Seer in Starlight

by Amanda Hartford

  Maggie leaned over to get a better look. “How lovely!”

  I smiled. “It was my grandmother’s. I mean, the whole house was. This came from her place in San Francisco. We used to go there summers when I was a little girl.”

  “It’s a nice keepsake.”

  “It’s more than that, I think. I didn’t really understand back then, but I see now that she had the same… abilities that I have. I’ve been trying to use it as a focusing tool.”

  “Actually, that’s not a bad idea. It always helps to use an object that has some personal connection to you. Have you had any success?”

  I shook my head. “I don’t really know what I’m doing. I was hoping you might coach me a bit.”

  “Do you have a question you want to ask?”

  “Yes, I need to know…”

  Maggie shook her head. “Don’t tell me. Let’s give it a try.”

  We sat opposite each other, with the doorknob between us. Maggie ran her hands about three inches above the surface without actually touching it, all around the doorknob and its stand.

  “Just checking,” she said with a smile. “We don’t want to begin with snips of someone else’s old spells hanging around.”

  I nodded nervously.

  “You understand,” Maggie began, “that gazing tools have no power in themselves. They’re just that: tools.”

  I nodded that I understood.

  “It doesn’t have to be a crystal ball — that’s actually a fairly modern notion,” Maggie said. ‘It can be any object that allows you to focus and clear your mind.”

  Maggie went to her desk and brought back a small black pottery bowl. “This is what I use. I just fill it with water and focus in the center. Some people use a mirror, or a candle flame, or crystals, or a piece of obsidian, or they go outside and stare at a cloudless space in the sky. It doesn’t matter what the tool is; it’s all about how you use it.”

  Maggie handed me a soft cloth. “Here — polish the glass before you try to use it. Smudges or fingerprints will distract you from finding the center.”

  While I did as I was told, Maggie stepped to the electric switch by the door and turned the lights down low. "You want to work in white light, at least when you're getting started. Colored light can confuse your results. You can use a white candle, or…" — She pointed to the recessed lights in the ceiling — "white LEDs work just fine. It's the 21st century, after all."

  “So, how does this work?” I asked. “Will I see a vision or hear voices or something?”

  “It’s different for everybody. Some people just see a little cloud or a darkening. Others see full-on images or hear identifiable voices. You’re trying for a meditative state — some call it a trance. Open your mind and see what comes to you. There is no right or wrong answer; it’s up to you to interpret it.”

  I guess I looked skeptical. Maggie just smiled.

  “Now, place your hands on either side of the base, palms up,” Maggie instructed, taking her seat again across the table from me. “Take a deep breath and relax.”

  I breathed deeply.

  “Again,” Maggie said softly, “and this time, close your eyes. Your palms are up to leave yourself open to the universe. Let it in.”

  Maggie watched as I relaxed into the breath.

  “Again.”

  I took an even deeper breath and let it out slowly.

  “Keep your eyes closed,” Maggie coached. “It’s time to ask the question.”

  “I’m not feeling the energy,” I said, my eyes popping open. “Isn’t there supposed to be some kind of energy field?”

  Maggie grinned. “It depends on who you ask. There’s an old tradition that scrying is drawing down the energy of the universe, or leaving your body for some other mystical plain.” She smiled indulgently. “Like I said: I use it as a meditation technique, so any energy that’s involved comes from me. You’ll have to find your own truth.”

  I’m sure I looked frustrated. “So it’s not real?”

  “Oh, it's real enough. I wish I had some peer-reviewed science for you to explain it, but we don't have tools to measure this physical phenomenon yet. It's one of those ‘you'll know it when you see it' things, I'm afraid."

  “Okay,” I said, but I know that I sounded doubtful. I sighed and turned back to my doorknob.

  “Try it again,” Maggie said gently.

  I went through the breathing exercises, my palms up and my fingers relaxed and open.

