by Sarah Dreher
She turned to the cave…
...and found her way blocked by a gigantic Falcon.
Its claws were sharp as harpoons. Its eyes were red. It had spread its wings across the cave opening.
A heavy oak limb fell directly in her path. She could feel the bark scrape against her leg as it landed.
She looked up for the tree, but of course there was none.
She watched helplessly as the Entity sent out a furious wind that stripped and shredded a dozen random maples. Branches piled up deeper at the cave entrance. Large rocks poured down on top of the branches. The entrance to the cave was sealed.
From inside, she could hear the child’s terrified screams.
Furious, Stoner began tearing away at the branches and rocks that blocked the entry to the tunnel with her good arm. “I’ve had it,” she said over and over. “Had it, had it, had it.”
Within minutes her hands were cut and bleeding from the rocks. Her shoulders and face were scored with the scraping of sharp twigs and branches. Sweat poured out of her hair and into her eyes.
She felt herself beginning to cry from frustration and hopelessness, but she didn’t care. If she never did anything again, she was going to undo this one piece of the creature’s mischief.
Something shoved her gently to the side. Calm down, Burro said. I can do this better than you.
She threw one arm around his neck. “I thought you’d deserted me.”
Nope. Kinda slow, that’s all. He shrugged her away apologetically. You go sit over there and rest. You’re in the way.
“Look out for the Falcon,” Stoner said. “It works for that thing.”
Nope, Burro said between mouthfuls of branches. Works for you, same as me.
“That’s impossible. It won’t let me leave.”
Falcon has his job. I have mine. He pushed a rock aside with his nose and took a limb between his teeth. As I told you before, I do what humans want.
“Then what does Falcon do?”
Takes the long view. Sit. He won’t let the creature harm you.
Burro hummed a little under his breath and went about his business.
Time had slowed again. The child was silent. The Entity smoldered, held immobile by Falcon and the Blue Shirts.
It was a very odd feeling. There should be chaos, and screaming and yelling and name calling and trying to grab things out of one another’s hands.
But it was still. And that was the eeriest feeling of all.
Then she heard the drums again. The rapid tapping that said “Hurry, hurry.”
Stoner’s heart began to pound with the beat of the drums.
Burro pulled aside the last branch blocking their entrance.
She ran for it.
Out of the corner of her eye, she saw the Blue Shirts evaporate, saw the Entity start their way.
She found a little more speed in her legs.
Only a couple of feet now…
And something grabbed her by the shirt collar.
Stoner whirled on the creature. “NO MORE!” And twisted out of its grip.
“Take me with you,” the Entity moaned.
“Never.”
Time to get a move on, said Burro.
“Go back to whatever pit you crawled out of,” Stoner said, taking a step backward toward the cave’s darkness.
“Please.”
“NO!”
Again Falcon blocked her way. “Are you nuts?” Stoner screamed at it.
Falcon merely blinked.
The Entity touched her. It was a light touch, no more than a pleading, apologetic stroke on her arm. It felt like the touch of a nest of squirming maggots.
Something in her broke.“Don’t touch me!” she raged, and hurled herself against the creature. “Goddamn it, show yourself!”
She snatched back the Entity’s hood…
...and found herself looking into a mirror.
She gasped. Same chestnut hair, same blue-green eyes. Same sanguine skin.
They could have been twins.
But the other Stoner looked older, harder, bitter. Her eyes were flat and steely, her lips tight with anger. Lines of disapproval cut across her forehead. Her lashes were so stiff and bristly, she seemed to be wearing plastic mascara. Her skin was stretched and dry.
“What the hell is going on?” She looked around at her Power Animals. They seemed to have found something absolutely fascinating to watch anywhere but here.
“Don’t you know?” the Entity asked. The anger seemed to have gone out of her. Instead she sounded hurt.
“I know her,” Tony piped up. “That’s Antonia.”
Light was beginning to dawn. Slowly. At first she didn’t believe…
Then she hardly believed…
She believed.
“Are you… did I… when…?”
She didn’t wait for an answer. She knew. Years ago, before she’d left her parents’ home, she’d been Antonia. Not just in name, but in anger. Enraged by the way she was treated, furious at everyone around her. Sometimes she’d wanted to uproot the trees in her front yard and smash them against her parents’ house until it was reduced to matchsticks. She wanted to scream at her mother until her mother shrank to the size of a spider, then flush her down the toilet. Wanted to dismember her father joint by joint, to hollow out his unfeeling, judging, demanding head and use it for a soup bowl.
The fury of her anger froze her with terror. Every day she woke wondering if this would be the day she’d lose control. Sometimes she shook so hard she couldn’t hold a pencil to do her homework. She hated the sounds her parents made, the television programs they watched, the food they ate. Hated the odor of her mother’s perfume and her father’s aftershave. Hearing their voices, downstairs, while she lay in bed and tried to read, she fisted her hands and dug her nails into the palms until they bled. And when she heard them coming up the stairs, she flicked off her light and burrowed into her bed, pillow over her head, to keep herself from attacking them.
They despised her. Despised who and what she was, while telling her they loved her.
