Swoon 02 - Swear

by Nina Malkin

  Excuse me, Chest-ah—the preferred pronunciation of Connecticut Yankees. A pretty little hamlet all done up in gingerbread buildings and deciduous trees. With a libertarian university nearby and a creative, crunchy-granola vibe, it’s an ideal locale for an arts and music jamboree. We pass through the main drag before heading out to the festival grounds, several miles west along Route 6.

  Woodstock it ain’t, but the area’s already starting to bustle and buzz. First we arrive at a midway, where food and craft vendors are setting up. Pen pulls in at the registration booth; we take care of business and pay for our campsite (as “talent,” we get a reduced rate). While there, we grab a schedule. Band names alone indicate an eclectic affair, everything from chamber music to doom metal.

  “Whoo-hoo, check it out!” Pen points with pride. There we are, Bruise Blue, right there in print.

  We roll onto a flat field footed by a nice-sized stage, the sight of which frightens me a little, in that healthy, normal, stage-frighty way. Now up a slight grade that levels off to a parking lot and, beyond that, another field, where tents sprout like brightly colored mushrooms. With impressive speed and efficiency, Marsh transforms a rain slicker and a couple of oversized flexi straws into our domed domicile. Then out come the LED lanterns, portable stove, stocked coolers, air mattress, triple-plush sleeping bags, and canvas folding chairs. Okay, maybe my first foray into roughing it won’t be too rough.

  Glancing around, I note the shack-like bathroom facilities, getting only minimal heebie-jeebies. Farther on, ringing the field, are woods. Dense, deep, dark woods. The kind of woods those Brothers Grimm were so fond of setting their more sinister stories in. Still, the tingle that trips along my recently shorn nape isn’t completely unpleasant.

  “Dice?” Marsh tags my elbow.

  Chest-ah-Fest, here we come.

  The promoters, socialist or not, have got to be stoked. Early afternoon and the midway is hopping—not bad for a weekday in the hub of nowhere. A lot of people our age, most of the style statements in the tie-dye-and-hemp vein, but really everything from middle-of-the-road mall mode to thrift-shop geek chic represents. There are also parental types strolling around with tots attached. Plus wandering amusements—a juggler on a unicycle, two chicks that look like twins yodeling over ukulele.

  Our first stop is for sustenance, which leans heavy to the vegan side. “Tofu tacos?” I propose, and we get in line. Squirt on enough hot sauce and they’re not bad at all.

  Music isn’t set to start till three, so after lunch we cruise the kiosks hawking art, crafts, jewelry, et al. Other services are available too—face painting, Tui-Na massage, henna tattoos . . . I stop. A hand-lettered banner: mystic crystal revelations.

  A beautiful boy: wheat-blond hair, tawny eyes, more freckles than a constellation has stars, no shirt. He sits on a hassock in the lotus position. Before him, a display of agate, malachite, other geological specimens purported to have spiritual properties.

  Behind him, a striped tent that seems cobbled together out of clown pants.

  Even though he’s no more than twelve, thirteen tops—and despite our own romantic entanglements—he’s so cute, Marsh, Pen, and I can’t help but tell him “Hiiiii!” in three-part harmony.

  Hands in prayer position, he greets us with a “Namaste,” while drinking us in like we’re one big juice box. Then he calls

  “Fracas?” over his shoulder. “Someone here for an aura audit.” A what? For who? I have no clue till through the flap comes a girl in a thin, gauzy blouse, faded denim skirt, and dollar-store flip-flops. Other than that, she absolutely defies description, since she refuses to look the same from one second to the next.

  At first she’s merely medium: medium height, medium build, plain brown hair, a couple of pimples dotting a fair complexion; the kind of girl who fills high school hallways across America.

  Then the tilt of her eyes, the tint of her skin, the texture of her hair all segue to suggest someone of Slavic descent, followed by Asian, then Middle Eastern, then African, then, impossibly, with a heightening and lightening of bone and tone and tress, the full 180 to Nordic. And in a beat she’s back where she started.

  “Hello.” It comes out in a dozen different dialects, through an enigmatic smile.

  Peripherally I notice Marsh and Pen getting a lesson in crystals from the topless cutie-pie, so I meet the gaze of everygirl. There’s no doubt: She’s the reason for the expectant trickle I’ve been feeling since we started this trip. So how come I step away?

