have liked to explore these places, but knew
that time was short. She must conduct her work and hurry away.
Lingering too long might alert the Grigori to her presence.
She crouched down upon the sand
and removed from her coat pocket the pouch of herbs. Hastily, she
broke the contents into small pieces and placed them within the
hollow of the cowry shell. Then, without hesitation, she picked up
a sharp stone from the beach and made a shallow cut across her
wrist. Delmar uttered a sound of distress at the sight of her
blood. He was clearly unfamiliar with some of the more gruesome
magical practices, and remained rigid and staring as Tamara
squeezed a few drops of blood into the cowry shell. This
accomplished, she spat onto the mixture, then finally added some
sea-water gathered from a nearby rock-pool. Slowly, still crouching
down, she began to agitate the mixture within the shell, making it
move in a spiral. After a few moments, she leapt suddenly to her
feet. Delmar whimpered and cringed away from her. Tamara ignored
his fear. She held the shell before her, her spine erect, her hair
blowing around her face from beneath her hood. ‘Now, Del! Send the
image of Ishtahar to me!’
His jumpiness and fright were
beginning to annoy her, although she could tell he was trying to
overcome these feelings, so that he could concentrate on her
request. His instinct now was to obey her.
‘We are safe now,’ she told
him. ‘Just relax. No-one knows we’re here.’
He nodded, although he still
looked terrified. Tamara closed her eyes. Soon, the image came
through: the figure of a woman, clad in blue veils, which curled
around her body like smoke. Her ears and neck were hung with heavy
gold jewellery and her eyes were painted thickly with kohl in the
Egyptian fashion. Tamara visualised this figure standing upon the
beach directly in front of her. Then she opened her eyes and,
holding the cowry shell aloft, poured the potent libation around
them in a small, tight circle, all the while chanting in a guttural
whisper: ‘Sitar, Ishtahar, Abdur Sitar, Ashur Sitar, Ishtahar.’ She
spiralled lithely around the circle, each step executed with the
purpose and precision of a trained dancer. Then, she halted in the
centre of the circle and poured the residue of the libation onto
the sand, breathing heavily. Gripping the shell in one hand, she
held out the talisman in the other, and willed the carved serpents
to release their breath, so that the form of Ishtahar could take
shape within it. Within her grasp, the talisman began to grow hot.
Fine, snaky fronds of smoking energy rose up from the serpents’
open mouths and slowly crept upon the air, until they found the
serrated folds of the cowry shell and slipped within it.
Satisfied her intentions were
taking effect, Tamara asked Delmar to dig a hole in the sand
between them. She sat down opposite him, and watched his fingers
scrabbling away, until he had dug down for about eighteen inches.
Then she placed the shell in the hole, and together she and Delmar
filled it in once more. There would be no outward sign that the
shell was buried there. The tide would wash away all signs of their
libation. If Tamara wanted to remove the shell, she would have to
use psychic means to locate it. She reached for Delmar’s gritty
hands, and instructed him to meditate further on the image of
Shemyaza’s woman. Tamara was unnerved by the thought of closing her
eyes for the meditation. Her heart had begun to beat quickly; she
would not be sorry to leave this place.
A sudden gust of wind blew
Tamara’s hood back from her head and sprayed her hair across her
face in stinging tendrils. She heard the howl and roar of the sea
grow momentarily furious and wild, and could not help opening her
eyes quickly, convinced that an enormous wave was about to crash
down upon her. But the sea was merely restless and seething, its
waves lashing fretfully at least twenty yards from where they
sat.
‘Come Del, we must leave.’
that time was short. She must conduct her work and hurry away.
Lingering too long might alert the Grigori to her presence.
She crouched down upon the sand
and removed from her coat pocket the pouch of herbs. Hastily, she
broke the contents into small pieces and placed them within the
hollow of the cowry shell. Then, without hesitation, she picked up
a sharp stone from the beach and made a shallow cut across her
wrist. Delmar uttered a sound of distress at the sight of her
blood. He was clearly unfamiliar with some of the more gruesome
magical practices, and remained rigid and staring as Tamara
squeezed a few drops of blood into the cowry shell. This
accomplished, she spat onto the mixture, then finally added some
sea-water gathered from a nearby rock-pool. Slowly, still crouching
down, she began to agitate the mixture within the shell, making it
move in a spiral. After a few moments, she leapt suddenly to her
feet. Delmar whimpered and cringed away from her. Tamara ignored
his fear. She held the shell before her, her spine erect, her hair
blowing around her face from beneath her hood. ‘Now, Del! Send the
image of Ishtahar to me!’
His jumpiness and fright were
beginning to annoy her, although she could tell he was trying to
overcome these feelings, so that he could concentrate on her
request. His instinct now was to obey her.
‘We are safe now,’ she told
him. ‘Just relax. No-one knows we’re here.’
He nodded, although he still
looked terrified. Tamara closed her eyes. Soon, the image came
through: the figure of a woman, clad in blue veils, which curled
around her body like smoke. Her ears and neck were hung with heavy
gold jewellery and her eyes were painted thickly with kohl in the
Egyptian fashion. Tamara visualised this figure standing upon the
beach directly in front of her. Then she opened her eyes and,
holding the cowry shell aloft, poured the potent libation around
them in a small, tight circle, all the while chanting in a guttural
whisper: ‘Sitar, Ishtahar, Abdur Sitar, Ashur Sitar, Ishtahar.’ She
spiralled lithely around the circle, each step executed with the
purpose and precision of a trained dancer. Then, she halted in the
centre of the circle and poured the residue of the libation onto
the sand, breathing heavily. Gripping the shell in one hand, she
held out the talisman in the other, and willed the carved serpents
to release their breath, so that the form of Ishtahar could take
shape within it. Within her grasp, the talisman began to grow hot.
Fine, snaky fronds of smoking energy rose up from the serpents’
open mouths and slowly crept upon the air, until they found the
serrated folds of the cowry shell and slipped within it.
Satisfied her intentions were
taking effect, Tamara asked Delmar to dig a hole in the sand
between them. She sat down opposite him, and watched his fingers
scrabbling away, until he had dug down for about eighteen inches.
Then she placed the shell in the hole, and together she and Delmar
filled it in once more. There would be no outward sign that the
shell was buried there. The tide would wash away all signs of their
libation. If Tamara wanted to remove the shell, she would have to
use psychic means to locate it. She reached for Delmar’s gritty
hands, and instructed him to meditate further on the image of
Shemyaza’s woman. Tamara was unnerved by the thought of closing her
eyes for the meditation. Her heart had begun to beat quickly; she
would not be sorry to leave this place.
A sudden gust of wind blew
Tamara’s hood back from her head and sprayed her hair across her
face in stinging tendrils. She heard the howl and roar of the sea
grow momentarily furious and wild, and could not help opening her
eyes quickly, convinced that an enormous wave was about to crash
down upon her. But the sea was merely restless and seething, its
waves lashing fretfully at least twenty yards from where they
sat.
‘Come Del, we must leave.’
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