‘I don’t know, but strange things keep happening and I want it to stop.’ Juliet said, frustrated; she hoped to avoid any other cryptic responses.
‘Come sit back down and you can tell me the whole story. But first, let me tell you a little about me.’
They sat at opposite sides of the room, facing each other, and the fire glowed behind Tamara; it silhouetted her body.
Juliet used her gloved hands to dab her tears. She quickly recomposed herself and pushed her blonde hair out the view of her eyes.
Tamara’s eyebrows squeezed together. She looked down at the floor and rubbed her hands together awkwardly. Then she peered about herself in an eerie manner as if she saw through the walls and was viewing the entire hamlet in one sweep.
‘Do you know the history of this island?’ she asked.
‘I know what I learnt at school. It’s impossible not to know anything about it when you live here.’
‘Yes, but do you know the real history?’
‘Is what I learnt at school not the real history?’ Juliet’s eyebrows lifted.
‘Of course it’s not. I know the truth about my ancestors.’ Tamara’s voice compressed with a serrated sound, ‘I’m the only living descendant left. My sister died ten years ago and I have no other family.’
‘I’m sorry to hear that.’
‘Do you know what the witches were capable of, my ancestors who lived here before they were burnt? They were powerful. They worshipped a willow tree in the centre of this hamlet and it flourished with their magic. They helped crops grow, they controlled the weather, they healed the sick and the wounded,’ frantically, she picked up pace, ‘they communed with the dead, they communed with the animals, they spiritually travelled between this world and the Otherworld. You come here, and you say you don’t believe in the work I do. In the gifts that have been passed down to me in my blood, the gifts that I’ve practiced with my whole life. You can’t be helped, if you don’t believe.’
‘I believe you know your… trade.’ Juliet said, and regretted her choice of words.
‘But you don’t believe the history of my ancestors, the real history of Lansin Island?’
‘It’s just not the history we were taught.’
‘You were taught wrong.’
Juliet ignored the medium for a moment and thought about the history she was taught in school. She’d never liked history; it had no practical use in her mind so she paid little attention. But you’d have to walk around covering your eyes and ears your whole life to not know about the witch burnings. It was the tourist attraction on the island: The Burning Grounds, the nearly five-hundred-year-old weathered courtyard of stone platforms.
From what she remembered, in 1542, King Henry VIII introduced a Witchcraft Act declaring it a crime punishable by death to practice witchcraft. That included sorcery, enchantments, conjuring sprites, or invoking any spells that could manipulate others, cause harm or for acquiring money.
She knew that the population of Lansin Island at that time was roughly eight hundred people, but she didn’t like to think about the rest of the story. One reason that she didn’t pay attention in history lessons was because it frightened her at that age, knowing what happened in the centre of the island.
When the islanders heard of the Witchcraft Act, paranoia spread and a group of women in Willow were accused of casting spells to destroy crops and livestock. They supposedly sacrificed animals and engaged in devil worship and orgies. The women of Willow, many other females and a few men across the island were rounded up: a total of one hundred and forty three. Over the course of five days they were burnt alive, thirty at a time, before it was put to a stop.
There were no trials. The island people took it into their own hands. They used cattle to bring rock from the hills to build platforms. Wooden platforms would have done the job, but in their hate, their fear, their anger and in their pure paranoia they built thirty platforms of stone. Maybe they expected an on-going witch crisis; stone platforms were reusable and only needed to be built once.
Each platform was made circular with a hole in the middle to support the stake, and each wide enough to tie the witch and pile wood and hay around her, or him.
As far as Juliet could remember, it was the worst case of witch burnings recorded in the history of Britain; maybe even Europe.
To try to get the appointment back on track, Juliet smiled and said, ‘Maybe we were taught wrong then. I’ll have to think more about it in my own time.’
‘You will.’ Tamara was frank in tone.
‘So, are you a Wiccan? Or… erm, a different type of… Pagan is it? I don’t mean to be ignorant. I don’t know a lot about the subject so I’m asking out of curiosity.’
