spiral stairs you wind toward the sixth floor corridor, Your bookbag slung over your shoulder. You're glad you had time to sneak up to the tower before class, Though carrying around the prolific stack of books has proven burdensome. You stroll through the hall of tapestries in an oft-abandoned corridor of the school during this part of term. The hangings on either wall depict scenes in the life of the founder of the school of sorcery, The great wizard, Merlin. There's a vivid tapestry you pass now which illustrates the young Merlin's prophecy at the court of King Vortigern, Who could not successfully build a castle as every stone he laid came tumbling down. Merlin spoke through his gift of the sight of two great dragons who battled in a lake beneath the earth, One red, One white. Their struggle beneath that very ground was the reason the castle could not stand. The tapestry depicts a crumbling stone tower, Beneath which the dragon's conflict rages, Each beast threatening to break through the ground and swallow the tower whole. The best part about the tapestries? They're sewn with enchanted thread, Which breathes with enchanted life. The pictures woven through them move, Bringing into exquisite relief the action and energy of the stories. You dally for just a moment, Watching the red and white dragon vie for victory. Their tails, Long and serpentine, Twist round each other, Entwining here and there like the tangled roots of an ancient tree, Their claws and teeth bared. Though they're creatures of wrath and fire, You can't help but find them graceful, Beautiful even. And then there's the quiet shifting of the thread itself, Moving like waves on the ocean, Colors blending and unfurling, Gold and white and red and black. On you go past the other tapestries, One portrays Merlin, Bearded and fierce-looking, Directing the construction of Stonehenge in the summer country. In another, The wizard withers between the enclosing brambles of a hawthorn bush as Nimue, Lady of the Lake, Looks on in triumph. But you can't tarry long, Class is starting soon. And indeed, Only moments after leaving the hall of tapestries, As you bound up the stairs of the west tower, Taking the stone steps two at a time, The hourly bells begin to chime. The bells clang and clamor, Resonating deeply throughout the belly of the castle. It occurs to you now that you've never in all these years exploring the school and its grounds, Discovered where those clanging bells reside. But by the time the echoes ring, Vibrating silently in the bones of the stones, You're stepping into the classroom and you've forgotten that curiosity once again. The professor isn't anywhere to be seen yet. Good, You think, That you weren't seen striding in a few moments late. The classroom, Usually sunny, With all its westerly windows, Is greyish in the grim weather of late. A shuffle of books and papers all around you, Mutterings of half-finished conversations as you and your classmates settle into your seats. You always liked this classroom, With its large, Pointed windows and gothic furnishings. Usually, It's here that you report for magical history class, And it's outfitted accordingly, With shelf after shelf of thick, Dusty volumes and busts of famous witches and wizards of the ages. But this term, You're taking a special elective, Only offered when there is enough interest from students at advanced sorcery levels. Intro to Alchemy. From the very first lesson, It was apparent that Professor Lovage, The school's long-serving history teacher, Is uniquely knowledgeable and passionate about the subject. You can feel the enthusiasm dripping from every word, Every gesture the teacher makes. But thus far, Most of the study has been purely historical, An overview of alchemical tradition from around the world, Egypt, Ancient Greece, Medieval Europe, China, And so on. It's interesting, Sure, But it's not quite what you expected. When will we start transmuting metals to gold, You and your classmates have whispered. When will we get a crack mixing the elixir of life, The philosopher's stone? All in due time, The professor's sly smile seems to assure you. You're quite excited about today's lesson, Actually, Because Professor Lovage hinted that you might start to conduct your own experiments at last, And that there was something of a surprise in store for the class today. Already, You're encouraged, For each student's desk is laid in with an array of objects, A small iron cauldron, Three small bottles of powder and liquid, And a feather. From what you can see, And everyone is glancing around the room comparing objects, There are a few different feathers about. Yours is black, Resembling a raven's feather, Like Nora's, But there are white feathers at some desks too, Like that of a swan. Even peacock tail feathers, Iridescent cobalt, Green and black. There's some speculation among you as to the significance of the different feathers. But now the classroom whispers have grown to full-voiced questioning. Where is Professor Lovage? The ever-punctual Professor Lovage. All the teachers at the School of Sorcery reside within the castle during term, So it's not as if anyone has far to travel between classes. The mutterings fall silent, However, When the heavy door of the classroom groans open. Professor Lovage appears in silhouette within the doorframe, Wrapped in a cloak and carrying something large and cumbersome. It's difficult at first to see what it is, But as the professor moves down the aisle between desks, You discern that it's, Well, A birdcage, It seems, Covered by a shroud of purple velvet. Professor Lovage sets the covered cage upon the table at the head of the classroom, Lights the candelabra there with a wand flourish, Takes a big, Enthusiastic inhale, And welcomes the class, As if there were nothing at all unusual about this entrance. Salt, Says Professor Lovage, Grasping and holding aloft a vial of white, Crystalline powder from a desk at the front of the classroom. The word emerges with such finality and confidence that you find yourself looking about the classroom to gauge the responses of others. Has the lesson begun? Is it a question to be answered? Is the professor expecting a response? But a moment later, Sulfur. The professor puts down the vial of salt and picks up another glass bottle on the desk opposite. This one filled with a powdery substance of a pale yellow. Mercury. Another bottle held aloft, This one made of a thick glass and containing a viscous, Silvery liquid. These are the building blocks, The prime essences of the alchemical pursuit. The Tria Prima, The professor continues. You lean forward in your chair, Twirling the stem of the black feather between your two fingers. Salt, Lovage says, Represents the base matters of the world. Crystallization, Condensation, Force, And the physical. The element of Earth. The body. Mercury. This volatile substance, Not quite liquid nor solid, Represents the mind, The space between states, The connective fluid. Tied to the element of air, It bridges states of matter, And it bridges this world and the next. Sulfur, Agent of fire, Of the spirit, The soul. This transcendent element in balance with Mercury is, At least in the minds of alchemists like Paracelsus, The prime material of all other metals. If that's so, It stands to reason, The professor continues, That adjusting the ratio of sulfur in any metal, Lead for instance, Could eventually produce gold. But the principles were applied to medicine too. You gently, Absentmindedly tap the lids of the three glass bottles on your desk as you listen, Salt, The body, Mercury, The mind, Sulfur, The soul. You'll remember, From the very first lesson, Our guiding principle as alchemists, Lovage says, Leaving the statement open with an expectant smile. A whisper snakes through the classroom as, With varying degrees of confidence, Each of you utters the simple recitation, As above, So below. That which is above is like that which is below, And that which is below is like to that which is above, The professor nods. The rotations and revolutions of the stars and planets in their celestial abode, The movement of us animals on the surface of the earth, The tiny atoms and molecules arranging and rearranging in the unseen world, That which is within, And that which is without. The professor is waxing lyrical and cryptic again, This happens from time to time when discussing the opaque history of alchemy, Talk of the cosmos and unknowable forces that govern the very large and the very small. Your eyes linger lazily to the covered cage sitting on the professor's desk, Unremarked upon. You wonder if others are as preoccupied with its presence as you are. According to Professor Lovage, It's in the history of the alchemical tradition that the origins of magic as you know it can be found, The pursuit of the secrets of creation, The universe and its workings. Once this manifold idea was seen as monolithic, A unified effort by alchemists the world over. But as the wheels of the modern world were set in motion, Alchemy diverged. The mystics, Magicians, And sorcerers retreated further into the shadows, Creating from Esoterica a library of spells, Potions, And transmutations. They built schools for young witches and wizards and hid from the rest of the world. But alchemy also lay the groundwork for natural philosophy and modern science, Chemistry, Medicine, The arts that live in the light. Alchemy even when the name of the art was sullied by charlatans at medieval courts produced great geniuses like Isaac Newton, Whose revelation of nature's physical laws transformed the way humans think about the world. And how, The professor wonders, Is that not magic in itself? It was Terry Pratchett, You recall, Who said, It didn't stop being magic just because you found out how it was done. That always resonated with you. You imagine the history of alchemy as a dragon with its tail cloven in two, One side burrowing deep into the ground, And the other reaching up into the heavens. Yet each of the segments of the tail is so long in your mental picture that they spiral through the heavens and the underworld, Returning to the surface of the earth so that the dragon might bite each end in its own mouth. The practice of magic is not so very unlike the pursuit of scientific discovery. And yet, The two have been artificially separated for much of human history. It's the appearance of two dragons battling beneath the foundations of civilization. But that's only an illusion. There's only one dragon. Professor Lovage instructs you to open your copies of the Annotated Hermetica, A vast compilation of texts attributed to the ancient alchemist Hermes Trismegistus, With chapters added by medieval writers. Your copy is second-hand at best, Tattered and worn from years of use. Would you rather like it that way? The faded marginalia and brittle-edged paper remind you of how truly old this information is, How many hands the text has changed, How many generations puzzled over its messages and obscure symbols. As you flip through the pages, You kick up the sense of history, Sulfur, Smoke, And a lingering sweetness. You search for the chapter in question on symbols associated with the magnum opus, Or great work, The philosopher's stone. This mysterious artifact, Which comes up frequently in discussion of alchemy, Is said to be a compound, Sometimes liquid, Sometimes solid, Or even vapor, Capable of catalyzing the ultimate transformation. With this tool, The alchemist could transmute base metals into gold, And could even produce the elusive elixir of life, A solution that grants eternal life to the drinker. On the first page of the chapter, There's an illustration of an alchemist at work, Bent over a wheelbarrow of an unidentified substance. Beside him is a large cauldron over an orange flame. Within the cauldron is a curious spectacle, A small dragon, Fire spilling out of its mouth as it nips at its own tail. Sitting atop the dragon is a blue-black bird, Wings spread, And sitting atop the head of that bird is another, Smaller bird, This one pure black. Once again, You absentmindedly touch the raven's feather upon your desk. The professor directs your attention to the following page, Also richly illustrated with depictions of five