The White Raven

by Carrie D. Miller

  Feeling the depression rolling off her, I sit beside her and take her hand. “Jo, what is it?”

  “It’s not good.” She doesn’t meet my eyes. “The doctor said it’s a brain tumor. And too late to really do anything about.” Tears well in her eyes and she blinks, wiping her cheeks.

  “Oh, Jo, I’m so sorry.” I take her other hand and hold them both. She inhales deeply, squeezing my hands, her shoulders quivering.

  “Well, it is what it is, as they say. Stupid saying.” She seems to search for words, and I don’t prod her. She and Matilda are so close; I know how much this must hurt Jo.

  “Anyway,” she exhales, straightening her shoulders and gently pulling her hands from mine, “she’s as ornery as ever.”

  “That’s a good thing.”

  “Tell me. She’s not going to go without a fight. Speaking of which, Claudia made a real ass of herself over all this. Goddess, I can’t believe they’re sisters. She’s already made herself high priestess of the coven, saying that Mom is in no condition for such a responsibility anymore.” Jo’s hands are fists in her lap. My eyes widen.

  Jo proceeds to paint a picture of the jealous older sister, always in the shadow of her younger, better-at-everything, and prettier sister. The honor of high priestess was given to Matilda because of her power and knowledge of the Craft. She was loved by most and respected by all. The family did not hold that the eldest receive such a position automatically: it had to be earned, and no one thought Claudia a leader. She was petty and a know-it-all. But in the wake of Matilda’s announcement, Claudia preyed on their shock and grief and had the power in her hands before anyone realized what happened.

  “I argued with that cow, but since I’m not a member of the coven, I had no say, blood or not.” Jo unclenches her fists and rubs her hands on her lap. “The shouting took a real toll on Mom; she couldn’t handle it and gave in. It was hard to watch actually.” She pinches the bridge of her nose. “Needless to say, Mom insists on staying in her house until it’s absolutely necessary she go into some sort of managed care facility. She hates the idea. Goddess, we all do.”

  She waves a hand in front of her as if to push away the awful thoughts.

  Her face suddenly brightens. “So! Anything exciting happen while I was away?”

  I search her face, gauging whether I should try to comfort her or go with her change of topic. Her eyes plead with me to move on.

  “Well, let’s see. The great-great-granddaughter of the man who murdered me in my last life came by a few days ago,” I say matter-of-factly.

  “Ha!” She slaps her leg and gets up, heading to the cabinet for her favorite mug—the one with the caption ‘You think I’m wicked now? You should see me without my coffee’—and pours herself a cup. She blows across the top and takes a sip.

  I mentally kick myself. I have never glossed over anything about myself to Jo, or to anyone for that matter, which more often than not has led to disaster. But there is something about the older woman that makes me want to tell her everything. The fact remains that we are completely different witches, and what I can do no other witch can. Some of the things I’ve shown her and told her defy her experiences and understanding of magick. She’s been open and accepting, although it’s overwhelmed her at times. Having such a friend is new to me, and I need to remember to temper what I tell her—ease her into my unusual life slowly. It’s difficult, though.

  “What did the little bitch want?” she asks blithely, retaking her seat.

  She can always make me laugh. I tell her a little of how my last life ended and then of my encounter with Melissa. She sits patiently and makes concerned faces and nods at the appropriate times. I suspect she’s humoring me.

  “You should write a book! You’ve got some great stories, that’s for sure. Oh! Speaking of books, I brought you one.” She pulls out a small, tattered book from her voluminous folds of fabric.

  Holding the book, a tingle moves across my skin when I read the author’s name, Patricia Jones. The book itself is nothing magickal—a collection of poems about ravens.

  I manage a quiet ‘thanks’ as I rub my fingers across the name.

  “What? Something wrong with the book?”

  “Nothing’s wrong. The author’s name, Patricia Jones.” I look up at her. “What made you buy this book?”

  “I’m not sure, really. I passed a stack of books at a flea market the other day and that one spoke to me. You don’t strike me as a reader of poetry, though. Why? Know the author?”

