by Sandy Wright
"She's not the only one who feels the area is unusual," Rumor said. "The Native people think those rock spires work like satellite antenna, connecting to one of those mountains out in the middle of the valley called Vision Butte. Tribal medicine men have used the site for hundreds of years for vision quests and ceremonies. Cathedral is state land, but Vision Butte was decreed sacred. No non-Native visitors."
"Do you know which one is Vision Butte?"
Rumor shrugged. "No idea. It's not on any of the maps."
Ignoring the burning muscles in my thighs, I climbed to the top and stopped, panting. "Wow."
The overlook resembled a wide sidewalk, with steep drops on each side. The view was jaw-dropping in both directions.
We walked to the edge and sat down, dangling our legs over the side. The breeze came up the ledge from the desert below, lifting my damp shirt away from my sweaty skin. I sighed and raised my arms over my head, stretching out my shoulders. The place slipped into me, a shimmering wind I drew in with each breath. It wasn't just the view, or the breeze, but a vibration in the air, not quite audible, like a dog whistle barely above hearing range. I closed my eyes and listened.
I didn't know how long I sat, feeling the wind whoosh up my legs from the valley floor far below. At some point, the vibration increased, and I could hear words, in a simple melody:
"Wakan, wakan, every creature,
Wakan, wakan, every rock.
Tuku Skanskan, the time surrounds you.
From sacred earth we send our voices.
Wachin ksapa yo! Be attentive!"
I reached for Rumor, to ask if she heard it, but she was gone. I jerked my eyes open and looked around.
Rumor stood, eyes closed and arms outstretched in a "V" over her head, oblivious to the precipice beyond her. The wind spiraled around her head, swirling the dark strands of her long hair across her face.
I stood up slowly and tiptoed over to her, took her hand and pulled her gently away from the edge.
"Oh." She made a little, surprised sound, like she'd forgotten I was there. Then she crossed her ankles and sunk to the ground.
"Wakan tanka, we watch the Earth.
To Man below, we send our voices.
Wakan, wakan, every creature,
Wakan, wakan, every rock."
The song rode the wind, ebbing and fading until it disappeared, swallowed by the air currents from the valley floor below. I tugged off my pack and rummaged in the outside pocket for my pen, mumbling under my breath.
Rumor looked up at me with a dazed expression.
"I need to write it down before I forget," I explained.
"Write what down?" She slurred her words and looked groggy, like Rip Van Winkle awakening from his twenty-year siesta.
"The words to the song."
She shook her head, uncomprehending.
"The song we just heard. On the wind."
Rumor shrugged. "I didn't hear anything."
"Then what were you doing leaning over the edge of the cliff like you were hypnotized, with your arms over your head?" I pantomimed swaying with my hands outstretched.
Rumor covered her mouth in the crook of her elbow and yawned. "Calm down, Sam. I'm fine." She stretched out on the warm ground, her daypack pillowing her head. "I didn't hear anything but I sure am sleepy. Let's take a quick nap before we head down."
Totally exasperated, I found my pen and scribbled what little I could remember on the back of my hand. Wakan, wakan. Wakan tanka, I muttered as I wrote.
* * * * *
Tuesday morning, with the singsong chant still running through my head, I transferred my scribbling into a document on my computer before I showered. Tomorrow, when I got a break at work, I'd search for more information. But first I wanted to take advantage of my last day off and visit some of the art galleries in Sedona. I'd been here for more than a month and my walls were still bare. Maybe I'd look for some kind of impressionistic South-west landscape to complement my new plum sofa. Maybe add some bright red or turquoise throw pillows. My ex-husband favored chrome and black leather. In Sedona, my home would be filled with jewel tones.
I ended up at Tlaquepaque, a Spanish-themed open air shopping plaza. On the second floor I spied the Standing Bear Gallery, complete with a nine foot tall carved bear totem guarding the entrance. I looked through the window.
A man was seated at a large, half-finished canvas, his back to me. He wore a blue bandana around his forehead, and his long black hair was loose down his back, tucked behind his ears to keep it out of his paint palette.
