The White Raven

by Carrie D. Miller

  “I’ll get them,” I say.

  “Good luck.” Cal rolls his eyes.

  As soon as I get to the screen door, the shouting increases in volume. Jo has changed her mind at the last minute, ordering Sylvia to go get this instead of that, and she no longer needs this, she needs that, so stop wasting time and do as she says. Sylvia’s not budging, and I walk into a standoff in the kitchen.

  “Enough!” Both women jump, then frown at me. “Jo, you’re prepared. You are completely prepared so try to relax. Sylvia, you’re packed. Both of you get into the truck. Now.” I sound like a schoolmarm. My expression leaves no room for argument.

  Sylvia huffs at her mother, grabs her backpack from the kitchen table, and stalks from the room. Jo looks ready to fight but stops herself. She puts her hands to her chest and closes her eyes with a deep breath. I put a hand on her shoulder and give it a squeeze. “Everything will go fine. I’m sure of it.” The confidence in my voice belies the way my gut feels. Jo has done so much work, she has stressed so much, and I fear it may be for nothing. None of this shows on my face, and she smiles back at me, giving a firm nod of agreement. I am also haunted by the notion that it will work, and I will see something that I don’t want to see. After what I’ve already experienced in my lives, I can’t imagine what was so horrific that I cast a spell on myself to forget it.

  “Why isn’t Maggie coming?” Sylvia asks as she leans against the truck, watching her mother inspect the contents of the truck bed.

  “Someone has to make sure the fairies don’t throw a wild party or otherwise get out of hand,” I say. “She wasn’t happy about staying behind at all.” Maggie’s big brown eyes had made me feel so guilty when I locked up the shop this morning that I almost relented, but no—the fairies can’t be left unsupervised.

  After another fifteen minutes of second guessing and last minute changes, we are on the road to Mount Greylock. Sylvia, having been up all night helping her mother, falls asleep in the back seat in a matter of minutes. Her ability to fall asleep anywhere annoys Jo immensely. I tell Jo she should nap also; it’s only a little over three hours to get there, and she needs to rest. She dismisses the suggestion with a snort and pulls out her grimoire for yet another review of her incantation.

  The drive goes smoothly with Cal’s snooty GPS device announcing every turn and advising on traffic conditions. I marvel at the device. It seems like magick itself. The leaps technology has taken since the 1880s is truly astounding.

  Cal and I chatter about nothing in particular for the first hour. Once the quiet of highway driving settles in, we both drift into our own worlds. Cal is focused on the road, one hand on the wheel and the other on the console entwined with mine, and I stare out at the scenery whirring past in a blur of green, red, and gold. Above us flies the white raven. She could surpass us easily and be at the site way before we are, but she wants to keep an eye on us. I see her in the side mirror, weaving in the air currents, thoroughly enjoying the crisp, clean morning. The sight of her makes me smile. I lay my head back and watch her mesmerizing dance.

  We set out early enough, surprisingly, to make it to Greylock with plenty of light for the hike to the site Ren found. The road to the primitive camping location is rough, and the jolt from hitting a deep hole snaps Sylvia awake with a start. “Are we there yet?”

  “Almost,” Cal says, both hands on the wheel as he slowly navigates the poorly maintained road.

  Butterflies bloom in my stomach. I swallow reflexively. It’s not much longer now…

  No campers are around, which is what we’d hoped for. Cal parks the truck at the edge of the small clearing, and we file out at the same time. Sylvia looks around with confusion. “Um, where’s the bathroom?”

  Cal guffaws. “There’s no bathroom! This is the primitive camping area. Primitive means you shit in the woods.”

  His crudeness makes the three of us stare at him. He turns, conscious of the many eyes on him and his own embarrassment. “Sorry,” he says. “Don’t worry, Syl, I have all the gear needed for, uh, bio breaks in the woods.” The gear turns out to be a toilet seat on folding legs with a seal for affixing a bag below the seat. He presents the toilet seat and a small, collapsible shovel to Sylvia with pride.

  Her mouth falls open. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

  He pushes the items at her, and she takes them reluctantly. “Nope. But you only need the bag for number two. Make sure to bury it when you’re done.”

