The White Raven

by Carrie D. Miller

  20

  Our raucous laughter travels down from the rooftop terrace in the clear, quiet evening air. Dusk is turning into charcoal-colored darkness, and the night birds and insects are serenading us. It is good to have Jo and Sylvia back.

  We are enjoying the mild evening with a few drinks and much-needed laughter. In the days that they have been back, they’ve sequestered themselves in the solitude of their quiet home. Jo slept and meditated and slept some more. Sylvia just wanted peace and quiet, a huge change from the days prior.

  “Ugh. I can’t believe that bitch is my mother’s sister,” Jo says again and lets her head fall back against the lounge chair. “Those two women couldn’t be more different.”

  “I know, right?” Sylvia says, throwing her hands up into the air. She’s quite tipsy.

  “I bet that bitch was happy Mom got sick. She swooped in and took over the coven like that.” Jo snaps her fingers.

  I give her a doubtful look.

  “No, seriously, Aven, I told you. The minute Mom announced to the coven that she had a brain tumor, Claudia took over. Ushered Mom out under the pretense that the sooner she rested, the better.” Jo glares at the ring of candles on the coffee table as if it held the image of Claudia’s face.

  With her eyes never leaving the dancing flames, Jo tells of what should have been a lovely and loving ceremony to honor Matilda’s life and return her body to the Earth. The ceremony turned out to be ‘The Claudia Show.’ She did nothing but bark orders and parade around, and even went so far as to ignore the family traditions in favor of a farewell ritual of her own devising.

  Despite all of the nastiness and yelling, the serenity that filled the night as Matilda’s body burned on the pyre gave solace to those who loved her dearly. Even Claudia had a tear traveling down her withered and wrinkled cheek. The black night was silent—even the birds made no sound—as the fire consumed its own. The sounds of the crackling and snapping of the dry wood were accentuated in the stillness and made the little ones cower, only to have the arms of a parent wrap tighter around them.

  By the end of the tale, both Jo and Sylvia are crying and I am teary-eyed. My mind wanders backwards to some misadventures in my seventh life and my face puckers.

  “What?” Jo peers at me over her glass.

  “I joined a coven only once, long ago. Once was all it took for me to be put off by the whole concept. Meaningless hierarchy, jealousy, ridiculous rules about how you are to practice magick—all wrapped tightly within a web of secrecy and lies. And don’t get me started on the humiliating initiation rites! Hog-tied naked on an altar so that everyone can lay their hands on you. I will stay a solitary witch, thank you very much.” I follow no one’s rules but my own and I adhere to the laws of Nature as I know them—and I know much more than most.

  Sylvia looks at Jo in disgust. “Did your mom’s coven do that naked thing? That’s awful!”

  “Of course not! That’s just stupid.” Jo has taken great offense and leans away from her daughter.

  On the stone table between us lies a tray made from a single, thick slab of polished olive wood holding a collection of the finest liquors I know. Jo’s glass is never empty and both women call for ‘magickal ice’ when needed, insisting it tastes much better than what comes from the freezer. I laugh each time the call is made and I am happy to oblige. I’m a little tipsy as well.

  My phone buzzes at my side and I pick it up without thinking. Since the invitations to the Halloween grand opening went out, I have been getting emails, texts, and calls at all times of the day and night from folks eager to RSVP. I’m very pleased with the positive reception my little party is getting.

  I squint at the bright screen and click my tongue at what I see. Both ladies tilt their heads at me.

  “It’s Cal.” I never thought I’d hear another word from him.

  “Well, son of a bitch.” Jo leans forward, a little wobbly. “What’s he say?”

  “Yay, Cal!” Sylvia chirps. Then her brow furrows as she reflects. “Oh, wait, no. Fuck him.”

  “That’s the idea, I think,” chortles Jo, winking at her daughter, whose expression has turned to disgust.

  “Mother!”

