by J. R. Rain
No, I thought, it’s her. It was she who was pulsating and vibrating and crackling everywhere, through rock, dirt, plants, the driest desert, or the richest soil.
She was everywhere.
For now, I continued sitting on the mountain. Whether real or not, I didn’t know, but the strong wind that buffeted me felt real enough. Few, I suspected, had seen this place, wherever I was. I was aware that there were many places on this Earth that were rarely experienced by humankind, and that was a good thing. The Earth needed a break from humankind.
I blinked...and discovered Mother Nature sitting directly across from me...legs crossed as mine were. She smiled at me.
“Good afternoon, Allison.”
Chapter Eleven
A mountain goat watched us from nearby, chewing idly on some sparse grass that grew from under a cluster of boulders.
“It can see me?” I asked the woman sitting before me.
“Of course. Animals have no difficulty seeing into the higher realms. Their eyes are open. Only man is closed.”
“But why?”
“It is as it should be. For now. But there will come a time when man can see further and deeper and higher. But now is not the time.”
I had met her before, a few times now. She was Gaia, the spirit of the earth, the soul of the earth. She was Mother Earth, or Earth Mother, or the Divine Mother. Each time I was with her, it felt like the first time. She had long, red hair, and long, white fingers, which were now interlaced on her lap. She wore a satiny robe that hugged her body and flapped as the wind blew.
“You choose this form for my benefit,” I said.
“It makes it easier to relate to me.”
“What would you look like otherwise?”
“My form is the mountain you sit upon, the earth you walk upon, the river you swim in, and the oceans you traverse.”
“Why do you speak with me?”
The woman in front of me, whose hair lifted and fell, but not necessarily in conjunction with the blasts of cold air that hit us, tilted her head and looked at me sweetly. Correction: lovingly.
“Your question implies that it is a great privilege to speak to me.”
“Is it not? You are Gaia. The earth spirit. You are our mother. You are so...important. I’m just me.”
“Do you not feel special, child?”
I thought about that. “I do. But doesn’t everyone?”
“Some more than others. Do not mistake great size, or great success, or great beauty, for importance. We are all equal in the eyes of the Creator, including me.”
“But surely you are...” I couldn’t say the words.
“More important than you?” she asked.
“Well, yes. You are home to billions of humans, trillions of animal lives, to our history...and our future.”
“But do you humans not create the history and the future?”
“I suppose so. But there are billions of us. You are one. You are a rock star,” I said.
The woman before me smiled at my silly pun. Was I really sitting here on a mountain crest, at the back of beyond, joking with the spirit of the spinning rock which we called Planet Earth? I thought I was. Either that, or I was dreaming.
“We are all equal in the eyes of the Creator, Allison Lopez. We all have different jobs to do. Each job is as important as the next. Even the animals around you have their purposes.”
“Surely they are not more important than you.”
“You are giving value again where no value exists; at least, there is none in the eyes of the Creator.”
“Well, in my eyes, you are...awesome.”
“And in my eyes, you are equally awesome.”
I smiled at that...and was suddenly deeply touched. That Gaia, the spirit of our earth, even noticed me was almost too much to bear.
She reached out and took my hands in her own. They were so warm, so loving, so comforting.
“Why have you chosen to speak with me?” I asked.
“I speak to all my children. A few are ready for a deeper connection, as you are now.”
“Why are they not ready? And why am I ready?”
“Those who honor the earth move closer to me.”
A long time later, after sitting quietly for many minutes or perhaps, hours, I opened my eyes and looked up, and again found myself in the Spirit Chair, with tears on my cheekbones.
Chapter Twelve
I wasn’t a detective, but I was curious by nature, and it wasn’t a fluke that the Englishman, Billy Turner, had come into my life.
What, exactly, was going on, I didn’t know, but I decided that I needed more answers....which was why I found myself in Detective Smithy’s office in Beverly Hills.
Detective Smithy was a good cop with a bad mustache. Today, it looked even more askew than I remembered. He said, “You’re back.”
“I’m back.”
“Let me guess. You’re still a psychic?”
“Good guess.”
Detective Smithy was a believer in my talents. Maybe not at first, but by the end of my last case, he had come full circle. That I made him nervous, there was no doubt. That he masked his nervousness by being a hard ass was obvious. Then again, he was a hard ass when I’d first met him, too. So, scratch that last.
“And you’re here about Liz Turner,” he said.
“Maybe you’re the psychic one.”
“Or maybe I listened to your voicemail.”
“That, too,” I said.
“Well, Liz is being charged with a slew of offenses, not the least of which is murder. I’m not at liberty to discuss the case with you further.”
“I have just a few questions—”
“Like I said, I’m not at liberty to answer them.”
“But you are at liberty to act like a dick?”
His mouth dropped open. His mustache twitched. Then again, his mustache often twitched, the way a dying rat’s whiskers might. He thought long and hard about what to say next, then got up from behind his desk, crossed the small office, and shut the glass door. He came back to his desk, sat across from me, and said, “You can’t call me a dick.”
