Ancilla

Malkuth

   The blinds are down, and the curtains drawn over the windows, so that neighbors and casual passers-by will not get an eyeful. We are in the living room because this is the room that has the most open floor space. It's also where he keeps his altar and his ritual supplies. They store easily enough when not in use; he keeps most of them in the carved ornamental chest that doubles as a coffee table and an altar. Tonight, he has some of the supplies laid out on top of it. A chalice filled with water; a dish with salt in it; a long, slender dagger made of what appears to be bronze; two lit candles; a long wooden rod of some kind.

   Some of the supplies have already been used to cast the circle around us. Tonight, the circle is designated as a space for lessons.

   Shadows flicker and dance on the walls from the candlelight. There is no other light, although there are enough candles that either one of us could read a book without straining our eyes. Just.

   "You are, I believe, familiar with these concepts already," he says, "but reviewing them will be helpful. We will work together better in a cast circle if our perspectives, and thus our energies, are in absolute synchrony. Attend."

   I am naked and sitting straight-backed on my knees in the classic student posture that I had been using for years to practice Zen meditation. There isn't much difference between meditating and actively listening to Magister in that regard (that being the formal title we have settled on; it was also decided that the best description of my role, incorporating all aspects as an apprentice, student, temple servant, and sexual submissive, would not be discipula but the more general term ancilla). Except, of course, I never sat zazen while nude.

   He is also nude tonight. This has not always been the case – the act of wearing clothes when one's student or servant is naked carries its own semiotic power, and so far, when he's taken me into his bedroom for instruction, he's made it a practice to keep me naked and himself at least somewhat clothed – but tonight we are going to do magickal work, and there is raw honesty in nudity. This, too, is a departure from his usual habit; he usually does his magickal work while wearing ritual clothing. Tonight, however, he is bringing me into the circle formally for the first time. Tonight, this one time, therefore, we are both in the world as we originally entered it.

   "The first element I intend to work with is Air, which is associated with the east and the light of dawn; with ideas, beginnings, and the mind. Before we act, we think. In the beginning, there is Logos." He takes the bronze dagger from the altar. "My tradition uses a dagger to represent Air. Most of the Western mystery traditions use a blade of some kind. High ceremonial magick uses a very specific kind of wand for Air, and a sword for Fire, perhaps because trees, which provide wood for wands and staves, get blown around in the wind, and blades, meanwhile, are forged in fire; but I think the symbolism in my own tradition makes just as much sense. Wood can be set on fire, and the metal of a blade can conduct heat or cold depending on the temperature of the air, and it cuts through the air on the way to its destination. Furthermore, the metal blade is hard and keen, as is the focused will. Blades are therefore Air. That is how I learned magick, and that is how I am used to doing things."

   He thrusts the tip of the dagger against the soft, hollow spot of flesh just under my chin. Reflexively, I start to look down.

   "I wouldn't," he says mildly. "It's extremely sharp. Look up instead."

   I look up.

   "It would be better to run onto this blade than to cast or use the circle in fear," he intones. I recognize the phrase from one of my independent readings in the occult. This isn't the exact phrase; he's using a variation. I can't remember which tradition makes use of it. Possibly my memory lapse is due to the sharp tip of a dagger biting into my flesh. "How do you serve? You may speak."