Shaking off the vivid remembrances that, in my opinion, couldn’t fade quickly enough, I gently tossed back the covers. Being careful not to wake Felicity, I let my feet touch the hardwood floor and drew in a sharp breath. A quick glance at the clock showed it to be 5:24-minus the phantom fifteen minutes, of course-which readily accounted for the fact that the electronic thermostat had not yet signaled the furnace to increase the comfort level in the house.
I quickly pulled on socks and sweats and then stuffed my feet into a pair of tennis shoes. Our English setter and Australian cattle dog both stirred as soon as they were convinced that I was up and moving about. With a choreographed pair of lazy stretches and slowly wagging tails, the two of them followed me through the house and into the kitchen where I let them out the back door. The motion sensor on the outdoor sentry instantly detected their movement and snapped the floodlights on full. The intense halogen beams pierced the darkness to illuminate our white-blanketed back yard and deck. Countless jewel-like pinpricks were reflected back from the crystalline snow, making the pristine landscape appear to be covered with a fine dusting of tiny diamonds.
Clusters of the cottony ice were still falling steadily from a grey sky; the low strata of clouds reflected the omnipresent lights of the city, lending to an illusion of almost brightness. Emily, our calico cat, brushed against my leg and started out the doorway onto the snowy deck. The moment her paws contacted the frigid substance, she lurched back with a hiss, back arched and tri-toned fur afrizz. The weather having brought about an abrupt end to her planned morning hunt, she pranced back into the atrium, leaped lithely into a chair and settled herself in, electing to watch rather than participate. The dogs had seen to their business and were now reveling like small children in the wonders of the snow that hadn’t been there less than eight hours before. They would be at play for some time yet, so I shut the door and proceeded back into the kitchen. I knew they would let me know when they wanted in.
After dumping a healthy portion of roasted Columbian Supremo beans into the grinder, I covered it with a dishtowel before depressing the button. I was still trying not to wake Felicity, and I wanted to muffle the noise. A choked rattle began immediately and was followed by an escalating whine as the blades increased in speed, first cracking and then crushing the contents. After a couple of sharp taps, I removed the shroud and emptied the near-powdered contents into the filter basket then filled the coffee maker with purified water. Rich inviting aromas were already screaming “CAFFEINE” at me when I let the dogs back in and made my way to the shower.
After my shower and a change from sweats to casual but more respectable attire, I had dialed the Saint Louis city police headquarters and asked for Ben Storm’s extension. He had picked up on the third ring with his usual gruff and succinct, “Homicide. Storm.”
“So everything is still on for this morning?” I said into the telephone handset.
“Hell yes,” my friend’s voice issued jovially from the earpiece. “Coppers don’t get to stay home when it snows. Shit, you think the bad guys take the day off?”
Since my recent involvement in solving one of the most violent killing sprees in Saint Louis’ history, my friend had become readily accepting of the fact that I was a practicing Witch-and the uncanny abilities that I developed because of it. Taking it even a step further, he was now a staunch purveyor of educating his fellow officers about Wicca and The Craft. In a very short period of time, he had come to realize the importance of dispelling the myths about the religion of modern day Witches. His persistence, along with my success in aiding a serious investigation, had allowed him to convince the department to establish a program of lectures. The series of seminars was designed for the purpose of instructing everyone within the ranks-from chief to beat cop-about alternative religions and the fact that being a Witch did not mean that one was a “child-eating, broom-riding, sacrificial murderer.” Ben’s fierce determination about this had gotten me through the door. Now, it was my job to stand up in front of them and do the convincing. Today was to be the first formal lecture to a group.
“Well, you never know,” I answered with a laugh. “Seems like half the city shuts down if someone sees a flurry. You’d think they’d be used to it by now.”
“Yeah, well, what’re ya gonna do?” he stated rhetorically. “Especially when you got a bunch of prima donnas runnin’ around worried about gettin’ sno-melt on their new Lex-eye.”
“Lex-eye? Is that really a word?”
“Lexus, Lexuses, Lex-eye, whatever…” he answered with a chuckle. “Anyway, yeah, everything’s still on. Even with the snow, they’d be nuts to cancel now, especially after that article in the paper.”
“I suppose it would look a little strange to do that after that kind of coverage,” I said, knowing exactly what he was referring to. “You know, when I agreed to that interview, I really didn’t expect the article to be on the front page.”
“That’s nothin’, rumor has it the national wire services are picking it up. Face it, Row, a self-proclaimed Witch giving instructional seminars to coppers? You’re news, Kemosabe. Either that, or,” he added wryly, “it was a really slow day.”
“Thanks a lot,” I feigned hurt sarcasm. “That makes me feel real important.”
He laughed heartily on the other end. “No problem, white man. Hey, by the way, happy Candlestick or Endblock or whatever you call it.”
“Candlemas or Imbolc, either one is fine.” I corrected his crucified reference to the Pagan holiday that had been celebrated only the day before. “I’m impressed you remembered. Thanks.”
“Hey, I’m tryin’. So what was this one all about anyway?”
“It’s a celebration of the coming of the spring season,” I replied.
“Yo, Kemosabe.” He took on a mock serious tone. “I don’t wanna bust your bubble and all, but you might wanna take a look at a calendar. I’m pretty sure spring is a ways off yet.”
“Like I said, the coming of the season,” I told him, and then jibed, “You mundanes have your own bizarre and even less than scientific version of Imbolc, you know.”
“What’s that?”
“Well, you all gather around and wait for a rodent to come out of a hole to see if it casts a shadow. Then depending upon the result, you proclaim the length of the winter season. On the other hand, we Pagans all gather ‘round, hold a simple rite welcoming spring and the growing season that we know to be just around the corner, then we have a party. In the long run, which one do you think makes more sense?”
“Okay, okay,” he laughed. “I give up… You win.” In the background, I could hear him shuffling papers about his desk. “So anyway, back to business. According to the departmental memo here, looks like the class is all set up for around ten. You need me to come get you?”
“No. Not at all.” I declined his offer. “I’ve got about two hundred pounds of sand bags in the bed of the truck, and it’s four-wheel drive.” With a chuckle, I added, “Question is, should I have given YOU a ride?”
“What, and leave the tank at home?” He asked facetiously, referring to the dilapidated looking, but well maintained, Chevy van he always drove. “Not a chance! Someone might think it’s abandoned and tow it! Besides…” He paused and I heard faint voices in the background. “Hey, Row…Could you hold on a sec?”
“Yeah. Sure.”
The sound from the handset cradled on my shoulder took on the familiar dull hollowness of being placed on hold. Absently, I filled my hand with an ink pen from the jar on the bookshelf and began doodling on the notepad next to it. Outside the window, a muted dawn was managing to filter weakly through the clouds that still lay like a comforter across the city. Wet clumps of snow continued chasing one another in a frantic, never-ending race downward to the already fleeced ground. My hand moved on its own, tracing non-sensical patterns on the notepaper. I ignored it and continued staring through the double pane of glass. Distorted noises of metal against asphalt distantly reached my ears, growing louder, then fading once again as a street department snow plow pushed past my house, spewing salt in its wake.