Chalk Dust & Broomsticks, Chapter 5

Midsummer Eve and Shirley is casting her cares about school to the winds for a while.

Midsummer Eve - June 20th 1998

It was summertime and the weather was pleasantly warm. Whilst the workmen were preparing to join the two schools physically, Shirley Midnight was thinking about Midsummer Eve. This is a very special day in a witch's calendar and one of the most important sabbats. She decided to put her cares and woes about the school away for a few days and enjoy the lovely weather to come and the peace and quiet of her country cottage at Woodend. She had her beautifully bewitching three black cats for company and lots of sweeping and cleaning to catch up on. Perhaps she might even go away for a few days...

The thought of going away passed as quickly as a flash of summer lightning. How could she possibly leave Woodend at this time of year? The cottage, which sat nestled at the end of a cul-de-sac, practically vibrated with energy on the longest day. From almost every window, small and leaded, Shirley could watch nesting birds, busy with their new little families and honey bees intent on collecting pollen from the newly opened lavender, early this year. The scent of the honeysuckle was quite intoxicating. The garden's sprawling beds were bursting with potent herbs, ready for the solstice harvest. No, this was the time to be rooted, not wandering.

Shirley's decision solidified: she wouldn't merely observe the Sabbat; she would host it. She would gather The Thirteen, her closest circle, her coven, and celebrate the apex of the Sun King's power in traditional style.
With a new, exhilarating focus, Shirley banished the anxieties of budgets, governing bodies, and Deputy Head rivalries (Geoff Padstow's grievances seemed a million miles away, blessedly out of earshot). She donned an old apron covered in dried lavender and set about the preparations.

First, the deep clean. This was no ordinary scrubbing. It was a cleansing ritual, driving out the last lingering stress from the mundane world. Shirley brewed buckets of water infused with purifying salt and sharp lemon peel, scrubbing the slate floor until it gleamed. Her three cats, Bast, the sleek, inquisitive black King; Sparkle, the moody, but affectionate Queen; and Little Mo, the more timid of the three, supervised from various sunbeams, their presence a soft, reassuring hum of low-frequency magic.

Next came the harvest. In the golden light of the early afternoon, Shirley moved through her garden, snipping, gathering, and speaking soft thanks to the plants. She collected St. John's Wort, already blazing yellow, for its power to banish sorrow and protect against ill-will; Mugwort, silver and fragrant, to aid in dream work; and long, flexible stems of Vervain, used to weave crowns for luck and blessings. These were laid out on old linen sheets in the airy attic to dry, their perfumes mingling into an enticing, summery incense.

She spent the better part of a day crafting the invitations, not through email or text, but through a charmingly arcane system of enchanted copper wire and carefully selected feathers, each one carrying a signature scent that only the intended recipient would recognize. By dusk, thirteen packages were scattered by the wind, a sure signal that the ancient call of the Sabbat had been made.

The Eve of the Longest Day

Midsummer Eve arrived, silent and shimmering. The sun set late, bleeding apricot and rose across the horizon, promising a night of minimal darkness. Shirley's cottage was transformed. The hearth was swept clean, and in the garden, a small, circular clearing near the old oak was designated as the gathering space. Here, Shirley carefully banked dry oak and ash to form a bonfire mound, ready for the ritual jumping.

At the centre of the clearing, she placed the Midsummer Table, a wide, flat slab of local stone carved with symbols of the sun and the wheel of the year. This was soon laden with the feast: loaves of honeyed bread baked with fennel and caraway seeds; large bowls of sweet, ripe strawberries; pitchers of floral mead brewed with dandelion and elderflower; and a platter of rich, dark chocolate cake, decorated with the sigil of the sun in gold dust. Everything was shared, everything made with intention.

The first of The Thirteen arrived as the lingering twilight deepened into true, cobalt night. Elara the Herbalist, with her long, moss-green dress, stepped out of the woods, her arms full of freshly picked willow branches and meadowsweet. She brought grounding and earthy wisdom.
Next came Finn the Weaver of Words, a charismatic man with perpetually ink-stained hands, who carried a large, leather-bound book and the gift of poetry and blessing. He would be the voice of the ritual.

The friends continued to filter in, appearing from the fields, stepping over the mossy stones, or simply materializing from the shadows of the wood. They were a motley, vibrant crew, each bringing a unique energy to the circle:

Jasper the Guardian, stern but kind, responsible for securing the boundaries.

Maeve the Dreamer,wrapped in flowing white silk, who would interpret the night's omens.

The twins, Cillian and Siobhan, young and full of fire, bringing music on their tin whistles and drums.

Rhiannon the Seeker, who travelled light and brought only sharp intuition and a new set of runes.

