by Oakes, Tara
“If a person is reborn, whether through magic, or reincarnation like many old religions believe, they are missing that essence. But, it calls to them, lures them, begging to connect, to be whole.” He stops a moment and sighs.
“I found my essence.” Will continues. The place where Malcolm did what he did to ensure my rebirth. I found my stain…and when I did, I remembered everything. Liza found her stain, she remembers. When you find yours, your essence will be one with you again and you’ll remember. You’ll remember everything. Our love, your power, you’ll remember it all.”
The mention of Liza in this is just too much.“What does Liza have to do with all of this?”
“She’s Malcolm’s daughter. The witch’s daughter. Your sister…she’s Elizabeth. I didn’t know she’d be here. When I went to sleep, she was still there, in 1692. But she found me, here, two years ago. She told me she had uncovered the truth about Marcelle, about you…that she needed to ensure you two would be joined with your essence so you could move on.”
This is all too much.
“Wait. Marcelle’s here, too? Where?”
“I don’t know. She hasn’t been back here, not that I know of. Not that Liza knows.”
I sit in silence. He has an answer for everything.
“Say something,”he begs.
The early morning light begins to filter through the darkness as the sun rises in the east.
“I don’t know what to say. I mean, that’s a lot to take in. What am I supposed to say?”
“I can show you. The old hanging tree. The place where your essence was ripped from you. I can take you there. You can find your stain and know I’m right. We can be together again.”He attempts to earn my acceptance of his story.
Everything that I’ve seen, that I’ve heard, felt, dreamed these last few days is colliding. How can his story have been planned so perfectly to match with my dreams, my nightmares, Mamia Magda! The skeptic in me believes the most plausible explanation. He’s a grieving widower, desperate to reclaim his wife in some way.
But his eyes…his smile. I look into both of these as my eyes adjust to the growing dawn. He believes this. With every fiber of his being, he believes this. I know it’s crazy, dangerous even, but I want to believe him.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
“What do you mean you’re going to spend the day with him again?”Nina whines from her perch atop of the sturdy wooden bureau.
“I promised I’d go somewhere with him.”I towel dry my damp hair as I feel the guilt from knowing I’m disappointing them.
Court rummages through the suitcase lying open on the nearby table.
“How did he like the waxing? Or more importantly, how did you like how heliked the waxing?” She selects a cream-colored peasant style cropped blouse and holds it out for her inspection.“He’s her first Nina. She’s gonna take every moment she can with him. Hell, you did the same thing when you lost your v-card.”
“I’m not blowing you guys off,” I argue.
Court laughs as she hands me the outfit she’s chosen. “Please tell me you’re blowing something, Leah.”
They both laugh at my expense. I grab the shirt and throw it on.
“It’s more important than just a booty call. I don’t know if I can see him after today. He’s got some serious issues, I think.”
“Don’t we all?” Nina jumps down from her elevated seat, turning to stop briefly in front of the mirror to wipe at her recently applied makeup.
That’s a good question. Don’t we all. Aren’t we all a little screwed up? Don’t we all have a touch of madness that shapes us? I have my dreams, my nightmares. Will claims them to be memories. I don’t know what to believe anymore.
He claims he can prove it to me, can find a way to make me remember. I don’t know what I want. If what he says is true, then there’s a reason for everything, an explanation. A destiny that we’re fulfilling.
If he’s wrong, then I know I cannot torture him by pretending. I’ll have to move on, even though I know that will most likely wreck me.
How can this be? I’ve known him less than a week and the thought of being without him makes me want to curl up and disappear. Maybe that means something. Maybe 300 years was long enough to be without him.
~*~
The streets are lined with tourists, buzzing in and out of the local shops. The magic shops, the souvenir stands, the attractions… they’re all busy with happy customers making purchases.
We’ve been walking for at least twenty minutes, weaving our way through the growing crowd. The sexual attraction sizzles between the two of us. With every step we take, the sway of our walking bodies, the possibility of accidentally touching sends a thrill through me. His loose fingers dangle, twitching. Mine are pin still, anxiety coursing through them. Oh God! I clench my lips together.
A street artist has his easel set up, palette of colored paints displayed on a round wooden board in hand.
“Come on,” Will grabs my hand and leads.
The man sees potential customers approaching and begins his sales pitch.“Ten dollars, folks. For just ten dollars I’ll paint the picture in your mind.”
I look to Will, rolling my eyes. I thought I’d seen everything, but leave it to Salem to have a psychic artist.
“Here!” Will calls to him to reserve the next picture before another of the curious bystanders jumps in.
He works the worn leather of his wallet to expose the inner heap of bills. He hands a few to the man.
“For my lady. Paint her picture, please.” He smiles to me as he procures my artwork.
I gaze at him as he laughs behind his eyes at successfully putting me on the spot. The street entertainer safely secures his profit into a small tackle box under his seat and sets to work, retrieving a wood handled paintbrush from a nearby container of cloudy water.
He wiggles the long brush, cleaning off any residual paint.
