Strega (Strega Series)

by Karen Monahan Fernandes

  "How much do you know about the ancient civilizations of Europe?" He rubbed his hands together and made his way to his chair, though he didn't actually sit. "Specifically, the Etruscans."

  He leaned in toward me as he stared, anxiously anticipating my answer. My mind was officially blown.

  "Not too much. Just bits and pieces really," I said as I adjusted myself in the chair, trying to maintain my composure as I recalled the book in the library. "Why?"

  He picked up the blade, which I'd placed on his desk.

  "I'll answer that question in a minute." He held the blade in his hands and allowed the fabric to fall away from it. "But first, I have to ask you—where did you get this?"

  From his grave tone, I could tell he knew something. It terrified me as much as it brought me relief. If anybody was going to be able to help me, it would be him.

  "I found it," I said, hoping that this would be enough to satisfy him, but he stared at me waiting for more. "In my aunt's basement. Well, technically she's not my aunt, but she's like an aunt to me..."

  I rambled nervously until he interrupted.

  "Your aunt's basement? Who is your aunt?"

  "Actually, you might know her. Ruth Russo. Mr. Baker knows her and her husband Jack. They are both professors at Merriam College. Well, Ruth retired, but she still works at the Maritime..."

  "Wait. Jack Russo?" he said, staring at me with surprise.

  I nodded. "You know him?"

  "Yes," he said emphatically. "I just met him actually. In Italy. What a strange coincidence. Wait, so you found this blade where?"

  "I live with Jack and Ruth. I found it in their basement. But...I don't think it's theirs," I said, flustered, trying not to give away all the bizarre realities that led me to this conclusion. "I've just never seen it in the house before..."

  "Well, for the record, I don't think it belongs to them either. I'll explain why in a minute," he said, letting out a deep exhale as he finally sat down. I was stunned again. I did find it in their house. Why would he so quickly dismiss the possibility that it belonged to them?

  "This is a unique find indeed. I don't think you realize how significant it is." He looked at me over his glasses again. "Before we discuss it further, I have to ask...Do you consider yourself to be a spiritual person?"

  "I don't know," I said, wondering what this had to do with anything.

  "Do you know much about world religion, ancient customs, spiritual practices?"

  "I know some," I said. I always found the subject interesting and read quite a bit on it, but I was no expert.

  "How about paganism?" he asked. "The world's first religion."

  "Worshipped many gods, practiced magic rituals, etcetera?" I added.

  "Yes," he confirmed. "The Etruscans were pagans, and lived in a time when the world's people embraced the mysteries of life in all their rawness. A time when magic, and those who possessed the ability to harness it, were revered.

  "The Etruscans were a very unique people. Among them, there were a chosen few who were said to possess amazing gifts, granted to them by the mother goddess Diana to protect and defend her people from the evils that roamed her lands. They were the practitioners of La Vecchia Religione, the Old Religion. They were the Strega. The world's first witches.

  "The modern words witch and Wicca are actually terms based on the Old English word wicce, meaning wise. Unfortunately, these words have mostly dark and negative associations in western civilization after centuries of smear campaigns that date back to the beginning of Rome's domination. And the end of the Etruscan race.

  "The practice of magic, sorcery, and witchcraft is still very much alive across the globe today. It has ancient roots and common ties. Since the beginning of time, societies have relied upon their witches, sorcerers, sages, and medicine men. These people are thought to be gifted, connected with earth and spirit in a way that transcends the known boundaries of science. It is said that their physical and ethereal senses are sharper than most humans, much like animals in the deep forests and plains of the earth."

  "Strega were considered a gift to their people. Unfortunately, we do not know much about them. So much history has been lost. But various unofficial accounts confirm that some survived persecution. Those Strega, by necessity, would have been forced to keep their practices secret throughout the centuries, relying on their ancestors to teach them the ways. I can tell you with confidence that the tradition has indeed survived. To this day, in the remote villages of Tuscany, if you listen closely you can still hear whispers of their power.

