|The Confundus Conspiracy; or, Youngblood Circle (confundere) wrote,|
@ 2006-01-20 15:34:00
|Current music:||Something about a 'Mr. Jones' by Bob Dylan|
The Night Ship: Over the Nation's Capitol...
It was down near freezing in Muggle Washington, D.C., city of many facets and allegedly Masonic layout. Aircraft coming into Reagan International were quickly afflicted with fogged windows edged with ice crystals. Buses and underground light rail lines had their indoor heating on nonstop, and special vans were picking up homeless people to transport them to emergency shelters in theater auditoriums and church basements. And a Disillusioned Elizabethan two-masted ship was gliding over the White House, in highly restricted airspace.
If the Night Ship was being picked up on anyone's radar, nothing of it could be seen overhead as it blended perfectly into the foggy evening sky, even as streams of mist bounced off its sides and threatened to outline it against the clouds. Even the lanterns and floating candles in its cabins could not be detected to the naked Muggle eye.
On board were witches and spellsingers Jovana Sandansky of Macedonia, Lule Gierran of Norwegian Sapmi, and Marja Karppinen of eastern Finland. With them were two young Irish Aurors sent along by their mutual friend, Nymphadora Tonks (that's just "Tonks" to you), also Senior Auror and leader of the Irish girls' squadron at the Aurors' Office in the Ministry Wing at Hogwarts Castle. Nuala Brennan and Roisín Ní hAnluain were their names; and besides analysing the power repositories of various Muggle Government buildings, their primary duty on the Night Ship was to translate between the spellsingers and the Night Ship's captain.
Said captain, you see, was no less a person than the ghost of Irish pirate and clan chieftain Grace O'Malley, a notorious historical figure from Elizabethan times, who even now spoke not a word of English. All her speech was in a mixture of early modern Irish, Latin and Spanish; and she was in a chronic bother over Nuala and Roisín conversing mainly in the Saxon's speech, and the fact that the other witches' command of Latin was limited to the words of spells and hexes.
"So that's the Power Center of the Muggle world", mused Lule, looking down at the White House's fountain from the window of Jovana's cabin. When the three Spellsingers were together, they conversed mostly in Finnish, by common consent; however, they were all speaking English now, so that Nuala and Roisín could join in.
"It is", said Jovana, "The central repository of power, of the United States, and increasingly, much of the rest of the Muggle World besides. And not the sort of power that Muggles would pick up with EMF detectors, of course; I refer to psychic power, spiritual power, that the people of this country have given their government in trust over the years. And now, unfortunately, it has accumulated a massive glut of such power, which is corrupting every elected President that sets foot through its doors. The current occupant of that power repository thinks of nothing night and day but accumulating more and more power, by any means at his disposal."
"You've got that right", Marja Karppinen assented. "I spent no more than ten minutes in my shamanic visit down there, and I could get no closer than one hundred yards to that building without feeling as if my head was about to explode. The West Wing, in particular, is fucking radioactive right now." She took another drag on her chamomile vaporiser. "What does your detector say about the White House power levels, Jovana?"
Jovana stepped over to the goggle-observers of the Subtle Energy Detection station set up through the windows nearest her bed. "The West Wing levels are, to no surprise, off the charts. The lowest detection frequency is around 2409 Gigs. But that, too, fluctuates off the charts quite often."
"Merlin H. Christ", moaned Roisín, who was reclining on the loveseat, trying not to get seasick from the way Gráinne's ghost was steering their airborne galley. "How much longer tonight, ladies?"
"Not long", Jovana smiled over at her. "I just want to get an updated reading on the Supreme Court, now that they're debating on the confirmation of a new member. It should take no more than half an hour or so. Meanwhile, you relax and have a few more whiffs of the chamomile and peppermint. Nuala, will you give our Captain the directions, my dear?"
"Right", said Nuala, heading out the door. Those remaining inside heard her calling out the final destination of the night to their ghostly pilot: "A Ghráinne, is é an Ardchúirt tar eis!"