Hi everyone, I thought I'd post the opening section of my fantasy novella-in-progress and get some feedback. The story has to do with a tokolosh (an African mischief-making spirit) disrupting a gathering of amateur magicians in Wales.
I'm sorry about the length (1 075 words), but there didn't seem to be a good place to cut off earlier and I felt the story needed a leisurely start. Those who just want to comment on the opening paragraph are welcome. And I'm not expecting a details read, just impressions.
Many thanks in advance.
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You might think that a magical spirit would be welcome at a gathering of amateur magicians. You’d be wrong.
Each spring, a group of old friends and co-conspirators who thought of themselves as eclectic magicians would gather at the Radnors’ home in the Welsh Borders. The half-timbered Tudor house at the end of a lane screened by ash trees was the ideal place to practise some post-modernist alchemy. The atmosphere couldn't be more propitious. ‘Bats and owls swooping around in a fog of lilac at Dark Moon,’ said John Radnor.
One by one, they arrived in a lingering twilight: ageing Thelemites, Chaos magicians and tarot fundis, all keen on a good supper and some lively magical working to follow. All day Phoebe Radnor had been cooking and baking, had ironed the black and scarlet table cloths and napkins for table and altar, rinsed and dried wine glasses and dessert bowls. Ebony candlesticks polished, goblets set out at cardinal points, the skull draped in purple silk. The antique athame as centrepiece. Where was the goat-tail whisk? Back and forth she went between rooms, hoping to finish in time. Potatoes to be peeled, green beans topped and tailed. Steak knives for the hopeful rare slices of lamb. A salad would be too frivolous, she supposed. Phoebe was what her husband the Grand Master of Occult Ceremonies of the Left-hand Path described as ‘a kitchen witch in that necessary but lower form of Wicca’.
In the old-fashioned kitchen with its uneven tiled floors, grumbling Aga, draughty Tudor hearth and not enough counter space, Phoebe invoked the Lares and Penates of the household, those small helpful gods with their thimbles of salt and nutmeg. She was better at growing herbs than roasting a leg of lamb.
“There’s Sean now. He rang to say he might bring along a woman from Mauritius who is some kind of Voudoun adept,’ called John. He rushed off down the path in his scarlet ceremonial cloak. Not for the first time, Phoebe wondered what it was about the Craft that brought out the absurd and pompous in her scholarly husband.
While Sean was parking the car, a complicated business on the sloping drive, his companion ambled up between the low octagonals of the knot garden. To Phoebe’s dismay, the woman was carrying a small dog-like creature with a simian face and long tail.
She went out to greet the guest who introduced herself as Fig and air-kissed her in the continental style on both cheeks. Phoebe showed the unexpected guest into the original Elizabethan entrance hall.
‘Like walking into history,’ said Phoebe. ‘Not that everyone has the same passion for history, but John and I are a little soppy about having such an old place.’
Fig seemed unimpressed by the vast fireplace and soot-blackened panels. She said nothing and her stare made Phoebe nervous. In the shaft of pale light from the landing, Fig looked older, more foreign than she had seemed when viewed from the living-room window. A trace of moustache on her upper lip.
‘Do you suppose your little dog might prefer to stay outdoors?’ Phoebe at her most tactful.
‘Nzemede will go where he chooses,’ said Fig, shrugging her shoulders. She was a small woman with untidy reddish-brown hair, a freckled face and protruding grey-green eyes.
Juliet’s heart sank. Animal lovers could be as unreasonable as vegans. She indicated the passage leading to the bathroom and Fig wandered off.
‘What is that creature?’ asked John, his brow creased with anxiety. ‘I could have sworn I saw it climbing into the apple tree. Don’t tell me it’s gone upstairs?’
Sean, taking off his top hat and brandishing a bottle of wine as he came in, looked flustered and unlike himself.
‘It isn’t a pet,’ he said. ‘It’s a tokolosh, some kind of mischievous spirit found in central Africa. Something like a leprechaun.’
‘You’re joking,’ said John. He glared at Phoebe and Sean, then spun on his heel.
A theatrical gesture to follow. Phoebe waited. John resisted temptation and regained equilibrium. Tonight was important to him.
