Two of Tinfoil Hats

This is one of the cards I promised to reveal to you, my loyal followers, in the my previous post. It was made at a time when Jay and myself were moving, always moving, along roads wide and narrow, straight and bendy, and Hermaphroditey had deserted me. But now I am settled like the creamy skin on top of a bowl of goat’s milk yogurt I can look upon it and remember that time without too much distress.

I have a large collection of tin foil hats. The aether is filled with a cacophony of different sounds, not only the everyday noise of traffic, trains, people and other busyness heard in towns and cities, and mooing cows and combine harvesters in the countryside – all the ones that ordinary people hear – but the voices of discarnate spirits trying to impart information to genuine psychics like myself who are trying to access information from the other side of the veil in order to give the best possible advice to their clients. A talented and receptive medium can find sometimes that it’s difficult to hear the messages intended for them alone. This is where the tinfoil hats come in handy. They work like radio receivers, tuning in to the channel that the psychic person needs to hear. This is why I have a large collection, as I find that different shapes tune me into different channels or stations.

The card shows me, Aisselle A.T. Gabegie, eyes closed and a tin foil hat in each hand. A particularly difficult problem has provoked a deluge of gabble from the other side and I recklessly imagine that wearing two tin foil hats at once might help, but all it does is to filter the jumble to two disparate spirits, each with an opposing opinion, who begin to shout and yell at each other inside my head. Of course I take the hats off and the noises stop, and there I sit, keeping the hats well away from my head and each other until they become fed up and shut up. Later I try a completely different tin foil hat with complete success, but that’s another card.

It is hot again today and the poor goats are cooking in their long coats. I must ask Jay to speak to Hethermoor, our farmer friend (Heth for short), to see if he would like us to shear their coats. Perhaps we can use the wool in some way – I seem to remember someone mentioning a spinning wheel, now who was it…?

Till soon,



Ace of Teapots

As you can tell from my newly created card I’m feeling so much better now Jay and I have settled in this lovely place. The Two and Three of Tinfoil Hats time has passed (more of those later), a new goat has arrived to join the others Jay photographed for the Three of Goats card, the weather is warm, the lake is cool, it’s deliciously shady beneath this tree and the teapot is full of hawthorn tea – so good for the heart. Something wonderful is about to begin – I feel sure of it. Because that is what this card is all about – like the lake my emotions run deep, and now that I’ve surfaced anything is possible and a new life is about to begin. No, not that though. Jay and myself will leave reproduction to George and Minette, who may have any number of hatchlings by now. I do hope the goats and other creatures are well.

Do you like the fishy tablecloth? I felt my lovely teapot needed something special to sit on, but all I had in the caravan was an old sheet, torn in the middle where it had worn thin due to recent restless nights and Jay’s toenails. I was just wondering whether to pull a card or two to answer that question when Hermaphroditey appeared and whispered in my ear that all I needed was an old potato, a sharp knife and some paint and I could transform it in the twinkle of a goat’s eye. So I decided on fishes to go with the lake – well one fish, anyway – and was soon well away, printing fishes like a professional fish printer! Really, I sometimes think there’s no end to my talents!

Now I should check again on my Readings page. There are so many troubled souls out there. But the day is warm, the lake is very cooling for the toes and the teapot calls. Later perhaps…

Till when,

Love, Aisselle

A New New Life


Three of Goats

Picture this: a country lane, a gypsy van. Jay is up front, keeping Pie on the straight and narrow (well narrow anyway – it’s a bit of a windy lane, this one). Aisselle, (yours truly), is sitting just behind him on a cushion. She is tired and achy and as if that were not enough someone is chanting in her ear; There’s no place like home, there’s no place like home, there’s… Well, you get the drift. But something is in the air. ‘Pull over’, I shout, ‘pull over!’ ‘Your blue one’s on the bed behind you’, Jay answers, but I point to a gate on a wide track just off to the left, he reins Pie in and we come to a standstill.