“I can if you’re acting like one.”
“Look—”
“Or maybe I make you nervous?”
“Maybe. I don’t know.”
“I think I make you feel uncomfortable. And you don’t like anyone coming in here and making you feel uncomfortable because you’re a big, bad cop.”
“I’m not that big.”
“No, you’re not,” I said. He was only an inch taller than me.
He opened his mouth to speak, and his mustache shivered in anticipation. Then he closed his mouth again, thought about what he wanted to say, and said, “I’m sorry. Can we start over?”
“Apology accepted, and yes.”
Smithy’s fingernails were mostly dirty and one or two were uncommonly long, especially his pinkie nail. I wasn’t sure what that was all about. That he didn’t appear to belong in this polished and gleaming building in Beverly Hills was without a doubt. That he was probably the best cop on the staff was a given. That he could give a shit about how he looked was another given. Maybe the biggest.
“This is an ongoing investigation, and you ain’t even a cop. I’m not supposed to talk to you about any of this,” said Smithy.
“But you will anyway, she says with a glimmer of hope,” I said. My voice rose a little...and so did my eyebrows.
“Only if you quit talking about yourself in the third person. It’s weird.”
“Deal.”
“Like I said, I’m not supposed to talk to you about any of this, but I figure you and I have some secrets between us anyway.”
“Like the fact that I’m a witch.”
He looked away and cleared his throat. Both were true signs that he was still a tad uncomfortable with calling me a witch. “Yeah. that. Just as long as we’re clear.”
“We’re clear.”
“This is what I know: Liz Tur
ner was found at the scene of a burglary, at Gems Unlimited here in Beverly Hills. She was found standing over the shopkeeper, who’d been shot in the chest. Witnesses say she was pressing her sweater into the wound, to staunch the bleeding.”
“But it didn’t help.”
“No,” said Smithy. “The old man died en route to the hospital.”
I said, “She doesn’t sound like much of a killer, if she’s trying to save him.”
“That’s the way I see it, too. Except there’s no reason for her being in there after hours. Gems Unlimited is a gem wholesaler. It’s located on the fifth floor of the Montgomery Building. She had no explanation for why she was there.”
“He was shot with a pistol?”
“Yes.”
“Did she have the gun with her?”
“Yes.”
“The same gun that killed the shopkeeper?”
“Yes.”
“Was there residue on her fingers?”
“You’re watching too much CSI, and yes, she had gunpowder residue on her. A lot of it.”
“So, she fired the gun?”
“She doesn’t remember. It seems likely.”
“Her fingerprints on the gun?”
“Yes.”
“Did she own a gun?”
“No. It was registered to someone else, someone who is now deceased.”
“Deceased how long ago?”
“Fifteen years ago.”
“So, the gun has, presumably, traveled from person to person, illegally, for the past 15 years.”
“A safe presumption,” said Smithy.
“Does the gunpowder residue match the gun?” I asked.
“No way to know for sure. There was a high particle count on her hands—which means she had recently fired a gun. But she claims she shoots at a local range, too.”
“Do they rent guns there?”
“They do.”
“How long does gunpowder residue stay on one’s hands?”
“Longer than you would think. Weeks, sometimes.”
“And the longer the time frame, the lower the particle count?” I asked.
“Right.”
“How does she explain the gun?”
“She doesn’t know how she got it.”
“How does she explain being in the gem shop, after hours?”
“She hasn’t given us a satisfactory answer. Either way, it doesn’t matter. She’s our only suspect. Unless, you’ve seen something different that can change that.”
“Seen?”
“Yeah, you know. With your third eye, or whatever the fuck you whackos call it.”
“Whackos?” I said. “Care to rephrase that?”
“Sorry. That slipped out. I’m still a dick, remember?”
“And, I’m still a witch, remember?”
“Point taken. So, tell me, is the girl guilty or not?”
“What do you think?” I asked.
“Hey, I ain’t the psychic one.”
“No,” I said, “but you have a keen sixth sense. Even I can see that. You trust your gut, which is a form of psychic intuition. So, what does your gut say?”
“That she did it. But something doesn’t seem right.”
“And what’s that?”
“For one...she says she doesn’t remember doing it.”
“Seems like that might be a common excuse.”
“Not exactly,” said Smithy. “Most will say they didn’t do it. Not that they didn’t remember doing it. It’s strange as hell.”
“Does she have a mental disorder?” I asked. “Schizophrenia?”
“We’re having her examined. So far, there’s nothing conclusive.”
“But...” I heard his voice trail off, or I sensed there was something more that he wanted to add.
“She claims she talks to a demon of some sort.”
“A demon?”
“Yeah. She says it tells her what to do.”
He looked at me long and hard, and then took in a lot of air. That his mustache rippled like a caterpillar having a seizure should not have made me laugh. But it did.
Dammit.