  “Now, ask your question,” Maggie whispered. “You don’t need to say anything out loud. Put it into words in your mind, so you can focus on it.”

  I found myself nodding.

  “Now, open your eyes and look into the center of the crystal. Hold your question in your mind as you find your focus point. Don’t listen to me; don’t think of anything else. Just go inside the crystal.”

  Maggie folded her hands in her lap and sat perfectly still as my lashes fluttered and my eyes slowly opened.

  It took me a moment to focus, but when my eyes adjusted to the darkened room, I found the surface of the doorknob. Deeper, I thought. Find the center.

  There was something I was supposed to be doing. The question, I thought. I was supposed to be holding the question in my mind, but I was finding it difficult to focus on the center of the crystal and hold the question at the same time. I had to let something go.

  As I turned back to the question, the struggle to hold the center fell away. I was simply doing it, anchoring my physical vision within the nothingness at the core of the sphere. My intellect — my conscious mind — was consumed by the question and nothing more.

  The core of the doorknob turned cloudy.

  My head snapped up. The connection was lost.

  Maggie was grinning. “You did it!”

  “I lost it,” I grumbled in frustration.

  “Stella,” Maggie said soothingly, “it takes some people months or years to get as far as you did on the first try. You have a real talent for this. It’s just going to take practice.”

  ♦

  The next night was Thursday, and the weekenders were headed into town. It was crazy busy at the GPS lot — but it's never too crazy for burritos. Jack ponied up the $20, and I made a dash for Terminal 4. Hey, a girl's gotta eat, right? And especially when Jack was paying.

  Jack had the table ready when I got back. We were scarfing down our food, fingers crossed that our apps would hold off for just a few minutes more, when we heard a voice behind us.

  “Well, well — Lord Jack’s dining al fresco. Aren’t you just the special snowflake?” A young guy wearing an old football jersey and ragged jeans stood at the end of the parking space.

  “Buzz off, Calvin,” Jack said over his shoulder.

  Calvin grinned maliciously as he sauntered off. “As you wish, my Lord.”

  “Who was that?” I asked.

  “Ignore him,” Jack said, taking another bite of his burrito. “He’s just jealous.”

  “Your good looks, or your money?”

  It was Jack’s turn to stick out his tongue.

  The first time we met, Jack made a pretty smooth move on me, but I just laughed. It was easy to read Jack’s mind. The words coming out of his mouth didn’t come close to matching the thoughts that were coming out of his brain, so I understood that, at heart, Jack was desperately shy with women. I’d called him on it, and we’d been best pals ever since.

  It was all a front, including the SUV and Jack’s fancy condo. They both belonged to Jack’s Uncle Ethan — or to be more precise, to his uncle’s corporation. Jack could use both while he worked on his MBA. The only catch was that Jack had to play chauffeur whenever Uncle Ethan came to town, but so far, in the two years that Jack had been living in the condo, his uncle had never come anywhere near Phoenix.

  The rideshare gig had been Uncle Ethan’s idea, too. He’d sent Jack to the best schools, and the boy had grown up in rarefied air. Uncle Ethan, on the other hand, had been raised on the streets of P
hiladelphia. He wanted his favorite nephew to get out into the world and meet some real people before he started climbing the ladder in the family business.

  Uncle Ethan had assumed that driving rideshare would put Jack in touch with ordinary folks, but real people seldom ponied up for premium black car service, the rideshare equivalent of a chauffeured town car. Jack had made some great connections, all right, but they mostly helped him get in the door of the best clubs and private parties. One of these days, Uncle Ethan would check in to see how he was doing — but until then, Jack’s life was working out just fine.

  “So, really, what’s Calvin’s problem?”

  Jack shook his head. “We’re both in the same MBA program. It just kills him that Uncle Ethan’s giving me a free ride. It really chaps Calvin’s hide.”

  Jack’s phone rang: not the rideshare app, but a custom ringtone: Hall and Oates’ Rich Girl. Jack grinned. He glanced down to read the text.

