Carol mused aloud. “I really feel that he might be… what do they call it? A ‘willing actor’? He knows what he’s doing, and I don’t, Jules. It just happens to me. That’s why I’m still going to Chicago. I have to figure this out. It’s something I’ve got to do, do you understand?”
“Of course I do, Carol. But I still think you’re a fool to go.” Julia crossed her arms and leaned back in her chair. Her part-Native heritage showed in her proud bearing as she held her chin up.
“I’m sure you’re right, my dear.” Carol conceded.
How can I disagree? Carol thought. It’s not like I think she’s wrong.
Soon Carol took her leave, exchanging the usual big, soft departing-hug with her old friend.
“After all, I need to make it to Yao’s in time.” Carol joked. Julia had admonished Carol repeatedly, giving her detailed, nurse-like instructions on how to take care of an old body in a big city. Carol was admittedly glad to escape.
Yao’s Traditional Herbs was close by, back in the Chinatown area of Philadelphia. It was always busy at Yao’s, with people coming and going through the fragrant bins of piled herbs. Carol loved going there, even if some odors made her eyes water. It was like stepping into another age, with bundles of sticks and leaves hanging from the rafters; richly colored, exotic fabrics; people shouting orders back and forth in Mandarin; and Mr. Yao’s great apothecary-wall, full of drawers of all different sizes. Yao was, as usual, standing in front of the drawered-wall, talking with several people at once in languages Carol couldn’t understand, and handing out bundles of herbs like prizes. He saw Carol and beckoned her over.
“Mrs. Conley! Come on in, how are yous? Did Julia send yous ova, or did yous just come ova ta see me?” He winked. Even with his traditional outfit, and his fluent command of varying Chinese dialects, he spoke to Carol in a thick, Philadelphia accent.
“Oh, Yao, you’re so bad.” Carol scoffed, laughing and waving a hand at him. “Yes, Julia sent me over. I’m going on a trip to Chicago. She wanted me to take this.” Carol handed Yao the piece of paper that Julia had given to her. Yao peered at it over his spectacles.
“Aw, yeah... I c’n make this up in a jiffy. One sec, okay?” And he turned to his wall. Several different packages came out, and the ingredients went into a stone mortar. Yao pounded the dry herbs and spices into small pieces but did not powder them. He poured the contents into a white paper bag, folded it in a peculiar fold that kept the bag closed, and handed it to Carol.
“Now, Mrs. Conley, yous make this in a tea, awright? Just one cup a day, okay. One sec... lemme see yer tongue.”
Carol stuck out her tongue. Yao smiled.
“Yeah. I think maybe just one a day. If yous get really tired, maybe one and a haff. No more, yous hear me? Dis stuff hits like a ton o’ bricks.” Yao wagged a finger at her.
“I hear you, Yao. Thank you. I much prefer the teas to the pills; those things are enormous!”
Yao laughed. “Yeah, well... yous gotta get a lotta stuff in those Precious Pills!” He leaned towards her and mock-whispered. “And ev’rybody prefers the teas!” A few people standing close-by heard him and chuckled, nodding their heads in tacit agreement.
Carol had a quiet drive home, with the late-afternoon, summer sun on her shoulder, and the sounds of songbirds in the air.
Over the next few days, Carol prepared for her trip to Chicago. She packed her favorite purse, her cream-colored suit, one pair of shoes, her most comfortable, green, Valentino dress and her special, Erte scarf. She was going to be dressed “to the nines” for this event. She packed her golden bracelet with the Assyrian-hunt-scene on it. She packed a gold necklace and the matching pearl ring that her husband had had made for her, oh so many years ago, when they were both still young and in their fifties. She did not pack the moonstone ring.
She had many arguments with the spirit of Ian, who was very “vocal” during this time.
“But he lives there!” Ian protested. “Ye know ‘e’s going ta ken ye’re there. Then where’ll ye be, an I canna come wit’ ye?” The Jacobite spirit had swept agitatedly through the room, making the lace curtains swirl and flutter. His thick accent was like the Scottish Highlands he came from, rough and rugged, yet capable of a softness like drifting fog.
