The Scrying (The Scrying Trilogy Book 1)

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The Scrying (The Scrying Trilogy Book 1) Page 6

by Jaci Miller


  As the effects of the tea continued to surge through her blood embracing her in a magical intoxication, she could feel the tree respond. A shudder rippled under its bark as it awakened, shaking off the vestiges of an eternal slumber. The hand resting on the tree’s root began to tingle, a warm vibration that burrowed into her palm as the haze lifted from her mind and the tree’s energy was revealed.

  First, a chorus of whispers entered her mind; spectral energy that seemed to be marked by a different time and place. She could sense an extraordinary energy, a strength that pulsated around them. Images began to appear—vast landscapes of lush green forests, magnificent waterfalls, and dusty barren rocks. Breathtakingly beautiful landscapes that did not mimic any in her memory. As the images faded from her mind, they were replaced with a strange symbol—a silver dagger, its blade encircled by a green sphere of energy. The image hovered in her consciousness, burning itself into her memory until it slowly disappeared and there was nothing but blackness and a deafening silence.

  She could still feel the tree’s energy as it flowed through the root into her hand, but the tea was wearing off and she was losing the connection. Just as she felt her heightened awareness slipping away she heard a solitary whisper—awaken.

  Dane’s eyes flew open as her hand jerked away from the tree root, unnerved by the intimacy that had accompanied the whisper. Her abrupt reaction to the voice left her gasping for breath. She still sat safely inside the protective circle and she was alone in the clearing, so where had the voice come from. She remained still for a few more minutes, calming her mind and allowing her breathing to steady as her body continued to flush the remaining hallucinogenic properties from her system.

  She could feel Tyson’s warm body pressed up against her back, his rhythmic breathing helping to calm her. Pulling in one last deep breath of the cold afternoon air, she carefully opened the protective circle, released Tyson from his spot, and thanked the goddess for her protection.

  Packing up her belongings, she placed the backpack against the base of the tree beside her snowshoes, stepping back to inspect the old tree. Her head tilted slightly to the side and her eyes narrowed as she studied it carefully. The tree seemed more vibrant than it had on the weekend, its canopy greener, its bark rougher, the moss that clung to its surface seemed to move slightly, a faint up and down movement as if it were breathing. She walked a slow circle around the tree, inspecting its trunk and low hanging branches, stopping when she reached the scar in the back that marred its thick surface. Her fingers traveled leisurely over the blemish, a tingle following their path. Frowning, she backed away from the tree, shaking her head of the remaining fog that still clung to her mind.

  Strange, she thought.

  Looking around for Tyson she found him nosing and pawing the ground at the side of the tree’s trunk. Curious, as to what had caught his attention, she quietly moved closer to him. His tail was stiff, the hair on his back raised, and he expelled a low whimper with every swipe of his paw. The ground he was intent on digging up was a small patch of dark soil at the base of the tree. Nestled in between two thick roots and partially concealed by the bright green ground cover—small white flowers still flourishing in the frigid winter months. She knew of only one moss that could withstand cold temperatures and flowered year-round—Irish Guardian moss, but it was normally only found on the peaks of mountains in Europe.

  “What’s wrong buddy?” She asked watching him snort a few times into the ground before frantically clawing at the soil. Grabbing his collar and pushing him gently away from the spot, she knelt on the ground and placed her hands on the freshly disturbed earth, surprised by the warmth that she felt emanating from the soil. Tyson was panting, leaning over her shoulder, a small whine coming from his lips as he pressed them closer to her ear in reassurance.

  Ignoring him she brushed off the remaining loose dirt and frozen leaves revealing the surface of a flat stone buried beneath the soil. She removed the flashlight from her coat pocket and shined the beam on the stone’s face. Etched into the surface was a symbol. At first glance, it looked like a star with ten points but as she looked closer, she saw that it was two pentacles, a smaller one overlapping a large one. Around the edges were etchings, a series of arching lines and dots that reminded her of a glyph or rune. She took a picture of the face of the rock with her phone and quickly covered it back up, making a mental note as to its location.

  As she stood, a strong breeze blew through the clearing and the tree’s limbs creaked and groaned as they shuddered in its wake. A strange feeling swelled inside her. She could feel the tree’s essence deep in her mind, the images and whispering echoing somewhere in her memory as a strange feeling of knowing flooded her senses.

  Grabbing her backpack and snowshoes she ran from the clearing, with Tyson on her heels. As she disappeared around the rock cut the breeze faded and an eerie silence fell over the clearing as the old tree began to glow.

  Chapter 9

  The redhead sneered as she saw the witch across the street, her temper flaring as her stench wafted across the pavement toward her. The very sight of her caused a rush of anger to flood over her but she remained calm, she had to, if she lost control for even a minute, all she had planned could be ruined.

  She knew the witch had spotted her, so she hurried her step. She was not interested in speaking with her nor having a confrontation. There would come a time when she would make the witch aware of their fateful connection but now was not that time. Now was the time to observe, to study, to find out what she could, and keep her distance. To concentrate only on what she must do to ensure that the witch got what she deserved.

  She increased her speed as she felt the witch start to track her. Sneering once again she quickly darted around the corner and disappeared.