‘No, I’m not religious. There’s no magic in religion.’
That’s a bit harsh, was Juliet’s initial thought, but she didn’t exactly disagree. She wasn’t religious herself.
‘Okay, but don’t Wiccans practice the sort of things you do?’ she didn’t want to say aloud the type of ‘things’ she meant.
‘I’m a witch. Witches practice witchcraft; we use magic. Some witches follow a religion or they are on spiritual journeys or both or whatever they want to tell you. I don’t agree with their ways. Magic shouldn’t be doused by all that nonsense.’ Tamara came across ardent in her opinion; the final sentence had an impatient tone to it, like the way a master annoyed at their apprentice who incessantly failed would sound, having to tell them what to do again and again.
‘Why do you call yourself a medium or a psychic or a clair...’ Juliet stopped, unable to recall the word.
‘A clairvoyant? They are some of my skills that are listed on my website. Most people feel more comfortable calling me a medium rather than a witch.’
‘That’s understandable. I’m sorry to ask so many questions, but what is a Pagan then?’
‘Pagans follow an earth-based religion, like the people of the Wiccan faith for example, but there are many other Pagan religions besides Wicca.’
‘Okay, I think I’ve grasped it. Thank you for that.’ Juliet nodded to show her appreciation.
‘Now, tell me your story. Tell me why you’re here.’
Juliet started at the beginning: the incident in Amiton upper grounds when the car almost hit her, and then she covered the impossible things she’d seen over the past few days. She told her about the kitchen incident where she thought she actually heard something say, ‘Help me.’
As she told the story, she tried to place Tamara’s age. Her face looked proud and smooth, the way she moved was sprightly, and her hair was a vivid orange colour; but she came across as someone in her late sixties. Juliet couldn’t tell what gave away her age, but something did.
Once the story was told, Tamara sat still for a while. She seemed to be in deep thought, her eyes were aimed at her lap. She looked up sharply and said, ‘I think I know what’s happening to you. Give me your hands please.’
Juliet took off her gloves and placed them down. She stretched out her hands towards Tamara who took them slowly into her own. Tamara used one hand to scan over Juliet’s palms, as if trying to sense the heat they radiated or their energy. Some thought was definitely going through Tamara’s mind, and she raised one hand to Juliet’s face, with the same movements, scanning it as if her hand was a metal detector searching for treasure inside of Juliet’s head.
‘You’re different.’ Tamara said. ‘I don’t know what you are, but you’re different.’
Juliet laughed hard, and aloud. She couldn’t help it; this was just too rich.
‘I’m not paying for you to put on a show. I thought you could help me.’ she moved back to her seat and put her gloves back on.
‘It’s not a show. No one like you has ever come to me before.’
‘What do you mean - like me?’ she asked, annoyed for being foolish enough to believe this woman could help.
‘What did you feel when the car almost hit you?’
Juliet paused.
She
remembered what she felt. She felt herself go over the edge, she felt herself die. It was so vivid, but then she opened her eyes to that dark-haired guy holding onto her.
‘What does it matter?’ she asked.
‘You felt something didn’t you?’
‘I felt the car hit me. I saw myself fall and die. But here I am. Not dead. I obviously imagined it. So what does it matter?’ impatient to leave, she spoke abruptly.
‘You were meant to die.’
‘What?’
‘You were meant to die, Juliet, and in fact… you kind of did die.’ Tamara’s tone was serious; so much so that Juliet found herself considering the crazy notion. She recalled how she felt on the bus: disconnected, like she was there but also somewhere else.
‘That doesn’t even make sense.’
‘I will put it simply for you. Life is varied; some people have a fate, and other people don’t. Your fate was to die that day but someone saved you.’ she spoke the way a school teacher would to a child, ‘When you were pulled out the way of the car, you were physically saved. But you spiritually died. You are displaced, Juliet. Your soul is in the Otherworld but your body is here.’