She couldn’t bear the rage that burned in her brain. Or the fear. Or the longing to be loved, the damned longing to be loved.
So she’d left that house. Slammed the door on it and on them and on Antonia.
Left them all and didn’t look back.
“You can’t leave me here,” Antonia said. “I’m part of you. You need me.”
Stoner looked at her shadow self. Her angry self. Her strong self. A self she didn’t want to acknowledge. A self she couldn’t live without. “A person who doesn’t cast a shadow,” Edith Kesselbaum had once told her, “has only two dimensions.”
She gave in. It didn’t feel like a defeat, more like a letting go. “You’re right,” she said to Antonia. “I do.”
“I can do a lot for you, you know.”
“Not until you’re housebroken.” She took Antonia’s hand. It turned firm in her own. “Wait until you meet Dr. Edith Kesselbaum,” she said.
Hermione felt a jolt of energy like electricity. Her mind was strong, and clear. She saw it all. “She did it,” she whispered.
Gwen reached over and gave her shoulder a squeeze.
The call-back drums increased in speed and volume.
As soon as Elizabeth had blown her soul pieces back into her head and heart, and they had welcomed her home and she had thanked them all, before the real celebrating and storytelling got under way, she went out to find Cutter.
He was waiting for her, eager to see her but hoping she wouldn’t stay long.
“Are you okay?” she asked.
“Yep.” He looked at the ground. “You?”
“Yes. Thank you for what you did.”
He shrugged and wanted to sink into the ground. He hated people thanking him. It mixed him up, made him feel things, made him want to let them in. “Sometimes I do that,” he mumbled.
“It was a pleasure to meet your father.”
That brought a
n involuntary smile to his lips. “He’s a good guy.”
“If you ever find out who won that ball game, let me know.”
“If it was the Phillies, it’ll be a miracle.”
There was a brief silence. Cutter traced designs in the dirt with his boot.
“Well,” she said.
Cutter nodded and slipped his hands into his pockets.
Stoner wanted to embrace him, to show her gratitude. But she knew it would frighten him. The last thing she wanted to do to this man was frighten him.
He must have sensed her thoughts. “Thanks,” he said.
She walked back to the house.
At the door, she turned. “See you around.”
“Here and there,” he answered.
It was good to remember again. Hermione lounged on the living room couch and listened to the rattle of plates and silverware and the intimate, everyday sounds of cooking, and let the memories, the clarity flow over her again and again. She recalled sending the child away, so long ago, knowing there would be an aching separation from her but knowing, too, that the child’s very life was at stake.
For years she’d hoped Stoner would find her on her own, would come to believe in magic and the just-rain-washed beauty of life when seen through the eyes of Spirit. Sometimes it seemed she might come close, when things happened around her and to her that could only happen because of spirit. But Stoner always drew back, not hearing but sensing those echoes of long ago.
Well, it was finally done. She’d faced the Beast—her personal Beast, anyway—and lived to tell it.
Hermione nodded to herself. You did well, my dear niece. Almost took me down with you, but that was my choice to make and couldn’t be helped. After all, we’ve been connected for centuries. She smiled to herself. I wouldn’t have it any other way.
She stood and went to find Grace.
“That’s it,” Mogwye said, slamming her Christian dress into a heap at the back of her closet and slipping into comfortable paisley polyester slacks. “Made a damn fool of myself, thank you very much. Next time you want something done, do it yourself.”
The cat regarded her with a superior air and said nothing.
“Of all the humiliating little bits of theater...” She stormed through the curtain door to the kitchen, opened a drawer, fished around in it, and banged the can opener down on the table. “You will never, ever volunteer my services without my permission again. Get it? Never. No volunteering. Not me.”
The cat glanced up at her, yawned, and curled up in the potato bin to wait for his dinner.
“That’s the last time I’ll let you talk me into something like this.”
She chopped furiously at the canned cat food, mixing it with crunchy and a touch of chicken.
“It was a nightmare.”
“You’re in a bad mood because you lost.” He rotated his head, stretching the kinks out of his neck. “You should learn to chill out.”
“Naturally.” She rinsed his bowl and filled it. “All you ever do is chill out.”
He caught a fly, impaled it on a claw, and watched it writhe. Humans, he thought. First they decide to do with only two feet, now they want to live with only half a brain. He crunched down on the fly. Tasty little morsel. He stroked his whiskers. It gave him a distinct feeling of satisfaction to know he’d tricked old Mogwye again. She called herself a witch! Her idea of a witch was about as deep as one of those kids who dressed as a witch for Hallow’een. As much understanding of spirituality as a frog. A couple of two-bit tricks and a touch of conjuring... He could have shown her a few things, back in the burning times. There were real witches then. But now... Amateur night.
He yawned.
Maybe it’s time to move on, he thought. Could erode the self-esteem, living with this one. Too high a price to pay for her cooking, which is what the attraction had been in the first place. That and the supply of chipmunks and mice you could find at the edge of a woods. And she was dangerous, too. Calling up those Aknobes, the little ebony ghosts. They were serious troublemakers. Did she think you could stuff them back in the oven like undone cookies? Problems down the line with them, for sure.
