by Sandy Wright
I rubbed my palms together briskly before placing them back on the book. What do I need to know to protect myself?
Immediately, the grimoire flew open to a stained and much-used page. Part of the page was torn out, and the remainder was covered with strange twig-like symbols.
A scribbled note in the margin said, "Can substitute ground bone for dirt," followed by "Good use for scorpions." It made no sense at all.
The rest of the book wasn't much better. The entries were an out-of-order jumble. Some pages had recipes with unfamiliar herbs and roots. I jotted those down to cross-reference later in Nicholas's herb books. Other pages held what looked like spells, written in rhyme, but none of them promised protection or special abilities to ward off an attack.
I took the book over to my laptop and opened a blank file. If I deciphered all the entries I could and typed them up in a spread-sheet with a separate field for the dates, I could reshuffle the entries into chronological order. Maybe then it would reveal some clue to who had killed the Orenda women, and whom Bella was preparing to battle. But it would take some time, time I might not have.
I typed the first few pages, and then skipped to the second half of the book, looking for older entries, the ones written by Nicholas's grandmother, or maybe even her great-grandmother. How long would a witch's family keep their grimoire?
Grandmother Renard's were even harder to translate. Nearly all were written in symbols and code or extensively abbreviated. Renard was a secretive lady.
I tried to imagine what her life as a witch had been like when she was my age. If Nicholas was 35, maybe 40, then his grandmother would have been born in the early 1900s. I bet she had plenty of reason to be secretive in her era.
I flipped through the remaining pages until a drawing caught my eye. It appeared to be stair steps. No, more like a stylized version of Sinclair's lightning bolt, the thunderbird. I traced the design with my finger. The movement brought back the memory of when I had seen this version of the design. It was the emblem on the neck of Bella's cloak, the worn spot Nuin had questioned in the diner after my first ritual.
I went to the front closet and pulled out the cloak, laying it beside the book. Perfect match. Quickly, I typed the date and entry into the computer and sketched the emblem on a notepad, then riffled through the pages to see if I'd missed anything else.
Tucked into the last page was a cream business card. I pulled it out. "Jaco Hunsley, Cabinet Maker." The single written entry on the page was a familiar name: Wakanda Ondear. The shaman's medicine woman.
From the computer shelf, I pulled the carving Sinclair had given me. Running my thumb across her carved raven wings, I studied the journal page. The entry wasn't dated. The writing had faded, and I couldn't be sure if it was the aunt's or the grandmother's. How would either one of them know the shaman?
I made the entry in the computer, re-saved the file and tucked the raven-woman back onto her shelf.
"You know more than you're telling me," I admonished as I turned off the light for bed. "It seems everyone does."
Chapter 25: The Caller
I arrived at Sinclair's campsite on Sunday morning before the sun had gained any heat.
He was squatting by the campfire when I arrived, tending to the coffeepot sitting over the flames. I dropped my daypack on the dusty ground and gave him a small bow.
"I'm fixing tea to relax you for your listening lesson," he said.
"What's in it? Please tell me it's not peyote or nightshade, or something else crazy. I'm having enough weirdness on my own, without any chemical stimulation."
"Naw. Just herbs to help your body relax and to open up your mind."
I remained standing. "Can you be more specific? As in, tell me everything in it."
"You are not a trusting person." Sinclair poured tea into a metal mug and held it out to me. "Lemon balm, wood betony, kava, catnip, spearmint." His mischievous smile made his eyes crinkle into slits. "Maybe just a little pinch or two of morning glory flowers." He patted the ground beside him. "Sit. Drink. It won't hurt you."
I accepted the mug with reluctance and took a sip of the scalding liquid. Not bad. It tasted like mint and sent shivers of warmth through my body.
"Where should we begin today?" I asked when we had settled onto the red ground side by side facing the edge of the plateau.
"First I tell you why you need to drink the tea," he said.
"Okay," I replied, still feeling uneasy.
