Stephan's Story: Stephan's First Kiss? Or Near Miss?
Dark halls lighted by candles! I tried to press my wispy white
curls against the sides of my head but I couldn’t see enough in the mirror to
be sure what I was doing. And by my age I had learned to avoid squandering my Magic
on such trivial needs.
Still, squinting because of the dark and leaning down from
my awkward tallness to look in the mirror again, I pulled at a wayward ringlet
and tucked it behind my ear. Stepping
back, I checked my bearing: strong, in control, in my prime.
A pale figure passed quickly behind me, his (her?) footsteps
muted by the thick carpet. The members were collecting.
I caught a scent of … what? Cedar? The memories this scent
evoked eluded me, something like walking in cool woods on a hot day.
I gathered my thoughts. The meeting would start very soon.
For whatever reason, I was nervous about this case and the
meeting about to start. I wanted to make it go away. Why must the committee
always interfere, always take umbrage at the slightest self-expression that
deviated from the accepted use of Magic? Why was there no room for
individuality?
Well, of course we were all highly individual, we recognized
that. Some had powers others could barely discern or comprehend, while others
of us were endowed with more showy forms of Magic.
And I, Stephan, certainly was in the forefront of those who
wanted something universal to keep all these expressions of Magic under some
sort of control, or self-expression could lead to mischief that would call undue
attention from the Ordinary world.
I continued to wonder where the true balance lay between
using our powers, our gifts I guess you could call them, and abusing our powers.
I turned away from the mirror, and my inner reflections as well, and entered
the chamber.
All stood. I quickly sat and motioned them all to their
seats. All sat. That is, all sat but for the woman in white – someone I didn’t
know but who was no doubt the subject of our meeting. She! She alone remained
standing.
She stared at me in a most disconcerting manner from the far
end of the room.
I kept my gaze on her, hoping that my face was relaxed
enough to disarm her attempts at intimidation. Surely it was intimidation she
had in mind.
I pinched my forehead, hoping to remember the details of the
case. I looked down at the notes that had been prepared for each committee
member, myself included. Then I felt the chamber tremble and rumble. Or rather
I heard it rumble. I looked up to see our guest smile smugly to herself as she
sat down.
Surely that had been an earthquake.
My first thought was that she was taking the upper hand. No
one could make an earthquake but a supremely capable, hugely powerful Earth
witch! But then it had been just a rumble, no damage done, and from deep inside
me came the thought, almost a tickle, that what I had just felt was almost a
kind of flirtatious greeting.
I looked around me. A few of my fellow judges looked here
and there uneasily, while others seemed oblivious of the quake.
I lowered my head again as if to study the papers in front
of me. But my eyes were seeking out the face of the plaintiff. I wanted to know
what she was up to, intimidation, perhaps anger? – or perhaps flirtation, came
the thought.
Ridiculous, I retorted.
Certainly I knew the case from memory, now that she had
given us a taste of what she had been accused of. Mischief! And as we could
see, unabashed mischief! Hardly a penitent plaintiff!
I was surprised. The Committee on the Practice of Magic had
traditionally had enough power that the very thought of being called before it
was sufficient to intimidate the most daring.
So who was this woman sitting casually at the end of this august
chamber, the one looking at her palm as if she were reading something there?
The one smiling?
Miranda Duncan. Old royalty, it sounded like.
And oh yes. An Earth witch. Pretty much THE Earth witch. The
greatest of all, some said. An intense Power among us, the powerful. And the
one most likely to abuse her power, I thought as I looked through her record.
She appeared to be in her 40s, old enough to know that
throwing her Magic around could cause permanent disruptions in the balance of
Powers or even be verifiable by the Ordinaries. Enough unexplained
perturbations and they would become certain of Magic and the most important line
between us and them would begin to erode. Or be breached, just as bad.
In my 70 or so years in leadership positions, I had seen
others of the Magic folk throw their craft around wantonly. I had seen selfish
D’jinn and evil Centaurs break the ages-old basic principles that have kept the
world structured and functional. I have
seen young children discover their Magic too early, and teens rebel against the
very concept of the rules just as they come into the full knowledge of their
own powers.
