Magic Remembered

by Coralie Moss

  A mist arose, coating my forehead and cheeks. I brought my fingertips to one side of my face to make sure I hadn’t imagined the cool drops.

  “Powers of the North, please be present. Bless us with depth in our connections to one another. Teach us to honor our Mother Earth.”

  The ground underneath my feet rose and fell in time with my breath. I stopped shaking and started trusting.

  Next, Rose opened her arms to the sides and began to move in a circle. The bottom of her lace dress flared out as she spun, sending ripples through nearby plants. “Elemental air, soaring over mountains and across flatlands, carrying our words, present in our every breath, elevating our minds and opening us to learning, please be present. Bless us with cleansing winds that soothe our wounds and imperfections. Bathe us in silver energy.”

  A moment later, a tiny flame appeared in Rose’s palm.

  “Elemental fire, who dwells in the dark at the center of the Earth and lights our solar system, please be present. Bless us with your gifts of action and creativity, your purifying flames and golden energy.”

  She turned in place until she again faced West and lowered both hands into the chalice at her feet, dowsing the flame. “Elemental water.” Rose stood, raised her cupped palms, water coursing down her arms. “Falling from clouds, rising from our springs and wells, flowing through our streams and rivers, abiding in the depths of our lakes and oceans, nurturing our emotions, please be present. Bless us with the tides of courage and change and bathe us in blue energy.”

  Rose stopped moving as she finished speaking. Her dress, glowing with silvered flickers of light, settled against her slender form. She took a wider stance, bent slightly at the knees, and turned her palms to face the ground.

  “Elemental earth,” she said, gently tamping her feet in place and pressing the air with her hands. “That which is everywhere underfoot, grounding and abundant, please be present. Bless us with the dark of your caves and the green light that grows within everything planted.”

  The lights on Rose’s dress faded, and my vision sped outward, past the wide trunks of the trees and into the consuming dark.

  The spruce and the fir absorbed the lingering wisps of Rose’s words. “Our intention as we gather here amongst these ancient trees, on this sacred ground, is to guide our sister, Calliope Jones, through the stages that bring her to Priestess. Calliope, are you ready to receive?”

  “Yes.” I waited, expectant.

  Sounds filtered into my awareness, rising from the ground and closing in from the surrounding trees. It took me a few stuttered breaths to understand the women were creating the sounds, using drums, a rainstick, fingers clicking, soft clapping, voices trilling. A chant began, and as the words gradually became clearer, I joined in, silently mouthing and following along as the voices got louder and louder.

  The moment I thought we had reached a crescendo, voices went silent as if one. Women’s arms floated out and up. White sleeves slid toward shoulders to reveal skin: bared, tattooed, adorned. Muscled, plump and lean. Fingers wiggled, and the sounds of nature at night gradually replaced the women’s voices.

  I almost giggled. I stopped myself as the women around me lowered their arms in slow motion, bent their knees, and took hold of objects they’d left by their feet. One by one, they placed wreaths—or maybe they were crowns—on their heads. A couple of the women bent again and retrieved other objects. L’Runa adjusted her headpiece, made her way to me, and offered a simple circlet of braided wire decorated with alternating metal leaves and round mirrors the size of silver dollars.

  “For me?” I whispered.

  She nodded. Her glowing braids swished against her body. “Yours to keep, Calliope Jones.”

  I tucked my chin as L’Runa placed the circlet on my head and stepped away. I straightened, touched my fingertips to the metal, and gently adjusted the fit until it sat secure.

  Busy was next. She lifted the length of ribbon draped behind her neck and placed it across my uplifted palms. Little blue flowers were braided into her crown. “I am Daughter. I offer Calliope Jones the gift of play and the power of innocence.”

  She stepped back, and Cordelia stepped forward. Her crown was decorated with arrowheads and bits of antlers.

  As Cordelia spoke, she lifted one end of Busy’s ribbon and joined it to the one she offered. “I am Maiden. I offer Calliope Jones the gifts to be found in the fertility of your mind and within this earth we inhabit and the power inherent in joining this community of women. May it be a place of solace and insight.”

