The White Raven

by Carrie D. Miller

  My reminiscing has moved me through several cups of coffee. Heading back to the bedroom, I coax my unruly hair into a ponytail. The only change to my appearance I’ve made in this life was to cut my waist-long hair. How freeing it felt! I’ve discovered that this age has colored contacts I could use to hide the natural amethyst of my eyes but no, I will not hide myself to be accepted by others.

  As I get ready for the day, all of my movements supervised by the animals, I can’t help but smile. This is the happiest I’ve ever been. I have been through so much pain and suffering in my previous lives, but here I feel like I’ve finally found a place where I belong and can thrive. When the recurring dread and despair that this life will end too soon creep into my mind, I pack them back down tightly. I’ve set aside all thoughts of my curse for now. I will make this a good life.

  2

  From my bedroom, I hear the front door chimes announce the arrival of customers. After less than a minute, a wave of negativity pulses through me. There is something about them that has made my skin prickle. It has nothing to do with intentions of stealing; it’s something darker.

  Looking over the balcony from the living room, with Maggie on full alert at my side, I see four teenage girls, laughing and talking loudly. Greeting them cheerfully is Sylvia, Jo’s daughter, whom I hired to help in the shop. My eyes are drawn to the brunette of the bunch. I know immediately that she is a descendant of Morris Stiles. My nails dig into the railing to quell the sudden desire to scream. Hot anger flares across my body. While her nose and chin are slightly similar to Morris’s, almost nothing else about her appearance is—but there is Stiles blood in her veins, I have no doubt. So it seems the dream last night was prophetic. To what degree it will ultimately be, I cannot imagine. The thought makes me shiver.

  I watch her walk through the shop. Sylvia is eyeing the group carefully while still being hospitable. Experience has taught her that teenagers love to shoplift.

  The girl is picking through the incense cabinet, smelling every stick and cone, making faces at items she deems smell ‘gross’ or ‘like shit.’ At that comment, I clear my throat loudly. All heads snap up in my direction. I raise an eyebrow at the girl, and she sheepishly looks away, quickly putting back the offending incense.

  She knows I am watching her so she’s politely meandering, not touching or smelling anything now. Out of curiosity, and a certain level of self-preservation, I look deeper into the girl. I sense nothing preternatural about her; she is a typical teenager for the most part. Her home life isn’t the best. She has had a hard, masculine-dominated road since her mother died when she was very young. She is thinking seriously of joining the military. She likes to shoot—hunt actually—and she wants to prove to her father that she’s tough. Military life will not serve her well. It will turn her into an apathetic person, and she will become hard and cruel—very much like Morris. She already has great prejudices but mostly towards those of a different color, thanks to her father. This girl is smart, though. She does well in school, which is not something her father cares much about. Yet another reason she would choose the military life: a smart girl wouldn’t make daddy proud. A girl who is killing people, now that is something daddy could brag about. Despite myself, I pity her.

  I will myself calm and start quietly down the stairs. Maggie is in front of me, surveying everything around her. Her heavy paws make no sound on the polished wood steps. I am sure the girl will bolt if she sees me coming, so I wait to approach when her back is turned. She’s bent over looking at the charms inside a glass case.

  “Good morning, Melissa.”

  “Oh!” She snaps up and turns quickly, stumbling on her own feet. “Shit, you scared me!”

  She glares hard at me for an instant then looks away. She swallows and adjusts her shoulder bag across her body, clutching the strap tightly. All eyes are upon us now; her friends are huddled together, whispering that she must be in trouble. Sylvia stifles a grin.

  Smiling, I extend my hand. “Welcome to Dovenelle’s. I’m Aven Dovenelle.”

  She takes my hand warily. As my fingers wrap around her hand, I invoke a sense of calm in her. She relaxes and her squared shoulders soften. I release her hand.

  “I’d like to do a reading for you, Melissa. On the house, of course, no catch.”

  She’s not noticed that I’ve closed the distance between us. I am beside her now with a hand on her shoulder. She looks up at me and blinks away her confusion.

  “How do you know my name?”

  “Because I’m a witch,” I say with a wink.

  Her eyes widen as though she’s just deemed me a crazy person, and she starts to pull away. I laugh lightly and take her hand.

  I turn back to her friends. “Girls, while you wait, Sylvia can make you some lovely apple cinnamon tea if you’d like.” They decline my offer with giggles. I look down at the apprehensive girl who has stiffened under the laughing eyes of her friends. “Ready?”

  “Um, I guess,” she says. “This isn’t going to cost me, right?”

  “Not a penny. You remind me of someone.” I look at her kindly. “You don’t have to if you don’t want to.”

  “Nah, it’s cool,” she says, lifting her chin. She looks back at her friends before turning the corner, thinking that I don’t see the eye roll she gives them.

  The short hallway to my reading room is lined with tapestries and lit by a single Tiffany-style sconce lamp. The door at the end is painted a glossy poppy red with a hand-painted wooden sign within a large wreath made of dried herbs and flowers that reads “Dare to enter?” I flip the sign over to the side reading “Silence! Witch at work.” I give Melissa another wink. Her answering smile is more mollifying than genuine.