birds. You scan the page from top to bottom, Taking in the colors and detail. The raven, The white swan, The peacock, The pelican, The phoenix. Wheels are beginning to turn behind your eyes. These are the five birds of alchemy, Professor Lovage explains. Each of them unique, Corresponding to virtues and properties of the physical and spiritual realms. But each of them also represents a phase in the process of the great work, The making of the Philosopher's Stone. The professor reads now from the text, With great embellishment and drama. Darkness will appear on the face of the abyss. Night, Saturn, And the antimony of the sages will appear. Blackness and the raven's head of the alchemists and all the colors of the world will appear at the hour of conjunction. The rainbow, Also, And the peacock's tail. Finally, After the matter has passed from ashen colored to white and yellow, You will see the Philosopher's Stone. And then, One by one, The professor expounds on the significance of the five birds. The raven, Blackness, The first stage in the process, The time to set intention and to release the physical world, Preparing to step into the etheric world. The white swan, The first transformation, Accompanied by bright light, The first step into the next world. The peacock, The turning point, The alchemist's moment of inner revelation. The pelican, Distillation and sacrifice. No alchemy, No magic can be achieved without it, As the pelican illustrated here feeds her young, So you must give something of yourself to achieve the great work. And finally, The phoenix, The final transformation or completion. The transfiguration not only of the substance, Which should now gleam a deep and rubious red like the phoenix's feathers, But of the soul of the alchemist who has given of themselves to create something new. Much of this sounds familiar when it comes to the magic you've studied all these years at the school. Everything, As you learned in your magic fundamentals classes, Begins with intention. The hardest part of attempting any spell or brewing any potion has nothing to do with the power of your wand or your stirring technique, And everything to do with clarifying the intention in your mind. But sacrifice. Until now, You've always seen magic as a tool, Used it to heal minor illness and injury, Complete household tasks, Or perform in a duel. It's something you've practiced as a skill, Learning the appropriate incantations, Gestures, Ingredients throughout your schooling. But there's something about the way Professor Lovage talks about the magical side of alchemy, As if it's not just a tool or a process of transposing materials, But a spiritual pursuit. A purification not only of metals and earthly substances, But of the soul, While you're simply captivated by it. You recall earlier this year at Halloween, During the school's annual celebration and carnival, The headteacher led the students and staff through a Samhain ritual to release the past. You were given a bundle of herbs, Representing where you are on your magical and personal journey, And you were invited to keep it, Or to cast it into a bonfire, Symbolizing a fresh start in the seasons ahead. Unlike the spells and charms you practice in your classes, This ritual didn't immediately produce a tangible result, But it left you with much to contemplate, And a path to walk into the future. Is that what Professor Lovage means by giving of oneself, By sacrificing yourself? Is this a gateway to some higher magic? An alchemy of the soul? You can feel yourself sliding into lyrical notions and cryptic thought. You suppose that's natural in these circumstances. The alchemy you've learned is the pursuit of revelation, The search for the high mysteries of the universe. The answers lie before us, Locked in secret codes, Natural hiding places, And the movements of stars. All we need is to find the key, The one, The pure. But now comes the time for experimentation. The Professor directs your attention once more to the items you're equipped with. The three prime substances, Salt, Sulfur, Mercury. The feather, Which by now you should be able to identify as belonging to one of the five birds of alchemy. Using these items, Conscious of their symbolism and of the principles of intention and sacrifice, Each student is to conduct an alchemical experiment. And there endeth the instruction. And you and your classmates look around at each other, Expecting someone to raise a hand or blurt out a question. Is there no recipe? What are we supposed to make? These questions buzz through your mind but never make it to your lips. For you implicitly understand that the lack of direction is the point. But the Professor speaks, Addressing the stunned silence of the class. Do I expect you to come up with a philosopher's stone by the end of class? Of course not. It's an introductory course and most alchemists toil their whole lives long in pursuit of the magnum opus. This is an invitation. To play. To inquire. To investigate. Make something. Or make meaning. There are a few more moments of confused silence than whispers and mutterings between classmates. The Professor retreats behind the table at the head of the chamber to read from a nondescript volume. Still, No comment on the velvet-covered cage. You don't join in any of the hushed conversations around you. You're eager to start on your experiment. Salt. Sulfur. Mercury. The three prime substances that, If you believe the alchemists, Are all important to transformation and composition. Naturally, Your first inclination is to experiment with the ratios of the three substances to produce a solution of some kind. Who knows what you'll produce. Certainly not gold, Barring a miracle. But the point of the exercise is to simply try something, Right? But as you reach for the bottle of salt and begin to uncork it, Something stops you. You set the vial down and line up all three small bottles. Then you look to the feather, Then to your aged volume. You pull the book closer to you. Others around you are beginning to work, Uncorking bottles and exclaiming at the powerful odor of the sulfur powder. But there's something you remember from an earlier lesson, Something that might be a guide in your process. You flip through the pages of the Annotated Hermetica to a chapter on Paracelsus, A renaissance alchemist about whom Professor Lovage tends to drone on with admiration. His work contributed significantly to modern medicine, As well as prophecy and divination through alchemy. The professor considers him a bridge between the scientific and occult schools of alchemy, The rejoined tale of the dragon, Using the metaphor in your mind. And now you've found it, A story, A parable of the early career Paracelsus demonstrating his theory of the Tria Prima, The three prime substances. In the demonstration, Paracelsus burned a piece of wood and observed the effects. Fire, The combustible element, Represented the work of sulfur. The smoke, A curious substance that behaves similarly to both liquid and vapor, Corresponded to mercury. And the ash left behind, Represented salt. The body, Mind, And soul. The solid, The changeable, And the combustible. And now you draw your cauldron close, But you push away the vials of salt, Sulfur, And mercury. Behind you, Vapors are rising from cauldrons already, And colorful smoke fills the room. But you can see what's in front of you clearly enough to proceed. You draw your wand from the pocket of your robes. The delicate, Alder wand, Engraved with feather patterns, Settles naturally into your grip. You reach now for the raven feather. It's shiny and black, Reflecting blue tints in the candlelight on the teacher's table. It makes you think of Nora, Your loyal raven familiar. She carries messages for you, Keeps you company during late nights practicing spell work, Or writing essays on historical wizards and witches. Her wings on the wind remind you of the promise of flight, The transcendence of the earthly plane. She's a bridge between the solid ground and the weightless air. You wonder where she is now, Whether she's brought your message home to your loved one, Or still soars atop the clouds in the open country. Closing your eyes, You can see her shiny, Black tail feathers fluttering in the breeze. And clear as day, You realize this is the most focused intention you've brought to mind in some time. She is your intention. You breathe deeply, Channeling the thought of Nora, Your appreciation of her, And imagining that intention sliding like liquid through a funnel, From your head, Down your neck and shoulder, Through your wand arm, And then consciously pushing that liquid intention all the way down into your wand. This extension of yourself. This is the best technique you've found for intention setting in your magical practice. You've always been gifted with a vivid imagination, And it only takes a few adjustments, Some focus, To transform the images in your mind into fluid, Propulsive magic. You can feel a tingling sensation in your wand arm, And almost a radiant warmth. Intention is set. Now you must incorporate the Tria Prima into your experiment, But not as your classmates seem to be doing, By literally combining the substances. Salt, Sulfur, Mercury. It's not so literal, Or at least it doesn't have to be. The parable of Paracelsus and the burning log showed you that all you need is the principle. Fire. Smoke. With your intention channeled, Building with potential energy focused toward your wand, You utter the incantation to cast fire. Just a little toward the raven feather in your other hand. A tiny burst of flame shoots out of the tip of your wand, And ignites the fine down of the feather. You hold it to your face, Revolving the feather between your fingers, And your eyes sparkle in the wake of the small, Licking flames. Then, When your hand just begins to feel the heat, You drop the feather lightly in the cauldron, Continuing smoldering. Lastly, Sacrifice. To achieve true alchemy and transformation, You must give something of yourself. All around you, Wisps of colorful smoke are erupting from neighboring cauldrons, Flashes of bright light and small combustions, Giggling and exclamations of surprise and delight. Professor Lovage is smirking behind the table, Not deigning to interfere in any of the goings on. That's the point, You suppose. There are no expectations of the final product. It's an invitation to think about the principles of alchemy, To try your hand at something, And to step into the shoes of those early, Natural philosophers and mystics who groped in the dark for answers to the universe's great mysteries. What can you give of yourself in this process? Thinking of your familiar and of your loved one to whom she now carries a homesick message, What can you surrender now in the service of higher magic, In the service of self-transformation? Closing your eyes again, You reach inward, Deep beneath the surface, Into your very soul, Where perhaps dragons battle or stars work their celestial doings upon you. You reach for that hidden part of you, The part that can give just a little bit more. Your mind is clear, And your heartbeat is steady, Serene. Eyes still closed, You can smell the slightly metallic tendrils of smoke rising from your cauldron. The fire's gone out. When you open your eyes, You look first to the head table to see that Professor Lovage is looking over at you, Brow lifted in curiosity. You peer over the rim of your cauldron, But you cast a shadow and can't see what's within. So, You lift the small but heavy vessel and tip it out onto your desk. Out pours a fine powder, Ash, And nothing more, As you expected. The kind of magic you've created is not about immediate results, But about setting in motion the wheels of greater change, Within and without, As above, So below. Is it just the wink of the candlelight, A trick of the smoke-clouded chamber, Or are there fine flecks of shimmering yellow and red and deep blue in the slate-gray ash before you? Are there hints in the ashes of gold? You run a hand over the powder, Which is soft and fine. It leaves a little residue on your fingertips. And yes, When you look closer, There are tiny crystals there that gleam and glimmer in a hundred sparkling hues. You're not sure what it