Dumfounded, Juliet didn’t reply. She reminded herself that she was an educated woman, she owned a café, she was business-minded, fairly successful, and that there was a real world where none of this poppycock existed. And on that conclusion, she reached into her pocket, took forty pounds out of her purse, then passed it to ‘the witch’.
‘Here’s your money. Thank you for the theatrics but I have real things I need to get back to.’ she turned to leave.
‘No wait, Juliet, listen please. You are seeing spirits and ghosts because you are anchored in two worlds. The Spiritworld lies in between our world and the Otherworld. Because you are in both you can see what’s in between. If you heard a spirit say to you, “Help me”, like you said you did, then you’re not in danger. It wants your help. It won’t leave you alone until you help it.’
Realising that Tamara still hadn’t changed the record, Juliet continued to exit the room. She opened the front door, but before she walked out she heard Tamara shout to her.
‘Halloween will be a vulnerable day for you, Juliet. The Spiritworld can be unpredictable that day. Be prepar...’ Juliet slammed the door. The wooden bang rolled through the tiny hamlet, an anomaly in the tranquil setting. She walked doggedly back to the bus stop.
At the risk of looking insane, she laughed to herself. What a waste of time. She’d never heard anything so ridiculous in her life. My fate to die. Yeah, right, so why I am alive?
The Willow bus stop didn’t even warrant a shelter from the rain, so all Juliet could do was stand there getting wetter and colder. Once the bus arrived and she was settled on-board, she pulled out her mobile to search the internet for inspiration on new décor for the café. She didn’t want the whole journey to be a complete waste of time.
She was annoyed to be soaking wet, and she wished that she’d slammed Tamara’s front door a bit harder. That’s childish. It doesn’t matter anymore. She’s just a crazy old woman.
A few wallpaper designs piqued her interest so she ‘bookmarked’ the website pages on her mobile web browser. Then she text Kim, to apologise again for cancelling on Friday.
Feeling welcomed back to the real world, she went through a mental checklist of some to-do’s for the café for the remainder of the journey.
The night was spent making paella for dinner and then later she relaxed in the bath with a bottle of wine. It was what she needed all along; a simple bit of relaxation to calm her panicked mind after the near-death experience. Not a load of voodoo garbage or ghost talk. It was normal to have a few nightmares or hallucinations after a stressful experience. But it wasn’t normal to think that ‘spirits’ or ‘ghosts’ were seeking your help.
Okay, that’s that figured out. I can forget this whole embarrassing episode and never bring it up again, ever.
Reassurance of mind equalled an easy sleep that night.
Chapter 5
Thursday was here and it had been a busy week at Creaky Crystals. Nick was only contracted twelve hours a week but Mora had given him overtime due to the Halloween buzz. Overtime was always welcome, but he had every Thursday down as not-flexible-to-work, and Mora knew that he saw Caroline that day.
The morning drizzled; he stood watching faint raindrops meet a formed puddle on the garden patio.
He smiled from inside the kitchen, a big grin that stretched over his face. To others, the weather might have seemed gloomy, but Nick loved the way that light rain hushed the world. The air was fresh, the sky practically colourless, and everything was simple.
He took the time to put on some rainwear then stepped out onto the patio. There were sycamore trees in the back garden like the ones in the front. They were almost leafless: only a few of the strong-willed hung on. He looked up at the towering trees and remembered why he loved them. He adored their star-shaped leaves. They reminded him of the animated 1988 film, one of his childhood favourites, The Land Before Time.
Whatever the season, those leaves were intensely colourful; red, brown, yellow, green. The winged sycamore seeds were a joy as a youngster; he’d throw them in the air and watch them spiral down, mimicking the dramatic way a helicopter would crash in a film.
He purposefully drew in a deep breath. The smell of autumn; he cherished it. It was his favourite season, along with spring. The smell was mellowed with the crisp air of the rain, but nevertheless a pleasure to his senses.
He dawdled back inside the bungalow and got ready for his appointment with Caroline.
