The Unexpected Guest

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EloiseA

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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.

**********************************************************

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.
 
**********************************************************

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.

I'd be tempted to cut the first two paragraphs and start here


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. If Sean rang earlier, why is John only telling her now? 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. You haven't shown him being absurd and pompous, IMHO


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. Needs some explanation, unless we're supposed to be mystified 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.

This rather reminds me of "Johnathan Strange and Mr Norrell" which is a novel about the revival of English magic, and written in a pastiche period style, complete with footnotes.
I don't see anything wrong with your use of English. I note though that your style is rather on the wordy side, as though you have a taste for the older fantasy novels like "The Worm Ouroboros" which tended to be rather ornate and wordy. As I expect plenty of people may tell you, the current fashion is, apparently, for fantasy to be written as a fast-paced thriller.
Your characters seem like they might be interesting, which is good.
Introducing an African whatisname, or indeed anything that has nothing to do with the English Middle Ages, is also good.
I've suggested that you cut the first two paragraphs as the seem rather info-dump and the viewpoint is unclear.
Generally speaking, it's risky for the author to over-use magic in a story, i.e. have it used for everything, as it undercuts tension and believability. However that's not an unbreakable rule.
 
It's an interesting piece with a quirky style and rhythm that I found quite endearing.

My main concern would be a couple of magick references: it's described as a gathering for "post-modernist alchemy" at the start, but later Phoebe's husband is referred to as of the "left-handed path" which I thought referred to occult practices that most people would refer to as Satanism (though, of course, there is lots of variation within Satanism, not least Luciferianism and Anton Lavey's Church of Satan).

It's a while since I've read up on the occult, but I am slightly surprised to see Satanism referred to as alchemy. I may be rusty, though. :)

Also, good to see Voudoun spelt that way, but isn't the practice associated with West Africa and Caribbean nations such as Haiti, rather than somewhere in the Indian Ocean like Mauritius?

Aside from that, a fun piece - always good to see some traditional ritual magick referred to in fiction. :)
 
You might think that a magical spirit would be welcome at a gathering of amateur magicians. You’d be wrong.nice, voicey opening line.



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 hopefully, I think, otherwise it sounds rarely like the lamb is still hopeful... which might be rarer than you want. ;) 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’.


“There’s Sean now. He rang to say he might bring along a woman from Mauritius who is some kind of Voudoun adept,’ callednot sure about called - it rather took me out of the nice little scene you'd drawn. But that's excessively nitpicky 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.



A trace of moustache on her upper lip.this sentence didn't work for me, I think a word is missing. Either she had or something like a trace of moustache adorned/sat on? her upper lip


‘Do you suppose your little dog might prefer to stay outdoors?’ said?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.I think I would have been happier without this description, or, if you want to have it, I'd have preferred it all to come at once, above. But I think I'd formed my own picture of her and was happy to go along with it.


Juliet’s heart sankNow, who is Juliet and where did she come from? Is this Phobe, if so is it a typo ie did you change the name or is it part of her name? If it isn't Phoebe, then it reads as a head-hop to me.. Animal lovers could be as unreasonable as vegans. She indicated the passage leading to the bathroom and Fig wandered off.



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.’said ? John, I presume but adding the name would make it clearer.


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 magiciansI need a bit more here. Have we gone to the living room? How many other magicians? Could they be mentioned earlier, so it's less of an "Hang on, what other magicians?" -- maybe when John sees the car, there might be an easy link to hearing someone else respond and then they could be mentioned? were playing chess in the living room. As usual, Peter had won the first game.


rogue space 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 settingsnice. :). 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.It's moving just a little fast for me. They go straight from the game to the dining room with no one getting up or saying they should go in. John carves the lamb and Fig eats with no action between. I'm also a little concerned we're popping into Fig's head here, which I'd be happy with if it was 3rd omniprescent, but it does seem to have been in 3rd close up to now.


‘Isn’t witchcraft in Africa on the increase?’ asked John politely, as Phoebe cleared away plates.and again, sorry, the whole meal has been eaten and I haven't been carried through the scene with them as they ate it.


Fig, still chewing, looked up at John and began to laugh, swallowing hardI'm struggling to see those actions linked together. Her laughter was deep, bubbling up from her diaphragm. Not kind, a loud derisive laugh.



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.I love this paragraph, we are with her the whole way through it.



The tokolosh crouched on the back of the Knole sofa, tense and watchful. Am I the only one able to see this creature? Why does she think that, John clearly said he'd seen it earlier. 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.[/QUOTE]

I really enjoyed the piece -- a lot of the red is nit picks and nothing more, but the pacing around the meal time did disrupt it for me. I think it's because at the start and end you follow the actions closely and keep us in the moment, that to find it suddenly jumping in the middle pulled me out. I think, also, there was a tiny bit of head hopping. Overall, though, a nice piece, tightly written. :)
 
Thanks Cosmic Geoff, Brian, springs, much appreciated and very helpful pointers. I've been tinkering too much (springs, I thought I'd changed Juliet to Phoebe throughout, a last minute name change, erk). It is over-written and needs a major rework.

