by Trinity Crow
“What else?” Aren studied me, head tilted, eyes thoughtful. “What else comes to mind when you think of Corky and Julia?”
“There is a squirrel in the tree that sees Corky. They fuss,” I said without thinking.
“Can other people see the squirrel?”
“I don’t know, no one is ever around.” I thought about that and how there was something. . .something different when the squirrel showed up. “In your dream, walking from light to shadow. . .” I trailed off, trying to pull my thoughts together. “Whenever Corky is around, the light always goes dim. And the squirrel is always in the shadows of the oak.”
Aren sat forward. She leaned her head on her hand and stared at me. Her face looked funny like she was seeing something more than brown hair and olive skin, more than a Ben Howard tee and cut-off jean shorts.
“It’s called casting.” She said the word like it was important, special. “Pulling things to you, pushing them away. You are controlling the light, not Corky. You tell him to appear or not.”
“I am?” I didn't bother to hide the yeah, right in my tone.
“Well, the people who have lived in your house have smelled a fragrance or heard traces of music which are associated with Julia, right?”
I nodded in agreement.
“So, the most common phenomena of the house is of Julia, but you see, hear, feel Corky. You push away what you don’t want and pull to you what you can accept. You don’t want to see Julia, so you don’t.”
That sounded okay. Maybe I could stop stressing about a ghost chick bumping around after dark.
“That's a great theory, but there was something else. And believe me, I didn't want that!”
“What happened?”
I bit my lip and then spilled out the story, unloading the fear that had been simmering just below the surface.
“And it just left?” Aren's eyes were wide.
“Uh, I may have lost my temper and sort of ordered it out.” No way was I sharing the crying part. “That guy spirit thing, he didn't live there,” I said it firmly, willing her to believe me so I didn't have to explain how I knew without knowing. Then it hit me, if anybody would get that, it was Aren. “ I know it,” I told her quietly. “I do. And I didn't pull him there. No way.”
Aren hesitated. “Does anyone know you can see Corky, besides me?”
“My landlady,” I said, “but she's the one who told me.”
Aren looked worried. “I'm not accusing anyone, but sometimes people who practice the occult,” she paused, “not the good people you understand? It's been known they can work a sending to test the powers of another worker, or to flush out a hidden rival.”
I was quiet for a minute. All the hell I wanted was a couple of walls and a roof. I felt exhausted and like stuff was happening too fast.
“And not necessarily your landlady. She may have mentioned it to someone, or your workings, castings, showed up in the spiritual world." A look at my blank face had her explaining. "When you dispersed that spirit. It's like if you pluck a strand of a spider web, the energy runs along all the strands.”
“Ripple effect.” I stared into my empty teacup, not even grounds to give me a woo world clue.
She nodded. “Something like. Yours was a bit more like waves.” I looked up to catch her smile.
“Aren? Is there a reason someone would paint my doors and windows blue?”
Both her eyebrows went up into her hairline. “Really?” she said, “since …”
“Yeah, the day after.”
“It's called haint paint or haint blue. Some people believe it protects a house from spirits, especially evil ones. They get confused, thinking it's water.”
“Spirits can't cross water?” That sounded nuts. They could cross from death to life, but not over water?
Aren shrugged. ”It's a common belief, like a mirror on the porch stops the devil.”
“Do you believe?” I asked pointedly.
“I believe people can make things happen through the force of their belief and will. I've seen it. The thing is, that was a protective gesture. You have a possible sending which seems more possible in light of the fact that someone else then tried to protect you. I can help you with protections, too.”
“I don’t want to know all this,” I said overwhelmed, and then added with uneasy realization “…but I think I have too."
“I know,” she said in sympathy, “it isn’t easy.”
Aren,” I said “I don’t know about any of this stuff. I’m at sea and I get the feeling I need to catch up quick.”
Aren gestured to the wall of books. “Homework,” she said. She stood up and walked over to the used book wall. “I keep these as sort of a lending library. All the books are knowledge of either what to do or what not to do. Sometimes a book speaks to you and then you want to own a copy.”
