Healer's Magic

by Teagan Kearney

  Chapter Nine: Calling Back the Dead

  Tatya woke late.

  After the ill-fated attempt to locate Angelus, she'd blacked out. When she regained consciousness, her head rested against a solid chest, protective arms were wrapped around her and she felt safe. She'd nestled in, the arms squeezed more tightly. Then she realized the absence of a heartbeat. She tried to jerk away, but Vanse shushed her, picked her up as if she were a child, ignored her protests and carried her out of the hospital. Sean had driven the Ford home, while she slumped against Vanse, swaddled in a hospital blanket.

  She tossed the bedclothes back; someone had removed her shoes, but she was fully clothed and still wearing yesterday's outfit. Thank goodness! Okay, she thought, maybe she shouldn't give him such a hard time. Perhaps he was a gentleman. He appeared to be on her side; he'd come to her rescue yet again.

  She showered, dressed, and chose a pastel pink, cashmere-blend sweater, a Christmas present from Aunt Lil and one of her best. She studied herself in the mirror; medium height, a slender build, and brown curly hair that shone with red highlights. Aunt Lil had always insisted she was beautiful, but the insults–rubber lips, weirdo eyes, stick girl–that started when she had moved to Orleton Elementary, had found a vulnerable target. She'd stood out among the Scandinavian and Germanic descendants of settlers with her almond-shaped eyes, full lips, and pale gold skin. Neither had she blended with the local Native American population.

  Rummaging in the depths of her drawer, she dug out a small makeup bag and applied the barest touches of eyeshadow, blush, and lipgloss. Yes, the result pleased her, and anyway, she was doing this for herself. Not for anyone else. Certainly not for a blood sucking vampire, even if the one in question appeared benign. The smell of coffee wafting up the stairs got her moving. Sean. She smiled and shrugged off the shadows from last night.

  Sean added sugar to her cappuccino, stirred it, and handed her the cup. By the amount of weeding he'd done on the final herb bed, either he'd worked through the night, or his vamp powers had amped up his strength and speed to a phenomenal degree. "Vanse isn't here."

  "So?" She feigned nonchalance.

  "Okay, okay." He raised his hands in a surrendering motion, but the grin on his face said he wouldn't let this go soon. "He left more guards."

  She glanced out the window as a vamp strolled past. Somehow that pleased her.

  "Oh, and Changing Sky left a message." He rubbed his ear as if it hurt.

  "You spoke to him?"

  "Yeah. Sorry. I answered the phone out of habit. Wish I hadn't. Even his voice is caustic to vamps' ears." He massaged his ear more.

  "The message?"

  "He's coming over this afternoon."

  "That's it?"

  "Yeah, you know how Changing Sky is. He should have been called Cryptic Speaker, or Minimal Words or something."

  "Thanks, bro."

  "No problem."

  She sipped the coffee. "Damn, I missed your coffee!"

  They grinned at each other.

  The first time she set eyes on Vanse, she'd been visiting a patient undergoing chemotherapy who’d requested her healing skills to ease its devastating effects. The instant Vanse walked into the room, she felt the heaviness of his intent and looked up to find him staring at her. He smiled a mournful smile, and left. She paid no attention to him. After her parents' deaths, her hatred of vamps left her untouched by what many found to be their magnetic attraction.

  Yet after Vanse rescued her, when her bond to him had been open, she'd picked up one thing. He'd turned Sean because he understood, even before giving her his blood, that she loved Sean. How many days ago was that? A few, but it seemed a lifetime.

  "I thought I'd lost you, Sean."

  "I'm the same person."

  "Yeah, right! The Sean I knew would never be weeding before noon!"

  "Okay, so I've got a few bonus features. Think of me as the upgraded version. I'm stronger, I can work for longer."

  "You need human blood to survive."

  "Wow. Thanks. That pretty much kills this conversation."

  "I need more time, Sean." Sometimes her smart-mouthed remarks hit too close to home.

  "I'll finish up that last patch," he said, turning as he reached the door. "But you know everything has its price, don't you, Tat?"