  Sylvia’s expression makes us break into laughter. She glares at each one of us, snorts in disgust, and stalks off into the nearest line of trees, leaves crunching loudly under her stomping feet.

  “Watch out for poison oak!” Jo says, still laughing. An exasperated shriek comes from within the trees.

  “Didn’t you two camp out for Matilda’s farewell ritual?” I ask.

  “We stayed in a motel.” Jo then looks in Sylvia’s direction and lowers her voice. “She hates camping. Don’t let her know you know. She didn’t want to miss this.”

  The jovial mood helps pull me out of my gloomy haze. I take a moment to enjoy the serenity around me. The forest is alive with autumn colors, making the dark green fir trees stand out that much more. The air is clean and fresh, tinged with the smells of pine and decomposing leaves. I walk to the nearest tree, a large white pine, its branches packed with long, blue-green needles and overcrowded with cones. I brush my hands across the spiky limbs, releasing a burst of fragrance that I inhale deeply. Greeting the tree spirits and wood nymphs, I apologize in advance for any disruption we might cause in their very peaceful forest.

  “Hey, don’t worry, I can unload the truck all by myself. No help needed, thanks!” Cal calls out, standing on the lowered tail gate, hands on hips.

  Jo’s coming from the trees, more than likely communing with Nature as well. Her face is peaceful, her forehead smoother than it has been in weeks. I stop for a moment to admire the woman who is not only my friend but also someone I could call sister, even mother sometimes. Guilt lurches into my throat at the thought of how disappointed she’ll be when this doesn’t work. I shake that thinking out of my head. The best way to make a spell fail is to doubt.

  “I just love it out here,” she says, taking a few sleeping bags from the bed of the truck.

  “Me too. My dad used to take us camping around here a lot when we were kids.” Cal’s face reflects his contentment.

  We collectively turn towards the sound of crunching leaves. Sylvia emerges from the tree line, looking triumphant.

  “I did it!” She brandishes the toilet seat and shovel in the air. “Took me a while but it all came out in the end.” She giggles at her unexpected joke.

  “Congratulations! Good job.” Cal gives her two thumbs up.

  Jo scoffs at their crudeness. We have become quite the little family over the business of the past life ritual. My heart bursts at seeing the man I love so open and welcoming to this strange world he’s stumbled into. I only hope his strength and good humor last.

  We set up a small campsite by the truck, but we won’t be using it. This is a decoy for any other campers or rangers that come by. All the trappings of an active campsite are laid out. We brought doubles of everything. We’ll actually be camping at the ritual site, which is strictly against park regulations. It’s only for one night, so with some luck and a few well-placed diversion spells, we shouldn’t be discovered.

  It seems to take forever before everyone is packed up and ready for the trek. As Jo huffs on her heavy backpack, Cal and I exchange worried glances. Regardless of his multiple conversations with her about her ability to hike, and her reassurances that she could hike circles around him, we are both still anxious. She’s not as young as she used to be. Jo reminds us for the tenth time of her recent excursion to her family’s sacred site in these mountains ‘all by her lonesome.’ She’s much tougher than I give her credit for. Regardless, Cal will take the lead, and I’ll follow behind the ladies.

  Cal puts away his map
at the sight of the white raven landing on the gnarled branch of an old, dead oak across the clearing. She calls out a greeting, flapping her wings to beckon us to her.

  “Well, here we go.” Jo grabs the backpack straps at her shoulders and marches towards the bird. Sylvia is quickly on her heels, and I fall in behind. A twinge of excitement flutters in my stomach.

  With his long strides, Cal reaches Ren before the rest of us. In the afternoon sun, the brightness of her white feathers sparkles with hints of silver. She paces back and forth on the branch, gurgling excitedly, ready to get moving.

  Slow, too slow! She opens her wings and flaps at us.

  “Keep your feathers on. Granny’s coming,” Jo huffs.

  I tried to convince Cal that he didn’t need to map our route through the woods. Ren knew where the site was and would lead us there, but he’s done it anyway. I love a man who’s prepared. I kiss his cheek before he starts after the bird. He squeezes my hand and disappears into the trees with a wink.

