“Juliana, you are my precious granddaughter. Castle Hill is a dangerous place. You risk your life by going there. For the love of your family, and your own life, don’t go near there.”
Her eyes plead with me.
“I won’t,” I say with as much sincerity as I can express, but I feel awful that I’ve already broken her trust by going to the castle yesterday and I’m too much of a coward to admit it now. I also can’t admit I never want to step foot in Castle Hill again.
“Although,” she coos at me, “it wouldn’t hurt you to go out on a date with that nice looking boy.”
I roll my eyes heavenward. “He didn’t ask me to go on a date, Grandma,” I say with extreme exasperation.
“He will though, bet your bottom dollar.”
I let it go. I’m not in the mood to talk boys with my grandmother — not that I ever am. Other more pressing concerns take priority in the moment. If I don’t ask, I’m afraid it might haunt me forever.
“Grandma?”
“Yes?”
“Is the story about the little boy being attacked by a mountain lion at Castle Hill true? Did anyone ever confirm what happened to him?”
Her brows furrow and her mouth pinches. Her hands are busy with the little dials on the pricing gun. She answers but doesn’t look up.
“No one ever found enough evidence to confirm it was a cougar attack, but I know that’s what happened.”
She turns her deep set eyes to me and they are filled with sadness. I feel the same sadness and look away.
She’s matter of fact as she tells me the rest. “I have seen his tragedy. It replays over and over again. It is so terrible.”
“What do you mean? You’ve seen his ghost?”
I try to control the shake in my voice but my hands betray me and I knock over a bottle. It clatters across the wood floor, spinning like a carnival ride, and disappears under a shelf.
“Whoops.” I go after it and find it unbroken. I inspect and dust it beyond the necessary effort needed to do so but I’m avoiding Grandma’s somber face as long as possible.
“It’s not his ghost. It is a,” she pauses as if she is being extra careful to explain clearly, “an energy signature, a fossil of sorts. The physical being is gone but there is a picture left behind.”
“Oh.” I keep my response short in hope that she won’t clue into how upset I am.
“Why do you ask about that story? Many bad things have happened at Castle Hill. Another good reason to stay away.” She throws in this last punch to help make her case.
“No real reason. It seems so sad, that’s all.” I move to a different wall and work on the rows of jars. Each one contains a dried herb and there are at least a hundred of them. My dusting cloth moves without any mind power. I assimilate what Grandma has told me and try to make sense of it.
An energy signature or a fossil? An imprint on space. The realization hit me, “It’s like a silent movie, capturing the moment forever.”
“Yes, that’s right.” She sounds pleased I understand. “It is a very sad story,” she agrees.
“Yes it is,” I say under my breath. I hadn’t even realized I’d spoken aloud and was surprised when she had answered me.
I’m uncomfortable, but I decide to ask her about one other thing bothering me from yesterday. The recurring thought is like an aftertaste you keep burping up the flavor of and can’t do anything to stop it from resurfacing.
“Grandma, do people sometimes, I mean, have you ever known when something bad was going to happen to you or someone else?”
“Yes, Julie, knowing what is coming is a gift that runs in our family. I knew your Grandfather would become very ill and die and that there was nothing I could do for him. The knowledge can be a burden but it is also a gift. I knew our time was getting short and we made the most of what we had left. Can you understand that?”
“Yeah, I think so.” I did understand what she was saying but I wasn’t less confused. I felt a powerful feeling yesterday that I might be meeting my maker soon. The thoughts had been filled with loss and memories of my dad. It had confused me. Did it mean I should say my goodbyes? How could I do that and not sound completely whacko? The feeling had left me almost as soon as it had come. What was I supposed to make of it?
I venture a look at Grandma but she is busy pricing a bunch of blue bottles.
What she just told me makes me ask it. “Did you know about my dad?”
“No.” She looks straight into my eyes so I know she isn’t trying to protect my feelings by fudging the truth. “I did not know. That was veiled from me and I cannot thank heaven enough. I don’t think I could have lived with that knowledge.”
