Bowing her head, she focused her attention on the grave. It was covered in grass, like the surrounding ones, but a small rosemary seedling was rooted in the dirt in the centre, with a narrow gold ribbon tied in a bow to one of the sprigs. A wish, a talisman, a sign post for the journey ahead? She guessed that Rose had threaded it through the tiny spiky leaves, or perhaps it had been Laura, her own teacher, but much longer her mum’s close friend, confidante and fellow seeker of magic.
For a moment she felt dizzy, and her instinct to flee got even stronger, but she forced herself to focus, and so she gazed down at the vase of pretty flowers her dad must have left there recently. Shoots of ivy were starting to take hold around the headstone too, and she smiled despite herself. Nature couldn’t be slowed, or contained, let alone withheld, and that thought gave her a strange sense of comfort.
At the funeral, the priest had announced that her mum was free now, that her spirit had ascended to a better place, but all Rhiannon had cared about was that she was free of pain. Beth had fought so hard to disguise her agony in her final weeks, so they hadn’t known just how bad her illness was, or how much suffering she’d endured yet hidden from them to spare their feelings, until it was too late.
Only her mum would waste precious energy to fuel a glamour spell so her family didn’t know the extent of the cancer spreading through her body, rather than focusing on making her last weeks as least-difficult as possible. Beth had been strong and brave and selfless to the very end, and her daughter imagined she was still just as strong and brave as she had been in life, wherever she was now.
Sinking to the slightly muddy ground, she pulled her knees up close and wrapped her arms around them, seeking comfort of some kind. Comfort she was afraid she would never experience again. “Life goes on” seemed to be everyone’s go-to mantra, and she hated it. Her life had been irretrievably cracked open, pulled apart and broken down.
A line of a poem came to her. Step softly, a dream lies buried here. Smiling, she breathed in the softness of the moment, and measured the depth of her immense grief, then the size of her love for her mother. Most days the grief and anger outweighed all else, but today she was determined to let love win.
Chapter 18
A Sacred Heart
Beth... Twenty years ago...
As Beth walked slowly home from Violet’s place through the clear dark night after Rose’s witchcraft course, her friend’s words echoed in her mind. “You’re home.”
A growing sense of excitement warmed her belly, a sensation of rightness settled around her shoulders, and she felt the truth of it, deep within her. Home. But how could that be? She’d spent her whole life waiting to escape this village. Her desperation to leave had defined her. Always she had known that there was nothing here for her, that her destiny lay elsewhere, lay far away. That it was only in leaving that she would be able to find herself, to be herself.
When she moved to London the day after graduating from high school, she had been ecstatic. She found a summer job in a cafe in Chelsea, where she could spend her lunchtimes wandering in the footsteps of much-loved artists and writers, or sitting under a tree in the gorgeous Chelsea Physic Garden, where she breathed in the scent of lush herbs and pretty flowering plants before catching the train back to her cramped house-share several suburbs away.
But she didn’t mind the commute, or the close living quarters and rotating roster of flatmates, because she came alive as she sat up drinking wine with them until the early hours, or brewing coffee and making pancakes in the mornings for the more hungover amongst them. She adored meeting so many new people, going on dates, seeing bands, watching movies and experimenting with new cuisines with her friend Priya, who she’d shared a room with since she’d arrived.
Even when her course began, she stayed in the huge, tumbledown house on the outskirts of London, not caring about the noise and constant interruptions while studying, because she found great joy in the camaraderie and closeness there, after feeling so isolated and alone in her childhood home. Surrounded by almost-strangers, she managed to find herself.
On completion of her first year, she travelled to France on a whim, piling into an old kombi van with Priya and three of their most recent housemates. The guys planned to go to music festivals and live out of the van for as long as they could afford it, Priya was keen to spend one last summer with friends before she settled down with her betrothed, and Beth just wanted to see some of the world between semesters.
