Empty Hand Magic

The Way of the Whispering Winds of God

A mysterious system of ancient mind power from a secretive sect of initiates.

New Year’s Eve, 1999. London.

It was a cold, starlit evening when I heard somebody call my name. I was walking through the back alleys of Stoke Newington in North London. It being a god-forsaken night, I pulled the collar of my coat tightly around my neck to protect against the biting wind, and carried on walking.

If somebody needs me, I thought, they can call me. I’m not hanging about on a night like this. And besides, I probably misheard what they were calling. Most likely, they were trying to get the attention of someone else.

But then the voice became more persistent.

I spun round to see if I could see who it was.

“Doc... Doc...” The voice went. I couldn’t see anybody. So I walked in the direction from which the voice was coming from. As it became more audible, I realized it was somebody with a West Indian accent. Then it hit me. That voice was Earl Marlowe’s, my vudu mentor.

A shiver went down my spine. It couldn’t be him. He’d passed away a few years before.

Could he be trying to communicate with me from beyond the grave?

It was possible, I supposed. But for God’s sake, you’d think he could have chosen a better evening for returning from the dead. Ideally, the middle of July when it’s nice and warm.

As I walked further down the dark alley I noticed the street lights were out, either due to lack of maintenance or something else, something uncanny. Either way I couldn’t see a thing.

Then I saw a faint glow, a misty golden light. This was where the voice was coming from. More and more, I was starting to think this really was Earl, come back from the dead as an apparition.

The strange thing was, even though I’d picked up my pace, I just couldn’t seem to catch up with the smoky golden glow. At the end of the alley was a curiosity shop, which oddly had lights on and still appeared to be open, even though it was around 8pm and it was New Year’s Eve. Hardly likely to get any customers, save for a solitary wanderer like me who was fool enough to be following what seemed to be a ghost.

Next thing, the golden glow, still calling my name, appeared to drift inside the curiosity shop - going right through the closed door.

I went up to the door and peered inside, but couldn’t see much as the glass on the door looked like it hadn’t been washed in fifty years.

My curiosity peaked, though a little wary, I pressed down on the door handle, found it wasn’t locked, and slowly pushed it open.

The place was unbelievably cluttered. Cobwebs were everywhere. But I didn’t see any spiders, which was probably a good thing, as judging by the cobwebs, any spiders would likely be the size of a small dog.

An old Chinese man in a dusty homburg hat, sporting a grey goatee beard, clearly the owner of the establishment, nodded at me. He didn’t look talkative, so I thought better of asking him if he’d see a weird golden light enter his dilapidated establishment.

I looked around, but there was no sign of the light.

Just then the Chinese man gestured to the endless piles of junk, and said in a none-too-friendly manner, “Anything catch eye, we make deal.”

“OK,” I said, thinking that maybe in the midst of all the junk, there might be an antique worth a pretty penny or three. Maybe this was why Earl’s apparent apparition led me here? Perhaps there was something worth an absolute mint.

I rummaged through the piles of junk. There was everything from old Bakelite suitcases to watches that hadn’t ticked in decades. The best thing I found was a WW2 dagger, which hardly fitted the bill in terms of being worth £20K or more. Though to be fair, I was tempted to buy it for my own collection.

But I decided to carry on sifting through the endless array of vintage tobacco tins and old coins. Eventually I came upon what looked like a homemade book, held together by rubber bands. I pulled the bands off and leafed through the book, which was handwritten. The ink was fading, but was still legible.

As I read the contents I was astounded. “Oh... my... God...” I thought to myself. This handmade book was a personal grimoire with the most amazing system of magic I’d ever come across. Not only that, but the short introduction to the book detailed how this system was found. The author, whoever he was, didn’t create it himself. It came from a secretive sect in Morocco that followed “The Way of the Whispering Winds of God”.

Right then and there, I knew why Earl’s apparition had led me to this shabby-looking curiosity spot. This handmade book was the crock of gold he’d wanted me to find.