  “Will you two shut up!” I’m staring at them as if they were children. Drunk children, as if I have any right to talk. There is a portion of my face I no longer feel. Sylvia has harbored resentment towards Cal since she found out he left me there on the bed, bleeding and bruised, and cursed at me. Before that moment, he could have done no wrong. However, I harbor no ill will towards him; I understand that reaction better than anyone as I have seen it countless times. Part of me does think less of him, though, for leaving a lady in distress while accusing her of some sort of trickery. Fear makes people say and do things they wouldn’t have imagined they could.

  I place the phone face down.

  “You’re not going to reply?” Jo asks, making herself another drink. She taps on her glass with a long fingernail and eyeballs me. She needs ice.

  “Nope.”

  “Good girl.” Jo inclines her head at me. “Make him sweat.”

  Maggie comes up behind the ladies and flops down against the side planter, tongue lolling. If I didn’t know better, I would have thought her tired.

  “Good play time with the fairies?” I ask. Her tail beats the air.

  “I just can’t believe she’s a ghost,” Sylvia almost whispers.

  “Why are you whispering?” Jo whispers loudly.

  Sylvia ignores her mother and sits back, frowning. “Can you touch her?” she asks with a raised eyebrow.

  I shake my head. “Only a Spirit can touch a Spirit.” Sylvia’s frown deepens.

  “What’s wrong?” I ask.

  “Well, it’s like, I swear I’ve heard her nails clicking as she follows me or goes up and down the stairs…” She is staring at Maggie. “But now that I watch her, she doesn’t make a sound. Nothing. I don’t hear her pant or her tail swish, or anything.”

  “Your mind expects to hear these things when a dog is around. The mind is a powerful thing.”

  Jo bobbles her head back and forth, her eyes dazed. She’s trashed. Sylvia glares at her mother. “What are you nodding for? You were freaked out too!”

  “I wasn’t freaked out.” Jo perks up. She diverts the direction of this conversation. “So, what’s the story with you and her?”

  Maggie’s tail stops wagging and she puts her head on the ground.

  “It’s a sad one to be sure.” The hint of an old accent slips out. I gaze at Maggie’s big loving eyes in the dim candlelight, and my heart aches.

  Undaunted by the change in mood, Jo leans forward. “Can you show us?” Her eyes sparkle in anticipation of another vision walk with me. Sylvia is looking confused.

  “That is not something I wish to live through again.” My tone is serious. “Flashbacks to my past are painful. I feel it all, just as if it were happening to me again.” I inhale deeply through my nose and look at Jo. “But you should know how brave and wonderful this dog is, and why she stays with me.”

  Maggie rolls on her side and closes her eyes.

  I settle back in the chaise and pull my knees up to one side. I hug a pillow across my chest.

  “It was 1560, in France—a small town in the Morgon area of the Beaujolais region. Prime wine country. Vineyards stayed in the family for generations, and vinetiers were highly respected. If you could make a good wine consistently, you were treated like a king.” My gaze drifts to the cluster of candles.

  “It was towards the end of summer. I lived in a little cottage a mile or so from town. I wasn’t welcome in town, although people traveled to see me all the time. I was a good healer, you see, and never asked for payment. But payment was always brought because no one ever wanted to be indebted to a witch. Even the town’s Catholic priest visited me three times.” I snort at the memory of his old, pinched face, which always wore an expression of scorn when I was at the market but changed to one of pleading and rev
erence when he was at my door.

  “On many occasions, I traveled to the largest vineyard in the area. The elderly patriarch, Montaine, was a sickly man who had given up on the local doctor long ago. He had cancer, now that we know what cancer is, and while that is something I could not cure, I could ease his pain and restore his sense of well-being for short amounts of time. We actually became good friends. He walked me around his beloved vineyard and showed me everything. It was so beautiful. The soil and grapes he loved more than his own kin, for they were greedy, careless, and lazy. They wanted his money, his land, and his reputation but never wanted to do any work for it. Sometimes, I think he asked me to visit just for the company. Such a wonderful man, so full of life, so generous.” I am sad when I remember Montaine. Emotions are rising from my belly, and I have to take a moment to collect myself. The ladies are quiet and don’t press me.