“I have a solution. Ian….” Carol chided him, “Listen to me! Look, I have this piece of tartan.” She pulled a tissue-wrapped bundle out of her wardrobe. She placed it on the bed, and unfolded it into a long, woolen, Black Watch shawl. It was old, she knew. She hoped it would work. She could not just carry a teddy bear with her everywhere, it was much too large and bulky, and this Black Watch tartan was as close as she could find to the pattern that the bear was wearing. One day, she was going to find out if it was the bear, or the bear’s kilt, that Ian was attached to.
“Look, Ian. It’s your colors, and it’s a great-kilt sett, is that right? I thought that maybe you could just... sort of... hold on to it for the trip. Then you could come with me. I know how important it is to you that you protect me.” Carol held up the material.
“Oh, Lass...,” she could hear Ian’s appreciative exhalation, like sighing treetops, “That’ll do, Carlie. That’ll do me just fine.” And Carol could feel him ease, comfortably and familiarly, into the garment, like sliding into a favorite, old shirt. She breathed a sigh of relief and finished her packing.
The next day was hot and humid, without a cloud in the sky, and Carol’s daughter, Susannah, picked her up at home. Susie drove her mother to the airport, giving her the usual, loving lecture about taking care of herself.
The flight to Chicago was quick and trouble-free; an amazing thing in this day and age. Carol navigated her way through O’Hare with the use of an old shillelagh-style cane she had brought just for this purpose and, after picking up her bag, hailed a cab to her hotel. In the heart of the downtown din and clamor, she was shown to her room, and she gratefully put her bags and cane down on the bed, and her feet up on the ottoman as she relaxed in an overstuffed armchair. She glanced through the brochure about the Gem Show. She wanted to get there early: there were a couple of vendors in particular that she was interested in, and she wanted to have first pick of their merchandise. She checked her wallet to make sure her guest-pass was still tucked inside and saw Freddie Archegon’s card: “Oddities & Rarities.”
Maybe I should take the initiative when I see him. She bit her lip in thought.
“Dinnae ye even think it, Missie,” Ian angrily whispered. The spirit had “attached” himself to the shawl, which was currently around Carol’s shoulders, but he seemed subdued, more quiet than usual. He had told her that it made him “...Knackered, Ma’am... but I’ll be sound after a wee kip. I’m sure I’ll be.”
“Hush, Ian. I’ll do as I please. You had better do whatever it is you do to rest. Tomorrow is going to be a big day.” Carol draped the shawl over the back of the chair and felt Ian’s presence subside into silence. She had not meant to be rude to him, but she was certainly not going to let the ghost of some long-dead Scotsman tell her what to do, no matter who he was.
She placed her package of tea on the table, along with a tea-strainer she had brought from home. She hung her clothes in the closet and placed her cane by the doorway so she wouldn’t forget it. Then she ordered herself some dinner and a bottle of wine, and was sound asleep in the bed’s soft, white sheets before she had even finished her second glass.
The convention center was massive, as they always were, and filled with vendors’ tables piled high with sparkling, eye-catching items. There were necklaces of hanging silver baubles, rings that flashed in the artificial light like miniature suns, gemstones of every shape and size and color…, There were even a few tiara-makers; something that Carol had only seen once or twice before at shows like this. Carol smirked to herself. She knew what it was like to wear a real tiara: it gave her great, almost child-like joy, to imagine these young women (and men, she reminded herself) getting to wear one too in these modern times. S
he wondered if they wore long, satin gloves as well.
She poked her way through the tables. There was one vendor who sold Native American jewelry that Carol was particularly drawn to; not only because of the strong sense of Native singing and chanting that she perceived, like sunlight filling just that booth, but because the jewelry was both modern and timeless, with beautiful cabochons of agate and malachite and turquoise. She purchased an artist-signed, silver Medicine-Bag, set with a myriad of different stones. For a moment, the sound of the singing/chanting was all Carol could hear, and she paused with her hand on the counter to steady herself and her cane solidly on the floor on the other side. The rhythmic pattern of the Native language pulled at her: not a language she knew, of course, but a rhythm her body or soul seemed to know very well. It was all she could do to keep from swaying along with it. This was a Good Place; the spirits were praising this particular vendor with their song. Carol could tell by the way it made her feel: peaceful, joyful, honored. She was even more pleased with her purchase now.
