"When the boy reached beyond his teenage years, a miracle happened. A new Shaman was anointed in the village. This Shaman was a great friend of the young man's father and began to spend a lot of time with the youth. They spoke of the many attempts to heal his illness and discussed new methods that may be helpful. The young man, having spent all of his life observing and studying, began shyly to share his learning with the Shaman. The Spiritual Leader returned his trust by sharing all his own knowledge with the boy. Slowly, under the Shaman's watchful eye, the young man began to get better. Soon he was well enough to walk through the village. Then to the river. Then to the next village for the great shawl dance."
"The young man began to join with the Shaman in healing others. After several years, he was well known in the village and even in the villages beyond as a gifted healer. Even the Shaman would tell others that the young man had surpassed the teacher in his abilities. The youth was happy at last, that he had attained good health, and that he was able to help others do the same. But the Shaman could tell there was something bothering him."
"'Son,' he said—for the Shaman had begun to think of him as his own—'tell me what troubles you.' At first, the young man was reluctant to tell his mentor what was wrong, for he was so thankful to the teacher and did not want to sound petty or ungrateful. But soon he knew he had to ask the question, or it would fester inside him and ruin his new and happier life."
"'Teacher,' he finally said, 'Kitche Manitou is good above all others. I am grateful for the gift that I have been given. But when I was a boy, and even when I was a young man, I had to watch as many of our villagers died. If I had been well, perhaps I could have saved them. I could have been using my gift so much earlier. Why did Kitche Manitou strike me with illness and prevent so many of the People from being healed?'"
"The Shaman was quiet for a moment. When he spoke, he covered the young man's hand with his and looked straight into his eyes. 'But have you not seen Kitche Manitou's plan, my young friend?' he asked. 'If you had not been ill, you would not have spent all those hours studying and observing. You would not have learned from the plants and the birds and the animals. You would have been the same as all the others, learning only how to run and jump and dance and hunt. Your gift developed only because you had the opportunity to watch how the plants grew. To learn which ones healed the animals and which ones were poisonous. To see how the birds used certain leaves to make their nests and keep out their enemies.'"
"'Even more important, you would not have had the time to know yourself. You spent long hours with your inner self, understanding who you are, coming to terms with your limitations. Now you must learn to accept and use your powers. You must know that your gift for healing would not have been given to you without your past. Your present has allowed you to use the gift. In your future, you must continue to spend time observing and learning and never allow yourself to be lost in bitterness about the past. For let me say this again, without your particular past, you would not have your particular present or your particular future.'"
"The young man went on to become an old man, replacing the Shaman when he went to the other world. He never forgot the words of his mentor and friend. He never regretted his past but continued to use it for the good of the People. He became a Healer so strong and powerful that he was known by all the Ojibwa in the area."
"He told the story of his past to his children, his protégé, and anyone whom he healed. He taught the People never to become bitter about their lives, but to learn from their past experiences, and to turn them into good. And because of his teachings, the village continued to prosper and the People were as free from illness as they could expect to be."
When Agnes's voice became silent I could hear the crackling of the fire and the sound of tiny ice pellets hitting the log walls. Tears flowed down my cheeks, unchecked and irrepressible, but it wasn't from unhappiness that I wept—it was from a great release, a kind of forgiveness. A shedding of a heavy cloak that I had worn around my shoulders, one that bent me over and occupied my physical and spiritual being. I felt free and lifted by her words, by the lessons of the Shaman, especially the one sitting beside me.
Agnes turned in her chair and placed her hand on mine, looking directly into my eyes. "Let it all go, child," she said. "Learn from it. You have so much goodness. Do not be afraid to share, that who you are is because of where you have been, what you have suffered. Remember that your present is a result of that past. And so will your future be."
That afternoon, as the Ontario weather turned vicious and dumped a final winter blast of snow and ice upon Burchill, I told Agnes Lake everything. In between my tears and her gentle questions, I revealed all that had happened to me and to William, my beloved husband, my talented and tender Langford.
I told her how I longed to be closer to May and how afraid I was to tell her who we really were. Agnes cajoled the old Emily back, the one who was optimistic and open and emotional, the one who'd built walls of mistrust, who'd become just a little distant. May and the people of Burchill had begun to chip away at the wall I'd built around me. Thus my feelings of insecurity and fear had resurfaced. The shaman, though she never really gives advice directly, helped me to see a pathway through.
That afternoon, Agnes Lake set me free.
Chapter 41
On Saturday evening, the last weekend before March Break ended, the town was still buried under a foot of snow. The sun had been out all day long, glittering and sliding over the ice, but nothing seemed destined to melt for a long time. Snowploughs had been up and down the streets. People had dug out their driveways and made pathways up the sidewalks. Children and adults alike had spent all day making snow people or throwing snowballs or dragging sleds up hills and racing down again. Now, as the sun began to disappear behind the lake, most of the villagers settled in for an evening of indoor activity.