means, But a transformation has indeed taken place here. You feel the concentrated heat in your wand arm diffuse across your chest, Filling your torso and warming your heart. You feel close to something new, Though you're not sure what. The professor is rising from the chair behind the table, Coming toward you, Inspecting the ashes on your desk closely, Feeling the powder between two fingers, A smile and the knowing glance that seems to say you're onto something. The professor reviews the results of other projects around the classroom. Some students have produced curious crystalline compounds, Others have merely generated billowing fumes. A few wand waves and the smoke is quickly cleared. All in all, The professor is pleased with the class's willingness to experiment. You'll come back to this exercise at the end of term to see how far you've come and how much you've learned. But for now, The lesson is nearly over. The day is growing old and a silver dusk transforms the light in the classroom, Making it almost shimmer with the brief illusory magic of evening. Dinner will soon be served in the great feasting hall downstairs. But before you depart, Says Professor Lovage, I've brought us a little surprise, A rare treat, And something I doubt many of you have ever seen in your lives. The professor crosses to the head table. Will the covered cage at last be addressed, You wonder. There's a preface to its unveiling, As you might have expected. The contents of the cage, You learn, Are on loan from the school's beloved gamekeeper, Caradoc, A friendly fellow with a well-known soft spot for cryptids and magical creatures. Caradoc and Professor Lovage have a rather charming friendship, And can be seen walking the school grounds together most evenings, Discussing books and their travels. As it happens, Caradoc spent last summer in Greece, Where he picked up an extraordinary artifact, An egg. So old it might have been petrified by time, There was no expectation of it hatching. But just last week, On an unseasonably warm night, When the wind howled through the great forest, The miraculous happened. The egg hatched. And now, After a long build-up and with dramatic flair, The professor pulls the velvet covering from the cage. Within, Blinking with silent curiosity, Is a bird, Unlike any you've ever seen save in books and reproductions. It's very small, Perhaps the size of a canary, But its plumage is a deep ruby color, With a tail not unlike a peacock's in its length and volume, Here and there gilded, As if dipped in liquid gold. Exclamations of delight and awe erupt from across the room, Along with sighs from some of the girls at its cuteness. And the creature is adorable, With big, Glassy eyes turned upward, Sparkling. Yet there's a fierceness, And a resilience to it, Too. It's a marvel. He's only a baby now, Says the professor, Gingerly opening the door of the cage and extending a hand toward the bird, Who steps right onto the palm. That he should grow to be the size of an eagle within the year. Rare as they may be, Birds of his kind are blessed with immortality. He will grow old, Like any of us, And wither and weaken, But then, He will build himself a nest of myrtwigs, Kindle a flame within his heart, And sacrifice himself upon the pyre. Then, From the ashes, He will be reborn, A child again, To begin the cycle anew. You can see, Then, Why the phoenix is the ultimate symbol of alchemy. The professor, Holding the tiny phoenix in the palm of a hand, Carries the curious bird around the classroom for everyone to see up close. Now and then, The phoenix utters a weak coo, As if he's learning to produce his first song. Even in its feeble beginnings, The sound resonates in your head like the pealing of tiny bells. It seems to soften your mind and body, Making you feel at once open, Vulnerable, And ultimately, Resilient. When the professor brings the bird near you, A kind of radiant warmth and love seems to wash over you in waves. There's an audible gasp as the phoenix springs from the professor's hand, Gently flapping his wings and whipping his long tail, Which sparks and smokes behind him. The phoenix lands upon your desk and pecks lightly at the ashes before you. Without thinking or asking, You lift a soft, Steady hand to stroke the bird on his neck. The downy, Red feathers are as the softest silk. The bird responds by contracting his neck and ruffling his feathers, Turning to you with eyes slowly half-closing. Unmistakably, A smile. You can feel your heart soften and melt even more. What's his name? You hear yourself asking as the phoenix returns to the professor's hand. Hermes, Says Professor Lovage with a grin, Returning the phoenix to his cage. Of course, You think. After the ancient alchemist and father of Hermeticism, And the Greek counterpart of the Roman god, Mercury. Class is dismissed. Most of the students, Stomachs grumbling, Make a beeline for the door and the steps down the tower. You take your time cleaning up your station. The professor drapes the velvet once more over Hermes' cage. There comes a gentle cooing from within and then silence. You decide to keep the ashes from your experiment, And you funnel the fine powder into an empty glass bottle from your bag, Sealing it with a stopper. It may have some use in the future, But for now, It's a perfect souvenir of your first alchemical experiment. Before you leave, Professor Lovage calls out your name. Excellent work, The professor says. There's more to it than riches, Gold and everlasting life. Few students grasp that so quickly. You utter a word of thanks, Wish the professor a good evening, And make your way to the door, Descending the spiral steps of the tower. You take your supper in the feasting hall among friends. A few of your alchemy classmates sit nearby, And soon the whole table is wrapped in conversation about the genuine phoenix that now resides on the school grounds. There's a great deal of excitement about how quickly the phoenix took to you. Perhaps that portends something for you, They suppose. You feel your cheeks flush, And you decline to comment, But in truth, Well, It did feel meaningful to be approached by such a rare, Magical creature. It did make you feel somehow different, Special. You'll hold on to that feeling like a spark as you continue your magical journey. After supper, You and your friends walk together back up to the dormitories, Still chatting about the day's events and lessons. Your good friend Charlotte mastered a very advanced defensive spell in class today, One she's been working on for a long time. She can't wait to show you. Once back in your room, As your bunkmates prepare for bed, You sit on the cushioned seat of a window, Cracked open to feel a chilly but comforting breeze watching the twilight grounds. The lake. The emerald green mountains of the highlands. The forest. Everything quakes with the passing wind. It's still light enough to see the circle of standing stones on the grounds. The gamekeeper's cabin and vegetable garden. And you're fairly certain that the two figures you see walking near the edge of the forest, One large, One small, Are the gamekeeper Karadoc and Professor Lovage. Above them, Flitting and fluttering, Is a flash of crimson and gold. Your eyes drift toward the darkening sky, Where the first stars are beginning to emerge from a purplish pall. And there, Against the settling of night over the highlands, Raven-dark wingbeats. Nora, Returning to you already, A scroll of parchment tied to her leg. A letter from home. A brisk morning breeze sweeps in through the open dormitory window, Bringing a marvelous and invigorating mixture of scents with it. Musky heather meets the aroma of fresh pastry, Which rises from the kitchens and the feasting hall on the ground floor of the castle. You stuff final supplies into your backpack. Binoculars, Gloves, A raincoat, A few snacks, And a jar of protective herbal salt, Which you made in your apothecary class last term. Just in case. It's no ordinary field trip on which you embark today, And you do well to be prepared for any eventuality. Everything fits comfortably thanks to your just having mastered a charm to enlarge the volume of any container without increasing its surface area. You count yourself fortunate to have such an opportunity. Only a handful of students were approved to spend the quiet summer term at the School of Sorcery to participate in accelerated coursework and research. Ever since taking Professor Crowe's introductory course on magical creatures in your second year, You've been drawn to the study of mythical beasts and cryptids. It wasn't a subject you expected to love so much. Sure, Who wouldn't enjoy learning to care for unicorns, Or searching the skies for phoenixes or firebirds? But you once assumed it would be an easy course of study, A place to coast on curiosity alone. Instead, You found that the study of magical creatures awakened you to an entirely new world. There's an entire occult ecosystem of fauna who exist in the shadowy thresholds of the natural world. Unseen by those who've never looked beyond the veil to the world of spirit, These creatures bring magical, Medicinal, And ecological insight to a world hungry for connection. It's a special privilege, You realize, To witness these creatures. For you, A student of magic and sorcery, Rely on your wand, Your books, And other tools for your spellwork. Most of these beasts have such an innate relationship to magic that it moves through their existence effortlessly, Like breath. The unicorn has natural powers of healing, The nixie can shapeshift, And the siren's song rings with irresistible enchantment. They do not do magic as a witch or a wizard does. They are magic, In their very essence. It's this quality that drew you beyond a superficial interest in the beautiful or monstrous beings. Your curiosity ever since has been insatiable. So it was with decided eagerness that you scribbled your name on the sign-up sheet for this weekend's adventure and convinced your friend Sam to do the same. Slinging your backpack over a shoulder, You pull the dormitory window closed and head downstairs. Sam should be waiting for you at breakfast. It's such a comfort to be excused from wearing school uniforms and robes for a day. This trip calls for outdoor clothing, Hiking boots, And light layers. All you really know is that Professor Crow is calling the outing Field Research Hike Magical Fauna and that you're headed for somewhere in the mountains that surround the castle and the glen. It's an overnight camping trip which suggests you'll travel quite far into the wilderness. You're excited to explore the region in depth and with such a knowledgeable teacher. As professors go, She's been here a relatively short time, Having transferred from a post at the Wizard School in North America. But in the two or so years she's taught here, She's earned a reputation as one of the most engaging and inspired instructors in the castle. You learned it firsthand when you took her class. Unlike other teachers who spend lesson after lesson droning on about theory before getting to the real work of spellcraft, Potion making, And the like, Professor Crow started term by bringing you and your classmates out into the forest on a scavenger hunt for legendary creatures. Certainly now, In your fourth year of school, You understand that theory is important in laying the foundations of a magical education. But Professor Crow somehow manages to instill it without dull lectures or lengthy readings. Under her stewardship, You learn through exploration, Inquiry, And experience. This field research hike promises to be just as enlivening. You trot down the grand marble staircase of the medieval castle which houses your school. The figures and the portraits that line the corridors are still snoozing soundly. For most, After all, It is summer vacation, And who would choose to be up this early on a lazy Sunday in July? Still, You have a spring in your step, And the oncoming wafts of breakfast smells from the feasting hall draw you in with increased enjoyment. Even in summer, The cooks have gone all out to provide a hearty meal for the early risers. When you enter the hall, You see a single long table laden with delicious foods. Pastries and