"I live in two worlds, the white man's and the red man's," Sinclair said. "Watching both people, I've learned we're different in how we get information. Your world is all about logic. You don't use dreams and visions to get knowledge." He took a sip of his tea and waited until I took two more drinks before he continued. "My people use their right brains for understanding." He gave me a sly sideways glance. "See, I read your psychology books. Indians learn by seeing, but not through our eyes. We see with our spirit minds, through light, sounds, touch, and by seeing Spirit as it flows in the universe."
"Like being a hollow bone," I said.
Sinclair nodded. "Yep. As a hollow bone, you are straddling the river between our two worlds"
I pushed the thought around in my mind, fitting one more puzzle piece into the larger picture. "You think that's why I'm having visions and heard the energy beneath the earth the last time we were here."
He nodded again. "I'm sure of it. I said I saw magic surrounding you, but couldn't see why. I now know why. You have an important part to play in what's about to happen."
"What's my part?"
"Let's see if my hunch is correct," Sinclair said. "How're you feeling?"
I assessed for a moment. "I feel open to any and all possibilities." I felt bashful uttering such a broad and, I had to admit, New Agey statement, but it was true. I could accept anything the old shaman said to me and would attempt anything he asked me to do.
"Good. See, I told you the tea would not hurt you. It just does like you said, opens you to possibilities." He rubbed his hands together briskly and placed them on each of my temples. "I'm gonna beat the drum. You're gonna listen to the vibrations. Listen to the space between the beats. To hear between the beats, quiet your thoughts and think of nothing but the space the drum makes."
"No mind," I said.
He chuckled. "Yes. Relax, clear your head so our minds will link. Are you ready?"
I nodded and closed my eyes.
Sinclair removed his hands from my temples. A moment later the drumbeat began. I quieted my thoughts and concentrated on the sound until my heart began to beat in time with the drum.
"Now put your palms on the ground. Think about the spirits beneath us, all of those loving and kind ancestors."
The drumbeat continued, slow and steady, in time with my heart. My palms, resting on the ground on each side of my hips, felt warm and tingly.
"Open your eyes," Sinclair said.
I looked to one side of us and then the other. Dozens of shim-mering white spirits swirled around us in the red dust. Gradually, more forms became visible, lining the edge of the plateau like a gallery, several rows deep. Hundreds of faces. Birds and animals, men and women, and creatures not so easy to recognize, all in whispery song:
"Wakan Tanka, we watch the earth,
To man below, we send our voices."
"Who are they?" I whispered, not taking my eyes off the rows of incandescent forms.
"Spirits of this sacred land, the Ancestors of my wife's people," Sinclair said.
As we watched, the spirits sank, one by one and in small, indistinct groups, into the ground, until there was nothing around us but red dirt and bright sunlight.
Sinclair shifted his body around to face me. "I knew you could do this."
"Wow." I drew in air, realizing I'd been holding my breath. "But I don't think it's just me and my power. This place, this sacred place, has its own power doesn't it?"
Sinclair nodded, looking ple
ased. "Few folks round here know what the vortexes really are. They're gateways. Sealed holes to the Under Worlds."
"Where the Ancestors live?"
He shook his head. "No, they're closer to the surface, guardin' the Under Worlds."
"So are the Under Worlds like Dante's rings of Hell?" I asked.
"No, not Hell, something different. Legend says the current earth is the Fourth World to be inhabited by living creations. In each world before, the People started out happy, but became disobedient and lived contrary to Wakan Tanka. They quit singing praises to the Creator, started breaking the laws of their faith. They fought and killed one another and would not live in harmony. The best of our people, the most respectful, were led by Spider Woman to the next higher world. She led those from the Under World, pushing up through the vortexes. Creator sealed the way behind her, to prevent the crueler entities below from escaping. The ones left behind were very, very angry."
"What kind of entities were left below?"
"The ones who were not ready to come above and play nice." Sinclair leaned his back against a boulder and stretched his skinny legs out in front of him."The world ended many times. With each ending came a new beginning, for the Creator was reluctant to destroy those People who kept their faith."
