PROLOGUE

His nickname was Jazz, and he was five years old, and he could work magic that was real and true. Throughout his days and within his dreams, the mysteries of the Craft played a wondrous part, but even the best of dreams can sometimes end badly.

He was dragged from his sleep by a rasping tickle in his nose and throat. The smoke came next, roiling like dragon’s breath across the intricate symbols painted on his ceiling. Flames crept up the stairs as the sooty shroud descended, and the tickle became a fit of coughing as acrid vapors coiled him in a breathless strangle‑hold.

Remembering the lessons taught by his father, Jazz abandoned his bed for the safety of the floor. Waiting until the last spasm cleared his lungs, he sucked in a life‑giving breath of the fresher air that surrounded him. He rolled onto his hands and knees and crawled towards the window, pausing only to snatch up his shoes. They were new, and he was sure his mother would be proud that he saved them.

With his other hand, Jazz checked to make sure the gold medallion and its chain were still around his neck. He was forbidden to remove it, but sometimes it slipped off when he rolled in his sleep. He held the heavy medallion for a second, running his fingers across the complex engraving, encouraged as always by its weight in his hand.

There was light now, a huffing glow that tinted the room in shades of bright red and yellow. The poster on the wall above his desk added its colorful illustrations to the brilliance, the pages curling into the flames until nothing was legible. The ornately-embossed walls were charred and smoking, their embellishments covered with soot.

The fire-dragon grew teeth, snapping at his haunches with ravenous, white‑hot fangs. He writhed in pain as a large chunk of smoldering cardboard fell out of the swirling flames and dropped onto his bare back. He groped behind himself and dragged it off, crying as it seared the tender skin of his palm. Jazz recognized the implement of his torture, the scorched cover of his favorite children's book, the one about a little train that could.

Desperation and panic reduced relative time into slow‑motion. The roar of an angry beast filled his ears, blisters rose and burst on his shoulders and back, and bits of flaming debris swarmed like crazed fire‑flies against his face.

Jazz reached the window, prying at its stubborn sash with his fingers. Salvation beckoned from the other side of the glass, with fresh, sweet air just beyond, and cool relief from the flames that clutched and clawed his legs with greedy desire. His strength was failing, and he beat on the glass with desperate, ineffective swipes of his hand. The smoke scorched his lungs with each gasping inhalation, and the temperature at the ceiling was nearing the flash point, where every combustible item in the room would explode.

With his last breath, Jazz reared onto his knees and brought both fists forward against the transparent barrier. The blow would have rebounded, were it not for the pair of shoes he still gripped in his left hand. Their added bulk lent enough force to split the pane, raining jagged triangles onto the yard below. He threw himself forward, propelled outwards by a bright tongue of fire that crisped his dark curls. They separated in an incandescent belch, the boy plunging down onto the dew‑covered grass of the front lawn, while the voracious flames lapped upward to lick at the eves.

Elsewhere, the scene was one of shadows.

The clearing in the woods was illuminated by a single black candle, which combined with the glare of the full moon to cast a sinister hue. Vague figures were silhouetted in the murk, their outlines twisted by the flickering glow of the flame. Several were sprawled in lifeless heaps, victims of the psychic violence that they had initiated. Those who were still standing spaced themselves around a central shape, a low altar made of carved wood.

On it stood an ornate silver bowl, which itself was filled with flame. This was a muted blaze, burning with a sullen blue‑green tone and confining itself to the interior of the bowl. Even when one of the participants leaned forward and poured more oil into the bowl, the added fuel did little to increase the flame's intensity. Chanting a five‑toned hymn of death, the robed figures focused their attention on the bowl and its flickering contents.

Their eyes stared past the bowl, past the flames, past the fabric of physical space itself. Set within a halo of blue‑green flame, the image of a small boy struggled in the center of the bowl. He was on his knees, clawing at the air and striking out at the curved edge of the bowl's serpentine rim.

The boy tumbled forward and the fire flared brightly, highlighting the exertion‑strained face of the coven‑master. The child had been protected by forces beyond the coven's expectations, and the price of victory was higher than anticipated. He studied the bowl and its contents, seeing only the burning oil. The image of the boy was no longer visible.