  I hear the birds and animals around us, scampering to hide from these noisy and unwelcome visitors. A pair of sharp, large eyes is upon us, watching with great interest. I reach out to the lone black bear and tell him that he need not be threatened by us, we will not disturb him. He can resume his trek to the cave he plans to hibernate in without worry. Without a response, he turns away and continues his path leading away from us.

  Despite the chill, I’m sweating from the weight of my clothing and gear, and probably from nerves. Jo, on the other hand, looks fine and is not puffing nearly as much as her daughter. Cal’s eyes are on the treetops, keeping Ren in sight at all times.

  In the next hour, we angle steeply uphill, forcing Jo to pull out her walking stick—a gift from her late husband, she says with great affection. The dark red mahogany is elaborately carved to resemble the body of a dragon, its head the grip and its tail the point. Despite obvious signs of use, the cane looks well cared for. Sylvia laments not bringing one. Cal stops and pulls off his backpack. Digging deep into the pack, he pulls out two collapsible metal walking sticks. Sylvia snatches one with glee and a quick thank you. Cal extends the other to me, but I decline. With a raised eyebrow and an ‘are you sure?’ look, he stuffs the stick back into the pack.

  The sun is starting its descent when we reach our destination. We break through the tree line to see an idyllic setting: a wide, babbling stream, fringed with fir trees of all varieties and fallen logs covered with furry green moss. There is a swath of the stream’s bank clear of trees, and the sky is broad and open before us. Jo proclaims that it’s just perfect and thanks Ren profusely. Cal proceeds to move some large rocks from the spot where he plans to put our tent. Jo halts his progress, declaring that she needs to identify the ritual area before the campsite can be set up. He bows low at her command and Sylvia giggles.

  Jo removes her burden and rummages through her pack to pull out four thin, metal candle holders. The matte black iron is ornately twisted and each one is topped with a pentagram. She walks towards the stream, humming a haunting tune I’m not familiar with. The clearing is at a fork in the stream, making it more like a small river, wide and appearing deep in the middle. With eyes closed, Jo walks through the clearing, never stumbling or tripping over the rocks and branches strewn about. She makes a full circle, then repeats her path, placing a candlestick at each cardinal point without the need of a compass. Once each is placed, she calls to Sylvia for the salt. She has it ready and presents the bag of coarse salt to her mother, her face solemn.

  Jo retraces her steps around the circle, pouring the salt around the perimeter, ensuring there are no gaps or breaks in the curved line. Once finished, she returns to the center and raises her arms to the sky, calling out to the Goddess to bless their circle.

  Cal leans over to me and whispers. “Can I set up camp now?”

  I nod. “Just not anywhere inside the circle.”

  He gives me a thumbs up and turns to get the gear. Sylvia nonchalantly bends towards him and whispers, “And don’t mess up the salt. Mom will kill you.”

  Night falls quickly once the tents are set up. Sylvia and I are stacking logs and branches in a conical pattern inside the circle at Jo’s direction. Cal comes back from a bio break in the woods and notices the stack.

  “Whoa, whoa. We can’t have a fire. We’ll get busted.”

  “Not to worry, my friend, Aven has seen to that,” Jo says in a happy tone.

  He gives me a quizzical look.

  “I’ve cast a spell so that no one will pay attention to this area. If they notice anything, they’ll look away and not think twice.”

  “Serious?” He frowns at me. I nod and continue arranging the wood. He shakes his head and ducks into our tent. I ask Sylvia if she’ll finish, telling her that I need to talk to Cal. She gives me a lascivious wink-wink and urges me on. I roll my eyes.

  Cal empties the remainder of his pack, looking more as if he’s giving himself something to do.

  “Cal?” He turns and smiles, then turns back to his task.

  I kneel beside him and lean against his arm. I inhale the faint traces of his cologne and run my hand around the tense muscles between his shoulder blades. He moans and rests his hands in his lap, savoring the feel of my nails on his back.

  “I can’t tell you how wonderful you’ve been about all of this,” I say. “I don’t know what is going to happen tonight, what you’ll see and hear. But whatever happens, please don’t let it freak you out.”

