Sasha’s words gave Pita the sensation of icy fingers walking up her spine. She shivered involuntarily. Her friend’s dark eyes were watchful and introspective.
“What?” Pita shifted in her seat. The feeling of a bad omen returned. The wind outside picked up. It whispered around the eaves of the house and scraped a branch against the clapboard siding.
Sasha tapped a finger at her pursed lips a moment before answering. “Long ago, when I was just a child, I remember something that involved a wolf. As a matter of fact, I believe that’s one of the reasons my parents picked up and left Romania.” She furrowed her brow in concentration as if trying to pull the memory out of the long-closed recesses of her mind.
Sasha’s eyes grew unfocused, her expression that of someone looking into the past. “I was five years old. I remember my parents talking in whispers as they sat up late one night. I crept out of bed, sat quietly in the doorway of the main room, and listened. It seems a cousin of my father’s had been badly mauled by a wolf and later died. It had happened the same year I was born.”
“God, that’s horrible. But, why would something that happened five years prior make your parent’s pickup and move to another country?”
“Well, it was two-fold. My father told my mother he was being stalked by a wolf. He’d seen the creature on several occasions. He was convinced the wolf was after him. So, my parents agreed that the best thing to do would be to move away to protect all of us and the fact that the Roma were ill-treated and disliked by so many, they believed the move might give me better opportunities in life.”
“Did you ever talk to them about this?”
“I tried, but they would never speak of it.” Sasha sat back and softly said, “Call the seer, Pita.”
****
That night Pita tossed and turned. Sleep evaded her. In her mind’s eye, she saw the amber eyes of the wolf, their bestial glow focused on her. Lying in bed, the tingling sensation of goose flesh covered her body, and she once again felt the extreme desolation and loneliness of the wolf. Tears came unbidden to her eyes. A heavy sadness filled her. What was it the wolf tried to communicate and why? What had she to offer the forest creature in means of consolation? As quickly as the feeling came over her, it faded and in her mind, the woman’s words repeated like a phonograph needle stuck on a scratched record. Finally, exhausted and at the edge of frustration, she fell asleep.
Chapter 3
Two days later, after much indecision, Pita found herself in a worn but spotless retro-sixties style kitchen. She sat at a scarred metal and vinyl table. A delicate china cup and saucer in front of her, the gentle mist rising from the fragrant tea worked to whisk away the remaining tension and misgivings that Pita felt coming here.
Floricita Faa sat across from her and held Pita’s hand, palm up. Sunshine streamed through the window behind her, glowing stabs of yellow and gold lattice criss-crossed the tabletop. She turned Pita’s hand to and fro, pursing her wrinkled lips as she studied Pita’s palm for several minutes. The only sound the hum of the refrigerator and the occasional chirps of the birds outside. Pita found the anticipation unnerving. She glanced around the room to distract herself, taking in the gleaming tiled walls of yellow with green trim, the white ceramic sink and Formica countertops marbled to match the tile. Baskets and pots hung on whitewashed walls.
Gently, the older woman set Pita’s hand on the table. It lay palm up like a dead crab. She resisted the urge to pull her hand back.
“Please swirl the tea for a count of three times and then drink of it. This will make it yours. I will read the leaves left in the bottom, dear.”
Pita did as instructed then asked, “What do you see in my hand?”
Floricita shook her head. “No, dear, I will read the tea leaves for you but I am unable to give you a proper palm reading.”
“May I ask why?” She asked between sips of the delicious, spiced tea. The woman had just spent a century gazing and studying her palm. Pita knitted her brows together. “You approached me. Now you say you won’t give me a reading? I don’t understand.” Setting the delicate china cup on the saucer maybe a tad too hard, she continued. “You told me you had something of great importance to tell me.”
“Yes, my dear. I see things that others cannot. Each of us has an aura that surrounds us. A sort of energy field, so to speak. Yours is very vivid. Once I look at the tealeaves, I will tell you all I see. So please, drink until it is gone.”
