A new source of magic, p.1
A New Source of Magic, page 1
part #3 of Anaïs Blue Series
PRAISE FOR A NEW SOURCE OF MAGIC
There are some books in this world that change your perception of what it is to be a reader. This is one of them. In my top 5 books this year.
REVIEWER BELLE
Anais Blue is my favorite little witch. Her adventures are such fun to read about. Written with humor and an interesting portion of witching philosophy it gives the reader plenty to think about. Very cleverly done!
REVIEWER MARGARET
Once again there is trouble and Anaïs is either right in the middle of it or chasing after it! I love the characters. I can’t wait for the next book!!
REVIEWER SIMON
A NEW SOURCE OF MAGIC
ANAÏS BLUE BOOK THREE
P J WHITTLESEA
Copyright © P J Whittlesea 2022, 2017
This edition was originally published with the title Brimstone and Ashes: The Extraordinary Adventures of the Good Witch Anaïs Blue Volume Three with ISBN 978-94-92523-15-0 (Kindle eBook)
P J Whittlesea has asserted his right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as the author of this work.
This is entirely a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.
Published by Tyet Books, Amsterdam
Cover Design by Miblart
Edited by Philip Newey and Ella Holgate
CONTENTS
1. Fairy Tales
2. Sister Awake
3. Interpreting a Dream
4. Secrets
5. Pompeii
6. Dog Catcher
7. Fire in the Hole
8. Captured
9. Ghost Dog
10. Incarcerated
11. The Ship
12. Getaway
13. Love Is Easy
14. The Crossing
15. Landfall
16. Disembarkation
17. Shady Business
18. The Island
19. A Meeting
20. Deus Dominus
21. The Battle Of The Sexes
22. Face To Face
23. Rage
24. Hate
25. Rescue
26. The Body-Builder
27. Denial
28. Longevity
29. Taking Control
30. Return
31. Facing The Enemy
32. Another Child
33. The Next Step
34. Murder
35. A New Face
36. Magic Bus
37. Underground
38. Batcave
39. The Magic Touch
40. The Workshop
41. Making Moves
42. Confronting The Other Side
43. Mere Mortals
44. Altercations
45. The Tube
46. Underwater Propulsion
47. Leaving Malta
48. Catania
49. The Junction
50. Subterranean
51. The Tunnel
52. Inner Light
53. The Dreadnought
54. Showdown
55. Intervention
56. Sons And Mothers
57. Fireball
58. Super Blue Blood Moon
59. The Cavern
A Witch’s Calling
Other Books in the Series
Also by P J Whittlesea
About the Author
For Dennis and Esther
Everyone is partly their ancestors,
just as everyone is
partly man and partly woman.
VIRGINIA WOOLF 1882–1941
FAIRY TALES
There are many legends about witches. Most of them are untrue. The stories that are genuine have generally been adapted and misconstrued to paint witches in a bad light. Sometimes naturals let their imagination go too far. An imagination set free in the wild can be a dangerous weapon. One such story is the tale of Hansel and Gretel.
The Brothers Grimm have a lot to answer for.
The tale most naturals know involves an evil witch who entices small children into her house by offering them confectionary. Her goal? To eat them. Ugh! Who in their right mind would want to eat a child? Especially one stuffed with sugar. In the first place, that can’t be good for you. And after cooking, I’m sure there wouldn’t be much left of the actual child to eat anyway. Sugar has the tendency to turn into goo at high temperatures. Surely it would be like eating an oversized toffee apple.
If we delve deeper into the tale, the witch character is actually a bit of a smokescreen. The real evildoers in the story are the children’s parents, who abandon their children by ditching them in a forest and leaving them to fend for themselves. On the first attempt, the children are clever enough to find their way home using a trail of pebbles.
This does not deter the parents. They try again.
This time the children only have breadcrumbs to leave a trail. Curiously, the same forest is suddenly devoid of stones. Did the parents strategically remove them? It must have taken weeks. No matter. For the purpose of the story, the breadcrumbs are eaten by birds. This leaves the children lost and alone in the woods.
The excuse is that they were all supposedly starving. Funds were tight and the parents couldn’t feed their children. But who would do such a thing as leaving innocent children to their own devices? Witch or no witch, it’s a clear case of abhorrently bad parenting. Apart from the obvious, it’s just asking for trouble. In the real world, children left to their own devices are particularly dangerous.
Fortunately, these kids are pretty clued up. Certainly they were better at adapting to less-than-ideal circumstances than their parents. Maybe the parents should have consulted their children for advice before dumping them in a forest. Then things may have turned out a touch rosier. Especially for the witch.
