Wanderers: Ragnarök

by Richard A Bamberg

  “Some of the others meet out here before the barbecue to conduct their own rituals in one of the glades Marian lets them use. We’re fortunate she follows the path. I don’t know where we could find a large enough place otherwise unless we went on public land. That brings too much attention,” Cynthia said.

  We walked past a couple dozen parked cars to the front porch. Several people stood to one side of the walk, chatting and smoking various forms of tobacco and herbs. Cynthia and Abigail called some of them by name. I recognized no one but nodded my head in polite recognition as we passed.

  There was a twisted old live oak tree on the far side of the front lawn. Its limbs were larger than my waist at the trunk and snaked more than forty feet. The tree should have been beautiful, but I found it foreboding and even menacing in the twilight. Was it a true omen or had I become so paranoid that I saw portents in nature herself?

  “Are you coming, Rafe?” Abigail asked.

  I hadn’t realized that I had stopped until she snapped me out of my introspection of my feelings. I forced a smile and hurried after the ladies.

  The air was cool in the mountain’s shadow and a wave of warmth flowed from the open front door. The entry was crowded and an official greeter sat behind a table that held blank nametags, felt markers, and an open journal. Her name tag read simply, Margaret. Her hair was gray, but her colorful dress was as cheerful as the smile on her face.

  “Welcome, Abigail and Cynthia. We’re happy to have you. Who’s this with you? Guests have to sign the register.”

  “This young man is a seeker and works for me. Margaret Finney, this is Raphael Semmes,” Abigail said.

  “Pleased to meet you,” I said.

  She appraised me carefully and I felt the attention she was giving my aura. Margaret smiled at Cynthia and winked. “Better keep a close eye on him or some woman will drag him home.”

  I pretended not to notice the blush that came over Cynthia, but I couldn’t restrain a smile.

  “I’m sure they are more than welcome to him,” Cynthia said.

  “They’re not together…” Abigail said and then returned Margaret’s wink.

  I avoided Cynthia’s eyes. Her discomfort was amusing, but I had no desire to add to it.

  Cynthia hurried down the hall, anxious to be away from Margaret. Abigail and I followed at a slower pace.

  When we entered, a dozen people were scattered around the den in separate conversations. Abigail and I joined Cynthia for a moment, but then Abigail excused herself and waded through the throng toward Marian. Marian stood in front of a massive fireplace, resplendent in a dress of finest silk, cut low enough at the neck to display the cleavage of a much younger woman.

  I caught Cynthia staring at Marian and felt her irritation, although what the older woman had done wasn’t evident. Unless Cynthia was still thinking of Marian’s harmless flirting with me the other night.

  “Uh, oh,” Cynthia said as Marian came toward us through a crowd that parted before her like the Red Sea before Moses.

  “Rafe, I’m so glad you could make it.”

  I held out my hand and started to say something complimentary about her, but she took my hand and stepped close. She was nearly as tall as I and her lips lightly brushed my cheek before I knew it.

  “I’m honored to be invited,” I said.

  She leaned back without dropping my hand and I was pulled slightly off balance. I held my ground and tried not to appear affected either way. When I didn’t come closer to her, she dropped my hand and turned to Cynthia. “Dear, you look lovely. It’s always nice to have you.”

  “Thank you, Marian,” Cynthia said. “Only you could pull off that dress. I...I mean pull off wearing that fabulous dress.”

  Marian smiled and gauged Cynthia’s remark. “Of course you do. Dear Cynthia, I hope you’re going to be keeping an eye on Rafe. There’s always a lot of interest in new blood and…” she turned slightly and her gaze swept me from the floor up, “some more than others.”

  Cynthia’s arm encircled my left and she stepped closer. “Abigail has already told me to keep an eye on him.”

  Amused and flattered by the attention, I didn’t respond.

  Their gazes turned to stares and tension thickened the air around us.