I nod at her and return to the jars. I forget that when Jared and I lost our dad she lost her son. How painful must that be? To outlive your child. I’d had a bad feeling that day, about my father before the accident, but I didn’t want to talk about it now.
The universe interrupts on my sad thoughts as the bell over the door jingles, alerting us of a customer.
Chris Abeyta walks in without Lance. I peek out the door around Chris, but Lance is nowhere to be seen. Their meeting must be over. I turn my attention back to Chris and can’t help noticing his customary vest. He wears it like the American flag wears stripes. I’ve never seen him without one and now it’s a sort of game for me to notice. Today’s is khaki and covered in pockets resembling something a fisherman would wear. Maybe he’s going fishing, I think. Doubtful, more like fishing for ghosts at Castle Hill.
I busy myself by continuing to dust and step behind the center row of shelves and conveniently out of sight. Grandma can help Chris.
“Good day, Mr. Abeyta,” Grandma says, cheery as the sun outside.
I’m glad Grandma doesn’t seem to be lingering on our dismal conversation, unlike myself. Chris doesn’t answer, but moves over to stand in front of the jars of dried herbs. I work on the lowest shelves, squatting down close to the floor and I can hear him muttering to himself. He sounds like an old grump and I try not to laugh at the absurdity of this young guy acting like a ninety-year-old having a temper tantrum. I try to cover it up with a cough.
“Goldenseal, gravel root, guarana, horse chestnut, figures they don’t have it. This is totally useless.”
I should ask him if he wants help, but his muttering keeps me at bay. Instead I stand up, making myself more visible in case he does have questions.
He continues talking to himself in a low voice.
“Damiana, dandelion, people pay money for that? Unbelievable. No Datura, figures, strike two, three strikes and I am out of here.”
He picks up one of the jars and holds it up directing his question at my grandmother. “What is buckthorn for?” He is rather brusque and direct, not what we are used to dealing with in here.
“Constipation,” Grandma answers in a matching tone.
“It sounds menacing. Is it poisonous?”
“Not if you’re backed up.”
“Hmmph,” Chris snorts.
“You know I don’t sell poisons, Chris,” she says in her best disapproving mother tone.
I’m reminded that she has probably known Chris since he was born, having been friends of his parents. I see his jaw clench as he puts the white lidded jar back on the shelf. His face and forearms are a deep red-brown color, making me second guess my assumption about the fishing thing. He obviously spends a lot of time outdoors to have such a deep tan over his already bronze colored skin. He’s not a big guy, around five-ten or five-eleven, and lean with wiry muscles. His face is a near perfect oval with a somewhat flat forehead over a narrow straight nose and high cheek bones. There are definite similarities to Jared but Chris doesn’t resemble my brother. His face shape is different and his mouth is smaller. They do have the same black hair, red-brown skin, similar noses, cheeks, and dark eyes. All of which came from my grandfather, were passed to my dad and then on to Jared. My own looks even have some resemblance. Native blood is strong, I decide. Certa
in traits don’t fall far from the rez.
I’ve never felt any strong connection to the Indian reservation outside of town even though they were my grandfather’s people. When he’d been alive, he told me that all of his relations had gone to join the Great Spirit. As it was, only his mother was from there anyway. She’d married an Indian from Arizona. That left my grandmother. She’s also Native American but she’s an Algonquin from the northeast, which is where we get our height and bone structure or maybe it’s from our Irish ancestors on Mom’s side. Who knows.
“What about baneberry? That is poisonous, is it not?” Chris stares at the rows of glass jars as if he is searching for something.
“Yes it is, and you will not find it over there.”
Is Grandma losing her patience? And what is Chris Abeyta asking about poisonous plants for?
“I know where some grows,” he says.
Chris moves over to where I have been trying to look inconspicuous. He looks at me like I am a fly on the wall. I give him a polite smile then move away. The dusting can be finished for today.
Chris brings three bundles of white sage and two braids of sweet grass to the register. I stand at the other end of the counter and watch Grandma ring him up.
“Is that everything for you today?”