So that is how we arrived here, in this little field. The something in the air was the scent of goat – there are three, although it’s possible one may be a sheep, or rather a ram. He has beautiful curling horns and wise eyes. As I said, I am tired after all our time on the road so I think we will try to stay for a while. I had a long rest and then set about beautifying the shaggiest of the goats, whose coat was tangled with brambles and other debris. I was about halfway through plaiting the long strands when Jay returned from the farmhouse with the good news that we may stay in return for a little help – some raspberry picking, milking the goats and later on harvesting the fruit in the orchard. It’s not actually home, but maybe it’ll do for a while, and perhaps my head will settle down and the messages that came so clearly and easily before will sort themselves out and make sense again.

And speaking of messages, Jay tells me that there is something called Wi Fi at the farmhouse that we may be able to use. He tried to explain how it could help but his words didn’t seem to be able to get through the muddle in my head. No matter. But my old laptop seems to be working again, and as soon as I’ve posted this celebratory tarot card (Jay took the photo just as I was removing a huge orange slug from MuMu’s tail), for The Grand Ellessia Tarot of Aisselle Gabegie, and my first message since goodness knows when, I will try to catch up on any messages and comments on this, my poor neglected blog.

But I must go now. A frantic person has climbed the gate into the field and is doing some sort of semaphore at me. I shall go and see what troubles them – perhaps some sort of crisis that needs my very special skills, so the Reading Section of my blog will have to wait for a short while.

Till very soon,



A New Life

Aisselle & Pie by Aisselle A T Gabegie
Aisselle & Pie, a photo  on Flickr.

Merry Meet, Dear Readers and Devoted Followers. It has been so long since I last posted here and I’ve missed you all. But now I must tell you what has come to pass.

The feelings I described in the previous post, all those months ago, stayed with me and built to a horrid dark nimbus which laid me so low that my beloved Hermaphroditey left and could not be found. My powers waned even as the moon goddess slims to a sliver every month before growing fat and full again. I became so thin and translucent that Jay feared for my life, and fed me nettle cakes, elderflower wine, milk and cheese from the goats, and wild honey, but nothing helped. I was disappearing, and had not the strength to see my clients or attend to the needs of my followers here.

Then, one dark day, when the sun seemed to have deserted us too, Jay carried me outside to see my beloved goats, possibly to say goodbye to them and the other animals for the last time. As he placed me tenderly on a goat’s wool blanket in the orchard and covered me, Baphomet left the little herd and skipped across the cold grass to stand beside us. I kissed his gracious nose and reached up to scratch the small spot at the end of his back, just above his tail. This is a bit risky as it’s essential not to do it for too long or he becomes crazy with lust. But before I could so much as tickle him, Baphomet leaned down, put his whiskers to my ear and spoke, and his words made perfect sense.

‘Listen kid’, he said, and his voice was deep and wise. ‘Ya gotta get outta this place and hit the road. Hermy’s gone cause the pair in there…’ and here he jerked his noble head in the direction of the cottage, ‘…is sprogging. I dessay Pan reckons which one – or maybe both, but none of us goats has a clue – we just knows there’s a kid on the way and Hermy doesn’t like it.’

As Baphomet spoke it came to me like a warm golden shower falling all over and around me that he was right, before I realized that it was just one of the other goats who had tiptoed up behind us. I thanked the lovely creature (Baphomet) for this enlightenment, and with new strength instructed Jay to take me indoors and put me to bed, where I lay and pondered long before falling asleep.

I woke the following morning with a happier heart, and spent the day reading cards in the basement – the first time I’d been able to do so for some time. And before the sun reached its zither the answer came and parked itself in the lane by the gate across the orchard.

Jay had been with me down there (in the basement), but had just gone up to make some dandelion tea when he saw it. He tells me that he ran out of the kitchen door, across the garden and the orchard and came back an hour later with a smile lighting his whole face. He brought me upstairs and we drank the tea together, then, taking my hand, he led me outside.