  “One of Uncle Ethan’s minions,” he said. “I’ve got to get over to the private jet terminal.”

  I scooped up the remains of my burrito and jumped to my feet as Jack folded the table out from under me.

  “Looks like they’ll be using the condo tonight. Don’t suppose you want to take me home with you?” He shot her an over-the-top leer and waggled his eyebrows.

  I laughed. “In your dreams, Jack. In your dreams.”

  ♦

  I got one of the other guys to watch the Prius, and I hopped on the Sky Train for a soda run to Terminal Four. I was usually moving at a dead run when I hit the top of the escalator, but this time I had to wait for the train and found myself looking down at the floor.

  The whole airport is an art gallery, and the handmade floors in each of the Sky Train stations are dazzlers. I was standing on giant terrazzo tailplane shapes in pale blues and greens, soaring down the length of the station. The sunset through the tall windows played shadows across the glossy surface, making the planes shimmer.

  Now that I was paying attention, I took a minute to wonder at the floor of the Sky Train station at Terminal Four. The scheme here was royal blue and navy, with big swirls of Toronto handwriting and small inset metal letters leading the way to the concourse.

  I know I’m supposed to be paying attention to my surroundings when I’m in the airport, but I was mesmerized by that floor. How long did it take to lay that intricate pattern in stone?

  “Hello,” a voice said behind me. “Stella, right?”

  It was the cop with the turquoise eyes. What was his name again? I stole a glance at his name tag.

  He caught me looking. “Cody Reed.”

  “Cody. Hello.” I remembered our previous conversation. “You coming or going this time?” I asked.

  “Going, I’m afraid. Just got a call,” Cody explained. “I’ll have to eat later.” He dumped a half-eaten burger in the trash.

  “See ya,” I said to his back as he dashed back into the terminal.

  Chapter Three

  The surge of inbound tourists seemed never to let up that evening, and it was after ten before I got back to the GPS lot. Most of the regulars were out ferrying passengers around town, so it was just me and a few black cars scattered around the lot.

  In the row closest to the terminal, I saw two massive black SUVs. One was parked nose into the parking spot, as usual, but the other had teed in behind it, trapping the first one in its space. The drivers were out of their cars, silhouetted against the bright lights of the terminal. As I swung the Prius in their direction, I saw that it was Jack and Calvin.

  I gunned my engine just as Calvin took a swing. I laid on the horn.

  Both men looked in my direction, but Calvin connected and Jack went down.

  I was coming at them fast. I could feel the anger rising from both men, but what they were fighting about wasn't clear. Maybe it was one of those guy things where something little set off a long-simmering spark.

  I hit the brakes hard and stopped within a few feet of them. Calvin stood over Jack, menacing him as Jack struggled to rise from the pavement.

  “Stay down!” Calvin yelled.

  Jack made it up to his elbows. His eyes were steel.

  “Stay down!” Calvin yelled again, leaning over Jack. His tight fist was inches from Jack’s nose.

  Getting out — getting between them — didn’t seem like a good idea. I locked the doors and dialed 911.

  It wasn’t more than a minute later that a patrol car roared into the lot, lights flashing and siren blaring. Calvin took a step back as Jack jumped to his feet, dusting off his black jeans. The fight was over.

  The patrol car pulled up next to me, and I rolled down my window as Cody approached the Prius. “You call for the cavalry?” he asked.

  I nodded.

  “So, what’s the story?”

  I leaned out the window. “They were already going at it when I got here.”

  Cody turned to Jack and Calvin.

  “You guys done?” Cody asked.

  Jack and Calvin looked like two schoolboys hauled up in front of the class.

  “There are cameras, you know?” Cody said, nodding toward the terminal. “It will be hard to find out what happened. So, suppose somebody tells me.”

  “Old business,” Jack said, never breaking eye contact with Calvin.