The coven‑master turned to gaze at the others. "We have succeeded," he lied to them. "The Child of Light is dead."

His deception was crucial. The coven‑master scanned the minds of the surviving coven members, searching for any trace of doubt. It was imperative to his future that they believe his blatant falsehood, and dismiss the child from their minds.

Finally, satisfied that his duplicity went undetected, he accepted the flask offered to him by his senior acolyte. Chanting a prayer of gratitude, the coven‑master doused the eldritch flame with the fresh blood of a lamb. The bowl hissed and steamed, the stench of the seared fluid tainting the cool night air. The candle was extinguished, leaving only the light of the moon. The implements of lethal magic were packed and divided among the remaining members of the coven, exhaustion slowing their movements in spite of their master's demand for haste.

He led the way as they filed out of the clearing, leaving the dead where they fell.

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I’ll never forget that brunette with the bright smile and the frog she kept as her familiar. In my memory, she walks with a feminine flair only slightly offset by her limp. I really hope I see her again. I even grew a mustache so she would not recognize me too quickly. That way, I can let her know the real me and see that I am not really a dangerous klutz after all.

Beetlefest was my first festival and is probably the most magical for me. The trees were bursting with the God’s new green blessed by the kiss of the Spring Goddess next to a brook with splashing water. Someday, they will fill the big hole that was left from the flour explosion near the kitchen. Then, when the Office of Civil Preparedness certifies that there is no residual radiation, we can return to celebrate the coming of spring, and I shall return with happy thoughts of love!

I dropped out of college because I decided that despite my triple Virgo, I hated accounting and wanted to be a wandering troubadour. I loved folk music, everything I saw was expressed in C, F and G7 chords. Even my 1040 form. I even loved the neat scrintch sound when the acoustic guitar player didn’t lift his fingers high enough during a chord change. I was a hopeless addict to folk music. No, figures were not for me, so I dropped out and became a Pagan!

It was when I was at Lady Gato’s Botanica that I saw the ad for Beetlefest. It cost $35 for the weekend festival. It was a new festival and no one knew much about it. It was hosted by Hairy Mole Coven, about which little was known either. I called the number and got a twelve minute rendition of some local group singing “Burning Times” apparently at the bottom of a well. It must have been from a tape recorder near the phone because I could hear the background noise of someone burping.

I started to leave a message that I wanted a registration form, when a pleasant woman answered and said I could write on anything and sent it in. All I could find was the inner tube of a roll of toilet paper, so I carefully spread it out and wrote my letter. Soon, it was in the mail with my check and the day before the festival, I got my map to the site.

Yes! I was ready to be Pagan!

When I arrived, there was a long line in front of the registration table. When it was my turn, I was told that I had to select my community duty. I decided to help in the kitchen. I like kitchen work since there is near instantaneous gratification, especially if I can nibble as I cook. The only workshop that was scheduled for then was conducted by a Lord Bubba from a coven in Georgia that was called “The Bomb Is Still Out There”. It was about nuclear proliferation but it sounded to complicated for my bardic tastes, so I decided to do my community duty instead. Besides, I was hungry.

It was at the kitchen that I met her - the Brunette with the Bright Smile. She was even smiling as she chopped up the chicken into non-traditional pieces. A little bit of the thigh with the drumstick, some neck with the breast, the tail with the other breast, all the time smiling hugely and seductively.

I soon realized that she was smiling as she looked at me. By then, I was covered all over with ketchup that spilled when I tried to open the bottle. I quit that task because it was too hard and decided to make the batter for the chicken instead. Suddenly I saw her looking at me! I don’t think she was laughing, but it was hard to tell. I smiled back and introduced myself. Her smiled broadened and I thought she said Ribit. She sparkled as she laughed. “I have a frog in my pocket”, she explained, “He is my familiar!”. Suddenly, I felt I had to live the rest of my life with her and her bright smile! Perhaps even with her frog, but I wasn’t sure I could commit myself yet.

