When people ask what is magic, they usually expect an answer about spells, potions, or rituals. But magic, in its deepest sense, is about how we perceive the world: whether we believe it is inert and meaningless, or alive and resonant with signs, patterns, and possibility.
In my novel The Atlantic Pearl, two women embody these different approaches. Lillian Hartley is a scholar of symbolism and the history of magical thinking. Her practice is deliberate, precise, often leaning on astrology to map the sky as if it were a vast text. Sylvia Moon, by contrast, is a hereditary witch from Cornwall whose connection to magic is visceral and intuitive. She listens to the tides, the pull of the Moon, the whisper of spirits that drift in and out of the fog.
Here’s a glimpse of them in action:
The rain had not yet broken, though the sky over Gylly Beach was bruised with it, a smear of purple and grey pressed low upon the sea. Lillian sat at her oak table with a candle guttering in the draft, spectacles perched on her nose, and an ephemeris open like a book of spells. Beside her lay a freshly drawn chart, its angles crisply inked, the planets marked in her steady hand.
“The Moon’s applying to a square with Saturn,” she said, tapping the page with her pencil. “It’s a classic sign of obstruction. If we attempt anything tomorrow, we should expect resistance—delays, perhaps outright failure.”
Sylvia poured tea into her chipped blue cup, the steam curling around her silver hair. She made a dismissive sound in her throat. “You and your charts, Lill. A square’s but ink on a page. I can feel Saturn in my bones already, dragging at me like lead. No need to scribble when the air’s heavy with it.”
Lillian raised her brows, though not unkindly. “It isn’t mere ink. It’s pattern. A symbolic map. The very fact you feel that heaviness aligns with the chart. Saturn restricts, yes, but knowing when it strikes gives us foresight.”
Sylvia tapped the base of the candle with her finger, the flame bowing to her touch. “And yet the Moon cares nothing for your diagrams. She rises, she wanes, she pulls the sea. You can count her squares till your ink runs dry—I’ll trust the tide, the air, the weight of the night itself.”
Outside, a gust rattled the windowpanes, and the smell of salt pushed into the room. Lillian folded her arms, exasperated but not without affection. “So you’d rather rely on intuition than calculation?”
“Not rather, love,” Sylvia said, a smile playing at the edge of her mouth. “Alongside. Your charts are clever, I grant you. But they don’t sing. The Moon sings, if you know how to listen.”
The candle flame flared, as if to agree, and for a moment the room held its breath between reason and mystery — one woman charting the heavens, the other listening to their song.
Magic as Two Ways of Knowing
This little scene reveals something essential about magic. It is not one thing but a spectrum of approaches.
- For some, like Lillian, magic is pattern. The stars, the planets, the angles of the heavens — all form a system of correspondences that can be studied, calculated, and interpreted. This is the astrology of ephemerides, dignities, and careful judgment. It reflects the human desire for order and foresight.
- For others, like Sylvia, magic is song. It is felt in the body, sensed in the mood of the air or the pull of the tide. This is the witch’s inheritance: to know without calculation, to trust intuition, to let the world itself speak. It reflects the human desire for intimacy with the unseen.
Both approaches are valid. Both are forms of magic. And both answer the “why” of magic in their own way.
We use magic not simply to predict or control, but to orient ourselves in a world that often feels overwhelming. We use it to seek meaning, to find connection, to listen for the patterns — or the songs — that remind us we are not adrift in chaos.
So what is magic?
It is the human instinct to read the world as alive with significance.
Who uses it? Anyone who refuses to accept that life is meaningless.
And why? Because sometimes, whether by pattern or by song, magic helps us make sense of the dark.
Leave a Reply