Aren chose a book and brought it over to me “I'd recommend this one, and then you should choose the others.”
The book was old, but not ancient, 1930's maybe. The cover was brown and plain like books look when they have lost their dust jacket, sort of forlorn, knowing they are being judged and passed over. The title was Readings of the Moon, which sounded suitably bizarre.
Aren smiled at my grimace at the title.
“Maybe she had a bad editor?” I suggested.
Aren laughed. “It has the best section on casting I’ve found. It’s a pretty obscure ability. Some people deny it exists.”
Then she waved me towards the books. I was clueless as to where to start but Aren insisted that I would be guided to the right titles which sounded like hocus pocus crap, but my resistance was pretty low after all the other stuff that had happened. I walked back and forth, feeling dumb as hell. I was glad when she wandered back over to the glass counter. I gave up and grabbed two random books when I was sure she wasn't looking, one had a tree sketched on the cover and the other was like a workbook. Whatever.
“Take this,” Aren said and handed me a ring of tarnished looking silver with a green stone. “And don't take it off.”
I shook my head and put my hands behind my back like a three-year-old near a hot stove. “I can't,” I said.
“Yes, you can.” She smiled at my reluctance.
No,” I shook my head, “I can't. I can't wear rings at work.” I shrugged my shoulders. “I work at Delicata's.”
Aren laughed those bell notes that sounded out of place and yet perfectly right. “Did you…”
“Yeah, I'm glad you like them. My favorite is the cream cheese. You should try it.”
She smiled, and closed her hand around the ring, “I will. Well, let's see what else we have.” We walked over to the case and she pulled aside a tall rack of dangling necklaces.
“Not those,” she said as I reached for one. From beneath the case, she lifted a flat black box and opened it. Five necklaces lay on the velvet interior. I could see from the depressions, two had been removed. She trailed a finger across them and I shook my head unconsciously until she touched the green stone.
Aren looked up at me. “I felt that.” she marveled. “Your energy totally changed when I touched this one.” She waved a hand at me to take it. I hesitated not sure if I could afford it.
“They aren't for sale,” Aren said, guessing or knowing my thoughts. “I have to give them as gifts to the right person. This one is yours.”
I picked it up, a clear green stone with a little figure like a stick house etched into the surface, a silver wire wrapped spirals around the edges and it hung from a sturdy strap of leather. I loved it. I reached around my neck and knotted the ends of the cord.
“Against your skin,” Aren said. Amulets work best with skin contact.”
I slipped in down the neck of my tee and the energy pulsed, a little heartbeat.
“Cool,” I said, like an idiot.
Aren grinned at me. “Really cool.” she agreed.
I left the shop with three books, an amulet necklace, and something resembling a friend. I w
asn't sure what was scarier, the world of the occult, or this dumb hopeful feeling inside me.
Chapter 10
I stopped at a store on the ride home and got Corky a bag of bones. These were basted pork ribs and to my un-doggy eye looked much more tasty than the rawhide chews. The day had turned kind of cloudy and smelled like rain. The wind gusted cool around me as I rode, not freaky ghost-ridden zephyrs, but that wild rush of currents which come before a storm. It occurred to me that I had not told Aren about the wind and maybe I didn't want to. In spite of my earlier panic, I couldn't shake the feeling they had been greeting me, welcoming me.
When I reached Calle St. Cyr, the road flat and empty ahead of me and the frisky breeze daring me, made me stand up and race madly towards the plantation. My hair streamed out behind me and it felt good to be alive, even living in haunted old LaPierre with unknown spirit workers mucking about in my life. I wished Corky was there, running alongside the bike.