Brian, many UK magicians who follow Thelemite or Chaos magick traditions would now term themselves eclectic and LHP. They're not especially influenced by Crowley and wouldn't consider themselves Satanists. It is a little snobbish because they would look down on what they think of as eco tree-hugging 'Right-Hand Path' wiccans and neo-pagans. There is a revived interest in alchemy in various eclectic rituals.

In the same way, the term 'Voudoun' that up until fairly recently was mostly used with reference to the Caribbean (especially Haiti) is now used by many West African, Congolese and Angolan practitioners although there are major differences. Fig would be of creole/slave descent and island culture (from Mauritius) and the tokolosh would be a creature of diaspora, moving with exiles and refugees, adapting to the landscape of the Elizabethan alchemist John Dee (he had a home near Presteigne in the Welsh Borders).

The idea might be intriguing, but I feel a little as if I've wasted people's time posting something that has preoccupied me for so long and really doesn't work. Sorry about that.
 
I have to disagree on the time wasting comment... i thought this was a good piece, nice and voicey which interested me a lot. And I thought it worked well, it just needed a little more. It was well worth shirking off work to look at!
 
I liked it, and agree with a lot of the other comments. But I missed a sense of to what extent the tokolosh fitted in with the other characters' world. I got the feeling these occultists are the kind who believe they're doing real magick, but wouldn't be able to point to any actual evidence that they're bringing about any change in the real world, and I like the idea of their cozy ineffectual magic being intruded upon by something real. But if this is the case, then the tokolosh should shock them more. And if it isn't, I would expect them to seem more ... powerful, somehow.
 
Harebrain, yes, that is what I was aiming for: 'their cozy ineffectual magic being intruded upon by something real'. During the ritual that follows, the disruptive powers of the tokolosh become apparent and the 'reality' of an uncontained and mischievous spirit in their midst is too much for the magicians. They think of the tokolosh as Fig's familiar (like a witch's cat) in a Western sense, whereas Fig is as helpless to control or stop the tokolosh as anyone else. When I was at school in Zimbabwe and Zambia, the fear of a tokolosh intrusion was very real to both students and teachers -- everyone understood how destructive and unpredictable these 'spirits' could be.

But if I can't get it right from the start, it won't work. The history of alchemy is largely a history of failure, not being able to turn baser metals into gold. It was said amongst Dr Dee's contemporaries that those who did spin lead into gold went mad, crazed with hubris and the vengefulness of the gods. A sudden undeniable 'transformation' or manifestation can result in chaos and terror: playing at magic is no longer possible if the consequences are material and can't be undone.
 
No worries on correcting me about applying the terms for magick - like I said, it's been a long time since I read around this. :)

The idea might be intriguing, but I feel a little as if I've wasted people's time posting something that has preoccupied me for so long and really doesn't work. Sorry about that.

Don't be daft. :) It *is* a nice idea and you execute a lot of the concepts well; the pace and a sense of enjoyment are already there.

There's also the pointer that people here can only provide their own personal feedback, and part of the critiquing process is learning to know where to assign value - some feedback may be useful, some may be irrelevant (such as my own post above!).

If the idea appeals, keep going with it. The danger with critiques is allowing confidence to be knocked. However, it's impossible to judge a story by a short sample. If any errors are pointed out, and you agree these are errors, then all that results is that you've found a way to make your story a little stronger.

Personally I think this story has a lot of potential and would love to read more.
 
I felt the initial demon appearance would have attracted some more attention, and I felt more description for the reader at the first introduction might have been helpful – but this is how I would do things is worth remembering.

An interesting and quirky piece that was not all that endearing for me, but that doesn’t for a minute mean I don’t think it’s not very well written, which I thought it was. There is a fussy element to your writing that is not to my taste, but I suspect for everyone like me there is a fan in the making waiting in the wings. I always like to see someone writing with a voice all their own and I think you’ve got that, so good luck with it and write with confidence.
 
Thanks for commenting Bowler -- in African tradition, the tokolosh is deceptively innocuous on first encounters. Introducing this kind of spirit to Westerners is the challenge and I need to rethink what I'm doing.
 
Excellent piece of work. I noticed a nit in that you repeat "kitchen" twice very closely in the 3rd and 4th paras.

Otherwise, I don't see how it didn't work. Good stuff, very interesting.

After all the preparation I'd have lingered over dinner a little more but maybe that's the reason for the preparation. Assuming the story's not about the dinner you're moving into it quite nicely.
 
Thanks for commenting Bowler -- in African tradition, the tokolosh is deceptively innocuous on first encounters. Introducing this kind of spirit to Westerners is the challenge and I need to rethink what I'm doing.

Not a nice little character at all, well picked. ;) I'd never heard of them before so you may need a little info dump, or don't, and let the reader learn as events unfold. So no re-think needed, I can't say, it's for you to decide.
 
Thanks Bowler -- I may need to find some way of introducing the reader to the unfamiliar if I try to publish outside southern Africa.