Pita lifted the small teacup and drank the last sip of liquid leaving a residue of tealeaves stuck to the sides and bottom of the cup. She handed the cup to Floricita who studied it quietly for several minutes.
Pita sat back, feeling more relaxed than she would have imagined. Despite the unease she’d had about contacting the woman, she felt comfortable now that she was here. Floricita had a gentle calming quality about her. Her soft accent lulled Pita. She’d expected the old woman to take her into a darkened room with a crystal ball set in the middle of a small round table. She was glad and not a bit disappointed that she sat in a most normal, if antiquated, cheery kitchen. The woman before her could be her great-grandmother sharing a bit of the old-world craft with her.
Floricita’s warm gaze spoke tenderness meant to comfort. Pita eyed her back in askance. Somehow, Pita knew, whether because she always saw the glass as half empty rather than half full or just intuitive process, this reading would not be a happy ever after ending. She braced herself for what the seer would tell her.
“See here.” She pointed a crooked index finger into the cup. “This shape represents a door. You will have or have already had some sort of paranormal visit or odd event happen. It is on the edge and closer to the top of the cup, so that tells me it has happened recently or will happen.”
A warm flush passed over Pita, but she held herself straight and gave Floricita all her attention, staving the urge to validate the statement.
“This symbol is a book. It is closed, which tells me that you need to look into something or investigate a situation and finally, this last is a candle. You will have guidance in your quest.”
Floricita placed the cup on the table and stood. She went to the sink and drew a cold glass of water, and handed it to Pita.
“Thank you,” Pita said softly. “What does all this mean?”
“You tell me,” Floricita said as she sat back down folding her hands neatly before her on the table. Pita, eyes wide and alert though wary, stared back at the woman. How could she know?
Floricita gazed patiently at her, waiting, dark eyes open and warm. Pita averted hers and glanced down at her clasped hands. Taking a deep breath, she once again met the woman’s gentle orbs.
“I almost hit a gray wolf the night you approached me. I swerved and skidded to a stop safely. Not sure what had been in the road, I looked over and the animal still stood there. It seemed to be…. I…uh…it seemed to be trying to communicate with me. I felt a great sadness overwhelm me, but the feeling was gone as fast as it had come.” Pita wrung her hands as she spoke. “I told my friend of the incident, and she advised me to talk to you. Sasha—my friend— was born in Romania though raised here, but her parents still hold to the old world Roma traditions and superstitions. Anyway, she thought you would be able to help decipher the events and advise me accordingly.”
Pita smiled weakly at Floricita, who nodded and waved her hand encouraging Pita to continue.
“Well, she seemed to think that something or someone was trying to communicate with me, though, I have no idea why. I have never had any such experience before and, frankly, I admit I am spooked.” She shuddered as a chill passed over her. “Floricita, why won’t you read my palm? You’ve read from the tealeaves yet, you won’t tell me what you see in my palm.”
“It is simple, child. I cannot give you a reading because you are not gadjkané. You are of Roma descent, my child. It would be taboo for me to read your palm. I ought not to have read the tealeaves but, so be it.” She allowed a mischievous smile to cross
her wrinkled little face.
Pita gaped at her, then, realized she’d rather not resemble a flytrap and closed her mouth. “What do you mean? My parents are not Gypsies, I mean Roma.” Pita corrected remembering that the term ‘Gypsy’ was lowly and likely taken as insult. “They were born here in this country. My mother was a teacher and my father a chemist for a large contracting company.” Pita explained defensively.
She knew that the couple whom had raised her since infancy was not her biological parents. They’d told her as much, but they’d never told her who her true parents were or where she was born. But, how did Floricita know this? This was getting weirder and weirder. She shuddered and hugged her arms around herself, feeling suddenly insecure and edgy.
Floricita, seeming to take no offense to Pita’s indignant outburst, laid a hand on her arm, and as if reading her mind said gently, “There is much I know, dear one, and much you need to find out. I am but a vessel to help lead you in the right direction. The rest is up to you, child.”