But a witch in her 40s usually knew better. So why the
rumbles, which really amounted to not much?
The committee members sat calmly facing me but I could feel
the electricity in the air. After years of back and forth, we finally had the
infamous Miranda before us for questioning. I stood and looked at each face
lifted toward mine.
The process had gone smoothly. Miranda had been reprimanded
by the committee. The committee had been ignored by Miranda, who had spoken not
a word. She had been led out by the same officers who had brought her in, or
their counterparts. Now it was time to deliberate.
I opened the discussion and listened to each argument. The
indiscretion on the docket, which she had not denied, was of having too many
husbands. It was unseemly and this gathering of a dozen utterly seemly and
rather oldish and ordinary-seeming men predictably objected.
The irony had to do with the actual nature of the group:
their Magic, collectively, transcended virtually every other power on Earth.
So I said, “What , are you afraid of irregularities among
us? Who among us can honestly say he has been utterly discrete all his life?”
Every hand went up. Everyone looked deeply solemn.
Then the table began to shake.
It was not a violent shake.
The committee sat as one with their hands raised, looking
dourly at me. The table drew the occasional sideways glance but no other signs
of noticing it were forthcoming from the dozen.
I decided we should end these proceedings quickly. The
plaintiff would need to repent of her wanton ways, and perhaps a simple
confession would lay the whole matter to rest.
An electric sizzle in my brain caused my hands to twitch.
Drat! The signal that I was slipping away from Truth was going off full volume.
The bailiff at the door waited. I looked around the room
again. What had triggered that warning? What WAS the untruth I had thought?
Surely the facts of the case were known and in fact as we
had just seen were undisputed. And my judgment that we should give her a barely
noticeable slap on the wrist had plenty of precedent. So where had the untruth
lain?
I wondered if I had been having a stroke instead of a warning
of straying from the truth. But I felt fine.
I signaled the bailiff and he turned to the door to get the
plaintiff. To get Miranda. I tensed myself against a possibility of the floor
buckling or the table tipping over. I kept an eye on the door.
Neither bailiff nor Miranda appeared.
My anticipation rose. Who was this mischief-maker that she
would toy with the highest council in the all the Magical realms? Because I was
certain she had mischief on her mind.
The committee members were chatting among themselves. No one
seemed in a rush, no one seemed to notice anything unusual.
I alone sat in my chair, disengaged from those around me,
sweating. Miranda! Who was this witch?
The door opened. But no one appeared through it.
The others were still talking, sometimes bickering, amongst
themselves. I got up and strode to the door, then peered around the corner.
Miranda stood there. A wisp of translucence. She motioned me
into the hallway. All was dark and quiet there, with no one in sight, no
bailiff nor any of the bustling staff that usually filled the halls.
I went. She stopped. She was taller than I had thought. I
barely had to look down at her.
She moved closer to me. I couldn’t move my feet. My arms
entwined her. Her sigh felt like a fresh breeze, cool and exquisitely
refreshing.
She kissed me. She smelled like roses, like jasmine, like
mint, like cloves. Her hands brushed lightly against my face. The wind from her
breath blew my curls into disarray. Her face was lighted like the palest of
full moons. Her eyes opened like black poppies hit by sunlight. Her embrace was
strong and firm.
We were just out of the candlelight. I could sense the
committee members leaving the chambers. Friends in groups of two or three
talked in hush tones or shared a moment of levity.
The chastisement, the hearing, the seeds of intolerance and
fear had evaporated from them all.
And I could feel it all slipping from my mind. I chased a
few responsibilities as they fell away from conscious thought, then willingly
let them go.
They were replaced by Miranda, she who filled my chaste soul
with longing and fulfillment, both.
The candle dripped its last and sputtered. Still we stood
entangled body and soul.
Then we were running barefoot across cool grass toward the
rising sun. And that was the end of night for me.
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