“What’s so funny?” he asked.
“Nothing, sorry. Okay, it’s your mustache.”
“What about my mustache?”
“It’s bushy and a little crooked and sort of moves on its own sometimes.”
“Yeah, so?”
“Have you considered...never mind.”
“How about we stay focused on a young girl who may or may not be possessed?”
“Right, sorry.” I collected myself and said, “I want to talk to her.”
“I’ll see what I can arrange.”
Chapter Thirteen
I was sitting crossed-legged in the center of my living room, facing north, in the direction of my big sliding glass door. Beyond the open curtains, the ritzy apartment tower across the street was veritably on fire with the setting sun, its glass façade reflecting and refracting the light.
I was practicing casting spells and mixing potions, all under the careful—and ghostly—eye of Millicent Laurie, although I doubted she used her last name much these days.
After spending nearly an hour trying to cast a money spell, I finally gave up. It wasn’t that the spell itself was hard, or that the phrasing was difficult, or that it was particularly challenging to combine the various ingredients of the potion together. No, that was actually all very easy.
My problem was simple: belief.
I didn’t believe in what I was doing. I didn’t believe that doing a basic spell could create a windfall of money for me, or anyone else. Seeing into the future, seeing long distance, reading Samantha’s mind...and even telekinesis...yes, all of this I could believe. I lived it each day, after all.
But money spells?
That’s where I drew the line. And this was coming from someone who had seen a person turn into a giant bat. And had seen another turn into a werewolf.
Sadly, my mind drew the line at wishing for more money...and creating it.
After going through the money spell again—at Millicent’s insistence—I finally tossed aside the spell book, and got up and headed into the kitchen. There, I took out a Pabst Blue Ribbon, and popped open the can.
I was drinking heavily from it when I felt the hair on the back of my neck stand on end. That would be Millicent, of course. I ignored her and my erect hair follicles and kept drinking. When I was about halfway done with the beer, a mostly see-through Millicent was now standing before me, shimmering and hovering and looking creepy as hell. She also didn’t look happy.
“You lack faith, child.” Her voice was whispery and faint and it appeared just inside my ear. This time, her lips didn’t move. Nor did they have to.
“You think?” I said.
“Why is that?”
“Because money doesn’t just appear out of thin air. You might appear out of thin air, but money doesn’t.”
“Some of what we do is instant, I agree. But other things—spell casting, for instance—takes time to develop. Hence, the need for faith.”
“No one uses words like hence anymore, Millicent. Get with the times.” Yes, I was feeling cranky and a little belligerent. “Besides, I make enough money to get by.”
If she was offended by my little outburst, she didn’t show it. She remained standing calmly in front of me, hands crossed before her. “The exercise isn’t about making you more money, child. The exercise is to develop your spell-casting skills...and to develop your faith, as well.”
“Well, I suppose I could use the extra money. There is, after all, a reason why I work two jobs.” In fact, I was pretty sure I was the only person living in Beverly Hills who lived from paycheck to paycheck.
Throughout this pity party, Millicent watched me closely, rising and falling gently on currents unseen and unfelt by me. These days, Millicent appeared to me as a woman in her late thirties, maybe a little older than me. At first, she had presented herself as an older woman, as she
had looked at the time of her passing. As time went on, and we got to know each other better, she appeared to be aging backward.
I knew I had major hang-ups with money. I had grown up in a low-income household, and I knew I had been holding onto the false belief that wealth was for the fortunate, the gifted, the blessed.
I knew this belief was wrong. Certainly, I deserved money as well as the next person. Hell, maybe even more so. I worked my ass off at two jobs and still drove a lame car.
No, it wasn’t lame, I thought. It was a very good car that worked reliably.
“Good, child,” came Millicent’s words, following my train of thought. “Yes, appreciate what you have. That is a good place to start.”
“Easy for you to say,” I mumbled. Millicent was, after all, from a rich banking family.
“Only in the last life, child. More often than not, I struggled.”
I grabbed a water bottle from the fridge and headed back to the living room. I decided to change the subject. Money always depressed me. “And you have access to all of these past lives?” I asked.
“Of course.”
“But I don’t.”
She shook her head. “No, child. The physical life is challenging enough without access to the burdens and misfortunes and mistakes of one’s past lives.”
“You make it sound like I was a big mess.”
“You had a lot of learning to do, Allison. You made...questionable choices.”
“Did I hurt people?”
She waited before answering. “Yes,” she said.
“Did I kill people?”
She paused again before answering. “Yes.”
“Jesus.” I sat down in the center on the living room, surrounded by my open spell books and vials of hocus-pocus ingredients. Candles burned in a semicircle, and the statue of my animal familiar—an eagle—sat nearby. We all have an animal familiar. Mine just happened to be a bald eagle, and I couldn’t have been happier. Millicent was teaching me to connect with the spirit of the eagle in my meditations. The process had been...interesting.
“Why did you hesitate before answering my question?” I asked.