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could make it rain.
    Only the core theories of the book mattered. What made this religion tick? And more importantly, what lay in wait for us after death?
    The belief centred on a God and Goddess. This symbolised a force of nature, a force found in every living thing. When you die, this force leaves your body and returns to the ether to be distributed once again.
    The thought did little to appeal to Eleanor. The whole point of existence was to be a life force thermos, keeping the contents fresh until it was time to distribute again? Where was the comfort in that?
    She shook her head and closed the book.
    Christianity , she thought. Now you’re talking.
    Eleanor had only been to church a couple of times, dragged down as a child to various weddings and funerals. She remembered that church was a very dull and boring place, with an egomaniacal priest telling what you could and couldn’t do, and then they made you sing! But heavens, there was an attraction. To finally go down that dark tunnel and meet Arthur at the pearly gates to live forever in paradise.
    Now that would make all this worthwhile.
    Eleanor reached over to the table, where a fresh cup of tea sat waiting. She held the handle in her frail grip and lifted the china cup to her lips. After a small sip of the steaming drink, she replaced it beside the pile of books on Buddhism.
    Those reads had been a shock to her system. Reincarnation? It had some charm. Eleanor had imagined Arthur brought back as a bird, soaring over lakes and forests; or a majestic lion, roaming the African savannah. But what if he had been reincarnated as a slug? Or a worm?
    What if I’m reborn as a bird and end up eating my reincarnated wormy husband?
    She refused that belief system, although the image of Buddha, a chubby cheerful man, raised her spirit more than Jesus dying on a cross.
    The book slid off her lap and onto the floor, spreading open as it hit the carpet.
    She’d spent years reading about all the various religions, searching for an answer. Many philosophers and religious leaders had dedicated lifetimes trying to answer the immortal question of what happens after death. Eleanor had dedicated her remaining years to such a cause: sifting through writings to find a link, some common ground that all the religions agreed on.
    Also amidst the volumes lay magazines and encyclopaedias on the subject of the supernatural. Eleanor thought it strange, but this avenue gave her more hope than any religion. Ghosts, psychics, out of body experiences. These unexplained phenomena suggested there was more to life than the flesh, bone and blood shells we live in.
    In her old, failing shell, Eleanor prayed that more lay beyond the grave.
    She reached down, back muscles straining as she leant forwards, and scooped up the book on Wicca. She turned it over, ready to start trawling through the pages to her place.
    The book had fallen open to a chapter called The Power of Three . A crudely drawn black and white diagram showed three women lying on their backs, heads together. Their arms and legs were spread, forming a triangle that resembled a simple snowflake.
    Eleanor knew of the beliefs in the power of the number three. Wasn’t Macbeth visited by three witches? Didn’t a coven need at least three members? The Bermuda Triangle, a three-sided area of mystery. Groups of threes, triangles, magic. She read on through the chapter.
    The belief in the power of the number three has gone on for centuries, but only modern witches and mystics in this age still have faith in its potential for working magic. High priestesses can only achieve limited success when working on their own, but in a trio…
    Eleanor closed the book, recognising another waste of time. The number three had no real significance.
    Just a number , she thought. Like five. Or perhaps seven…
    She tossed the book, aiming for another pile leaning against the wall. The book spun through the air but dipped early, hitting the side of the stack. The pile