In the comfortable surroundings, Jo sways side to side with the steady beat she taps out on her well-worn medicine drum. Long wisps of incense smoke spiral slowly through the air, surrounding her with the heady scents of Nag Champa and sage. A dozen candles of all shapes and sizes cast the room in a warm golden glow.
On the floor before her is the Black Fire talisman cradled in the talons of a dragon perched on his back legs. With the stone raised high above his head, his expression makes one feel that he will protect the little treasure with all his might. The statue is one of her prized possessions—a gift from Jo’s late husband on her thirtieth birthday.
The rare proustite stone reflects bits of light in an almost rhythmic pattern as if to follow Jo’s drum beat. In the muted light, the deep crimson of the stone smolders against its black edges. Jo often uses the talisman to focus her Sight, especially when she needs to delve deeply into something specific. She reflects on the spectacular and horrific memory Aven had revealed to her. She can still smell the exhaust from the congested traffic and vividly recalls the bright red blood that slowly seeped from beneath the young girl’s head.
The memories make Jo shudder. Being an empath, she feels emotions and energies keenly—so intensely at times that she wears protective charms of obsidian and schorl polished to a high gloss in order to reflect the negativity. However, right now her protective stones hang on the door handle, leaving her open to whatever may come in her vision walk, relying on the watchful eye of the Goddess to keep her from true harm.
Jo is from a long line of heritage witches. Her family tree has roots in the magickal ways that run hundreds of years deep. When she was younger, she veered from the tradition of her family so that she could practice and experience other forms of the Craft. Not following her family’s own tradition had not sat well with Jo’s mother, but Matilda understood her daughter’s need to learn and experiment with other ways. However, Jo’s grandmother wasn’t so understanding. For her, you followed the old ways, the ways of your family, without question. Not even on her deathbed did Jo’s grandmother forgive her. While Jo has few regrets in her life, this is one. Nana was a powerful and commanding witch and Jo could have learned so much, but in hindsight, Jo realized the old woman’s ways simply didn’t fit into her lifestyle or how she connected to the Goddess. In rearing her daughter, Jo is letting Sylvia choose her own path, providing guidance when needed or requested. While Sylvia has only a little innate magickal talent, she’s become deft at creating medicinal teas and tinctures. Having a child so late in life was a struggle early on, especially after Marty died, but Jo’s grown very proud of her sometimes wild and mischievous daughter. Sylvia is definitely from Jo’s apple tree.
A light scraping above gets Jo’s attention. She feels the presence of the white raven and knows that he is on the roof. He has been coming to her home more frequently lately. He simply watches her. She feels no threat from the striking bird. He often looks quizzical and anxious. The flutter of wings draws her attention to the window where he’s landed and is peering through the glass, one eye fixed on Jo. The bird’s feathers are unusually bright white for a white raven, which normally have feathers that are more of a cream color. She assesses the creature staring in at her, its wings twitching nervously. His eyes are also unusual for a white raven; his are a brilliant violet, much like those of her good friend, Aven. At the thought of Aven, the white raven lets out an odd cooing sound—almost mournful, Jo thinks. His head is bowed low, and Jo can feel the sadness coming from him.
Jo takes several deep breaths to clear her mind. As she continues to lightly beat the medicine drum, the glow from the flickering candles begins to blend with the coils of incense smoke. Electricity travels the length of Jo’s spine. It is beginning.
Jo visualizes her friend, Aven Dovenelle, with the waves of her jet-black hair, the piercing dark amethyst color of her eyes, the angular cut of her cheekbones, the little cleft in her chin, and her very long legs. The image of Aven appears in Jo’s mind as clearly as if she were standing before her. Jo then transforms this image from the everyday look of Aven into that of her Spirit, draped in gossamer and surrounded by soft white light. Her Spirit’s hands and feet are bound with black cord. Emerging from the ground is a skeletal hand, and it grips the cord tightly. The imagery in Jo’s mind is of Aven’s curse.