  "The intent of benevolent magic is to heal, to harm none, and to act for the greater good. And just as Christians are plagued by Satan, the lord of hell, Strega are said to be engaged in a war against forces of darkness in our world. I wish I knew more. When I was in Italy, nobody would speak of this with me."

  He paused for a moment and signaled to the blade in his hand.

  "That is where this comes in," he said, peering at me with focused and determined eyes, as if waiting for me to figure out the connection.

  "I still don't understand," I finally said. "What does any of this have to do with that blade?"

  "Oh, Jay, this is not just any blade. This is an athame."

  XX

  Stacks of books were crammed onto Mr. Whitmore's shelves. On his desk, amongst scraps of scribbled-on paper and notepads, more piles of books were scattered. Several were on the subject of Italy and Ancient Rome.

  "What is an athame?" I asked as I watched him trace his finger along the symbols on the blade's handle.

  "An athame is actually a common tool in the modern practice of Wicca. But to Strega, it was their most powerful weapon." He handed it to me and I examined it as if for the first time.

  "An athame's power is in its magical charge," he said. "Modern practitioners of Wicca use them during ceremonies or rituals to direct energy. In this tradition, they are more symbolic than anything else. But Strega were known to use them quite literally to channel their power and defeat their enemies.

  "The symbols etched upon an athame have profound, pertinent meaning to the one who wields it. These markings often represent certain gods or spirits that are called upon for strength. Just by looking at this, I can tell you without a doubt that it's not the athame of a modern witch. It is the athame of a Strega."

  He stood before me with his arms crossed, staring at the ceiling deep in thought.

  "I just can't wrap my mind around how you found it. You don't just stumble upon one of these. A Strega's athame is highly revered and closely guarded. Always with them. Never out of their sight. You're sure you found this...just lying on the floor?"

  "Yes, in the basement," I said in confirmation, still unsure what to make of all he was saying. "Could it be a replica? I mean, maybe it's not the real thing."

  "There are two things you need to understand, Jay," he said as his expression grew even more serious. "For one thing, Etruscan relics are rare because so much has been destroyed. The handful of items that have survived are all behind glass in museums. And magical tools are never among them. Whatever does exist is hidden, protected within Stregherian families. Even if someone wanted to produce a replica, they couldn't because they would have no model for it. Aside from the Strega that possess them, no one has ever seen an authentic one."

  "So if you've never seen one, then how do you know this is one of them?" I asked as politely as possible.

  "I will get to that in a minute," he said. "The second thing you need to keep in mind is that Strega, though scarce, still walk among us. And so do their enemies."

  He paused for a moment and leaned over his desk, looking me in the eye.

  "What you've found has a very real purpose. It belongs to a Strega that lives and breathes in our time, I am sure of it. I just do not know how or why she was separated from it. Jay, you found it for a reason, and we need to figure out why. There's nothing you're not telling me?"

  I was shaking. My fear of telling him the truth s
uddenly clashed with my fear of withholding it. I had to take the risk. I had to trust him. It helped that he sounded just as crazy as I felt. Surely he wouldn't judge me for what I was about to say. I took a deep breath and the words slowly tumbled out of my mouth.

  "There is something else. Something happened to me. But it's very strange. Unbelievable, really. I just don't know what to make of it yet, and I didn't want to tell you because you'll think I'm crazy."

  "Tell me," he said desperately. I felt like I was about to jump off a cliff.

  "I did find this blade in my aunt's basement, but not how you might think." He looked at me with wide eyes and rolled his hands to urge me on. Something about his enthusiasm told me that what I was about to say wouldn't surprise him.

  "I first saw it in a dream," I finally said. "But then this morning, it appeared again as if out of nowhere. And I saw something strange in it. A face. A reflection almost, but not my own."

  Once the words left my mouth, I panicked. It sounded even worse than it did in my head. The look on his face made me wonder if he wanted to know more or if he was about to kick me out of his office.