She continued to move down the aisles. Occasionally, she would feel a presence: one over at that table, another one as she walked by this booth; random bits of singing, and laughing, and crying chimed in her ears and senses as she meandered.
At one point, she was reaching for a pendant carved out of perfect-pink rose quartz, when her hand was pushed aside, gently, by some unseen force. She reached again for the pendant, and again her hand was diverted to the side. She looked around to see if anyone else had noticed. She heard a brief, distant whisper in her ear.
“No’ that ‘un….” Ian’s voice sighed. It was the most she had heard from him all day. She wondered if he was possibly not as strong as he had thought he was… as she had thought he was. Hopefully, he could hang on and remain with her until she got home, and he had his regular abode of his Highland bear nearby.
Finally, Carol found the seller she was looking for. Ross Goodman was a young man with a shock of white-blonde hair and brilliant blue eyes that stood out in a crowd. He had been buying odd bits of jewelry from Carol for a few years, and she was at this Gem Show by his invitation. They greeted each other warmly, and Ross threw his arms about her in a familiar hug.
“Oh, Carol, it is so good that you came! Let me look at you.” He held her at arm’s reach for a moment and ran his eyes over her. “Oh, you look divine, as always. Is that an Erte?”
She grinned. “It sure is, you darling boy. I promised I’d show it to you someday… Well, today is ‘someday’. Now, I have something that I thought you might be interested in maybe using.”
Ross not only sold antique jewelry; he also was a designer. He was known for his excellent silver-smithing and his use of classic, antique design-elements. Out of her purse, Carol pulled a black, velvet bag and, opening it, she took out her Assyrian-hunt-scene bracelet from Keefe O’Katie’s. When she had first seen the golden cuff, she had marveled at its intricacy. Every detail was carefully sculpted into the gold, from the carved wheels of the chariots to the delicate figuring of the horses’ harnesses. She had never seen anything like it. She had picked it up right away, specifically because she had known that Ross was going to love it.
“Provenance?” Ross asked.
Carol smirked. “None. It’s a complete unknown.”
“I love this,” he replied seriously. “I must have this. The detail is exquisite….” he trailed off. He peered at the bracelet, then pulled out a loupe and held it to his eye, examining the item closely. He made appreciative sounds. “Let’s see what we can work out.”
Ross showed Carol over to his display counter. He always used the finest stones, and Carol loved his creations. She saw a pair of handmade pearl and blue topaz earrings that she thought her youngest daughter would love.
“Ross, how about a trade? How much for those earrings?”
He told her. She looked in the display case. There was a necklace of tiny, garnet beads with gold and pearls. It was very long, and the stones looked to be of excellent quality.
“Ross, how about that? Tell me how much you’re asking for that necklace.”
“I’ll tell you what, Carol. I’ll give you the earrings, and the necklace, for the cuff.”
“Throw in that cameo, and you’ve got a deal.” The cameo in question was large, about two-and-a-half inches tall, with an angel standing by an anchor and beseechingly looking up at an overhead star. Something about her face, the way she stood, as if praying to the star, made Carol feel a kinship with that figure, and she just had to have her.
“Oh, you’ve got good taste! She’s a real beauty, isn’t she? She’s old. Let me think for a minute….” He did some mental calculating, rolling his vivid eyes. “Oh, alright! You can have her too.” He laughed. “I want that bracelet!”
They completed their transaction with smiles and more hugs, and Carol promised to send Ross photos of her wearing the jewelry out at “some fabulously ritzy shin-dig.” She managed to make it through the rest of the morning, thanks to Yao’s tea, without either exhausting herself or buying anything else and, just as she was getting ready to leave and grab lunch, she knew he was there. It began with a silent, growing apprehension in the air, an increasing tightness in her belly that made her clench her teeth. Freddie Archegon was perusing a table covered with stone obelisks and spheres near the front. She decided that she had the energy and gumption to take the initiative, and so she strode up behind him.
“Freddie? Freddie Archegon, is that you?” She feigned surprise.
