by Trinity Crow
“So what did you see when I picked up the tree?” she asked.
I swallowed a mouthful of beef, gravy, and French bread. It felt ridiculously as if I was being interviewed.
“Woman,” I said, picturing her, “short, almost helmet-like black hair, ugly coat…of wool or something heavy, with a tight belt. And black eyes. In her fifties maybe? But dressed like 1940’s winter in Moscow. Very angry, in fact, furious,” I paused, “violent.”
“Violent?” Aren said, with that annoying single eyebrow lift.
"She tried to bean me and was about to bean you.” My tone was flat, telling her to believe it or not. My mouth tightened. I saw what I saw, and I was hating how defensive it made me feel.
“Was she holding a weapon?” Aren asked, her eyes widening.
“Hands,” I said, ignoring Aren’s furious writing and eating a French fry dredged in gravy and mayo drippings. Heaven.
"You saw her where, when I held the object?" asked Aren, scribbling.
“She appeared behind you." I eyed her untouched sandwich in disapproval. Was she really going to let it get cold?
“When you took the tree away from me, did she disappear to go behind you?” Aren asked, her eager "girl detective on the case" impression made me relent.
“No,” I said, with a little more patience than I felt. "She just…” I shrugged, “looked me in the eye, blazing hatred.”
Aren got that bug-eyed look, and I braced myself for another ‘What are you?’ outburst, but this time she controlled herself.
“Unusual.” she murmured, nonchalantly.
“Hah,” I said and started laughing. Aren looked sheepish and then laughed too.
“It is freaking amazing,” she said, laughing helplessly, “You’re like a prodigy.”
I slurped my root beer and smiled, modestly nonchalant myself, which fooled her not a bit.
“Why did you write all that down?” I finally asked, wanting to know, but fighting habits of a lifetime that made want to act uninterested.
“Well,” she said, “I have a person who finds objects for me. She’s kind of a low level sensitive so she can sense an…” she waved her hands around “…energy, an aura about an object, but not get the finer points.”
“So, she knew that the tree was talismanic, but not that it was attached to an angry spirit,” I said.
Aren favored me with two raised eyebrows. “You’ve been reading’” she said.
I gestured at the books I had finished and brought back. "Can I get a couple more?"
“Of course.” Aren took a ladylike bite of her sandwich. I had no idea how she even managed that as po'boys are neither finger food or silverware friendly.
“So you wrote that down, why?” I did not want to end up as some internet blog post entitled "This Week in Freaks…"
“Well,” she said, “a few of us who are more advanced meet regularly. It’s helpful to discuss situations or problems with others who understand or believe. No one has all the answers.”
“I kind of noticed from reading,” I said, “that no one wants to commit.”
“Well, it’s not an exact, or even recognized science, and the same event can appear different to two people.”
I thought about that. “So when you held the tree?”
“I didn’t feel anything,” she said calmly “but I don’t read objects. I read people,” she paused, “and dreams.”
“I didn’t feel anything either.” I pointed out.
“Didn’t you?” Aren asked. “Were you paying attention? And maybe feel is the wrong word, more sense? Not a physical, warm, cold, or rough, smooth, but internally sense, either welcoming or else unpleasant? Maybe unwanted?”
I thought about that. I hadn’t been focused on anything, but some sense or feeling had made me turn around.
“And we already know you block out what you don’t want to know.”
“I didn’t block out our angry Russian friend,” I commented.
Well, I said you were good,” she laughed, “not perfect.”
I thought about what that meant. That there were things stronger than me that I couldn’t block out. That it was important to practice shutting and locking.
“Aren’t you worried? Offering objects to people that might be, well, haunted?”
Aren considered and shook her head. “Actual harm is pretty rare. Most people can't sense anything”
I felt disbelief at that. Maybe you weren’t bleeding, but I'd bet the psychological damage might be high. Maybe it affected them in ways they couldn't understand or describe, or even admit. No way was it healthy to have that angry woman hanging about.