  Then Marian relaxed. “Good, but I’m sure Rafe is man enough to decide what he wants for himself.” She gave me another warm smile and raised a hand to gently caress my right arm and gently squeeze my bicep. Maintaining my cover as a youth, I grinned and tightened my bicep while she gripped it. She smiled as I did, taking my response as a flirtation. “Yes, man enough indeed. Well, enjoy yourselves. I must meet and greet, but I’ll find you later.”

  “Nice seeing you, Marian,” I said.

  As Marian went to meet a couple who were just entering the room, I felt an insistent tug on my left arm.

  “It’s stuffy in here. Let’s go outside,” Cynthia said as she pulled me toward the open French doors without waiting for my response.

  The back deck was nearly as crowded as the interior. People milled around a corner bar, most getting wine. Soft lighting hung everywhere, giving the deck a warm glow. Cynthia joined the group by the bar and plucked two glasses of red wine from a tray. She offered one to me, and I accepted it with a nod.

  “What is it between you and Marian?” I asked and sipped. It was a Pinot.

  “There’s nothing between us, but you should be careful around her. She has a reputation and it’s not vegan.”

  “You mean she’s carnivorous?”

  “More like cannibalistic. She’s a man-eater.”

  “Ah… hey, not bad wine,” I added.

  “Marian wouldn’t have cheap wine on her property,” Cynthia said.

  “Must be nice to have the best of everything.”

  “Hmm, not everything.” She smiled at someone over my shoulder.

  I turned to see a tall, dark-haired man walking toward us. The man was impeccably dressed in a pin-stripe suit that had never seen a rack. His dark hair was combed back in a slick look and there were small patches of gray along each temple. The man’s eyes were nearly as dark as his hair and thick, perfect eyebrows shaded his eyes. His aura was a deep shade of green, but not so deep as to be on Abigail’s level. My first impression was a general feeling of creepiness, the kind you get when you see a man in an overcoat staring into an elementary school yard.

  “Good evening, Cynthia. I am delighted to see you could make it to Marian’s little soiree.” The man’s voice was deep and melodious, as though he had taken elocution lessons. He had the sort of southern accent associated with old money and older traditions. He kissed Cynthia lightly on the cheek but lingered an instant longer than was appropriate.

  “Good evening, Carl. I’m glad to be here.” Cynthia’s tone was pleasant but hesitant as if she were unsure of herself around this man.

  “Is this young fellow with you?” Carl asked.

  “Yes–Carl Nichols, this is Rafe Semmes. He’s working for Abigail. Rafe, this is Carl Nichols.”

  “Or Mister Marian Vaughn as the social elite prefer.” Carl transferred his wine glass to his left hand and extended his right. “Rafe Semmes, as in Raphael Semmes? That’s a historic name in Alabama. Are you from these parts?”

  “No, sir. I’m from Colorado. My grandfather was from Alabama.” I took his hand and felt a vague, unfocused sense of unease that jived with my initial impression. Either Carl was disguising his true nature, which would make him a serious threat or his nature was ambiguous. Mister Carl Nichols bore watching.

  “Now that is interesting,” He said. “Have you ever researched your genealogy?”

  “No, sir, not at all.”

  “You ought to. Raphael Semmes captained the CSS Alabama during the War of Northern Aggression. If he’s an ancestor, I could invite you to a meeting of the Dixie Brotherhood.”

  “The Dixie Brotherhood?” I asked. I caught sight of someone I recognized standing a dozen yards away, Marcus Poe, and he
appeared to be listening to us.

  “It’s a social organization, similar to the Sons of the Confederacy.”

  “I’m not sure I’d fit in.”

  “Nonsense.” He made a dismissive wave of his hand. “It’s not just one of those rebel flag flying groups. We’re honorable men who have a common heritage and support each other where possible.”

  “I see. Well, I guess I could check with the family and see if there’s a link to your Raphael Semmes.” I didn’t have any family to check with but didn’t need to in any event. My grandfather’s grandfather had captained the famous ship to the day of its destruction at the hands of the USS Kearsarge. I was the second descendant to be named after the most famous member of the family.

  “Excellent. I must mingle. Marian requires it. Nice seeing you again, Cynthia. Don’t be a stranger.”