  As she entered the hospital after lunch, the atmosphere was quiet; no signs of any undue etheric disturbances. The normal routine was re-established. The sight of vamp guards outside her aunt's room, and at both ends of the corridor, was reassuring.

  Aunt Lil seemed chipper, her aura clear of any murky tinges. Even her cheeks had recovered their rosiness. Doctor Mellior dropped in long enough to speak with Tatya. The prognosis was good. They still hadn't diagnosed the cause, but her aunt was improving. In a few days, she'd be home. The hospital just wanted to make sure she didn't have another relapse.

  Vanse was nowhere to be seen. She disregarded the odd sensation of disappointment, telling herself she was glad she didn't have to deal with his arrogance.

  On the way home, she stopped at the local store to pick up a couple of packets of Changing Sky's favorite cookies. He loved chocolate Oreos. If she ignored the vamp escort, she could pretend life was normal, and she was just driving home on a gorgeous autumn day: brilliant blue sky, russet gold leaves sparkling in the sunlight.

  As she pulled into her driveway, Changing Sky's beat-up truck roared toward her. The shifter she'd seen out on the rez the other day was driving. As they passed each other she nodded at him, but he returned her acknowledgment with a hostile stare. She'd known two shifters in her year at college and found them friendly, but they mostly kept their own company. This one seemed to hate her on sight.

  Changing Sky was seated on the veranda, and there wasn't a sign of the vamp home protection squad, even though their car remained parked in her driveway. She smiled as she walked toward him. His presence scared them. Native American shamans had never forgotten how to deal with vampires.

  "I don't like the company you keep these days," Changing Sky told her, his expression stern.

  "I didn't invite them here, but..." she trailed off, touching her neck. No visible mark remained where Angelus's fangs had pierced her flesh, but the memory of the suffering he'd inflicted hadn't diminished.

  "They're an abomination," he shrugged, "but sometimes a workman has to take advantage of whatever tool is at hand. There are worse things."

  They drank sage tea and ate Oreos in the kitchen. The vamps stayed well out of sight.

  "How is your aunt doing?"

  Tatya filled him in on Aunt Lil's progress.

  "I wish to speak with Dawn Crow Flies."

  "Now? Here?" Calling back the Dead was a solemn undertaking when the person you were calling had been a shaman of immense power.

  Changing Sky nodded. "I will also place more protection around the house for you."

  "Thank you." She meant it. With Aunt Lil in the hospital and Sean turned, Changing Sky remained one constant in her life. Corwin was another. "I don't know what I’d do without you."

  Changing Sky unpacked his bag, handing her two sage bracelets for her wrists, and slipping two over his own. Tatya had assisted Changing Sky in many of his rituals. She would never be his tribe's shaman, but he trained her as he did his other pupils.

  Tatya opened the windows, not much, but enough to air the room, then pushed the couch, armchairs and coffee table to the sides, leaving the center empty.

  "Bring your drum," Changing Sky instructed.

  Tatya scooted out and returned in seconds. While Changing Sky unpacked his paraphernalia, Tatya lit bundles of dried sage, dowsing the flames before smudging both herself and Changing Sky. She then moved around the room, and waved the smoke upward, dispersing any negative energy. The smoke wafted out of the windows and curled lazily across the driveway before dispelling.

  Changing Sky passed her the cedar incense, and she repeated her actions, this time ushering in and welcoming auspi
cious influences.

  "You must keep the drum going, no matter what," he instructed.

  Tatya nodded. "I understand."

  When a shaman traveled to the land of the ancestors, the rhythm of the drum anchored his spirit to his physical body. Otherwise, even for one as knowledgeable and proficient as Changing Sky, the return might be difficult. Satisfied with the arrangements, Changing Sky positioned himself in the middle of the room, and donned his ceremonial face mask.

  Tatya sat opposite him, and beat her small drum in a slow steady rhythm with the flat of her hand.

  A faint, grayish-white mist manifested, thickening as it swirled around Changing Sky before consolidating into an old, bent figure.

  Tatya never faltered, although it became harder to ignore the ache beginning in her muscles, she continued to drum the hypnotic rhythm.