She fell in love with France though, and the bohemian heart it opened within her, so when the others went back to London, she stayed, putting her studies on hold and joining some colourful new friends to hitchhike around the countryside.
Enchanted, she meandered through mysterious faery forests and past mirrored lakes, and crawled into dark and ancient megalithic tombs. Captivated, she swam in the ocean believed to hold a lost civilisation beneath its surface, and danced on golden beaches under the full moon. Truly happy, she worked on farms or picked fruit in order to earn enough money to eat, or a place in a barnyard to sleep when the rains fell.
Each day she woke when she wanted to, did what she wanted to, and celebrated her freedom from her family. During late nights gathered around campfires she argued history, politics and philosophy with a shifting cast of fascinating characters, and started to define the things she believed, and the things that mattered to her.
For six months she revelled in the gypsy life she’d become so enamoured of, before the winds changed, and she headed to Paris to see La Ville-Lumière, the City of Light, and enlightenment, and look for work. And the romance and magic of the sprawling metropolis caught her up and drew her in from the moment she stepped off the train from Brittany into the midst of the leafy green city.
Despite a threatening grey sky, she set off on the long walk to the historic artist neighbourhood of Montmartre. Every street offered something new to see, and her brisk stride warmed her body as effectively as the woollen gloves she’d knitted while camping warmed her hands. She felt virtuous too, not paying for the fare, since one less metro ride meant one more coffee or crepe on her limited budget.
After wandering through the red light district and gaping at its iconic Moulin Rouge, she finally reached the merry-go-round at the base of Montmartre Hill, and was mesmerised by its bright lights and tinkling music, and enraptured by the faces of the children riding the white horses. Her gaze rose to the grassy summit above her, and with a light heart she began climbing the steep steps, smiling at the old-fashioned street lamps whose warm glow illuminated the grey day, and the ghostly tree branches that pierced through the swirling fog.
Her imagination fired up as she wandered the crooked cobblestoned streets of Montmartre, admiring the street artists as they painted in front of her, gazing in wonder at the galleries and museums, and drinking coffee in a tiny cafe.
Later, as the winter sun came out, she sat on the grassy hill with a baguette and stared up at the shining white domes of the Basilica Sacre-Coeur, built on the site where the druids of ancient Gaul had worshipped, where the Romans constructed temples to Mars and Mercury, and where a succession of Christian churches had risen and fallen and risen again.
Then she turned and looked back over Paris, thrilled by the amazing view of old stone buildings, parks, cemeteries, the shining thread of the River Seine, and the Eiffel Tower in the distance. For a moment it felt surreal, that she was here in this beautiful city, the whole of it laid out before her, ready to embrace her. The new her. The her she was becoming.
Swinging her backpack onto her shoulders, she headed down the hill, suddenly nervous that she had nowhere to sleep that night. It was the middle of winter after all, and she picked up her pace, skipping down the stairs with new purpose.
Just before she reached the merry-go-round, she heard an exasperated shout, and saw a young mum pushing a stroller and holding another child’s hand as she watched a festive red scarf being lifted on the breeze and blown away, a sense of hopeles
sness in her eyes. Beth dropped her backpack and ran after it, then returned it to the woman with a smile. The stressed-out mother looked at her with relief and gratitude and a strange sense of longing.
“Merci beaucoup, Mademoiselle, je suis tellement reconnaissant,” she said, her voice strained.
“Ce n’est rien,” Beth replied with a shrug. It had been no effort on her part, no big deal. Picking up her backpack, she was about to walk away, to try to find a place to stay for a night, or a week, or something, when the woman laid a hand on her arm.
“Excusez-moi, mais êtes-vous anglais?”
Beth smiled and nodded. It seemed her schoolgirl French and bad accent made it pretty obvious to everyone that she was English.
“Oh, thank god,” the woman said, switching languages, but still looking stressed.
“I’m Beth,” she told the stranger, holding out her hand. “Um, can I help you with something?”
