Randalf

But even then, even as a child when such things are the centrepiece of one's existence entire, there was a magic to Thonbury. You had the sense that there were stories hiding around every corner.

Take Thornbury Hall itself, nesting on that odd ljttle rise of grass that seemed so alien to a London lad such as myself. Within its walls, paintings of long dead Dukes, Duchesses and scandalous Viscounts looked down upon their audience. There was a corridor lined with genuine suits of armour, and according to one of the guides, the ghost of the house-mistress ran screaming along the gallery on night when the moon was full- just a story, my mother said disapprovingly.

There were rooms enticingly called the Whispering Annex and the Graven Gallery. Even something so mundane as an arsenic-green sofa, tucked into the corner of the Afternoon Room, made you imagine the people who had sat on it before- the upper crusts and guilty servants. What secrets had been whispered? What lies had been woven?

And all this was just the house. The gardens were far and away the best part of the whole experience.

To get to them, you went through a little door which had once led to stables. My Lewis and Tolkien- addled mind transformed mundane utility into magical tranposition, making the little latched door in its red-brick wall into an enchanted portal that whisked away all who entered to a magical realm. It was not too hard to believe this, as the first sight you got as you entered was a row of ancient, looming trees, a victorian lamp-post, and a large marble statue, frowning down as if to say, How did you get here? To the left and right, overgrown paths spiralled away, with little wrought-iron plaques sprouting lime mushrooms to steer the visitor about towards the mysteries of the gardens.

And there was so very much to explore. In all, there were twenty-seven statues in the gardens, each a representation of a concept- Time, Justice, Confusion, and so on. These appelleations were not spelled out as such, but in a far corner called the Milanese Gardens, there was an old mural that served as a key. One of the plaques referenced it, and it could be found if you were resourceful.

I would later look up the house's history, and would learn about the eccentricities of its most notable owner, Sir Edward Thornbury the Fourth. How he inherited the house during the Ten Year's War, after his father's ship was broadsided to oblivion in Chesepeake Bay by a cutter flying Bourbon flags. How he became fascinated by Ancient Greece after seeing a painting of Theseus holding his lethal trophy aloft before the King. How he spent his youth landscaping, creating, commisioning, as though trying to realise some impossible dream. His reluctant marriage to Anne Davenport. His obsession with sculpture. And, at last, how he was found- in the gardens he had worked so very hard to realize, and yet still considered unfinished.

Though the ceremony is supposed to be a solemn occasion, there is an irrepressable atmosphere of frivolity which the elders have come to tolerate. Someone usually bakes, with the justification of 'provisions'- as if sweet lemmas bread and honeyed kur-loaf is suitable for a trek to the Old Forest. Still, it is welcomed, and shared with much joy, before the signal is given to begin the walk. The Elders ensure we are properly supplied.

As one, our village departs, and takes first the easy trail everyone knows, the flat, flinty track through the open fields of Lannerstrom, our part of the world, and for a time nothing unusual occurs. But then, about a half-mile along, where usually a walker would continue blithley on toward the neighbouring towns of Haig and Quatorze, we veer left, toward the snaking trail that winds toward the distant mountains.

It takes a full morning's walk to reach them, and by the time we are in view of our goal, it is usually time for a short rest. Here, prayers are spoken for the departed, and for each of them a stone is found, to add to the cairns when we reach them.

Then, the ascent. The Old Forest has survived both because of the trees, and the path it takes to reach them. It is no easy walk, and it is a parent's responsibility to guide their children well. Those who do not must turn back, and bear the shame until the next year. There are not many, but there are always some, and they are always known. I would not go so far as to say that we shun them; but we always know them, and it may be said that they are treated differently.

The path narrows, chicanes in a complicated zigzag, filled with increasing numbers of thickening tree-roots. You can and will stumble if you're not careful. Adding to that, there are places where the path is steep, almost vertical, and though in the worst places steps have been constructed to permit the less sure-footed access, it is still challenging. But we endure. We aid one another, as we have always done. For in these trees, lies our future.

We enter the forest just as the midday sun is piercing the canopy, shafts of marvellous light visible all around. With our breath held, our eyes scrabble over the enormous trunks, searching for the first one to show the marks this year.

Whomever is first is gets a cheer and a cry, and they are given the right of first trade; if trades are to be done after the harvest is done, they have the right to bargain first.