  The moment Dane got home she picked up the phone, absently dialing her parent’s number and listening to the monotone ringing at the other end.

  “Hello,” her mother said, her voice soothing her frayed nerves even through the phone.

  “Hi mom,” she sighed, “Do you have a minute?”

  “Oh, hi Dane, of course, I do sweetie, what is it?”

  She spent the next ten minutes filling her mom in on everything that had happened in the past few days—the dream, the experiences with the tree, the mysterious red-haired woman, and the strange energy that seemed to be altering the imprints surrounding the old flour mill.

  “The dream seems prophetic Dane, are you sure that nothing happened on your thirty-first birthday? You know during the witching hour?” Ella Watts asked.

  “I’m sure mom, it was uneventful. I had a dream that’s it.”

  “Well this connection you seem to have with this tree in the woods shouldn’t be ignored, your empathic abilities seem to be sensitive to it, but it’s the voice that you keep hearing that causes me some concern. Your abilities only allow you to feel energy and emotions, it does not allow you to hear voices. What if there is someone else out there with your father’s power?”

  Dane’s father, Nathan Callan, was known to Celtic witches as a Timestopper; a witch who possesses the power to stop and move time, both in the real world and in an individual’s mind. It was an ancient form of ocular telepathy and a unique gift, which had, for decades been instrumental in erasing the memory of any mortal who accidentally witnessed magic being performed.

  Her father was the only Timestopper left in the modern world and the only one in his family history that had ever possessed the antiquated power. She had not developed any powers mimicking her father’s ability but her telekinesis, also an antiquated and rare power, was considered an ability that came from the realm of space and time manipulation.

  Her father’s power was unique as it allowed his conscious to inhabit the space between the memories and thoughts of an individual, undetected. A power that, for many, was against the witch’s creed, for
it influenced the free will of an individual. Her father was very aware of this negative assessment of his abilities and therefore only used them if necessary.

  Although her father’s gift was powerful, it was limited, his ability in the real world could only stop and move time back a few minutes. When he entered someone’s mind he could only see and replace memories that were tainted by magic. He did not have the power to converse with someone inside their head, nor could he invade someone’s REM sleep.

  If her mother’s concerns were valid and the voice she had heard whispering awaken, was real and not just part of the dream, it was not a Timestopper, but someone who possessed a very powerful verbal telepathy. A magic that had been extinct from the modern world for hundreds of generations.

  Changing the subject, she asked her mom about the red-head and the strange dark energy she could sense hovering around the edges of the veil. “I feel like they are connected.”

  “It seems likely, tell me again what happened when you ran into her today.”

  “I was coming out of the Java Bean Market and I saw her across the street, she was exiting the hardware store carrying two large brown paper bags. I was curious, so I followed her until she vanished around a corner and disappeared. I was left with that uneasy sensation but this time something was different, I could feel the essence of dark magic floating in the surrounding air. She has to be a dark witch, right?”

  “I am not sure Dane, dark witches are extremely rare, it is more likely she is a pure witch that has lost her way. Whatever the case may be, one thing is definite, she is using some very strong magic to cloak her aura from you. Please be careful, if this woman is using dark magic, only trouble will follow her.”

  “I will. Can you show something to dad for me?” She asked “It’s a photo of some sort of symbol or insignia. It looks like a pentacle with a smaller pentacle on top encircled with glyphs or runes. I believe it is of Celtic origin, but I am not sure. I’m hoping Dad might have some insight.”

  “Ok sweetie, text me a picture and I will have your dad look at it when he gets home. He’s working late tonight at the hospital but should be home in a few hours.”

  “Ok mom, see you tomorrow.” She thanked her mother and said goodnight, texting her the picture the moment she hung up.

  She took Tyson for a long walk, the cold night air soothing her troubled mind. After unpacking her backpack, she started a load of laundry, vacuumed the house, put fresh sheets on the guest bed, and washed the dishes. As she dried them she thought again about the images she had seen during her vision at the tree and the strange sense of knowing that seemed to filter through her entire being afterward.

  Suddenly, a flash of green light exploded in her head. She could hear the glass break as it fell from her hands, but she was powerless to do anything about it as the silver dagger once again appeared in her mind. Just as suddenly, an image of the old gnarled tree in the middle of Braemore Woods appeared and a strong, deep voice echoed in her head—awaken!

  She stood unmoving as the voice faded from her consciousness, gasping for breath from the energy the vision had sapped from her. She looked down at the shattered glass around her feet, completely unnerved by what had just happened. Invoking a vision through divination is one thing but having one naturally was a power that only seers possessed, witches with the gift of premonition.

  Hearing a low whine behind her she turned to see Tyson staring at her, his body ridged. Concerned about the confusion she could see in his eyes she reached down to reassure him that everything was ok. He gently licked her hand nibbling on her fingertips like he used to do when she first rescued him. It was a quirk that he exhibited when he was unsure about something, a way to expel nervous energy, but he hadn’t done it in years. She crouched down until they were level. Gently she took his face in her hands and kissed the top of his nose.

  “I’m ok Ty,” she whispered softly in his ear noting his tail wag slightly in response.