The painting drew me inside. He worked on the top half of the canvas, adding details to an eerily familiar scene. The same view I had looked down on the day before from atop Cathedral Rock.
I inched further into the room, taking care not to disturb his work, but he turned and smiled, pointing silently to a nearby chair.
He completed the subtle tinges of color in the clouds swirling like mist around the butte, sluicing a wedge of yellow from his knife onto a corner of his palette, then a smaller bit of copper brown, swirling the colors together but not blending. To the swirl he added just a knife tip of blue-gray. Then he dotted his brush tip with white, drew it deftly across his palette colors, and began working on the edges of the clouds.
Totally absorbed, I watched him work for the better part of an hour as he added golden highlights to the cloudy sky on his canvas.
Finally he put his brush in a jar of turpentine sitting on the edge of his easel, and stretched his arms behind him to ease his stiff back, seeming surprised to find me there.
"I know the spot," I told him quietly. "I saw it yesterday, and you have it just right. The clouds swirl around the top, just as you've painted it."
"Where were you watching from?" he asked.
"The top of Cathedral Rock."
"And what does the wind do there?" he asked me seriously.
"It blows straight up the cliff into your face."
"Ah, yes, but what else?"
I hesitated, unsure how my answer would sound to this stranger. "It sings."
The man regarded me silently with his coal-black eyes. Then he reached behind him for a printed flyer on the counter, scribbled a note on it and handed it to me.
"If you heard singing, then you should know the rest. This is the number of my uncle. Call him. Tell him I sent you because you have heard the Song of the Ancients."
The next morning at work, I thought about the painter, Rod Standing Bear and his puzzling suggestion. But I put off calling his friend, vacillating between skepticism and awe. The whole scene on Cathedral Rock felt like a dream. But the foreign words I had heard seemed so real. On the other hand, I was the rational one who didn't believe the tales of vortex energies. New Age voodoo I'd told Kamaria. Then one visit to a vortex site and I heard singing.
Just to be sure, I typed 'wakan tanka' into my computer and hit 'search.' A full page of selections—all headed 'wakan tanka'— popped up on the screen.
I scrolled through the selections, scanning headers. Lakota Indian term meaning Great Spirit. Pre-Christianity, it refers to an organization of sacred entities whose power resides in everything.
Wakan tanka, we watch the earth. So I hadn't imagined the singing, and the song had a message. Someone – or something – was watching. Who were they? And why did I the hear them? Standing Bear was right. I needed to try and get some answers from his uncle.
I was looking through Internet sites and making notes when Nuin appeared in my office doorway.
He greeted me with a smile. He'd seemed so angry after the full moon when I wouldn't kiss him, but he appeared to have re-covered. "Rumor said you wouldn't mind if I came back here," he said easily. "I wanted to ask about your friend Nicholas and his aunt."
I stopped working, and he slid into the chair across the desk from me.
"Have you met the aunt?" he asked.
I minimized the screen and folded my ar
ms over my notes. "No."
"What do you know of her?"
"Nothing, except Nicholas is thinking about selling her house. Why do you ask?"
Nuin's gaze slid from mine. "Her name seems familiar."
I frowned, thinking. "I didn't tell you her name."
"You didn't? Huh. I guess I just assumed it was Orenda also." He leaned forward and clasped his hands on my desk, raising his eyes slowly to look at me through impossibly thick lashes. Why do men always get those beautiful lashes? I stared at them for too long. Then switched to his lips. He stretched them into a slow smile. "Actually, I just needed an excuse to come over and apologize in person for the other night. I was much too presumptuous." He stood up and stepped behind the chair. "Look, could we just start over? Maybe go to dinner?" He put a hand up. "Or if dinner is too much, maybe lunch?"
I found myself grinning back at him. The fumbling Adonis seemed much more attractive than the cocky one I'd first met. "Sure. Dinner would be nice."
Nuin edged his way to the door. "Great. I'll call you next week."
Chapter 5: Weaving the Web
I called Nicholas to let him know we'd be visiting Jerome the next Sunday and would like to see his aunt's house. He said any time after noon would be fine.
