The Warlock

He waits. The red moon behind him is a sign under which pages open that stay closed on any other night. His beard is braided into three plaits — three names, three pacts, three points of entry.

An eye grows from his open palm — its pupil a triskelion: three spirals, three currents, three ways of seeing at once. Red drops hover above his hand — payment or gift, the difference is small when the knowledge is of this kind.

Under ultraviolet light the patterns on his face flare up — beneath the hood, another face is revealed: one that only a particular light can bring out. He calls. Accept the invitation, or walk on by — the choice is yours.