sausages, And toast and eggs, Sunny side up and self-sizzling on enchanted plates. Picture after picture of juices, Teas, And coffee. The smell is heavenly. You fill up a plate with your favorites, Knowing you'll need a filling breakfast to fuel up for the journey. Sam is seated with a few other students in hiking clothes. You recognize most of them from classes in the regular term, And others are in your accelerated class with Professor Crow. There are only a dozen or so students in the feasting hall now, Out of about 20 or 30 spending the summer here. The rest must be enjoying a lie-in. You move to join Sam and company. They greet you cheerfully and make space on the bench. They're already engaged in spirited speculation as to the subject of today's trip. I think it's dragons, Says Lulavon, A freckled fifth-year with a penchant for exaggeration. Has to be. I don't think so, Says Sam, Taking a bite of buttered toast. Too dangerous. I don't think we'd be allowed to be up close with dragons, Do you? Depends, Lula responds. Some dragons are nice, I heard. No, I think it has to be that phoenix, Chimes in Violet Lucas, A witch from your year who's always been at the top of the class. Didn't you hear about it? Professor Lovage was caring for it until it got too big, And then set it free in the mountains. I heard about it from some of the students in alchemy class. You have heard the rumors of a phoenix being kept in the castle. It's an intriguing possibility. You've never seen one up close. But then there are a thousand magical creatures you've never seen up close. What do you think it is? Sam asks you. I suppose it could be anything, You say. But I don't know, I thought we'd just be making general observations over whatever things we do find in the mountains. Pixies and little things. You're met with a chorus of descent. The last time Professor Crow led a field research trip like this, Says Violet, The group came back saying they'd all observed a Kitsune. What's a Kitsune, You ask? It's a kind of a spirit fox, Violet continues. They're really rare, Haven't been seen in generations, And almost never in this part of the world. They can live a thousand years and have tons of magical properties. Wow, Says Sam, I'd love to see one of those. But what I'm saying is, Violet goes on, There's a precedent, You see. There must be something really special up in the mountains that the Professor is taking us to observe. The conversation at breakfast amplifies your anticipation. After filling your bellies, You and a gaggle of classmates make for the meet-up point. The ancient stone circle on the grounds. The fortress itself is something like a thousand years old, But the stone monument predates it by centuries, Signifying this locale's deep associations with magic and the sacred. Approaching the stones in the light of early morning, You can almost feel the vibrations coming off them, Haloed by golden sun. Professor Crowe is waiting for you beside the circle. She holds a hand over her eyes to behold your cohort's approach, And she waves broadly with the other. She's dressed in what you've come to recognize as her signature attire, A flannel shirt with sleeves rolled up to the elbows, Faded jeans and hiking boots. A thick braid of dark hair hangs over one shoulder. To her left are eight school-issued broomsticks, Hovering a few feet off the ground. She greets you warmly, Exuding a calm confidence about the weekend's prospects. Two more students eventually join you just moments before the scheduled departure time. There are seven students in total, All of whom you've had some interaction with before. Grab a broom, Everyone, Professor Crowe says, Gesturing to the floating broomsticks. We're going to fly to the base of the ridge, And then we'll continue on foot, Anyone not comfortable taking a shortcut across the lake. You and your classmates regard the great lake and surrounding mountains as Professor Crowe indicates the peak in question. The water sparkles, Reflecting the emerald green of the highlands. No one seems to object to the shortcut. So you mount your brooms and kick off from the ground, Following the professor's lead. It's a beautiful morning for a ride. If it weren't for the pack slung over your shoulder, You'd feel weightless. Tiny droplets of mist twinkle in your hair before evaporating in the sunlight. You fan out over the vast and tranquil lake, And its glossy surface a mirror of motion blur. You have a breathtaking view of the highlands from here, The jade blanket of forests dappled by the shadows of scudding clouds and their reflection on the glittering waters below. The depths of the lake are unknown and the body of water is rumored to be home to countless mythical aquatic creatures. You imagine kelpies, Mermaids, And all kinds of water sprites lingering below the surface. You'll have to ask Professor Crowe what she knows about the lake's inhabitants. Soon, You touch down on the far side of the lake at the base of the mountains. Leaving the brooms behind, You follow Professor Crowe toward the mouth of a narrow path that disappears into the thicket of trees. She moves with confidence, Having charted these paths a hundred times, You imagine. As you hike the steep trail, She points out the native flora of the mountainside. The trees are mostly scots pine, With brushy needles that stick in your hair. But Aspen graces the path too, Its leaves a flutter like a thousand hands applauding, And a witch elm, And an oak. Here and there, A mountain hare darts in and out of the low-lying foliage. The professor encourages you to observe any and everything you come across on this excursion, Whether it is considered magical or not. For even the so-called ordinary plants and animals carry ancient associations, Wisdom, And medicine. The rowan, For example, Is considered a protective tree against malevolent spirits and witches. A chuckle runs through the class at this remark, For the rowan doesn't seem to be warding off this bunch of witches and wizards. It's a few minutes of quiet hiking before you hear a gasp from Violet. She then urgently whispers for everyone to gather and look at something. You all circle around her eagerly as she points to a smudge of black through the trees. You squint to see it better, And you realize that it's a cat. It looks just like a common house cat really, Except for something you can't quite pinpoint. Its fur is black, Save for a spot of white on its chest. It moves slowly through the forest, Rubbing its sides along the scratchy trunks of the trees, Apparently ignorant or uninterested in your presence. As it draws slowly nearer your group, You realize what's so unusual about the thing. Its size. Though it resembles an ordinary cat, It is significantly larger than any you've ever seen. Almost the size of a Labrador. Well done, Violet, Whispers the professor. That's a good find. Everyone, This is what's called a cat she. It won't harm us, But I wouldn't get too close. Get a good look, And then let's move on. I'll tell you more about it once we're a few paces down the path. You watch for a few moments longer until the unusual animal begins to lazily saunter away into the thickening trees beyond. Then you turn with your classmates and follow Professor Crow onward. The cat she is a fairy creature, She says, Holding aside a jutting branch of pine for you and the other students to pass. And it's quite common to find them prowling the highlands if you're looking for them. Quite harmless to most of us, Most of the time. But come Samhain, You'll notice that the cooks at the school are sure to put out a saucer of milk for them, Leaving an offering that will ensure you the cat she's blessing, But a snub will earn you their wrath. I thought it looked a bit like Ajax, Sam mutters to you with a smile. This makes you laugh. You hadn't realized it before, But Sam's familiar. A black cat named Ajax has a similar patch of white fur on his chest. Maybe Ajax is really a cat she, You return. Then I'd better start leaving him saucers of milk, I suppose. Sam jokes. Though the hike is long and hard work, The cool air and fragrance of the forest remains totally uplifting. The camphoric scent of evergreen needles is like a salve for sore muscles. Lula Vaughn hovers close to the professor, Throwing out guesses as to what kind of creature you're headed to see. But Crow remains tight-lipped. It's better to keep it a surprise, She says. But keep up, Everyone, She adds, Turning to the stragglers. We want to be sure we reach it in time. This cryptic instruction heightens the excitement of the moment. Whatever it is you're going to see, There must be some sort of happening associated with it. You hurry to catch up. You've been lingering to observe a beautiful, Shimmering moss growing on the side of a large rock. The moss seems to change color under your eye, Shifting more and more rapidly the more intently you observe it. When you find yourself shoulder to shoulder with Professor Crow on the path, She smiles at you with indulgence. Find something of interest? She asks. I think so, You say. Some sort of a color-changing moss. Ah, She says knowingly. What would you think if I told you that moss isn't a plant, But an animal? Really? You say, Astonished. Well, It's still a subject of study among people in my field. Some say plant, Others say animal. I lean somewhere in between, Says Professor Crow. If it's something you're interested in, I could give you some readings, Or even a research project. Oh, You say taken aback, Unconsciously nodding. Just give it some thought, She responds with a reassuring wink. The sun's sweet rays drip honey gold upon the forest floor, Deepening with summer afternoon. The breeze awakens with the perfume of heather, And somewhere ahead through the trees is a glimmer of deep, Undulating purple. Professor Crow continues on, Beckoning for you all to follow. Soon you emerge onto an open clearing, A rocky mountainside alive with rolling heather, Its waves like a violet ocean. You turn and see the other peaks around you, Rising up into a clear blue sky. Bar over the trees, You can just make out the turrets of the castle, The school of sorcery, Beyond the unseen lake. Nearly there, Says the professor, Come along. Nostrils alight with the aromatic honey of heather, You hike on, With the deepest forests behind you, Cliffs and ledges lie ahead, And you're surrounded on all sides by nature's towering majesty. Before leading you in a single file down a rocky and treacherous path along the side of a cliff, Professor Crow retrieves her wand. With a muttered incantation and a wave of the instrument, She conjures up what appears to be a string of golden light. Drawing with her wand in thin air, She sends the quivering string forth, Where it zigzags and entwines with itself, Forming, As it were, A kind of railing along the path. Hold on as you go, Professor Crow says, Moving forth to demonstrate. It's quite safe. One by one, You step out onto the path, Taking hold of the guardrail. To your surprise, It's cool to the touch, And strong as steel or diamond filament. It makes you feel completely secure on the cliffside path. You sense from the professor's energy that you are nearing the site of your focused observation imminently. There's a palpable excitement in the air as she indicates for you to lower your voices and move slowly from this point forward. On the other side of the railed path, There's another steep but short climb to a rocky ledge. Using a similar invocation, Professor Crow conjures what looks like a rope ladder out of the same golden thread-like material. You climb. The professor assists each student onto the ledge, Which is more than large enough to accommodate your whole class, But from here, There doesn't seem to be anywhere else to go. There's a grand escarpment opposite you, From which a number of trees grow precipitously. The nearest one, You realize, Boasts a large, Disc-like something. From the wave of gasps that ripples through your class, You infer that everyone has noticed at around the same time. It's a nest. You're roughly 10 or 15 meters from it. A safe distance, But near enough to make out the nest's inhabitant quite clearly. There, In the center of the swirl of branches and flotsam is, Perhaps, The