Through the orchard we made our way, the wet grass squeaking our shoes, and my heart sank. Under the oldest and tallest apple tree stood a chunky piebald horse. Not more animals to care for – Oh Jay, what have you done?

But I need not have feared. In the lane stood our salvation – a gypsy caravan! That just shows you the power of the Buckland Romani Tarot, for it was that I had been using all morning. Jay told me that the horse was a Vanner, and strong enough to pull us and a few precious belongings away from our troubles and out into the country lanes. He’d bought it and the horse from an old gypsy who’d named his price (way too high, said Jay), quick as a one card reading and dropped it in the time it takes to do a Celtic Cross (properly). Jay said that we could go anywhere our hearts desired, reading tarot along the way, following the Fayres and living on nettles and wild herbs. We could even take one of the nanny goats for milk. George and Minet could stay in the cottage and look after the animals, and we could come back sometimes to visit them (the animals).

So here I am, Dear Readers and Devoted Followers, well and happy, tapping away in the Café Net, as my old computer would not have worked in the van. I have been out of touch for so long, and would be still, had I not fancied a cup of coffee (naughty, I know) and popped in. Sadly there was no coffee to be found (or any net), just lots of screens and keyboards, so it seemed as if Hermaphroditey had led me here on purpose and must be heeded. For she had returned, appearing as a fluffy pinky-purple ball almost as soon as we’d left the lane, and now resides in the van, just below the ceiling, where she bobs merrily as we go along.

The last few Fayres of summer went well for us, and although autumn was wet and windy, and winter so far the same, but cold too, Jay and I are cosy in our little van, warmed by the wood stove. Pie, our lovely Vanner, loves to have his back scratched just like Baphomet, and it seems to have the same effect on him, so I have to be careful as he’s a powerful creature.

George and Minet told us before we left that their kindling would arrive in June. We wished them well, and left with gasps of relief. We have each other, Aisselle and Jay. We have our collie  –  dear precious Leon and the Goddess Hermaphroditey, with Pie to pull the van and Nu (who rides inside like a queen when we’re on the move) for milk. We are all we need.

I’m not sure when I’ll be able to post again, but do please leave your questions and requests and I’ll send the readings across the aether when I can find a connection.

In the meantime, look out for us on the road – our tarot readings are not too expensive but they are supernaturally accurate. Our stock of elderberry wine is only half immolated, and Jay bakes wondrous nettle cakes – his secret ingredient makes them truly magickal. We can raise a glass together.

Blessed Be Till When,


Two for joy

Handfasting by Aisselle A T Gabegie
Handfasting, a photo by me on Flickr.

I woke yesterday morning to find Jay’s place beside me cold and empty once again and rose with a sigh to draw the curtains. The day I had dreamed of and looked forward to for so long – my Summer Solstice handfasting – had arrived, yet my beloved had disappeared and was still missing. I turned to go and wake Minet, determined that she should have a wonderful day, even if I should not, but a small commotion in the garden took me back to the window in time to see two magpies jumping up and down on the fence squawking raucously. Two for joy! My heart lifted immediately, Spiritual Insight returned and I knew that all would be well and all would be well and all manner of things would be well.

But Minet’s room was empty. I stood for a moment wondering where she could be. It was only as I was preparing a celebratory breakfast of homemade museli and goat’s milk that I heard singing becoming gradually louder, and went to the kitchen door to watch her cross the wet grass. She had been to pick redcurrants and wild raspberries in the orchard, and had some wondrous news – Jay had returned! He had asked Minet to tell me that he would greet me at the ceremony, as it would be unlucky to see me any earlier. I asked her where he’d been, but she said it was a surprise and I would have to wait to find out.

Minet had been busy while I’d spent those days walking in the rain, and everything was ready. Jay’s old friends who were to officiate as priest and priestess were parked in the lane in their ancient kombi – Minet had invited them to stay, but apparently Crow was allergic to cats, and Azriel, his lady and their seven little ones would be sure to bring on an attack. Minet said it was just as well though, as otherwise there’d have been no room for Henna and her young Vic. ‘What!’ I shrieked. ‘Henna’s here, now, this very minute?’ ‘Of course,’ replied Minet. ‘We couldn’t not invite our own mother!’ I had to admit there was some logic in this statement, and felt relieved that the Grand Ovum was not accompanying her, as I knew he would detect the presence of his book as soon as he set foot in the house.

