“The Ohlone/Costanoan Esselen? Whatever for?”
“At first, I was interested because of a mirror I bought that supposedly belonged to a Margarita Butron back in 1773. She was Ohlone/Costanoan.”
“You like old stuff, do you?”
“Not necessarily, but this mirror is special.”
“Okay, so what else do you find so interesting about the Ohlone/Costanoan Esselen?”
“I found out that we were part Native American and that our mother was part Esselen and Rumsen Costanoan.”
“Yeah, Pop told me,” she said in a yawny voice. “Did you tell Ben?”
“Of course, though I don’t look or feel Indian.” I paused and took in Veronica’s long black hair, how it hung loose about her face as I imagined Margarita’s had when she was young. “At least, you’ve got the hair color right.”
Veronica sipped her coffee, her hands steady, unlike mine, which were shaking as if I’d consumed too much caffeine.
“I think I heard Margarita speak,” I said into the silence.
Veronica pulled in her breath mid swallow and began to cough as though choking.
I jumped out of my seat and patted her back, her lambskin jacket rippling like silk beneath my hand. “Are you okay?”
“You’re hearing a voice, too?” she sputtered between hacking coughs.
“Yes, but—”
“Holy shit. We’re both going crazy.”
Veronica appeared sane to a fault, the very opposite of crazy. “We’re just able to hear what others can’t,” I said.
Veronica pinned me with her cobalt gaze. “I think we’re both losing our marbles.”
“I took pictures of the mirror,” I said. “I had prints made. Get yourself a refill. I’ll be right back.”
Without waiting for Veronica’s response, I dashed down the street to the pharmacy and, in less than ten minutes, returned, a bit winded but happy to see that Veronica hadn’t ditched me. I sorted through the photos with the agility of a poker dealer shuffling cards until I found one of Heather looking into the mirror and her muted reflection.
Veronica glanced at the photo and back at me. “So?”
“Here’s another,” I said. And then we both saw it at once. Where the reflection of my face should have been, was the fuzzy image of a stranger.
“Holy shit!” Veronica said. “How’d that old Indian gal get into the picture?”
My arms, neck, and scalp turned into a mass of gooseflesh. When Heather took that shot, my attention had been focused on the camera reflected in the mirror, but what the camera saw was not me. “The picture I took of Heather turned out okay,” I said. “Her face is a bit gray and muted, but that’s definitely her. I wonder what happened to mine.”
“This is too weird for my taste,” Veronica said, harshness replacing the former hollowness of her voice. “If I didn’t know better, I’d say you had it photoshopped.”
“Do you think it’s Margarita? Maybe she’s trying to tell us something.”
“Don’t include me in your paranormal adventure,” Veronica said, pushing back her chair. “I said I was hearing a voice. I didn’t say anything about Margarita.”
“You’ve got to admit that she plays a part. This picture is proof.”
“Got to go,” Veronica said, standing. “Nice visiting with you.” She took a deep breath and grinned as if our shared time together and the resulting conversation had been no more than a joke. “Good luck with the ghost, kiddo.”
She started to leave and then turned. “By the way, I’m not returning that deliciously warm and practical coat you lent me Saturday night. So here, take mine.” She wiggled out of her lambskin jacket and tossed it to me before sauntering off as if nothing out of the ordinary had transpired.
Chapter Twenty-four
THE AIR WAS CHILLY and the sky overcast, hinting at showers, but for me the morning promised to blossom into a day of remarkable beauty. I appreciated the warmth of the coffee in my insulated mug as I waited in my Jeep for Ben to arrive. I also appreciated the extra padding provided by the thermals underneath my clothes and the wool socks on my feet.
Ben drove up a few minutes past seven and greeted me with arms spread wide as I slid from my Jeep. “Want to start with a lecture or a hike?”
My heart ached in sweet anticipation as though I were joining a dear friend for an evening of intriguing mentalism and sleight-of-hand miracles. “A hike, I guess.”
“Okay. A hike it is, while you search for your personal marker stones.”
I glanced at the blue-gray, silver-tipped clouds and inhaled the sage and pine-scented air. You’d think I was about to climb Mount Everest, the way my heart pounded and my temples throbbed. As we walked through the trailhead gate and followed the unpaved dam road, Morgan’s words played in my head like unappreciated parental wisdom. “You’ve enjoyed the company of educated and sophisticated people but have missed the closeness of nature. Today you had the chance to look around.”
