title: The Bowl of Night: A Bast Mystery
author:  Rosemary Edghill 
description: Those wacky Wiccans return in the third Bast mystery (after Speak Daggers to Her and Book of Moons). Bast (aka Karen Hightower) has to sift through a cast of suspects?mostly witches and assorted neopagans?when murder mars the annual HallowFest, a pagan weekend held at Paradise Lake in upstate New York. Accompanying her is ceremonial magician Julian Fletcher, Bast's "lust-object" and co-worker at The Serpent's Truth, an occult bookstore in New York City. They plan to attend some workshops and sell store merchandise, but all that changes when Bast discovers the body of Reverend Jackson Harm, a universally unpopular anti-pagan fanatic, near the campsite. Harm's murder appears to be part of an ancient ritual. But is one of the pagan attendees responsible or is someone being framed? Edghill relays necessary background on the Wiccans and keeps a smooth pace. But the real entertainment here comes from the characters, including Klingons in full regalia, the knife-selling Ironshadow and local police Lieutenant Wayne, who salutes his famous namesake (think Bruce) by sporting a bat pin. While the murderer is a disappointingly easy pick, Bast's personal dilemmas, from love life to coven choice, give texture to the tale, which rides along on the eccentricities and quirks of the characters and setting. <br />Copyright 1996 Reed Business Information, Inc.
zlib_text: 
  
  
  
  
  
  ![cover](resources/_cover_.jpg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  # Five Tales
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ### John Galsworthy
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
      "Life calls the tune, we dance."
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ### THE FIRST AND LAST
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
    
  
      
      
      
  
  
  "So the last shall be first, and the first last."--HOLY WRIT.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ### I
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
  It was a dark room at that hour of six in the evening, when just the
  
  
  single oil reading-lamp under its green shade let fall a dapple of
  
  
  light over the Turkey carpet; over the covers of books taken out of
  
  
  the bookshelves, and the open pages of the one selected; over the
  
  
  deep blue and gold of the coffee service on the little old stool with
  
  
  its Oriental embroidery. Very dark in the winter, with drawn
  
  
  curtains, many rows of leather-bound volumes, oak-panelled walls and
  
  
  ceiling. So large, too, that the lighted spot before the fire where
  
  
  he sat was just an oasis. But that was what Keith Darrant liked,
  
  
  after his day's work--the hard e