Breakfast over, all that remained was to prepare ourselves for the ceremony. We met Henna and the young Vic (whose name by an odd coincidence just happened to be Victor), coming out of the spare room. It was strange seeing her again after all the drama about the Druid’s book, but she had returned to her multicoloured gear and looked more like her old self than when she’d left the last time. She greeted me as usual with a simple Hiya Aisse – today’s the day then girlie! the diagonally broken tooth adding to her slightly comic look. I think she must have been bouncing on the bed again as we’d heard her while eating breakfast, and she did look very flushed. Mind you, so did the young Vic. He looks about nineteen and has the face of an angel.

It was time to get ready. Minet had made me a combination tinfoil hat and willow crown to set off my new blue gingham dress, white blouse and red sequined shoes. She looked beautiful in a long gown of green satin with a hooded patchwork cloak of many colours and patterns and the contents of Henna’s jewellery box.

And so, after a fortifying glass of elderflower champagne, Minet and yours truly, Aisselle AT Gabegie, made their way across the wet grass of the orchard followed by Boötes and Baaaarbara and all the goats and alpacas, with dear little Leon dashing here and there among them, doing his best to be a proper sheepdog but failing happily. Henna and the young Vic had left earlier. And there in the orchard, under a bower of baby apples, just as the Lovers Tarot had predicted, splendiferous in his robes and antlers, stood dearest Jay with the priest and priestess. As we approached two figures stepped out from behind the trees. I recognized the aged crone from the battered caravan immediately – she was still wearing the long red velvet dressing gown and the huge pink carpet slippers. They must have been rather damp, for although the sky was cloudy and  there had been no rain so far that day, the long grass was still wet from the night rain. The crone didn’t seem at all bothered, and waited silently (as was her wont), wrinkled hands buried in the deep pockets of the gown. I wondered if she were to be a guardian or witness, and how she would manage without speech, but she must have read my mind because she removed one hand from a pocket and flashed the flash cards she’d used the last time I’d seen her. Dear Copwatcher, dressed in her long purplish pink robe, the trusty binocks at rest on her bosom, completed the picture. All our friends were here!

George stepped out from the opposite side. I have to confess that he gave me a slight turn as he was dressed in his policeman’s uniform, but a sideways glance at a radiant Minet told me that this was exactly what she wanted.

Miraculously, the sun appeared from behind the scudding clouds to bless us, and the lovely ceremony began. Ancient traditions were revived and leapt into life, pledges were made and poems spoken. And then, telling us to wait, George and Minet disappeared into the depths of the wild orchard only to reappear moments later as… Joel and Georgina! Joel was wearing his red shirt with the frills around the cuffs, but strangely, Baphomet took no exception to it this time. And Georgina looked exactly like the Queen of Swords in the Golden Tarot of Klimt, except that she’d added a satin blouse to the ensemble and had replaced the high heels with pink spotted wellies just in case it rained again. Minet (or rather Joel as s/he now appeared) said that s/he’d made Georgina’s outfit her/himself after I’d posted my reading for them on the blog! They intend to spend half the year as Joel and Georgina, and half as Minet and George. So Mollie Promp was right, and Joel did return – even if only temporarily.

Gateway by Aisselle A T Gabegie
Gateway, a photo by Aisselle  on Flickr.

The whole ceremony was performed again for Joel and Georgina before we all wandered in procession to the magic wood to pass ritually through the hollow tree from one part of our lives to the next. The sun had not left us – it seemed we were touched by some magic. And so onwards through the trees to receive the blessing of The Woodman before completing the circle by returning to the orchard for the handfasting feast, where Jay’s disappearance was explained by his gift to me. He had journeyed far to collect a special carving, which I could see standing beneath our handfasting bower as we approached. Carved from a trunk of pine stood the Green Man in all his natural glory. He will remain there to remind us of this day, and though he may weather and darken, and cracks will appear in his body, he will endure, just as we will.

