Among The Cloud Dwellers (Entrainment Series)

by Giuliana Sica

  Among the Cloud Dwellers

  ISBN 978-0-9821023-3-6

  0-9821023-3-X

  Porzia Amard has left her French-Italian roots and her beloved wine making family behind in Tuscany to pursue her journalistic studies in the USA, eventually settling in Florida; Pensacola, to be exact, where hurricanes abound. And it is on the forceful tail end of one such hurricane that her life suddenly takes a mystical turn and the story begins.

  Porzia is a fairy tale archetype disguised as a pragmatic food writer leading a satisfying professional life as an epicurean globetrotter. Never mind the fact that her pathetic love life amounted to nothing more than a devastating relationship with an alcoholic pastry chef.

  Stubborn and beautiful, yet often playful, her colorful and sometimes blunt comments make her irresistible in the eyes of one special man.

  When she unexpectedly inherits the legacy of unusual powers at her beloved grandmother’s deathbed, her usual self-assurance is shaken, yet she stays true to her promise to accept the challenge before her. Tormented by doubts, Porzia has no time to fully absorb the enormity of her life-changing decision before she finds herself in the middle of events she cannot comprehend.

  Under the caring guidance of her spiritual mentor Evalena, Porzia abandons the straightforward path after a past life regression introduces a distant soul mate, revealing a love so intense it has resisted the tarnishing of time.

  On her way to Australia to write about a new Shiraz being released, she meets famed off-road racer Gabe Miller. Their attraction is immediate and impossible to resist. As they experience a love only few of us can imagine, let alone have ever savored, she finds herself believing Gabe to be her lost soul mate reincarnated. But Gabe’s past holds secrets and a destiny to fulfill which keep Porzia constantly questioning herself and her choices as their romantic encounter leads to intense passion, mystery, and a journey of self-discovery.

  With mystical powers in full swing, a Tarot card reading triggers conflict and a profound transformation, and for Porzia, once the key has been inserted into the magic portal, the inherent powers— held dormant for so long— sweep her off her feet and there is no turning back.

  AMONG THE CLOUD DWELLERS

  GIULIANA SICA

  Published by Green Darner Press

  Green Darner Press is an imprint of Gemelli Press LLC

  9600 Stone Avenue North

  Seattle, Washington 98103

  Copyright 2012 Giuliana Sica

  Reprint Edition for Green Darner Press 2013

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, with out permission in writing of the copyright owner.

  This is a work of fiction. While, as in all fiction, the literary perceptions and insights are based upon experience, all names, places, and incidents are either products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. No reference to any real person is intended or should be inferred.

  Cover design by Anahi Carrillo Felch

  Typesetting by Enterline Design Services LLC

  ISBN-13: 978-0-9821023-3-6

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2011940511

  This book is dedicated to the Fallen...it was too soon.

  Ringraziamenti/Acknowledgements

  Porzia believes that a gourmet meal without wine is like a song that has great music but lacks intelligent lyrics. I believe that a life without magic is like a song with intelligent lyrics but it lacks the quintessential ingredient necessary for us to truly live and not merely survive.

  Magic manifests itself in a smile, an extended hand, a spark of recognition in the eyes of someone who, having just read a written-under-the-influence manuscript, sniffs the intoxicating aromas of the truffle in the dirt and believes in it.

  My magic has names, many names. To me it came in vibrant shapes and forms. Occasionally it shyly awaited, lingering in midair by my windows for my terrestrial eyes to acknowledge it, but more often than not, it barged in and brutally ruffled my feathers; mostly, my enormous Leonine-ego feathers, as in the case of Brad Hopkins of Russell Dean and Company, author of the most atrocious ruffling, which began to pick at the earth-caked nugget, wondering how in the world a Tuscan truffle ended up in the Pacific Northwest. Brad, your advice to “write to the extreme, there is always time for the editors to reel you in” is still my motto today.