  “No.” I wave the conversation to an end. “It’s nothing, never mind.”

  “No, no. You know I hate when you do that. What is it?”

  “You’ll just think I’m back to storytelling again.” I wink at her.

  “Well, your stories are good.” She settles back in the chair, mug in hand. “Spill.”

  I sigh deeply. It’s time to tell her.

  “Patricia Jones is the name of the eighteen-year-old whose body I took over when she died.”

  Jo lets out a snort and almost spills her coffee. “Look, I believe in reincarnation just as much as the next witch, but hearing that you took over a person’s body is kinda hard to swallow.” She raises her brows at me and purses her lips.

  Hurt by her words, I look down at my hands in my lap.

  “I’m sorry, that was mean. I could have said that better.”

  “It’s all right. It’s just that you are the first real friend that I’ve had, so I burst to tell you everything. It’s been so nice not to have to hold back what I say. I sometimes forget how ridiculous it all must sound—even to a fellow witch.”

  She frowns and apologizes again.

  I lean forward. “Jo, I can prove what I say is true. If you’ll let me.”

  She is eyeballing me now, leaning away. “And just how would you prove it?”

  “Give me your hand.”

  She hesitates, her eyes narrow at me. “What are you gonna do?”

  “Trust me,” I say in my most convincing tone.

  Warily, she sets her mug on the table and puts her hands in mine. I have to do this gently or she will cease to be my friend.

  4

  As we sit at the table, the kitchen around us shimmers. Jo tenses and I squeeze her hands a little tighter for reassurance. Slowly, the room dissolves into a soft, gray mist. Jo looks around with an appraising eye.

  The shifting mist begins to form solid objects, and she squints to make out what they are. The blurry shapes quickly sharpen into the buildings of an urban neighborhood. The heat from the pavement radiates upward while the bright morning sun overhead glares down on us. We are standing near a crosswalk amidst throngs of people bustling in all directions. The sounds of countless automobile engines, horns, shouts of profanity, and the smell of exhaust assault our senses. Jo recoils at the violent change in surroundings.

  “Oh, my Goddess,” Jo exhales, covering her gaping mouth with her hands as she whirls about, taking it all in.

  She whips back at me with still wide eyes. “Are you freaking kidding me?” My response is a simple, knowing smile.

  At that moment, a sweaty, overweight man in a crumpled suit rushes right through Jo, his hand gripping his weathered briefcase. Jo shrieks obscenities to the Goddess, and her whole body shudders. She’s frantically brushing herself off as if she’s just walked through a tangle of cobwebs.

  “That was not pleasant!” Jo says, dancing out of everyone’s way, making sure no one violates her again. I can’t help laughing.

  “I bet you are loving this.” She glares at me, and I only laugh harder. “Laugh it up, sister, but payback’s a bitch.”

  “And just how would you pay me back for this?” I flourish my hands at the scene around us.

  “Oh, shut up,” she says, wrinkling her nose at me.

  I grab Jo’s hand and pull her towards me. I turn her around and stand behind her with my hands on her shoulders. “Watch.”

  At the street corner opposite us, Jo’s attenti
on is taken by something above where I wish her to look. I nudge her and point to a short, pudgy teenage girl hoofing as quickly as she can to the intersection, her head hanging as low as her loaded backpack. The T-shirt she wears used to be white, and her shorts are the same orange color as her frizzy, unkempt hair. Her shoes are ill-fitting, most likely meant for a boy but handed down to her. She trudges along with eyes on the pavement, hands clutching her backpack straps.

  “Patricia,” I whisper in Jo’s ear. She tenses and her hands flutter to her chest.

  Patricia seems desperate to get to wherever she’s going; she’s most likely late for school. Her father will whip her again if she gets another tardy notice. Actually, he really needs no excuse to beat her ass.

  As she zigzags around people blocking the intersection, she takes no notice of the shout from the old man she’s almost knocked over and barrels forward. She doesn’t see the oncoming bus, and no one reaches out to pull her back.

