Song of the Ancients (Ancient Magic Book 1)

by Sandy Wright

  "She's the woman in Standing Bear's vision?" I slid to the ground and propped my backpack against the side of a rock, leaning on it as he nodded and continued. "Near the end of her life, the medicine woman buried her magic in different places in the mountains. I think those burial sites are what the tourist books call vortexes. But she needed a key to combine those forces, a concentration spot. Right here, where all the Ancestors can help." He patted the ground. "The old woman promised to pass on the information she had scattered to a descendant when it was most needed by the world."

  "Hmm. Wait." I dug in my backpack and pulled out my notes from the song on Cathedral Rock. "Wakan Tanka. We watch the Earth. It's Lakota for 'Great Mystery,' right?"

  He nodded.

  I scanned my notes. "And the Internet said something about an organization of sacred entities." I searched Sinclair's face. "Maybe the song referred to the medicine woman and her watchers? I paused, thinking. "There was a lot more, but I can't remember. The whole song felt like a dream. But it ended, 'to man below we send our voices. Be attentive!'"

  Finally, the strange occurrences began to make more sense. "So there are Watchers for Earth who are charged with its safety." I stood and faced Sinclair. "And there's something underneath here." I rubbed my boot in the red dust.

  "The medicine woman, she warned us a black shadow of hate would blanket the land," he said, looking grim. "When this dark time would come, she didn't say. But she got ready. Powerful medicine women in other parts of the world did the same. They listened to the land. They watched carefully and noticed things others didn't. They waited for the arrival of the dark time, as well as signs from the earth to signal when to raise the power in their assigned land."

  "Is what could happen in the world bad enough to call it 'the Dark Times'?" I asked.

  He made a rude sound in the back of his throat, like he was gagging on the thought. "You watch the news, read the Internet. So you tell me. Do you feel safe in the world today? Loved by your brothers around the Earth?"

  He had a point.

  "But when the story gets personal, I get lost," I said. "I've been threatened. Mother warned me. She told me someone wants my power, and they're willing to kill me to get it, before the blood moon, the eclipse on New Year's Eve." I looked feet, feeling self-conscious, "it doesn't make sense. I have so little witchcraft abilities, why would anyone bother?"

  Sinclair gave me an odd, guarded look. "Have you dreamed of death?"

  "Yeah. Standing Bear had the vision of a wild thunderstorm. I think I was here." I trailed off, seeing the expression on his face. "What?"

  He stayed silent for a long time, turning the carved figurine round and round in his palms, rubbing his thumbs along its dark wood. Then he gave a little nod and fished two fingers into the pocket of his shirt, pulling out some strands of silver-gray hair.

  "We feel the dark rumblings in the earth. You and me, little hollow bone. We both hear it clawing its way up to the surface. But why?" He wiped his knife blade on his pant leg thoughtfully. "Maybe your enemies know something you don't."

  He shrugged. "It's time to prepare. You come back soon and we'll listen some more. Try and figure this stuff out."

  I stood up and brushed off my seat. "Okay. Tomorrow?"

  Sinclair shook his head. "No, next week. Tuesday. I will be mighty tired afterwards. Need to rest up before."

  "In the meantime, how do I find out more about this medicine woman? Do you have any idea what she was called?" I asked.

  Sinclair didn't answer. His eyes were unfocused and his mouth slack. Suddenly his legs seemed to buckle, and he put his forearms on the boulder to keep from falling.

  I jumped to his side, afraid he was having a stroke, but he waved me away.

  "The key," he began but stopped. He wiped a calloused palm across his mouth and whispered, "Three will be sacrificed to the dark."

  "Sacrificed? Who's going to be sacrificed?" I backed away from him. "Was Mother warning me of some kind of ritual sacrifice?" What have I stumbled into? A centuries-old battle having nothing to do with me. "No! I am not a part of this!" I backed away further. Maybe I could just turn the store over to Rumor, get away for a while. A chill ran urgent fingers through my scalp. Would it do any good? Was this madness only here in Sedona? This crazy old man said Watchers were preparing all over the world.