For a moment, wild possibilities ran through her head, and she wondered if she should have kept quiet. What on earth could an elegant Parisian woman want with a foreign backpacker? Yet when her situation was revealed, Beth was torn between wondering if it was a con – or the answer to all her prayers. Could destiny have placed her on this hill, in this moment, for a reason?
The woman, Melisande, was stressed because her husband had left the day before on a two-week business trip to Vienna. His semi-regular travel for work usually caused no problems, but last night their nanny had needed to rush back to Nice to look after her suddenly hospitalised mother. At any other time, the busy mum could have taken a few days off work, but tomorrow she was to begin facilitating a four-day conference that she couldn’t get out of, and she didn’t know what to do.
“Last night I dreamed that I would meet a young English girl in this park, who would be able to come and stay with us for a few weeks, to look after the girls, and teach them a little English. Could it be you? Is there any chance you have worked with children before? And are you available?”
Melisande looked so hopeful, and so desperate, that Beth really wanted to help her. Was she qualified though? Or at least capable? She had begun her training to be a teacher, before she’d given it up to travel around France, but she wasn’t a nanny. And yet, she really needed a place to sleep, and here was someone practically begging her to come and stay in the family home. And be paid for it. Would it be wrong for her to accept?
“The girls are both really good, very well behaved, I promise,” the woman said, mistaking her hesitation. “And look, Joceline already likes you.”
Gazing down, she saw that the girl in the stroller, who was probably around two, was smiling up at her, with the most adorable expression on her face. Beth smiled back, and felt herself falling under the toddler’s spell. She had a mischievous sparkle in her eyes, but seemed calm and centred too.
“And this is Aveline,” the mother added, nudging the older girl forward. “She’ll be five next week, and it would be so good to have some help for that too. My husband had hoped to be home in time for the party, but alas, his work had complications.”
“Bon jour, Mademoiselle. C’est très agréable de vous rencontrer,” Aveline said, so polite, so sweet, and with such a charming accent.
“Bon jour, Aveline. Vous aussi,” Beth replied, and she really was happy to meet her too.
For a moment though, doubt clouded her mind. Could it all be a ruse, to invite her to their home and then rob her, or worse? But if that was the case, they could surely have found a wealthier-looking, and more suitable target. She had no doubt that she, and her travel-worn backpack, looked dusty and tired, and she knew her clothes could do with a good wash – as could she. She grimaced, even while recognising that she loved that her backpack was so battered from experience, and contained everything she owned, which wasn’t much at all. It gave her the amazing freedom to pick up and move on at a moment’s notice. Or, potentially, to stay.
Not understanding her silence, Melisande’s face fell. “I’m sorry, you must be busy. I cannot expect you to drop everything at a moment’s notice to come and save a stranger.”
This was true – they were complete strangers. Yet as weird as it sounded, this sweet woman seemed familiar to Beth. It felt as though she’d met her before, or dreamed of her at least. Was it a sign, that Melisande had dreamed of her? Every day of her French adventure had been about using her intuition, taking chances, letting her life and her self emerge from being placed in unlikely situations and by following the signs of destiny she came across.
No matter her qualms regarding her qualifications, or lack there of, this was a job she was born to do, a job she could do. And here was her chance. Could she really turn it down? Melisande was desperate, and the thought of being able to help her – as well as having a hot shower and sleeping in a warm bed tonight – was beyond enticing. So into the fire she leaped, grabbing the opportunity with both hands.
It was a brilliant decision. She and Melisande became great friends, and Beth adored her two young charges, who filled her days with joy, and inspired her with their curiosity about her, and the world, and life. When their dad returned, he was lovely too, and she felt really welcomed into their family. So when their nanny called to nervously ask if she could take more time off to look after her mother, Beth agreed to stay for as long as she was needed.