  The door opens without my touch.

  “Nice trick,” she says. I extend my hand to invite her forward.

  She stops momentarily to survey the room. A lengthy ‘wow’ passes from her lips, which makes me smile. That is exactly the reaction I want from visitors to this room. I have it adorned with everything that makes me feel warm and comforted. The colors of autumn—dark red, amber gold, and lush green—dominate the color scheme. The bronze chandelier above holds an array of large, cream-colored candles that light with a flick of my hand. It perfectly illuminates my reading area, comprised of a settee covered in jacquard fabric for the guest and a high-back chair for me. These two are separated by a small, round table made from dark mahogany and hand-hewn with a variety of animal figures. The left side of the small room has the original fireplace, restored to its former grandeur. The mantle is home to an oil reproduction of Waterhouse’s “The Magic Circle.” I loved that painting the moment I saw it. The woman reminds me so much of myself in my early lives. The painting is flanked by two gargoyle candlesticks, carved from black walnut and polished to a shine, topped with fat pillar candles the color of ripe pumpkin. Amidst the silken greenery draped across the mantle is a large raven statue made of iron and stippled with white paint. The right side of the room is dominated by a massive object on the wall, taller than it is wide, that is draped with thick black velvet.

  “What’s behind that?” Melissa reaches out to touch the cloth.

  “Don’t!”

  “Okay, okay. Geez!”

  I motion for her to take a seat on the settee. She ignores my gesture and continues to tour the room. I purse my lips and clasp my hands in front of me. With flared nostrils, I take in a calming breath.

  She eyes each item on the fireplace mantle. I think she is stalling more than interested in the decor. She barely glances at the painting. Her hand reaches for the raven. I clear my throat and her hand drops.

  “This is cool,” she says, cocking her head to the side. “Looks a lot like the bird I saw out front before we came in.”

  My mouth falls open, but I snap it closed. The white raven shows himself to everyone but me. I only know that my elusive stalker is, in fact, a white raven from the comments of others. Although I sense the presence of something, some sort
of tug at the edge of my mind, I cannot see the source of it. When I look in its direction, I see only the movement of what it disturbed as it flew away and hear the beating of wings or what I perceive as a cry of grievance. On a few rare occasions, only when I am near death it seems, I have seen a glimpse of wing.

  I pull myself from this old irritation to deal with the current one.

  “Have a seat, Melissa.” My tone does not invite any more dawdling.

  As I pass by the fireplace, a small fire softly bursts to life. At this time of year, the warmth isn’t necessary, but I like the look of it. This room should always have a fire. Melissa, wide-eyed again, quickly hides her surprise behind a sardonic expression.

  “Yes, Melissa, I am a real witch.” I sit down in my chair and lean back, crossing my legs. “Although I don’t match the stereotype you’re used to—pointy black hat, flowing robe, gothic makeup. My cat isn’t even black. And yes, this could just be a bunch of tricks. Someone could be controlling everything by watching us on a web cam. But I am certain that in the next few minutes, you won’t be thinking these are tricks anymore.”

  I feel her heart flutter. “There’s absolutely no reason to be afraid. I simply want to talk to you.”

  Melissa scoots back in the settee and seems unsure where to put her hands or feet.

  “How can I put you at ease, Melissa?”

  “Um,” she says, fidgeting with her purse strap again, “how about we just get on with it.” She looks away as she realizes how rudely that came out.

  “You are Melissa Jane Stiles, seventeen, born and raised in Bakersfield, California, where the majority of your extended family still lives. Your mother died when you were three. You, your father, and two brothers moved to Salem five years ago because your dad met a woman online, but that didn’t last. You are smart but you want your friends to think you are a hard-ass who doesn’t take shit from anyone. You are a favorite with many of your teachers, but you pass it off to your friends that you are playing them for good grades. We both know that is a lie; you like school and you want to learn. You put a hard exterior up because you feel you have to. Your father doesn’t want a smart girl—he wants a tough girl.”

  Melissa’s expression changes several times during my speech and now it has gone hard. The mouth that had been open in awe snapped shut at the last mention of her father. She glares at me, her lips pursed.

  Be calm, I say to her in words that she cannot hear but that her body understands. She shudders at the new experience of her mind being invaded but takes a deep breath and turns to the fire.

  “You are a bundle of unmanageable emotions, Melissa. With your home life, that is completely understandable. If you will feel better by crying or lashing out at me, please do so.”

  Her eyes gloss over and the flames reflect upon their surface. She slides her hands under her backside.

  “Do you want me to continue?” My voice is calm.

  Still looking at the fire, she jerks her chin up.

  “You think that joining the military is the only way that your father will accept you.” Her head snaps back. I put up a hand to stop her before the cursing begins.

  “You need to know that this path will only bring you an unfortunate future. While you may gain the respect of your father, you will lose yourself. You will become someone you end up hating. You will become worse than your father ever was.”

  Tears stream down her face as she blinks at me. “How can you possibly know all this?”

  “It is in your blood. You are a Stiles and, unfortunately, the legacy of your forefathers has been perpetuated through each generation. But it can stop with you.”

  She is looking at her lap now.