  “You too, Carl.” She watched him walk away, her face displayed unhidden relief at his departure.

  I noticed that Carl had stopped to talk to Marcus and both men glanced back in our direction, before walking toward the door.

  “I gather you aren’t fond of him,” I commented and sipped my wine.

  Cynthia met my gaze. “No, I’m not. He’s a little too friendly with many of the younger coven members.” She paused and glanced away. “He used to make my skin crawl, but lately he seems enough of a gentleman. Still, I remember what he was like a few years ago.”

  She was lying. I couldn’t tell which part of her statement was a lie, but she definitely had strong feelings toward Carl.

  “What’s changed?” I asked.

  “I don’t know. He’s no longer a member of the coven. He decided it was a waste of his time. But he tolerates his wife’s participation and makes an appearance at all our events. I think he’s just a social animal, can’t live without being noticed. As the host, he feels necessary, so I think it’s an ego thing, but lately he’s been pleasant to everyone.”

  “Maybe he’s matured,” I suggested.

  Cynthia choked off a retort and then said, “I doubt it.”

  “I should avoid him?”

  She stared at me, as though estimating my capabilities, and then shook her head. “I wouldn’t go that far. You’re hardly his type, but be wary of him.

  There was something between Cynthia and Carl, some history she wasn’t revealing. Was he the man I’d guessed had hurt her feelings? It hardly jived with my impression of her. Carl was significantly older and then there was Marian, his wife. Cynthia didn’t seem the type.

  “Thanks for the warning,” I said.

  Her attention moved to a woman at the far end of the yard, a pleasant smile of recognition lit Cynthia’s face. “Excuse me for a minute, Rafe, I see someone that I need to talk to. Will you be all right?”

  “I think I can manage to mingle without committing a faux pas.”

  I watched Cynthia until she reached the woman, greeting her with a warm embrace. I sipped wine and moved off the deck into the yard. People were still coming through the house onto the back deck. Each new guest got a drink at the bar and then moved out into the yard to make room. As large as the deck was, it couldn’t hold the crowd.

  I wandered the yard, stopping briefly to swap introductions with a few people not already engaged in conversation. Abigail’s coven blended the Wiccan religion with its magic. It was typical of most covens I’d encountered. Many of the guests were low-level coven members, those with no practical magical abilities and only a vague feeling of what could be theirs with years of dedication, study, and focus. There were also exceptions. A few members, besides those upper-level practitioners I’d already met at Abigail’s, had had their eyes opened. Their auras were mostly pale green – a little varied according to their abilities and leanings.

  Auras portray a practitioner’s raw power, but it will change as a person grows in talent and power, and direction. Raw talent is usually gained during puberty, but without nurturing and training, it will never produce a powerful talent. People start with mildly tinted auras that darken through the years, changing with their skill levels and also with their leanings. The green of Wiccans can be twisted if a person begins to use their magic for purposes beyond its nature. That’s where I come in. Fate, at least the sister I serve, Verðandi, doesn’t usually concern herself with dark magic users unless they reach a level that could impact the fate of the world.

  Only one displayed a deep color, indicating real talent. She was a young woman, perhaps Cynthia’s age or a few years older. I found her sipping wine under the branches of a tall oak where the groomed yard transitioned into the natural forest. She had her back to me and was leaning against a moss-covered boulder when I approached.

  I thought she was lost in thought. I was nearly within touching distance when she turned and gazed at me with dark brown eyes. I could feel her concentrating on my aura. It was a common habit of the talented at first meetings. I waited without speaking. The spell which gave my aura the pale green color that Abigail had accepted still held and this attractive woman did not have Abigail’s capabilities. Nearly a minute passed. Finally, she shifted her wine glass to her left hand and offered her right.

  “I’m Cris.”

  Cris? Her name sounded vaguely familiar. I took her hand and held it. “I’m Rafe.”

  “Nice night for magic,” she said.

  “Yes, isn’t it?”

  “I haven’t seen you here before,” Cris said.

  “You wouldn’t have.”

