Chapter Text
The pale blonde girl stood near the back of the Chalice Wellspring, contemplating bottled essences and packages of herbs. Noting her frown, the proprietor of the shop -- an elderly woman in a loose caftan -- rose from her seat at the register to make her way over, clucking softly under her breath.
"Not finding what you need, miss?"
"She don't know what she needs," laughed the young man who had come in with her, though it had been difficult to say whether they were together, shopping in tandem or whether it was mostly coincidence that they had entered the store at the same moment..."mostly" because Brighid, the aforementioned owner of the Chalice Wellspring, did not believe in coincidences, at least not so far as random encounters between strangers. The man was British, whereas even before the woman spoke, it was apparent from her clothes and teeth and something indefinable in her posture that she was American, and a tourist, not a student nor immigrant, but that didn't rule out the possibility that the two had known each other for a week or a year.
The woman was smiling sadly when Brighid put a hand on her shoulder. "What is it you're looking for, dear?" she asked in a confidential tone. "Gateway to the spirit world? Tranquility at home? I'd be happy to make some suggestions, if I can help..."
The young man had wandered off to look at the swords, mostly commercial affairs such as a full-size reproduction of one of the Lord of the Rings movie props from several years back, and the girl cast a glance in his direction before turning to speak in a low voice to Brighid. "What I really need," she admitted, "is a love potion. Not the kind to make someone notice you -- something to make it real. How do you know if someone is your soulmate if he doesn't even believe in soulmates?"
Poor lamb, Brighid wanted to say, but she held her tongue and studied the young woman, whose bright clothing and crystal necklace did not disguise the weariness on her face. It wasn't unusual for couples to come to Glastonbury with conflicting beliefs and to come away with opposing impressions: many a time Brighid had overheard an enchanted visitor claim that she felt she had found her spiritual home, while a skeptical partner scoffed at the occult stores and New Age mumbo-jumbo. This girl was carrying other purchases -- a collection of postcards from the Abbey, a package of carved runes from the Crystal Cavern two doors down, and the well-worn Rider-Waite deck sticking out of her bag was newly wrapped in a cloth and tie from Merlin's Magickal Shoppe a block away.
"Come looking for the Holy Grail, did you?" asked Brighid sympathetically. "Well, you aren't the first to come on such a pilgrimage here. I expect you know that true love is a gift from the Goddess -- you won't find its secrets in a jar or a book. But if you want someone who can help you, I suggest you skip the tour group's trip up the Tor and go past the edge of town instead; there's a man who might be able to help you."
The boyfriend had wandered back over, and caught Brighid' last words. "Warlock, is he, then?" he asked with a cocked eyebrow. Brighid would have offered a firm retort, but she sensed no malice from the young man, merely the cynicism of the young who had grown up with television's promises of false satisfactions; she only shook her head.
"He's not part of any group. Doesn't even sell his potions here in town, though he'd make a pretty penny from the tourists if he did. He's something of a recluse, and it's rare for anyone to see his partner at all in the house...only sometimes in the fields, looking for ingredients, I'd imagine. They say he doesn't like people much."
"Couple of poofs, eh?" said the young man, again without any real hostility, though the words brought him glares from both Brighid and the girl and he held his hands up peaceably. "All right then, I didn't mean any harm by it. But do they have some kind of license or something, to be selling dangerous chemicals? Doro, how do you know swallowing all this stuff isn't going to mess with your medication?"
So the girl was ill; that explained her pallor. Or perhaps the medicines were meant to treat depression; a lot of very unhappy people came to Glastonbury, looking for instant solutions to problems that Brighid knew would take years and hard, painful work to resolve. "You should always tell your doctor before you start to take any remedy, even a common herb like St. John's Wort," she reminded the young woman -- Doro, perhaps Dorothy. "And if you do visit the gentleman, you should tell him of any medications you take, as well. He seems quite knowledgeable, though he isn't a doctor...professor, I think, though I've never heard where he taught. He's retired now."
"He's an old man, then?" asked the boy.
"No, younger than I am, I should think. There are some children who visit sometimes, teenagers or perhaps your age. He moved here a couple years back, right after..." Brighid glanced from the boy to Doro. "There had been some sort of a crisis, something that affected both the people and the weather. I'm sure you remember reading about the unexplained fires and the bodies they found, but that was only the surface. All of us who are sensitive to the magickal world could feel it."
"I sense a great disturbance in the Force, Luke," the boy muttered with a laugh, but Doro was studying Brighid seriously.
"What happened?" she asked.
Hesitating, Brighid returned the girl's somber gaze. "They say there was a war," she said finally. "They say there was a man -- a wizard -- who had been gathering power to himself, and all the evil he did was reflected out into the world. And they say he was defeated by a child. But, you know, a lot of myths are similar. I suppose it might only be a fairy tale."
"Do you think it's a fairy tale?" Doro asked. Tapping his foot impatiently, the boy rolled his eyes and she grew animated, snapping, "Just ignore Tom. What do you think happened?"
"I think..." Brighid paused. Many years in Glastonbury, meeting its pilgrims, watching them fighting the pull of the moon over the tower, had taught her not to say too much. "I don't suppose it's for me to know," she finished finally. "But something happened -- something that thinned the veil between the worlds. That man past the edge of town might be able to tell you, though I'm guessing he won't talk to anyone if he knows." There were stories about him, too, some outlandish; despite the Rede there was hatred even among Wiccans, as Brighid knew all too well. Yet she could feel that this girl meant no harm, and a strong intuition told her that Doro and the potion seller were meant to meet.
Werewolf. It was a ridiculous fib, of course, and proof that small-minded bigotry could erupt even in the vicinity of Glastonbury, where no one took notice of people who shut down their businesses on the full moon and where a pair of quiet-living men would be left to themselves. Still, if one was a werewolf, mused Brighid, he could hardly find a better place to live.
She gave the girl and her doubtful Tom directions, hoping that this Dorothy would find the true Emerald City of her dreams.