The story you are about to read is true. More accurately, it is an amalgam of stories
that I have seen repeated in various forms over the years. The names I have changed for the usual
reasons.
* * * * *
Many years ago, when this ancient land was
not quite so ancient, there was a priestess named Wind. Not Wind like in watch,
she told the chat-rooms and forums, but like the Air.
As High Priestess of Zephyr Coven, Wind loved
the respect that this brought her, sometimes to distraction. She and her beloved coven-mates could often be
found in the sunny glens of Renaissance festivals and psychic fairs, dancing in
ritual garb or clad in the sky, showing to all the world their confidence and their
ease with themselves. Wind loved
celebrating the freedom her faith gave her, with friends and with lovers, and
of watching the auras of those around her: the mixings of gorgeous reds,
purples, blues, and yellows. She was
especially fond of helping others in psychic or magikal distress, and of
sharing her visions and insights with others.
Most priestesses are busy women indeed, and they
must keep a difficult balance. They give
help to those they can, seeking to help others learn and learn from those
others and to walk always with Goddess in whatever way their path calls for. Wind, however, was always busy showing the
world how free and humble and insightful she was, and thus she became very
popular. Many people came to visit Wind
and her coven, and her life was full of celebration.
One day, Wind and her sister-in-heart Sybil were
lazing in a clearing, Wind playing her pan-pipes. A stranger came up to them both, ignoring
their nudity, and complimented Wind on her pipe playing. Smiling, she pointed out that she had no
training, but had merely been playing what was in her heart. Even as she thanked him for the compliment, he
looked at her in amazement.
“I had thought perhaps another had taught that
tune to you,” he exclaimed, “but now that I see you more closely, I understand.
For you see, fair ladies, I have a gift:
I not only know all my own past lives, but I can see the past lives of others,
as well. I see now that you are both
sisters, or were hundreds of years ago, and daughters to me. That song was known only to our tribe, and has
not been played for over a century. We were
wiped out, all of us, by a grim betrayal.”
At that moment, his calm broke. Even as he wept openly, the two sisters moved
in vain to comfort him. Asking him more
about himself, they learned that he was Roivas, a wanderer in this life,
destined never to know a place of true rest.
This was because of the call of the Naililih, the guardian-spirits whom
he served. Being house-mates, and
compassionate to his plight, the two sisters invited him to their house at once.
Wind and Sybil gave Roivas their blessings and
protection, as he was their guest, and introduced him to the rest of their
coven. Raven, Heather, She-Wolf and
Delilah all received him, and made him welcome. After Roivas brought the conversation to
numerology, Heather noted that his addition brought their number up to seven, a
very potent number. Roivas interrupted,
saying that he could never join any coven.
The powers that flowed through him were only for the protection of
women, he told them, and would overpower and outbalance any circle’s harmony. He then retired to his guest-room, to perform
his rituals of prayer according to his vows to the Naililih. There was a brief time of silence, and then the
room exploded with questions and conjecture.
Which was, of course, how Roivas had wanted it.
Day and night, he stayed in his room, working
his mighty magicks on behalf of the coven that had welcomed him. “You see,” he explained, “only I, or another
trained as I have been, can perform such rituals. I dare not perform them before you, or you could
be harmed by their power, having not been consecrated to them as I have. Please, allow me to do this, in gratitude for
all you have done for me.” His conduct
seemed to give credence to his claims of a sanctified life, and the coven gave
him his space. But when he was alone, he
rested and laughed heartily. Already, the
coven was coming to trust him and his mystery more than they trusted
themselves.
Wind had a nagging feeling that something was
awry, but she did not want to seem either rude or a fool. Therefore, she asked Raven to speak with
Roivas in his room, and quietly scan the energies therein. She shared none of her misgivings with Raven,
and told no one else in the coven of their actions. It seemed the wise thing to do.
Raven knocked, entered, and looked about. Lord
and Lady! thought she, I can’t see
what he’s been doing at all!
She strained to see, and thought that perhaps
she did see something. So fearing to
lose the respect of Roivas and of her coven, she pretended to see the energies
and rituals he had been creating.
“What do you think, Lady?” asked Roivas, “I
tried to tone it down a little, to be subtle. Did you notice the way I wove the
elemental powers together, here and here?”
“Yes indeed,” said Raven, now half-believing
that she saw what he spoke of.