At the house, I unlocked the downstairs door and whistled to Corky. He bounded out in a rush of energy and was all over me. Even dead, he smelled the bones through their wrapper, but I was determined to try an experiment. Hopping on my bike, I pedaled around in a small circle, calling Corky as I did. He came willingly, but the yard was too small for him to actually run in. Watching him out the corner of my eye, I rode down the sandy path to the paved Lichen Alley. Corky shone white in the deep shade as he raced along just at my heel. I laughed at his tongue, flapping out the side of his mouth. We hit the pavement and he galloped right along, turning in a circle with me at the end. Up and down the tree-lined drive we went, and as I neared the end of the drive, I turned to go left along the street. Eagerly, I looked down and saw Corky’s paw cross over from the shadowed drive to the sunlit asphalt road. A fierce joy lit through me, he could go with me.
At that instant, a loud whistle cut through the air and Corky skidded to a stop. He barked, wild with joy and turned to race back up the drive. I was going too fast to stop, but skidded into a circle, following him anxiously to see who whistled. Corky dashed headlong down the drive to the open downstairs door. Wait. Hadn't I shut that door?
He threw himself upwards, over and over, wriggling and yelping in glee at someone I couldn’t see. He pushed his way inside and the last thing I saw before I ran into the tree was the door closing quite firmly behind him.
I wasn’t much hurt. Scrapes and bruises. What I was, was astonished and a bit freaked out. Maybe I couldn’t see Julia, but she could see me or at least Corky. I shook my head in disgust. I mean, all that casting away malarkey and she had been skulking around the whole time. I walked my bike slowly up the drive, giving anxious glances to Mrs. Evers' back porch in case she had seen the whole thing, but the place remained silent and quiet. Probably out with one of her ladies clubs.
I limped up to the carriage house, tipping the bike against the wall and stared at the spirit stopping, blue paint on the closed back door. I guessed Julia wasn't thrilled with me trying to run off with her dog. I'd had enough for one day. I walked away from the dead neighbors and took my aching self upstairs for a hot bath.
Living in a foster home means never having a bathroom to yourself. One thing I had discovered living on my own is my absolute love of long baths. I grabbed the books from Aren’s, a glass of iced tea, and headed for the tub. I ran the cold water, but it was more like room temperature. Still, it beat dripping in your own sweat.
The books I had picked up were a mixed bunch. Beside Readings of the Moon, I picked out a book called Nightwork. The inside panel said it was an overview of basic occult beliefs and phenomenon, which was hopefully, the "Spooky for Dummies" I was looking for. The third was an autobiography of a woman named Olivia, that was the one with the oak tree, a flimsy connection if anything.
I picked up Nightwork first. I figured I could understand the moon book better if I had some kind of background knowledge. I skimmed the chapter on beliefs around the world, wishing there was a subsection for LaPierre. The next section talked about sacred objects and symbols. There seemed to be two groups of thought. One insisted the power came from the force of the belief behind it, and the other insisted regardless of what you believe, power exists in the world. For most of my life, I wholeheartedly sided with the “belief is power” folks. I would have further stated that the power came from them fooling themselves. But now? Well, I hadn’t believed in ghosts or ghost dogs, but there he was. And not just anyone could see him, so where was the power? Did Corky pick who saw him or were some people more sensitive? The book called it being attuned. I could see that making sense. Like those people who knew nothing about music, but could tell if the pitch or key was off.
I read up on amulets and how some believed the older the amulet the greater the power, others thought it must be made specific to the wearer. It was beginning to seem like everybody had an opinion and no one could agree. Amulets were for protection and good luck to the wearer, but a hex or charm could be passed along on such an object as well.
I didn’t really have an opinion on amulets. I turned the necklace Aren had given me over in my hands. Did I believe this thing could protect me? The jury was still out on that, but I did have this faith in Aren and her ability. Well, her intent, anyway. As it fell back against my skin, I frowned. Did the belief of the maker influence it? If she believed and I didn’t? I shook my head. I was finding more questions than answers.