And she was surprised by just how easily she slipped into her new career, her new family, her new home, her new skin. How effortlessly she realised that she really was a carer, a teacher, a nurturer. Out of the shadow of her own family, she was discovering who she was, and developing confidence in her abilities, her strengths and her worthiness.
A month after she moved in, Melisande and Julius took the girls to visit their grandmother for a long weekend, and encouraged Beth to go to the music festival she’d bought a ticket for some time ago. And it was there that she met Andrew, and began her grand romance. It was there, within the circle of his arms, that she found another home, another part of herself, another piece of the puzzle that was her.
Without the job she loved in Paris, without Andrew, could she really find a home here? Could Violet be right? Until that moment tonight, sitting in Rose’s kitchen drinking tea with her friend while the priestess and her husband chatted together in the lounge room, Beth had considered herself a gypsy. Travelling around France, she’d finally felt like herself. There was a freedom she loved, freedom from her parents definitely, but also freedom from their view of her. She’d always seen herself through their eyes – small, shallow, inferior, a failure.
In a new country though, with new friends, she could reinvent herself, or reveal herself, as the person she truly was. With no one’s perceptions or misconceptions projected onto her. It was just her, cracked open and laid bare, truly herself.
But now Violet spoke of freedom right here, as she was, at home in the place she’d been born and then spent so long trying to escape from. Was it possible?
* * * * *
Up ahead of her, out of the corner of her eye, she saw something move in the shadows, and she snapped her head up, towards it, and peered into the inky blackness. A trickle of fear ran up her spine, until a sense of calm suddenly enveloped her. Puzzled, she stared harder, remembering that strange blue-robed woman she’d met once, on the walk home from her second ritual, who had suffused her with peace and wellbeing. Had she returned to soothe her heartache with magic? Or to dish out more cryptic advice?
Laughter echoed around her, and as the moon came out from behind a cloud, Beth could just discern a figure coalescing out of the swirling mists. But this woman was draped in gold, not dark blue, with a gown that could have been fashioned from fireflies or lunar beams. A golden light radiated from her, and Beth felt a wonderful warmth, and a languid air of comfort and support that weaved around her and through her.
“Beloved, of course your home is here, if you want it to be,” the woman began, and she seemed more light-hearted than that other being. There was a sweetne
ss to her voice, to her manner, even to her glittering eyes.
“Home is wherever you are able to be truly yourself. It is not a place you escape to, an adventure on foreign shores, or defining yourself through being with someone else. It is a journey to your self, a journey within. Home is where your heart is.”
Beth stared at her blankly. When Andrew wasn’t calling her ma cherie, my darling, he was referring to her as his rambling girl. He loved that she had travelled so much, that she had no ties that bound her, that her gypsy soul had found such freedom as she camped out under the stars, as she followed the old druid pathways, as she drank from sacred wells and let go of the things that weighed her down.
“Oh Beth, it was not the travelling that gave you the freedom and your new wisdom, it was your decision to stop seeing yourself through your mother’s eyes. There is no need to be the rambling girl to impress anyone else, or yourself.”
Shock spiralled through her as the gold-clad woman used Andrew’s term of affection, which was met by a laugh that swirled around her, holding her safe, keeping her warm.
“But I became more myself because I travelled,” she argued. “I could not have changed if I’d stayed here, in the shadow of my parents. I could not have been here for Jenny now if I hadn’t become a better person through my new experiences in a different city, a different country.”
The woman in gold shook her head sadly, then reached out her hand to Beth.
“Beloved, this is not about becoming someone better, someone different. It is about allowing yourself to become who you already are, who you have always been. Just beneath the warped view of yourself that you held, through your mother’s eyes, you have always been you, you have always been this so-called ‘better’ person. You have just been afraid to show your true self to others, to yourself even. You have allowed your mother to diminish you, but now it is time to stop. To take control. To be yourself, wherever you are.”
Into the Storm: Into the Storm Trilogy Book One Page 19