most magnificent creature you've ever seen. Its head is the sleek, Feathered head of an eagle, With a hooked bill and fierce, Golden eyes. Its feathers flick upward in two tufts on either side of its head, Like the ears of an owl, Or you reflect almost like a pair of horns. Hanging over the side of the nest are its two bird-like legs, With curling talons. And bursting from its shoulders are two great, Folded wings. But from there, The creature's semblance to an eagle ends, As the feathers blend to fur. Its back half, From what you can see, Contains the haunches of a great mammal. As you watch the creature flicks its tail, Another rush of gasps moves through your group. It's the tail of a lion. The sun falls upon the animal with such an angle as to make it gleam like it's painted with gold leaf. Apart from the swish of the tail, It is perfectly still, Like a statue you might see adorning the halls of the school of sorcery. For a time, You simply marvel in awestruck silence. But eventually, Someone speaks. It's Sam. Professor, Your friend asks, Is that… is it a griffin? Very good, Says Professor Crow. You don't dare take your eyes off the beautiful beast in the nest, But you can hear the smile in her voice. I discovered the nest here a few months ago, And I've been watching her since. They're benevolent creatures, But prefer their privacy, So we won't go any closer. She won't mind that we're here, As long as we don't disturb her. But you've spotted something else in the nest. At first, You're hesitant to ask, But eventually you open your mouth to speak. Are those eggs, You inquire. Yes, Says the professor. Good eye. And if we've timed our visit right, We should be able to see them hatch. A few of your classmates are suddenly overcome with excited giggles, But they manage to keep their voices down, In respect for the nest. Professor Crow instructs you to get out your notebooks. While you wait, You are to record detailed observations of the griffin, Her habitat, Behaviors, And environment. You and Sam sit shoulder to shoulder on a large boulder that makes for a relatively comfortable chair. Retrieving your field notebooks and pencils, You begin recording what you see. You find it easiest to jot down a few notes, Then make rough sketches for the nest and the griffin. The griffin is so still, Barely moving for minutes at a time, Even her breath so slow and steady as to appear immobile. You sketch the eggs, Their domed tops just visible over the edge of the tangle of nest, Shining golden as the griffin's feathers in the afternoon sun. You notice the materials of the nest, Brown-needled branches of pine, Wilted stalks of heather, And tender reeds probably foraged from the shores of the lake. As you sketch and scribble, Professor Crow speaks in a muted tone about the history and mythology of the griffin. They were known, It seems, In diverse cultures across the world, With records stretching back to ancient times. Depictions of the griffin appear in Mesopotamian artifacts as early as 4000 BCE. In Greece, They ornamented votive cauldrons, Signifying their invocation and ceremony. They appeared, Along with many other magical beasts, In the bestiaries of Pliny the Elder, At whom witches and wizards have often scoffed for his inaccurate descriptions, But to whom you nevertheless owe a great debt for his attempts to preserve histories, Both natural and supernatural. The feathers, Claws, And eggs of the griffin were highly valued in the Middle Ages for their rarity. Looking now upon the golden sheen of the eggs, It's easy to understand why. No matter where or when you reflect, Gold is always precious. There were some things, According to the Professor, That non-magical record-keepers got right about the majestic creatures. The griffin's feather does have the ability to restore sight to the blind, As some folklore espouses, But the feather must be willingly given before incorporated into the brewing of a potion. They are solitary creatures by nature, But loyal, And are known to form bonds with humans from time to time. Forging a friendship with a griffin is an auspicious thing, Says Professor Crow, For you'll have a lifelong protector, A bestower of gifts and wisdoms. They made for life as well. In time, As happened with all the creatures classed as magical or mythical, The griffins retreated from the ordinary world, Relocating to remote spaces and centers of magical energy, Like these mountains. The world of humankind had grown increasingly unwelcoming. It was no difficult adjustment for the griffin, Who already preferred solitude and privacy, But for other creatures like household sprites, The displacement was a hardship. That's why, Says Professor Crow, The study of cryptids and magical fauna is important. In this field, We aim for the preservation of species, But also the restoration of a harmonious relationship between humanity and our environment. The plants and animals and the earth sustain us, It's our responsibility to care for them in return. And you wonder to yourself, What is the best way to care for this griffin? She who looks so at home, So independent in her nest. Perhaps that simple act of noticing, Observing, Is enough for now. Learning her history and her relationship to the land on which your school stands might be the first steps toward becoming a steward of the place. As the sun ages to a crimson disk over the westernmost peaks, You imagine a world teeming with extraordinary wildlife. Griffins and dragons and unicorns of frolic, With horses and foxes and cats and toads. What would it take to bring magic out of hiding? To make it safe for the creatures of mystery to walk the earth again, You wonder. What would it take to re-enchant the world? You emerge from your musings as a large shadow sweeps across the ledge on which you and the class sit, All wings and wonder. You look up just in time to see a second griffin, This one larger and streaked with scarlet plumage on its breast, Sore overhead. There's her mate, Says Professor Crow in response to half a dozen unuttered questions. He'll have been out foraging for food for her. Home just in time. The second griffin lands in the nest next to his companion, Dropping something, Presumably a meal, From his talons. They greet each other fondly, Brushing their heads along each other's necks. Only moments later, The first egg begins to crack. The air crackles with anticipation. You reach hastily into your bag for your binoculars and hold them to your eyes to get a clearer view. Little by little, The egg nearest the edge of the nest gathers hairline fractures that trace a labyrinth across its surface. And finally, After what seems like an eternity of waiting, A beak emerges from the egg, Followed by the feathered head of a baby griffin. The mother and father help it to leave its shell, Revealing the back haunches. It's probably the size of a large hawk or a lion cub, But next to its spectacularly large parents, It looks tiny, Timid, And vulnerable. The mother griffin nuzzles the first hatchling tenderly. Once the first is born, The other eggs, Four in total, Follow quickly behind. Soon the nest is crowded with young. Only minutes later, They begin to wrestle and play with each other. Winding between the legs of their mother and father, A whole griffin family forms before your eyes, Here in the hidden peaks of the highlands. How many other miraculous things are happening at this very moment, You wonder? How many eggs are hatching? How many new souls are being born? How many quiet, Seemingly ordinary occurrences are changing someone's world every second of every day? The greatest gift, You think, Of this course of study is the imperative to observe, To notice the world in all its splendor and all its mundanity. To make each moment matter. The afternoon wanes, A purplish curtain falling softly over the cliffside in the sun's vacancy. The griffin hatchlings have fallen asleep at their mother's side, Overtired from the excitement of their emergence into light and life. For the first time, As the exhilaration of the event washes away, You feel tired, Too. As if your body has just caught up to the great effort of the hours-long hike. The haze of exhaustion relaxes your eyelids and shoulders. It's about time, The professor says, To make your way back down and set up camp. So back you go, One by one down the golden ladder and across the pebbled path with hands clinging to the rail of light. The light is kind to you, Providing just enough visibility as you go. Then abruptly vanishing as the sun sinks behind the mountains and just as you reach the heathered hillside. Everyone instinctively pulls out their wands, Conjuring up an assemblage of glowing orbs, Magical lanterns which bob and float in your wake. The musk of the heather rises on a cool evening breeze, Redolent of summer camping trips with friends and family. Laughter and conversation fill the air as you set up tents, Raising them together with your wands in coordinated effort. There are three all together, Set upon the evenest ground on the hill. One for the professor and two for the class to share. They're the size of normal camping tents which would surely be snug but comfortable enough to fit a few people crosswise. But these are, After all, Magical tents, And therefore considerably larger on the inside. Before everyone retires, However, Professor Crow lights a campfire and invites you all to join and eat and reflect on the day's experience. The fire crackles pleasantly, The warmth wafting off it to ward against the oncoming chill of night. You feel the bittersweet tingle of nostalgia sitting by the campfire, The wistfulness for childhood, And the awakening of whimsy. What could be more whimsical, More enchanting than everything you've witnessed today? Again, You think what a great gift it is to be charged with noticing, With bearing witness to the magic in the everyday. Without prompting, And entirely organically, Your classmates begin to speak about their observations and experiences. Lula remarks that she was surprised to hear Griffins mated for life, But then when she saw the bond between the mated pair she understood it completely. Violet volunteers a reflection on the components of the nest, Which, According to her keen examination, Included parts of plants that are not native to the region. This sparks a brief but fascinating discussion about the migratory patterns of Griffins and other mythical birds. Evidently, Very little research has been done into such things. Violet seems interested in studying the matter further. You are hesitant to add any thoughts to the discussion at first, But you grow more comfortable as others share. It's as though the shared effort of the hike and experience of observing the Griffins nest has formed a kind of fellowship between you and your classmates, A closeness and vulnerability that was not there before. It sparkles, Impermanent as the sparks of the flame, But just as warm and inviting. I was thinking, You say, About hybrid creatures, Griffins and Sphinxes and such? Magical animals that are a mixture of two ordinary creatures. Where do they come from? What do they mean? After a brief pause, Professor Crow meets your gaze across the fire with a smile and a twinkle in her eye. What do you think? She asks. I don't know, You say, But I suppose there's something interesting about standing between two different worlds. The lion and the eagle, Land and sky. Or like merpeople, Land and sea. Sometimes I feel like I walk in two worlds, Too. For a moment you're unsure if anyone will understand what you mean, But shortly thereafter, Several of your classmates chime in with comments like I feel that way, Too. Or, Yeah, My family aren't witches or wizards, So I always feel like I'm kind of a bridge. I think that's very astute, Says Professor Crow. There's a reason Griffins and Sphinxes and other hybrid creatures have been represented for millennia as the guardians of gateways or portals. It acknowledges their unique abilities to bridge separate paths. Even behind the heat of the fire, You can feel your cheeks flush. It's a wonderful feeling of validation and acceptance. You're glad Sam is here with you, And you sincerely hope this circle convenes again. Soon the fragrant evening, Lit