Next up, sacred places. I was cautioned to make the distinction between hallowed and profane sacred places. It seemed the dark side called their special spots sacred as well. Churches were sacred, cemeteries often profane. A church cemetery? A battleground. Supposedly it wasn’t as simple as black and white. Or god and the devil. Sacred places could be created as the result of acts of valor and profane by horrific crimes. The Indians believed the ground could go sour, causing bad things to happen to the people who lived there. I frowned, thinking of something Mrs. Evers had said in the garden, about sweet earth being good for planting. My mind played around with the thought of sour soil and thinning the line between us and some kind of shadow world. Did using the ground up, taking from it without giving back, disturb some kind of natural balance? I definitely didn't know enough about the spirit world or farming to make that call. I didn’t really feel that the plantation was hallowed or profane. But how would I know? The book said hallowed places made evil powerless and kept you safe from harm. I smiled to myself. Did that make Corky a hallowed dog?
The next chapter was titled apparitions, but I closed the book, using my ponytail holder for a bookmark. Time to get out. I was getting kind of pruney and my stomach was staging a thunderstorm of protest, so I hauled myself out the tub and put on as few clothes as possible. Another luxury of living alone.
The thought of heating up the kitchen was not a happy one and I hadn't wanted to give up the money for a microwave at the thrift store. I rooted around in my fridge considering various odds and ends and emerged triumphantly with a peanut butter and butter sandwich and a half a bag of Zapp's. Propping myself on my bed as close to the window as possible, as if hope could produce a breeze, I dove back into my crash course on all things spooky and woo. If I had to do it all over again, I would not read that apparitions chapter right before the sun went down. The book mostly described animal spirits as omens, both good and bad. There was a line-up of specters; ghosts, poltergeists, entities, and energies. Hauntings could focus on people or places, even objects. There were accounts of spirits attacking people and of people literally dying of fear. I was glad there was no one around to see me shut the window and close my bedsheet curtain to block out the falling night. Once, I would have snickered at the stuff in this book. Now, curled in bed, my lamp the only light in the house, I wasn't feeling so smart-ass. Not with that door to the dark side a few steps down the hall and the sun not up for eight more hours. For the first time I wished I had a TV or radio, so there'd be some other noise in the house beside my breathing and that retro fridge turning on and off. I ende
d up getting zero sleep although nothing, but my thoughts disturbed me all night long.
Chapter 11
If I was a little stiff moving around the bakery the next day, no one noticed, or knowing the D's, just didn't comment. I got to work, wishing today was my day off instead of tomorrow. The routine of my list helped a lot and by my second cup of coffee, I had the yeast loaves rising and was on to quick loaves.
As I folded the walnuts and dried cranberries into my batter, I watched Mr. DiMaggio taking down a recipe book. The bakery recipes were kept in big cloth-bound books, the pages were yellowed and old, the handwriting ridiculous. The D’s knew many of the recipes by heart but some were rarely used and only for important occasions, like the five cakes we offered only at Christmas that were pre-orders only. My favorite was the Cream Cake with Rum Spice. It was nice, really. You could mark the seasons by the smell of hebrot, a Jewish mincemeat, each Easter, or Tres Leches for Halloween. When I started at fifteen, I was already over holidays and crap, but seeing the D’s get all this joy and pleasure in holiday molds and using fruits and vegetables as they came in season, made me somehow more into it myself. It was June now and I knew in a week we would be turning out our 4th of July specialties. We didn’t do the obvious, white and blue icing. Fourth of July was for traditional baked goods of four countries, rotating a new one in each year. The D's were big on the whole American melting pot thing, only, Mr. D claimed the individual ingredients were what made the flavor. Celebrating the heritage of different countries honored the flavor they added to our country. Last year was Sweden and I gained four pounds scarfing dremor on my breaks.
Mr. D opened the book on a clean counter. “My first accepted recipe was a cake,” he told me, his bushy eyebrows raising and lowering rapidly to impress the importance of this comment on me.
“Accepted?” I asked, curiously.
Mr. D turned the pages lost in memory. “In our family, the history of baking goes back many, many years. Older than these books, that history. My great, great grandfather had five sons and all of them become bakers. Of those sons, twelve more sons are born and eight become bakers. To those twelve, twenty-nine sons are born and eighteen become bakers. From the time of the five sons, the books are started. A copy is given to each son. When a new recipe is created, all DiMaggio bakers must taste the creation and there is the vote. If accepted, it is copied in the books.”