  Calvin shrugged and looked away.

  Cody looked both men up and down. “Anybody hurt? Anybody need the paramedics?”

  They shook their heads.

  “Anybody want to press charges?”

  Calvin and Jack shot each other evil looks, but they finally broke eye contact and studied their shoes.

  “That’s what I thought,” Cody said. “Don’t you boys have someplace else to be?”

  Calvin jumped into his SUV and revved the engine menacingly. Cody waggled his finger at him, and Calvin drove out of the lot at a sensible speed.

  Jack was already in the driver seat of his own SUV, and as soon as Calvin unblocked him, he pulled out in a wide arc and hit the road.

  “Interesting friends you’ve got,” Cody said as he turned back to the Prius.

  I shrugged. “It gets kinda crazy around here. Lots of adrenaline wafting around.”

  “Testosterone, more like. You okay?”

  I was getting interesting vibes from Cody — more boyfriend than cop.

  “I’m good.”

  We were running out of conversation.

  “Have you had dinner?” Cody pointed toward Terminal Four. “I know a little place that makes a mean burrito.”

  ♦

  Cody parked his patrol car and we rode the Sky Train together. It didn't feel right to talk about whatever was going on with Jack and Calvin, so by unspoken agreement we kept our talk neutral, chatting about how rideshare had changed transportation in and out of the airport. Pretty boring stuff, I thought. Meanwhile, I was getting mental flashes from him that I couldn't ignore. He wanted to get personal, but he didn't want me to think he was pushing.

  Give it some time, I thought.

  We got off the train and headed straight for Blue Mesa Taco. I saw Cody glance longingly in the direction of the burger joint, but to his credit, he stayed with me. The conversation shifted to his work, and he told me stories about some of the crazy things he’d dealt with at the airport. I was horrified when he told me about busting a woman who was smuggling an endangered baby python in her bra.

  I matched him with stories about my passengers. I couldn’t tell him the best ones, of course; those usually involved my special talents. It was way too early to let Cody in on that part of my life.

  We munched contentedly, nibbling around the parameters of each other’s lives. Cody’s mental walls were up high enough that his thoughts didn’t intrude on the spoken conversation too much. I wondered how he’d acquired the habit.

  “… maybe Sunday night,” Cody was saying. What? I needed to be paying better attention.

  He’d asked me to dinner.

  “Oh, I’m so s
orry, I can’t,” I babbled. His timing was crummy. “I have to be somewhere later on, so I’m driving right through dinner every night this week so I can take off early Sunday.”

  Cody looked disappointed. He believed I was just making excuses not to see him.

  “No, really,” I blurted. I was talking too much; I knew it. “It’s for work.”

  “I thought rideshare drivers set their own hours.”

  I shook my head. “I’m just doing that until I can get another gig in my own field. I’m an astronomer.”

  Cody snorted. “And I’m a ballerina. Look, if you don’t want to have dinner with me, you don’t have to…”

  Seriously? “Why is it so hard for you to believe that I’m a scientist?”

  Cody saw that I was serious. “Oh my gosh — I’m so sorry. It’s just that, well, you don’t look like…”

  His explanation wasn’t helping. I was getting madder.

  “And what exactly does a scientist look like?”

  Cody took a big bite of his burrito. He chewed with great exaggeration, pointing at his furiously working jaw.

  “That’s better,” I said. I settled back in my chair.

  “I’m so sorry,” Cody said after he chased down the burrito with a big swig of soda. “It must be pretty cool.”

  I flashed back to dark nights on the mountain above Tucson, holed up for frosty hours with my computer, my instruments and the giant telescope. I nodded.

  “So, what are you working on Sunday?” Cody asked.

  “The Perseids,” I said. “It’s a meteor shower.” Maybe it was going to be up to me to take this relationship to the next level. “Have you ever seen one?”

  “Nope,” Cody said, falling neatly into my trap.

  “Then it’s high time you did.”