Fantasy

The Harvest Moon & The Thrill of the Chaste

Lady Gwenllian LeStrange-Tudor’s Butler tends to the society garlic and eucalyptus in the garden of her Aimless Priory in preparation for the night’s Gazing of the Harvest Moon.

By the light of the Harvest Moon, a Queen joins the princess and the maid to form the powerful triple goddess in the heavens as a new king reigns on earth.

It rains and thunders outside the Priory where Lady Gwenllian considers the meaning of life as the exercise of constructive thoughts, words and deeds.

“That sounds very mundane and, dare I say, dusty,” says the Green Mage who rules sound magic. “I prefer the thrill of the un-chaste.”

“Could you try to be respectful?” she says, hoping the dignified Queen and the beloved Princess (as the Lady of the Lake) cover the ears of the eternally innocent Maid of Norway. “Is nothing sacred?”

The prodigal professor, who practically lives at her Benedictine monastery, says he fancies himself a bit of a Zoroastrian scholar. Like the Green Mage, he aims to cleanse himself of destructive thoughts, words and dirty deeds.

Never good at assessing distances and spatial depth, Lady Gwenllian falls over a stack of DC comic books. She catches a glimpse of the Warlock’s Daughter who, they say, needs a lesson in basic physics as well as better tactics for handling zombies.

She touches the Green Tiger’s Eye amulet around her neck to make sure it’s still protecting her.

“We don’t need another anti-hero,” the prodigal professor proclaims. “I see you, my little half-wit, as one of the Homo Magi. Madame Xanadu. What’s in your mason jar or, to be more accurate, bell jar?”

Lady Gwenllian pretends not to hear the professor. What does he know, anyway? He never loved a man of the cavalry. A man who arrived on Ellis Island in the late 1800s. And labored in the stockyards when his hands were old and his soul, weary. Then again, she never loved that man either. Maybe his soul was full of love and gratitude for his simple life far away from wars and battles.

That man “gave birth” to the living King of Cups.

The Lady is all about breathtaking displays of “law and order.” The Law of Alchemy and the order of Aurora. She seals every prayer with a kiss to Amen, the ancient Egyptian god of agriculture.

“Madame Xanadu is a superhero similar to Nimue, the sorceress from Arthurian mythology,” the professor says, manipulating her thoughts away from the King of Cups who stands at the shoreline admiring the portal while denying its existence.

“If you ask me, comic books are the pathological paradigm of the patriarch,” the Green Mage interjects. “Wars. Battles. No thank you. Just play the ’70s love songs already. I feel like making love.”

It’s as if he wants her to notice how enlightened he has become after spending time with the Knights of the Round Table.

“Gag me. I mean, silence,” the Lady commands. “I pulled the King of Cups tarot card. And I walked all the way to Ellis Island to ask him my question.”

She is quiet. Let the gazing of the Harvest Moon commence.

Walking out to the gardens, the Green Mage and the prodigal professor stare into the lady’s eyes that shapeshift into Green Tiger Eye gemstones. Their curiosities unquenched, they feel the thrill of the chaste.

It’s the eye of the tigerIt’s the thrill of the fightRising up to the challenge of our rivalAnd the last known survivorStalks his prey in the nightAnd he’s watching us all with the eye of the tigerThe eye of the tiger — ‘Eye of the Tiger,’ Survivor

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