Between Darkness and Dawn

by Margaret Duarte

  Holly gulped down the last of her drink and wiped her lips on the sleeve of her jacket before handing back the mug. “Thanks, Marjorie.”

  “You’re welcome, Holly.”

  She got to her feet and disappeared into the mist, entering a world I wasn’t part of and to which I didn’t belong.

  ~~~

  After straightening up my campsite, I decided it was time to visit Anne’s lodgings for a change, instead of her always visiting mine. I knew more or less which direction to take, considering she always approached my place from the east. And her dugout shouldn’t be too hard to find. Just be on the alert for some kind of bohemian grove, with dream catchers and dried flowers dangling from tree branches in celebration of nature and summertime.

  As it turned out, there were no dream catchers and dried flowers dangling from the trees. Instead, the lace windsock, paper lanterns, and scarf-like sheets flapping in the breeze were a dead giveaway. As was the yurt, with its lattice perimeter and umbrella-like roof. Colorful Moroccan panels skirted its walls, which included two vertical windows and a door.

  Wonder how long it takes to put up and take down this mega shelter.

  “Hello,” I called.

  No answer.

  I knocked on the door. A real wooden door! “Anne, it’s Marjorie.”

  No answer.

  Her Volvo was parked in the space next to the yurt, so she couldn’t have gone far. And it was a bit early to relieve Brock at Adam’s camp. Maybe she was still sleeping. Ha. It would be nice to discover that Miss Fit-as-a-Fiddle was a late riser.

  I tried the door. It was unlocked. I opened it a crack. “Anne?”

  I didn’t encounter the groggy, disheveled person I had envisioned. Instead, Anne was dressed in a flowing white robe and kneeling in front of a small altar fitted against one of the rounded sides of the yurt. The altar held two lit candles—one gold, one silver—two bowls—one filled with water, another with what appeared to be salt—plus, a chalice, a bell, a wand, and a small cauldron.

  I must have gasped, because Anne opened her eyes and held up a hand to silence me before rising to her feet. “I bid you hail and farewell,” she said four times, facing a different direction with each incantation. Then she added a farewell to a Lord and Lady, while circling the interior of her yurt, counterclockwise, with what appeared to be a magic wand.

  Saying my skin crawled, just about summed up my reaction. It felt as though I was encountering a complete stranger, someone performing some kind of Wiccan divination.

  “You can come on in now,” Anne said as she began to dismantle the altar and put the ritual supplies into a small drawer on its side. “I’m a porta-pagan,” she said into the silence. “I carry my altar with me.”

  “Do you practice witchcraft?” I managed.

  She stared at me for a moment before answering. “I’m too lazy to be a full-fledged witch, my dear. I just fill in the empty spaces with some earth-based religious practices. And, in case you’re wondering... No, I don’t have any supernatural abilities. The forces I use are right here for the taking, available to all.”

  “Not like the witches on TV?” I said, trying to keep the conversation light while my brain wrapped around this new development. Our friendship had taken a sudden turn. Witchcraft was something I didn’t understand and, in truth, didn’t want to understand. Could I muster the courage to withhold judgment and continue on as before? A seed of mistrust had been planted in my heart, a new awkwardness. The way she dressed should’ve tipped me off. Modern-day hippie, my foot! More like a priestess, shaman, witch doctor, and nurse all wrapped into one.

  Anne studied me, blue eyes gleaming. “There are many types and traditions of witches. Ask a hundred witches a question and you’ll get a hundred different answers. However, all in all, we try to live in harmony with nature and take responsibility for the environment. I happen to be a solitaire. I find all the info I need in books and through practice. I make up my own rituals.”

  “You make them up?”

  “As I go. Sure. Whatever works for me is real for me. Guess you can call me an eclectic Wiccan. I borrow from Hawaiian and Native American traditions as well.”

  Anne reopened the drawer in her altar and pulled out a small silver octagon. She held it up, and I recognized it as a St. Christopher medal, almost identical to the one hanging from the rear-view mirror of my Jeep. “Have you ever prayed to Saint Christopher to protect you in your travels?” she asked.

