The Swedish Witch

Frank was elated that his good friend The Scotsman would be joining him on his mission to Morocco, at least while he was in Marrakech and smiled at the synchronicity of how that had come to pass.  He was pretty sure they had spoken of meeting in Morocco years ago but had forgotten all about it until now, another subtely of the Myst.

Frank had realised in Death Valley of all places, that there were two ways to influence the universe around him, you could smash and tear it into the shape you wanted or you could ask politely, both methods worked and both had different consequences.  He had been clumsy for years, now he preferred to be crafty, both required will, deep emotional content and a vibrancy that often made him and others like him seem different from almost everyone else.

To craft something meant to take great care and to consider the material with which one works, to understand its subtle nuances and what makes it strong and what makes it weak, to understand how it changed and its nature.  Is the material the right sort for the job?  The right sort for the person involved?  Most often for Frank, the material was himself and this meant that he had to get to know himself and his place in the world around him at any given moment.

The moment he was currently in was one of the longer ones and he was getting better at being patient about the results.  Frank had learned his art from mystical warriors who had dedicated their lives to the service of what he was later to find out was called the Myst although that was not really a big enough word to describe it.  Even members of The Order were a part of its magic although they did not believe this and saw themselves as seperate.  The Myst however was a strange thing and it had to be nurtured, encouraged and cared for and like a plant, it could wither and die, its vibrancy lost as its leaves withered.

Frank loved his job, he was an agitator and his job was to stir things up a bit, to impart a bit of vibrancy here and there and this often made people uncomfortable.  He was a mystic stirrer with a big happy stick causing a bit of trouble for the sake of love and for the sake of the Myst itself.  The trouble was an illusion of course, it was just that people did not like to be stirred up when they were settling.  Like an untouched ale, the sediment floated to the bottom of the glass if left alone and it was his job to mix it up a bit.  This was a bit like tilling the soul, he laughed at the accidental mistake and corrected his thoughts, tilling the soil before planting the seeds.

He had a lot to learn and he figured in this long moment ahead, he would use the space to learn something fun and educate himself in the ways of the Berber wizards who could speak to the Jnun genie’s but before that he had promised to help take care of a small problem in Sweden and he had also heard from his friend, Jhed that The Tsitra had been spotted in Crewe, England.  It was time to work before he could play.  Sweden first, then Crewe.

Lady Cecilia, a fairy blood had asked for his help with a particular witch on an island off the coast of Sweden, a witch who feared fire.

 

Copyright Faramond Frie © 2016

 

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