Slowly, the room blurs and begins falling away. Around her, the wisps of smoke twist and shimmy, coalescing into the shape of a large bird. As it circles Jo, the form solidifies into a white raven. While this was not the intended focal point of her meditation, she does not question it. When shapes or sounds, smells or feelings come to her during a vision walk, she lets them enter freely, without fear or hesitation. Everything has a meaning, her grandmother always said. There are no such things as coincidences—the Universe isn’t that lazy.
She no longer sits on the floor in her cozy little room. Around her now is a vast, dark forest illuminated by the light of an overly large full moon. The welcoming smells of moss and wet leaves fill Jo’s nostrils. She inhales deeply. The night air is cool, and a soft breeze caresses her cheeks and ruffles her long hair.
The moon’s glow reflects off the bird’s feathers as it angles around her once more to alight on a branch of a dead and gnarled tree, which looks nearly as ancient as the moon itself. The tree stands out not only by virtue of its wicked bends and hooked fingers, but also because it is the only barren thing around her. The forest is lush with all the greens of summer and frequent rain. As the bird lands, the splintering sound of its talons digging into the dead wood makes Jo shiver.
She is not alone in the forest; voices are in the distance, getting closer quickly. They are running in her direction. It’s a cacophony of angry shouts, raging cries, and howls, but she can’t discern what they are saying. She sees bold lights now through the thick trees; they are torches, she guesses. The lights appear to dance around each other in the darkness, bobbing up and down, to and fro. But this dance is not something Jo wishes to be a part of. Her first instinct is to run but, to her great surprise, she cannot move. She looks down to find her arms and legs bound to the ground with rusty shackles. She finds that she is wet, and the ground beneath her is drenched.
The white raven rises up to an impressive height and stares down at Jo. He seems to not notice the oncoming mob. In that moment, fear grips Jo’s chest. Not from the bloodthirsty throng, nor from being chained, but from the bird’s hateful glare. It lowers its head and paces on the branch, its fiery eyes never leaving Jo’s. She starts to feel lightheaded from the dreadful energy in this vision. She takes a deep breath and visualizes herself surrounded with white, protective light. Seeing the glow emanate from Jo, the raven screams angrily and his wings flare out. His screeching becomes deafening and overpowers Jo’s bared senses. She shrieks in pain and flings her arms above her; they are no longer shackled.
The vision is gone. She is back in her cozy little room, which has gone dark now that the candles are extinguished. The smell of burnt feathers turns Jo’s stomach.
On the window ledge, the white raven is bowed low, panting heavily. He stares at Jo with a worried eye for a long moment before jumping off into the night sky.
Shaken and gasping, Jo needs a drink. She half expects a glass to appear with whiskey and a single ice cube but no, Aven isn’t here.
The malevolence of the vision lingers and leaves the taste of moldy water in Jo’s mouth. She calls out to the Goddess asking for the calming of her heart and mind, the purge of the negative forces that grip her. In the quiet, she visualizes the warm embrace of the Goddess. Her heartbeat slows, and she can swallow without fear of that wretched taste. After a few minutes, she uses a nearby stool to push herself up. She quickly pulls the protective stone necklaces from the door handle and places them around her neck. Once under their influence, she feels more herself again, although she knows that sleep will not come to her tonight.
9
As the claw-foot tub fills with hot water,
I add a few drops of frankincense and lemongrass essential oils to calm my nerves. The luscious aroma quickly fills the small room. I’ve been anxious all day about my date with Cal tonight. A relaxing bath will calm me. The bathroom door creaks open, pushed by a cat who has a dog right on her heels. I’m not allowed to be in the bathroom alone. It’s nice to have their company. When I talk to myself, it feels less awkward. With an exaggerated sigh that only a Pyrenees can make, Maggie sprawls herself along the wall opposite the tub. Arial hunkers down on the toilet lid and settles, wrapping her tail around her body. I’ll have an audience while I bathe.
The many candles around the bathroom are lit with a single thought, and the lights over the sink wink out. I pull off my clothes and ease into the water. Lying back with a contented sigh, I close my eyes.
