Affair with a Warlock.

As Vincent stood before her at the head of the class, Frances was careful not to let her feelings show in her eyes. No way did she want to show Vincent how much she desired him, when this feeling was not reciprocated. Her eyes glazed over and a numb feeling persisted, as if she had experienced some sort of death.

Affairs with warlocks were often short lived – she had learned that through previous affairs with warlocks yet still craved the magic and power that such liaisons brought. Ordinary men could not compare.  She rejected the advances that came in abundance – she was a young witch learning her craft – these non-magical men could not compete with the likes of her teacher, who had now fanned a magical spark with another pupil. She suspected he would cast his new lover aside at some point too, and work his way through the entire class, so to speak, for they were all female and all of them beautiful in some way.

Her mind failed to assimilate the basics of the lesson that day.  Symbols floated past her eyes and accumulated in the corners of the room but if Vincent had noted her lack of concentration it was hard to say. His handsome face remained impassive yet still animated – and only wizards or warlocks could do that to full effect. She felt herself drifting back to when she had first seen him...
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The commencement of witch school came about most propitiously on a day that heralded a full moon. It was also one of those windy, gusty days where the sun played hide-and-seek behind strangely shaped, grey clouds that looked like Wiccan symbols. One could imagine Hecate, the Queen of Witches looking down from the sky, viewing Vincent Maguire’s endeavour with a critical eye.

And where was Vincent that morning?

There were thirteen of them in the classroom. Thirteen would-be witches. All waiting for their teacher to appear. Wondering what he would look like. Wondering whether he was actually a warlock as the advertisement had claimed. Exciting but a bit scary. Whispers fluttered into dark corners. The class members also had doubts around his teaching methods – as at the far end of the room, propped against a desk in the corner, there appeared to be a rather large cattle-prod!

Time stretched into an unbearable infinity into which the collective anticipation and excitement threatened to overflow, too vast to be contained. The walls of the classroom moved outwards into another dimension and the black, gothic metal clock on the wall hardly moved its hands, yet Frances kept her eyes to the door and ignored her fellow pupils trying to engage in conversation to make the waiting more bearable.

What sort of teacher would keep his pupils waiting so long? In fact only twenty minutes had elapsed, since everyone had entered the class.

At this point everyone heard an extra large gust of wind outside and the door to the classroom swung open with a bang.

The teacher had arrived!

Thirteen pairs of eyes looked Vincent over. What a disappointment!

He strode in, wearing a most non-Gothic outfit. It was a kind of loose, white robe, the sort of thing Gandhi might have worn. His hair was a mass of close, cropped fuzz that looked like someone’s pubes had been glued to his scalp (perhaps his own even?). And he wore a beard, obviously stolen from an Orthodox priest!

Oblivious to his pupils’ horror, Vincent stood in front of them, introduced himself and smiled broadly, revealing crooked, yellow teeth, which made him look goofy and even more un-witch or un-warlock-like than ever.

They all smiled back, uncertainly. Was this dentally-challenged, pubic-bonced nerd really a warlock?

‘Lesson One,’ announced Vincent, suddenly whipping off his robe.

The class were suddenly interested.

Vincent then removed his beard and his yellow, crooked teeth. He then took a handkerchief from his pocket and rubbed off the ‘pubes’ from his scalp, which left him bald. This final ‘stripped’ version of Vincent looked much more presentable. His shaved head emphasised his dark, defined eyebrows and deep-set blue eyes, giving him a somewhat powerful look. Whilst, beneath the white robe, a tight, black T-shirt and equally tight, grey jeans emphasised his manly attributes in no uncertain terms.

‘Lesson One,’ repeated Vincent, aware of the effect he was having on the ladies. ‘Do not judge a book by its cover.’ What a man! He absolutely oozed testosterone!

Vincent walked back slowly to the front of the class and pointed to the white robe and beard, which he had thrown to the floor. ‘Magic comes in many forms and guises. You need to use your senses to detect the good and the bad.’ He laughed softly and seductively, fixing each pupil with a brief, sexual stare. ‘In my case ladies it is all good. But did you rely on your inner sense or your visual sense?’

He knew the answer, of course. And now he had the thirteen of them in the palm of his hand. His rather large hand, which gestured constantly as he spoke and continued to, as he embarked upon a lesson they would not forget.

He explained the basics: the need to know oneself and trust in one’s own abilities. To have faith and feel the stirrings of power even before they fully manifested. He informed them of his own powers and how he had developed them, since his childhood. His voice and manner were mesmerising... and all the while throughout these detailed instructions and revelations, he munched upon biscuits. Biscuit after biscuit. And when he had finished the biscuits, he went to a cupboard at the end of the room and took out a pile of chocolate bars. The entire class assumed he was going to give these out. But no. He continued to scoff one after the other, almost ravenously, as if he hadn’t eaten for a week or two. Why did he need to eat so much? This thought evidently reached Vincent.

He suddenly turned from the class, raised his hand and pointed towards the cattle prod in the corner of the room, which melted into a large, black, rather tarry-looking puddle. Then from the puddle a shape emerged and grew. In an instant a huge, black bull stood in the midst of the puddle, looking pretty angry. It pawed the ground, as if about to charge, its eyes red and almost glowing, its breath steaming from large, quivering nostrils. The class gasped as it suddenly lunged forward...then it vanished in a puff of smoke! Vincent turned back to face the class, looking rather pleased with himself. ‘I felt you all needed some sort of demonstration and magic of that calibre requires a fair amount of energy – hence the food intake.’

‘So you really are a warlock then?’ said Fanny, unable to hide the admiration in her eyes.

‘Warlock, magician...or maybe something that has just emerged from the bowels of hell,’ said Vincent lightly.

And that was the beginning of their affair.  They had met at the coffee shop afterwards and then went back to his large house that sprawled darkly across some corner in East London.  Inside there were impossible angles and furnishings that exuded taste and masculine power. She had looked into his eyes and lost herself forever.

So what was she now?  Just a fragment of who she had been and only just gathering more of herself within the class that Vincent held in Witch School through memories of what had existed between them. It was an affair of fire – a passion that blazed until Vincent had stepped unscathed from the flames.

Frances hoped that her magic would still grow somehow and that eventually she would find a spell that would reform her from the ashes.