Glastonbury Mystic

Glastonbury attracted seekers, dreamers, and the occasional journalist looking to write a cynical piece about "England's New Age capital." I'd seen dozens of them over my twenty years running the Crystal Chalice—men and women with notebooks and superior smiles, ready to mock what they didn't understand.

This one was different. Or maybe I was just tired of being dismissed.

"I'm not here to make fun of anyone," he said when I confronted him. His notebook was open, but he hadn't written much. "I'm here because my editor wants the story. What I want is to understand why people believe in—" he gestured at my shelves of crystals, cards, and candles— "all this."

"And you think you can understand it in a day?"

"I think I can try." He met my eyes. "I'm James. And I'm genuinely curious, not cynical. There's a difference."

There was. Over the next week, James did what other journalists hadn't—he listened. He attended rituals without smirking, held crystals without cracking jokes, sat on the Tor at dawn and admitted the view was genuinely moving.

"I still don't believe in magic," he said one evening. We were in my shop after closing, sharing wine that I probably shouldn't have offered and he probably shouldn't have accepted.

"Magic isn't about believing. It's about paying attention." I handed him an amethyst I'd selected earlier. "Hold this. What do you notice?"

"It's warm."

"What else?"

"It's..." He closed his eyes. "I feel calmer. More focused."

"That's attention. The crystal just helps you direct it." I moved closer. "Most people walk through life distracted. Here, we practice being present. Call it magic if you want, or call it meditation. The effect is real."

"You're not what I expected."

"What did you expect?"

"Someone easier to dismiss." He opened his eyes. "You're intelligent. You're grounded. You clearly don't believe everything you sell—I've watched you gently redirect people from the more ridiculous products. You're selective about what you practice."

"Because discernment matters. There's wisdom in this tradition, and there's nonsense. Knowing the difference is the whole point."

"The article's going to be hard to write." He set down the crystal. "Because the honest version is complicated. People here aren't idiots. They've just chosen to prioritize different things."

"What have you chosen to prioritize?"

"Until this week? Being right." He reached for my hand. "Now I'm less sure."

I kissed him because the Beltane moon was rising and energy was energy, regardless of what you called it. His mouth was warm, his body solid against mine, and when he pulled back, his eyes held something that looked like surprise.

"Moon—"

"That's actually my name. Changed it legally when I was eighteen."

"I like it." His hands found my waist. "Moon. This isn't why I came here."

"I know."

"But I don't want to leave without—"

"I know that too." I led him toward the stairs. "My flat's above. Come see how a mystic lives."

The flat was chaos—books, plants, fabric in colors that would give minimalists seizures. James laughed when he saw it.

"This is perfect."

"It's a disaster."

"It's you. Colorful, unexpected, completely alive." He pulled me close. "That's perfect."

We made love surrounded by the trappings of a life he'd come to mock, and he didn't mock any of it. His hands on my body were reverent, curious, exploring territory that mainstream journalism rarely mapped. When he finally moved inside me, it was with an intensity that felt like something more than physical.

"There," I breathed. "That's it. Stay there."

"I'm not going anywhere."

We moved together while candles flickered and the moon rose over the Tor outside my window. I came with an energy release that had nothing to do with crystals and everything to do with connection—two people meeting without pretense, finding something neither had expected.

"The article," he said afterward.

"Write it honestly."

"It won't be what my editor wanted."

"Good editors know when a story changes. And if yours doesn't..." I propped myself up. "You could stay. Glastonbury could use a good journalist."

"I'm not sure I believe in what happens here."

"You don't have to believe. You just have to be open." I touched his face. "You were open enough to see me instead of a stereotype. That's all we ask."

He went back to London. Wrote an article that his editor hated and his readers loved—nuanced, respectful, genuinely curious about what drew people to this place. Then he quit, moved to Glastonbury, and started freelancing about alternative communities with the same open-minded attention he'd brought to my shop.

We're still together. He still doesn't believe in magic, and I still don't mind. What we believe in is each other—the attention we pay, the presence we practice, the willingness to see past what we expected and find what's actually there.

That's the real mysticism. Not crystals or cards or ceremonies on the Tor. Just two people choosing to truly see each other, day after day, in a town that makes that kind of seeing easier.

The magic was never in the props. It was always in the paying attention.