Witches rub me in the Magic Pool. My muscles fight each other—some yearn for the touch and some recoil. A witch about my age, thirty-one, rushes her hands back and forth over my chest and back. A stout-bearded warlock kneads my shoulders. A crone does something like reiki over my forehead.
The witches have lived at this hallowed mountain grotto since the 1950s, the days of Aldous Huxley and Robert Graves. Now I have come to this place from between worlds, to put myself back together and decide what to do with the rest of my life.