  Sinclair leaned his weight against the boulder. He looked older, wearier, but filled with grim resolve. "The old medicine woman. I believe you have heard her name, or a version of it," he said quietly. "She was called Wakanda Ondear."

  I stopped backing up. Took a deep breath. Felt the moment of overwhelming fear dissolve, bringing me back to the bright sunlight of the mountaintop. "Wakan. Wakanda." I repeated. "They are similar. Do they mean the same thing?"

  "The female title, Wakanda, is one of reverence," Sinclair said. "It means a person with inner magic." He paused, staring sightlessly at the horizon. "Her last name, Ondear, is harder to explain. Loosely translated, it means 'to cause ripples'."

  I shrugged. "You've lost me."

  "There is one more part of the legend we have never been told." Sinclair looked at me again with his penetrating, appraising stare. "The identity of the Caller, the one who will re-awaken the ancient magic of the land."

  He placed his carved figure on the top of the rock between us. He'd added a woman's body to the raven's head and wings. Her body and feet were bare, and she held a spear in one hand and a decorated shield in the other. Woven into the notched feathers of the wings were three silver hairs.

  "She is yours now. Keep her near. Take her with you everywhere there is danger, and keep your hollow bone open to receive the power. She will teach you to be a warrior."

  Chapter 15: Medicine Shield

  I bit into my breakfast sandwich, cream cheese, chopped pecans and green olives on a bagel, while studying Sinclair's raven-woman carving. Impressive craftsmanship, especially since he'd used only one knife. Each wing feather was notched cleanly. I plucked at a silver hair but it didn't budge. The shield she held in her left hand had symbols carved into it, so small I'd missed them yesterday. I carried the figurine over to the window to examine the details. Yes, a tiny stylize bird in the center, next to a crooked arrow, or a lightning bolt, it was hard to tell. To the left of the bird were two wavy lines like water.

  I turned back to the computer and typed in Native American symbols. I found the water symbol and searched for the jagged lightning bolt, but found nothing. Maybe Kamaria would know. I had a lot to ask her, starting with the whole prophecy and dark-times business. Oh, and the sacrifices. I hoped she did know about the prophecy. A doomsday scenario unfolding in Sedona, with the longtime locals knowing nothing about it? The thought of being the only one in town—besides an antisocial old Indian who lived on a mountaintop—who knew about the impending disaster made my palms sweat. I wrapped the raven-woman in a silk scarf, tucked her in my purse.

  * * * * *

  Unfortunately, Kamaria wasn't in yet when I stopped at her store the next morning. Lilith, her only employee, had opened, and she looked up when I stepped inside.

  "She should be here any time." Lilith captured her dark-stained lower lip between her teeth. "She's never late. You know how old people are. They don't sleep much."

  She's a good boss. It won't kill you to open occasionally and give her a break, I thought, closing the door quietly behind me. I loosened my scarf, watching Lilith's desultory attempts to straighten the front counter.

  Her hair was long and glossy black, her wan body draped in clothes like dark cobwebs, and her skin so pale I wondered if she was a sanguinarian. Why she chose to live in the Southwestern desert baffled me, she seemed more suited to Seattle or San Francisco, or perhaps London. But I wasn't about to ask her. While we were about the same age, I found spending time with Lilith exhausting. Her physical appearance was striking and attractive. But she was filled with neuroses and grief which, according to Kamaria, she
was attempting to control through meditation, hot yoga, and magical study. Personally, I didn't think it was working.

  I leaned on the front counter and handed Lilith the extra latte I'd brought for Kamaria. "How's business?"

  She gave me a doleful look. "We have an appointment with a new customer in just a few minutes. I hope Kamaria gets here before then. I shouldn't have to handle it by myself."

  "I won't keep you then," I said, trying not to roll my eyes. "Enjoy the coffee."

  As I turned to leave, Kamaria opened the door, holding it for Nicholas, who carried a box of books in his arms. He set the box on the counter and we regarded each other in silence. After a moment, he pursed his lips into a tight smile. "Have you ventured back into a ritual circle since your…unfortunate Samhain experience, Miss Danroe?"

  I gave him my sweetest smile. "As a matter of fact, I have, Mister Orenda. I went to this month's full moon. It was lovely."

