Stuart insisted on proving Christmas in London is magical, and nowhere on earth was better for holiday lights. We walked Bond Street, Marylebone High Street, Oxford Street, Carnaby Street, and Convent Garden. We also hit Harrods in Knightsbridge, scanning the overpriced goods for sale. He told me to pick out anything I wanted, and it was mine. I responded by singing, “All I want for Christmas is you,” a line from one of my favorite movies, Love, Actually, and then immediately felt stupid he may not catch the playful pop culture reference.
But he got it, grinned, and pulled me out of the store to his car without speaking. We rode in silence for about ten minutes with nothing but his signature smile, one of many that weakened my knees. When I looked around, we were pulling up near the Waterloo Bridge.
“Going for a swim, Fairchild?”
He kissed me before getting out of the car. I knew him well enough to know I was to sit until he came around and opened my side.
We strolled to the center of the bridge where we could view the entire light show. He turned me toward him, wrapping me up in his coat and pulling us impossibly close. The heat of our bodies was enough armor against the cold, night air, and I knew then I wanted to spend my life right here, with him. It was true there was so much I didn’t know about Stuart Fairchild. It was true we just recently met, blah, blah. But none of that seemed relevant somehow. He felt like home, a lost love found, rediscovered. He was too perfect for words, and sometimes I was unsure why he would like me so much.
We held each other, my ear against his heartbeat, and I knew I wanted more, more of him, more of us, more of life.
And as if to respond, another silent voice broke the calm night to say, I am deeply, irrevocably in love with you.
The following day was my flight to Glasgow, where I would taxi to the ferry port in Oban headed for Colonsay. Abbey would pick me up at the dock.
“Yes, alone. So you’ve said,” he grumbled.
He wasn’t happy, that much I knew without mind reading. It made me sad to disappoint him, but I needed to do this myself. It was too early in our relationship for him to be pulled into Zombieland, and I was worried about what the letter meant. Besides, he held plenty back from me about his life, although the means didn’t justify the end.
“It’s two days total. She shows me what’s up, I leave, and that’s it. And maybe I get some connection or closure to these god awful dreams.” I squeezed his arm playfully. “I just think you’re going to miss me and won’t say it.”
“Perhaps…” His serious eyes stared straight ahead, but the half smile surfaced, making life sweet again.
The morning I left, another charm arrived.
Similar box, no name.
A Celtic knot – the symbol for eternal life.
My bracelet now had three charms; two of which had no identified sender.
Abbey’s house brimmed with charm. One of the larger homes on the island, the white washed exterior was bright in the afternoon sunlight. Surrounded by trees bearing peaches, figs and apples, it seemed plucked from the middle of a storybook, beckoning, hospitable and safe. The island homes were few and far between, so Abbey appeared to have ample space. The sky was made up of sedentary gray clouds, a colorless blanket stretching over all of Scotland.
She had bright straight cherry red hair cut blunt, crystal blue eyes, and there was no way to guess her age. From several yards away she appeared a young woman, still shapely with a quick, light gait. Up close there was wisdom in her eyes only earned by years of living. Judging by her husky, dense Scottish accent on the phone, I had her around fifty – but there was just no way to tell. She could be anywhere between twenty and one hundred.
The best part of Abbey was how she seemed an old friend. We connected instantly – a déjà vu. I felt the same with Stuart.
“The place is fairly large for just me, so I love having visitors. My husband died…awhile back and the kids are…gone so it’s just me. I like to travel but I keep the place up and of course did the remodel recently,” she sang while giving a tour, leading me down a hall on the first floor. “And here is the infamous remodeled room, now a bit larger, complete with its own bathroom, TV and such. This was a tiny, almost unusable room until I expanded. I love the French doors leading outside.”
It was definitely cozy, complete with an ocean view. “It’s lovely Abbey, thank you for having me.” The hospitality seemed overboard for the simple sake of giving me whatever she had to give me, but I really liked her, our connection, and figured this must be part of my big life adventure, meeting new people and visiting new places.
After freshening up I joined her in the kitchen where tea service with assorted cookies was laid out, an old-fashioned mid-afternoon tradition in the UK.
Sudden shivers ran the length of my spine, realizing it was time to unveil the mystery.
Abbey smiled warmly, her eyes lined with wisdom in the afternoon light. “This must seem very strange to you.”
“You could say that.” I sipped my tea and shifted anxiously.
“Well, let me explain what happened then I’ll let you read the letter. Last summer, I was renovating the room. During this time one of the workers called me outside. They had been excavating around the peach tree and found an old marble urn. The urn contained the letter. In the letter there were clues, if you will, to track down someone, namely you. The letter writer was the previous resident, many years ago.”
I’m sure my skepticism was noticeable. “How did you know it was me?”
“I think it will make sense once you read it – although it is pretty hard to get your arms around, I admit. And I had help finding you.” She signed, seeming a bit exasperated. “Well, see for yourself.” Abbey handed me a permanently rolled up, yellowed piece of paper tied with string. “This is how it was found.”