Langford had built a beautiful fire in the dining room fireplace, which stood beside the floor-to-ceiling windows, where the mounds of snow glistened outside. I had set the table with all the lovely dishes and glasses and napkins that I seldom ever use. As I stood in the doorway to gaze upon how lovely everything looked, I vowed to use the good stuff more often. The waning sun brought an amber light into the room, which made it look even more comfortable and welcoming.
We had bought plenty of bottles of our favourite wine, and as we waited for our company to arrive, we both sipped from the nectar of the gods in big, wide, made-for-red-wine glasses. Soft music played in the background and Will and I floated around the house happily contemplating playing the perfect hosts. Angel looked up now and then from the carpet in front of the fireplace, but she merely blinked at us, seeming to laugh at our antics, and did not move from the comfort of her warm spot.
When the doorbell rang, we were as giddy as newlyweds entertaining for the very first time. Our company came in laughing and hugging, their faces all red from the walk over, their excitement about an evening with us almost as palpable as ours. May and Alain were happy and rested. The lines had gone from my friend's face and, as she shared her aunt's continuing progress, the relief made her eyes sparkle.
Dinner was a huge success. Both Will and I had contributed to the delicious dishes that we served. Our guests were more than appreciative. Several bottles of wine disappeared, and by the time we had special coffees in our hands, whip cream dripping over the sugary edges, the laughter was loud and we all somehow found hilarity in everything.
It was only then, after a look exchanged between Will and myself, that I began. "May and Alain," I said, "we have a story to tell you about our past."
~ * ~
If you enjoyed this book, please consider writing a short review and posting it on Amazon, Goodreads and/or Barnes and Noble. Reviews are very helpful to other readers and are greatly appreciated by authors, especially me. When you post a review, drop me an email and let me know and I may feature part of it on my blog/site. Thank you. ~ Cathy
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Message from the Author
Dear reader:
Although the legend of Walking Bear is fictional, I totally enjoyed reading various Ojibwa spiritual tales in order to get the cadence and framework. I am fascinated and awed by Canadian First Nation philosophies, which probably stems from the fact that my children are part native. Not to mention the fact that my friend Sandy Duplassie’s mother was full-blooded Ojibwa. In fact, Sandy’s wife Helen told me about a newspaper article and circles around a tree, which started the whole story of Victim rolling.
Legacy (book 3) will follow Emily Taylor’s character even further. After her conversation with Agnes, and the revelation to May and Alain at the end of Victim, she is readying for retirement—only to have her entire future changed and redirected once again. While Legacy focuses on some of the other Burchill characters (and some pretty fascinating new ones), Emily’s life is directly impacted by their actions and journeys.
You’ll have to wait until Seventh Fire (book 4) to learn the full story of Langford’s dark past, though.
Cathy
LEGACY
An Emily Taylor Mystery
Catherine Astolfo
This book is dedicated to the amazing, resilient, wonderful children who have been such a source of happiness in my life. Here's to a legacy of love and joy.
Acknowledgements
I have been extraordinarily blessed in my life, because I have a wealth of family and friends who sustain me. I haven't the space to mention all of them here, but you know who you are and what you mean to me.
Thank you to all those who reviewed, edited, and nursed Legacy through to its fruition. A special thanks to my belle-fille, Meredith Henderson, for the use of her poetry in the hypnosis stream of consciousness, borrowed from her book, Call to the Warriors Within.
Thank you to Cheryl Tardif and her team at Imajin Books for nurturing my books and supporting me through all the creative publishing and marketing mazes.
Brynstan
The old English
from which the word
Brimstone evolved.
A stone which,
when combined with fire,
gives off a noxious odour.
Brimstone
also
the name of a lovely butterfly.
Prologue
For a long time the boy knew he was only a step away from the edge. He could feel it in the pressure on his chest, the blockage in his throat, the mist before his eyes. All he had to do was give in, go forward, use the anger. Just take that one last step.
He began to spend more time alone, less time talking to anyone. Now and then he'd be sitting somewhere, at the table or his desk for instance, and realize that he had not connected with the world for long minutes or even hours. He had always been a quiet, introspective boy, so he was not surprised that no one noticed the changes inside him. But the absence of attention exacerbated the anger. One part of him wanted someone to stop him, to pull him free.
Whenever anyone did pick up on his mood, though, he wanted to lash out. It seemed that anger was all there was left. He was holding still, waiting for the nerve to act.
Instead he would go into his room and pick the flies off the screen, stuck there in the heat. He would slowly pull their wings off, or squish them between his fingers, or just let them suffocate in his palm. Sometimes he would force himself out of the house in search of other insects or small animals to punish. In the brush and trees surrounding the backyard, he would trap ants, mice and once, a cat. He realized that this was a kind of training ground. He was getting his body and his mind ready for the stepping off.