  “I’m Fracas,” she says. “Please come in.” Another step, though more to the side. “Why . . . what for?”

  “You need your aura analyzed. Even Regis could tell”—she tips her head toward the crystal kid—“and Regis can be obtuse—he wouldn’t know poison ivy on his own penis.” Her accent finally seems to settle, yet I still can’t pin it—it’s the voice of anywhere. The way she speaks of the boy, he can only be her brother. “You will have to come in, though; it’s near impossible to give an accurate reading in daylight.” Yeah, I know all about the proper light to read by.

  Shifting, morphing, Fracas continues. “Although, I do get a sense . . .” With an arm full of bangles, she strokes the space between us. “You’re blighted . . . blindsided . . . blocked . . .” This snags my girls’ attention.

  “What are you doing?” Pen wants to know, a protective edge in her voice.

  “I read auras,” she explains.

  “She’s the best,” hypes her bro.

  “But your friend seems afraid to learn her true colors.” Pen and Marsh are confused. In their estimation, I don’t do fear.

  “I’m not afraid,” I say. “I’ve just got enough hocus-pocus in my life.”

  “Hmm . . . so that’s it?” Bracing herself on the table, Fracas leans forward and blows on me. A vague hint of spearmint gum, a stronger sense of probing. Despite her ever-changing visage, the caring in it is constant.

  I sigh. “Are you affordable?”

  Fracas says, “Very,” and lifts the corner of the flap.

  Enter the clown pants. Alone.

  “Sit anywhere,” she invites. “Comfort is key.” You couldn’t be more comfortable in a bubble bath. The floor an ocean of cushion. A barely there essence of bergamot.

  Muted illumination glowing from spheres overhead. Most remarkable, the air inside the tent, as if you’ve woken up next to someone you love, only instead of his breath falling on your face, it circulates around you. My whole body smiles as I sink, limbs growing longer and heavier, muscles and tendons slackening like the strings of a down-tuned guitar.

  “It’s nice in here,” I tell her.

  “Vagabonding makes it a challenge—you want to travel light—but we try.”

  She asks my name and tries it out a few times. “All right now, Dice, I’ll probably babble a bit and seem like I’m spazzing.” She twirls her hands in front of her chest. “That’s how I release my impressions—like a toddler with alphabet blocks. Then, once everything’s out, I’ll sort it, explain what I see.”

  “Babble on,” I say. “Full spaz ahead.”

  Fracas looks at me. Then she un-looks at me. I know that un-look; it’s the same way I found the spectral fissure in Antonia’s tower room. Makes sense that her focus would fracture and split, since she’s looking not at me but all around me.

  And Fracas says, “Oh . . .” And then, “Ah.” She circumnavigates my cross-legged form, barefoot now on the pillows with a sure, steady tread. Once in front of me again she kneels to part my aura like a curtain, then scoops some up and rubs it on like lotion. “Ooh . . . you’re a rainbow . . . a rainbow of blue. Every blue hue. The enlightened cool of the morning sky . . . the clear, royal blue of great power. The colors of calm and sensitivity, loyalty, and valiance. And love, of course, radiant and true.”

  Only now concern enters her spaced-out orbs. “Oh, but there’s deep-pain blue, too, and terrible fear: the swell of the sea in a storm, that murky midnight that’s almost black.”
Fracas emits a soft, sympathetic tsk. “That’s where you hide . . . or try to . . . only this enemy . . . you cannot hide. This enemy is close, this enemy is canny, and no matter how deep you go into that blue-black, you cannot get away.”

  I’m hearing this—and it’s making me mad. “Enough!” Waving my hand, I break Fracas from her trance, get her off my aura. “Look, I know I have an enemy, all right. And I know I haven’t done much to vanquish her. But not for one single second have I tried to run away.”

  Fracas composes herself, all of herself, every girl in the world coalescing inside her. “Uh-huh, well, you do have your hands full.” She regains her level gaze and trains it straight on me. “But that’s not the foe I’m referring to. The one I see you running from is you, Dice. You.”

  LIV

  What’s faster, the speed of light or the speed of sound?

  Damned if I know, but the speed of denial has them both beat.

