He was a Teacher of the Tradition of the Sun. He had come through yet another test. His Soul Mate was also teaching him things.
“Right, I’ve shown you the view from up here. We can go down now.”
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She sat distractedly watching the children playing in the square.
Someone had told her once that every city has a “magic place,”
a place where we go when we need to think seriously about life.
That square was her “magic place” in Dublin. It was near the apartment she’d rented when she’d first arrived, full of dreams and expectations. Her plan then had been to enroll as a student at Trinity College and eventually become a professor of literature.
She used to spend a lot of time on that bench, writing poetry and generally trying to behave as her literary idols had.
But the money her father sent wasn’t enough, and she’d had to take a job at the import-export company where she worked now.
Not that she minded; she was happy with what she was doing, and in fact her job was one of the most important things in her life, because it gave a sense of reality to everything and kept her from going mad. It allowed her to maintain a precarious balance between the visible world and the invisible.
The children continued to play. Like her, all of them had once been told stories about fairies and witches, about witches who dressed all in black and offered poisoned apples to poor young girls lost in the forest. None of those children could possibly imagine that a real, live witch was watching them playing now.
That afternoon, Wicca had asked her to try an exercise entirely unrelated to the Tradition of the Moon, an exercise useful to anyone wishing to keep open the bridge between the visible and the invisible.
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It was simple enough. She had to lie down, relax, and imagine one of the main shopping areas in the city. Then she had to concentrate on one particular shop window and notice every detail of what was in the window, where it was, and how much each thing cost. When she had finished the exercise, she had to go to the street and see if she had been right.
Now she was there in the square watching the children. She had just come back from the shop, and the shop window had been exactly as she’d imagined it. She wondered if this really was an exercise for ordinary people, or if her months of training as a witch had helped. She would never know.
But the shopping street she had imagined was very near to her
“magic place.” “Nothing happens by chance,” she thought. Her heart was troubled over a matter she could not resolve: Love. She loved Lorens, she was sure of that. She knew that when she was an adept in the Tradition of the Moon, she would see the point of light above his left shoulder. One afternoon, when they’d gone to a café together to drink a cup of hot chocolate near the tower that had inspired James Joyce’s Ulysses, she had seen that special light in his eyes.
The Magus was right. The Tradition of the Sun was the path of all men, and it was there so that it could be deciphered by anyone who knew how to pray and be patient and who wanted to learn what it had to teach. The more she immersed herself in the Tradition of the Moon, the more she understood and admired the Tradition of the Sun.
The Magus. She was thinking about him again. This was the
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problem that had brought her back to her “magic place.” She had thought about him often since that visit to the hunters’ cabin.
She would like to be there right now so that she could tell him about this latest exercise, but she knew that was just a pretext; what she really wanted was for him to invite her to go for a walk in the forest again. She was sure he would be pleased to see her, and she was beginning to believe, for some mysterious reason—
which she didn’t even dare to think about—that he enjoyed her company, too.
“I’ve always had too vivid an imagination,” she thought, trying to get the Magus out of her head, but knowing that he would soon be back.
She didn’t want to keep thinking about him. She was a woman and familiar with the symptoms of falling in love, something that she had to avoid at all costs. She loved Lorens and wanted things to continue as they were. Her world had changed quite enough.
On Saturday morning, Lorens phoned.
“Let’s go for a walk along the cliffs,” he said.
Brida prepared something to eat, and together they endured the long journey in an inadequately heated bus. They reached the village at around midday.
Brida felt excited. In her first year as a student of literature at the university, she had read a lot about the poet who had lived
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there. He was a mysterious man, who knew a great deal about the Tradition of the Moon; he had been a member of secret societies and left in his books a hidden message for those who seek the spiritual path. His name was W. B. Yeats. She remembered two particular lines by him, which seemed just made for that cold morning, with the seagulls flying over the boats anchored in the little harbor:
I have spread my dreams under your feet;Tread softly because you tread on my dreams.
They went into the only pub in the village, drank a whiskey to keep out the cold, and then set off. The little tarmac road gave way to a steep climb, and half an hour later they reached what the locals called “the cliffs.” This was a promontory made up of rocky outcrops that dropped sheer into the sea. There was a path to follow, and even at a leisurely pace, they would be able to do the whole walk in less than four hours and still catch the bus back to Dublin.
Brida was delighted at the prospect. Regardless of what emotions life might be holding in reserve for her that year, she always found the winter hard to bear. All she did was go to work during the day, to the university in the evening, and to the cinema at weekends. She dutifully performed the rituals and dances Wicca had taught her, but she had a yearning to be out in the world, to see a little nature.
It was overcast and the clouds were very low, but the physi-
