Linda Robertson - Hallowed Circle

I'd been to the Covenstead only once, almost a decade ago when I officially signed the adult roster and designated myself as a solitary—a witch who practices solo with no coven affiliation, but who still can vote on matters affecting the witch community. Back then, the building, situated on four semirural suburban acres, was little more than a concrete-block cube with garage doors on four sides that could be opened to let nature in while keeping the rain out. Now, a surprisingly attractive circular building topped with a geodesic dome was centered on the manicured lot. Stone walls rose from subtle «natural» landscaping that surrounded the dome; a wide paved parking area ringed the grounds. The rest of the terrain was as meticulously perfect as a golf course with large elder, ash, oak, and thorn trees in each corner. The acreage could easily accommodate outdoor rituals and the indoor facility offered the coven comfortable shelter during cold northeast Ohio winters. All in all, it seemed the perfect blending of witchcraft symbolism—nature, the circle, the triangle—enhanced for the comfort of those who could afford it.

Vivian had left her legacy by exploiting the deep pockets of her preferred flock. They bankrolled the bulldozer-demise of the old structure and funded the construction of the modern gymnasium-sized facility to replace it.

As I drove around it, the repeating triangle shapes of the dome reminded me of the Earth's global geodesic lines, the ley lines. One ran across the back of my rural twenty acres and its energy fueled my house wards as needed.

I parked my Toyota Avalon—I loved all things Arthurian and chose the model for its evocative name, not its style or gas mileage. Cool early evening air swirled around me as I opened the door and got out. Rain was expected later tonight. It was my plan to get home and cut some corn stalks for decorations before it started falling.

The Covenstead had four pairs of oversize wooden doors—each placed to coincide with a compass point. The giant E carved into the middle of the pair of doors in front of me confirmed I was approaching the eastern entrance, as if the darkening evening sky behind me wasn't clue enough. Over the entry was a wooden plaque elaborately carved with a leafy "Green Man" face and the inscription: "Merry Meet and Merry Part."

Despite its weight, the door opened inward easily with a push.

Inside, it was nearly pitch black. Overhead, dim pinpoint lights twinkled like stars in the heavens and illuminated the points of a pentacle inlaid in the floor. Made with the deep, reddish tones of cherrywood, the symbol was centered on an otherwise pale pine floor. The flooring where I stood just inside the door and that of the area surrounding the wooden circle was of a durable exposed aggregate, a pebbly mix of earthy shades. The room seemed so vast it felt like an empty sports arena, thrumming with potent silence.

Hello? The ley line whispered timidly to my senses, as if it were hiding far away.

The ley line on my property had spoken to me once, the first time I walked in the rows of corn behind my home. Since then, it always sent a barely noticeable pulse in greeting when I ventured into the cornfield, like a neighbor waving from across the street. Those who weren't sensitive to magical energy simply didn't feel it. They wouldn't hear it calling either. Those who were sensitive to it usually felt it as an indication of something bad, the sort of feeling most folks described as "this place gives me the creeps."

"Hello," I whispered back.

The smell of ylang-ylang filled my nostrils and I could sense remnants of energy. As I stepped farther in, eyes adjusting to the dimness, my every footstep seemed amplified.

I became aware of sound to my left.

Several stairways led up to a railed catwalk encircling the structure about ten feet above the floor level. How convenient: a well-placed media area where cameras could get a good view of rituals below. My, my, Vivian and her crowd had thought of everything, hadn't they?

But the sound I heard came from below. Wide descending stairs between the eastern door I'd entered and the southern door to my left leaked light and what was now discernable as chattering people and a ringing phone. I started down.

"Venefica Covenstead." Pause. "Yes, we received your fax."

At the bottom of the stairs were arrows, universal restroom signs, and the glass wall of an office area, its door propped open. Inside, a bleached blonde sitting at a desk rolled her thick-lined eyes as she held her pen poised above a pad of paper. She seemed familiar, but I couldn't place her. Another woman stood leaning on an elbow-high counter and a pair of women sat on cushioned seats along the wall flipping through New Witch and Green Egg magazines.

"Okay," the receptionist said. "I'll make a note of that in your file, Ms. Taylor… you're staying at the Motel 6 near the airport. Sure, we'll contact you there."

The woman waiting at the counter sniggered at the words "Motel 6" and turned to me. She looked me up and down, taking in my hiking boots, jeans, black tee, and dark flannel shirt in a quick assessment. "Getting the grounds ready for the winter?"

"The grounds?"

She flapped a hand in the air. "Here. The Covenstead grounds." She sounded annoyed with me, as if I weren't keeping up.

She thought I was the groundskeeper? I said, flatly, "No."

"Don't tell me you're here to sign in for the Eximium?" She crossed her arms, made a second up and down evaluation of me, and laughed.

Okay, so I had been outside preparing to cut fodder shocks when roughhousing with Beverley and Ares, our black Great Dane, took precedence. Then Nana had yelled there was a call for me. After taking Lydia's call I came straight here. I wasn't expecting a dress code. "And if I am?"

"Are you?" she asked curtly.

She was tan, tall, and rail thin. Her glossy blue-black hair was straight and down to her elbows. Her expertly applied makeup was done in natural colors, except for fire-engine-red lipstick. The expensive white blouse was crisp; the flipped-up cuffs gave it a nonchalant flair. Her dark designer jeans were tight and pressed so they had a razor-sharp line down the front; the bottoms were folded up in wide cuffs to show thin ankles—a dainty gold chain around one—and pumps that matched her lipstick.

Lydia's earlier comment came back to me, the one about WEC wanting "savvy, smart, and pretty young women" as covenheads for good media exposure. But only someone wearing her ultra-stylishness as a mask would bother to iron jeans like that.

I stuck with my short answers. "Yes."

"And are you staying at the Motel 6 too?" she asked with an utterly insincere smile.

"No."

"Good. I hope you procured more prestigious accommodations. A high priestess does have to have some pride, you know. I'm at the Renaissance downtown. You?"

She was really bugging me. "At my home, actually."

"Oh." She drew out the word and her blue eyes narrowed. "You're the local nominee. How nice." She put out her right hand. "I'm Hunter. Hunter Hopewell."

Everyone in the room looked up when Hunter put her hand out to me. I knew something was about to happen.

Witches, especially pushy aggressive witches, do this… thing. It's similar to the guy-code, machismo, pissing-contest-in-a-handshake, where the strength of the grip proves who's the manlier. In the witch version, since the right hand is projective, she was going to zap me with her aural energy to see if my own was weaker or stronger. Though I know about this, I don't have cause or desire to practice it, so I hesitated, considering.

I thought of a conductivity demonstration back in high school. The whole class linked hands and on one end, someone touched the experiment's low-voltage electricity source. On the other end, someone touched the metal chalk tray. Everyone got shocked. In my class, I was the one to touch the metal. Knowing what was about to happen made that assignment fun at the time. Like most teens, I had enough of a juvenile sadistic streak to enjoy seeing certain classmates get a low dose of electricity.