The cloudless sky was such a bright blue it made me squint and scrabble in my purse for sunglasses. Rumor, of course, looked perfect with a paisley-fringed scarf tied around her dark hair, and oversized movie star shades. She was hard not to hate.
To kill some time, we made a quick U-turn when we spied a roadside taco wagon next to the Verde Hay Market, just before the turn-off to Jerome. We sat on the convertible boot, feet in the backseat, and ate killer tacos, slathered with grilled jalapeños, onions and thin radish slices. While we ate, I pulled an auto club tour book out of the glove compartment and read up on Jerome. The old mining town clings to the side of a mountain in the middle of the Arizona Black Hills. During the boom 15,000 people lived here. Now it is home to a much-dwindled population of artists, hermits, gift shop owners and landlords of fallen-down buildings.
The book didn't exaggerate. Every structure we passed teetered on the slant of the hill. Black Cat Road, a single-lane dirt and gravel mining road, zigzagged relentlessly up the mountain on a rut so narrow that every blind curve was terrifying. The miners had named it after one of Jerome's many brothels, the Black Cat Saloon. The saloon was long gone and only a few houses remained on its namesake road. I dug my fingernails into the arm-rest at every corner, praying we met no oncoming traffic.
Nicholas' house stood at the very top of the hill, a lavender-gray Victorian with weathered black shutters and a tall black front door. Along the front porch ran a riot of withered red roses, giving way to ivy further up, which partially covered the second-floor balcony.
We crossed the front lawn toward the house. The back yard slanted into a hedge of sycamore trees blanketing the space in deep shadows. Beyond them stretched the Verde Valley, two thousand feet below.
Taped to the brass knocker, a hastily scrawled note read, "Sa-mantha, unexpected business, will have to reschedule. My apologies, Nicholas. I berated myself for not giving him my phone number. We rang the doorbell anyway, but there was no answer.
"Let's take a look around anyway," Rumor said. "It won't hurt anything to walk around the house." She stepped off the walk into the calf-deep dry grass and headed around the corner. "I can't believe Nicholas is thinking of selling," she called from the back of the building. "This view is stunning."
"It's a shame the place has gotten so run down." I joined her in the neglected back yard. Dead blackberry vines twined through the wooden rails surrounding what had probably once been a vegetable or herb garden. "I can't see him living here and taking care of this huge house and yard, can you?"
Rumor laughed. "He does seem a little…genteel…to mow the lawn and shovel snow." She went to a large side window and cupped her hands around her face to see inside. "This looks like a library or study." She motioned me over. "I could see him in here, puffing on a pipe and reading some leather-bound first edition."
I walked to the window and noticed the grass underneath seemed flattened. "I don't think we're the first ones…."
A glint on the ground near the window caught my eye. A knife with a black handle lay in the weeds, the blade pulled partway out of a leather sheath.
Leaning down, I picked up it up. Instantly, an image sprang to my mind, so sudden and vivid it made me reel. A man, his head covered by a black hood, peered into the window where Rumor now stood. I swayed and put out a hand to steady myself, but the window screen buckled inward. It had been cut and carefully fit back into place to mask the entry attempt.
"Whoa." Rumor stepped back, surveying the sagging screen. "Nice job, klutz. Breaking in makes you look more like a stalker than a love interest."
"I didn't do it!" I showed her the black-handled knife.
She ran her thumb along the blade, and looked at the clean cut of the screen. "Do you think we should call the police?"
I pulled the screen down further and braced my palms on the window, trying to push it up. It wouldn't budge. "I don't think anyone has been in here recently." I slipped the knife into my sweatshirt pocket. "Let's put everything back and tell Nicholas. Let him handle it."
Rumor repositioned the screen into the window frame. I felt a pang of guilt about removing potential evidence. But for the second time in a week I'd touched something and been struck with…what? Visions? Premonitions? Suddenly, I wanted to be away from this house, away from Jerome.
On the way home I examined Nicholas's business card. "It says family practice. Is he a doctor? A lawyer? Or were he and his aunt in some kind of business together?"
"I don't know," Rumor said, "but he's had relatives living here for decades."
"Really? How do you know?"