  Kamara listened to us as she unpacked books, and said, "We also had a most interesting séance. Samantha organized it to attempt to contact her mother, since she didn't get a chance to talk with her during Samhain."

  Nicholas lifted his chin and stared down his aristocratic nose at me. "Were you successful?"

  "Um, yes." My smile fell off my face, and I swallowed the lump in my throat, recalling my mother's warning.

  Nicholas crossed his arms across his chest and studied me carefully.

  But before he could interrogate me, Lilith slid between us, her face more animated than I'd ever seen it. It appeared she had forgotten all about being put upon to meet with a new customer. In fact, if she had a tail, it'd be wrapped around his leg. "Hello," she purred. "You must be Nicholas." She shook his hand, held it in both of hers and didn't release it. Instead, she pulled him out the door with her to retrieve the rest of the boxes from his car.

  Kamaria watched them, a bemused expression on her face. "My, my, she certainly captured his attention. Well, I suppose there could be stranger matches." Seeing the look of disgust on my face, she hastily amended. "On second thought, no, he seems the type more attracted to intellect, don't you think?"

  "No man ignores a short skirt," I said, watching them through the front window.

  The current skirt of interest was hiked up Lilith's thighs as she bent into Nicholas' car. He leaned against the door and watched as she wiggled out of the back seat, her arms around a box. He took the box from her and straightened in time to see me watching them. His lips twitched into a sardonic smile.

  I turned away from the scene. "Do you have time to help me answer a question?" I pulled the raven statue out of my bag. "Standing Bear's friend made this for me. Are you familiar with the symbols on the shield?"

  "It's a beautiful piece." Kamaria pulled a magnifying glass from her counter drawer for closer examination. "It's a medicine shield. Yes, I know this symbol." She pointed to the thunderbolt. "It represents Wakinya, the mythic thunderbird."

  "Why do you think Sinclair would carve this symbol on a gift for me?"

  "Well, the medicine shield shows the unique gifts the owner brings on his or her life's journey," Kamaria mused. "And the thunderbird is a shapeshifter." She gave me a speculative glance. "Are you?"

  I shook my head emphatically.

  "Then perhaps Sinclair is reminding you to look for information in other, shifted, forms?" Kamaria tilted the statue in her hands, running her thumb over the carved feather. "This creature is also a servant of Waken Tanka, the Great Spirit. Its role is to deliver messages." She gestured for me to follow her and led me to a bookshelf in the back labeled Native American Studies. "I have to write a receipt for Senor Orenda. You may find more information here. Browse as long as you like."

  I pulled several books from the shelf and settled into one of Kamaria's overstuffed chairs. According to the first reference book, the arrow symbol had many meanings. Mine pointed left, which meant to ward off evil. I pulled a notepad out of my purse and jotted down notes. I was reaching for the next volume when I heard a soft laugh. Without thinking, I looked through a space in the bookshelf.

  Lilith's black-lacquered fingers rested on Nicholas's arm as she smiled at him. Facing each other on the next aisle, they looked like slightly mismatched bookends. Lilith, in her short black skirt and gauzy cobweb top, and Nicholas with his shoulder-length black hair and long black coat. She whispered something, and he bent his head down closer to hers.

  Quietly, I pocketed my notes and slipped the books I'd been reading back on the shelf, plugging the hole and blocking the view. I'd find another time to talk with Kamaria about disasters and prophecies. Today, I'd had all the bad news I could stomach.

  Chapter 16: The Fool's Journey

  Our entire block of stores closed on Thursday, so everyone could volunteer at the Hope Cottage woman's shelter. Their kitchen always ran short of volunteers before the holidays, so we signed up to cook and staff the serving line in early November to fill their thin volunteer time before the holiday buying rush hit our own stores.

  Patches of frost covered the dead grass of my lawn, but it would burn off shortly as the day warmed up, so I walked to the shelter.

  I wrapped still-warm pumpkin pies, inhaling the homey scent of cinnamon and nutmeg. My grandmother had taught me to bake pies: Pumpkin and apple, mincemeat and cherry. Her sunny kitchen was constantly filled with mouth-watering food and unconditional love.