Green Man by Aisselle A T Gabegie
Green Man, a photo by me on Flickr.

As the sun went down and the longest day drew to a close, we lit the solstice fire and gathered round with a good supply of elderflower champagne, nourishing goat’s milk quiche, nettle and carrot cake and fresh raspberries and redcurrants. Be glad for me, dear friends. I have never been so happy.

Till when, Aisselle

Doubts and fears

Clarence by Aisselle A T Gabegie
Clarence, a photo  on Flickr.

I left Minet engrossed in preparations for our double handfasting and spent yesterday and most of today walking in the rain again, hoping to prolong Saturday’s calming effect. It is cool and too windy for June, and such strange weather is unsettling, although perhaps the approaching celebrations have something to do with my mood. But Jay is much on my mind too. I usually wake at first light and wander into the orchard to be with the animals for a while, leaving Jay to dream of cake until breakfast. But yesterday morning our cock Clarence woke me at the usual time to find that Jay’s place by my side was cold and empty. At first I wasn’t worried, as I thought he might have heard an animal in distress and gone to check, but when he didn’t appear for breakfast I began to wonder. Minet knew no more than I, but she is so involved in her preparations that I doubt if she’d have registered anything he might have told her anyway.

I know so little of Jay’s life before we met, and there is a side of him that remains mysterious in spite of our closeness and the years we’ve spent together. I know of his need to melt into the woods and fields and to become one with the natural world from time to time, and have always known that he’ll return when he’s ready, renewed and refreshed. He in turn, knows it has never been necessary to tell me when nature calls, yet there are times – like when the police came – that my Spiritual Insight has told me that this time is different, that it wasn’t nature’s call that he answered but something quite else. But just now I don’t know what to feel. It’s as if both Hermaphroditey herself and my Spiritual Insight have deserted me. She has been strangely silent both yesterday and today, in spite of the sense that she was following me through the wood, although I suppose it could have been that damned Mollie Promp again. The woman is haunting me.

I came home an hour ago and descended to the basement to throw a few cards, yet had no heart even for my beloved tarot, and leaving the cards untouched, turned instead to the computer, and this, my very own blog, knowing that my devoted followers will send me energy to carry on to and through tomorrow, come what may. Jay holds my trust in his hands and I have faith that he will take good care not to break it. He is probably just renewing his connection to the Earth and will be back in time. But whatever happens, I will smile for Minet and George, and I suppose I could always ask Baphomet to act as a stand in if Jay forgets to turn up. Wish me luck…

Till soon, Aisselle

Minet and the Fool

Noblet Fool by Aisselle A T Gabegie
Noblet Fool, a photo on Flickr.

As you might have guessed from hints in this, my very own blog, I’ve been worried about Minet. I was proud of her the first time she went out and earned some money for new clothes by reading tarot cards in the big town, but she’s been disappearing more and more just lately. She is sometimes gone for hours and hours yet returns with nothing but wild eyes and earth and grass stains on her clothes.

At other times she’ll come back laden with shopping bags and dash to her room to try on all her lovely new things. The fortune teller style seems to be becoming more daring too. She has bought a long curly auburn wig (although her own hair is almost collar length now), so she no longer covers her head with a modest scarf, and her arms are quite naked and her skirts getting shorter. I have to admit she does have nice legs though.

Today I discovered the answer to all (well, most of) my questions. Minet came quietly to me after lunch to confess that she has been meeting George in the magic wood almost daily since he came to tea. Apparently they ‘sit on the feet of The Woodman’ (which explains the grass stains I suppose), and he is guiding them through some strange experiences. This rang a small bell with me, and I heard a distant tinkle of my own experiences with The Woodman, although those were not at his feet but higher up.