by campfire and floating lights, Grows old, And the gatherers around the fire recognize their exhaustion. Extinguishing the fire, Professor Crow reminds you of your departure time in the morning, And urges you to be ready to hike down the mountain, Bright and early. You and your classmates retire, To the two tents, To rest. Lifting the flap of your tent's entrance, You marvel at the sheer size of the interior, And the size of a cottage, Complete with three separate bedrooms for each of the students. There's a common area that's furnished like a cabin in the American Southwest, With thick woven blankets slung over the backs of couches and armchairs. There's even a kitchen, A fireplace, And a generous hearth. Sam and Violet have joined you as tentmates, And though you're tempted to sit for a while more and decompress over a cup of tea, Your bones are simply too weary. You bid your friends goodnight, And retreat to the bedroom on the far left. You collapse into the bed in the corner of the room, Letting all the effort and strain of the day melt from your body with an audible sigh. You release everything. Curling up under the wool blankets, You close your eyes. Immediately, Visions of fledgling griffins fill your imagination. You can almost hear their wingbeats overhead. Beyond the walls of the tent, The buzz of insects and call of night birds creates a low, Trembling quilt of white noise. A symphony of community and connection. For a few moments just before you drift to sleep, You try to pick out some of the specific noises and attach them to creatures you know. The tremolo of a tawny owl. The cat-like call of a pine martin. There are sounds you don't recognize, And your sleepy, Swimming mind fills with all manner of fantastical pictures. Winged lions, Shapeshifting cats, And finned horses. A bewitching bestiary pulls your bed like a chariot to the golden gateways of sleep. The castle is always a flutter at this time of year. The afternoons blush swiftly to vespertine tranquility, And students of sorcery love to linger on the grounds until the last of the light. Drawing toward darkness, There is a palpable sense of magic tingling in the air about the place, Even more so than in other seasons, For this is a place of ancient magic, Where centuries of young sorcerers have sought their training. Traditionally, Students are expected to be inside by nightfall, Though with shorter days, The staff grow lax about the exact timing of this retreat indoors. But tonight, A select few of you have been granted special dispensation to be about the grounds much later than usual. This puts a quiet thrill in you that you can't quite explain. Although you can't say you've been looking forward to midterm examinations, You have to admit that the circumstances of this evening's gathering have piqued your curiosity. Instead of meeting in the classroom in which you've spent weeks studying the art of herbalism and potion making, You're expected to take the examination outdoors this evening. The news arrived on the wings of one of the school's messenger ravens, A note from Professor Bain with a meeting time, Location, And a reminder to bring your wand and dress for cool weather. You haven't had the chance to confer with any of your classmates yet, Today's schedule was packed with classes, Cramming, And homework, But you're eager to find out what they think the exam will be. The course thus far has been one of the more fascinating you've taken in your time at the School of Sorcery. The professor, A renowned potion maker, Brings intimate knowledge of wart cunning to the classroom along with an intuitive approach to brewing technique. She's a marvel to watch in demonstration, Combining the fundamentals of potion making with a poetic sense of the significance of each ingredient. Never have you truly appreciated the properties of, Say, Ivy, But after one lecture, You feel deeply connected to both the mythological and medicinal significance of the plant, So much so that any time, While strolling the castle grounds, You come upon a wall of climbing ivy, You feel compelled to bow your head in reverence to it, This driver away of ill spirits and symbol of the Roman god Bacchus. And thusly, Every potion you've brewed in the hands-on classes has been imbued with greater magic. You've rarely felt more inspired. As the hour draws near, You close the potion's textbook on your lap and reach to your wardrobe for a knitted sweater to throw on over your shirt. You pull your school robes on over that, Tucking your wand safely in the inner pocket. There's only so much studying you can do for this kind of exam, You suppose. Professor Bain isn't the type to expect you to have memorized a hundred recipes. More likely, You'll be challenged to demonstrate core skills and fundamentals of herbalism and potion making. At the last moment, Before leaving the dormitory, You reach for a little box under your bed Inside are several small items collected from your time here, But there's one object in particular you seek, A small bronze coin. During your first ever class at the School of Sorcery, This coin was part of a first level spell for good fortune. And after a few years, You fancy it still carries a bit of good luck, Even if it's all in your mind. You slip the coin in your pocket, Hoping it brings you success in tonight's exam. And with that, You're off and out the door. Passing by the portraits and landscapes on the walls, You make your winding way down the steps of the old castle. There's plenty of time, You think, To detour through your favorite corridor, The one lined with dozens of authentic suits of armor. They gleam in the golden spill of light afternoon light from the pointed windows, Making them appear like something out of a dream. There's a spiral stone stairway at the end of the hall, Which leads straight down into the belly of the castle, The grand feasting hall, And the entrance. It's early for supper, But since you'll be out on the grounds until who knows how late, You make a stop in the feasting hall to fill up on snacks before you go down to the meeting place. During exam week especially, The cooks make sure to have round-the-clock sustenance available. You've certainly run down here at midnight to gather pastries and sandwiches during an all-night study session for alchemy. A few others from your potions class seem to have the same idea as you. They're stuffing their pockets with pies as you enter the hall. Minutes later, Having stashed as many items as you can fit in your robes, You and your classmates depart the feasting hall together, Making for the castle grounds. Professor Bain's note instructed you to meet her at the mouth of the forest near the caretaker's cottage. It's still just barely light as you start down the craggy hill toward the forest below, So there's good visibility. Smoke puffs from the chimney of the little cottage in the basin where the caretaker sleeps. His garden is flush with fall florals, Dizzying dahlias and zinnias abound. And beyond that, A homegrown pumpkin patch with some of the most magnificent pumpkins you've ever seen. On your approach, You catch a whiff of whatever is cooking inside the caretaker's cabin, Something superbly spiced. But on past the cottage and garden you go to the base of the great slope, Where the grass meets the dark foliage of a big, Wild forest. As students, Unless accompanied by a professor for educational reasons, You're not allowed in the wood. Rumor has it that all manner of magical creatures run rampant therein, From unicorns to manticores. You wonder if tonight's assignment will take you past the threshold of those border trees for the first time. And there, Set at equal intervals right along the grass at the edge of the wood, Are nine wide-mouthed cauldrons hung over small piles of kindling. Nine cauldrons, One per student. It is achingly picturesque, The sight. Something about it stirs an indescribable sense of magic within you, Making your skin tighten into goosebumps. Until now, You don't think you'd notice that there were exactly nine students in the advanced potions class, And as you learned in a numerology primer last year, Nine is a number of profound magical significance. The nine worlds of the Norse cosmology, Nine Greek muses, Goddesses of inspiration, Nine great Egyptian deities, The Celtic ninth wave which separates our world from the other world. Beside each cauldron is a small platform, A work surface complete with mortar and pestle, Vials, Droppers, Knives, A leather purse, And stirring instruments. But unless you are mistaken, There are no ingredients in sight. For all your musings on taking in the spectacle of the cauldron setup, You almost miss the presence of Professor Bain. She's standing hands on hips by the woodside with a stack of leather-bound books levitating nearby. Come on down, Then, She beckons to you. I can see the rest are on their way. You turn back toward the castle to see a smattering of students bounding down the hill in the waning light. Professor Bain waves to them with a smile. You can all take one of these, She says, Indicating the textbooks. You step forward to take a copy for yourself, Just as the professor politely asks that you not open them just yet. Heeding her plea, You run your fingers across the aged cover and the embossed title, Laknunga. I had to pull some strings with the bookseller to bring in this many copies, Says the professor, But I'm sure you'll all treat them with the utmost respect. I want to return them in as good a condition as I received them. Now, She hands the final copies to the stragglers with a smirk as they come huffing and puffing to the edge of the wood. You glance around and count in your mind, Everyone's here. A moment later, The hourly bell chimes from the castle, Clamoring in echo against the trunks of the trees. The sun is quietly disappearing over the mountains and the lake, Leaving amber and purple streaks across the sky. The evening star is visible, Blinking beside the emergent moon, A pale pink crescent. Well, Says the professor, I suppose we'll get started. We've only a little light left, And I'd like to get you on your way before too late. She instructs each of you to select a cauldron, They're all equally suitable for tonight's exam, She assures you, And each, Filled with pure water that was charged under last night's waning moon. Then open your books to the marked page. You do this, And are bemused to find that the page in question is not composed in your native tongue. You almost go cross-eyed looking at the words, Which are very nearly familiar, But just a bit off. Not to worry, Says Professor Bain, Regarding all the bemused expressions, It's old English, But I trust you all know the translation charm. A few heads nod, And wands come out. You retrieve your wand and tap it against the page, Muttering, Translatio Anglia. Before your eyes, The letters briefly glow, Then seem to flip over in place, Unveiling the text anew, In plain English. You notice the classmate beside you, Struggling to remember the incantation. You are about to offer help, When another student, The famously brainy Charlotte, Leans in to assist, Tapping her wand inside the pages of his textbook. You look back to the page, And read the fine lettering at the top. What you have before you is the recipe for something called the Nine Herbs charm, The professor says. If you've paid attention in class at all so far, You might remember me mentioning it. This text is from the 10th century, But the recipe is certainly much older. It's a classic healing charm that works against venoms and poisons. We work under the waning crescent, A powerful moon phase for healing magic. For tonight's examination, I'd like each of you to create your own potion using the ingredients laid out in the Nine Herbs charm. But here's my favorite part. Here, A smile of utter delight crosses the professor's face. You'll see I haven't provided you with any ingredients, Save the water. That's because everything you need is out here, In the forest. You'll be gathering your own herbs this evening. A well-timed shiver of cold breeze punctuates the professor's words. You feel, Again, A strange thrill. Now, Professor Bain continues, There's no need to worry about going into the