  I remembered once using this same argument with my mother—and failing. “Of course, I’m Catholic.”

  “So am I,” Anne said.

  “You can’t be both,” I blurted, though I should’ve known better. Hadn’t I been attempting to experience the mysteries of the Native American Medicine Wheel in my search for understanding, while, at the same time, holding on to the rituals offered by the church of my upbringing?

  A faint smile crossed Anne’s lips as she took note of my uplifted palms. “Did you know that convent and coven come from the same root?”

  I didn’t, but also didn’t see the significance.

  “Have you ever made chicken soup for a sick friend?”

  I pulled my telltale hands into fists. “Of course, who hasn’t?”

  A flash of sympathy burned through Anne’s widened smile. “How about wearing a lucky outfit or carrying a lucky charm?”

  I thought of my mouse totem. “Sure.”

  “Have you ever knocked on wood?”

  “Okay, okay, I get the picture. These are all forms of magick, right?”

  Anne clapped her hands. “My God, she’s getting it!”

  I ignored her sarcasm. “I also believe we should live more simply and focus less on the material—”

  “Are you going somewhere with this?” Anne asked.

  “Well, I’m interested in the spiritual, New Thought, New Age, and the beliefs of my ancestors.”

  Anne stared at the medal in her hands. “So?”

  “Well, I would never become a Wiccan, but—”

  “No one’s asking you to. Wiccans are smart enough to realize that their religion isn’t the path for everyone.”

  “Will you quit interrupting? I’m trying to say that I might be able to incorporate some rituals of the Wiccan faith into my life.”

  “I’m so relieved to hear that.”

  “Darn it, Anne. I’m trying to understand.”

  “I know, sweetie, I’m just playing with you.” She put the medal back in the drawer of her altar. “We’re both attempting to live spiritually and in tune with nature, just going about it in different ways. Anyway, I have bad news. Adam didn’t feel inspired to use our reinforced clay. Although he did use our piece of plywood as a base for a beautiful mud sculpture of his wife holding his son.”

  “Can’t you try firing it anyway?”

  “I did, and it exploded in the kiln.”

  “Darn,” I said, disappointed, but not surprised.

  “However, your sculpture is already at the gallery,” she said.

  “What!”

  “I was afraid you’d change your mind now that Adam wasn’t carrying through.”

  “You are a witch,” I said, not half as upset as I thought I would be.

  Chapter Fifteen

  “CATCH,” ANNE SAID on approaching my campsite the following morning and tossing what appeared to be a credit card in my direction.

  I caught the rectangular piece of plastic and turned it in my hand. “What’s this?”

  Anne held up another card, grinning like an actor in an ad for a vacation rental. “Your room key.”

  “My...? What are you up to now?”

  “I reserved two bungalow rooms at the Big Sur Lodge for tonight and made reservations for dinner, so hurry and gather your stuff.”

  I crossed my arms in explain-please fashion.

  Anne eyed my clothing: a fleece shirt, baggy nylon pants, and sturdy hiking boots. “Since w
e’re going to the gallery tonight, I figured you’d like to take a proper shower and dress up a bit.”

  I looked down at my outfit, not quite the height of urban chic. “As you well know, I didn’t come prepared for gallivanting around town. So, what do you suggest I wear?”

  Anne sized me up, her hand cupping her chin, her index finger tapping her cheek. “Looks like we’re about the same size, so I’ll lend you something of mine.”

  One look at her flamboyant skirt and gauzy blouse and I rolled my eyes. “Oh goody. Can’t wait.”

  Anne’s grin widened. “Trust me, you’ll look fabulous.”

  “It would be nice to take a leisurely shower,” I admitted. “And French braid my hair and put on some makeup. That is, if I remember how.”

  “I’m sure it’ll come back to you,” Anne said. “Let’s go.”

  I retrieved my as-yet-unused makeup case from the cargo hold of the Jeep, rumbled through my suitcase for some underwear, and was about to leap into Anne’s Volvo, when I remembered promising Holly that she could watch my tent.

  “What’s up?” Anne asked, noticing my hesitation.

  “I have to leave a note for my tent sitter that I’ll be gone.”

  Anne rubbed the back of her neck. “Tent sitter?”

  The puzzled look on her face lightened my step. For once, I wasn’t the one asking questions. “Be right back.”