  Jo shrieks and turns away, but she can’t block out the sounds of screeching tires and a surprised scream that peals out and is quickly cut short by a sickening thud. The next few seconds show a dozen people paralyzed, staring at the young girl on the ground in front of the bus. The driver is on his feet, staring down over the steering wheel at something he can’t quite believe. The sounds of the accident haven’t affected the vast majority of the surrounding people. Their days are much too important to be interrupted.

  Jo’s motherly instinct propels her through the busy intersection. She pays no notice to the cars and cyclists passing through her. “Somebody help her!” she screams repeatedly.

  I follow slowly. Jo is on her knees by the girl, trying to touch her but unable to and offering words of comfort Patricia cannot hear.

  “Why isn’t anybody helping her?” She’s glaring at the gaping and useless people standing around the fallen girl. I have no explanation for the apathy of this big city. Patricia’s blood is slowly seeping onto the pavement from beneath her head.

  “She’s not in any pain, Jo, I promise.” I place a hand on her shoulder and realize she’s softly crying.

  I ask her to step back and tell her that my Spirit is coming. I have to pull her up. She looks at me with confusion, her heavy black mascara making trails down her cheeks. I give her a reassuring squeeze around her shoulders.

  The noisy, congested surroundings grow still and quiet in the instant of a breath. Everything around the body of Patricia blurs and loses all color. Jo catches something out of the corner of her eye and gasps. It’s me but not quite.

  My Spirit is the very likeness that she knows me in now except that it is emitting soft, silvery light and has the ethereal beauty that only a spiritual entity can have. She quickly turns to me to make sure I’m still behind her. I motion for her to keep watching. My Spirit drifts swiftly along the pavement, legs unmoving, with a gentle smile and soft eyes fixed on Patricia.

  Patricia’s chest heaves in a final gasp as her life leaves her. Casting a bright glow in all directions, Patricia’s Spirit lifts from her body. She slowly turns to see my Spirit and smiles. Her face is peaceful and unmarked. She looks down at her body and the smile quickly fades. After a slow shake of her head, Patricia’s Spirit turns away. Behind her, wisps of black and silver vapor have appeared, swirling outward and growing. A portal is forming as Jo watches in awe.

  “The Veil,” I whisper. Jo takes a sharp breath.

  The Veil’s dark beauty ripples and intensifies to coalesce into a large, oval expanse. Feelings of warmth and comfort fall over us; the Veil brings with it a sense of peace, erasing all fear and doubt. Without hesitation, Patricia’s Spirit drifts into it, the black mist billowing around her, engulfing her, welcoming her. The Veil churns momentarily as it fades from black to dark gray, to silver and then into nothing.

  I sense Jo’s tense body relax. I can’t see her face but I know she is smiling.

  My Spirit approaches the lifeless body of Patricia and seems to study it for a moment. In the distance, we hear the approaching sirens breaking into the serenity of the moment. My Spirit kneels beside Patricia’s body and strokes her brow. The nasty gash on her temple closes, and the blood on the ground draws back into her body. My Spirit’s form softens and becomes a shimmering mantle of light. It envelops Patricia’s body and is slowly absorbed by it like water into a sponge.

  The world comes crashing back around us, making Jo jump. The next few minutes are filled with shouts for help and rushing EMTs pushing people out of the way. I take Jo by the arm and the scene melts away.

  In fast-forward, what shows before us is the emergency room, Patricia’s body surrounded by haggard nurses and an impatient doctor who’s making it obvious that his time is being wasted. The patient is fine; he has more urgent cases to attend to. The background noise includes the sounds of a man yelling about not having any goddamn insurance and not knowing how they will pay for Patricia’s stupidity again. They need to let his daughter go now if she ain’t dying because he can’t afford this shit.

  Patricia is sleeping behind the privacy curtains, or so everyone thinks. As soon as she is alone, she gets up, puts on her ruined clothes and quickly makes her way out of the hospital, skirting by everyone in the busy lobby, including her father and mother, with a smirk.

  Jo turns. “That’s you, right? You’re in there?”

  I nod.