wood at this hour. I've been hard at work all day placing protective enchantments and barriers to keep you safe. If you come to the edge of the protected area, You'll come up against a strong veil of magic. Collect the Nine Herbs as laid out in the recipe, But be mindful of their properties as you go. Some may require extra caution. You'll be evaluated not on a perfect recreation of the recipe, But on your mastery of potion-making fundamentals while incorporating the proper ingredients. You might discover an entirely new way of using the ingredients together toward surprising ends. If you're called to creativity, Embrace it. Are there any questions? As it turns out, There are many questions, But the professor has an answer for each. Professor, One classmate chimes in, This recipe looks more like a poem. The teacher's eyes sparkle in the dim twilight. Ah, She says, With an edge of mystery gilding her voice. Potions are poems, Recipes are recitations. Let the poetry guide you to each plant's inherent magic. By the time the last of the light is disappearing over the mountains, You're itching to begin foraging in the woods, Contented with Professor Bain's precautions and instructions. Once all the students are satisfied, She turns you loose to seek the nine ingredients. The very first thing you do is mutter the incantation to illuminate the tip of your wand. Instantly, It brightens, Sending a beam of silvery light across the grass and toward the forest. In your periphery, You see several other wand tips spring to light and bounce off in between the trees. Tucking the book under one arm and taking a few useful instruments from the table beside your cauldron, You find an opening in the trees ahead and venture into the woods. As you go, The baubles of light from your classmates spiral off into other directions, Soon vanishing from your sight. The darkness of the forest settles around you, Along with an unearthly quiet, Yet oddly comforting. You come seeking plants, Listening for the messages they whisper, So the darkness and quiet only amplify your senses. Once you've gone a few strides into the thicket, Scanning the forest floor with your wand light, You begin to notice familiar foliage, Mosses and flowers gathered round above-ground roots. You stop, Reopening the textbook to the recipe for the nine herbs charm. Your classmate was right. Rather than a straightforward list of needed ingredients, The text reads like Anglo-Saxon poetry, With the poet addressing each plant in turn, Praising its achievements and qualities. Of mugwort, They write, You are called Una, Oldest of warts, You have power against poison and against infection. And whey bread, Or plantain, They hail as mother of herbs, Open from the east, Mighty inside. You are pleased to find that each and every herb listed in the recipe is one you've worked with or studied under Professor Bain, Each with its own mythological weavings and medicinal uses. Most of them you'd recognize on sight, And the rest, Fortunately, Are illustrated on subsequent pages of the text. And with delight, You find the first of the plants you seek, Speckling the forest floor about your feet. You might recognize this plant anywhere for its daisy-like flowers, White petals with bright golden eyes. You've hung such flowers out to dry, And steeped them into teas for rest and calm. It's chamomile. Bending down to gather armfuls of the flowers, You softly swoon at the delicate scent, So reminiscent of cozy nights by the fireside, Clutching a mug of hot tea. And your mind spins back to a particular memory of convalescing from a lingering cold, When a beloved caregiver brought you chamomile tea and a warm compress for your forehead. How your body tingled and mind went fuzzy after drinking it, Sending you sweetly into a regenerative sleep, From which you awoke with your fever broken, A new energy. It's right that this should be a chief ingredient in a classic healing potion. You're not sure how much you'll need of each herb, But you recall the professor's advice in an early gathering of the class, To harvest respectfully, Never taking more than half. You're sure there are more patches of chamomile sprinkled throughout the forest, But still you have a mind to leave some for your other classmates. So, You carefully cut a few sprigs of chamomile and stash them in a leather bag. One down, You think, Eight more to go. And quite quickly, You're able to find the footprints of several other required ingredients along the way. Whey bread, Or greater plantain, Lamb's grass creeping over damp soil entwined with a different silvery herb. Chervil with its feathery leaves, Which, When rubbed between your fingers, Release an oil with the aroma of myrrh. Betony, A miraculous plant with the ability to anxiety, Arthritis, Migraines, And more. Also a favorite of those who seek protection against dark sorcery. The woods are quiet still, Disturbed only by the distant warble of nocturnal birds and the music of soft wind through the canopy. The trees here are old, Some maybe thousands of years old, Twisting together at their leafy tops and, Perhaps, Deep in the ground. You make your own path now, For the roots grow thickly above the soil, Making obstacles and labyrinths to traverse. An alley of oak brings you to a small stream, Beside which grows a cluster of fennel flowers, Another of your sought herbs. You kneel to cut the stalks carefully, Releasing the anise-like fragrance. You recall Professor Bain's lecture on the curative properties of fennel and its cousins, Their powerful aids for digestion, And even able to improve one's eyesight. But beyond the medicinal use, You are reminded of fennel's place in classical mythology. It was inside a hollow fennel stalk that Prometheus, The titan, Concealed the spark of fire to bring to mankind. Though he was sorely punished for the theft of divine fire, He was later venerated as a benefactor to mankind. You like to think of the gift of fire as something like the gift of magic. By bringing it to humanity, Prometheus gave you the power to create change in the world, To warm your homes, To light the darkness, To prepare food, And yes, To make potions. As a breeze ripples the stalks, Releasing more of their tantalizing scent across the trickle of water, You can almost hear the fennel whispering to you, Magic is everywhere, Seen and unseen. Continuing your search, You come to wonder how far you've wandered into the forest. You have something of an answer moments later when you glimpse a shining curtain of light straight ahead. You draw closer to it, Watching the way strands of light, Like a luminous tapestry, Twist between the trees, Like a net floating in gentle waves of water. This, You suppose, Is the enchanted barrier drawn by the professor for your protection. Beyond it, The expanse of forest is vague, Blurry, And inaccessible. You wonder what manner of wonders lie in the darkness beyond that shimmering veil. Returning to the task at hand, You refer again to the text to assess your outstanding ingredients. There are only three left now. You trudge through a thick blanket of fallen leaves, Which litter the damp earth of the deciduous groves. They're not all fallen just yet, But those that lie are turning to compost underfoot, Feeding the soil and plants that grow here. You come to the edge of a pool, In which glitter the reflections of tree branches that bend together overhead, And the handful of stars that peek through their twigs. There's another bouncing orb of light moving toward you from the opposite direction. As it comes closer, You can make out the features of a friend in its wake. It's the first time you've seen another student since stepping into the wood. You acknowledge each other across the pool. It's Charlotte, The star student of your year. How are you making out, You ask, Your voice louder than you expect it to be as it cuts through the silence and over the pool. Oh, Quite well, She responds. I've only one left to find, And it seems I've just found it. Here, She moves her lit wand upward to indicate a tree near you. She begins to edge around the pool toward it. Wild apple, She says. You hadn't noticed it before, But there, Steps from where you stand, Is a twisted tree laden with heavy, Ripe fruits. Charlotte reaches up with one hand to twist a single fruit from the branch. And regard it thoughtfully. The simple gesture which you repeat on your side of the tree resonates with powerful symbolism. The apple has meant so much throughout the course of human history, Myth and medicine. The fruit of knowledge, The golden boon for heroes like Hercules, The gift bestowed on goddesses to launch legendary conflicts. It's a fruit of love, A delicacy, And a health-heartening favorite the whole world over. Such a fruit certainly belongs in a healing potion. Before Charlotte retreats, You ask her, How did you find everything so quickly? She gives a characteristic sigh and replies, With a locator spell of course. Simply speak the incantation and substitute the Latin name for each herb. It leads you right to the closest occurrence. With that, She turns and disappears with her wand light back into the forest. The locator spell. Why hadn't you thought of that, You wonder? But then, Doesn't that seem all too easy? Using spells to find the ingredients is fine for those who choose that path. But for you, There's value in the search, The intuition, The connection with all the intricacies of the forest and the ways in which the many plants and trees coexist, Sharing resources, Contributing to the thriving of the ecosystem. That relationship of the plants in the shared environment is similar, In a way, To the relationship of ingredients in a potion. It's as if the forest, Throughout your search, Has been teaching you the recipe, So that when you at last come to brew the potion, It will be written in your very heart. You've no doubt that Charlotte's attempt at the Nine Herbs charm will be excellent, Precise, And well-received. But what was it Professor Bain said? All potions are poems. Your potion, You firmly believe, Will be like poetry. Depositing the blush-cheeked apple into your bag of herbs, Now nearly full, You set your mind about discovering the final two ingredients. Both are ground foliage, So you turn your wand light to the forest floor again, Searching the perimeter of the pool, Before moving on into the wood. Before long, You come to a wild flowering patch of stinging nettle, Leaves spined with little hair-like points which you know will sting to the touch. It's quite the challenge to forage for such a plant. Any contact with the skin will produce a reaction, And now you regret not having worn gardening gloves. But come now, You think, You know magic. Surely there's something you can do to make the task more palatable. There are broadleaf dock plants growing nearby, Which often occur alongside nettle, And can be a powerful remedy for stings. You pluck a few dock leaves, And rub them between your fingers to stimulate the oil. For good measure, You then point your wand at the bundle of leaves, Speaking the incantation for an amplification charm, Which should enhance the plant's protective abilities. You know the spell has worked when the leaves begin to dimly glow. You rub them once more over your fingers and palms, Instantly feeling a cool, Numbing sensation across your hands. Now you're ready. You bend to gather leaves of nettle, Breathing a sigh of relief to know your charm has worked perfectly. Instead of stings, There's only a light tingle against your fingers. Picking the nettle this way reminds you of an old story, A fairy tale wasn't it, About a young woman whose brothers were all turned to birds, Swans, And the only way to return them to their human form was to weave them shirts of stinging nettle, Despite how the plant stung her hands. Yet from such a fiery leaf comes great medicinal power. Nettle is anti-inflammatory, Reduces muscle pain, And relieves stress. It seems as if the nettle speaks to you. You look beyond the expected to find the true source of magic. Now there is only one more herb to be harvested, The first one listed in the charm and hailed as the oldest of herbs. Mugwort, Known to you as Artemisia vulgaris, Named so after Artemis, The Greek