M Sellars: Harm none

“Rowan, please,” I appealed calmly. “My friends call me Rowan. And there’s no apology necessary, Agent Mandalay.”

“Constance,” she echoed my sentiments. “My friends call me Constance… And I still want to say I’m sorry… I treated you poorly, and I’ve no excuse… Except maybe for ignorance.” She stumbled over the words, and her large eyes glistened as she choked back what might have been a tear. “What… What I saw that night… I… I don’t know if I could ever tell anyone… I don’t know if I could face it again. I… I just feel that if it weren’t for you, I would be dead… If not dead then insane at the very least. I owe you for that, and I just wanted to tell you all this in person… I just needed to say… Thank you.”

“You’re more than welcome,” I granted. “I’m just glad that you’re all right.”

“I’m getting there,” she expressed with a nervous sigh. “The nightmares were bad at first, but I’ve been okay the past couple of nights. I’m not afraid to go to sleep any more. With a little luck, I should be off administrative leave by the end of next week.”

“Just don’t push yourself,” I advised. “Go back when you’re ready. Not before.”

“I know.”

Timid silence filled the room around us, broken only by the sound of Salinger as he leapt heavily onto the coffee table and studied the new human in the room.

“So, how do you like your steak?” I posed, adding my words to the void.

“Excuse me?”

“How do you like your steak?” I repeated. “They’ll be going on the grill in just a few minutes, and I’ll need to know how you want it cooked.”

“No. I couldn’t stay,” she protested. “I’m sure Deckert and Storm would just as soon I fall off the face of the earth after the way I acted. Especially Storm.”

“I don’t know about that. I’ve known Ben for…”

“Hey, paleface!” We heard Ben’s jovial voice booming from the kitchen and growing closer as he ambled through the house in our direction. “What happened to those beers?”

Ben came to a sudden halt as he rounded the corner into the dining room and noticed Agent Mandalay standing across from me. Their eyes locked for a moment, and I could easily sense the fluid apprehension that flowed between them. The only sounds to be heard were the distant voices of Allison and Felicity drifting in from the kitchen.

“I was just asking Constance how she wanted her steak done,” I expressed calmly.

Their gazes remained fixed a moment longer, faces expressionless. As if on cue, the heavy tension whirlpooled down an unseen drain, and Ben’s face spread into a welcoming smile.

“Hey, Allison,” he called over his shoulder, “better wrap up another one of those potatoes.” He turned his gaze back to us before continuing. “Another friend just showed up.”

Agent Mandalay’s face broke into a relieved grin, and she glanced back to me. “Medium rare,” she answered in an easy, comfortable tone. “I like my steak medium rare.”

Eight robed figures stood somberly in the large clearing, bluish light illuminating them from the rotund globe of the full moon. Surrounding the small circle were five freshly planted trees, straight and carefully spaced. Even to a casual onlooker, it was obvious that great care had been taken in the placement and rooting of the saplings. To a brother or sister of The Craft, it would be readily apparent that walking a particular, familiar path between the five trees would form a large Pentacle.

An auburn-tressed woman, long hair spiraling in a brilliant cascade down her back, moved lithely about the group carefully touching a flame to colorful candles appointed at four stations of the circle-yellow to the East, red to the South, blue to the West, and green to the North. She moved as if floating, adding her low, solemn voice to the rest as each of the four towers was hailed.

The woman moved fluidly back to the center of the small gathering, taking a position next to a bearded man, his own long, brown hair flowing loosely about his shoulders. The man lifted a brightly polished athame to the sky and scribed a perfect Pentacle in the still air. As he lowered the ceremonial knife, the coven members joined in a thrice-repeated chant.

The red-haired priestess once again touched flame to a candle-this time white-in the center of the circle then turned and placed a gentle kiss on the lips of the priest. As they parted, a young man with long, dark hair raised a small horn to his own lips and blew hard into the end, sending a single wailing note to resound from the hillsides. As the note faded on the still, night air, the young man lowered the horn and announced to the gathering, “The horn is sounded for Ariel.”

The other members answered him in unison, “So be it.”

The priestess looked about the solemn group and closed her bright green eyes. “That today, Ariel is not with us, here in the Circle, saddens us all. Yet, we should try not to feel sadness but joy, for is this not a sign that she has fulfilled this life’s work? She is now free to move on, and we should not fear, for we shall meet again. That will be our time for further celebration.”

“Let us send forth our love and good wishes to bear her across The Bridge,” the priest proceeded on from the last words of the priestess. “May she return at any time she wishes and be here with us. May she also guide the unfortunate victims who shared her death as they move along their new paths. I ask the God and Goddess to bless these five trees we have planted in honor of the lives that have ended and the new lives that will begin. Blessed Be!”

“So mote it be!” The chorus rang out from the coven members, sedate but strong.

In the shadows, unnoticed by choice, a translucent glimmer of a young strawberry-blonde woman clad in a white lace gown stood watching the group. Her hair wafted gently about on an ethereal breeze, a sparkling halo hovering around her petite figure. She smiled as she felt their energy join and rise into a powerful cone. Still, a small teardrop escaped her eye. The coven’s mellifluous chant filled her ears as she turned and crossed over The Bridge.