  “Wow,” is Jo’s eloquent response. “But you don’t look like her now. I don’t get it.”

  “Later.”

  Now we are in a small bedroom where Patricia is surveying the scant furnishings.

  Along one wall is a twin bed with a faded purple comforter and stained, flat pillow. The opposite wall has a makeshift bookshelf filled with books of all sizes and the best knickknacks that the thrift shop has to offer. Scattered on the walls are a few posters of unicorns and various boy bands. The room has no windows and is lit by only a single, harsh bulb overhead.

  Jo gazes around the room, wringing her hands. We hear the pounding of footsteps from the stairwell. There is determination in those steps. A mirthless grin curls Patricia’s lips as she turns towards the sound. Jo lifts a quizzical eyebrow at me. I motion for her to wait and watch.

  Patricia doesn’t answer her father’s calls. The father is pounding his booted feet down the hallway towards Patricia’s room. The bookshelf quakes with the weight of his gait. For the former Patricia, this was a dreaded sound she’d heard too many times.

  He bursts through the door, filling the entire doorway with his bulk. A short, round woman stops abruptly behind him. Patricia is pretending to go through the book collection on the shelf.

  “What the fuck, girl?” His face is red with rage. “You sure as hell got a lotta explaining to do.”

  She tosses a book on the bed and turns to face him, standing tall and strong. By the reaction of both the father and mother, she can tell they no longer see their daughter’s watery blue eyes.

  “Explain what?” She has a confidence and strength he has never witnessed in his daughter before, causing him to pause.

  He puffs his chest and crosses his arms to make himself more intimidating. “How the hell did you get out of the hospital?”

  “Oh, that.” She loses interest in the conversation and turns back to the books. She picks another one up and flips through the pages. “I walked out.”

  With two long strides, he reaches Patricia and grabs her upper arm, jerking her around to face him. She is faster than he is and blocks the fist he’d planned to bring across her face. Jo lunges forward, but I stop her.

  “Oh, no,” Patricia says with eyes as narrowed slits. His superior expression falters with the revelation that his daughter is not only defying him but also stronger than he is. “You won’t be doing that ever again.” She digs her fingernails into his wrist and brings his arm down to his side. He is putting all his strength into not allowing this but to no avail. His mouth hangs open as he releases his grip on her other arm.

  Patricia’s
mother, true to form, is standing idly by, watching the display as if it were one of her soap operas. She sees something new that she cannot process: Patricia standing up to the man, something she never dreamed of doing herself.

  Patricia takes a step back from the sweating, red-faced man. “I’m moving out.”

  “The hell you are.”

  She graces him with a look of sheer contempt. “You are not able to stop me. This body is eighteen, and it can do whatever it wants.” The words she uses confuse both parents. She is challenging him on purpose. The desire to punish him for the evils he has done to Patricia burns deep in her chest.

  The mother has found her voice. “How dare you speak to your father like that, missy! What has gotten into you?” Her face is full of shock.

  “I was hit by a bus, mother. Don’t you remember?” She uses Patricia’s teenage voice as she rolls her eyes.

  Patricia glares at both of them. “You two should be ashamed of your behavior and your treatment of your children. You are despicable, vile creatures, and you do not deserve the right to bear children. People like you make me sick. You have children only so you can control them, to make yourselves feel important and powerful, when the fact is that you are cowards and villains—bullies of the worst kind. Patricia never had the courage to stand up for herself, but she does now.”

  The father and mother are dumbstruck. They exchange glances as if to gauge what to do. They see the figure of their daughter, but the voice, the words, and the eyes are those of a stranger. Patricia knows that the father wishes to inflict pain upon her—that has always been his way of managing his children. The mother would stand by and allow it simply so that she would not be the recipient of his anger instead.

  She addresses the mother. “Leave now.”

  The woman doesn’t move, confusion rampant on her face. Patricia’s face is steel. “Get out.” The woman looks to her husband. He jerks his head for her to go.

  He has found his voice again. “I don’t know what the hell is going on here or what the fuck happened to you, but you’re stepping real close to the edge, little girl.” He takes a step towards her.