  To Justin for eating scrambled eggs for an entire week and brainstorming Gabe’s name in front of beer, not wine. To Cheri, Marta, and Yvonne, the three fairy godmothers who cradled the manuscript and, reverently brushing off some dirt, told me it was timeless. To Ilene for wanting to live in it. To Johnny for forcing me to face the Wizard of Oz.

  To the gang at Gemelli Press – Jason for tapping into my vision; Kari and Sally who rather than fluff my feathers, decided to fluff Porzia’s instead. I am eternally in debt to you both, but the Brunello I am drinking alone.

  To Aurora, Andrea, and Marcellina – more than Magic, you are angels. To Melissa for her encouragement and friendship and for holding my hand when most needed while birthing this baby.

  To my beloved Artur for steering away from car manuals and reading the whole thing. You are my King and my Merlin.

  And to my father who gave me markers and walls at the tender age of 4 … and my mother who, three months later, finally gave me paper so I would stop doodling on those walls.

  ~ Grazie

  Love found me all disarmed and found the way

  was clear to reach my heart down through the eyes

  which have become the halls and doors of tears.

  —Francesco Petrarca, Rhymes in Life & Death of Madonna Laura

  PROLOGUE

  Firenze, Italia. Galleria degli Uffizi.

  The echo of the security guard’s footsteps slowly faded toward the distant museum exit.

  Silence.

  Silence echoed along the austere arcades on the first floor. Sunset filtered through the ancient windows, the sunrays interrupted in their paths by massive walls. Golden light ricocheted and dispersed off myriads of confused dust motes. At the end of the high-windowed galleria, the heartbeat began to pound within the chilled white marble of Michelangelo’s Davide. Life’s essence stirred through his perfectly chiseled body until strength and heat gave him power to move. He slipped from his pedestal and headed toward Venere in Botticelli’s room.

  From the darkening sky, a full moon replaced eternity and cast an inquisitive look down. Davide’s shadow glided undisturbed amongst dozing masterpieces. On the upper level, beneath gilded ceilings, silence reigned.

  Venere stepped out of her golden frame, and leaving her seashell behind, she entered reality. The angels’ gazes followed her progress while her ancella gently smiled and wiped a lonesome tear.

  Still wet from the scented sea mist, Venere’s long auburn hair trailed, barely covering her glowing body. Desire stirred deep within her soul, conjuring rhythmic waves within her.

  She met Davide on a sunset-lit windowsill. Doubts dissipated, washed away by the high tide of her will. The lovers allowed the salt-scented mist to subdue them, slowly, to unfold erotic dreams.

  Please let reality be what fantasy was.

  As the sun’s light faded away she drew him in, savoring primitive rituals, riding the moist rhythm of the waves to slowly drown their thirst. With the moon silently smiling, they reached for the sky and left agony be
hind.

  That was the night my parents gave me life.

  This life.

  If I were a color, I would be gold. Born under the blessing of the full moon, protected by ageless winged guardians, I played hopscotch with Giotto on checkered floors and hide-and-seek with masterpieces along marble staircases, among their golden frames and moth-dappled velvet drapes. My tiny hands pressed against rain-streaked windows while outside the river Arno swelled and found its way to the sea.

  I grew up by the shadow of the leaning tower of Pisa. And although the colors of Tuscany in August blush my skin, it is the Manouche mystery that pounds through my veins. I know the woods where Dante lost his way like the palm of my hand. I could escort you to the inferno door blindfolded, for I have knocked on it often myself. I crossed the Mississippi River and heard Jesse James ask Huckleberry Finn if he was real.

  I swam with dolphins in the Gulf of Mexico and danced with the Queen of New Orleans on a wet, humid winter night. I got drunk with Ezili in Savannah and cursed life, screaming at the moon in rage. I wandered in meadows restlessly and watched the winds with a longing I could not understand.

  Absolutely still in a Veronica, I held a crimson cape of fears, enticed a crippled wolf to charge, and defied time.

