A Study Group By Any Other Name

Two barrel-chested bearded men sat perched upon an aged parked bench, too entrenched in their conversation to notice me. The sandwich they shared tenderly diminished rather quickly, chatting as friends but watching each far more intently. They discussed the new escape the Larger of the two had found and how it had transformed his perspective on life.

Was this what I was looking for? Tantalising. Salivating.

The Smaller of the men pressed his lips to a thin line, wasting nothing in casting judgment on the first. Wisps of gray kissed his temples, rather sparingly for his age given the hide-like quality of his seashell-pink skin. Crumbs become magnetised, leaping from their polar north of the bristles enveloping his chin to the pilled flannel below.

Larger fellow supposes Smaller is stuck, unimaginative, afraid. Smaller rallies at the suggestion, easily inflamed, outburst punctuated by frequent pauses.

Thinking my eavesdropping far too transparent if I were to make my presence known now, I silently quicken a distance away along the path, turning heel to create a corner to square to the men. As I near, the assuring smell of a hard day’s labour rolls off the men from a distance.

Expressions hardly change upon my approach, not until I introduce myself do the men apparently notice me. Raised eyebrows, inquisitive questions; possibly exceeding in numbers from within my range of comfort.

Pleading, they mistake my failing faith in my own poor acting for sincerity in desperation. Both of their eyes, reaching out to me, entranced. They urge me otherwise, insist the knowledge they keep is best guarded, secrets be as secrets are. Heavy accents shroud their feigning in heightening mystery. Larger, warm but stern, English - broken. He insists on intermingling with some of his comrades before a more formal introduction?

A meeting? Attainable. I can string myself along until then.

Days pass while waiting for the event of the strangers in the park. Twitching, sweating, sucking my teeth - I announce to all but the air and myself that time must pass quicker, insisting it twist its rules just for me. The panic sets in as deadlines inch forward, and the potential of promises soon-to-be unfulfilled haunt me. The tales of a coven of creators were far spread, and my years-long search was a novel thinning to the last page rapidly, with the ending being withheld. Others toiled at their crafts, crucifying the choice of every tone, but why burden yourself with the mental-wear when you could ascend to greatness without the corruption of your voice by time and influence? Fingernails, shorn to negative length from an unending mandibular assault, shooting pain into my nailbeds.

At last, waiting is over and I stumble to the clearing. The instructions had been vague and simplistic but I found them swirling in my head into an overpowering spell, large log, behind shed, many of us. The hushed but distinct tones echoed from the group, a quiet confidence they all possessed floating with every incantation, unlike any latin or hedonistic literature I’d ever perused. Each member carried weathered, leather-bound grimoires, many with stray papers haphazardly announcing themselves from the otherwise uniformity of page length straddling on either side. All dressed in modest colours, some adorned with vests or flowing skirts of hushedly boastful colour. I breached their circle, a space wide enough for the two remaining guests remained. Asking to join could be gouache, so settling into the open grass within the void became my task. Pointing to my neighbour’s spellbook, I play selective with questions - where could they have procured it? How long to master? My neighbour bore none of the humanity as the two men who had previously welcomed me, repeating his own spells under his breath as the group chittered - hloupy cizinec… hloupy cizinec. To be so close and be denied, it was mites under my skin. To be sure, he repeated himself with punctuated eye contact. Hloupy cizinec yourself, tightfisted knowledge glutton.

The group waned and basked in croons, occasionally bowing for my ignorance and delivering scraps of English to my ears, sandwiched between giving thanks to their shadowy tomes. Mother. Slovnik. Black. Slovnik. Thirteen. Was this a test? Around the circle the inflections mirrored, again and again. Boldness built, confident energy flowing. The body language of the faction remained stiff as the power rose, each offering words of contribution in layered order. Feeling a taste of the power they imbued enter my being in their presence, hardly in its infancy, I belted out into the sky to relieve the pressure building in my chest. The only evidence of time passing born by the beads of sweat wicking down my neck once I stopped.

My head tilted back forwards, the group silently staring, reserved smiles and cautious eyes watching me. The men from the park having nestled together to fill the half-gap I had left the two upon claiming my spot, having crept in during my spontaneous eruption of glossolalia. Larger’s hand softly bolstering my back, keeping my frame from collapse into the softness of the earth. He nodded to Smaller, speaking in hexes, as his hand rolled in circles along my spine, soothing my soul.

To be a part of something bigger - to be embraced, is divine. The energy within me was unburdened by constraint now, I felt it. Time slowed as one of the group offered theirs, and the book began its pilgrimage being guided through the air to my inviting hands. The vibration of the earth around me rendered me awestruck as the ancient secrets were passed to my hand. The modernity of the binding juxtaposed against the cover material, softened and aged with dependable use. Motioning to Larger, I implore him to show me where to begin. The leader of the circle, I’d forgotten about in my outburst, motions to the others, wordlessly demanding my exodus from their holy lands. I exhale simple pleadings to Larger to guide me, show me how to be like them. The expression across his brow is unreadable, has judgement been passed? Is it genuine empathy for my lonely journey ahead?

For a moment, he exchanges hesitant glances with Leader. She plunges a hand wrapped in precious-stone jewellery emblazoned with the deepest colours of red into the rucksack by her side, for it to return to daylight clutching a phone. A phone?

Larger motions to the volume in my lap, now open to the first page. He taps it.

Everything becomes clear, a misunderstanding for which I have no hopes of recovery. Tossing the book back to Smaller, lifting to my feet, and plunging myself into the darkness of the tree line to avoid anything that was to come further is the only option.

Only one thing kept circulating in my mind.

I hadn’t found the coven, even my faith that it exists beyond my own imagination is wavering. This group’s study… I had no place in - that I was sure. I wondered how Larger ever thought I could have belonged, how could I have?

My lungs burn as I forge further into the greenery, growing denser. I’ve never been more determined to be entirely anonymous, forgotten, wholly invisible from this moment.

Images of the six letters, bold and centred on the cursed page rapidly flashing, intermittent with the darkness of every blink. Spellbooks, coven? Idiot!

ČESKO-ANGLICKÝ SLOVNÍK

CZECH-ENGLISH DICTIONARY