  “Oh?”

  “I’m new.”

  “Ah.”

  Cris’ eyes were warm and wide. Some people would have considered her a doe-eyed innocent, but I could see a subtlety in her eyes that belied any innocence. Her skin was smooth and the color of a well-stirred latte. She was several inches shorter than I and was shaped classically. She held herself with a relaxed dignity that implied no self-consciousness, no uncertainty, and no fear of me or anyone else who was apt to approach her. A wrap clung precariously to shoulders left bare by her peasant blouse of thin white cotton. Her long wool skirt stopped halfway down calf-high suede boots that matched Cynthia’s.

  “I like your eyes.” Her words were warm, but her expression remained noncommittal.

  “No credit to me,” I said. “I was born with them, you see.”

  “Ah, you may have been born with eyes, but not with these. Your eyes have seen great sorrow and loneliness. It’s interesting how you’ve led such an eventful life, yet you still care about people.”

  “You read that much in my eyes?” I asked. Was she some sort of fortune-teller, the carnie sideshow type who picks on clues to guess a person’s background?

  “More, much more,” she said. “And that’s the least of what I see.”

  “Perhaps I should put my sunglasses on.”

  I eased my grip on her hand and gave a slight pull. She resisted and tightened her grip. “It’s too late to hide from me, but you shouldn’t be concerned. No one else here has my talent for eyes.”

  “I would be surprised if anyone else within a hundred miles has your talent,” I responded. What the hell had I come across? I’d heard of rare individuals who could read your soul through your eyes, but had never met one.

  In the forty-odd years of wandering I’ve done since my mentor was killed, I’ve only revealed my history or goals to a few individuals, and this was always after the immediate objective had been accomplished. My mentor taught me caution. When a Wanderer is drawn to restore nature’s balance, the last thing he needs is for the locals to decide they don’t want his intervention. Keeping our secrets means we can come and go without having to fight our way through well-intended fools.

  Her hand grew warm in mine, and I felt my body reacting to her. Would she become a rare ally or the more common threat?

  “How do you do it?” Cris asked.

  “Do what?”

  “Look twenty when you’re so much older.”

  “I can’t help my appearance. Good genes, I’m told.”


  She chuckled and smiled. “You don’t have to lie to me. I’ve seen so much of your soul. I see that you rarely trust anyone and justifiably so, but I can help you.”

  I pulled gently away from her grip, no longer wanting to maintain the contact with this woman who saw things she had no business seeing, but she clung to my hand for a moment longer, and then reluctantly, she let go.

  “I’ve frightened you?” she asked.

  “No,” I said, but I had to force myself not to step back from her. “I’m an introvert; I’m not keen on telling people my background.”

  “I see that, but you know I won’t reveal anything.”

  She was half-right. I could sense her honesty, but there were those who could wring the information from her if they knew she had it.

  “Oh, I see. The concern, it’s not yourself you’re frightened for; it’s me.”

  I couldn’t help frowning. “Seriously, am I going to have to put my sunglasses on?”

  She smiled. “No, please, I’ll be more circumspect. I can’t always help reading people’s eyes, but I can hold back my comments. Will that be enough?”

  “I don’t know. A secret can only be kept by two people if one of them is dead,” I said without making it a threat.

  “Please, I don’t want to interfere with whatever you’re doing, but I’d like to get to know you. Huntsville can be so boring, and you’re the first interesting person I’ve met here in years.”

  “I’m not…”

  “I know. You’re not here for personal reasons. You have no reason to grant my request, but I can be helpful. I ask for nothing in return, but a chance to talk awhile and maybe get to know you.”

  I’d been wrong; she was doe-eyed. “Okay, friendship is fine. If I change my mind for any reason, you’ll have to distance yourself from me immediately, no questions asked.”

  I felt someone move up behind me.

  “I understand,” Cris said.

  “You understand what?” Cynthia asked.

  “Cynthia, do you know Cris?” I turned to greet Cynthia.

  “Of course, how have you been, cousin?”

  Oops, I remembered where I’d heard her name.