I lose all track of time when I’m in the bathtub. Water is my element. Whether it’s watching a flowing river or listening to a bubbling creek or even hearing the trickling laps of a fountain, water fills me with a peace that little else can. While I have plenty of time before meeting Cal, I’ve set the alarm on my cell phone just in case. It’s too quiet, so another thought prompts Gregorian chant from the CD player in my bedroom.
Something pricks the edge of my tranquility. It’s very faint, so I pay it no mind. It’s probably just the neighbors arguing again. I tune it out and focus on the undulating plainsong of the Gregorian monks.
It’s not long after that a sharp stab of negativity hits me. Arial’s hiss and the deep growl from Maggie combined with my own feeling puts me on full alert. I open my senses to discover what is there. Something is speeding towards me. It’s filled with a dark eagerness that makes me nervous.
The pressure against my energy is getting stronger and closer. Both animals are up, hackles raised. I’m very curious as to what or who this is, so I let it come. I close my eyes and lie back again. Outwardly, I’m the picture of relaxation.
An acrid stench attacks my nostrils, and I can’t help but grimace. I open my eyes to see the bathroom filled with a faint red glow that’s growing stronger. Arial darts from the bathroom with an angry hiss, and Maggie stands in front of the tub, her attention fixed to the corner of the ceiling across from me.
Inky black tendrils form within the darkness of the corner. They swirl and twist, trying to form a more solid mass but seeming to lack the ability to do so. Short tendrils lash out in my direction. The stench grows stronger, choking the room. The pungent odor is familiar, but I can’t place it.
I stay within the confines of the tub, feeling a small measure of protection from the water over my naked body. Despite the heat in the room, the water has gone cold.
“Who are you and what do you want?” There is no fear in my voice.
The answer comes in the form of a sickly coughing sound and a stench blown in my face. I gag.
“Morris Stiles!” I am appalled. The swirling collection of tendrils emits a rough, gurgling sound. Is that laughter?
How has his Spirit come to be here? An unwelcome Spirit from my past returning—this has not happened before. His anger and hatred pushes at me.
I glare through narrowed slits at the shape shifting grotesquely on my ceiling.
“You seem very pleased with yourself to have found me.” The response is more harsh cackling.
“I’m not sure why you are so pleased. Here I am, a full-fledged witch—just as you suspected—happy, healthy, and successful in a future world you can have no part in.” I sneer at the loathsome mass.
The tendrils splay out in all directions accompanied by an enraged howl. I laugh, which enrages him more. The core of the blackened mess grows slightly, and the red glow that fills the room deepens.
The face of Morris Stiles is burned into my memory. The ruddy, pock-marked skin dotted with pustules and few teeth gracing his mouth. His constantly sunburned head protected only by a few wisps of greasy gray hair and gnarled hands with crooked fingers, misshapen from years of cattle work and fighting. His hatred for himself was exacted from all those around him. The more innocent the better. His Spirit has retained the same self-loathing and hostility. It appears he’s sought the one person who bested him.
It doesn’t take me long to realize how this happened. I shake my head at myself and cover my face with my hands.
“I caused this. This is my doing.”
As if to agree, Morris’s shapeless form lets out a shriek that rattles the window panes and mirror. Maggie lunges upward, barking and snapping. The mass of tendrils jerks back from the dog and recoils into the corner.
“Not what’s happened to you, you evil bastard! You deserved what I did to you!” I slam my fist on the side of the tub. “And don’t you dare for one second think you did not!” I push my energy at him, pushing his tendrils back into the mass. The red glow in the room dims.
“I caused your return. I made Melissa Stiles aware of you. She didn’t know a single thing about you, her loathsome great-great-grandfather, until I told her of you.” She must have started looking into her genealogy. Her energy has given him form, but to this extent? My thoughts change gears. “What have you been doing to her? There’s no way just her thinking about you would have given you enough strength for this.”
The mass only cackles, the core pulsing with each wicked sound.
Rage washes over me. “You son of a bitch!” That poor girl!