In these trees are graven around, we estimate, eight hundred and eighty names; more than enough to supply a small community. Every year, they are different, and every year, we harvest them, paring them from the living bark and affixing them to the waiting plates beside our homes. But each tree affords more than a name. It offers portents, hints, meanings, appearing as words, runes, and symbols in the bark. These we cannot remove, so we must merely recall them in any way we can. Some take rubbings. Some copy. Some simply recall what they can. Either way, in these trees is foretold the name's fate- what it will mean for the coming year.

The concepts are sometimes vague- 'excess' may mean alcoholism or a bountiful harvest, for example- but on the whole it is usually plain which names mean fortune for a farmer and which mean more to a seeker of romance.

Some names offer no great boon, but no curses either; these names usually end in "sen," and signal a peaceful year. The riskier names tend to be favoured by the young, the "mund"s and "marr"s.

There are, however, some names that are uniformly ill-fated. Those trees grow few leaves, their bark is seared an ashy grey as if touched by some forest fire, and the portents in their bark glow an eerie red. They fortell death, disease, insanity, loss. It is considered a badge of great honour to take one of these names, and the village will pledge support to the person who claims such a name.

You may ask, why take these names at all, and I will answer, that when the first generation to walk in these woods discovered such a name, they let it be. The next year, they found there were fully five trees like it, surrounding the untouched first; that year proved especially hard to weather, and ever since then they, and later we, were diligent in removing the pestilent trees wherever they appeared.

I first made Mr Weatherby's aquaintance at the tail end of March in 2022. Blustery goddamn day it was too, the wind cutting across the streets of town like an aunt desperate to steer you toward her unattatched niece.

I travel a lot for work; I'm in the legal business, you see, so there's a lot of conversations folks want to have face-to-face. Suits me just fine, I always liked chatting, and I hated the grainy Zoom and Teams and Skype calls we were supposed to be so damn greatful for during the pandemic years.

The Lucky 88 just so happened to be near-adjacent to the hotel the firm had booked me into, and with the weather being as it was, I had no desire to force myself to wander down the street looking for someplace else, so I overlooked the faintly grim exterior and shouldered my way through the mock-saloon doors.

The place's vague attempt to resemble an Old West watering hole was abandoned the moment these doors flapped shut- on the inside, it looked just like a moderately pricey wine bar you might find in Shoreditch or Clifton or Morningside. Probably another reason the place was relatively empty. I sat on a plush red barstool and glanced at the lamniated drinks list.

The bartender on duty was a youngish guy, his hair gelled up into vaguely punkish spikes. His right arm was adorned by a sleeve of tattoos, and hie had a single piercing in his right eyebrow. This was Floyd Wetherby, and when I first saw him I admit I kinda dismissed him out-of-hand- he looked like any other bartender, was the thing.

He came over, and said, "Afternoon, sir- quite a day, isn't it? The weather seems to have blown all my regulars away."

"It's a hell of a day, alright," I agreed. "I can't seem to make up my mind what to order, either." I always have this issue when I go to places- I've been known to spend a full hour making my mind up. That's potentially half the evening dilly-dallying. I can hear my mother's disapproving voice even now. The trouble of it is, I never know exactly what it is I'm craving. The bitter earthy tang of beer? The sweet florality of a New England IPA? The complex flavours of an artisinal cider? Or perhaps a spirit- sweet rum? Smoky whisky? Or something bolder, stranger?

Truth be told, the issue is that as soon as I've picked something out, I'm regretting all the things I didn't pick. It's the same trouble with all food and drink- but alcohol highlights the trouble especially, as no-body wants to have a Baileys chaser after beer and wine- it'd put you in the hospital in no time. If it had been somehow possible to try some of everything the Lucky 88 had to offer, I would have done so.

I was going through this dilemma in front of Floyd, scanning the drinks list over and over, and getting no-where. "I'm awfully sorry," I said aloud, "but you may have to give me some more time."

Floyd held my gaze for a moment, and I noticed the extraordinary shade to his eyes- one a brilliant blue, the other a lurid neon green. [I would later learn that he achieved this effect via contact-lenses] He said to me very seriously, "I could probably fix you something that you'd enjoy, but you'd need to trust me. Do you?"

I considered the question. On the one had, we had known each other for only a few minutes, if that. On the other hand, I've always been inclined to trust service workers in these matters, certainly more than I trust myself, so I said, "Why the hell not?" Floyd smiled. "Then I'll just need a moment. Place your hand here…" He indicated a particular section of the stained bartop, and after hesitating a moment I did as he said. He took an appraising look at the back of my hand, and clicked his tongue.