Freddie Archegon whirled around to face her with a startled smile upon his face.
“Carol Conley! Heavens-to-Betsy, what are you doing here? I didn’t know you were going to be in town.” He seemed genuinely surprised, and he clasped her hands between his with delight in his sparkling eyes. They were grey, Carol noticed, like sunlight reflections on water.
“Well, I love this show, so I like to come every year or two. I thought I might find you here, with our shared love of jewelry; I’m glad to see I was right.” She felt a tickle on her arm, like a sighing breath. She brushed her hand over it, quelling Ian’s presence.
Freddie took that arm in his.
“Have you had lunch yet? There’s a little place right by my house that makes great blintzes.”
And, like before, off they went, out into the summer sunshine.
They walked into Freddie’s darkened shop and he switched on the lights. The shelves and counters were covered with all sorts of unusual items: candles of all colors and scents, jars and jars of incense-sticks, hanging necklaces of beads and shells and crystals, books, pentacles, wall-hangings, strange objects. Freddie beamed with pride.
“Welcome to my home! How do you like it?” He said with a bow and a flourish. “I sell only the best in Occult merchandise at my store. You won’t find those cheap, plastic pentacles here, no ma’am. I vet all of my items and vendors, so I know it’s of real quality.” He walked calmly through the room.
Carol’s senses were on fire. It was like walking into bright, hot sunlight after being in a dark room all day; like biting into an orange when one is thirsty and overheated, and the taste of it is almost painful on the tongue; like washing off with fresh water after sea-salt has crusted upon your skin: searing and tingly. There were so many spirits here, all milling about, some rushing to and fro like they were in a hurry, some not. None of them seemed afraid or panicked. None of them seemed to even notice their surroundings, or Freddie. For his part, Freddie walked right through them as though unaware, and they swirled around him like clouds of vapor. Carol could feel them passing by her, around her, through her, and the hairs on her arms prickled. She couldn’t hear Ian; the background “noise” of the surrounding souls was too much no matter how tightly she clutched the tartan shawl.
“Oh, it’s lovely!” she almost shouted. Freddie took her hand and showed her to a back room, through a beaded curtain she had not even noticed. He sat her down at a round, wooden table with heavy, carved legs.
“My dear, sit down. You look like you’re going to have another one of your episodes. Let me get you some water.” He left to fetch it.
Carol started to feel steadier as she sat, and she noticed that the restlessness of the spirits seemed to be dying down more and more the longer she sat there. By the time Freddie returned with the water, she was starting to feel like herself again, and everything seemed to have calmed down.
“Here you are, drink this. It’s just water, but it should help.” Freddie smirked at her. “There’s a lot of noise in there sometimes, I know… especially when someone new comes in. The spirits get very excited and like to show themselves.” He looked over the table and met her stare. “Oh yes, I know. You’re not fooling anyone, young lady.” He waved his fingers in the air. “I can sense the spirits too, you know. Not as well as you, my dear, but I can, and that’s what makes me especially suited for this business.” He winked. “And I have ample material to work with! Let me show you.” He went out of the room again and came back clutching something in his hands. He put it on the table. It was a silver chain with a pendant of what looked to be clear, golden topaz, bound in silver.
“Go ahead, pick it up.” He prompted.
Carol reached for the pendant. Her fingers tingled as they approached it. When she touched it, she felt a presence, but it was muted… like it was behind glass, muffled. She looked at Freddie.
“What is this?” she asked fearfully. She remembered the panic of the souls in the jewelry store where she had met him: in particular, the terrified woman’s face in the amethyst window.
“This one is one of my latest creations. It’s not too powerful, but it can sure add a kick to any flame or illumination spell you’d care to try.” He laughed and winked at her. “This one can be had for only fifty bucks; a bargain for any witch.”
Carol knew that it was trendy to call oneself a “witch,” but she was not sure how it sat with her. She was not a witch; she just could sense the dead in various ways. She had always been like this, and had no need of charms or spells, like witches used. She had learned to conceal it early on for fear, in fact, of being referred to as one, like the green-skinned Wicked Witch of the West.
Magic Underground: The Complete Collection (Magic Underground Anthologies Book 4) Page 109