goddess of the hunt. Some myths held that Artemis was born from a mugwort plant. You can almost hear her footsteps in the untroubled silence of night. Dashing through the forest with her companions, The deer. You wonder if you can hear the voice of Artemisia in the same way, Just as you've heard the nascent whispers of the other plants on your herbal path. You close your eyes and listen tenderly to the song of the forest, Searching inwardly for the strain of mugwort's magic. Your lips settle into a dreamy smile when you begin to understand, And you find yourself almost laughing. How funny, You think. She was here all along. It's true, On every step of your journey tonight, Silver green leaves of delicate foliage have crept their way into the patches of plantain, Fennel, And chervil. You've had your hands in it even while harvesting the other ingredients and never noticed. That's a wonderful property of mugwort, You suppose, That it can grow anywhere. It winds its way through a life, Often unnoticed, Spinning its magic threads. Even now, It springs up at your feet. You follow spare patches of it several paces, As if you're tracking the footsteps of its goddess namesake, Until you come to a sprawling blanket of it at the feet of an ancient yew tree. Her fragrance is potent, Sending your mind to sway, Hypnotic how the spaces betwixt her lace leaves catch starlight, How the moon is in her face. I would know you anywhere, She seems to say, Fluttering and flashing the silver underbelly of her green leaves. You're tempted to step into the mugwort meadow and lie down, Curl up in her softness and drift to sleep. It would be fitting. This plant is also called dreamwort, And is used in spellwork for elucidating messages from dreams. It's a plant of clarity, Intuition, And prophecy. Oldest of words, And most exalted of all the ingredients in the Nine Herbs charm. With a loving hand, You cut sprigs of the soft foliage, Completing your collection at last. With all Nine Herbs in hand, You are almost sorry to leave the forest. What a tranquil and restorative evening you've had among the trees and plants. But there's a potion, A poem to be brewed at the woods' edge, So you must depart. You think you know the way back, But just in case, With a flick of your wand, You conjure a sparkling trail that maps the distance you've already travelled, Magically retracing your footsteps to your delight. Though you hadn't known it, The path makes a winding helix, A sacred spiral through this section of the wood. On your way back, Much quicker than the way in, You say goodnight to the trees and the sleeping birds. At length, You emerge. Only a few cauldrons are set to simmer already, The glow of embers red in the darkening night. Atop the hill the castle sits, In silhouette, Its windows flickering, Suggestive of grand fireplaces lit in the dormitories. You move to your cauldron and turn out the leather bag upon the table. There are all nine plants, Fruits and leaves and flowers. Professor Bain happens by, Counts the ingredients, And gives you a nod to indicate that you've chosen well. With a wave of your wand and a low incantation, You send forth a spark of fire to light the wood beneath your cauldron. As the water heats, You prepare your herbs. Some you crush with mortar and pestle, Releasing plumes of fragrance upon the night. Others you cut carefully with a ceremonial knife. The apple you peel in one long corkscrew piece, Hoping the pigment lends a pleasing hue to the potion. When the water begins to simmer, You thoughtfully cast ingredients into its belly. With each casting, You consider the layers of meaning and magic in the plants, The messages they whisper to you in the wood. The steam rises, Aromatic and potent, Bewitching your senses. You take great care to stir only when needed, To allow herbs to steep well before adding others, And to infuse your task with sincere intention, The root of all magic. As you work, More students stumble out of the woods with overflowing satchels or armfuls of plants. Some have nettle stings on their hands, Which Professor Bain sets right with a salve she carries. Soon enough, A student is working at every cauldron, Nine potion makers brewing in the night under the light of the moon. A potion is a poem, You think. This potion is a dream. The recipe is written in your heart, Derived from a ritual walk through the woods, A communion with the plants you now toss into the cauldron. Incensed with apple peel and fennel seed, Deepened with betony and plantain, Lifted with chervil and lamb's grass, Stung through with nettle, Softened with chamomile, Spellbound with mugwort, The dreamer's plant. It's a potion to heal, Certainly, But you intend it most as a potion for sleep, Mugwort taking the lead within the mixture, A gentle agent to restore the mind and body through dreams. Eight clockwise stirs, Then one wither shins to set the potion. The number nine, Of course, Is strong and magic. On the final stir, A veil of sheer gold settles over the top of the potion. It might be invisible if it weren't for the mild light of the waning moon. It's done. As if she senses its completion, Professor Bain appears only a moment later and peers over the brim of your cauldron. She inhales the trails of steam. There's a deep aroma of licorice, Spice, And candied apple. With a graceful hand, She ladles a portion into a small glass vial and holds it up to the light of the moon. The liquid sparkles a deep green color with a halcyon iridescence. She puts a stopper in the bottle and with the tip of her wand, Inscribes your initials into the cork as if etching them with fire. This, She stashes in a basket with two other similar vessels. When you're ready, She says in a hushed tone, You're dismissed. You can take some with you if you like. It's only now that you realize two of your classmates have left their cauldrons, Finished with the exam, And already back up at the castle by now. Before she leaves to inspect the work of others, Your certain Professor Bain gives you a wink. She must have liked the look of your potion. You'll know soon enough when you get your marks. Feeling accomplished and also suddenly immeasurably weary, You do decide to take some of the potion with you. With a steady hand, You pour a ladle full into one of the glass bottles provided, Stopping it with a cork. Then, With a flourish, You extinguish the fire beneath your cauldron, Leave the textbook on the table, And depart. Halfway up the rocky side of the hill, You stop and turn back to look at the forest and the threshold of cauldrons and smoldering fires before it. From here, You can almost see, Or is it an illusion, Cast by the scutting of night clouds across the moon? The shifting, Shimmering barrier delineating the protected space of the wood. In the caretaker's cottage, A light in the window blinks out, And a few final wisps of smoke escape the chimney. You climb the rest of the way up to the castle, And as you push open the heavy doors to the entrance hall, You're greeted with a curtain of warmth. Your chilled fingers and toes quickly soften and tingle, And a dreamy haze settles over your eyes. Surely it's not very late, But you're simply overcome with the desire to go straight to your bed and surrender to a long and fathomless sleep. If only you could wave your wand and be there now, Instantly. But with your mind and gaze soft, You climb the many stairs to the tower that is your dormitory. In the common space, A few students are gathered to study for their exams before the blazing fireplace. They greet you cheerily, Asking if you'd like to join them, But you wave nonchalantly and explain that you're off to bed. And once within your room, You think that nothing has ever looked so inviting as your mattress at this moment. The plush pillows and thick blankets, The brocade curtains that drape from the canopy. You're ready to fall into the softness of it the moment you enter, But you stop to steal the briefest glance out the nearby window. The gleam of lit cauldron fire still pulses below, And the waning crescent moon glitters in reflection across the lake. Settling at last with a sigh into your bed, You draw the glass bottle from the pocket of your robes. Even now, The potion within shimmers. You unstopper it, Take a deep inhale, And immediately feel waves of relaxation cascade over your body from head to toe. This potion is for dreamers, You think, And without hesitation, You take a small sip, Savoring the autumnal blend of flavors of the elixir. It's a potion for healing through sleep. And with heavy eyelids, You settle back between the blankets, Drawing closed the curtains around your bed. You slip sweetly into sleep, Like an ice cube melting in a glass of warm water. The mugwort takes your hand and leads you into the labyrinth of dreams. Soften into place, Letting your breath settle into a natural rhythm, Letting the belly rise and fall with your inhales and exhales. Imagine that the breath is carrying away any tension, Any worry, Anything you'd rather not take with you tonight into the land of sleep. Just let it go, Dissolving into the potion. With your eyes closed, Allow your body to become heavy in place, Melting into your bed. As you visualize a passage, It might be a stairway or a tunnel leading downward. This is the path to the dream world. Every step you take down this path takes you closer to sleep as your mind slips down one level toward the unconscious world. Furnish this portal in your mind with herbs, Flowers, Or gateway trees. Let it be a welcoming passage, Integrated with the natural world. Inhale, Breathe, And take your first step down. Inhale, Noticing that at your feet there are patches of a silvery green herb which flutters lightly as you move. This is mugwort, Your companion and your initiator in dreams. When you're ready, Take another step forward and down, Letting your mind soften deeper as you go. Now speckling the path are a winding lane of broadleaf plantain, With long spikes of flowers extending upward from a gathering of leaves. Its presence clears the air, Allowing your breath to become slower, Deeper, And more nourishing. Take another step down your passageway, Relaxing into your breath. Step through a cluster of lambscress, With green rosettes of leaves and delicate white flowers. When you come close to it, You feel your inner strength gathering, Restoring, Even as you soften, Preparing for sleep. Another step down when you're ready, Sinking down a level in your mind toward the dream world. Betony brushes the sides of your legs, Heart-shaped leaves with stalks of sweet purple flowers. Hand in hand with mugwort, Betony is a dream protector. She will keep your dreams happy, Productive, And safe. Take another step down your herbal passage, Slipping down another level toward the unconscious, Until you move through a meadow of chamomile flowers, Gold and white, Like tiny daisies all about you. Breathe in their mild, Familiar scent, Feeling it relax your mind and body, Settling you closer to sleep. Move another step down, Sinking deeper toward the dream world. Find, Flanking the path, Tall plants of nettle. Just by passing through, Feel how the nettle promotes a sensation of cool relaxation, A slowing of your breath. Take another step when you're ready, And look up to see the trees along the path, Full-fruited with apples. Their presence bolsters you, Restores your constitution on the path to sleep. Now another step down the natural passage, Sinking deeper down into your dream world, Until you step through wild patches of chervil with soft, Feathered leaves. It gives off a resinous aroma that relaxes you, And allows you to settle into a state of serene contentment. Breathe. When you're ready, Take another step down your path, Finding at your feet large, Flowering stalks of fennel, Giving off an anise-like aroma. Being in its presence deepens your sense of relaxation and calm, Clarifying your inner sight so that the way forward into sleep becomes easy, Effortless to navigate, To linger here if you like for a moment longer. And when it feels right, Step forward and down, Crossing the threshold with nine herbs as your guide, Beyond your plant-furnished passageway and into the sweet expanse of sleep. Sink down, Deep down, Sweet dreams.