If someone had asked her “Do you believe in magic?” she would not have hesitated to say “Yes, I do.”- but not necessarily THEIR magic.
Not the magic of wands and fairies, elves and goblins. Not red silk scarves and doves pulled from a hat.
She knew, had always known, from the age of six or seven that there is magic out there.
It exists in the whispers of the leaves in tree’s, in the caress of the wind, in the seductive dance of the ocean. It floats high in the clouds, shimmers on a blue moonlit night and throbs in the pungent earth deep in a dappled forest.
Not everybody knew or understood her kind of magic.
She suspected that only a few could perceive it let alone draw it in. Connect to it like some unseen umbilicus and feed from it.
But she did.
It was the perfect night.
The hint of jasmine floated on a cool breeze.
A dark velvet night. Tiny slither of silver moon.
The tinkling of wind chimes and the silhouette of a cat illuminated from the second floor of an open bedroom window.
The hunger stirred.
The magic thrummed.
She felt it not with her skin, saw it not with her eyes. It had no recognizable scent or taste, of its own and made no sound, but she heard, saw, felt, smelled and tasted it, perhaps with her soul or wherever that special place is that those who can – do.
It made her stop.
There in front of the trees.
The darkness between the trees called to her eyes.
All at once there was fear and wonder as the shadows began to shift between the ghostly trunks.
The tangle of bushes and branches hiding, disguising, yet teasingly revealing tantalising glimpses of those who dwell within the shadowed world of nights such as these.
A tumble of emotions, joy elation ,fear, intrigue and wonder.
She felt hunger, and relief, together.
The inexplicable exchange.
It breathed and she inhaled.
It was….the perfect night.