  “I am Blood Sister,” said Sapphos Star, “and I offer Calliope Jones the gift of knowing and embracing her deepest self and making the time to run with Her as she finds her pack. I bless you with the power of unfettered truth.” Sapphos repeated the step of joining her ribbon to the prior one. The scent of apple blossoms and nectar wafted up from her headpiece of carved fruit and flowers.

  I inhaled quietly; my nerves calmed.

  Airlie stepped forward, her lush curves visible beneath an almost transparent gown. Roses and downy white feathers interlaced with pink ribbons formed her headpiece. She smiled at me as she tied a knot in the lengthening ribbon and recited her pledge. “I am Lover. I offer Calliope Jones the gifts and powers of death and rebirth.”

  “I am Mother.” I would have recognized the throaty laugh in Belle’s voice whether it was fully dark or I’d been blindfolded for this event. “I offer Calliope Jones the gift of nurturing, be it others or your own creativity, and the power of trusting your body.”

  Belle’s ribbon was a wide, silk velvet, and her crown was adorned with gold-painted sprigs of wheat and other grains.

  The next woman walked toward me with a centuries-old dignity. Rachel, that was her name, and I recognized her from Dr. Renard’s office. The tiny torches in her headpiece lit up like fairy lights, and in between each was a reclining female figure with a rounded belly. “I am here to represent the Midwife. I offer Calliope Jones the gift of nurturance beyond the circle and the power of the Gatekeeper and the Storyteller.”

  Her ribbon consisted of many intertwined lengths of yarn.

  Ivy danced forward, her smile lighting her face. She was another woman I hoped would be part of my growing social circle. “I am Amazon,” she sang, her trill accompanied by the tinkling sounds of metal pieces bobbing against one another. “I offer Calliope Jones the gift of self-determination and the power of inspiration as you focus on your passions.”

  As she leaned back to remove the cord draped over her neck and down her chest, I spied an arsenal of miniature weapons circling her head: a bows, arrows, conch shells, shields, javelins, and even a noose.

  If Ivy was joy-filled, the next woman was ageless and formidable. Tonatzin, the Mexican goddess. Over the required white dress, Justine wore a green cloak decorated with stars. She loosened the dress’s black belt and tied it to the growing length of ribbons puddling at my feet. Seashells and frogs, attached to short bits of springs, sprang from her crown.

  “I am Matriarch,” she said. “I offer Calliope Jones the gift of self-knowledge: of your strengths and your weaknesses, of your many blessings, harvested from your life to date. I challenge you to find the power inherent in the conservation of your formidable energy and success in directing it toward that which is truly deserving. And may you share the abundance of your many blessings.”

  Rose stepped into the circle and turned to face me.

  I already felt taller, stronger, bigger.

  “Calliope Jones, you are here as Priestess. It is especially fitting that we initiate you at this stage of your life. Behind you,” she said, sweeping her arm to the half-circle of women who had already spoken, “is an accumulation of power, a wide circle that places you on the precipice of descent into the deeper aspects of yourself, a descent made possible because you have chosen to align yourself with the company of women gathered around you tonight.

  “This ritual marks the start of your vision quest. It is perhaps the fi
rst of many, and in this turning of the self upside-down, you shed that which no longer serves you. You will go beyond that which you know and make room for that which is coming. As you travel—alone but supported—may you come to know the union of power and compassion such that you extend it to others along the way. May you call upon your Circle to help you remain grounded as you rise into realms of knowledge, perception, and leadership opening to you in this very moment.”

  While Rose spoke, my eyes closed. All the muscles in my face relaxed. My spine arched—heart lifted skyward—and my heels rose off the moss-covered mound until only the tips of my toes held me connected to the ground. The sticky net I’d felt earlier kept me suspended.

  Memories swarmed across my forehead and filtered into my facial bones. My mother’s face came into focus, fingertips of both her hands stroked my cheeks.

  Mama, too, wore a crown and a white ceremonial gown. A dry section of my heart plumped with the drops of maternal love radiating from her eyes. I arched farther, basking as I was cradled, wanted, and loved.

