That Old Black Magic

Clouds loured and wind swept majestically across the Welsh Marches. In the middle of one particular valley it tarried briefly to help the rain come down a little harder on the village of Trydar Bach.

In a soggy paddock a dappled old horse plodded towards the meagre shelter offered by the west end of the grey cottage that had been extended with plenty of money, but eccentric taste. A black and white cat leapt from the window ledge as the horse approached; it had once made the mistake of napping by the window box and barely escaped a good nibbling from the myopic equine.

The rain pattered away outside the window, unnoticed by the graceful blonde and voluptuous redhead in the room. The former was crouching on the edge of a chair and hunched over the scrubbed oak table. Her russet-tressed friend stood behind her to one side, arms folded, foot tapping on the slate floor.

“Go on, give it another try, love.”

“Alright. Just don’t blame me.”

“If you get it right, I won’t, will I?”

Letitia concentrated hard. Her eyes began to mist over.

“Can you see anything?” hissed Mererid.

“No, just a load of red and purple in a sort of kaleidoscope.”

“That’s just from keeping your eyes open too long. Better give up.”

Mererid went over to the cauldron, dipped her “Friends” mug in it then crossed to the fridge.

“I shouldn’t have a fridge in here, really,” she remarked, trapping the edge of her robe in the door as she closed it with her hip while pouring milk into the mug.

“You shouldn’t be simmering fresh coffee in your cauldron, either,” remarked Letitia, raising an eyebrow, “especially if you’re not going to offer your friends a cup when they’re in distress.”

Mererid reached to the mug tree that, contrary to what might be expected in the circumstances, did not grow six feet tall bearing unusual pottery fruit, but had been a present from her mother after a trip to Porthcawl.

“You were never that good at crystal, Let. Why not go back to the cards?”

Letitia pursed her lips, her speech as tight as the furrow between her brows,

“I don’t use the cards since that blue rinsed article from Chester stole the Death Card. It was a bad omen.”

“Bad luck, more like. They found it when they took her back to the home. You could still have used it.”

“The vibrations were wrong by then.”

“Oh, so you couldn’t do that, either!” Mererid banged a blue mug on the table next to the crystal ball, “I wouldn’t worry, I’ve never been able to do any of that.”

“No, but you’ve always been good at the love spells and potions,” sulked Letiticia, “Your income’s secure.”

“You could always try temping,” suggested Mererid.

“Who needs a temp witch?”

“In an office, stupid.”

Letitia blanched nearly as white as her waist-length hair,

“MANUAL work?”

A distant, low rumble only emphasised the horror of her words.

Mererid sighed,

“I must replace that washing machine, the drum’s going.”

She padded across the room and flicked a finger at the machine.

“That won’t do any good.”

“No, but it makes me feel better. What are you going to do? I know – tea!”

“I’ve already got a coffee.”

Mererid’s green eyes glowed hard for a moment. She crossed to the oak press in the corner, which opened to the mystical touch of her left shoe.

She eyed the shelves,

“Ah! That’s the one,” as she brought down an old red-lidded caddy, it’s sides covered in half scratched off rose trellis, but the pillarbox coloured lid still fitting tight, “This was my mother’s.”

“Handed down from generation to generation?”

“No, wedding present in nineteen fifty-six.”

She put the kettle on the Aga next to the cauldron.

Letitia sipped her coffee and watched, beginning to feel a little despondant. Mererid hummed as she went about the brewing, flicking her auburn curls out of her eyes and giving her sleeve a twitch as she nearly stirred it into the pot,

“Bloody thing, I should have altered it straight away. Mum always had longer arms than me.”

“I had mine tailored.”

“Good job there’s plenty of give in the stitching, then.”

Mererid grinned and Letitia couldn’t help joining her. So what if she’d put on a few pounds? Her best friend had never given in to Let’s snobbery or tendency to self-pity.

A rich, bushy smell filled the air.

“There now! Upside down, turn three times. Tell me what you see.”

This time Letitia didn’t need to concentrate. To her relief it was all there before her.

“I can see a voyage across water, but it’s a dangerous crossing.”

Mererid pulled a face,

“Oh god, I hope Callum doesn’t want to go back to the homeland again. I never got the sick stains out of my smock last time.”

Letitia turned the cup slightly.

“And when you arrive...”

“Lovely, arriving somewhere. Any idea where?”

“Somewhere across the water.”

“Mmm? Getting a bit vague, is it?”

“No,” said Letitia firmly, “It looks like a rough landing. You must be going by air.”

“Callum’s surprise for our anniversary. He said he’d got something planned; I thought he meant a re-handfasting.”

“And some special clothing.”

“Ooh, there you go! A second honeymoon. And you thought you were losing the sight. Next thing you know, we’ll be riding the old brooms again.”

Letitia put down the cup with a sigh of relief and undid the tie neck of her cloak which she’d been in too much of a hurry to remove in her initial anxiety about loss of precognition.

“I’ll get us a top up,” smiled Mererid moving towards the cauldron. She was arrested by a loud bang from the corner of the room, followed by a gentle hissing, but this was not a small dragon landing.

A steady stream of foam was making its way across the room towards them.

“That bloody washing machine. Good job I left the mop next to it.”

She hurried over to grab it.

“Mererid, STOP!” Letitia was too late.

Half way through the washing machine slush Mererid must have hit a stray soap sud that sent her hurtling for the machine itself. She managed to stick out a hand to stop herself, rebounded off it and landed with a sharp bump on her bottom.

“Mother Earth,” she said vehemently, “I’ve jarred my neck.”

Letitia was gloomy once more: she’d forgotten that with tea leaves things are on a somewhat smaller scale.

© Martin J Saxton 2009