Modern Magick

The Wonders of Vale: 7

It turns out that the ancient isle of Whitmore is no real guide for the rest of the fifth Britain.

Whitmore has an old-fashioned air about it, to say the least. Most of its buildings are a few hundred years old, by the looks of them, and there isn't much there to remind a person that the 21st century has indeed dawned. I suppose it's because it's still very much dominated by the Redclover brothers, who collectively haven't quite left a seventeenth century that wasn't so different from our world.

The Britain beyond the shores of Whitmore is something else.

Wandering through the winding streets of Scarborough, I saw little to remind me of my own Britain save for some elements of a shared history. Here was the same, general progression from timber-framed and white-washed houses into brickwork and sash windows; here were lordly stone-built properties in granite or lime; and here and there, a move into glass and something resembling concrete was also discernible, rather to my regret.

Of cars, though, there was no sign. No buses, no train stations, no phone boxes. I searched in vain for any trace of vehicles whatsoever; there were none.

But the streets were unusually full of bubbles and floating lights.

'Ah,' said Emellana, looking keenly at a stream of them sailing in orderly fashion along the high street, a couple of feet over our heads (mine and Jay's, anyway). 'In the early nineteen-hundreds, an essay was published entitled On Harnessing the Magickal Properties of Light and Air, by Adelaide Amber. She was ridiculed, which now seems a shame, considering that the paper proposed just such a potential form of transport as we see here in common use.'

'Pity, too,' I said, following the passage of a passing orb of light with wistful eyes. 'How neat and clean they are.'

'And environmentally friendly,' said Jay, with a quirk of a smile.

Strange it was, to see magick in all its forms on such prominent display. Strange, and wondrous. We passed beauty parlours and pet shops, cafeterias and banks; but interspersed with these recognisable establishments were shops selling magickal curios and treasures, a patisserie advertising "Floataway Fancies" and "Never-ending Chocolate Pots", and a bookshop, its window filled with a display of spell-tomes and grimoires.

'Nope,' said Jay, literally hooking me by the collar as I attempted to swerve into the aforementioned patisserie.

'Jay. I need a never-ending chocolate pot.'

'No. You need air, water and food, and that's it.'

'Chocolate is food! Jay!'

Jay hung grimly on.

Emellana watched us with an unreadable expression, her large arms folded over her purple cotton shirt. Then, as I writhed impotently in Jay's infuriatingly secure grip, she silently entered the shop.

Three minutes later she emerged with a gilded pot the approximate size of my closed fist, an ornate lid hiding its contents. This she presented to me without a word, then strolled away up the street. 'Henge complex,' she called, pointing to a large sign adorning a nearby crossroads.

I lifted the lid of my shiny new pot, and got a strong whiff of chocolate.

'I love her,' I said.

Jay rolled his eyes. 'You'll regret it.'

'When?'

'When you've imbibed ten kilos of chocolate in two hours and start throwing up liquid cocoa.'

'But it would be the best two hours of my entire life.'

'Really?'

'Okay, not. But close...' I put the pot into my satchel. 'Guard that with your life, Mauf. If Jay tries to swipe it, bite his fingers off.'