  ~~~

  “I passed on the fireplace rooms since we won’t be spending much time here,” Anne said as we walked toward the Lodge bungalows with our overnight bags. “No phones, televisions, or alarm clocks either.”

  “Maybe I’ll treat myself to a long soak in the tub instead of taking a shower,” I said.

  Anne checked her watch. “You’ve got two hours. I’ll meet you at four o’clock sharp. That’ll give us time for a glass of wine before dinner.”

  “Which means no nap,” I said, longing to crash out on a soft bed with fresh, clean sheets for an hour or two after my bath.

  Anne went on as if she hadn’t heard me, “I left an evening dress with a matching cardigan and sandals in your closet. Go make yourself beautiful.”

  Evening dress, right. “You’re so bossy.”

  “A prerequisite for being a good caregiver,” Anne said. “Anyway, I’m fitting right into your plans.”

  “You make it sound like I’m using you.”

  “Actually, no. You’re allowing yourself to receive the gifts being offered. And believe me, that’s a big step for most people. Simply put, you’re a pretty sharp gal.” Anne spun around and headed for the cabin next door. “See you at four.”

  The spacious room had its own deck and, just as Anne had predicted, no electronic gadgets to distract from the restful atmosphere. The comforter and shams on the bed looked like homemade quilts with diamond patterns in greens, browns, and rusts. White wainscoting stretched halfway up the wall, the rest of which was painted a soft beige. The brown oak shutters covering the windows would block out the sunlight come morning. A nice change.

  As I took this all in, part of my mind fretted over what kind of bohemian outfit I would find hanging in the closet? At first glance, I liked what I saw, at least as far as color and texture were concerned. The sleeveless column dress was made of some kind of taupe metallic with a lace overlay on the front bodice. The matching cardigan had lace-detailing on the scalloped sleeves and hem. Shine and lace; what a combination.

  I slipped on the taupe sandals. A bit tight, but at this point, I wasn’t complaining. On the dresser lay a matching purse and pearl dangle-hoop earrings. Anne had thought of everything.

  A long soak in the tub no longer appealed to me. Anxious to get into that dress, I would shower instead.

  Promptly at four, I opened the door and nearly collided with Anne—a transformed Anne—in a swingy shift dress of black mesh over a tan lining, with silky bubble appliqués on the hemline. The neckline was high, and a silky bow drooped over her left shoulder.

  “Wow!” I said. “Black, with no wild stripes or flowers.”

  She fluttered her lashes and curtsied like royalty. “I didn’t want you to think I was an inflexible, obsessive, compulsive, schizoid loner, who focused only on one narrow point of interest to the point of paranoia. So, I wore my ‘bubble-duty’ dress.”

  I gave my best rendition of a wolf whistle. “You look absolutely beautiful.”

  “You should see me in my nurse uniform.”

  “I can imagine,” I said. And surprisingly I could. I’d always compared nurses to angels anyway.

  She lifted her hair from her ears.

  “Diamonds,” I said, “and they’re not even shaped like moons and stars.”

  Anne looked me over and clucked in approval. “How do you like the dress I picked out for you?”

  I twirled, feeling like a princess. “I couldn’t have done a better job of it myself.”

  “You look fantastic,” she said. “Especially with your hair French braided like that.”

  “I feel fantastic.”