No premonitions had come his way since that first one. And those painful flashes, well, he didn’t know what to think about those, but he was sure that it was just a matter of time or practice to gain control of his ability. He refused to believe that it was just a random blip. A voice inside of him insisted that it meant something more. It must. He thought about it for longer and remembered a story his mum had told him when he was younger. She’d said that her mother, Nick’s grandmother, had a dream only a couple of weeks before she passed on.
In her dream she supposedly saw how she was going to die. She was already taken ill, but she knew exactly when and how it would happen. Parents told exaggerated stories to their kids all the time, so there was no reason for Nick to believe it. Also, his gran was on a lot of medication; she might not have been ‘all there’ in her mind. But maybe there was some truth to it.
He wished he could ask his mum.
His grandmother had died while his mother was pregnant carrying him. Some people believed that trauma during pregnancy could result in the baby having a birth mark. He didn’t know if that was true or not, but he sure did have a birth mark. It was on his left side, roughly six inches below the armpit, towards the bottom of his ribcage; a humble light-brown oval.
His mother used to tell him that it was his gran’s way of living on. As a birthmark?!
When he arrived at the surgery, and Caroline let him into the session room, he was full of vigour.
‘Hello, Caroline!’ he beamed at her.
‘Well, hello, Nicolas,’ she replied with appropriate reciprocation. She gestured for him to take a seat, and he did, sitting up straight and smiling. Caroline looked almost awkward for a second on how to proceed.
‘You look very happy,’ she said simply.
‘I am, it’s been a good week, Halloween is approaching, and I love this time of year.’
‘It shows. Have there been any changes this week?’ she asked.
He thought for a moment, realising that Caroline might feel a bit blustered by his sudden, nascent joy.
‘I saved a woman last Friday. Did you hear about the car chase? The driver went through the upper grounds. I was on my way to work and I pulled a woman out the way of the vehicle just as it was about to hit her.’
‘I did see about that on the news but they didn’t mention that part.’ her response was calm. Nick rememb
ered that he’d concealed the part about the woman being there from the police.
‘The woman seemed scared and she ran off before the police arrived, so they didn’t know about it.’
Caroline simply nodded. So he continued.
‘But anyway, I’ve been in a good mood since. I’ve never done anything like that before. The woman didn’t stop to say thank you or anything, but I feel good that I saved someone’s life, even if no one else knows about it,’ rambling, he forgot to breathe and had to stop.
‘I bet it’s a nice feeling?’ she explored further.
‘It is. It’s like nothing else.’
The real thing on his mind was the premonition but there was no way he was going to mention that to Caroline. He doubted that she would, but he didn’t want to risk the chance of his therapist thinking he was crazy, rather than just someone who got depressed from time to time. He didn’t want to attend therapy forever.
‘It’s nice seeing you smile,’ she commented and smiled back at him.
‘It feels good.’
‘We spoke about confronting your dad last time. About the awkwardness you feel around him… whether it was worth talking to him about it or not?’
At mention of his father, his chest tightened with a slight drop in mood, but not for long.
‘It doesn’t seem as pressing this week as it did last session,’ he told her, ‘I’m going over my dad’s this weekend or maybe next weekend, so I’ll see what it’s like.’
Caroline smiled again and waited. Nick realised that in his elevated mood, he’d been gesticulating like a mad man. He let out a breath that portrayed: ‘Okay, I’m calm and centred now.’
The remainder of the appointment was pleasant. He noticed that it transformed from a therapy session with a sense of direction into a genial chit-chat with Caroline. She probably thought it was okay to chit-chat, seeing as: one, she was being paid for it, two, Nick felt happy, and three, he’d explored his thoughts and feelings a fair bit. Isn’t that the end goal of seeing a therapist?
When he returned home, he spent the afternoon and evening in the snug. Books he’d read throughout the week were scattered across the room; it looked like the home of an untidy bibliophile.
A Death Displaced Page 5