  Changing Sky's chant ceased as he concentrated on the spirit form of an ancient shaman. The spirit leaned forward and talked to Changing Sky, but she couldn't hear the words they exchanged. The spirit was agitated and Changing Sky listened with his head bowed. Then, between one breath and the next, the ancestral spirit vanished. Changing Sky sat down, crossing his legs and closing his eyes.

  She knew he'd let her know when to stop, and she sustained the beat, ignoring the increasing burn in her arms. As she watched, several whirling shapes appeared.

  The growing twirling forms were mesmerizing as they revealed subtle features. Changing Sky remained, eyes shut, without moving, a living statue who displayed no acknowledgment of their presence in any way.

  Tatya wondered if he even realized they were there. Were they benign? She had no way of telling.

  The three forms became more distinct; two were bigger and more powerfully built; one was more delicately formed. One female and two males.

  Tatya slowed the beat. The spinning figures slackened their pace until they matched hers. She increased the beat, and the speed of their movements intensified. Slowing the tempo virtually to a stop, she shuffled closer, so she could touch Changing Sky. She was aware physical contact with someone on a spirit journey was dangerous as the shock might break the psychic link, leaving them to wander on the spirit plane, while below their bodies became empty vessels. If the soul was stranded, while the body remained open, it became susceptible to occupation by undesirable beings.

  Changing Sky sat completely still. Worried, she inched even closer. Stretching her left hand, while keeping the rhythm steady with her right, she tried to touch Changing Sky, but it was as if an invisible barrier had been erected. She reached out again, but something prevented her from touching the shaman.

  As if sensing her intent, the three dervishes whirled faster, ignoring the slowing beat of the drum. Their forms extended till they merged into one swirling band of white and silver, encircling Changing Sky's head. Tatya watched, helpless to halt the scene taking place in front of her, and not daring to break his link to the spirit plane. Stabbing pains shot up and down the muscles in her arms, and her hands were numb. Using her power was out of the question. Changing Sky was journeying as a supplicant, not an antagonist.

  A hissing sound emanated from the manifestation, faint at first, becoming stronger till it sounded like a river in flood and she could hardly hear the drumbeat. An explosion of bright light flashed outwards and blinded her. As her eyes adjusted, the band dissolved back into three forms, and she almost stopped drumming as they separated and entered the shaman's body, the first through his ears, the second through his nose, and the third into his open mouth.

  Chapter Ten: Yfêlynys, Cymru, 60 AD

  She gripped her little brother's arm tight and pulled him along in the same way her father dragged her. They crashed through the forest as branches slapped their faces, thorn bushes scratched legs and ankles, and their lungs burned. Behind them, soldiers bellowed to each other in a foreign tongue amid the shrieks of the dying.

  Ordovices scouts sent by Caractacus had run through the village yesterday, urging the villagers to flee west and escape. The Latinum army was headed this way, slaughtering everyone in its path. The scouts had stopped long enough to grab the offered food and moved on to warn the next village. People thought they had time to gather their belongings and prepare for flight, but less than a day later, in the predawn quiet, a Latinum force attacked. The men set to guard the valley entrance were slain, and without warning, enemy soldiers charged into the village, killing men, women, and children.

  Her father tripped and the three of them crashed to the ground.

  "Not a word," he hissed at them, climbing to his feet.

  Bran sniffed. He was six years old. She was fifteen.

  The forested hills surrounding their village provided good hunting and plenty of hiding places, but the terrain was treacherous when you were running for your life off the common paths. They lay unmoving, listening to the clash of weapons and cries in the distance. Suddenly, men speaking in the Latin tongue sounded far too near. She covered Bran's mouth with her hand and tugged him close. Her father tested his injured leg. He nodded and beckoned them to follow.

  As they headed away from the voices, along a deer trail leading upward, she noticed her father limping. He halted, one finger to his mouth, and pointed to a forest clearing below where four soldiers stood. Their strident voices were loud as they argued over which direction to take.

  Her father backed away and directed them toward a huge overgrown bush. Ignoring the vicious thorns scoring his arms, he leaned in, opening the branches and pointed to the center.