"I've had people return objects or throw them away. We meet and go over the objects in the case which have been associated with strong reactions.”
I shuddered at the thought of a roomful of people passing around that tree the woman getting more and more enraged. Maybe they had some kind of supernatural lion tamer person to chill the spooks out. I cleared my throat and tried to let go of the thought of paranormal parlour games.
“Look, I am barely wading through this Readings book,” I said. “I was hoping maybe you could give me the run down,” I repeated my castings for dummies idea.
Aren looked horrified. “People study all their lives, and you want me to just condense?”
“You know, like the highlights. Top ten things you should know about spooky stuff. Hot five casting topics and a brief outline of each,” I said hopefully.
“No,” Aren said, her whole demeanor suggesting I was a sacrilegious caveman in her pretty Wiccan world.
I turned a bit sulky at her refusal. I mean, was I just supposed to stumble around avoiding stair doors and moody Russian women?
“Okay,” she said suddenly, and I looked up hopefully.
“I mean no,” Aren said sternly. “I can see you need information, experiencing things at the rate you are. And really that sending worries me."
Worries her? I've got evil dudes, midnight painters and the squirrel of Christmas Past running around. At least with inbred cannibals, you can stab them to death. I kept my face blank, but it took some doing.
She got up and went to the shelf of books. Her finger ran along the titles. I squinted, no sparkles. I opened my mouth to ask her and then shut it. I doubted the sparks were harmful and I wasn't in the mood for more big-eyed wonder at my super snowflake status.
Aren pulled down a square, leathery looking book. “First, self-protection. You shouldn't be wandering around attracting energies with no defenses.”
Several smart ass remarks came to mind, but I kept my mouth shut.
She paused, her mouth pursed in thought, and then took down a small paperback with a shiny cover. “And some exercises.” She walked back over and handed the books to me. "There's that, but what I think would be really helpful…" She stopped, eyed me, looking unsure. "…is if you come to our Thursday night meetings."
Crap. People.
"I thought you said you were advanced.” I was all too clearly aware of my beginner status.
“Well, yes.” she said, slowly, “You see, they have the experience, but you, you have…" she paused, “You have….”
“The gift!” A deep sepulchral voice intoned from behind the curtains.
Chalk scribbles on the sidewalk, red balloons against the sky, the smell of cinnamon and ginger.
I jumped a little in my seat, startled by the voice and the images. Aren, however, just rolled her eyes.
‘Sayre,” she said, “show yourself.”
What the hell now?
I waited for some kind of jester-like, spirit familiar to pop out, bracing myself for the jabbering or capering or just more bad fashion.
Instead, a girl stepped out, from hair to shoes a riot of color. As I took in her ridiculous outfit, well, costume, I congratulated myself. I had got the jester part right. She threw her arms out in a gesture of triumph at her own magnificence. Then her face fell.
“Hey!” she said acc
usingly to me. “You're eating my lunch!”
“Sister?" I asked Aren.
“Yes.” they both said at the same time.
You canceled.” Aren was unfazed. Evidently, this was a regular thing. “You had a crisis.”
“Ah, but the promise of C&J’s roast beef lured me forth from the depths of my misery,” Sayre said, dramatically, “and now, to find it consumed, devoured, wasted on the pair of you.”
Total nut job. Definitely limit the time spent around this one. I mental sighed.
“Oh, alright!” she said, apparently able to read my not so blank expression. “I’ll dial it down.”
Sayre picked up Aren’s half sandwich and began to chew with pleasure. I couldn’t fault her, they were amazing.
“She’s right, though,” Aren said, returning to our conversation. “You have the gift. No one will mind you being there, once they see what you are capable of. We're more about sharing than elitism.”
I wasn’t too thrilled at the thought of being the evening’s freakertainment and said so.