Sinclair pared some dirt out from under a fingernail with his knife, and exhaled a long sigh. "One time, a demon was sent to Middle World, which is what our Earth is called, to punish those who had forgotten the right way. The demon fed and fed. It grew big and strong. As time passed, this demon, just like the People, strayed from the Creator's wishes and began feedin' on the innocent as well as the guilty. Its thinking became bent and it forgot its purpose. It grew fat and arrogant and cruel. The gods tried to call it back, but it wouldn't come. It began to think of itself as a god.
"So Spider Woman opened the vortex once more, and brought man to this new Middle World. Some storytellers say the world we're in now is the last and best of the worlds, but some think there is one more, a better one beyond this, which we will reach when our hollow bone is clear enough to receive instructions on how to get there." He shrugged. "Either way, we are running out of time to learn the lessons Creator is tryin' to teach us. Your people and mine both."
The old medicine man stood stiffly and stretched his back. He began a slow circle around the perimeter of the mesa top. I joined him and he continued. "Even though the vortexes are sealed, people are still attracted to 'em because they can feel the power of the Under Worlds. Those trapped there continue to look for weak points in the seal. And the demon we deserted calls to those above it for assistance. Once in a while someone—usually someone with an interest in dark magic—listens."
Sinclair stopped pacing and turned to face me. "Someone's listenin' to that demon now. And I think you know that listener."
I felt my body jerk in surprise. "But I have no idea who he is!" I shook my head in denial. Shook it and shook it. I couldn't stop shaking my head and muttering "no."
Sinclair grasped each of my arms and turned me to face his direct gaze. "You may not recognize this dark listener yet. But he knows who you are and he wants you out of his way. He'll either steal your power, or kill you. Either way works for him."
"Damn prophecy," I groaned, feeling sick. "But what difference do I make in his grand scheme?"
Sinclair's voice dropped to a whisper. "You're the Caller. It's your job to call the Ancients to stop that demon from crawling out of his hole."
Chapter 26: Holly and Ivy
Nicholas called after lunch on Monday. "Actually, I'd like to come by a little earlier to pick you up for our lesson. I need to get some fresh greenery for a Yule wreath."
We stopped at a Christmas tree lot near my house and begged a couple dozen discarded boughs. The lot smelled of pine resin, one of my favorite scents.
"Have you done this before?" I asked.
"Every year since childhood." He chuckled at my doubtful expression.
He picked up two mistletoe balls for sale near the checkout register. "One for the altar. One for…I don't know. Think we might find a use for the other one?"
I looked into Nicholas's twinkling black eyes. Was he flirting with me?
He handed a bill to the girl behind the counter and held out his black-gloved palm for the change. The girl gave a knowing smile and told Nicholas, "Have a charming evening."
Before I could blurt a sarcastic reply, he put a firm hand against the small of my back and steered me toward his car.
While he drove, I squinted my eyes half-closed and studied Nicholas through slitted lids. It was an awkward pose, but I'd found it easier to see people's auras if I didn't look at them full-on. Pulled in tight around his head and shoulders, his was beautiful shimmering lavender. How could he be so calm when I felt so jumpy? I had to bite my tongue to keep from blurting out everything I'd read in his family grimoire. Your aunt knows who killed your grandmother, and she thinks they are after her also. Now my mother's ghost says someone is trying to kill me. What kind of shit have I stumbled into here? Talk to me, dammit! HELP ME!
Of course, I couldn't ask him anything unless I admitted finding, and then stealing, the book. Maybe an opportunity would present itself, if I could just be patient. But patience wasn't on my list of virtues. I remembered something I'd read recently, called the Witch's Rede. It instructed a witch to "Be Silent." Perhaps this was to be my first lesson: Be patient and keep still.
At the house, Nicholas took the trimmings from the car and led me around the back to a small potting table. "Let's put the wreath together before we eat." He filled the basin with water and dropped the boughs in to hydrate and limber up.