  I pulled my black cloak from the front closet. Fastening the half-moon latch over my sweater, I picked up the bag by its handle, locked the door, and walked down the steps to the street.

  Without warning, a deathly white face appeared among the cars. The speeding traffic buffeted the transparent form, causing her long gray hair to swirl around her head.

  I watched the apparition cross the traffic lane, straight into the path of a black pickup truck heading north. The driver had his hat brim pulled low over his eyes, but it was clear he saw the woman in front of him. In fact, he aimed for her.

  "No! Back up! Run!" My scream came out strangled and feeble, but the woman looked at me, her dark eyes dilated and frightened.

  It was too late. I turned away. There were no screeching brakes, no blaring horn, only the muffled thud of impact.

  When I turned back, the elderly woman lay in the street, her head and shoulders a sodden mass of blood and shattered bone.

  My hesitant step toward her halted when a horn blared a long, strident warning. I lurched out of the way, tripped on the curb and fell awkwardly into an oleander bush, skinning both palms. The driver of the black truck got out and ran to the body. He knelt by the old woman and lowered his head, perhaps checking to see if she was breathing. When he raised his head and looked around, his face was streaked with blood. He got up, ran back to his idling truck, hopped in, and took off.

  I rolled to my knees, planting one hand in the bag of pies. My palm sunk into the squishy orange pulp, reminding me of the woman's shredded face, her hair matted with blood and brain. Bile welled into my throat. I wiped my hand on my jeans in frantic motions. My stomach convulsed, forcing me back to my knees to wretch my terror into the gutter.

  A crowd gathered. Someone shouted, "Call 911!"

  They couldn't help her. There was no reason to stay. I already knew how it would end. I'd seen the victim's ghost. Envisioned the whole scene before it happened.

  I stumbled away, my destination forgotten, the sidewalk smeared with pumpkin pie.

  * * * * *

  In the lengthening shadows of my kitchen, oblivious to the day's passing, I tried to assemble the shattered images of the morning into some semblance of rational thought. Did I really have a vision of a woman's death? Did it really happen? I wasn't sure if I'd seen anything, or if my brain had finally blown a fuse. If it was a vision, this was the third time. I couldn't rule out the possibility of some kind of psychotic break.

  I was jumpy and claustrophobic in the house. My cell phone rang persistently, but I didn't want to
talk to anyone. Finally, I turned it off.

  By sunset, I couldn't stand it any longer. I had to know. I bundled up and headed out to the yard to retrace my steps.

  The intersection was empty. No broken glass, no blood, no sign of an accident or police cars. The remnants of my pumpkin pies, however, had been swept into the gutter. So I had been here, but it appeared nothing tragic had happened.

  I'm having a breakdown. The thought was almost a relief.

  I drew a breath of the cold night air and began to shiver un-controllably. I didn't want to be alone. Swallowing my rising panic, I headed toward downtown.

  Several restaurants were open. I looked through a window at the happy faces and froze. A hazy mist surrounded every face. Maybe the window was fogged. I rubbed my eyes and got closer. No, the plates and tables were in focus. Only the diners' heads and shoulders shimmered with colored luminous light.

  Laughter bubbled out of me in a hysterical stream. I turned in a slow circle on the sidewalk, giggling. The few approaching pedestrians parted, giving me a wide berth.

  "Auras?" I clamped both hands over my mouth and stared at each one as they passed. Yep, they were all lit. Why would I suddenly see auras?

  I quit laughing.

  One of my neighbors back home had suffered horrible migraines before being diagnosed with a brain tumor. In the throes of an attack, she told me, she saw flickering lights which eventually obliterated her field of vision.

  I looked at the streetlights around me. Distinct. No flickering. I had never had a migraine and this didn't feel like the beginning of one. Sinking onto a bench, I put my hands in my pockets, ordering my thoughts. Auras are supposedly different colors depending on the person's physical, emotional or mental state. I would stay calm and study people, test the theory.

  Two little girls were surrounded by white auras, while their mother's flared pink. Other people were less distinct, swirling mists of blue or violet.