I had liked sharing the closeness of nature with Morgan. A lot. As I liked Morgan a lot. But my mission in Carmel Valley did not include getting involved in a romantic relationship, not so soon after Cliff. Open doors and wide-open spaces were what I needed, as Ben now offered in his generous, undemanding way. I wanted to laugh. I wanted to dance. This was crazy.
We passed stately, twisted oaks to a large open flat with forking side roads on our way to the reservoir above the dam. “Before you can construct your Medicine Wheel,” Ben said, “you’ll need five marker stones. Four about the same size, the fifth, larger.”
“Okey-dokey,” I said, straining like a puppy on a leash.
“But there’s a catch,” he said, holding back a smile. “You’ll need a yellow stone for the East, a red stone for the South, a black stone for the West, and a white stone for the North. Plus, the larger stone for the Center has to be green.”
Whoa. Hold it. I thought of the amount of time it would take to find five colored stones, considering the area through which we were walking alternated between shady forest and open chaparral. “That could take hours.”
“You’ll definitely need to do some hiking,” Ben said as we reached the intersection between the Carmel River and Big Pine trails. We took a right and headed up a narrow hillside path and side canyon. The trail leveled and split again—left this time—and zigzagged down a steep hillside to an attractive campsite in a creek side meadow. We’d traveled a good three miles and I was ready for a break. However, Ben walked on.
I studied my surroundings with the caution of a city girl accustomed to pavement and street signs. The trails, at least the few I detected at this point, were unmaintained and overgrown. They rambled in no set direction, except maybe the path of least resistance. I saw signs of a fire in a mosaic of burned, less burned, and completely untouched areas. No surprise. Fires were frequent here. What did surprise me, though, were the green shoots sprouting out of the charred stumps of surviving parent trees, with woodpeckers and bluebirds nesting in their cavities and lush understory growing underneath. Pine, tanoak, twisted oak, and meadow. Where would I find five stones? “When do you want me back?”
“You can’t pick just any rock,” Ben cautioned, “even if it’s the perfect size and color. Each rock has to draw you in some way.”
“You’re kidding, right?” I’d be lucky to find even one rock in this patchy post-fire terrain, let alone one that drew me in some mysterious way.
“When you find a stone you feel attracted to,” Ben said, as if certain I understood and accepted that this stone-finding excursion was not a game, “put it into your left hand and tell it you want to use it for your Medicine Wheel. Then, wait to feel its consent.”
Talking to stones? Waiting for their consent?
“Any questions?” Ben asked.
Yeah, what am I doing here? “I don’t think so.”
He tossed me a compass. “Keep track of the route you take and stay close to t
he trails, so you don’t get lost or tangle with poison oak. I’ll be back in three hours.”
He was leaving me here? Alone? For three hours?
“Oh, and watch out for hitchhiking ticks,” he said, before he headed back toward his truck.
I was alone, surrounded by trees, brush, poison oak, and ticks. You asked for this, I reminded myself, so get going.
A breeze whipped through the ponderosa pines and the scorched, fire-stiffened branches, causing them to sway as if waving me on.
I wandered through islands of tall grasses, rocky passes, shady forest, and open chaparral, scoping for mice, snakes, and ticks, and praying for stones. Each time I found what appeared to be a likely candidate—Igneous? Metamorphic? Sedimentary?—I tested it according to Ben’s instructions and ended up with no stones at all. When I stopped to ground myself, I was amazed at how far I’d traveled. Just to be safe, I used a massive oak, as well as the compass, to keep myself oriented.
After what felt like hours of navigating paths through brush and deadfall, I finally found my first stone: white, almost transparent, smooth as a sparrow’s egg. I held it in my left hand and whispered, “I want to use you for my Medicine Wheel.” At first, nothing happened. All I felt was frustration. The stone was perfect; I’d hate to put it back. Then the stone grew warm like a cherrystone heated in a microwave. I palmed my prize, pressed it to my lips, and when I spread my fingers for closer look, it appeared to glow from within. “I take that as your consent to represent North on my Medicine Wheel,” I said before dropping it into my pouch next to the mouse totem.