  “Each time I visited, this goofy, gigantic white fluff ball came loping up to me, tongue always hanging out and tail fanned in the air. Her name was Magdalyn, and she bounded everywhere she went, always happy to be wherever she was.” I rest a loving gaze on Maggie, who is ignoring me. “She’d walk me home most of the time, and sometimes even came to greet me when I was halfway to the vineyard. I don’t know how she knew I was coming.

  “Anyway, Montaine summoned me one day with the greatest urgency. I found him in his bed, Maggie whimpering by his side. He was surely dying and there wasn’t a thing I could do to stop it. I sat with him, because his family had not the stomach to watch over him, and I eased his pain. Montaine faded in and out of consciousness, rambling on about the vineyard and his feckless family. He became very agitated at one point and would not let me soothe him. He snapped his fingers at Maggie and pointed to the first drawer in his dresser. Maggie trotted over and pulled on its handle with her teeth. He motioned for me to go look, and I found a thick, crisp scroll secured with his seal in wax. He was giving me his vineyard; that was his will and it was all said and done. He refused to listen to my protests. Montaine passed quietly and in no pain with his hands in mine. The family came and then, well, let’s just say all hell broke loose when they saw his will.”

  A spark of anger flicks in my heart. I will skip this part.

  “Sorry for this long-winded story, but it sets the stage for what happened to me. To us.” Jo and Sylvia mutter words of encouragement, fully immersed in the tale.

  “So, fast-forward a few months. I loved working the vineyard. No hands stayed on, so I did everything on my own except for occasional assistance from a local boy who would sneak away from his house in the late afternoons to help me with the animals. Everything was going smoothly, and I assumed that the turmoil with the family was over—that they’d accepted their father’s wishes. But this was absolutely not the case. When I was coming back from the market one exceptionally hot day, I saw smoke coming up over the hill. I knew instantly that it was the vineyard. I pushed the horses to go as fast as they could, but with the heavy cart it was not fast enough, so I sprang out of the carriage and flew. At that point, I didn’t care who saw me.”

  I close my eyes and images of the burning house and blood flash sharply. I snap them open, not willing to see that again.

  “When I got there, it was a sight I had never seen and hope to never see again. The family had come back, all the men, and several villagers they’d recruited. They had slaughtered all the animals and set fire to the house and barn. I rushed to each animal that was still alive, suffering, and took away their pain. I saw a man with an ax chasing Maggie. In an instant, two men were on me and a garrote was around my neck.” My palms are sweating and my body’s heat is rising. “Luckily, I had taken to wearing a wide metal choker hidden by a scarf—for reasons that are yet another story—so I was able to fight them off. They didn’t expect me to be as strong as I was. I killed each one with his own blade. When more men came running towards me, I blasted pain into their hearts and they burst where they stood. As Maggie was running at me, barking to warn me, a blade caught me in the back and went through my stomach. The man who did that burned alive from the inside. When I fell, Maggie was there beside me, but she was bleeding from so many places I couldn’t even tell where.” I take a shaky breath.

  “She lay with me as our blood mingled together on the dusty ground. I made sure she was in no pain. Her eyes went dark and her chest went still. From her body arose her Spirit and she stood over me, guarding me, until the last breath had left my body.” Tears are blurring my vision, and they quietly spill over.

  Sylvia seems to have been crying for a while, and her hands cover her mouth, her shoulders trembling. Jo clutches her chest with her hands, fighting the tears that are building.

  I look over to Maggie, who is still feigning sleep. “And she’s been with me ever since.”

  21

  It’s after midnight when the ladies leave, too sad and depressed to continue with our jovial banter. I feel guilty for bringing them down. When I look back, I must fight the anger, the self-pity, and the shame I feel over the suffering of those around me. Many lives were spent letting bitterness rule over everything I did. That is one of my biggest regrets. Thankfully, when I mastered flying, I found the perfect way to expel a great deal of these negative thoughts and feelings in the form of thunder and lightning—neither of which strike anyone as odd on a cloudy day. Plus, no one can hear you scream when you are that high up.