Unheeded, those around him continued to press him, move him along the continuum. They gave him no choice. The anger and the pressure kept building.
On the day that he decided to act, he locked eyes with his brother. In that precise moment, he knew that he could do it. He stood up, retrieved the weapon from the back room and held it steadily in his arms. Then he stepped forward, deliberately, in the knowledge that once he moved over that edge, their universe would be altered forever. He felt something shift inside.
He lifted the gun and fired.
Chapter 1: Doro
Countless rains had pitted and gouged the road into furrows. She stopped the car and began to walk. The silence was oppressive. She moved unsteadily around the potholes, stones rubbing against her heels. Perspiration seeped through her pant legs.
The spring sun was relentless and hot here in the open space. There were no leaves yet to block the rays and she was hatless. Her legs were short and sturdy and she was used to physical exercise, but her heart was already struggling with the fear. She kept looking from side to side and behind her, causing her to stumble again and again, but she could not control the emotions that welled up inside her.
Although many of the surrounding fields had been swallowed up by subdivisions, this area was different. It sat fallow and neglected. Weeds had choked away most of the grass. Trees, stuck in the dry clay, were bent and leafless. The eerie quiet sounded more like death than insects or animals waiting breathless with fear of an encroaching human.
It lay just beyond the next rise. Slowed and cowed by dread, yet propelled by an anguished curiosity, she pushed on. With an abrupt, lurching shock, she realized suddenly that she was at her destination. She swayed on her feet, the rubble spread out below her. For a moment she could only stare, listening to her pounding heart, her laboured breathing, the sudden buzz of a few awakening insects. The abrupt whine of a mosquito by her ear propelled her down the hill.
The house had crawled back into the earth. Faint outlines of disintegrating brick, decayed wood and unformed detritus mixed with spindles of weed and flower. Only memory could resurrect the structure. The building had collapsed in on itself and crumbled into the ground.
Bits of rock and debris crunched under her feet. The sound was at once terrifying and liberating. Her legs weakened unexpectedly and she sat heavily on a jagged rock, the edges digging into her thighs.
She looked around, as if she were being watched. She kicked at the stones. Frightened but determined to be courageous. Suddenly she bent right over, her face nearly touching the ground, and began to dig ferociously like a dog in the soot. Searching, testing. She threw bits of broken glass, ceramic, wilted plastic and rotting wood above her and behind her, faster and harder, her rage causing the fragments to wheel in the air and land in the brush.
A cloud of dust and destruction made her cough and she went down on all fours for a moment, chest heaving, her breath gradually slowing back to normal, forcing the rage from her face, her hands. Finally, she sat again, her heart pounding with shame and release, her face red with exertion and the probing sun. She felt ridiculous, as though she had become an angry child again.
The charred, acrid smell of the uncovered wood and rubble threatened to force vomit from her throat. She swallowed it back and turned toward the forest in the distance, as if she could gulp in cleaner air. She thought she saw something move. She sat still for a moment, listening, watching intently. Nothing appeared, but the stillness allowed her to become calm again. The nausea had all but disappeared. She tried to envision this house as it once must have been.
The memories were so vague. They moved in and out of her mind like tiny, damaged slides. Surrounded by mist, smothered in words that she could no longer decipher. Confusion, hurt, anger and fear were what she experienced when she remembered. She had never been able to straighten out the pictures, give them form and shape and logic. Yet the recollections haunted her, made her unsure and afraid in her life, though she had become adept at putting forward a tough, introspective exterior. Sometimes the anger built up until she burst in a stream of shouting and weeping, but she always ensured that she did this alone.
Now she wanted desperately to give the past some form so that she could put it in its proper context, start her life once again in a different way. She didn't want to infect her future children with a dark
and controlling past.
She looked out over the square patch that must have once been a yard. There was a faded, broken wire fence poking its thin fingers out of the jungle of weeds. She could see where a tree must have been, though everything was a twisted mass of wild plants and bush.
She discovered that the weeds traced the outline of a room. She walked around it, feeling its demise. Ants and spiders twisted in and out of the rubble. Some day it would all crawl back into the earth. She felt glad that she was seeing it now, weakened and dying, but its ruin did not give her rest. She picked up a stick and used it to make a path in the dirt. She slashed at the broken bits of glass, sending them flying into the air. It felt good to be part of this destruction, but she wanted more. She needed answers, she needed definition.
Stunted and charred, a section of chimney still stood, struggling for survival. She walked over to it and kicked at one of the bricks. Crumbling, it sagged a little more. A large mound of soot became indistinguishable from the earth as she kicked it savagely. She wondered if this was the way their bodies looked now.
Mother. Father. The words were hollow. They had no meaning. They had left her no legacy.
The rubble lay harmlessly at her feet. Nothing jumped out at her. Nothing possessed her. She patted her slightly swollen belly and breathed deeply. A feeling of power and with it a touch of the freedom she sought surged through her.
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