“Let’s see.”The man sets his eyes on me. “Hmm. I see many things. Some dark, imposing. Some old. But none of those are it.”
He dips his brush in some blue paint and begins to set his mark on the paper before him. It occurs to me that he’ll paint one of the terrifying scenes that haunts me. He pauses, lifts his eyes from his creation and shakes his head at me, smiling, before furiously returning to his project.
Colors begin to swirl, still a mystery to me, with no true shapes showing themselves just yet. A crowd grows, bystanders curious as to the picture of my mind. I’m growing embarrassed at the attention. This guy will probably draw some generic painting of something he thinks a girl my age would think about.
“So, what are the chances he draws a picture of me?” Will whispers in my ear, his breath tickling me.
I pinch his side. “Shh. Let the artiste work his magic.”
Several moments and about twenty more onlookers later, he sets down his art tools and declares he’s finished. The crowd behind him erupts into applause. Will and I step forward from behind the easel to witness the masterpiece.
A crisp blue sky is painted along the top of the makeshift canvas. Below that wispy cloud-filled heaven, an expansive pasture of wild flowers, brightly colored with green strokes and patches throughout.
It’s breathtaking. Every single stem seems to stand out among the sea of blossoms. I turn to the artist as he begins to clean up.
“Thank you so much. I love it. It’s absolutely beautiful. What is it?” I’m truly in awe of his talents.
The man presses on the clips on each side of his easel, releasing the painting. “It’s the scene in your mind that begged most to be freed. There were others, as you know. But, this one is special.”
“It is?” I take the painting he offers to me, wondering if he is somehow connected to Will. Some acquaintance perhaps that was given a prearranged assignment to paint.
“It is.” Will answers my question.
The next customer steps forth to hire the street artist. Attention has been transferred to him, and I pass
the torch, gracefully stepping down from the center of attention.
“Thank you. I love it.” I hold the wet piece of art carefully as not to smudge the drying paint. “Is this what I think it is?” I ask Will.
He smiles that beautifully radiant smile that takes over the moment and becomes the focus of my attention. It’s not just that it’s breathtakingly handsome… it’s that it’s somehow completely genuine. Honest. Trustworthy.
He nods his head, the smile never wavering. “It is.” He leans in and presses his mouth to my the corner of my forehead, his lips idly resting on the skin easiest for him to reach as we walk side-by-side down the cobblestone street.
We’re near the water, I can feel it somehow. This small city is by no means big and I’ve been here a few days now, so I’ve gathered some sense of direction when it comes to the winding streets and buildings, though I’ve never been in this part. Every fiber of my being tells me that I’m near the water, even if I can’t see the blue from over the shops blocking my view.
I can feel the weight of the tide pulling, the salt from the air flowing in with each passing gust of wind. I close my eyes and breathe it in. I’d grown up by the water back home in Maryland, but this feels different. It relaxes me. It calms me. It brings peace to my thoughts.
“Will… I know according to you, this place is from all those years ago, but-- is it still here? Does it still exist or has it been ruined?”
Surprisingly, I’m afraid to know the answer. I have no connection to this field of flowers other than what I’ve been told, but the fleeting thought of it being lost is almost painful to me in a way.
He guides us through a small alleyway. “It is. Some developers tried to snatch it up a few decades ago but the water table is too high. It would have made building on it a nightmare.”
The short hallway between two buildings lets us out into a parking area that sits centered in the main shopping district. Many cars fill the spaces, but I notice Will’s from where we had left it earlier.
He presses the button on his black key fob control and the doors unlock. He helps me up into the cab, taking the damp canvas from me and securing it in the back seat. In the silence of the truck, before he’s made his way to his side of the truck, I begin to wonder about the field. Could it look like the artist’s rendition? Was that how it looked 300 years ago? Would it look different today?
“Ready?”he asks. “I’ve stalled long enough, wanting to give you time to see this place some more before everything changes. I don’t think you’ll quite look at all this the same after….”
He starts the engine, rolling us in reverse from the parked spot.
His words ring true. I definitely won’t be looking at this place the same. It’s impossible, whatever the outcome. Either it will be the onetime home that betrayed me and ended what should have been only the beginning of a long and happy life with the man I loved, or it will be the cruelest place in my memories where I had finally met the person who I feel in my gut I was meant to meet. Only to have him stuck in a place in his life in which he cannot move forward, a wife he can’t move on from.
“Wait,” my objection surprises us both. “The field. Show me the field first.”
His surprised eyes wonder at my request.
“I want to see it as if I were looking at it for the first time. With an untainted preconception of what it is.” The truck has stopped. “Please,”I plead with him.
Am I the one stalling now? Is this my way of putting off the inevitable?
“Please,” I ask again.
~*~
“It’s this far out of town?” I ask.
He makes a smooth turn of the wheel, changing our course.
“The old town limits were different than today,” he explains. “There were farms then. Homesteads. Sometimes it would take the better part of a morning to walk from one to the next.”