I rise from the water, compelled upward by my wrath. As I square my body to face him, the water is morphing into blue and white fire, rising around me. The bathtub is now a cauldron of white fire, and the droplets coming off me are bits of blue flame. The red gloom that dominated the room is now eclipsed by cold blue light. The flames lick up around me and climb the wall behind me.
My voice sounds of gravel as I address him, hands raised at my sides.
“Morris Jasper Stiles, you are a vile and deplorable Spirit. You are not welcome here. I command you to leave my home and to never return!”
The blue and white flames burst towards him. They cut into the shrieking mass. The form writhes, screaming in pain. I send another wave of fire and the blackness bursts like broken glass. Deafening screams fill my ears but are quickly extinguished.
In the moment he is gone, the fire pulls back to me. The blue light fades, and the bathroom is once again filled with the golden glow of candles. Maggie relaxes and goes to the corner, sniffing the air.
I look at her with sad eyes and sigh. “This is what happens when you meddle.”
10
I am dizzy from the surge of energy so I leave the tub slowly and sit on its edge. I feel violated by Morris’s visit and, despite the bath, dirty. It takes several deep breaths before my pulse quiets and the ringing in my ears subsides. I shake my head at myself for what I’ve done. I will check on Melissa in the morning.
I consider cancelling with Cal but then remember I don’t have his number. Resigned, I push myself up. There’s more than an hour before meeting him, but I need to get out of the house. After towel drying my hair, I run my fingers through it, pulling it up in a twist and securing it with a silver hair chopstick. I dress quickly, opting for comfort rather than to impress.
In my favorite pair of stretchy jean capris and a peasant blouse of dark red, which Jo says is my color, I feel a little better. Around my neck is my favorite pendant, shaped from a flawed piece of round, black jadeite. The inclusion is spectacular. In the right light, you can see a circle of slightly iridescent gray and dark green—the perfect new moon.
The evening is warm, but there is a pleasant breeze with a faint scent of the ocean wafting in at times. I wander around my neighborhood, delighting in petting the dogs that are being walked and chatting idly with their owners. The walk helps clear my mind and rid me of the unpleasant thought of Morris Stiles seeing my naked body. My selfish thoughts then return to Melissa, and a wave of guilt makes me flush.
My limited experience with local bars led me to expect Phil’s to be the typical dive, but it surprises me. While sti
ll a bit divey, it has been well cared for and looks very clean. There is the barest hint of cigarette smoke from years ago when smoking was allowed. The light fixtures are yellowed but not from age or grime. Seeing how they all match and are clean, my guess is that they were deliberately selected to keep the mood low-key and cozy. It worked.
The decor consists of memorabilia from local sports teams and the occasional framed picture of dogs playing poker or pool. A fairly large bulldog statue sits in the middle of the backbar, facing the front door so as to greet each customer. It’s the first thing one notices upon entering; you don’t often see a statue of a dog wearing a black satin top hat and smoking a pipe.
Cal is already there when I arrive. He raises his arm to get my attention. He’s at the far back table, opposite the fairly new jukebox and tiny patch of dance floor checkered in black and what-used-to-be-white linoleum. At this hour on a Saturday night, Phil’s has but a handful of customers—all local by the looks of them. At the obligatory pool table, a man seems to be teaching his attentive young son the finer points of the game. Two older gentlemen are seated at the bar watching the news on the small TV up in the corner. A tall man with a shiny pate, presumably Phil, is behind the bar in lively conversation with a young man in gym clothes who has what appears to be a glass of milk in his hand. As Phil hears the screen door bang closed, he locks eyes on me and belts out a warm greeting. I smile and wave in return. I like him already.
Cal gets up from his chair at my approach.
“Hey there.” He pulls out the chair across from his. “Have a seat.”
A tall glass beer mug rests on the table, empty. Cal seems a good deal more relaxed than before. His wide smile accentuates the tiny laugh lines around his bright blue eyes. I take the proffered seat and lean forward, my elbows on the table.
“You started without me.” I nod at the glass.
“Ha, yeah,” he says. “I was done earlier than I expected so I decided to just come here and hang out.”
The White Raven Page 7