Then he turned his attention to the ranks of bottles behind the bar. I watched curiously as he clinked, clanked, poured and stirred. It was a spectacle, but not a conscious one; you didn't get the sense that he was doing this to show off. The drink took shape as deftly as a delicate carving from a woodworker, layers upon layers of different alcohols being poured into the highball glass. I lost track after the fifth or sixth pour.

In the span of about two minutes, it was finished, and Floyd gestured to me that I could take a sip. It was an uninteresting light orange colour, and I wasn't expecting much, so I sipped it carefully- only to be quite startled at the result.

I just told you, didn't I, that really I sensed that what I wanted was somehow to try everything the bar had to offer? Well, I had not at any point spoken this desire aloud, but I wondered if I had done, for this drink somehow tasted of the full gamut of things on offer. What was more, it did not do this by combining everything into one splat of flavour, but somehow seemed to shift and change with every mouthful I took- first beer, then cider, then the heady rush of wine…I had no idea such a thing was even possible.

"Oh, wow! That's incredible, man!" I exclaimed, looking at Floyd with a newfound respect. "How did you…?"

"How did I know precisely what you wanted?" He spread his hands in an I'm-innocent gesture. "It always just kinda comes to me when I ask, and whatever I make it turns out to be the perfect recipe. That one I made you doesn't really have a lot in it, by the way," he went on, "but the stuff I did add does a pretty good job of simulating quite a few flavors. Something for the man who has everything, you might say."

"I'll bet! Does it have a name?"

He shook his head. "Don't think so. It's not, like, an offical cocktail. Maybe you could call it a Buddist Mantra, because it kinda feels like one with everything."

It took a moment for that one to sink in, and by the time it had, I wasn't sure if I should laugh or call him out on it. I settled instead for asking, "So does this happen every time you make a drink?"

He looked at me a little askance. "Not every time. Not if people don't let me in, open up a little. But I tell you what, in my line of work, you find most people tend to open up."

I nodded- it made sense. "And what, you always make them their dream cocktail?"

Again, he shook his head. "It doesn't always have to be anything fancy. It's just what they need to drink at that moment."

He went on to explain about the time he'd jad a feeling about a lady who was looking a little morose, and made her a Manhattan. It turned out that was what she'd always had when a dear old friend was in town, and being served it cheered her right up. He also told the story about the guy who was determined he was going to go jump in the river after this round. He served him cold, clear, mineral water, which had the dual benefits of sobering him up and reminding him of how horrible a prospect immersion in the stuff was.

"And sometimes what I make is borderline undrinkable, to my tastes, but it always seems to work out somehow. I dunno why it happens, I don't know when it started happening, but it does and it works, and that's good enough for me!"

Now, I couldn't tell if he was spinning me a yarn or not, but I couldn't argue with the results. Mystical or not, it was a damned good cocktail. So I paid up, bid him a good night, and on the next night in town I dropped by the '88 again, and asked him to "work his magic".

This time, the cocktail he created was rich, complex, and decadent. It tasted like spun gold and luxurious licquers, and felt like it was about 1000 calories a sip.

Just the thing to celebrate the victory I'd had. I'd been worried Grummond, Klugman, and Shiner- the firm I was here to see- were going to go against my sage advice, and tell me I was no longer needed. But instead, it had seemed like the stick-in-the-mud execs I'd been talking to had disappeared overnight, replaced by a bunch of eager yes-men who were more than happy to take some direction.

"I gotta hand it to you, Floyd," I smiled, "you sure do have a knack for this. I know where I'm coming for a nightcap from now on!"

And I did, for a good many years. I got to try sour cocktails that provided a bitter tang when I needed grounding, to sweet, fluffy things that were like a dessert in a glass. I'm fairly sure one of them was absinthe-based- the less I think about that night, the better.

Yeah, for a while there, the Lucky 88 was one of my go-to watering holes on my travels, and I always appreciated the experience of coming there.

That was, until, the day I came in to see a stranger behind the bar, a woman with blonde hair done up in plaits. I asked after Floyd, and she said he'd up and left in the middle of the night six months ago. No contact details, no note, nothing.

It all struck me as very odd, to say nothing of being disappointing at best, worrying at worst. But that wasn't quite the end of things. The woman in the plaits said, "Hold on there, I think Floyd left something for you."

She held out a barmat, seemingly quite innocous. I took it and studied it under the bar's grim orange light.

On one side, the recipie for a zombie. On the other side, I read;

"You were one of the few who believed in me, so I left you this note. The short of it is I got an invite I couldn't refuse. Bad idea to come looking, but if you're ever at the bottom of a bottle of Cointreau, mix well with Pernod and chase with Hendrick's. Shake it three times, and maybe we'll knock back a cold one somewhere in the stars."