“I’m glad,” he said warmly, “that you think it
might help. You know, most people couldn’t grasp the intricacy of this work, as
you have done . . .” They spent the next
few hours talking, and Raven returned to Wind and told her how marvelous his
magik was.
A few days later, Wind was again curious about
how the work was progressing. Something seemed not quite right. Still, she didn’t want to offend her guest,
or hurt Raven’s feelings. Therefore she
quietly sent Heather to view his craft, again telling no one else in the coven
of her concerns. As had happened with
Raven, Heather could see nothing, but betwixt her uncertainty and his flattery
returned to Wind aglow with tales of Roivas’ power and insight. So it went with She-Wolf and Delilah, as well.
Over the next few weeks, Roivas further revealed
that Heather had been a Highlands wise-woman, and his lover in a past life;
that She-Wolf had always been a hunter and warrior, and that Delilah had been a
priestess of Atlantis, helping him with the sacrament of the Old Gods.
Then Jane came to visit.
Jane was not a pagan, nor a witch, nor a
sorceress of any stripe or hue. She was
the owner and operator of a health food store down the street from Wind and
Sybil’s house, and had been friends with them for years. The sisters told her how wonderful and
insightful Roivas was, and Jane immediately smelled a rat. She said as much, and advised them both to get
rid of him. Shocked by their friend’s
attitude, they of course refused.
Jane shook her head. “I don’t trust him. It’s your business, you’re both adults, but for
God’s sake be careful. This sounds a bit
too down pat, somehow.” As a compromise,
the two sisters invited Jane to their house to meet Roivas. Surely if anyone could bring out her hidden
talents in the mystic arts, it would be he.
The evening went well at first, if a bit
guardedly. Then, Roivas began talking of
the difficulty in mastering more than one style of magik, as he had.
Jane didn’t care, and wasn’t concerned with
spells.
“Of course not,” Roivas agreed. “You have always been pragmatic. Centuries ago, when you were in the Italian
court—”
“I’m Christian,” Jane cut in. “I don’t have past lives.”
Still later in the discussion, Roivas told her
of his vows to use sex only in its highest, most pure and magikal form. Jane didn’t care if he was found naked in a
bathtub of lime Jell-O with two hippos and a hummingbird, and said as much. Dinner went on in this vein for some time,
and ultimately Jane left only after quietly asking her friends to kick out the
fruit cup, sooner rather than later.
When Wind and Sybil returned to the living room,
they found Roivas sitting on the couch, hands clasped together,
devastated. Looking up at them with
horror-struck eyes, he confessed that he had seen his worst fears realized. For the traitor that had killed their tribe
lifetimes ago had returned, masquerading as their friend! This
was why Jane denied having any past lives, he explained, and why she pretended
not to be magically active. It was the
fate she had bound herself into—to destroy them all, life after life, so long
as she got the chance. She had probably
tried to turn them against him, divide the three of them, hadn’t she? So much the better pick them off later, now
that they had re-united as a family.
That night, Wind slept badly, her few dreams sorely
troubled. Yet, morning found her awake
and with newfound resolve: she would see his spells and energies herself, and
judge him by his actions rather than by anyone’s words. She gathered the whole of the coven together,
and as one they went to see Roivas in his room. There were serious charges on both sides, and
it was time to see for certain.
She knocked. He answered. When she explained, he let them all in with
good grace, understanding and compassionate. All were in awe at Roivas’ magikal workings. Even Roivas himself half-believed his stories
by this time, and he joined them in the dance of words, always adding but never
contradicting, describing the mastery of his magikal works. “Magnificent!” said Wind’s coven-mates. “How elegant, yet so simple . . . no wonder
it takes so long to prepare!”
Wind, in the middle of it all, saw nothing. Inwardly, she moaned, thinking the fault must
lie in her. Yet she put on a brave face
and joined her voice with the others. ”It’s
dazzling, beautiful,” she chimed in. And
everyone agreed.
Change came quickly over the days that followed.
As Roivas’ vows forbade him from ever
working against a woman, the coven worked without him. They crafted spells against Jane in the name
of defense and justice, and sure enough, her health began to suffer. For his own part, Roivas spent little time in
his room anymore. He had explained that
the magikal structure therein needed the space to grow during its last stages,
and so he alternated sleeping in Wind’s bed and Sybil’s. Of course, he knew that this would only be for
a short while. The rest of the coven was
nearly convinced that his magik could only be taught through lovemaking, and soon
he would reveal that the original, Atlantian Great Rite was an act of group
sex.