I was so taken with her that I wasn’t watching what I was doing. The flour I was shaking into the big wok filled to the brim and began to spill onto the lit burner. Suddenly, the smile on her face turned to alarm! “The burner is on fire!” I quickly scooped up the wok and yelled for someone to open the door. She dashed to the door and threw it open. I ran outside and dumped the flour onto the ground. That was a mistake because as soon as I did, a big cloud of flour formed and began drifting away toward a lit bar-b-que pit near where she was standing. As soon as the cloud reached the pit, it exploded with a loud ‘krump’.

The blast threw the Brunette with the Bright Smile backward against the recycle bin, dumping the coke cans. The workshop about the bomb held next door was just finishing up when the explosion rattled the building. It must have been a very exciting workshop, because everyone in the class screamed something about radiation and not looking at the flash and dove under their chairs. This I found out later, because I was trying hard to help the Brunette with the Bright Smile, who, strangely enough, was still smiling. Well, perhaps it was more a grimace, but it was hard to tell.

Suddenly, a radio crackled and as I turned to look, I lost my balance and fell on the Girl with the Grimace. That was very unfortunate because I was covered with flour and ketchup. The part of me with the ketchup landed on the girl and her attractive robe became matted with gooey red. She jumped up with a look of disgust and began to back away, limping, with growing alarm.

The radio belonged to a festival guardian who was a 60’s kind of guy. His tie-died Jimi Hendrix shirt had long since faded leaving Hendrix with a peeling face. Part of me marveled how well his shirt held up over twenty years. Sure, it was riddled with holes, but twenty years is twenty years and it seemed to hold up better than he did. Perhaps is was because he was very distraught. He said something about bomb finally having come and that he was near ground zero. He began yelling into the radio about calling ambulances and radiation teams as he began running in a random zigzag direction to avoid the radiation since the rays only go in straight lines.

I felt the need to apologize to the girl and began to walk toward her. Apparently she was not sure she wanted to be in my sphere of influence because her face turned to horror and she turned and began running with a limp, holding her frog and screaming. People saw her red splattered robe, the frog and my flour covered clothes and began to scream and run also. I ran for a few minutes, but she was faster even with the limp, so I stopped.

It wasn’t very long before the police and fire engines drove up. The Containment Team with their bright yellow radiation-resistant suits followed, each sweeping the area with radiation detectors. They were fascinating to watch but by then, the girl was not to be seen.

Not much was made of the incident in the local paper or TV. In fact, only one newspaper said anything. It was a local gossip rag made up to look like the Inquirer. It had headlines that blurted “Witches Have the Bomb!”. Apparently, one of their reporters was at the festival since there was a picture of me running after the girl with the caption “Ghost Chases Bloody Victim”. I did not bother looking at the article. It was too depressing. I lost my Brunette with the Bright Smile and I was in a slump as I returned to my mundane life.

I never again saw the girl with the smile. No one remembered her or her frog. The festival coordinator, a short guy named Harry, gave up festivals and now manages a tea room in the old part of downtown. He seemed like a nice enough guy. He was very controlled as he refunded my money and asked me to leave. The only thing that gave away his feeling was when I asked him about the girl and his jaw began to quiver. He said nothing. He was very dignified.

I really hope they have another festival. Maybe then I can find my girl with the broad smile. I am prepared. I have my moustache and I’m ready for love!

This story is fictional. Any resemblance between any of the characters or festivals in the story with those living or deceased is purely coincidental. It’s not even like our festival, the Florida Pagan Gathering. Also, non of our festival staff wear Jimi Hendrix shirts, but I do have a couple of his albums.

Biography Of Roger Paraselsu Coleman

Paraselsu is a Principal Minister of the Church of Iron Oak, ATC. He is a Third Degree Wiccan High Priest of the Aquarian Tabernacle Church Tradition and other traditions. Roger lives in Palm Bay with three unruffled cats. Roger is an electrical engineer and space equipment designer and is the holder of several patents. His interest in the magical arts and psychic development began as member of the American Society for Psychical Research in 1964.