“I know I could have stopped her,” Mogwye muttered. “If they hadn’t found out about the reading glasses. If they hadn’t brought in that High Priestess. I ask you, how fair is that?”
“Not fair at all,” the cat agreed. “You should ask for a rematch.”
Great Saint Joan, the woman didn’t even know what the whole thing had been about! That the venture had been a success. Didn’t even remember the Siyamtiwa Spirit had handed out the assignments. Definitely time to start looking for new living arrangements.
Mogwye sighed. “Your dinner, your Highness. Now, get out of the potatoes, if you please.” She put the bowl down.
Maybe Hermione. Now there was a witch you could be proud of. Keeps classy company, too. Wonder if she’s in the market for a pet?
His tail twitched. He arose in a World Class display of dignity. “Wouldn’t advise you to go back to the coven,” he said, chuckling a little to himself. “Bound to be feelings. Messed with a sister. You know how they are.”
She looked out the window, to where the paved-over yard met the trees. More and more, lately, she found herself dreading the twilight. Sometimes she thought she saw movement in the darkness, just at the edge of the forest. As if bits of night were darting, and crouching... “I don’t need the damn coven.”
“True,” said the cat. He licked daintily at a morsel of food. “You’ll always have me,” he lied.
“Last call for coffee,” Gwen said, coming out onto the darkened back porch and letting the screen door slam behind her. “Kitchen’s closing.”
“Thanks.” Stoner reached for the mug.
Gwen sat beside her on the glider and joined her moon watching. “It’s been quite a day.”
“Sure has. How does Aunt Hermione seem to you now?”
“At the moment, she and Grace are upstairs worshiping the Goddess with rituals which are none of our business. With tremendous gusto.”
Stoner grinned. “That’s my Auntie Her.”
The spring peepers were nearly gone, but the wood frogs were wide awake in the moonlight. Their insistent “clacks,” like the slapping together of pieces of wood, filled the night.
“I wonder what they’re thinking,” Gwen said. “Pop into one of those little froggy heads and check it out.”
“I don’t have to,” Stoner replied. “They’re thinking exactly the same thing Aunt Hermione’s thinking.” She took a swallow of coffee. It tasted rich and dark, and a dozen shades of brown. “How’s Marylou?”
“Still can’t get all the food out of the forks.”
“She needs a new dish brush. A real one. From a hardware store, not a super market. I’ll pick one up at Aubuchon’s in the morning.” She loved the everyday ordinariness of this moment. Except it wasn’t ordinary at all. Home was amazing. People were amazing. Hardware stores were amazing, the aisles and aisles of shiny tools invented just to make things easy were amazing. Dish brushes… rusty gliders… moonlight...
And love was so amazing she could burst.
“Do you think she’s upset? About Cutter?”
“Not in the least,” Gwen said. “She says he didn’t have that piece when she fell in love with him, so why go ballistic over it now? She’s not going to spend the rest of her life moaning because the circus left town last week when she didn’t even know it was there. She also says, and I quote, ‘We all shed a few flakes over the years.’ As if parts of your soul were nothing more than dandruff.”
And while we’re counting up miracles, let’s not forget the miracle that is Marylou. Nutty, outspoken to the point of embarrassment, sometimes irritating, and always lovable Marylou. Feet on the ground, head in the clouds, heart on her sleeve, and mind on the upcoming meal.
“I can never decide,” Stoner said, “whether Marylou isn’t playing with a full deck, or if she has a few extra cards up her s
leeve.”
Gwen nodded. “And all wild cards.”
Stoner laughed. “I think Marylou is maybe the wisest person I know.”
They were silent for a while, listening to the creak of the glider.
“Grace says Cutter’s a Go-Between,” Stoner said. “He travels between the visible and invisible worlds.”
“So does Elizabeth.”
“But she can choose when and how she goes. Cutter has to go wherever the pull’s the strongest.”
“That must be terrible.”
“Grace says it was because of the war, the things that happened to him. And his personality. He’s more sensitive than most, so it all hit him harder.”
“No wonder he’s kind of reclusive,” Gwen said. “It’d be like walking around without skin.”
They scraped their feet across the floor, making the glider go faster. The air was cool and soft, like a caress. The sky was cobalt blue. A dark pine stood against the pale silver moonlight, showing its misty aura.
“What are you going to do with Antonia?” Gwen asked.
“I want to keep her around. But she has to be leash-trained. I think I’ll leave that to the eminent Dr. Edith Kesselbaum.”
Gwen laughed. “Poor Edith.”
Stoner shook her head. “Poor Antonia.” She looked down at the mug she’d been drinking from. “The Tetons,” she said.
“That was a different kind of journey.”
“I suspect I’ll be taking some strange journeys now. How will that be for you?”
Gwen rested her head on her lover’s shoulder. “Lead on, Tony. I’m right behind you.”
Back in his make-shift shelter of branches and cast-off monks’ robes, Cutter gazed up at the moon, past full now. The ghosts were gone. He could feel their absence.
“Yeah,” he said. “Yeah.”
