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A Wiccan gets a most unexpected Spirit Guide |
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Moonflower sat in the middle of his living room, doing his best to maintain an asana posture despite the protest of his back and knees. He was attired in his magical robes . a housecoat with astrological symbols sewn into it, and wore around his neck a Seal of Solomon inscribed on tinfoil with a purple magic marker. The room was dark, except for the hazy light from the candles he had arranged in a rough circle around himself. The air was thick with clouds of cheap frankincense that guttered from his leaping dolphin incense brazier. His Hecate statue watched him dubiously from the altar, surrounded by feathers, and crystals, and pink conch shells. Low in the background a meditation tape played, an electronica version of Enya with whale songs dubbed in. Moonflower sneezed from the incense, and turned the page in his book. Laying in front of him was a copy of Silver Ravenwolf's Guide to Goetic Conjuration. Moonflower had been feeling set adrift spiritually of late. He'd been a practicing Wiccan for almost a year and a half now. He'd mastered Circle casting and candle magic and was even quite handy with a pendulum. He could recite the Charge of the Goddess by rote, could talk for hours about the Burning Times and witch trials, and knew all of the magical correspondences for animals, herbs, and stones - if he had his books handy. But somehow, it just wasn't enough. Then one evening he had read about how Aleister Crowley had gained "knowledge and communion" with his Holy Guardian Angel, and that sounded like just the sort of thing that he needed! Not that Moonflower was into that sort of dark-side stuff. Normally he would have avoided the Great Beast like a plague, but a troll on one of his email lists had had the audacity to claim that Wicca was nothing more than a watered down version of Thelema, and in order to refute that Moonflower had been forced to hit the books. Ever since then Moonflower had been obsessed with the idea of contacting his Spirit Guide. He'd tried meditation, guided visualization, shamanic soul-journeying, hypnosis, lucid dreaming, and even something that involved ingesting ground-up crystal shards and ginseng root. Nada. Nothing. Zylch. No visions, no ectoplasmic manifestations, no vibrations in his chakras, not so much as a peep out of the Astral plane. Moonflower was beginning to fear that he just didn't have a Spirit Guide. As a last-ditch effort Moonflower had decided to try Ceremonial Magick. Madonna believed in the Kaballah, so there had to be something to it. Squinting, Moonflower read the text through a couple times, then recited the odd Enochian incantation, stumbling over the discordant blocks of run-on consonants. As the strange, guttural words left his throat, the candle flames began to shudder and take on a phosphorescent green glow, like will-o-the-wisp over a stagnant swamp. His Kokapelli wind chime tinkled musically, though Moonflower felt no breeze. The air in the tiny apartment grew suddenly stale and empty like a decompressed cabin in an airplane. Moonflower found himself growing light-headed, the taste of burnt ozone in the back of his throat. A low rumbling echoed through the walls, coming from nowhere and everywhere at the same time. And then - - nothing. Moonflower sat there, staring in disbelief at the perfect triangle he had inscribed in his Zen meditation sand garden. It was futilely empty: no spirit had deigned to manifest. Moonflower continued sitting for a few moments longer, his heart sinking with each passing second. Then he let out a deep sigh, got up from the floor, and proceeded to pack away his ritual tools. At least there was a Buffy rerun on tonight. * * * Moonflower came awake instantly. He wasn't alone. "What the Hell?" Hovering over the foot of his bed was an indistinct shape surrounded by a golden-green nimbus of light. He clamped his eyes shut and rubbed them with his balled fists. He had to be dreaming. No way that thing was real. Moonflower cracked one eye open and peeked. It was still there. Whatever it was. It couldn't have been bigger than his palm, a sort of translucent pinkish color except where it was washed by the phosphorescent green glow that surrounded it. It looked like a cross between a tiny hairless puppy and a seahorse, with huge black pools for eyes that took up most of its head, a pair of slits for nostrils, and two arm nubs that it thrashed about spasmodically. It was curled into a fetal ball, and had a tail