“Nah,” said Sayre “they're all freaks themselves and…” her voice grew to a ringing tone, “they shall call you King!”
I sighed again.
“You’re no fun,” Sayre told me, looking owlish behind heavy bangs of what was obviously not a natural hair color.
“What would be the point of me coming?” I asked. I reached for my last few fries that Sayre was staring hungrily at.
“Well, you need to know more about casting to start focusing and training your ability.”
I swallowed quickly. “What does that mean my ability? Those books were so conflicting. I mean, are you born with it? Is it like a catalytic change, an awakening?” I did sarcastic air quotes. “Can you get better or what you have is what you get?”
"Well,” Aren paused, her face thoughtful, “when we say someone is psychic, it means that they receive impressions, feelings, even sounds or smells. It’s something you are born with like brown hair. You can’t ever make your hair browner. Is this making sense? A person with psychic ability can become more knowledgeable on the signs and trappings of the supernatural, and so interpret or even predict things better but they can’t increase the strength of the impressions. With casting, you aren’t just receiving, so much as manipulating the aether.”
Sayre caught my confused eyebrows and jumped in. “It's a word for the other side. You know, the spirit realm, the great unknown, that big boneyard in the sky…” She waved her hands enthusiastically.
"Point taken." I interrupted. She grinned unrepentantly and reached for my rootbeer, but I was quicker and scooted it closer. Sayre made a face at me.
“So, I’m putting something out there?” I said, hearing the skeptical note in my voice.
“It doesn’t have to be conscious, and usually isn’t in the beginning. It's more of a feeling of unease, or like your senses are on alert, when you are alone or it’s quiet.”
I thought about it, but had nothing to share with the group.
“Casting is different. It's an ability, a talent that you can get better at, like a person born with a talent for art or music, you can practice and get better and better. Some people are born with strong talents and don’t need to work as hard, others must really practice and learn." She shrugged. " For some people, many people, there is no inborn ability and they will never be able to detect other energies.”
“Maybe it is like Medusa!”
Both of us looked at Sayre. She was clearly on fire with the brilliance of her idea.
“Like Medusa‘s hair! You can’t make your hair browner, normally, but what if you could? Your ability is like Medusa’s hair! Whether you want it to or not, those snakes are moving and sensing and tasting the supernatural air with their little forked tongues!” Sayre weaved her head back and forth, her fingers above her head, crooked and waving, imitating snakes. She eyed us eagerly, waiting for us to embrace the absurd.
I snorted at her rapture over the metaphor. Wait, simile.
Aren frowned as she tried to take this in. “Well, to use Sayre’s…"
I looked up. Maybe she knew.
"…analogy."
Nope, she didn't.
"Your snakes sense them and, well, hiss!” she laughed, “You actively ward them off.”
“So is Julia…evil?”
“Mmmm, it wouldn’t have to be evil or even hostile. When you think of her, you think…?”
“Decaying, bloody corpse girl,” I answered readily.
Aren's right eyebrow went up. Maybe that was inborn too, like tongue rolling. The thought made me feel better, though I'd trade eyebrow for occultery any day.
“That would be enough for your snaky sense to activate!” put in Sayre.
“Defense mechanism to kick in,” Aren translated.
“So I'm repressing because of fear of the unknown.” I thought about it. Pulling the book forward, careful of the paper strewn with mayo and gravy, I flipped to the Castings stanza. "What about this part? Is this the ability I'm supposed to train? I don't even know what it means.” I read it aloud to them.
in these roads, cast…
Across the water to summon
Upon the wind to find
Unto the fire to veil
Of the earth will bind
“Hoodoo,” said Sayre, nodding her head wisely.
I didn’t bother rolling my eyes at Sayre. I was getting used to her dramatics.
"Well," said Aren, apologetically. “She’s kind of right. The author feels that the ability of casting can be strengthened by using an associated element. People for centuries have claimed divine or magical associations with the elements. Hoodoo is that way. That's why they call it rootwork.”