Morgana the Shadow-Walker, quiet and watchful, whose presence balanced the intense daytime energy of the solstice.

The number thirteen was deeply symbolic: the twelve months of the year plus the Goddess, or the twelve knights of the Round Table plus Arthur. In their circle, it was the twelve core energies, bound by Shirley, the thirteenth, the central wellspring.

The Circle is Drawn

As the last member, Lysandra of the Silver Tongue, arrived with a flourish and a bottle of surprisingly fine claret, Shirley knew the circle was complete. The Thirteen embraced, a rush of laughter and shared history washing away the final remnants of the mundane world.
Finn, sensing the moment, raised his hands. "Let the wheel turn! Let the darkness be brief and the light hold sway!"

Jasper, the Guardian, moved around the clearing with a smouldering stick of sage, tracing the boundary, and declaring the space protected, ensuring that no stray thoughts of budgets or fluorescent lighting could penetrate their joyful sanctuary.

The bonfire, carefully built, was lit with a single spark from a flint and steel, and instantly roared to life. The heat was immediate and intense, and the smoke rose straight and true into the almost-dark sky, a signal to the heavens.

The main ritual of the Midsummer Sabbat began: the Blessing of the Growth. Each person took a moment to stand before the fire, holding a small offering of dried herbs, their hopes, intentions, and fears for the coming year and cast it into the flames.

Shirley stepped forward last. She held not a personal intention, but a small, twisted piece of red tape she had salvaged from the school planning documents. This, she cast into the fiercest part of the blaze. "Burn all unnecessary burdens," she murmured to the flames. "Burn the bureaucracy that chokes the joy of the classroom. Let the true light shine on the children." As the tape dissolved into ash, she felt a profound physical release, the kind of catharsis no amount of filing or committee meetings could ever provide.

Next came the weaving of the crowns. Working by the flickering firelight, The Thirteen intertwined the collected vervain, wild thyme, and roses, binding luck, health, and love into the fragrant circlets. Shirley placed her own crown of St. John's Wort onto her head--a promise of protection.

The fire was then allowed to burn down to a strong, leaping bed of embers. Now came the climax of the Sabbat: The Leaping of the Fire. One by one, shouting their names and intentions, The Thirteen took running leaps over the purifying flames. The act symbolized shedding the old year's misfortunes and bringing in the new year's luck, fertility, and strength. Shirley jumped last, feeling the heat rush past her legs, a fierce, exhilarating wave of clean energy washing through her, erasing all thought of Mrs. Catchpole's anxiety and Nick Blunt's cold directives.


Midnight Feast and Shared Light

With the ritual complete, the energy in the clearing shifted from electric intensity to warm, deep camaraderie. They gathered around the stone table, laughing and talking well into the small hours. The sky overhead remained a deep, luminous indigo, never truly giving way to darkness, allowing them to see the smiling faces around the table without the need for additional lamps.

Maeve the Dreamer shared the omens she had received during the fire jump: "Great stability is coming, but only after a chaotic upheaval. Trust the roots, Shirley. The children's energy will set the course."
Cillian and Siobh played soft, haunting melodies on their whistles, sounds that seemed to rise directly from the earth. The mead flowed, the bread was torn and shared, and the conversation drifted easily between ancient magic, mundane life, and shared laughter.

As the sun finally began its reluctant return, painting the eastern sky in shades of shell-pink and gold, only four figures remained: Shirley, Elara, Finn, and Jasper. The air was cool and crisp, saturated with dew and woodsmoke.

"It's done," Finn said, leaning back, watching the sunrise illuminate the newly braided flowers of Shirley's crown. "The worries you held about the school are now scattered across the four winds. You gave them to the fire."
Shirley felt a deep sense of peace she hadn't realized was missing. "It was necessary. You can't build a strong foundation, whether it's a school or a life, on stress. You have to clear the ground first."

Elara carefully gathered the leftover herbs, ready to be dried for protection bundles. "And now the light is at its maximum. Use the energy. Take the momentum into the next phase."

Jasper, ever vigilant, gave a final nod, satisfied that the boundaries had held and the night had been pure.

As the friends departed with the full morning light, Finn promising a visit soon with a new stack of historical texts, and Elara reminding her to water the Mandrake, Shirley stood alone at the edge of the woods. Her three black cats stretched luxuriously on the warm stone of the hearth. The mundane world of primary school mergers and incompetent governors still awaited, but now Shirley Midnight faced it not as a tired, anxious secretary, but as a witch renewed: protected, charged with the energy of The Thirteen, and ready to fight for the joy she had witnessed in the Midsummer flames
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