  “Melissa, look at me.” After a moment, she meets my eyes.

  “I knew one of your ancestors—a great-great-grandfather named Morris Stiles. It was 1886 in Calico, California.”

  Melissa shakes her head. Her face has regained its hard façade. “Okay, with that, you lost me, lady.”

  She gets up but doesn’t go to the door. She moves to the fireplace.

  “You had me going,” she says, wagging her finger at me, “you really did!” She’s shaking her head as she grips the mantle, her shoulders quivering.

  While my first instinct is to go to her and wrap my arms around her, I’m certain this is the last thing she would want.

  “Morris was not a good man, to say the least. There is much about him I could tell you, but I will save you that. What you do need to know is that he murdered a woman for the simple reason that she was different. She used her talents to heal people, to bring about prosperity and fertile crops. Morris saw only the workings of the devil in her. At the first opportunity that presented itself, he formed a lynching party. He strung her up in front of the whole town and pulled the lever himself.” I keep my emotions from my voice.

  Both her hands are on the mantle now, and her head is slumped forward. After a few breaths, she straightens herself and turns to me. “So you think I’ll become like this Morris guy if I join the Army?”

  “Yes.”

  She nods and turns back to the fire. She presses her forehead against the mantle.

  “I know I have a dark side,” she says. “It comes out sometimes. A lot, really. I get so angry, I just don’t know what to do with it. I feel sometimes that it will eat me alive.”

  I bite my lip to contain words of comfort and wait for her to continue.

  “You are freakishly right on, though,” she says after a snort. “While this is all totally ridiculous, my gut says different.” She looks back at me. “And I believe you about that Morris guy. Don’t ask me why, though. It all sounds fucking crazy.” She winces at me after cursing, apologizing with her eyes. I give her a smile.

  She comes back to the settee and sits down heavily. “What else?”

  The smart Melissa has won against the angry Melissa. I weigh what information she absolutely needs to know.

  “What I’ve told you is enough. You feel all this in your gut, as you said, but it goes deeper than that. You have been struggling inside yourself for quite some time. Personally, I feel that you should exploit your intelligence and get a degree in some sort of biology. You like that icky stuff.” She giggles.

  “You don’t need to prove yourself to anyone. Anyone. You are the one who leads this life. Make it your own.”

  I stand up and she follows. Moving around the small table, I extend my arms in offer of a hug. Without hesitation, she steps forward. I sense that this move surprises her, but she hugs me back firmly. I wonder when she was last hugged.

  After almost a full minute, I release her and put my hands on her shoulders. “I have a couple of books I’d like to give you.” Her face lights up but falls as her eyes dart to the door.

  “Stop worrying so much about what your friends think of you. Be who you want to be. If after seeing the real person they are still your friends, then they are keepers.” She smiles and hugs me again.

  I pull several books from the library shelves, and she quickly stuffs them into her bag. As she and her friends leave the shop, Sylvia leans over the counter and stares at me as I watch them walk away through the bay window. The wide-eyed girls surround Melissa once they reach the sidewalk and seem to be peppering her with questions. Melissa’s chin is high as she responds to her friends, and pulls the books from her bag.

  “Why are you staring at me, Sylvia?”

  “Ugh.” She snorts and comes to join me at the window. “I am always dying to know what goes on in that room, but I know you’ll never tell. That kills me!” She throws her head back in mock desperation. I snort at her.

  “But I totally felt a major difference in her energy when she came down the hallway. Good work, witch lady.” She bumps me with her hip. Maggie comes to my side, curious as to what we are looking at.

  “When’s your mom back?”

  “End of the week,” she says, reaching down to ruffle Maggie’s great mane. The dog jukes away with a light woof,
landing in a play stance, tail wagging. Sylvia giggles at the goofy dog.

  “You know,” she says, scrutinizing Maggie now, hands on hips, “I don’t think she’s ever let me pet her.”

  “She’s more of a romper than a lover.” I give the big dog a wink.

  3

  The UPS delivery man is bringing in the last of the inventory. The smells coming from the stacks piled in the shop’s kitchen are heavenly. A mixture of lemongrass, cinnamon, clove, sweet orange, and so many others. The boxes are filled with soaps, hair care products, and perfumes—all handmade by a small family company in the Northwest.

  From across the street, I sense my good friend coming. My good friend. My smile is no longer for this delivery but for the fact that I finally have a friend—a true, real friend.

  I hear the greeting between the delivery man and Jo as they meet on the porch. Jo offers to help the skinny man with the boxes, implying that there’s no way he could possibly lug all of them since his wife is obviously not feeding him. He rolls the loaded hand truck into the kitchen, extolling the merits of his wife’s cooking. Jo and I lock eyes, and she pretends to grab his butt when he passes her. I tut at her and shake my head. He’s quick to make his escape.

  Jo inhales deeply. “Oh, my Goddess, this room smells fantastic!” She picks through the boxes, inspecting each label and sniffing.

  “How’s your mom? What did the doctor say?” I ask, handing her a box cutter.

  Jo’s chipper mood vanishes. She sets the box cutter down and falls into the nearest chair with a despondent sigh.