While they soaked, he fashioned a frame.
"Yule is about celebrating the turning of the wheel of the year," he said, cutting snippets of wire to attach the greenery. "Before grocery stores and snowplows existed, people were cut off from one another most of the winter. They could starve if the harvest wasn't rationed and shared. They had to rely on each other."
"I think we still have to rely on each other," I said.
Nicholas didn't disagree, he just raised his eyebrows.
"For instance, since my life is in danger, I'm relying on you to teach me to defend myself, using magic. Can we start a defense lesson today?"
Nicholas took his time, cutting clusters of bright red berries, their leaves still attached, from the holly bush next to the table. "Maintaining the simple customs of the season help me keep sight of the truths in life and not be dazzled by the packaging." While I ground my teeth with impatience, he attached berries to the frame and made a hanging loop of wire at the top.
"This helps me stay grounded."
I snatched the greenery from his hands. "Great. You like an old-fashioned Christmas." I dropped the wreath in the sink. "But a Yule lesson is not the best use of our time."
Nicholas drew an exasperated breath. "What would you suggest instead?"
"I don't know. Teach some of your tricks, like how to cast a spell on an enemy." I paused, thinking about Bella's purloined grimoire. "Can you hex someone so they'll leave you alone? Even better, can I control them? You conjured my mother's ghost at Samhain. Can you do it again? I have some really important things to ask her."
"Samantha, I don't think you should start with such advanced work, and certainly not with dark magic such as hexing and binding." His face was not its usual English pale, but starting to flush red. A vein throbbed in the side of his neck, but his voice stayed calm.
"Why not?" I snapped. "Am I asking more than you can deliver? Do I need to find someone else to teach me? Actually, I have another teacher. He's already taught me how to raise spirits, by the way, so he obviously doesn't think it's too advanced for me. Perhaps I should do all my studies with him." I felt my neck redden with anger also, and took a deep breath. I hadn't intended to piss him off, but the man was infuriating.
Nicholas hung the clippers carefully on a rusty hook and remo
ved his gloves.
I squinted my eyes at him again. His aura flared out a good foot around his head, a dark purple of a thunderhead building up for a full-blown tempest.
"What would you like, a performance? An audition?" His eyes bored into me and the images on the potting table began to shimmer in my peripheral vision.
I managed to draw a breath and shook my head, breaking eye contact. "No, not exactly."
"Why not indeed?" He turned to study a red wheelbarrow parked next to the potting table and filled with split logs. He flicked his hand, as if flinging water from his fingertips. Flames erupted from the dry wood with a roar.
I stood with my mouth like a gasping fish, while he ambled over to the wheelbarrow. Pulling a half-empty cigarette pack from his shirt pocket, he shook one out and lit it from a burning log.
"Uhm." I tried to swallow, but my tongue had turned to sand-paper. "You, uh." All sense of reality had left me.
"Right." Nicholas filled a bucket with water and poured it over the logs, turning the flames to sizzle and white steam. He drew a last puff on his cigarette before flicking it into the sodden ashes. "I think we need to talk."
"Huh?" My voice was a dry croak, my eyes on the still-smoking wheelbarrow. My mind flipped frantically though memories, trying to think of other times I'd seen him angry. Quite a few scenes came to mind. However, every other time we'd been in public, in a crowd of people. Now it was just me and one pissed-off witch.
He stepped next to me, put his arm around my shoulders and squeezed hard enough to make me flinch. "If we're going to work together, we 'd better have some rules. First, don't question me."
I looked up at him, certain the misery I felt showed on my face. "I'm not sure I can agree to your first request. Questioning is a weakness of mine. At least you view it as a weakness, I guess."
"Then if you must question, be prepared to accept the answers, and learn from them. I'm not accustomed to repeating myself."
I nodded agreement and tried to pull away from his arm, still firmly draped around my shoulder. "Can you give me truthful answers?"