M Sellars: Harm none

“Thanks, Chief.” I took the cigar and gave it a close look. “Dominican, eh? Been hanging around the tobacconist playing Wooden Indian again?” I grinned.

“Yeah, blow it out your ass,” he laughed. “One of the coppers I helped with a case owed me one and finally paid up.” Reaching into the bag he pulled out a bottle of Glenlivet and a bottle of de-alcoholized white zinfandel. “So where’s the little woman?”

“Upstairs doing that bill paying thing,” I answered, sliding the cigar beneath my nose with a flourish and sniffing the spicy, Spanish cedar veneer that encased it. “She’s gonna just love you for this,” I continued, waving the expensive smoke at him. “I’m supposed to call her down when you get here, and I suppose that would be about now.”

“I’ll get ‘er,” he told me as he stood up and took a stride to the door. “I need a glass and some ice anyway. You good?”

“I could go for a couple of cubes. Just fill the ice bucket and bring it out if you want.”

“Everything still in the usual place?” he asked as he opened the door.

“Yeah, same as always.”

I could hear him calling up the stairs to Felicity as the screen door swung shut; something pseudo-official sounding about having the place surrounded and that all tiny red-headed women should come out with their hands up. His call was answered by my wife bounding down the stairs followed closely by our English setter and Australian cattle dog vociferously making their individual presences known. A few short minutes later he returned, ladened with the ice bucket, a fresh glass, and Felicity in tow.

“So, before you even get started with your cop stories,” my wife began, perching herself on the ledge near the stairs, “how are Allison and Ben Junior?”

Ben extracted the cork from the bottle of white zinfandel and filled the wine glass she held forth.

“Good,” he answered. “Pretty good. Al said ta’ tell you guys ‘hey’ and sorry she couldn’t make it. The little guy told me to make sure I said ‘hi’ to the dogs.”

“We really need to find some time to get together for a barbecue or something,” I stated as he planted himself back on the edge of the porch and went about the task of opening the Scotch.

“Yeah,” Ben returned. “Why don’t ya’ tell that to the bad guys. I could use a little time off.” He poured himself a drink and topped mine off before sticking his cigar between his lips and setting it alight with a wooden match. “Ahhhhh,” he exclaimed, blowing out a stream of pungent smoke. “I’ve been so damn busy lately, I really haven’t had a chance to enjoy a cigar… Ya’know, I think this is the first time I’ve had anything lit in my mouth in a month.”

“Like you really need it,” Felicity admonished. “Allison and I get you two to quit cigarettes, and the next thing we know you’re sucking on some other burning carcinogen.”

“Boys will be boys,” I told her.

“Yeah,” Ben chimed in. “What he said.”

The friendly chatter eased my mind for the time being, but I still felt a nag in the back of my skull. Sitting here, I knew that just as I had suspected, my friend was without a doubt its undeniable source.

Later in the evening, we called out for pizza and moved our celebration indoors. After putting the dogs through their paces for a handful of the crusts, Felicity said her goodnights and went off to bed, for she had an early outing with her nature photography club the next morning.

Ben had grown quieter as the evening wore on, leaning more heavily on the Scotch than I can ever recall him doing before. After I finished clearing the dishes from the table, he refilled our glasses from the near-depleted bottle of Glenlivet, and then we ventured out to the back deck.

My friend dropped his large frame heavily into a chair and went about trimming the end from a fresh cigar as I lit the citronella-oil-filled tiki torches that rimmed the deck. Mosquitoes had been bad this summer, and these seemed to stave them off fairly well while providing an unobtrusive light. After bringing the last torch to life, I took my seat opposite Ben at the patio table and proceeded to work on my own after-dinner smoke. I could literally feel his introspection building to a point of release and knew that the worry clouding the back of my mind would soon be summoned forward.

“You’n Felicity are still into that Wicca thing, right?” Ben queried after an extended silence.

“If you mean have we converted to Catholicism or something, no we haven’t,” I answered. “We aren’t connected with a coven right now, but we still practice. Once you’re a Witch, you usually stay a Witch.” I lit my cigar and then took a sip of my Scotch. “Why do you ask?”

“Just curious,” he replied hesitantly.

I knew there was more to the question than mere curiosity, but I also knew better than to press this particular subject with Ben, for that would only serve to make him feel ill at ease. He had always been willing to accept that Felicity and I practiced what was considered by most to be a non-traditional religion but usually showed a clear desire to leave it in the background. Out of sight, out of mind. As with most things that didn’t fit with the majority view, the masses, including Ben, were entirely off base in their misconceptions regarding Wicca, WitchCraft and almost any other alternative religion for that matter.

I had once attempted to explain to him that Wicca and WitchCraft, or simply “The Craft” as we often call it, involved no pointed hats, bubbling cauldrons, or flying brooms. To the knowledge of any practitioner of the religion, it never did truly include such things. I told him that Wicca was simply an Earth religion, and as for deities, ours were the Earth and the Moon: Diana and Pan, respectively. There was no evil intent, and in fact, our most basic and all-important covenant was to “Harm None.” We viewed our religion as a way of life through which we did our best to live in harmony with nature, and through study and meditation, we attempted to learn control over the natural energies that inherently reside within all of us. I further explained that in doing this, we sometimes developed abilities that some would consider psychic in nature, such as an uncanny sixth sense or the ability to heal others and ourselves: We think of these as learned talents, nothing more, and nothing less. I even added that I knew of no incident where anyone had been turned into a frog, except in fairy tales. The simple fact was that even if that were possible, no self-respecting Witch would consider it.

Even after I had answered his several pointed questions, he still clung to his misconceptions, and so, out of respect for him, I made sure to steer clear of the subject entirely.

Now, for the second time in less than a week, Ben was asking me about a part of my life he normally avoided. I wasn’t about to push, so I was more than willing to bide my time and wait for him to get around to what he wanted. I could feel his preoccupation thick in the darkness around us, so I was certain my wait would be a short one.

“So… You remember when I called you ‘bout that five-pointed star a couple days back?” he finally asked.

“You mean the difference between a Pentacle, and a Pentagram?” I returned. “Yeah, I remember.”

“That’s it,” he affirmed. “Would ya’ mind tellin’ me the difference on that again?”

“No problem. A Pentacle is basically just what you said, a five-pointed star surrounded by a circle. It’s a very common symbol in the Wiccan religion. When it’s upright,” I scribed the symbol in the air with my finger, “with only one point at the top, it represents man and the spirit as it rules over the four elements. That’s when it’s called a Pentacle. If on the other hand you turn it one hundred-eighty degrees, and two of the points are at the top,” I spun my finger in a circle, “it’s called a Pentagram and represents the spirit’s union with material elements.” I relaxed back into my chair. “Some however, place an improper, albeit widely accepted, meaning on the Pentagram. They claim it represents Satan, evil, black magick, etcetera.”