  I challenged the Goddess, belied my powers, and regretted it all. I soared with a majestic eagle toward a sinking sun and caught up to it by Ayers Rock where, anguished, I bowed. Subjugated at last, I embraced magic.

  Too wild, too strong to be mortal, I wove a dream with love in my heart, passion in my soul, and the breath of my life.

  I have summoned the elements, conjured my yearning into a spell to be taken away across the endless sky. I have swallowed my pride and begged the gods to give me proof that life is worth the fight. Now I walk through sorrow barefoot, careful not to step on the sharp, shattered pieces of my broken dream.

  Now I lie still, numb and spent, waiting.

  CHAPTER 1

  In the anno domini 1300, midway upon the journey of his life, Dante found himself within a forest dark, for the straightforward pathway had been lost . . .

  Precisely 699 years later, I wandered as well. And found myself.

  Only it wasn’t the inferno I entered.

  And God had nothing to do with it. This was more likely the Goddess, subtle and beckoning.

  As someone who—up to that point in her life—had never gambled, I claim full responsibility for abandoning the straightforward pathway.

  I rolled the dice, and I have no regrets.

  Exactly on the eve of one of Florida’s most prolific hurricane seasons, while everyone boarded shut their windows against the wrath of Hurricane Erin, I left mine wide open. And magic stormed in.

  Metaphorically speaking, the timing was impeccable.

  I had no time to bother with trivialities such as shutting windows. Across the Atlantic, a family emergency demanded me. Although back then I still had not learned how to face Death, I rushed to France and my grandmother’s side.

  Beyond the expanse of the Atlantic Ocean, over the somber peaks of the Pyrénées, down into the dampness of the Camargue, across fields of fragrant lavender, in a room where someone had remembered to shut the windows against the scorching July sun, my grand-mère Joséphine was dying.

  Her delirious eyes swept the darkness in the far corner. “Zut! Attend toi!” she spat. “Je ne suis encore prête.”

  Chills ran down my spine. “Who are you talking to Joséphine?”

  “La Mort.” Her voice echoed hollowness.

  Resigned looks spread across the faces of my family. My father bowed his dark (despite the age), luscious crown of hair and covered his eyes. My mother’s aquamarine eyes welled up with tears, like the sea on high tide, and my younger brother Alex, a born skeptic as myself, turned to see if he could actually catch a glimpse of Death.

  I did too.

  In the far corner, ghastly folds of shadow quivered.

  Alex’s eyes met mine and he shrugged.

  Joséphine’s gnarled hand gripped my arm and pulled me closer. My knees met the side of her bed, and yet she kept on drawing me to her. Choking in sorrow, I bent down to give her my undivided attention.

  “Ma petite miette—,” she sighed, short of breath.

  “Joséphine—” My shoulders shook with grief.

  “I kept you in the dark. I thought I would protect you. But how do we love that which we don’t know?” She unclasped her beloved amber pendant from her fragile, birdlike neck and pressed it into my hand. It pulsed warm with her heat. “I renounced The Craft and now it’s too late! A lifetime with no magic wasn’t worth it.” With extraordinary strength for someone in such weak condition she shook her head. “But you must rekindle the power!” Her eyes bulged. “Promets-moi!”

  In one inhuman last effort, her shoulders pushed off the pillows. “Promets-moi! Ma petite miette! You must return to magic!”

  Tears spilled from my eyes, her face liquefied, and I nodded frantically—against all my principles. I gripped her cold hands in mine. Pain flared as the amber pendant cut into the tender flesh of my palm. “D’accord, Joséphine. I promise.”

  Her shoulders collapsed back on the pillows. “Merci.”

  *

  The very first time my grandfather set eyes on Joséphine he thought, “Le premier soufflé du Divin était la Femme. Et voilà, elle vient.” The Divine first breath was Woman. And here She comes.

  And I think: The Divine must have been lonely. We are born alone. We die alone.