‘This wine must breathe for a while. Good vintage, my man.’
John took the bottle away to be uncorked in the kitchen. Phoebe hugged Sean without her usual warmth. It was too bad of him to bring along a guest who might not be the acceptable kind of magician.
The other magicians were playing chess in the living room. As usual, Peter had won the first game.
’ Telepathy always trumps cheating,’ he said cheerfully, wagging his finger at Oddbod.
The guests jostled into the dining room and ignored the place names at table settings. Cloak pinned back, John carved up the lamb that was a little overcooked. Fig ate with unself-conscious greed, paying no attention to talk about the ritual to come.
‘Isn’t witchcraft in Africa on the increase?’ asked John politely, as Phoebe cleared away plates.
Fig, still chewing, looked up at John and began to laugh, swallowing hard. Her laughter was deep, bubbling up from her diaphragm. Not kind, a loud derisive laugh.
‘You live in Dr Dee’s neighbourhood, don’t you?’ she said in a low voice. ‘This is magicians’ territory. Ah no, I would not worry about witchcraft anywhere but here.’
A dark glitter shimmied around Fig, visible waves and particles of energy flickering and crackling. Palpable tension both exhilarated and disconcerted Phoebe. She was in the presence of strangeness, something unpredictable. The night’s ritual would be exciting, for a change.
She excused herself and went out to catch her breath. In the kitchen, muttering a hasty invocation, she slid the green and pink ice-cream bombe from its mould and arranged sliced strawberries on top Glass bowls – she counted them – and silver spoons, a blue Italian platter for the cheeses. As she carried out the bombe, she saw the tokolosh scuttle past her into the dining room, its fur glinting red.
Balding and bearded magicians alike applauded to see the dessert put down in front of them. Kitchen witchery vindicated. Phoebe bowed and smiled, but her attention was elsewhere.
The tokolosh crouched on the back of the Knole sofa, tense and watchful. Am I the only one able to see this creature? The thought frightened Phoebe. That clotted fur, the scaly, clawed feet. A hard otherness of gaze. It was watching them with calm curiosity, waiting for a chance to … what? She shook herself and tried to ignore the interloper.
I'm sorry about the length (1 075 words), but there didn't seem to be a good place to cut off earlier and I felt the story needed a leisurely start. Those who just want to comment on the opening paragraph are welcome. And I'm not expecting a details read, just impressions.
Many thanks in advance.
**********************************************************
You might think that a magical spirit would be welcome at a gathering of amateur magicians. You’d be wrong.
Each spring, a group of old friends and co-conspirators who thought of themselves as eclectic magicians would gather at the Radnors’ home in the Welsh Borders. The half-timbered Tudor house at the end of a lane screened by ash trees was the ideal place to practise some post-modernist alchemy. The atmosphere couldn't be more propitious. ‘Bats and owls swooping around in a fog of lilac at Dark Moon,’ said John Radnor.
One by one, they arrived in a lingering twilight: ageing Thelemites, Chaos magicians and tarot fundis, all keen on a good supper and some lively magical working to follow. All day Phoebe Radnor had been cooking and baking, had ironed the black and scarlet table cloths and napkins for table and altar, rinsed and dried wine glasses and dessert bowls. Ebony candlesticks polished, goblets set out at cardinal points, the skull draped in purple silk. The antique athame as centrepiece. Where was the goat-tail whisk? Back and forth she went between rooms, hoping to finish in time. Potatoes to be peeled, green beans topped and tailed. Steak knives for the hopeful rare slices of lamb. A salad would be too frivolous, she supposed. Phoebe was what her husband the Grand Master of Occult Ceremonies of the Left-hand Path described as ‘a kitchen witch in that necessary but lower form of Wicca’.
In the old-fashioned kitchen with its uneven tiled floors, grumbling Aga, draughty Tudor hearth and not enough counter space, Phoebe invoked the Lares and Penates of the household, those small helpful gods with their thimbles of salt and nutmeg. She was better at growing herbs than roasting a leg of lamb.