Joan -- thanks so much for the encouragement. I'm putting this aside for a month to be rethought and then I will go back and work on that pacing -- either skip the supper and go right into the ritual or make more of the dinner, more drama.
 
I'm not really nitpicking here, I just figure I'll give my general opinion. Dialogue seemed natural to me. Overall I was interested, but not gripped. Maybe some stuff could be tighter so you can get more into the story faster and avoid your reader starting to get bored. Just my 2 cents.
 
Thanks very much wulfsbane -- it is too slow a beginning and that might be why it wasn't gripping. And perhaps also that 'tokolosh' means little as a concept.
 
I only had time to read the first few paragraphs but I liked it a lot (and will probably go back and read more, though not to comment -- it doesn't look like a waste of time to me). The only change I would suggest at the beginning is to cut out the second paragraph. You don't need it, since all the important information and scene setting it contains is given or implied in the following paragraphs.

(As someone who has made a study of medieval alchemy, the term "post modernist alchemy" intrigues me. The last time I had a look at modern alchemy, it didn't look very alchemical, really. I'm also interested in the phrase "tarot fundi" because I read the cards professionally for twenty-five years. In those days, everyone I knew had slightly different interpretations of the cards, and slightly different ways of reading them, so I'm not quite sure what a tarot fundamentalist would be like.)
 
Thanks so much for the comments, Teresa. Yes, I think you're right about that second paragraph. Because the story gets tauter and terser later on, I wanted a leisurely beginning to draw in the reader and give plenty of background. That wasn't a good idea.

My fault as regards 'fundi' -- I think we have a US/Brit/South African difference here about terminology. I meant 'tarot fundi' as an self-styled expert or pundit on the tarot, not 'fundi' being short for 'fundamentalist'. Fundi is a common term out here and often used by UK expats so I thought it would be more widely understood. On checking, I realise it isn't a common term at all and a reminder that I need to watch my local language usage far more closely. I grew up in Zimbabwe which still has a British schooling system (O-levels, A-levels) and so I use UK spelling and definitions for the most part.

http://www.leadershiponline.co.za/articles/the-fundi-the-boffin-and-the-expert

I wanted to talk about 21st magical trends lightly and ironically but not in an uninformed way. I have spent a number of years looking at styles and interpretations in tarot readings, including the suggestive readings of Mary Greer and Rachel Pollack but also looking back at medieval and Renaissance tarology and historically different sets of cards including Jean Noblet (Paris, 1650). More recently I have been looking at poet Kay Ryan's use of tarot images in her early poems, where she wrote on 'random' cards as an disciplinary exercise..

There are a number of esoteric groups in Switzerland and Britain who do what they call 'post-modern alchemy', but mostly as a system of spiritual transformation to do with expanding the esoteric body. In the story from which the extract came, the African tokolosh is perceived by one of the guests as representing a mischievous Hermes Trismegistus and this is a comment on the post-modern eclecticism of magical systems with their borrowings and merging (as the Elizabethan Dr John Dee borrowed from both Agrippa and Welsh folk magic). Contemporary eclectic appropriations include those influenced by David Gordon White's The Alchemical Body which draws on 20th-century Indian alchemy in a nuclear age, especially the work of metallurgist Nagarjuna.

The genesis of the fiction came from attending a number of 'ritual magick' workshops and conferences near Ludlow on the Welsh Borders -- so intriguing to see the mix of English cosiness and wildly extravagant claims about rituals. I was fascinated by the way many practitioners distanced from or protected themselves from the potentially raw or volatile energies liberated in ritual.
 
I have spent a number of years looking at styles and interpretations in tarot readings, including the suggestive readings of Mary Greer and Rachel Pollack but also looking back at medieval and Renaissance tarology and historically different sets of cards including Jean Noblet (Paris, 1650). More recently I have been looking at poet Kay Ryan's use of tarot images in her early poems, where she wrote on 'random' cards as an disciplinary exercise..

I used to be fascinated by historical Tarot decks -- especially those from the Renaissance with more and different trumps. Even though I'm not reading the cards anymore, I wish some of those expanded decks were available, and not just to be seen in books. I'd like to have them. I do have a large number of modern Tarot decks, although there were only two that I used regularly.

I haven't read Kay Ryan's poetry -- I will have to look it up. Have you read The Greater Trumps by Charles Williams? I love his interpretation of the cards and the way he works them in with his own syncretic spiritual philosophies.

There are a number of esoteric groups in Switzerland and Britain who do what they call 'post-modern alchemy', but mostly as a system of spiritual transformation to do with expanding the esoteric body.

Yes, that sounds very much like the 20th century alchemy I encountered. Of course there was always a spiritual and personally transformative aspect in Medieval (and earlier) alchemy, tied with the search for meaning in -- and knowledge of -- the natural world (or the natural world as they understood it then), but I found that the modern symbolism has strayed a long way.

But we are going off topic, so I will say no more. Maybe there might be a time for a separate thread on these subjects.
 
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