  “You don’t know what you’re talking about,” I tell Fracas.

  Who doesn’t buy it. “I don’t claim to know anything— I’m no precog.”

  Denial rolls its eyes.

  “I just call it as I see it. So why don’t I hurry up and finish—you might as well get your fifteen dollars’ worth.” Fifteen dollars?! denial scoffs. What a scam!

  “First things first: Blue resides in the throat; it rules the voice. You must be a singer.”

  Denial stares her down. “Good guess, seeing as I am at a music festival.” Why is denial such a bitch? More gently, I say,

  “My band plays tomorrow night.”

  Fracas looks like a billion girls who just aced their SATs.

  “There’s a lot of sapphire in your aura, same as your eyes, which shows you’re intuitive, sensitive. You feel—big-time—but with you it’s all about altruism, compassion, an outward rather than selfish sensitivity.” She tries not to stare at my crazy hair, my healing flesh. “As to your own emotions and their . . . ramifications, you can take your knocks . . . and you have.” Around now denial wants out, scopes for a split in the clown pants. But Fracas moves on.

  “There’s also this bold, clear cobalt and azure, blues beyond sensitivity. Blues of clairvoyance. Blues of power.” She pauses before positing another impression. “The combo, the deep and the bright in equal measure, that makes you highly . . . susceptible. You draw spirits like velvet picks up lint.” Denial sticks its fingers in its ears, going, “La-la-la-la-la-la!” at the top of its lungs.

  “Around the rim, a cool, pale blue—the calm, peaceful color of faith and hope. Also a sign that no matter what, you’ll ride it out, you’ll deal.”

  Denial would agree with that, if denial were listening.

  “That brings us to the blue-black. These . . . globules of it.

  Like oill in water. There’s this beautiful clear blue sea of power and purity, plagued with blobs of fear.” As if she can predict denial’s next defensive feint, Fracas shakes her head, adamant. “Fear of your own abilities. Fear of your own authority. That’s what you so desperately want to avoid: your own spiritual prowess.” She bites her lip, like she just doesn’t get it, then shakes her head again. “And the fear is growing, feeding itself—metastasizing.” Guess what denial does next? Uh-huh, holds its breath. Till it turns . . .

  “Dice, you spoke of an enemy. I’m going to assume that he or she has some heavy-duty mojo. Well, I can pretty much guarantee: Until you embrace your true blue awesomeness, you’ll be useless against this other force.” Want to know why denial’s so fast? Because it thinks if it can get there first, it can blot out the truth. Only truth trumps denial. If someone’s in your face, filling you with truth, denial doesn’t stand a chance.

  Still, I insist: “I just want to be normal.”

  “Go ahead,” Fracas says. “Be normal. Normal and dead.” Huffing acceptance, setting my lips in a line, I face facts.

  Normal’s not going to cut it. Not for me. Not this time, anyway.

  My aura has a serious oill spill, and if I don’t do something about it, the damage will be irreversible. I need more than hope and faith and belief in love. I need to get my good up to the level of Antonia’s evil.

  Breath comes out of me once more, long, blue breath. “So what do I do?”

  “Oh . . . ,” Fracas says. “I really don’t know.”

  “You don’t know?” Weakly, from a far, denial goes: What’d you expect for fifteen bucks?

  Fracas turns her palms up. “Dice, I read auras. I don’t write them; I don’t edit them. The best I can offer is a chakra tune-up, but I’m not a therapist for energy fields; I’m no Doctor Aura.” She glides her hands along her thighs and sits on her haunches.

  “How you go about embracing your power is something you’ll have to figure out for yourself.”

  “Hey, Dice?” Denial again? No, Marsh. “You about done in there?”

  And Pen. “Come on, the first band is going on.” My girls, apparently, have had their fill of mystic crystal education.

  “In a minute,” I call toward the fly of the clown pants, then face Fracas. “So I’m screwed.”

  “No.” She smiles, and the world’s girls smile with her. “Let me show you something.”

  Glances around for a particular pillow, one with a hidden seam. Splits it with a fingertip and delves the stuffing. Comes out with a small suede pouch. Before she even shows me what’s inside, I hear it. A beautiful “om” softly intoned by an umpteen choir. As she loosens the string, I can smell it—a remarkable, complex aroma I couldn’t identify if I studied it for a thousand years. All I know, inhaling, is how it opens me to every possibility on earth and beyond.