* * * * *
The months passed for the coven in a rushed,
dreamless sort of way. Between lessons
in Atlantian sorcery, Ninjitzu, and sex magik, not to mention all their jobs,
there was little time for reflection—or thought at all, for that matter. All too soon, it was weekend of the
great Faire. Here the protections he had
placed upon them all would doubtless be most sorely needed, the training he’d
been giving them best displayed.
They walked out in full glory, proud of
the powers they had gained from beloved Roivas, wishing he had accompanied
them. Practitioners of a hundred arts,
not to mention a variety of groupies, fell silent to watch Zephyr Coven pass
by. Word had spread of their newfound
powers, of their angelic auras and impenetrable shields, and everyone strained
to witness. No one could quite see these
shields or angelic auras, of course. There
were echoes, born from their belief, but that was all. But as each person there was afraid to be
thought a fool or headblind, everyone strained to see, and many “Oh’s” and
“Ah’s” sighed through the crowd.
Children had been brought to the fair, of course,
as they were every year. One little girl
kept jumping up and down, trying to see as the procession went by. At last she made her way to the front of the
crowd. And there, head cocked to one
side (and in a much louder voice than she thought she used), she exclaimed, “But
there’s nothing there!”
Slowly at first, but with rising speed and
clarity, all present began to realize the truth. The magikal wards were only dream-stuff and
shadow, no more substantial than a promise made in wine. Wind realized the truth, as did her coven, but
they kept their heads held high as they finished their procession. They would count on short memory to repair
their tarnished reputation and ease their humiliation, made no less painful for
having been shared. By the time they
returned to Wind and Sybil’s home, Roivas was gone. So was all their cash, many of their
valuables, and several credit cards.
Wind fled to her room and locked herself
in. “It’s all my fault,” she sobbed,
“I’m not a priestess! I’m not worthy of
anything! I’m nothing! I should die!”
Eventually, Sybil managed to pick the lock. The sisters held each other until the tears
stopped, and they could think again. Late that night, the coven met, purified the
house top to bottom, and somberly cast circle.
And, after much discussion, each member resolved never to allow herself
to be duped again.
* * * * *
Zephyr Coven still exists today, though it has never been the same. It‘s the
Walking Wounded Coven now, and while people meeting them can see the love and
trust to be found there, it’s nothing like it was.
Wind stepped down from her role as High
Priestess the night that Roivas left, despite her friends’ protests. She has never forgiven herself for “betraying
her friends.” Later, she left the Craft and
the Goddess behind her entirely, and went into a business partnership with Jane. To this day, she tries not to think too much
about her days as a priestess, or the friends she needlessly left behind. Jane is still trying to get Wind to talk about
what happened, to no avail. Wind trusts
herself little, loves herself less, and is weaker for it.
Sybil is High Priestess now, as she has been
ever since Wind stepped down. She rarely
laughs anymore. She takes full responsibility
for her own decisions, and for the decisions of everyone around her. This leaves scant time for laughter.
Raven and Heather were married six months after
the Faire disaster, and are completely devoted to one another. Raven trusts no one now, save for Heather. Heather, for her part, continually looks for
ways to force her wife to trust again. Between
them, they have established a cycle that could go on forever.
After Roivas, She-Wolf learned to harden her
heart, and resolved that all men are evil.
She holds now that love, especially love for a man, is a weakness that
corrodes the will. This is the creed that
she taught her daughter, Lilith, born nine months after Roivas fled. Her coven-mates have always done their best
over the years, but there’s a limit as to how much they can do to soften such
bitterness. Further, while Lilith knows
she can talk to the rest of the coven, she dreads the day her boyfriends are
discovered.
Delilah can no longer feel whole or loved unless
she is in a sexual relationship, basing her self-image solely on the pleasure
she can give men. She and She-Wolf are still
friends, each determined to help the other learn and grow through these trying
times.
All these psychic scars naturally caused their
own problems in due course. But, that is
a story for another time.
(Thanks to Ms. Pamela Coleman-Smith, who illustrated A. E. Waite's designs for a tarot deck, as published by the William Rider & Son of London in 1909.)
