Thirteen Candles: Prologue
A pale moon kept its vigil over the mouldering stones of the cemetery, glaring at the two who had dared trespass its bounds. They sat on folding chairs, one facing the other, placing candles on a board between them, melting the wax on the bottom before fixing it to the wooden plank. One was old, his sparse hair white and his skin mottled with liver spots. He had wrapped himself and thick tweed and dark wool. The other was young, his hair dyed dark as crow feathers and his skin as wan as the moon. He huddled in his long leather jacket, cursing himself for only wearing a shirt beneath.
“What are we supposed to be doing, Meadows?” He asked his hoary companion. The old man snorted and went about his business. “I said, ‘what are we doing here, Meadows?’” The old man cast a baleful look at his young companion.
“You mean specifically here? Or do I have to repeat what we will be doing again, Ricky?” Even after all Ricky had done for him, all he had learned, Meadows treated him like an incompetent. “In fact, if you can remember with sufficient clarity what I explained to you earlier, then I will enlighten you.” Another of the old man’s games, Ricky was getting tired of them, but he couldn’t turn his back on this now, the path was set and it had already cost him so much. He took a deep breath, reached into his mind and collected the sense-memories of Meadow’s study, where he had had the itinerary explained to him. There was the smooth soft leather of the chair beneath his palms, the warmth of the fire on his face, the bitter taste of the strong foreign tea Meadows had brewed, the smells of damp, brass polish, stale incense and old sweat. And the sounds of the old man’s low brogue as his words came back almost unbidden. It was an old and useful trick, the Ars Memoria, and was one of the first Meadows had taught him. As if in a trance, Ricky Swallow repeated what his master had taught him earlier that night.
“There are ways and means of communicating with the Outside but all are dependant upon the atmosphere of a given location and the state of mind of those present. This is what determines the direction and strength of the communiqué.
“Through the ages, many rituals and sacraments have been developed to direct the ego of the summoning party to the various daemons they seek to contact. From ecstatic dancing to sedate séances, all work by channelling the atmosphere of a place through the mentality of the evoking sorcerer.
"One such ritual is the Gathering of Thirteen Candles, which dates back to the seventeenth century and was used to test the mettle of initiates. At the culmination of the invocation, a daemonic being of the Outer Dark is conjured, it is the binding of this entity that marks the transition from Adept of the Void to Magus of the Abyss.” There was a concise gap between Meadows previous scorn and the next packet of bile he was about to unfold.
“Well done, it seems that you may not be a complete waste of time. Tonight, here, on Bidston Hill, an ancient nexus of earth energies, I will make the transition from Adept to Magus. Now, light the candles…” They took one of the ritual tapers each, lighting them both from a common source (in this case, Ricky’s Zippo.) Meadows began the chant as the first candle kindled into life. Strange words rarely heard by human ears gurgled from his throat, mingling with the thick grey smoke of the corpse-fat candles. Ricky had long decided not to ask where Meadows got his more outré reagents from…
All the candles were lit and Meadows looked his young apprentice in the eye as he began the conjuration.