  Other images moved across the movie screen of my forehead—some of them were definitely my memories; some of them were snapshots that could have been from my life, or my mother’s, I couldn’t tell and didn’t need to know—until I came to a moment I remembered all too well. The scramble to pack what belongings we could fit into a dented Volkswagen Bug and the long, long drive from the coast of Maine to the coast of British Columbia and our arrival at my mother’s sister’s house.

  My mother’s death.

  A crack zig-zagged horizontally across my chest. The flames that earlier had danced so pleasingly over the front of my body now branded the muscles between my ribs. I gasped and arched further in an attempt to flee the pain.

  Mourning. Going to school. My first period. High school, band of girlfriends. Dating. College. Environmental studies. Meeting Doug. The sense of inevitability around our courtship and marriage. Being forced to choose him rather than continuing my studies into graduate school and greater activism.

  My magic shutting down.

  The burning sensation across my chest turned to ash.

  Mutual abandonment. The births of my two boys. The joy. My job. Finding my way. Autonomy. Becoming respected. The boys growing up. Doug and I growing apart. Divorce.

  My determination to find my way.

  The little bright and shiny bits and pieces I kept tucked away. The simple joys and pleasure of being with my plants. The compulsion to connect with living, growing green things.

  Living, growing, green things.

  Plants sprouting, seeding, dying, becoming loam for their offspring. Cool moss at my back.

  The lightening sky that presaged dawn. Soft voices. Careful whispers, sent in my direction, pull me back into the circle.

  “I am Sorceress. I offer the Circle the gift of time out of time and the powers of alchemy.”

  “I am Crone, the old one. I offer the Circle the gift of listening and the power of divination.”

  “I am Dark Mother. I offer the Circle the gifts of solitude, retreat and hibernation, and the power of destruction as it leads to rebirth and letting go.”

  “I am Transformer.” L’Runa—I knew that voice. “I am the source of All. I offer the Circle the gift and power of fear as an ally, the power of courage as we embrace change. I am the Carrier of the Cauldron. I am the Cosmic Womb and the Oracle. I am Shakti, and I am breath.”

  That final word—breath—lingered, repeating itself over and over in my awareness as I came more fully awake. I heard Rose open the circle. In unison, the other witches affirmed the ritual was over and that the door to the other world had closed. I was offered sweetened tea from a thermos, and many hands helped me to sit then stand. The whispered reminder to breathe buoyed me during the long, slow walk back to the tent and acted as a pillow for my heavy, empty head. Busy—I knew it was my tent-mate because of the gentle hum—placed a lightweight blanket over my chest and throat before zipping me into my sleeping bag. Before she left the tent, she also placed a heavier, folded blanket over my legs and belly. The added weight sent me over the edge and into sleep.

  Chapter 13

  I awakened to silence, slightly disoriented and unvisited by dreams. A few whispered greetings, a metal bowl of steaming oatmeal and a refreshed thermos of tea, and I was back in the Jeep and on my way home.

  The logging road out of the park was gouged with ruts, and the chances of blowing a tire or being run off by a logging truck offered an ever-present danger. I didn’t have a moment to process the ritual until I hit the packed dirt road ringing Lake Cowichan. My fingers finally released their death grip on the wheel. I relaxed into the seat back and opened the windows for fresh air.

  Did I feel different? The tattoo on my belly was itchier, reminding me I really should look into getting it removed or altered. Loosening my zipper so I could give it a scratch, I darted a glance to the passenger seat. I’d tossed my things, including the length of joined ribbons and yarns, into a canvas boat bag. Perched atop my wrinkled red dress was a crown. I was going home a princess.

  No, a Priestess. What was it Rose said? This ritual marks the start of your vision quest…

  For the rest of the drive, I stayed alert to anything that could be construed as a sign or an omen. Aside from the occasional kettle of vultures circling overhead, I found no auguries in the sky, trees, or on the ground, nothing beyond the hyper-bright light of a cloudless summer day. I made my ferry, napped on the quick thirty-minute ride, and backed into my empty driveway.