  "My friend thinks I am just sleep deprived. Maybe I was just seeing things..."

  I justified myself, trying to soften it before he showed me the door. I had my hand on my bag, ready to run, but he interrupted me.

  "Do not underestimate this, Jay. What happened next in your dream...after you saw the athame?"

  I sat back and exhaled with relief. I proceeded to explain the rest of the dream, growing more comfortable as I went on. It all meant something to him, though I didn't know exactly what yet.

  "Was this the first time you had a dream like this?" he asked in a peculiar tone, like he already knew it wasn't.

  "No," I said. "I had this exact dream as a child, years ago. Then it came back about a month or so ago, after my grandmother died. It was different last night, though. More vivid. Even more intense than usual. But I'd had a traumatic night—"

  "What do you mean traumatic?"

  "Somebody followed me home last night. Chased me right to my front door. I barely got inside—"

  "Wait a minute...someone was after you?" he asked as fear spread across his face. "Do you know who?"

  I shrugged my shoulders and nodded.

  "Did you at least see his face?"

  "No."

  He let out a deep moan and paced anxiously.

  "This is what I was afraid of." He scratched his head and rubbed his eyes beneath his glasses.

  "What do you mean?" I asked as I shifted forward in my seat, feeling my own anxiety soaring to a new level.

  "You are in danger, Jay."

  XXI

  Mr. Whitmore rifled through a peculiar book on his desk. I caught a glimpse of its dark cover, which had a large symbol on it. As he flipped its pages, I saw that it was a collection of pages handwritten in black ink and bound together by a copper wire.

  "Here it is," he said with a sigh of relief, keeping his hand firmly on the page as he looked up at me.

  "Jay, do you believe in magic?" he asked me suddenly. I didn't know how to answer this question. Until recently, I never really thought much about magic, the supernatural, any of it. I was a science girl. A concrete, black and white, see it to believe it kind of person. I read plenty about ancient myths and superstitions. None of it was real. It couldn't be. But for the first time in my life, I had no explanation for the things I'd seen.

  "To be honest with you, I don't know what to believe right now."

  "Jay, I completely understand how you feel. What you are going through is something I can relate to all too well. I truly believe we've been brought together for a reason."

  My forehead crinkled as I stared at him.

  "I want to tell you something," he said, adjusting himself in his seat and resting his forearms on his desk. "Something I've never told anybody else."

  He let out a long, exaggerated breath before he began.

  "In early April, I took a drive north along the coast. I was feeling trapped after such a long winter and I was eager for spring. It was rainy and foggy, I remember, but it was about 50 degrees—the warmest day we'd had. I kicked off my shoes, rolled up my jeans, and stepped into the water. It was still as cold as ice, but the waves rolled in and I felt my winter shell begin to crack. I sat in the sand alone, just me and the wide open ocean. It was pure heaven. Rejuvenating. Peaceful. Normal.

  "Anyway, I grabbed something to eat at a little sandwich place and kept driving along the shore. I wasn't quite ready to go home yet. I passed the antique shops, restaurants, and waterfront motels, and after a few miles I came across a little bookstore. I was thrilled at the thought of finding a good read—something that would help me through the rusty fits and starts of spring.

  "It was just a little hole in the wall kind of place. The smell of old stale used books and musty trapped ocean air hit me as soon as I walked in. It was tiny. Only five or six bookshelves. It was quiet too. Only one or two other people, and the woman behind the cash register by the door. I still remember what she looked like. Silver bracelets on her wrists. Long hair flowing down her back. She smiled at me in a peculiar way as I walked in. I didn't think much of it at the time, but there was something strange about her. I still believe she had something to do with what happened next.

  "As I wandered through the small store, I wasn't looking for anything in particular. I just hoped that something might pop out and grab my attention. And then it did. Along the far wall, I saw it. A book with a drawing of a horned god on the cover. Etruscan Roman Remains, it was called.