that was beginning to separate into legs. "What the fuck are you?" Moonflower blurted, once he found his voice. "I'm Jesus Christ." It said, it's voice echoing in his head like a remembered conversation, which is the only way that it could speak, since it lacked lips or even a mouth with which to form its words. "Huh?" Moonflower wasn't feeling his most articulate. "The Son of God. The Paschal Lamb. Mankind's Lord and Redeemer. Come on, I know you've heard of me." Moonflower just blinked. "Fucking Wiccans." If the fetus had had eyes, it would have rolled them. "Uhm - what are you doing here?" Moonflower asked because he felt like he had to ask something. "You invited me here." "I did?" "Yeah, dumb shit. The ritual, remember? Incense. Candles. Silly clothes. Bad poetry. Your memory can't be that bad." "But that was for - for - for -" "Conjuring your Spirit Guide. Yup. That.s me." "But you're - you're - Jesus." "Yeah. In the flesh. Sort of." "Not the Jesus." "The one and only." Moonflower sat up in bed and stared at the apparition in utter amazement. It met his gaze with its black, unseeing sockets. Moonflower shuddered and looked away. "Why do you look like that?" "I was supposed to have my Second Coming on Y2K, but the little slut had an abortion and now I'm trapped here in this world like this." "What?!?." "Yeah. Father thought it would be cute if man's Redeemer was born poor and despised. So he knocked up a Mexican chick named Maria, and when her family found out, they kicked her out. To make her living on the streets she became a prostitute. But fat whores don't make as much, so she went to Tijuana and had a back-alley abortion. (Have you ever had a coat-hanger jabbed into your brain? It's not pleasant.) Now I'm stuck in this shit hole, and man's got to wait another two thousand years for his shot at world peace and universal love." What the fuck was in that incense, Moonflower thought, rubbing his eyes. "Uh - why are you stuck here? I mean, why can't you just go back to Heaven and wait out the next couple millennia?" "Because that would mean that Yahweh would have to admit that He fucked up, and He won't do that, the arrogant prick." Moonflower got out of bed and stumbled into the kitchen. "I need a drink." The glowing baby Jesus followed, hovering over his shoulder like a bobbing helium balloon. "You need a drink? You're not the one stuck looking like a Sea Monkey for the next two thousand years. Do you have any idea how hard it is to pick up chicks like this? I don't even have testes yet!" Moonflower pulled a bottle of Guinness out of the fridge and killed it in a single draught. He considered going for another one, but was afraid of what might appear next. Hitler with fairy wings and a pink tutu? He wouldn't be surprised. Moonflower plopped down on his overstuffed couch and cradled his head in his hands. The aborted baby Jesus climbed up onto the end table next to him. There was an altar to Pan on the table, its centerpiece a statue of the lusty Goat-God in the midst of chasing a nubile young nymph, his member proudly erect. "Now there's a deity!" Jesus chortled. Moonflower glanced up and shook his head in disbelief. "You're my Spirit Guide?" "Yup." "You? I mean, I'm not even Christian!" "Hey, I'm not any happier about this than you are. But them's the breaks, man. Deal." "Shouldn't you be more - pious? I mean, you're Jesus, for Christ's sake. I always thought you were meek and mild and full of Godly wisdom." "Have you even read the fucking Bible? I hung out with whores and thieves and tax collectors. I broke the law and caused a riot in the Temple. They called me a drunkard and glutton, and most of my best miracles took place at parties. I sure as Hell wasn't a Young Republican! Why do you think they crucified me? Because I preached love and universal brotherhood? Not fucking likely." Moonflower sat in silence for a while. Jesus ogled the naked nymph. "So what does a Spirit Guide do, exactly?" "I'm not sure. This is my first time, too. Offer pithy spiritual advice, I guess. Don't take any wooden shekels and don't bend over in front of a Priest." Moonflower shook his head in disgust. "Why'd you answer my call?" "I was bored. You looked interesting." Jesus gave him a critical once-over, and then went back to groping the nymph's breast. "Sort of." "Thanks." "Hey, I calls 'em as I see's 'em, boy." "What if I don't want a Spirit Guide now?" "Tough luck. We're stuck with each other now. Like peanut butter and jelly. Beer and Cheerios. Seigfried and Roy. 'Til death do us part. Or some shit." "I can't believe you." To be continued... |