  She understood. They would hide here until the soldiers left. They scuffled in on their hands and knees, wedging themselves into the tiny, darkened space.

  Her father put Bran's hand in hers, and covered them with his own. "Take care of him. Keep heading west. When you reach the coast, head north for Yfêlynys. There'll be many who will help you. The Holy Ones there will protect you." He put his finger to his lip. "Whatever happens, don't make a sound."

  She hugged her brother and refused to let the tears come, realizing Bran would follow her example. If she cried, he'd cry, and she didn't want her father's sacrifice to be in vain. Her bright green eyes never left her father as he backed out, moving the thorn branches back into place as he went until the greenery hid him from sight.

  A little while later, he shouted. The soldiers picked up his cries and started after him. She listened to his footsteps becoming fainter and covered Bran's ears as the soldiers thundered past their hiding place. Her father was fast, and had intimate knowledge of the land; he'd escape and be waiting for them when they reached Yfêlynys.

  They crossed the straits in an overcrowded coracle at low tide, along with a large crowd of refugees flooding into the Holy Isle. She kept a tight hold on Bran's hand when they walked and kept him close by her side while they ate and slept. The trust her father had placed in her meant more than anything, and she would kill anyone who tried to harm her mother's final gift.

  They squatted among families; young and old huddled together, while the people of Yfêlynys did their best. Celtic warriors took men and boys, old or big enough, to the training camps near the sea crossing. No one protested. Women helped trap smaller game like squirrel or rabbit and prepare food; girls and younger boys were sent to the woods to search for nuts and berries. Throughout the straggle of temporary shelters thrown up by the refugees, the Bandrui administered aid to the injured, helping those weakened to the point of death across the threshold.

  At the end of each day, along with husbands seeking lost wives, women lamenting missing children, and youngsters like herself and Bran who'd lost parents as they fled, they searched the endless stream of newcomers for their father. Instead, they found nothing but talk of butchery and the death of innocents.

  "He'll be here soon," she told Bran each time they returned without him. "He's just making sure it's safe."

  Bran, his cheeks hunger-pinched and his eyes huge, would nod in agreement. Everyone who fled before the oncoming army bore t
he same haunted, half-starved appearance.

  One morning, she and Bran set off for the nearby woods beyond the camp with a group of youngsters. As they foraged, they spread out, and Bran soon spotted a bush of early raspberries. Both were stuffing the delicious, tart morsels into their mouths, juice smearing their hands, when three Bandrui approached them. The leader wore her thick blonde hair in plaits, looped up in a crown around her head. The elaborate gold pin fastening her cloak and intricate embroidery at the hem and sleeves of her robe showed her high stature. The other two, both young girls, hovered a short distance away.

  She gaped at the priestess, and just in time remembered her father's admonition to respect those who had the ear of the gods and goddesses. She bowed her head and belatedly attempted to wipe the red stains from her mouth with the back of her hand as Bran hid behind her, clutching her skirt.

  "I am called Fidelma. Tell me, sister, is your family here?"

  "We are waiting for my father to arrive." She inspected the ground, not daring to look up at the woman.

  "Your brother?" Fidelma smiled at Bran, peeking out from behind her skirts.

  "Yes."

  Bran nestled closer.

  "Come with me."

  The Druid priestesses, the Bandrui, were as powerful as the priests, with each having their domain of power, and ruling their separate sacred places, whether groves or caves. The women presided over healing, herbs, worship of the Goddess, and the gift of prophecy; the men governed the rites of renewal, the mistletoe, ordering of the calendar, and the advising of kings and chieftains.

  She knew little of Druid business. Their village had been too small to boast its own priest or priestess, but there was no refusing a Bandrui command. Fidelma nodded at a younger girl, who stepped forward, picked up their fruit basket and left for the camp.

  Bran's hand was hot in hers as they plodded in silence behind the blonde priestess along a track winding upward through the woods. The second priestess trailed behind them as noises from the camp below drifted on the breeze. Birds squawked, taking flight, disturbed by the unfamiliar visitors. At last, they arrived at an open grassy area at the foot of a steep cliff.