  She carefully cleaned up the broken glass, acutely aware of the strange sensation that pumped through her veins.

  Making a cup of hot tea she curled up in bed, mentally and physically exhausted from the visions she had experienced today. Just as she was falling into a much-needed sleep she was aroused by the ping of her phone, notifying her of an incoming text. Yawning, she picked it up and looked at the sender, it was her father. His text said that he didn’t recognize the symbol, but one of the glyphs looked familiar.

  Glancing at the bedside clock she saw that it was after midnight. She thought briefly about texting her father back but abandoned the idea quickly. She was exhausted and didn’t want to think any more about it tonight. She would find out what her father had to say in the morning.

  Putting her phone down and snuggling in beside a snoring Tyson she watched dreamily as the room filled with a silvery glow, the moonlight finding its way through the large bank of windows on the far side of the bedroom.

  Chapter 10

  It was just past eleven-thirty in the morning when her parents walked through the front door, her father carried a small intricately carved wooden chest.

  Dane looked at him quizzically. “Did you meet a pirate on your way here, dad?”

  “Funny girl,” he replied, smirking as he laid the chest on the ground in the living room. She hugged both her parents, allowing Tyson to get his share of attention before bringing out the coffee and muffins she had made this morning.

  “So, mom told you everything?”

  “Yes, she did.” Her father nodded, taking a sip of his coffee as a strange look passed between him and her mother.

  “And does any of it make any sense to you?” She questioned, hoping he would have some answers. Her father’s side of the family was much more versed in the darker side of magic.

  Celtic history was full of references to creatures that were more malevolent than nice; fae, goblins, and water horses were all portrayed as devilish in Celtic lore. Legends also depicted the Druid priests as devil worshipers who used the power of nature in their practice, but her father believed that this negative stigma was untrue and that the Druids were in fact, a powerful force for good.

  “Maybe,” he said hesitantly, pointing toward the carved wooden chest at his feet.

  “What is it, dad?”

  “It belonged to your grandfather,” he explained, a sadness coating his voice as he spoke of his late father. “I only opened it briefly at the time and didn’t think it contained anything of importance, so I put it in the attic with the rest of his belongings. It was mostly old papers, family genealogy, spells, some sketches and quite frankly I had forgotten about it until last night when your mother showed me the picture you sent. Not the symbol itself but one of the runes, it was something I had seen before.”

  “You know what it is?” She asked excitedly.

  “No, but maybe this chest will help you find an answer,” he said slowly turning the chest toward her so that the front side of it faced her.

  Her eyes swept over the dark, grainy, mahogany wood. Its surface was worn and scratched but the intricate carvings on its exterior highlighted the craftsmanship. The carvings depicted a multitude of Celtic knotwork and symbols; triquetra’s, crosses, endless knots, and triple spirals, all contained in a delicate border that reminded her of a mass of tangled ivy and thorns. As her eyes continued to take in the beauty of the wooden chest, she noticed the flat brass lock on the front. It was simple, a standard latch lock with a large brass padlock securing it, but it was what was above the lock that caught her eye.

  Engraved into the brass panel was one of the glyphs from the symbol that she had sent her father. The symbol that had been etched into the rock at the base of the old tree.

  She stared at the chest a few seconds longer and then gazed up at her parents, both anxiously waiting for her reaction. “What does it mean?”


  Her father took a piece of paper out of his pocket. “I believe it is a character that represents the earth element,” he said handing her the paper.

  She looked at the crudely drawn image, it was the same as the one engraved above the lock—a crescent moon with two dots inside its arc. Just below the drawing, in her grandfather’s handwriting was written, earth.

  “What’s in the chest dad?”

  “After your mother showed me the picture you sent her, I remembered where I had seen that glyph. I went to the attic and re-opened the trunk. That paper was sitting on top. I didn’t really go through it when my father died, so I took a better look this morning.”

  “What is it, dad? What did you find?” She stammered.

  Nathan Callan reached into his pocket and pulled out a tattered envelope which he handed to Dane. “This used to be taped to the inside lid, it must have fallen off at some point, so I didn’t see it when I opened the chest the first time.”

  She stared at the back of the envelope. It was firmly sealed, but some corners were bent, and a slight fraying had damaged one edge. Discoloration and smudges marred the envelope’s crisp whiteness, the fragile paper unable to hide its age. Turning over the envelope she saw her name, clearly written in black ink in her grandfather’s handwriting. There was a date scrawled in the top right-hand corner—her birthdate. Carefully, she opened the envelope, anxious to see what was inside. Pulling out a note card, she slowly read the words her grandfather had written thirty one years ago. As the last word crossed her vision, she took a deep calming breath and read it again.

  The first-born daughter of the Callan lineage has been born today—to my son. Never in our history has a female child been born first to a Callan male for we are a lineage of male-dominated magic. Our destiny has now taken on a new direction. My granddaughter’s birth represents the beginning of the end—the ancient Warlician prophecy, one that our clan thought legend for centuries, has been revealed as truth. My own path, forged decades ago, led me toward this new beginning and now that it is upon us, I must guide her to her true destiny, whatever that destiny is to become.

 

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