My throat felt scorched. I took a couple of deep breaths, exhaling as the letter rested in my hands several moments without movement from either of us. Abbey was patient, unassuming. I liked her, and sensed her unconditional support. So I flattened the crispy paper, careful with the fragile texture. The wait was over.
5 July, Seventeen Hundred Thirty One
In haste I write, for they come for me and Jonathan tomorrow – cold blooded murderers, jealous, enraged. Our first child will not be born. I have seen the end.
I am Sarah MacPhie, a midwife, healer ordained with vision to see beyond. They call me a witch to justify brutality. Jonathan will fall simply for loving me, my guardian. Their instinct is to destroy our kind.
But tonight I have the gift of sight, stronger than ever. In two hundred sixty three years my great granddaughter six times will be born on my own birthday of 11 November. They will name her, Layla. She is a Clear, like me, like her mother. I waited for her so I could return. She is I and he is Jonathan. I beg you find her and bring her here. I will find my way to her when she arrives. The remainder of this letter is for her.
Dearest Layla – such a lovely name – use your ability for good, to help others. He will grant eternal life, and you will be together forever. Don’t be afraid. There are those who gather around you to show you the way, one who you will love until the end of time. The truth is in you.
But beware the evil ones who seek to harm.
Forever, Sarah
Well, so much for answers, just more riddles going nowhere. All this nonsense about Clears and Bane and how the hell did she know my name, that I would be born? This isn’t real, couldn’t be real. I read the letter three times before rising from the chair mumbling, “Excuse me, please.”
Walking toward the door to step outside for air, blackness welled up, obscuring my vision, and I felt my body go limp.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
It was my first experience passing out, along with the dreadful embarrassment of being a guest in someone’s home, but Abbey was perfect, making me feel instantly at ease. “I would have been surprised if you didn’t pass out,” she laughed easily.
If the letter was the answ
er to all recent events, I was no less confused. This was a hard sell, even to a clairvoyant.
I tried questioning the authenticity of the letter, but Abbey confirmed she had it analyzed before contacting me and showed me the certificate of authenticity. It was indeed from 1731. A private investigator tracked me down. With my unusual first name and birthday, it took just hours.
And then I remembered.
The visions.
Sarah was the one who visited me nightly.
Sarah had called me here.
She was like me…we were – Clears. There was a name for what I was, for what she was. Clear. Bane. And she called Jonathan her guardian. I was the recipient of a guardian charm.
And Mom?
Was this the explanation for her calls and texts? How could someone so…detached be a…Clear?
It couldn’t be true.
Sarah was wrong, or perhaps just partially right.
And how Sarah saw me, knew I was coming…knew I would be born. We were connected.
And ‘he is Jonathan’?
Who was he?
Witchcraft.
Sarah.
Bane.
Clear and Bane.
Good and evil.
A small hint of nausea bubbled up in the back of my throat.
I ran to the bathroom to hurl.
A tray of tea, toast and water sat in the room when I returned. Abbey was respectfully discreet, magically honed in on my needs without intruding, as if she knew receiving the news would be a challenge. The letter was open on the bed where I left it no worse for wear after 20 raveling through time.
Sarah had predicted her own death, her husband Jonathan’s death, and she carried a child, murdered for witchcraft. Then I remembered the email, and the letter. Jealously, lust. Witchcraft was an excuse for murder.
Were we witches?
Was Clear another name for witch?
Grateful I brought my laptop, I hooked up to Abbey’s slow dial-up internet service and opened up a search engine. After several hours, I found no information linking Clears with witchcraft. In fact, nothing came up for Clear as a noun and nothing for Bane in the context of a person or group aside from a nineties rock band from Sweden.
I remembered the notes left on Stuart’s car suspiciously linked to Andre, but he had disappeared after the incident. Or had he been in the black sedan? And the charms – a guardian symbol and Celtic knot with no return address, nothing.
Someone was watching me but whom?
Living in England had transformed my life into a full-blown cirque de freak show, and none of the pieces made sense. Now I was visiting a remote Scottish island with a strange woman and a really old letter comprised of riddles.
There were plenty of unaccounted for secrets that everyone around me seemed guilty of harboring…even Stuart remained a mystery, and while we grew intimate he still kept a wall up, distracting me with seduction whenever I asked too many questions.
I felt disconnected, unplugged, and way over my head. My ‘Clear’ abilities seemed haywire – would I ever get used to that label – and unreliable for honing useful information.
Was I a wayward witch not using my powers?
Should I learn how to brew things, cast spells?
The light had shifted to darkness and the house was quiet. There was a note on my door from Abbey telling me there was shepherds pie in the fridge if I was hungry. She had gone upstairs to her room.
Was I hungry?
I wasn’t sure about anything any more.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
It was like gazing at my reflection ten years in the future – I hadn’t noticed as much before, in the other visions. The resemblance was uncanny. We stood facing each other, saying nothing. The wind whipped up to blow our hair in every direction. There were no sounds until somewhere in the distance the hateful, seething shouting penetrated the night. They were coming.
Sarah’s eyes glistened as she quickly turned around. Behind her the mob carried torches, at least twelve angry men wearing traditional Scottish kilts. The one in front was the largest, probably the strongest, perhaps the leader. They spotted us, picking up their pace.