  Despite my grandfather’s romantic heart, I remain guarded. Why waste time believing in soul mates?

  It is perhaps because the Divine created us in her image? And if the Divine is Love, therefore are we, as well, Love? Moreover, in our desire to express our true nature, then aren’t we doomed to Love?

  Grief does not heal prettily. Especially when morbidly and persistently poked, it scabs. Then, if we are lucky, it finally scars.

  After the burial, this sort of thinking flew with me back to the Florida Panhandle where Hurricane Erin had made landfall only days earlier.

  Pensacola was still on its knees. Surprisingly, my place had sustained no damage.

  *

  A month later, I kept my promise and took my first wayward step.

  CHAPTER 2

  A yellow light blinked furiously as I sped through the intersection and landed on the Gulf Breeze Bridge with the car’s shock absorbers cringing. The speedometer read eighty-five miles per hour. Oddio! Adrenaline jolted through me like a strong buzz. I shot a glance at the rearview mirrors almost expecting the flashing lights of a police car. I caught sight of my own makeup-free eyes instead. I frowned, puzzled by their unusual aqua clarity; so much like my mother’s.

  Some people are here for answers while others only have questions, tesoro mio. Her voice echoed in my head, her eyes spiraled back into mine, and I smiled wryly.

  My heart and mind struggled in disagreement. I felt like the rope in a tug o’ war game. This time I wanted to change my mind, but I feared my heart.

  My brow creased as I raced across the deserted bridge. I eased my foot off the gas pedal in a futile attempt to delay my appointment. A pang of disappointment shot through my gut. Second-guessing my promises is not something I do. Usually, once I make a choice, I stick with it—often despite vociferous warning signs.

  To make matters worse, the Category 3 hurricane had re-tailored the Florida Panhandle’s hems and destroyed many homes on Navarre Beach, my friend Evalena’s included. She and Rex now dwelled in Gulf Breeze, in a house lent them by a friend—my destination only a few miles ahead, according to the crumpled napkin I had scribbled with hasty directions. I hate not knowing where I am headed. I hate changes in my habitual routine, and I can’t believe I do what I do for a living with such irrational fears as faithful companions.

&
nbsp; After a last glance I tossed the napkin back on the passenger seat where it landed in my overstuffed bag and soaked the sweat off a chilled bottle of San Pellegrino. I cranked the air conditioner and wondered grumpily about this new place Evalena now called home. Energetically speaking, I questioned whether the atypical environment, with its unfamiliar vibes, might possibly affect my past life regression.

  I wondered whether it would be a good idea to postpone the session until Evalena’s house was restored. Yeah. Right. With all the destruction the hurricane had left in its path, the Panhandle faced at least a year of intense reconstruction.

  I could never wait that long.

  I still churned about the whole deal and idiotically questioned Evalena’s metaphysical powers. The absurdity of my own doubts shook my head. I needed answers now.

  I braked the car to a halt in front of a low bungalow painted in an extremely unsuited-for-the-circumstances jolly yellow. I pushed my cheap plastic sunglasses up my head and heard a cracking noise. Under the mass of my unruly hair, the sunglasses snapped and broke in two. Fine. Cringing with pain, I raked the ruined pieces off my head along with some hair, tossed them on the backseat, and finally killed the engine, leaving my feet on the pedals. I leaned to rest my chin on my white-knuckled hands, still clenching the sweaty steering wheel. Through the bug-speckled windshield, I silently observed the house.

  My heaving chest echoed the engine’s struggle to cool down. I resented the jovial yellow.

  Nobody in sight, I could still bail . . .

  But didn’t. I had a promise to keep.

  The weak end of daylight dimly lit the living room where tottering, knee-high stacks of books edged an erratic path to a rolltop desk. A brass incense burner towered over several carelessly scattered bills. Tendrils of the ever-lingering moldy odor of all that is wet in Florida swirled, almost visible in the milky light.