Well, the mild fuss and furore of my birthday party has well and truly died down, now, so life has returned to normal. It was lovely seeing my niece and nephew agaim- but surreal to see them as adults, when to my mind they've been crawling babes for ages. I have memories of them that span the stages of life: from screaming in a restaurant to smiling at Christmas, and discussing, with great depth and passion, the intricacies of Kraftzeug, the generation's successor to Minecraft. They are at once defined by who they are now and who they have been, and my interactions with them are defined by everything that I remember them to be.

This is what the young don't appreciate. The older you get, the more things have happened. There's more history to remember, both globally and personally- you have rather confused memories of being a nervous, slim young man rocking up to the halls of residence on his first day when you go along to the new social club meeting, which don't tally at all with the fat, arthritic body you now possess. The young don't have as much context to work with, so they can often be overwhelmed by tricky situations.

This explains why we bombard the youth with so many different contexts, I suppose. Different lessons, different children to befriend, or antagonise, or whatever. This isn't really a negative thing, though. I feel like the kids who don't have as many different contexts become more rigid later on- having had less things to define themself against, they have to pick one thing and stay with it, even if that thing isn't particularly pleasant or fitting. Those who are given contexts may struggle as they attempt to define themselves, but I'd argue they emerge happier and more confident for it.

Well, true to form, I rather rambled off on a tangent there, which is a habit I totally failed to grow out of, even in my twenties. I was telling you that it has now been twelve days since my 70th; I have been in my seventies offically for almost two weeks. And my life has resumed its normal course.

And what is the normal course for a freshly minted seventy-year old? Well, it's quiet, as you would expect. I try and stay clear of screens, these days- harder than one would think, but still do-able, once you set your mind to it. Books and print media have survived well, in spite of all the nay-sayers, and it's better for your mind, too.

I still keep up the writing. Doctor Kunail tells me it's important to keep your mind sharp as you age, and of all the habits I picked up, writing every day has to be one of the best I ever got. It's nice to leave a trail behind. Sharing them with my husband has been lovely, too- I know he's enjoyed reading them. He's still about, too- damned good genes they got in that family, it seems.

So, I read, I write, and what else? Well, I go for walks, of course. The sea might have risen a little, but there are still plenty of coastal paths out there, plus a few new ones. It's not as easy as it used to be- not by a long chalk- but I can still manage, even if I use a walking stick these days. Hey, it makes me look the part, at least.

Would I have expected to still be going at seventy? Well, some versions of me definately wouldn't- I can tell you for sure there are versions of me at twenty and at thirty-four who would have confidently stated that a seventy-year old me was an impossiblity. I'm very glad to be the living context that proves those old-timers wrong.

You see, one of the benefits of getting older is realising how everything slowly transforms itself over time. People get hung up on moments, and declare that everything will always be the same way that it was. They are like the child who climbs the foothill and declares that he shall never climb any higher, little realising that a version of him exists, just an afternoon on, at the top of the mountain.

Every spell scars the flesh as it scars the spirit. We have an account from Thorald of Østerby of a young mage's initation, where he writes:

"…as they began the spell, the skin on the forearms bubbled like the seething of a salt cauldron, and though the young man cried out in pain, the elders urged him on with their gnarled claws, and soon he had forgot the pain, so enthralled was he in making the water and the wind dance to his whims."

Make no mistake- this magic of theirs is a perversion. Both of nature and of themselves. And the more and more they seek to control, the more foul the perversion becomes.

In their dread rituals, they use the humours. Four are linked to one of the cardinal elements. Blood is air. Phlegm is water. Excrement is earth. Sweat is fire. But these are not the only thing a body produces. There are also domains of life and death- semen and piss- and their vomit, too, is linked with disease. They use these humours in their vile conconctions- paint them into twisted runes- daub them on the walls of their houses, and soon all who are not ensnared in their web shun them, the smells and the miasma part of the spells themselves.

This is the other thing that must be understood about their magic; that it is addictive. There has been many a farmer, toiling in the fields, who has thought fondly that if only he could be assured of rain tomorrow, he would be able to rest easy; and believes that the droppings of his nose can be turned to good use: one spell, one incantation, and all will be well. He is wrong; for even though it wracks his body and sends the vilest of chills down his spine, he spends the weeks afterward craving the sensation, the unnatural power that flowed through him and made his hair stand on end and his body swell with secret heat. If and when he scuccumbs, the next spell will intensify the sensations, and he will crave it more, even as bones bulge, as the sebum gathers in his pores and his hair rots on his skull.