  His eyes are closed when he responds. “I meant what I said about wanting to know all about your life.” He takes my free hand and squeezes. “But it’s hard. Almost forty years of thinking magic is a load of crap won’t be wiped away overnight.”

  I want to joke that it just may after tonight, but I don’t. I know the sacrifice he made to be with me for this. His family’s gathering is tomorrow, and he feigned illness so that he could come with me. It bothered him to lie to his family. I told him to go, but he wouldn’t hear it. He said I needed him whether I knew it or not. I did know it, but I wasn’t about to say it, knowing how important his family is to him.

  “I love you,” comes out of my mouth before I realize I’m thinking it. Cal’s body stiffens, and I instantly regret those words. We only recently decided we were boyfriend-girlfriend and here I am saying I love him! I’m glad he can’t see my face; my cheeks burn with embarrassment.

  He faces me and I turn away. He takes my face in his hands and his lips find mine, passionate, eager. I don’t resist when he pulls me to him. The heat builds between us, but I am conscious of the voices of Jo and Sylvia only a few steps away. He hears them too and we slowly part. He pushes his forehead against mine, resting his hands on either side of my neck.

  “I love you, too, Aven,” he says, eyes closed. A relieved sigh escapes my lips, and I grip his hands. I almost say ‘thank you.’

  32

  The full moon is high in the night sky, shining brightly upon our sacred circle.

  Tall, rolled black beeswax candles mark the four quarters of the circle, nestled in the black iron candlesticks. Jo stands at the North point, hands raised overhead, welcoming Arianrhod, Goddess of reincarnation, and all benevolent spirits to our circle. Only love may enter, only love may leave. The hood of her heavy black velvet robe is pushed back, revealing a solemn face, marked with protective sigils in black kohl. Jo’s hands and arms are likewise adorned, and she wears only her protective amulets.

  Sylvia stands at the East point, garbed and marked similarly to her mother except her robe is of dark fuchsia, made by her own hand. Cal fidgets at the West, unsure of what to do with his hands or where to look. He wears a black long-sleeved shirt and black jeans. After three women badgered him about his need for protection during his very first, and this very untried ritual, Sylvia was allowed to mark his exposed skin with as many protective symbols as would fit. He wears one of Jo’s polished obsidian necklaces and holds a chunk of black tourmaline in each hand.

  I a
m poised in the South quarter, standing several feet behind the candlestick and outside the protective salt circle, as I must be immersed in the stream. My robe is of the darkest purple, thick and warm, and I am naked underneath. My body is unadorned as I am the focus of this ritual and must be open to whatever comes. A swath of black satin covers my eyes to represent that I have blinded myself to my past, and to keep me from seeing the many lives I will step back through to get to my first. I am trembling. Not from the cold night air or the cold water lapping around my feet but from anticipation and a spot of fear.

  The small bonfire illuminates our circle. If one looks closely, the shadows of loving spirits can be seen dancing around the flames. I sense the black bear I encountered during our trek as well as that of a mountain lion, and a wolf. There is also an owl across the water behind me. Each is quiet, watching from a distance. Ren is undisturbed by their presence, and they bring me comfort. She perches atop Jo’s walking stick, which is embedded in the ground to Jo’s right, the charm on her breast reflecting the rapid flickering of the fire. She gazes at me through the fire with loving eyes.

  My mind is clear of all noise and distraction. I am focused intently on the goal of this ritual. I must see my first life, I must know what happened, I must break through the barrier I created.

  With the circle cast and blessed, I remove my robe and toss it onto the bank. Cal gasps, not having realized I was naked, and Sylvia shushes him. The rush of cold air is a shock, but I ignore it. My focus is critical. Beneath my blindfold, my eyes are closed. Earlier, I walked the path in the water I would take during the ritual and cleared it of stones and sticks, anything that could trip me in the darkness.

  I lift my arms from my sides as Jo begins the incantation. My skin chills at the deep, haunting voice she uses.

  Arianrhod, Goddess of the Silver Wheel,

  Let us turn back, HELP us to turn back.