  Now Fracas empties the contents into the hollow of her hand. This small, rough stone. A stone that sings. A stone that exudes the essence of ever-unfolding wisdom. A stone that also glows from within. When she extends it toward me, all the girls of Fracas cluster closer.

  “Whoa,” I say. “What is that?”

  The glow in her face is the glow of the stone. “I have no idea. I don’t know what it is, where it came from. I don’t even know how I got it—it’s like I’ve always had it.” She dips her hand and the little rock rolls into mine. “All I know is what it does.”

  I know bupkis about chakras, but I must have a bunch because that’s where I feel the stone, glowing and singing and scenting, sensing, smiling, knowing. This “Ahhh!” comes out of me.

  “I call it a journey gem,” Fracas says.

  My hands like a book, my sights on the stone.

  “You put it under your pillow, and you have a dream that’s not a dream.”

  I’m familiar with the state.

  “Wherever you go, you’ll find out what you need to know.” Only in my version, I never left the bed.

  “I loan it out occasionally.”

  That’s just crazy. “You’d trust another person with something so precious?”

  “I don’t have to. It always comes back.” I tear my eyes off it with effort. “You’d . . . loan it to me?”

  Fracas smirks. “No, I’m just showing it to you to torture you.” I match her smirk.

  “You’ll have to give me something for it, though. You know, collateral.”

  I don’t have much money on me, but maybe between Pen and Marsh I could scrape together a decent deposit. “Let me see what kind of cash—”

  “No, not money.” She stop signs. “Haven’t you got something of real value, something of meaning to you?” Only intangibles—the memory of yesterday morning: Sin charging up the drive on Black Jack, the words “I am so in love with you,” his last delicious kiss. “Fracas, I’m camping,” I tell her. “I left the family jewels at home.” Except . . . No, I can’t. I promised. It’s not even mine to give. Yet as one hand closes around the stone, the other goes to the chain at my neck.

  Silver Saint Michael, with his sword and shield. My borrowed guardian in exchange for a borrowed guide. “Will this do?” Examining the amulet, Fracas says, “This will do fine. In fact it
’s perfect.” She slides the chain over her head, passes me the pouch. “Only one caveat . . .”

  “Dice! Come on!” My best friends. The first band.

  “Yeah, in a sec!” I look at Fracas: Spill!

  “What happens on your journey is yours—your experience, your knowledge, your responsibility,” she says. “The more you divulge, the more you dilute.”

  Yeah, yeah: What happens in Chest-ah stays in Chest-ah.

  “Got it,” I say, burying her treasure in my pocket, then pulling out some bills to pay for the reading. Crumpled tender on the cushion, I tell her thanks.

  “You’re welcome,” Fracas says, tucking Saint Michael into her gauzy blouse. “I’ll take good care.”

  “Di-iiice!!!” Whining in unison outside the clown pants.

  I look at the reader, all of her, all the girls in the world.

  “Yeah,” I tell her . . . them. “Me too.”

  LV

  When Ruby Ramirez gets in your ear with a “Wanna party?” feel free to counter with a frivolous “What should I wear?” or the far wiser “Do you really know how to get there?” Still, the question is rhetorical since the obvious and only answer is sure, yeah, of course. If you’re me, anyway. Ruby wants to party, so I’m in.

  Even though I am beyond whipped. It was one long day of rocking out (except for the brief indoor detour for my aura audit), with the last band finishing around midnight. Then we gathered round a campfire and sang corny songs—including

  “Kumbaya” and something called, I kid you not, “On Top of Spaghetti.” Now, despite the creepy moniker of “mummy bag,” this sleep sack feels mighty snug—I’m in no great rush to unzip.

  Yet I lift to an elbow and check my girl. A toga party, judging by her outfit. Ought to be fun.

  Quiet as a mummy, I crawl out. And what do you know: I’m also garbed in a flowing gown, gathered at one shoulder and knotted under my boobs with a braided cord. Too bad I didn’t bring my gladiator sandals; instead I scope for my sneakers.

  “Come on!” Ruby is so impatient.