The poor woman gets shoved into her own oven and cooked alive. The children then steal her life savings, go home and live happily ever after. Ok, the supposed witch was a cannibal, but that’s beside the point. Considering what the parents did, I wouldn’t have put it past those kids to consider doing the same thing to them had there not been a witch to victimise. We all have to eat. Except in the case of Anaïs Blue, who has the most horrendous diet but still seems to be able to function perfectly.
There is an element of truth to the story. And the truth, as far as witch lore goes, is much worse.
Firstly, let’s take the witch’s cannibalism out of the equation. It doesn’t add up anyway. Why on earth would a real witch need to resort to such a thing? They have magic and an abundance of food. Although, to be honest, while food is an unhealthy preoccupation for some witches—do you remember me mentioning the spate of cooking programs on television?—it’s not a necessity.
Incidentally, why is cannibalism so prevalent in children’s literature? Take Roald Dahl’s The Big Friendly Giant, for instance. It’s full of ogres eating small children. There must be better ways to entertain young minds without threatening them with becoming someone’s lunch.
If we ignore what the Brothers Grimm want us to believe, the truth behind the story is as follows. In reality, after leaving their children in a forest to die, the parents seek out a witch through remorse for their evil deed. They beg her to communicate with their dead children in the hope of bringing them back. When the witch refuses, the parents kill her as well. The real moral of the story, for witches and naturals alike, is to avoid having dealings with homicidal maniacs at all costs.
The fundamental lesson to be learnt here for a witch—and this tale is often told to novices as a warning—is not to reveal your true self. Maintain secrecy at all times. Naturals cannot be trusted with too much knowledge about what really makes the universe tick. They certainly cannot control themselves when driven by greed and self-preservation. They are forces unto themselves, a bit like their fixation with cannibalism. In any case, all of the above is best avoided.
But I digress. We are here to find out what has happened to our very own novice witch. We left her in Italy battling her nemesis and assisting twentieth-century icons. Her journey is far from over. Therefore, I will delay you no further. There is so much more in store for Anaïs Blue.
SISTER AWAKE
It had returned. This time it did not start as before. It was different yet the same. However, this time Anaïs knew what was going on. She wasn’t fooled by it. She recognised it for what it was—a dream.
She dropped into it at the point where the former had concluded. The broken shards of cloth hovered in a sphere around her. They reassembled themselves and flew towards her, coming from all sides. She watched the shards zip towards her and steeled herself for the impact—the blackness. The black shroud hit, immediately coating her entire body. It adhered itself to her skin. It squeezed her. Once again she struggled to breathe. She flared her nostrils, drawing what little air was available through the pair of tiny pinprick holes. She forced her eyelids to respond. Mercifully, she could crack them open a little.
Through the sliver she saw him. Right where he had been before. His glistening shaved head next to her own. His deep voice so close, it resounded in her head.
The Inquisitor whispered in her ear, ‘Ah, so you have some protection. But it won’t stop my words.’ He paused for effect and then said, ‘Hello, sister.’
Sister? No, what’s he talking about? It’s a lie. She had no family, only a mother—somewhere. It was a trick. She was safe. You can’t touch me, you creep! The cloth protected her. He had no other means of attack than speech. Ignore his words. They are laced with evil.
He hissed loudly. ‘Yes, you heard correctly.’ His hot breath caressed her ear. Although she could not feel the breath itself, she could sense the heat of it through the cloth. ‘Hello, sister.’
‘No!’ She spat the word out emphatically.
His cheek was now nestled against her own. She struggled in her straightjacket. If only she could move. Then she would let him have it. What pleasure it would be to punch him in a certain tender spot. Somewhere low. Low like he was.
‘Oh, yes. We are related, you and I,’ he continued. ‘We are the same. I am not your enemy. I have been looking all over for you. Why do you always run from me? Why do you always fight me? You have no need to fear me. I am here to help you. Would a brother hurt his sister?’
She tried to process his words. Why was he continuing with this tack? This sister thing. What low form of deception was this? He was searching for a way in. That was it. Don’t let him. Stay strong.
‘You don’t believe me?’
She tried to stop herself but she couldn’t. The action was involuntary. She shook her head vigorously in denial. She then cursed herself for doing it. For letting him see he had affected her. Even though she could not see it, she could sense a sly smile of satisfaction splitting his face.
‘Then tell me,’ he pressed on. ‘Who is your mother?’
Anaïs had no answer for that one. She didn’t know who her mother was. Nan might know. Someone must know. Surely Caput Mortuum would know. Maybe Sojourner Pink. If she got out of this she would ask them. She would find out.