Chewing her bottom lip pensively, Pita asked, “And exactly what direction am I supposed to go?”
She knew she’d come off a bit snarky but her unease was getting the better of her. Floricita, on the other hand, looked unaffected and as calm as if they talked of the weather and other such menial topics. Her dark eyes bore into Pita’s lighter ones. “Your adoptive parents are dead, killed two years ago in an automobile accident. They have never told you of your roots. You must find your past to secure your future, child.”
Once again, Pita’s mouth dropped open. She slapped a hand over it, eyes wide with shock. “How do you know these things?” she whispered. Tears came unwittingly to her eyes and spilled over in two fat drops that ran down her cheeks before she could blink them back.
“I know many things as I said. I tell you only to help you, child, not to hurt you. Please do not fear the things I say. Heed them, for they will help you find your true self.”
Again, Pita felt as if the old woman were inside her heart and head. She’d often wondered who her blood parents were but never bothered to do any serious searches. First, she hadn’t wanted to hurt her adoptive parents, then, she’d been so grief stricken over their untimely deaths that she could not even consider doing it. Somehow, she felt it would discredit the people who had brought her up and loved her all her life, sort of like she’d slapped them in the face. But, in her heart, she’d wanted to know where she’d come from, who she resembled, who she really was.
Chapter 4
Pita drove through the tree-lined suburban streets with as many questions buzzing around her brain as bees in a hive. The late afternoon sun painted the streets with lacey patterns as it filtered through the tunnel-like covering of trees along the roadway. Try as she might to concentrate on the golden patterns of light, she could not quell the anxiety that tightened her chest. Unbidden, her eyes darted from side to side of the road searching the tree line.
Not much in the mood for the radio, the only sounds were the soft whirr of the air conditioner and the low hum of tires on the asphalt.
Once again, her eyes slid to the roadside as a blur of green leaves and brown bark sped past. She sighed and caught her reflection in the rearview mirror.
“See, no wolves.” She whispered to her own haunted eyes. Eyes that were dark green not brown or even black like she knew the Roma characteristic to be. Her hair was a golden brown not darkly toned, and her features were not even remotely Romanian, so what did all this mean? Who were her biological parents? How in the world would she be able to trace her heritage? Pita sighed in frustration. She had no idea even where to begin.
She made a right onto Mountain View Drive and a quick left into the post office parking lot. She needed to pickup a couple of manuscripts mailed to her return receipt required.
At least she’d have some work to do, she thought, as she hurried into the post office and got in line. It would force her mind away from the weirdness of the last few days. Freelance proofreading and copy-editing earned her little money but Pita loved it. She could work from home at her own pace, no clocks to punch, and no one standing over her shoulder. Her parents’ accident had left her with an insurance settlement and the family home. The house she’d sold—the loss of her parents had erased any desire to live there. Finally her turn, Pita approached the counter, collected her parcels, and left.
Back at her car, Pita sighed again and hoisted the manuscripts onto the passenger seat, then climbed into her Honda Prelude.
On the road again, she had one more stop and then she’d head home.
A few minutes later, she turned into the library on Deer Creek Road. She wanted to find some reference materials on Gypsy folklore and culture. Between Sasha and Floricita, she was building a nasty case of Pandora’s Box syndrome. Once her curiosity spiked there was no turning back. She wanted to find out exactly what was going on. If she opened the proverbial lid, so be it.
Pita passed through the automatic doors and inhaled the pleasant scent of old paper mingled with ink. The only sounds were the whisper of pages turning and the rap-tap-tap of computer keys. The quiet enveloped her and gave her a sense that she stood apart from the world and everyday normal activity. Frazzled nerves began to settle, and she headed for the reference material section. After wandering around and not finding anything, Pita approached the information desk. An elderly woman with reading glasses perched on the tip of her nose gazed up at her.