  As I recline on the chaise, staring up at the lush trumpet vines, my thoughts turn to Cal. His text was short, only saying hello and identifying who it was in case I had deleted his number, which I had. It took me a few lifetimes, but I’ve learned not to pine. At least, not too much.

  As if on cue, my phone buzzes. I’m certain it’s Cal as both Jo and Sylvia were so drunk and depressed that I’m sure they hit their beds as soon as they got home. It is Cal, asking me if I’m awake. I sigh and lay the phone on my chest. A delightful shiver passes over my body when I remember sitting with him here under the stars. I recall the taste of him, the strength of his hands, the almost overpowering heat of his body. It has been so very long since anyone has touched me like that.

  Without another thought, I reply. I’m awake.

  Can I come over? Is it too late?

  I’m really not interested in a booty call. I’m smiling, wondering if he’ll take that as a joke or an admonishment. After several minutes, his response comes through as several messages. I sit up to read them.

  I hope you’re joking. I think you are but I dunno.

  I just wanted to apologize in person not in text for the way I acted.

  There’s so much I want to say. I guess they are more like questions really. I’ve been thinking about you a lot.

  Every time I’d pick the phone up I’d put it back down.

  The way I acted was just plain shitty. I have no excuse for that.

  I’m sorry. I hope you can forgive me.

  I read the pride in him crumbling as he taps out these words. My cheeks are aching from the huge smile on my face. He’s been thinking about me! the schoolgirl voice in my head yells. I cross my legs under me and hunch over the bright screen.

  Apology accepted. I understand more than you know.

  You can come over. I’m on the roof.

  The door to the shop will open for you.

  I wonder if he’s taken aback by my last comment. I am a witch, mister, get used to it. I want to put this in a text and add a smiley face but decide against it.

  His reply is a simple ok. OMW. With that, I throw myself from the chaise and race downstairs to brush my teeth and reapply some deodorant.

  The house alerts me to Cal’s entrance; it exhales a long-held breath as the front door opens.

  I wipe my sweaty palms on my pants and reposition myself again on the chaise. (I’ve been doing that for the last five minutes.) When he comes through the door, I jump up—my careful plans of being aloof and casual fly out the window.

  “Hi,” he says, holding the screen door s
o it doesn’t bang against the frame.

  “Hi.” I can’t think of what to do with my hands, so I clasp them in front of me. He seems just as nervous, and his hands are in his pockets as he approaches.

  “Thanks for letting me come over. Sorry it’s so late.” He looks around, avoiding eye contact.

  “It’s okay. It’s not that late.” I motion for him to sit across from me.

  He falls into the lounger and leans forward, planting his elbows on his knees and putting his face in his hands. He makes an exasperated sound. After a long moment, he sits up, raking a hand through his unkempt hair.

  “Aven, I am so sorry. I panicked. That really freaked me out. I didn’t know what the hell all that was.” He finally looks at me and winces. “I keep picturing you on the bed, bleeding with bruises everywhere…and then I yelled at you!” He rubs his face briskly with both hands. “I wanted to apologize the next day, but I was too embarrassed. Then the more time went by, the harder it was. I am so ashamed of how I reacted.”

  “Well, I admit that I’m glad to see that you seem upset by your behavior.” This comes out more harshly than I meant.

  His tired face holds a pair of questioning eyes.

  “I’d hate to think you were really that much of a dick.”

  This gets a grin from him, and he leans back in the lounger.

  “Can you blame me, though? That’s a helluva introduction to witchcraft!” He snorts a laugh.

  I grin at him. “So, you believe me then?”

  He groans. “I don’t know what I believe.”

  “I hadn’t meant to reveal myself to you like that. What a way to run a guy off! But, what’s done is done. The question that remains is whether you can accept it. Accept me.” There is no point in stringing this out. If he can’t, he needs to go.

  “You sure like your ultimatums.” He is frowning at me. His words make me pause.