“How did we find it back then?” I picture two star-crossed lovers meeting in their secret place.
He seems to like my interest in the past, in what’s possibly our past.
“Marcelle’s cottage, your cottage, was just outside Salem’s limits. When a trip into town would need to be made for supplies, schooling… the easiest way was to cut through the Richter’s land and then through the back wood and field to get to the main road.”
He doesn’t even hesitate before answering. No time to piece together his information. He just speaks it, reveals it, as if he’s recalling some long forgotten fact.
I look up into the sky through the car window next to me. It’s beautiful, clear, crisp. Almost exactly like the scene on paper in the back seat.
The truck rolls to a gentle stop, with Will shifting the gear and letting the truck idle before removing his key from the ignition.
“We’re here.”
I swallow hard and exhale deep. Here goes. I pull on the door latch and exit the truck, stepping foot onto grassy soil that’s soft underfoot. I close the door behind me but hear no other door. Looking over my shoulder, I see Will through the windshield. He’s watching but doesn’t follow. He nods to me, though, showing it’s all right.
I press forward, extending my hand to push at some overgrown branches in my path. Old dried leaves from last year’s autumn litter the land among the trees and shrubs. Sunlight casts its rays through the large oaks and willows from above, shining in streaks through the breaks in leaves up high.
The golden rays glisten, almost lighting my path, casting brightly and shadowed at the same time. There is a brilliance ahead, a growing luminescence that almost blinds me. Once the last of the ancient protective trees is at my back, I shield me eyes with my hand, squinting to adjust to the sudden shimmering scene around me.
My sight takes a moment to adjust, leaving other senses to take the opportunity to search this place. I hear birds calling, tiny little insects buzzing about, zipping in and out in the distance. The wind brushes past my ear, continuing on to rustle the leaves far off.
The tiniest of baby hair covering my arms is lifted in the passing breeze. The freshness painting over me is pure, untouched by nearby contaminants thickening the delicate air.
My eyes focus and adjust to the new light shining down, radiating this place like a glowing vision. The grass is high, the blades tall and tickling at my ankles. The never-ending sea of green floats around me, vibrant and lively, offering a brilliant backdrop to the thousands of petals growing between.
Every color of the rainbow, and each shade among them, can be seen. The depth and vibrancy of each blossom and every bloom leaves me in awe. I clear my view, focusing on individual stems to see an abundance of beautiful yellow bees nourishing the flowers, working to keep the beauty of this place alive and well.
I lower my hand, bending and lengthening my fingers to touch the delicate top of the wild flowers at my side. Soft, plush, and supple cushions of beauty greet me, sharing their untouched and unspoiled richness.
My fingers dance from petal to petal, bloom to bloom, communicating with each one, expressing my gratitude for providing this rare glimpse at true elegance in its simplest form.
I close my eyes and tilt my head up, taking in the warmth from above, letting it wrap around me, engulf me. I hear the calls of each of the living things, singing in unison to be heard above the static of these times.
I move my body round and round, twirling in the natural beauty and wonder that has shown itself to me. I hear the beating of my heart loud and strong, amplified by the theater of the living earth around me. It grows louder, the even sounds echoing. There’s not just one, there are two. Two hearts beating together as one.
I open my eyes and see him walking the same path I had, making his way toward me. The strong muscles of his body flexing with each step, set in their purpose to bring him to me. Are they really bringing him to me? Or is it me that is calling to them, willing them to deliver my love to me.
His chestnut-colored eyes watch as I in turn watch him. The same breeze that pushes through my
hair from behind, snags at his shirt, molding it to his body, revealing the firm, chiseled torso beneath.
My body longs for him, aches to feel him as I had last night. The magic of this place, the holistic powers it has, fascinates me. The trivial concerns of the outside world are not measured here. The truly important things in life are revealed in this moment.
Him. Me.
That’s all that matters in this moment.
I reach forward and run the back of my hand down his cheek, expressing this sudden realization to him. He closes his eyes lightly, the lashes fluttering in the breeze. They are beautiful. Just like every cell of his body, every drop of his blood. He is beautiful to me.
I use that same hand to bring him to me. The deep breathing that grows in excitement at his presence returns, thickening the heat between us. My lips find his in the blinding light of the sun as it christens our union.
My hands find the familiar places of him I had worshipped last night. Our bodies find each other’s flesh as we work feverishly to rid each other of the offending clothing.
The grassy bed below welcomes us as he lowers me down, resting me on the cushion of wildflowers that softens my descent. The sunlight is blinding with its white flameless heat. How hedoesn’t incinerate my body with his touch is a mystery to me, for it ignites an almost incandescent inferno between our two bodies.
I summon my strength to drive our mingling limbs so that he’s now benefitting from the earthy bed we’ve made for ourselves. I kiss his neck, his chest as I straddle him, the breeze dancing in waves over my back.
Once I’ve found my way down to his most hardened pleasure, I cradle the hull of it with my lips, offering him the heat of my mouth. His body lurches, his calls joining with the natural sounds of this place.