“May I help you?”
“Yes….please. I’m looking for some information referencing Romanian Gypsies. But I didn’t see much except what’s located in the encyclopedias.”
“Just a moment, please. Let me see…” The woman began tapping at her keyboard. “Hmm… Nothing but juvenile books coming up. I don’t think that is what you want.” She smiled and shook her head. “Nope, that’s it. Nothing at the other sites either. I’m sorry.”
“Thanks, anyway.”
“Is there anything else I can help you with?”
“No. I guess not.”
Pita left the library empty handed and frustrated. Late afternoon sun dipped behind the trees, and the air cooled into early evening. She opened the windows allowing the freshness of the breeze to wash over her hoping to cleanse away the foreboding darkness that settled into her soul.
****
Later that evening, Pita plopped into an overstuffed chair with one of the manuscripts in front of her on the ottoman and a steaming cup of coffee on the table beside her. She reached to pick up the manuscript when a memory flashed through her mind as vivid as if the item were right there in front of her.
“Ohmigod,” she blurted on a whispered sigh. “I’d forgotten about that. Perhaps...”
Pita jumped up and hurried into her bedroom, towards the walk-in closet. She recalled an old lock box she’d kept when she’d emptied her parent’s house. The vanity bench scraped against the floor as she hauled it into the closet and climbed up to get a better view of the back shelf where she’d put the box.
Ahhh…there it is.
Pita reached back, rising on her toes to lift it, she felt the bench tilt, her heart lurched, but she kept her balance, and got a hold of the box. She stepped down off the bench and carried the lock box into the bedroom.
She turned it over in her hands. The metal surface, once light grey and smooth, now pocked with rust and dented with age. A predecessor of the modern day security boxes, but in lieu of a combination lock, it had a keyhole reminiscent of the old-fashioned skeleton keys.
“Damn.” She left the box on the bed and went in search of a screwdriver or something to pick the lock.
A short time later, Pita knelt at the foot of the bed, working an ice pick around in the keyhole. Just as the lock sprung, the telephone rang. Hesitating for the span of a breath, she left the box to answer the call.
Chapter 5
After she filled Sasha in on the day’s events, they made plans to meet the next day. The grumbling of her stomach acted as a swift remi
nder that she hadn’t eaten since lunch.
Pita placed a slice of quiche into the microwave and made a small salad. When warmed, she retrieved the food and set it on the small breakfast bar with the salad. Pita glanced out the window as she drew herself a glass of water and realized night had fallen. She stared in awe for a moment at the beauty of the silvery full moon that hovered just above the tree line. It whitewashed the yard with its brilliance. As Pita watched, a wisp of black feathery cloud crossed its face. In the distance, the muted howl of a wolf split the silence with its solemn song. Gooseflesh rose in a shiver on her skin before she realized it was a dog…or was it?
Pita turned and crossed the kitchen, mentally shaking away the ominous thoughts, and then sat down to her dinner feeling every bit as lonely as the animal whose cry had just rent the still night.
****
Eyes tired and burning from reading for so long, Pita set the manuscript aside and stood to stretch the kinks out of her neck and back. Groaning aloud, she decided to take a quick shower before bed. Glancing at the grandfather clock in the corner of the living room, Pita gasped, surprised that it was well after midnight. So involved with the read, she hadn’t even heard the clock toll the hour or the half hour, for that matter. Yawning, she headed into the bedroom.
Two steps into the room, she stopped and muttered, “Crap. I’d forgotten all about you.”
The lockbox lay abandoned where she’d left it on the end of the bed. Anticipation unfurled in her stomach like a small animal waking. Pita approached the bed and laid her fingers over the cool surface of the metal lid. She traced the edge and then turned away. Emotions rallied within her. If she opened the box and it contained no clue or hint at who she is and where she came from, the disappointment would be devastating. However, if she opened it and found just a tiny clue, she’d be way too wired to sleep.
Curse Of The Marhime Page 2