“Have you tried it?” I asked.
Aren nodded. “My casting ability is linked to dreams, so I had to guess how the rune could be translated. And I can only find or seek. I don't have the other abilities.”
“Why is that? The whole guessing thing?" I was getting irritated with all the smoke and mirrors. “Why don’t they just say three drops of Evian on your forehead, or whatever the deal is, plain and simple?”
“Because,” Sayre butted in, “it shouldn't be simple. This is an ability that needs control and people shouldn’t just “dabble". It’s not like trying soccer or watercolors, there can be serious consequences.”
Aren nodded, "This way, you have to study, to train. You grow in strength as you learn and, hopefully, you learn to be cautious. Hopefully, your motives are good and you approach this with a sense of gravity and responsibility.”
"Well," I said, knowing my motives were cautious and selfish both. “sometimes it approaches you.”
We sat for a minute. I guess everyone was busy with their own thoughts. Sayre was also busy eating every scrap of food left on the table.
“So how do you start learning control?” I finally said.
“First ask the question!” said Sayre and Aren in chorus and then laughed together.
Not knowing the joke, I waited for the explanation
“It’s something our Gram always said,” Aren explained. “Before you begin any endeavor, a job, school, a relationship, you should ask yourself what is the outcome you wish to achieve.” She looked at me with the by now familiar intensity. “What do you want to control and why?”
That took a minute. What did I want to control? To see Corky only when I wanted? To block out any unwanted attentions?
It somehow creeped me out more, knowing there was people or spirits around me that I couldn't see. Freaked me out really, because what if they were still there and I just chose not to see them? It seemed kind of ostrich-like and also dangerous. I asked as much.
“I really don’t know,” Aren said. "Maybe you repel them out of your area or just blind your senses to their presence. You should come to the meeting and talk to Chloe. She has some of the same ability as you.”
Sayre shook her head, not an echo of her sister's answer, but in wa
rning. “If you think I am out there, prepare yourself for the queen of out there.”
Aren frowned at her sister. “That’s not fair.” she said, “Chloe has had a really bad time.”
“I’m not saying she isn't perfectly justified.” Sayre took advantage of Aren's distraction and drained her root beer. “I am just warning our young friend here that Chloe is left of center.”
Aren turned those eyes on me. “Chloe has had this ability since she was a young child, only no one believed her. She was heavily medicated because of what they thought were hallucinations and dementia. That kind of chemical cocktail left her mind defenseless.”
“Oh yeah,” Sayre rustled among the paper looking for a last french fry she might have missed. “You might want to think about that. Be careful of what medications you take.”
I shook my head. “I never even take aspirin,” I said. No, not since I woke up to the girl in the next bed vomiting up all the pills she had taken to kill herself.
Aren nodded. “Well, her parents eventually institutionalized her. When she was nineteen, a nurse from Haiti was hired. Her experience with Voodoo was such that she knew what was happening to Chloe and began to secretly help her control her talent.”
Chloe's story had an eerie familiarity to the one I had just read about Olivia.
“So, fair warning,” Sayre said, “anything she tells you about casting will have a healthy sprinkling of Voodoo in it.”
You can’t say Voodoo isn’t real,” Aren protested.
How nuts had my life become? In any other shop, the opposite of that exact statement would have argued.
”Oh, I'm not saying that at all. Besides, how could I grow up in LaPierre and not believe in Voodoo?” Sayre said, all sarcasm. The smear of gravy and mayonnaise on her cheek ruined her jaded act.
“Hair and nail clippings,” I said, a memory from my first-grade teacher coming to mind.
Sayre snapped and pointed a zebra tipped finger at me. “Exactly!”
Aren nodded in agreement with us. Some beliefs had trickled down through all our childhoods, living in the South and in Louisiana. Like never leaving hair or nail clipping where someone could get a hold of them and direct evil your way.