  I positioned the Jeep close to the outdoor hose, my hair and skin every bit as dust-coated as the exterior of the vehicle. A bubble bath followed by a slathering of moisturizer was foremost on my mind as I tramped up the stairs and deposited my load of gear on the floor. I had just taken off my boots and was getting ready to peel off my dirty clothes when a scuffle on the front porch alerted me I had visitors.

  Harper and Thatcher stood in the doorway, the screen section opened wide and distressed looks distorting both their faces. My ex-husband stood behind them. He was shorter than our sons, and his eyebrows, forehead, and receding hairline rose like tufted hillocks in the space between where the boys’ shoulders met.

  “Doug?” I half-expected him to jump up and down in a bid for attention.

  Instead, he elbowed the boys apart, stepping between them and across the threshold to my home. The old A-frame and I shuddered as one.

  Technically, Doug was connected to Harper and Thatch; there was no reason for the wards to keep him out, even though I’d jokingly asked Tanner to add my ex to the Thou Shall Not Pass list. I would address that oversight as soon as Doug said whatever he came to say and left.

  “What are you doing here?” I kept my back to the living room and stood my ground, an act I appreciated with even greater clarity after the ritual.

  My inferred refusal to give in to Doug’s attempt at bullying forced him to jostle our sons farther apart. It was an uncomfortable moment for all three males.

  “I had some very interesting conversations with my sons this weekend,” he sputtered, “and I think you owe me an explanation.”

  “Dad…”

  Doug wheeled around, grabbed Harper by the T-shirt, and shoved him toward the living room. Thatch hesitated before following his brother. Their gangly legs and soured attitudes took up the entire couch.

  I moved to stand between my sons and their father, a wave of protective energy flowing up my spine and down my arms. “Doug. This is my house, and I’m saying this once—hands off and sit down. Or else.”

  “Or else what, Calliope?” he spat out. “Or else you’ll call your boyfriend?”

  Oh, so that was what had Doug’s knickers in a twist: Tanner, and likely his offer to mentor the boys. And Doug’s resistance to all things magically inclined as well as his litany of the missteps I’d made during our years together.

  “Why are you here and what do you want?” I asked.

  He stood wide
-legged and crossed his arms over his chest. The pronounced paunch he’d developed in the final years of our marriage was gone. In its place was a more tapered waist, muscular arms, and a meanness in his attitude I hadn’t seen before.

  Or hadn’t wanted to see.

  “I am here to tell you there will be no magical training for Harper or Thatcher, by you or anyone else. Period.”

  “Dad, you have no—”

  Doug glared at me before he turned his torso and addressed Harper, grinding his words between his teeth. “I. Am. Your. Father. I have every right, legal and otherwise, to act as I see fit. And I see fit to hustle your two sorry asses off this island and into a decent school system. Someplace where discipline and order mean something, so right now, you keep your ass on that couch and shut the fuck up.”

  Two teenaged jaws dropped open, and two sets of eyes went round as Doug punctuated every other word with a pointed finger wielded like a tool for punching holes. A red flush crept across both boys’ faces.

  Stunned into silence, I planted my knuckles on my hips and mentally thumbed through the spells I’d memorized, looking desperately for something that would blast Doug out of the room and off my property.

  Before I could latch on to any one spell or hex or incantation, long pent-up words burst out of me. “Douglas Ingraham Flechette, this is my house and you will not speak to any of us that way.”

  My fury must have triggered…something, and my raised palm reinforced my resolve.

  Doug flew backward, knocked the screen off its hinges, and tumbled to a landing at the bottom of the porch stairs. Tanner, who was walking toward the house, swerved around the heap of arms and legs and waved at me.

  “Trouble?” he asked, stopping on the grass.

  “Tanner, meet my ex,” I replied, still shaking from the effect of whatever I had just unleashed. “Doug Flechette, Tanner Marechal.”

  Doug ignored the hand Tanner extended and stood, gathering his legs under him before he came to his full height of five-feet-ten-inches tall. The agent had a few inches on him and embodied a way of moving that broadcasted restrained power.