his ease on throw pillows and kept an eye on the street.
“It’s just for one night. If you don’t behave yourself like a gentle-dog, it’s into the bedroom you go for the evening.”
Hey, Toots—you’re always shutting me into or out of that room of yours. How come I never get to sleep on the big bed anymore since we got that furry-faced guy?
“Long story, mutt. Count your blessings, and don’t steal anything off the dining room table.”
A Sabbat at my house meant I would be the priestess, since it was our custom to take turns conducting the ceremony. For this I’d been saving a long, gauzy green dress studded with silver moons and pentagrams that I’d ordered in a mad moment from a metaphysical catalog—not the kind of outfit a gal could wear just anywhere, especially anywhere in Plymouth.
Twilight was deepening, only a trace of pink over the trees, when we gathered in a flurry of hugs and “merry meet” greetings.
“You look amazing, Cass. A post-midlife Titania.” Deidre pulled off a peaked wool cap and shook her short blond curls free. An aura of lily cologne surrounded her. “Will’s at the firehouse on Halloween watch. So my mother-in-law, Mary Margaret, insisted on taking the children trick-or-treating. I can’t say I like the idea of their collecting a bunch of suspicious sweets. I did impress on M&Ms—so the kids call her—that nothing is to be eaten until I’ve examined the loot.”
“Toss ’em out directly” was Phillipa’s glib advice—she who’d never had to reason with thwarted children. Tonight she looked the most traditional of us all, dressed entirely in black. Her straight black hair had the sheen and smoothness of a raven’s wing. Attached to her belt, a single note of color, was the scarlet silk bag in which she carried her tarot.
“Be sure your darling poodles don’t get into the chocolate,” Heather warned Deidre. “Chocolate is poison to dogs.” In her pumpkin-colored tunic and dark brown tights, a leather-sheathed ceremonial knife at her waist, she looked ready for a run in Sherwood Forest.
“That’s where dowsing comes in so handy,” Fiona said for the umpteenth time. “I never eat any strange food without testing it with my pendulum.”
“I can attest to that, having been out to lunch with Fiona,” I said. “And I find that having your companion swing a pendulum over her crabmeat roll and fries while muttering a spell does tend to attract some unwanted attention at The Walrus and the Carpenter. The place was crowded that day, so we were eating at the bar, and soon were the center of attention.”
“Oh, for Goddess’s sake,” Fiona said. “For all anyone knew, I was saying grace. And what’s more important, anyway—other people’s opinions or safe food? I’d say, with a madwoman running around town poisoning the church brownies and Phillipa’s beautiful breads, it’s no time to take chances.”
“She has a point there,” Deidre agreed.
“We can argue later,” I said. “It’s the Sabbat, and I’m ready to celebrate.”
A general murmur of assent, and we gathered in the living room. Scruffy had already found his sulking spot, stretched out on the hooked rug in front of the fireplace where a small pine-scented fire was ablaze. Between his paws was a Granny Smith apple, stolen from the altar and indifferently gnawed. I gave him my strongest “don’t give me any trouble” look, thereafter ignoring his sighs.
With my athame, I consecrated a nine-foot circle, a place for us to work “between the worlds.” The mantle was aglow with as many candles as would fit between the animal stone carvings I collected, mostly Inuit and Zuni.
I invoked the four elements, the six directions, the female and male incarnations of the Creator. We proceeded to the work, a simple banishing of the poisons in our midst, a purification ritual to cleanse their evil influence, then various visualizations for healing and other good things. Heather and Fiona each said a few pungent words that the purchase of acreage around Bonds Pond would somehow, for the good of all, and harming none, be smoothly executed by the Conservancy. Then we reached for the invisible force of spirit and pressed each other’s hands to pass that energy among us faster and faster until we could contain it no longer, and at a signal from me, we threw our arms upward to let the power of our wishes zoom into the universe—a transcendent moment.
There was a collective sigh, a laugh, a relaxation to our shoulders. It was definitely time to adjourn to the dining room for mulled wine and cakes, pumpkin and apple (lavishly provided by Phillipa). And teasing and fun. We always laughed more deeply after the Sabbat ceremony, the rich, deep laughter of friends who were as close as family. At the brink of winter darkness, we were warmed and cheered by each other.
“You know I’ve never actually seen a red-bellied turtle,” I said. “If the Conservancy manages to pry those old cranberry bogs out of Clarence Finch’s grasping fingers, I’d like to see what they look like.”
“When,” said Fiona.
“When what?”
“When, not if, Finch gives up that land,” Fiona corrected me. “You must believe for good things to happen.”
“Sounds like something out of a Disney movie,” Phillipa said.
“Say what you will, believing is seeing,” Fiona declared. She didn’t spare us the promised lecture on healing, either, pulling out quotes and pamphlets helter-skelter from the bulbous green reticule from which she is never parted. Sometimes in the past it has been reassuring to know that down in the bottom of that satchel is a pistol, a gift from her late husband.
“As I mentioned at the hospital, a disharmony of the spirit brings about dis-ease.” She fished out a leather pouch from the pocket of her coat sweater of many colors. It was decorated with geometric symbols. Taking a pinch of a powdery substance from the pouch, she sprinkled it around the room. “Pollen from Arizona,” she answered our unspoken question. Phillipa nudged me and winked. Fiona caught the wink but continued unperturbed: “It’s the work of the healer to restore that harmony, however that may be accomplished. Music and dance are often used among the Native Americans. I credit my trip to the Navahos and all I learned there with helping to cure my arthritis.”
“And Mick Finn’s attentions seem to have loosened you up a bit, too,” Deidre said. The Plymouth fire chief had been smitten with Fiona’s widow’s charms and was a frequent caller. Naturally, all the firemen, including Deidre’s husband, Will, teased Finn about Fiona to the limit of his patience.
“I shall remember to dance down the hall the next time I have to visit one of you in the hospital.” Phillipa took her tarot pack from her red silk bag, in which she kept a piece of sodalite to enhance psychic awareness. “I was trained in ballet as a girl, you know. Tap, too. Perhaps I’ll wear a Navaho headband.”
At my dining room table, where jack-o’-lanterns variously leered or grinned, Phillipa read the tarot for each of us, cards arranged in the Celtic-cross manner. Notable among the warnings was the three of swords for Deidre. Ominous-looking thing—a pierced heart. And for Fiona, a fish leaping from the page’s cup predicted a surprise. I got the two of swords, of course—stalemate! With my bridegroom steaming away to Greece, what else?
I had the sense that everyone was waiting for my eyeballs to roll back in my head while I swooned into a clairvoyant vision. It’ll never happen, I thought, and then, miraculously, while my gaze was fixed on a gleaming, candle-lit pumpkin, I slid out of myself. In an instant I was watching a wooden spoon stirring batter in a blue-striped