As if all this were not enough, now came the bumshell. Minet said that George has asked her to ask me if they can share our handfasting – not as guests but to make it a double event! The implications of this came tumbling down upon my head like a lot of old shoes from an overstuffed shelf in a cupboard. Hadn’t Mollie Promp said that Joel was coming back? But how could that be if he, or rather Minet were fasting their hands to each other? Did George know that Minet was Joel, and WANTED by not just one policeman (George) but a whole lot of policemen? And now another thought sprang up to nip me just like the Fool’s little cat thing on that Tarot de Marseille where we can see all his bits. His bits! Or rather Minet’s bits (which are in fact the same bits). Did George know about these? And did it matter? I know I’m always saying that gender is subjective, but I do believe George should be in possession of all the facts before he fasts his hand.

My head began to swim and I told Minet that I was going to lie down in the basement with The Guardian (although he can’t actually lie down as he has no body). That was three hours ago. Now I am rested somewhat I will do a tarot reading with an appropriate deck. I wonder which I shall chose? Hermaphroditey will know.

Till later, Aisselle

Of magic sheep and other animals

fleece by Aisselle A T Gabegie
fleece, a photo  on Flickr.

June is the time for shearing the sheep and alpacas, and so Jay called on two strong men to perform the task. I was worried that the animals would catch colds without their woolly coats, but although the wind is still cool, the sun has been shining for a day or so, the orchard is sheltered, and of course they have the shed now too, so we decided to go ahead. We thought we’d round them up before the shearers arrived, but Boötes and Baaaarbara sensed that something was afoot and dashed around the orchard playing ‘catch me if you can’ and hiding behind the trees. I’m afraid that little Leon, our border collie puppy, was no help at all, and seemed to think that his job was to scatter the animals as far and wide as possible, but perhaps I was wrong in assuming that herding is an instinct with this breed, and some training is necessary. I will have to learn to whistle. At last the sheep and alpacas were safely ensconced in the shed, Boötes and Baaaarbara looking rather the worse for the game of catch.

When the men arrived they looked puzzled and asked where we’d got the sheep and why we’d brought them in. I told them that they were a present from my mother, and was surprised when the taller of the two laughed and said, ‘She’s not a witch, is she?’ I replied that Henna was many things, and that was most certainly one of them, only to see him look somewhat taken aback. He explained that Boötes and Baaaarbara appeared to be self-shearing sheep, although he’d never seen any of their particular thick-coated breed before, being familiar only with the more sparsely coated self-shearing Exlana and the Wiltshire Horn and its relations.

I explained that the state of Boötes and Baaaarbara was due to the fact that they’d been dashing around the orchard all morning, but he shook his head, and demonstrated how easily the wool came away. So it seems that they will shed their woolly coats all by themselves as the weather becomes warmer, and unless we follow them around and collect the wool, the birds will use it to line their nests.

Boötes and Baaaarbara were only too happy to gain their freedom, and dashed off into the orchard, leaving the shearers to deal with the alpacas, whose wool we’ll spin to make warm cloaks for the winter.

After a delicious lunch of goat’s cheese, fresh basil and Jay’s home-grown tomatoes with Minet’s sesame seed bread and my elderflower and honey cake, I gave our shearers a tarot reading. I thought it best to take them back to the shed for some privacy rather than remain in the orchard or go down to the basement. The memory of the last client to visit is still too fresh in my mind – if I close my eyes down there I can still hear her screams.

Speaking of Otherworldly Things, I have decided to put Mollie Promp and her doings from my mind for the moment. Whether TD stands for The Devil, Tallulah Dervish, or someone quite different will no doubt become clear when the time is right.

Till when, Aisselle

The snail trail

Snails by Aisselle A T Gabegie
Snails, a photo by Aisselle on Flickr.