“Run!” Sarah whispered loudly.
Disappointment engulfed me, discouraged nothing had changed. Can’t someone serve up a different vision? “Oh not this again. This is the same…”
Suddenly paralyzed with fear, I watched the men close in, their voices growing louder as they shouted foul obscenities.
Turning back to Sarah, I followed her toward the water trying to keep pace. But this didn’t feel the same. The ability to wake myself up seemed stymied.
“Get her!” Shouted one of the mob.
“No!” I screamed, running behind Sarah. “Leave her alone!”
Another shout was heard. “Ay, it’s two for one night!” My heart pounded in my ears to no particular rhythm, while my feet moved swiftly, hovering slightly above the grass.
They could see me. It didn’t feel the same because I was visible.
There was a spark of light, like a camera flash, and we were in the center of a circle, surrounded by vile men frothing anxiously with the intent to harm us. Sarah stood in front of me like a human shield, guarding me from the mad men. They taunted us with the flames of their torches, flicking them at us as we jumped to avoid igniting. This game made them laugh uproariously. They smelled foul – of alcohol and dirt and sweat.
Someone was behind me, pulling my arms back, whispering in my ear. “Aye, I will have ye and then I will kill ye just for being related to the devil!”
Struggling against the brute strength of my oppressor was impossible. Whoever held my arms had no intention of releasing me. The mob broke apart revealing Sarah lying on the grass, torn dress, stoic and silent. The leader walked toward her clutching his torch, lowering the flame it until it touched the bottom hem of her dress. The cloth caught instantly.
They laughed.
“Burn witch burn! Devil women! Child of Satan! Evil doer!” Their profanities were deafening, sickening. Is this what Sarah had endured? Looking around for a hose to extinguish the flames, the realization hit me I was in the wrong century for that particular device.
She was already running toward the ocean without a sound. Somehow I broke free, running after her. “Sarah!”
I tried catching up but her feet seemed to glide over the surface of the ground, never making contact with earth’s solid mass. The vast ocean grew closer, the sky swirling with vivid pinks, purples, and oranges. I heard the crashing waves below and hoped Sarah wouldn’t suffer. I didn’t want her to feel pain. But this had already happened, so there was nothing I could do.
Just before reaching the edge running at full speed, she glanced over her shoulder, pointing past me to the men still in pursuit. In the distance, Jonathan was kneeling, accepting the sword of death as if welcoming a way out.
Turning back to watch Sarah, her outstretched arms were like wings, allowing her flight like a bird toward the sea, until she dropped into the dark abyss of water.
“No, Sarah! I don’t know what to do!” I pleaded. The mob approached and I was trapped. Either I stayed to meet my doom, or I followed Sarah. There was no choice. Backing up a couple of steps, I sprinted toward the edge of the cliff, spreading my arms like she had done, flying away to eternity.
I didn’t want to die, I thought, yet here I was falling to my doom, anticipating the ice-cold water and the sudden impact of death. I hoped it didn’t hurt much.
The great irony about living is, as soon as you start to figure things out on your way to happy, the whole bottom can drop.
And the only thing on my mind was how I never got to love Stuart.
Coffee fumes snaked into the room. The oven was hosting warm bread, the perfumed aroma seducing me from a deep sleep and a dream so real, I was joyfully surprised and grateful when I awoke to smells of the living.
After breakfast and small talk with Abbey, I walked outside in the crisp, cool, windy air,
racking my brain for answers. Regret about turning down Stuart’s company gnawed my stomach. I missed him deeply, and scolded myself for being “bloody stubborn” as he would say.
Just yards from the house the ocean crashed as it had in my thousand dreams. The atmosphere was a schizophrenic mix of stillness and intense vibration, and I imagined my personal spirit world here must be alive and well, close enough to smell and taste if I concentrated hard enough.
Millions of information bits randomly floated in my head. The connections between Bane and Andre were unshakeable, but he was a teenager like me. It was odd someone so young would carry such aggression, especially with the world at his disposal. But he had shown a violent side, and I had been lucky to walk away mostly unscathed without facing the police or worse, thinking about what Stuart appeared capable of doing. And speaking of Stuart there were still no answers for his impeccable timing except that we were “connected.”
I thought about the mystery email, and how it mentioned Bane being attracted to Clears. Andre had been really attracted to me, scary attracted, and Sarah may have been murdered for the same reasons.
Tingles flushed down my limbs.
More bumps erupted when I looked down at my lion dragon guardian charm. Sarah mentioned Jonathan was her guardian. Was the charm a clue I had one too?
“I need some damn answers people!”
Luckily, I think the waves drowned out the impromptu scream. But I really did need some answers.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
When I returned to the house, there was a note from Abbey saying she needed to travel unexpectedly to the mainland overnight.
Layla, the pampered guest was now alone – again – on an isolated island.
Leaving extensive instructions, keys, and other amenities, she urged me to make myself at home. My return flight to England left early the next day, and now I had no ride to the ferry dock, although Abbey did leave me several numbers of neighbors to contact saying it would be ‘no trouble’ for anyone to help me.
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