  "As I thumbed through the pages, I discovered a collection of ancient pagan practices and beliefs thought to have belonged to the Etruscans. The subject piqued my interest. I'd just received an email from my alumni mailing list inviting me to join a small, privately funded archaeological excavation of a site in northern Italy, thought to contain the remains of a small Etruscan village dating back to 500 B.C.E. That's where I met Jack. Invitations like this come through all the time and I don't usually travel for them, but I seriously considered this one.

  "I got to the counter to pay, and the peculiar woman with the bracelets on her wrists reached under the counter for a brown paper bag. She unfolded it and placed the book into it, and then handed it to me along with my receipt. I peeked into the bag at my new book, excited to dive into it right away. I drove back to the beach and parked to do a bit of reading before heading back home. I reached in to grab the book out of the bag and I felt something else inside. Something that was not in there a moment before. I pulled my book out and placed it on the seat. Then I reached back in and pulled out another book."

  "The first thing I noticed was the symbol branded on the leather cover. The triquetra. An ancient symbol representing all things threefold."

  Keeping one hand on a particular page inside, he closed the book to show me the symbol on the cover.

  "What was inside was even more fascinating. Parchment pages were filled with images of the most beautiful and terrifying creatures, and text handwritten in a language that I did not recognize.

  "I put the book back in the bag and sped home. I was up all night trying to make sense of the text. I suspected that it was written in the Etruscan language, but I knew that virtually no Etruscan documents survived history. Like all remnants of Etruscan culture, written material was sought and destroyed by the Romans...cast into fire and burned."

  I gulped, recalling again the book from the library and its pages disintegrating before my eyes, like they were being consumed by fire.

  "The Romans quite literally wiped the Etruscans out of existence. They absorbed much of their culture, and rebranded it as their own, which is why the Etruscans are rarely credited for their significant, lasting contributions to society. Ah, Rome gets all the glory. But I digress...

  "Archaeological finds rarely yield written materials—only fragments, short lines, or single words have ever been found, mostly on funerary urns or s
culptures. Historians have been trying for more than a century to understand the Etruscan language. There just isn't enough written material available as a source of study, and it takes a dedicated historian to even attempt decoding a lost language like this. For all intents and purposes, it was impossible that this document even existed, but there I was, looking right at it.

  "That night, I fell asleep studying the book, and I had a dream. In that dream, I began to read it. And I know this doesn't make any sense, but in my dream I understood every word."

  Mr. Whitmore stared out the window, lost for a moment in his thoughts. With a defeated exhale, he turned back to me and continued.

  "When I woke up the next morning, the book was gone. I searched everywhere for it—on the floor, under the sofa cushions, in my desk—but it was gone. I know I didn't dream up its existence. I had it in my hands! Before I ever fell asleep, I thumbed through every page, studied the pictures, and read the text even though I didn't understand a word of it."

  "I thought I was nuts. At first, I tried to blame it all on a dream to maintain my sanity. But too many things confirmed that it wasn't. I went to that bookstore. I had the mileage on my car to prove it. I stopped at the beach to read it. I still had sand on my floor mats. I tried to forget the whole thing, but it just kept eating at me all day until I couldn't ignore it anymore. I drove back up to the bookstore. I pulled into the parking lot. But the store was gone. I was sitting in an unpaved lot. I drove up and down that stretch of road searching for the store, doubting myself, hoping I'd mistaken its location. But I knew I didn't. It was just gone. As if it never existed."

  I stared at him blankly. I didn't know what to say. A part of me wished he'd just told me that I needed professional help. Anything. But not this.

  "As soon as I got home, I started to put together this book here," he said, signaling to the book with the symbol on the cover. "I tried to recreate what I saw in that dream. All the text that I was miraculously able to understand. I wrote down everything I could remember. Drew every image I could recall. Magical beings both good and evil. Spirits. Gods. Demons. Potions. Spells. Summoning rituals. But I couldn't remember everything. So much is still missing."