All the sightings, warnings and visions had left me feeling decidedly scattered, so I spent some time in meditation and consultation with Hermaphroditey. But yesterday I left the Guardian of the Basement on his own (he is not the best of company), to walk in the magic wood. I half expected to see Mollie Promp in one of her manifestations, but instead happened across a trail of snail shells. They were all intact and undamaged, as if some dextrous bird had removed and eaten the contents without needing to break the shells. I followed the trail, collecting the lovely brown spirals along the way, wondering if they would lead to some sort of revelation or message from the goddess, but when I emerged from the wood I found myself at the crone’s caravan.

It struck me then that perhaps she was Mollie Promp in another of that creature’s guises, and I determined to ask her and get some sort of an answer, even if it were just a nod of her aged white head.

A hollow tinny sound echoed from the rap of my knuckles on the battered door, and I had the feeling that many such knuckles had rapped at this door exactly as I was rapping – perhaps for millennia. No one answered, although my special powers told me that the crone was inside. I sat down on the step and counted the snail shells. There were twenty two – the number of the major arcana. I was just thinking that perhaps I should create a snail tarot by painting on the shells when the caravan door opened and the old woman was looking down on me. It’s a funny angle from which to view someone. Her skinny ankles seemed like bones fleshed only by the wrinkled stockings as they balanced in the huge pink slippers, her hands emerged like two claws from the sleeves of the red velvet dressing gown, and all I could see of her head was the jagged peak of her nose above the wrinkled skin below her chin, surrounded by a halo of white hair.

I didn’t mean to be so direct – after all, she had never uttered a single word to me, and I wasn’t even sure she could hear anything I said – but ‘Are you Mollie Promp?’ I gasped.

I think she may have sighed silently – I’m not sure – but anyway her shoulders seemed to droop. She turned back inside and I thought I’d offended her, but in less than a minute came out with a pack of cards, which she fanned out and studied, her head on one side like some sort of bird – a stork or crane perhaps. Selecting one, she turned it to show me the face of the card, on which was written a single word in a childish hand.


I must say that I felt relieved. I thanked her and went straight home without waiting to be taken in for tea, although she didn’t make any attempt to draw me inside as she usually does, but turned around and disappeared, shutting the door behind her.

In celebration, and to give thanks to Hermaphroditey I made a necklace with seven of the snail shells. I shall wear it for our handfasting at the Summer Solstice – Jay will be thrilled.

It was only later that I realized that I’d forgotten to ask the crone if her initials were TD, or her name Tullulah Dervish.

Till when, Aisselle

News from Henna

Henna's reading  by Aisselle A T Gabegie
Henna’s reading , a photo  on Flickr.

The magickal items were successfully installed yesterday afternoon, and are now safe and secure, watched over by the Guardian of the Basement. I must say that he seems most effective, as this morning a long-standing client who had come for her reading paled to the colour of goat’s cream and ran screaming up the basement steps, into the kitchen and away out of the back door before I had a chance to explain. Perhaps I should have warned her what to expect.

But my main news today is that I’ve had an email from Henna. Not a scrap of paper torn out of an exercise book or a witchy magazine but an email! Here it is.

Aiss dear I did a reading for you last night with Uncle Al’s tarot. Two cards, the HP and the 5 of disks or whatever they are. See? Obvious straight off. I’m always the HP and the 5 is nasty old Worry with a Cap and all those grinding wheels. You’re worried about me for some reason. Well don’t be. I’m fine and quite crazy at standing on my own two. Merlin and the Grand O had a falling out and I was in the middle but came on top and that’s where I’ll stay as long as you keep the stuff safe.

And I’m having a very nice time with a young Vic who’s putting me up in his cassock or maybe it’s hammock I dunno.

So no need to 5 of disks OK? Love to Jay and Joel Ma.

No love for me then – how like Henna. But at least she was concerned enough about me to do a reading and to email, and it seems that she is fine and that there’s no need for Jay and yours truly to go travelling, either actually or astrally, at least in connection to Henna or for the time being. Perhaps the Chariot card from the ZF Enchanted reading had a different meaning, although it’s unusual for me to be mistaken. Time will tell.

Till when, Aisselle