“There’s Sean now. He rang to say he might bring along a woman from Mauritius who is some kind of Voudoun adept,’ called John. He rushed off down the path in his scarlet ceremonial cloak. Not for the first time, Phoebe wondered what it was about the Craft that brought out the absurd and pompous in her scholarly husband.
While Sean was parking the car, a complicated business on the sloping drive, his companion ambled up between the low octagonals of the knot garden. To Phoebe’s dismay, the woman was carrying a small dog-like creature with a simian face and long tail.
She went out to greet the guest who introduced herself as Fig and air-kissed her in the continental style on both cheeks. Phoebe showed the unexpected guest into the original Elizabethan entrance hall.
‘Like walking into history,’ said Phoebe. ‘Not that everyone has the same passion for history, but John and I are a little soppy about having such an old place.’
Fig seemed unimpressed by the vast fireplace and soot-blackened panels. She said nothing and her stare made Phoebe nervous. In the shaft of pale light from the landing, Fig looked older, more foreign than she had seemed when viewed from the living-room window. A trace of moustache on her upper lip.
‘Do you suppose your little dog might prefer to stay outdoors?’ Phoebe at her most tactful.
‘Nzemede will go where he chooses,’ said Fig, shrugging her shoulders. She was a small woman with untidy reddish-brown hair, a freckled face and protruding grey-green eyes.
Juliet’s heart sank. Animal lovers could be as unreasonable as vegans. She indicated the passage leading to the bathroom and Fig wandered off.
‘What is that creature?’ asked John, his brow creased with anxiety. ‘I could have sworn I saw it climbing into the apple tree. Don’t tell me it’s gone upstairs?’
Sean, taking off his top hat and brandishing a bottle of wine as he came in, looked flustered and unlike himself.
‘It isn’t a pet,’ he said. ‘It’s a tokolosh, some kind of mischievous spirit found in central Africa. Something like a leprechaun.’
‘You’re joking,’ said John. He glared at Phoebe and Sean, then spun on his heel.
A theatrical gesture to follow. Phoebe waited. John resisted temptation and regained equilibrium. Tonight was important to him.
‘This wine must breathe for a while. Good vintage, my man.’
John took the bottle away to be uncorked in the kitchen. Phoebe hugged Sean without her usual warmth. It was too bad of him to bring along a guest who might not be the acceptable kind of magician.
The other magicians were playing chess in the living room. As usual, Peter had won the first game.
’ Telepathy always trumps cheating,’ he said cheerfully, wagging his finger at Oddbod.
The guests jostled into the dining room and ignored the place names at table settings. Cloak pinned back, John carved up the lamb that was a little overcooked. Fig ate with unself-conscious greed, paying no attention to talk about the ritual to come.
‘Isn’t witchcraft in Africa on the increase?’ asked John politely, as Phoebe cleared away plates.
Fig, still chewing, looked up at John and began to laugh, swallowing hard. Her laughter was deep, bubbling up from her diaphragm. Not kind, a loud derisive laugh.
‘You live in Dr Dee’s neighbourhood, don’t you?’ she said in a low voice. ‘This is magicians’ territory. Ah no, I would not worry about witchcraft anywhere but here.’
A dark glitter shimmied around Fig, visible waves and particles of energy flickering and crackling. Palpable tension both exhilarated and disconcerted Phoebe. She was in the presence of strangeness, something unpredictable. The night’s ritual would be exciting, for a change.
She excused herself and went out to catch her breath. In the kitchen, muttering a hasty invocation, she slid the green and pink ice-cream bombe from its mould and arranged sliced strawberries on top Glass bowls – she counted them – and silver spoons, a blue Italian platter for the cheeses. As she carried out the bombe, she saw the tokolosh scuttle past her into the dining room, its fur glinting red.
Balding and bearded magicians alike applauded to see the dessert put down in front of them. Kitchen witchery vindicated. Phoebe bowed and smiled, but her attention was elsewhere.
The tokolosh crouched on the back of the Knole sofa, tense and watchful. Am I the only one able to see this creature? The thought frightened Phoebe. That clotted fur, the scaly, clawed feet. A hard otherness of gaze. It was watching them with calm curiosity, waiting for a chance to … what? She shook herself and tried to ignore the interloper.