‘You don’t know, do you? That’s a pity. Nor do I, but we shan’t concern ourselves with her. I do know something. I know who our father is. Shall I tell you?’
Anaïs slowed her breathing. Barely a wisp of air escaped her nostrils—her breath was that shallow. She concentrated. She focussed on the air tickling the fine hairs in her nostrils. She reached deep into her mind and commanded her ears to close to his words. She could do it. She was a witch. She was powerful. She knew deep in her heart. She was stronger than him.
Words have no power. Only the power you give them yourself, she reassured herself. You only have to convince yourself what’s real. What he says is incorrect. It is a lie. You know the truth. It is unfortunate. But. You are alone in this world. There are no brothers. There are no sisters.
She found her voice.
‘You are wrong,’ she said forcefully. Her voice was muffled by the cloth but it was firm and unwavering. ‘I have no father. I have no brother.’
She heard no response, not even his hot breath in her ear. She waited. Nothing came. There was only silence. She concentrated on her eyelids. She pushed them against the cloth. It was as if they were pressed to her face by the palms of someone’s hands. She relaxed, breathed deeply and tried once more.
The cloth yielded. She snapped her eyelids open. She gasped. She could breathe freely again. She blinked. The light was so intense. She narrowed her eyes. She squinted. She looked down. She was covered in sweat. She massaged her eyelids and glanced around. It took her a moment to get her bearings.
They were in the car—the Bambina.
She, the librarian and Nan were once again in the little car. Doubt momentarily took hold. Was Nan there? She caught her breath and spun in her seat. Anaïs sighed. She was there. Nan was still there. The shade sat in the back seat, rocking with the movement of the vehicle as it negotiated the tight curves of the coastal highway.
Her eyes met Nan’s. The caretaker studied her face. ‘Anaïs are you all right?’ There was concern in her voice.
‘Yes,’ said Anaïs and breathed deeply. ‘Yes, I am fine. It was just a dream.’
INTERPRETING A DREAM
Anaïs stared blankly through the windscreen. They rounded a wide curve and the huge crescent bay of Naples opened out before them. The city sprawled along the water’s edge and climbed the foothills of Mount Vesuvius. It was quite a beautiful sight.
She recalled what they were doing. They were following the signal from the promptuary. They were retracing their steps. Back on the same familiar road, only this time travelling north. They were returning to the city of Naples.
The caretaker’s calm voice sounded in her head. ‘What did you dream about, Anaïs?’
Anaïs dropped her eyes to the handbook balanced on her knees. She ran her index finger absentmindedly around the crisp edges of the newly rejuvenated promptuary.
‘Oh, nothing,’ she muttered morosely.
‘Judging by your reaction it doesn’t seem like nothing to me,’ said Nan.
Anaïs sighed. ‘It was him again.’
‘Him?’
‘The Inquisitor.’
‘Mm … what did he do? What did he say?’
‘He called me his sister,’ said Anaïs, almost in a whisper.
She waited for the caretaker to reply. No response came from the shade. There was only the sound of the Bambina’s tyres humming on the surface of the road.
‘Nan?’ Anaïs pulled her sunglasses out of her beret and put them on. She twisted in her seat and scrutinised the shade. The caretaker had a pained look on her face. She stared at the windscreen, straight through the little witch. ‘Nan? Is there something you’re not telling me?’
The caretaker snapped out of her trancelike state. She looked Anaïs in the eye. ‘Yes, but I’m not the one who should tell you.’
‘Nan, we never keep secrets from one another. You have to tell me.’
‘I can’t.’ The caretaker’s face clouded over. ‘It’s up to the Organisation to do it.’
‘Damn the Organisation and their stupid rules!’ cried Anaïs in exasperation. ‘Tell me, Nan!’
The caretaker was emphatic. She shook her head. ‘I can’t, Anaïs. I’m sorry. They would have my hide.’
‘Your hide? You don’t have any hide to speak of. You’re a shade.’
The caretaker’s eyes widened.
Anaïs bit her lip. ‘Sorry, Nan, that was insensitive.’
‘Yes, Anaïs, it was.’
‘Sorry. But if you can’t tell me, where am I supposed to get answers? And why is everyone so secretive? Man! What is it with witches?’
‘Welcome to my world,’ said the librarian sarcastically.
Engrossed in her conversation with Nan, and still slightly groggy from her dream, Anaïs had forgotten she was there. She shot a sideways glance at Immi. ‘I don’t think I want to go there, to your world. I have enough trouble dealing with my own.’
The librarian snorted. ‘We are part of the same world.’
‘No,’ said Anaïs, shaking her head. ‘I think mine is very different.’