  Anne linked her arm through mine. “Then let’s make this a night to remember.”

  ~~~

  “You’re spoiling me for camping,” I said as the Big Sur Lodge host escorted us to our table. “I may not want to go back to sleeping in my tent.”

  “Well, I’m sure you can get the room for as long as you like,” Anne said.

  “Don’t tempt me,” I said, though I knew I wouldn’t do it. I’d come here to get closer to nature, to my mother, and to myself, and I wouldn’t accomplish that under a comfortable roof with every convenience at my fingertips. I wouldn’t be able to smell the fragrance of decomposing foliage mixed in with the woody and piney scents from the tall canopies of trees. I wouldn’t be able to feel and absorb the warm energy of the sun or the soft breezes on my skin. I wouldn’t be able to sense the enormity of the space around me.

  “What kind of wine would you like?” Anne asked after we were seated. The question took me back to Carmel Valley, where Morgan had asked me the same question. A picture of his green eyes and dimpled smile filled all the space in my mind, and I fought back tears.

  Anne cleared her throat. “How about a local wine?”

  I stared at the wine list through blurry eyes. The first selection was Morgan Sauvignon Blanc. I blinked. Held up the list. Jabbed at it with my finger. “Anne, look.”

  “‘Rich melon and pineapple, lovely balance, crisp, and fresh,’” Anne read from beneath the wine selection. “Hey, isn’t Morgan your boyfriend’s name?” Her eyes danced with apparent pleasure at the serendipitous discovery. “So, for you it’s ‘Morgan Sauvignon Blanc’ and for me ‘Storrs from the Santa Cruz Mountains.’”

  Over Anne’s Sautéed Filet of Salmon and Linguini and my Chicken and Portobello Mushrooms, we talked and laughed, and, finally, after thoroughly stuffing myself, I said, “Thanks, Anne. This was a fantastic idea.”

  “Visa, MasterCard, and American Express accepted,” she said. “I paid for the rooms, you pay for dinner.”

  I laughed. “Sounds like I got the better deal.”

  “Tell me that after you’ve paid for breakfast,” Anne said.

  ~~~

  “It brings back such incredible, if not happy, memories,” Anne said as we entered the art gallery. “The fussing to look sensational, the expensive gowns, the shiny and tamed hair, fake nails, fake smiles, and then, the terrible disillusionment as the evening progresses. The only fire I see is in the eyes of the caterers and the artists. These functions are never what they appear to be.”

  I studied the crowd, trying to visualize it from Anne’s point of view. Sure enough, many of the glamorously dressed guests appeared to be standing around, looking for something to do. They eyed the caterers as if the distraction of food and drink offered a way to occupy—and satisfy—their empty hands and minds.

  A blonde woman, wearing a shimmering red gown that flowed like lava, had her eyes focused on
the door. Was she waiting for someone, or planning her escape? Two men stood nearby, tuxedoed and manicured, joking with each other, while observing the shimmering blonde. An overweight woman, escorted by an equally overweight man, held a miniscule plate mounded with hors d’oeuvres.

  “I haven’t yet missed being rich,” Anne said.

  I reeled in my wayward thoughts and brought my attention back to my friend. “You never said anything about being rich.”

  She ignored me, which meant she wasn’t sharing, so I said, “From where I come from, everyone wants to be rich. An evening like this is part of the fantasy.” Again, I studied the crowd and, this time, locked onto a tall, broad-shouldered man, accompanied by a slim woman bearing the intangible charisma of a model. “Can you believe it? It’s the Harley Guy. In a Tux.”

  Anne’s attention, however, was focused elsewhere. “Oh, oh, it’s the gallery curator. I should’ve warned you...”

  A man in a slim-fitting suit and drainpipe pants danced toward us, arms wide. “Anne darling!”

  Anne grinned and gave him a friendly hug. “Alfonso, it’s so good to see you.”

  His busy gaze settled on me. I could almost hear a “bleep,” as if he were scanning my bar code: age, nationality, income. “Welcome, welcome,” he said. “I’m so glad you could come. Have you seen our fine new sculpture? It’s brilliant, quite brilliant.” He winked at Anne and motioned for a waiter. “How about a glass of bubbly to celebrate our new discovery?”

  Next thing I knew I was holding a flute of champagne.

  “You simply must take a look at our fine new sculpture,” he said, prodding me forward with a light hand to my back. “It symbolizes the flow of life, with its ups and downs, its joys, and its heartaches.”

  We paused in front of a table on which rotated a multi-colored piece that looked eerily familiar.

  “Notice the shades of red,” the curator continued, “burnt red, symbolizing our mother earth; crimson and salmon, symbolizing fire, sunlight, and emotion; ruby, symbolizing the flow of blood in our veins...”