Motivated now, I continued my search and could hardly believe my luck when I spotted a red stone. I thought of Morgan’s box of crayons and decided to call it brick red. It wasn’t smooth like the white stone. In fact, it looked more like a small turtle. I cupped it in my hand, expecting it to grow warm, but it remained cool. Just as I was about to toss it back and continue my search, the stone changed from brick red to red-violet to magenta and back to red. I rolled it in the palm of my hand while sunlight danced off its surface. “I consider this your consent,” I said, and slipped it into my pouch.
An hour and a half left and I still needed three stones, but where would I find a yellow, a black, and a green? The sound of rushing water reminded me that rocks often congregated under flowing streams. Sure enough, when I came upon a shallow creek and tiptoed to its slumped, crumbling edge, I spotted a green stone similar to a small frog. I scooped it out of the water, and when I cupped it in my left hand, it pulsated along with the beat of my heart. Three down, two to go. Time for a rest.
Running water always calms me, but this site, grotto-like and hedged by dense ferns, exuded another kind of energy—something healing, something sacred, something flowing in a deeper dimension, as if a sensitive and protective spirit resided there.
This is where the earth plays. A powerful place. Too bad I can’t stay.
A soft rustle alerted me to a doe and fawn emerging from the underbrush no more than six feet away. Unaware of my presence, they approached the creek with agile confidence. I adjusted my position for a better view, and a stream of pebbles cascaded from beneath me, sounding to my ears like gravel sliding from a dump truck. The animals’ heads shot up and froze, their eyes as unblinking as garden statuary. I held my breath, and, for a moment, they appeared to be holding theirs, too. Then in a quick, smooth motion, the doe shot back into the brush, and the fawn followed.
I didn’t want to leave this place but only had forty-five minutes left to find two more stones and make my way back to the Jeep. When I stood, I incited another avalanche of rocks. They formed a small pile at my feet, and on top, lay my yellow stone for the East, clear as topaz and brilliant as a diamond. Consent or synchronicity? I wondered, before settling on consent.
On my way back to the point of rendezvous, I canvassed my surroundings for my last stone—black for the West—with no success.
I sighted Ben leaning against my Jeep. He checked his watch. “What’s the matter, three hours not enough?”
I shook my head, relieved to have found my way back but disappointed at having failed my mission. “I only found four stones.”
“Quite impressive,” he said. “It took me weeks to find mine.”
“Weeks? Why didn’t you tell me?”
Ben’s slow smile almost matched Morgan’s with its heart-stopping intensity. Almost. “Show me what you’ve got.”
The way I held up the stones in my cupped hand, you’d think they were precious gems found during a successful mining expedition. “This one’s shaped like a frog, and this one looks like a turtle.”
Ben nodded, straight-faced. “Could be significant.”
“Really?”
“You’ll have to wait and see,” he said, reminding me of Morgan when he’d asked me to name the color of dandelions and experience the texture of their petal-like flowers. “What about the white one?”
“Actually, that’s the first one I found. It gave off heat when I held it in my hand.”
Ben gave a soft whistle before saying, “You’ll have to wash your stones in water when you return to the Inn.”
“Wash? Okay.” How ridiculous finding and washing stones for a Medicine Wheel would sound to Cliff and my mother or, heaven forbid, my no-nonsense boss and technologically gifted friends. “Anything else?”
“You’ll need four more stones for the outer circle of your Wheel.”
I glanced back the way I’d come. Another three hours wouldn’t be so bad, though I doubted Ben would be keen on waiting for me again. “Why didn’t you tell me? I could’ve searched for them, too.”
“The next four stones should be gemstones.”
“Gemstones?” Who did he think I was, Christy Walton?
“They don’t need to be precious gemstones.”
“Oh goody,” I said.
Ben smiled, apparently not the least bit bothered by my sarcastic tone. “The best stone for the Northeast is an opal.”
I thought of the fire opal Joshua now wore on a chain around his neck.
“You’ll also need rose quartz, topaz, and obsidian. Again, go for the stones you feel drawn to. Then wash them under cold, running water, put them into fresh water, and place them in sunlight for twenty-four hours to rid them of negative energies.”
Negative energies, right. “Okay.”
“Call me when you’re ready, and we’ll set up your Medicine Wheel.”
“Thanks, Ben. I mean it. Thanks so much.”
I was surprised, almost embarrassed, by the passion in my voice, though Ben seemed to take all in stride. “No problem.”
“I’m a bit nervous about how my search here in Carmel Valley will end,” I said.
“Every end is new beginning,” he replied.
Between Will and Surrender Page 15