"I mentioned him to Maya the other night," Rumor said. "She knows him. His aunt was High Priestess for the coven before she and Nuin took over."
"Really?" I shook my head. "I'm surprised Nuin doesn't know either one of them."
"What makes you think he doesn't?" Rumor seemed surprised.
"I'm pretty sure he doesn't know any of the Orenda family. He certainly didn't act like he knew Nicholas the other night. And then he came into the store yesterday and asked me about the aunt."
I stared at the distant buildings of Jerome above the trees. What would cause Nicholas' aunt to desert her life here so abruptly? "This woman made some pretty drastic changes. I don't think she's coming back."
Rumor looked at me and shrugged.
I realized I had no idea what type of work Nicholas did, where he lived, or his interests. If he was married and simply didn't wear his ring. In fact, I knew nothing about the man, except I had consigned his aunt's clothing. And now he was selling this empty isolated house. Her house. My gut said be careful. He was keeping something about his presence here a secret. My heart, however, wanted to know everything about him. I lit on the web he was weaving and was unable to resist the pull.
Chapter 6: Best Laid Plans
"Nicholas, how are you?" Maya hugged him before sliding over a stool to make room at the tiny outdoor bar at the Hideaway.
He ordered a scotch neat and lit a cigarette with a slim silver lighter while the bartender served their drinks. "I have been away too long. This feels like returning home. Except home is empty."
Maya's brown eyes followed Nicholas's restless fingers playing a tap-dance of frustration on the bar. She covered his hand with hers and squeezed. "Heard anything from your aunt Bella?"
He tried to smile, but it didn't quite hold. "Nothing since she disappeared." He raised the cigarette, and the end glowed as he inhaled. "I took her clothes to her old store."
"Past Lives?"
"Yes." Nicholas crushed out his cigarette with a disgusted grimace and shook out a fresh one. "I don't know why she agreed to sell the place so low. She could have gotten tw
ice what this girl offered. But those were her instructions." He gave Maya a sideways glance. "Have you met the new owner? Danroe. Samantha Danroe."
Maya nodded. "Yes, just recently. She came to the full moon last weekend."
Nicholas swiveled in his seat to face her. "Interesting. She's a witch?" It could explain why she reacted so strongly to the cloak. It might also explain the attraction he had felt when they touched. He certainly wasn't the type of man drawn to soft, timid sorts. He grew up with strong women. Timid might be easier to deal with day-to-day, but he trusted willful. In any case, his interest was professional.
Not purely, he amended. No man could look at Samantha Danroe in a strictly professional manner. But he must keep his priorities in order.
"I think this was her first time," Maya said. "In fact, I'm sure of it. Her friend coached her through the ritual."
"Does she have talent?"
Maya considered his question for a long moment. "Raw power, perhaps, and a good heart." She paused. "Nuin liked her. He went out with a bunch of them afterwards."
Nicholas's hand jerked. He set his glass down, rather hard, sloshing his drink on the bar, and clamped his suddenly trembling fingers into a fist at his side.
Maya gave him a curious glance.
He took a long draw on his cigarette and released it slowly, watching the smoke twirl as it floated on unseen currents toward the ceiling. "I would like to judge for myself, if possible."
Maya slipped her arm through his. "Splendid idea. How would you like to join me as High Priest for our Samhain ceremony? I'll let Nuin know I've invited an old friend to stand in this one time. And I'll reach out to Samantha, encourage her and her friend to attend. You can meet Nuin and observe Samantha."
Nicholas gave her a grim little smile.
"Perfect."
Chapter 7: Nuin
True to his word, Nuin called me midweek, and we arranged to meet for dinner after work Saturday night.
This was my first actual date since the divorce, and no amount of primping settled the butterflies in my stomach. At least I was happy when I looked in the mirror. Rumor had helped me corral my wild mane into a wispy French braid, and tucked antique copper combs, shaped like fall leaves, into each side. I borrowed a narrow long tweed skirt I'd tried on earlier at the store, one several customers had oo'd and ahh'd over when I came out to model it. I paired it with a moss green silk blouse to bring out the green in my eyes, and slipped my feet into a pair of high heeled boots, a rarity for me.