It’s a wonder to me how she can act like he wasn’t just asking for known poisons. She sounds normal, but I can see the mix of speculation and curiosity on her face.
“No.”
Could his mood be any worse? I’m so glad I’m not standing where she is.
Grandma peers down her nose at him and raises one long curved eyebrow. A silent warning for him to watch his tone. I used to get the same look when I was about thirteen.
He clears his throat. “I apologize, Mrs. Crowson. My morning has been about as pleasant as using sandpaper to clean my backside.”
“I can make you an herbal cream for that.”
His jaw relaxes at that and his shoulders seem to lose some of the hidden tension. There’s even a twitch at the corner of his mouth. I have to press my lips together so I’m not grinning like a simpleton.
“Unfortunately a cream will not solve my problem. I need some Datura and I don’t have the time to collect it myself. Can you help me with that?”
“Not if you’re going to poison anyone with it.”
“I am not going to use it on anyone but myself. It is for ceremony. The elders say you are the one to ask for any plant.”
“You’ve never asked for it before.”
Chris straightens his shoulders and his vest settles over them. “As I said, I would normally go get it myself.”
“I don’t have that herb here in the store. When is the ceremony?”
“Next new moon.”
“That gives me a couple of weeks.”
Chris bristles. I see the muscle in his jaw flex again.
“I will get it to you in time. Don’t worry yourself about it.” Grandma gives him a reassuring smile but Chris doesn’t look too pleased. His mouth is a hard line again.
He turns his serious brown eyes on me and I shift uncomfortably. He looks back to Grandma.
“This is a lot of sage,” my grandmother remarks as she punches in numbers on the cash register.
“I want to bring it with me to Castle Hill. The new owner has hired my services.”
“Oh?” Her voice doesn’t normally reach an octave above dolphin squeak, but it did just now.
The words Castle Hill and the sound of her ‘oh’ make me glance at Grandma. Her eyebrows are almost to her hairline.
“Are you going to do a spirit cleansing for him?”
“I am,” he answers, and I see him stand up a hair’s breadth taller.
“Are you bringing anyone to assist you? It is a darkly powerful place. The more protection the better. Bring one of the tribal elders with you,” she says.
“No. I will go alone.” Chris picks up the bag with the sage and sweet grass in it and turns to go.
“Use all the protection you can, Chris.”
He is only a foot away from me and I hear him, “hmmph,” then he turns back to Grandma.
“You will contact me about the Datura.”
“Yes, I will,” Grandma sings back, cheerful again.
Chris nods and heads out the door.
He can’t be over thirty. His clothes don’t put any age on him; cargo shorts, T-shirt, vest, and hiking boots are neutral to any age. His skin is smooth and he has no gray hairs, so maybe he’s younger than I think, twenty-five to thirty? Chris seems too young, and too moody, to be a shaman. His father is well known for his work as a Native American shaman and medicine man, but the old man looks the part, with his white hair and deep furrows framing his ancient face, and those calm eyes that see into your soul. Chris may have the eyes, I concede.
“Julie?”
I look over at my grandmother, breaking the spell that had me in la-la land.
“My client will be here in a couple of minutes. If you get the time, can you prep the usnea lichens for making a tincture, then wash the other herbs and put them on the drying racks?”
“Yeah, okay. Anything else?”
“Only if you have the time, then you could start the tincture.”
“Sounds good.”
“Will you send Mrs. Thatcher to my office when she comes in? And Julie, there’s some lunch in the refrigerator whenever you get hungry.”
Before I have a chance to get to the workroom, the bell chimes over the door and a short, round, middle-aged woman appears. She blinks two huge eyes behind thick glasses and peers at me like a fluffy gray owl.
“Good afternoon, Mrs. Thatcher. Charlotte is waiting for you in the office.” I point in the general direction.
“Thank you, dearie.”
No one else is in the store so I go to the workroom, clear a space on the table, and get started.
Time passes quickly. I enjoy working with the herbs best. Knowing these plants were created with light and earth and water and have ability to heal the human body satisfies me in a very grounding way. My hands and mind stay busy with the tasks. The bell over the door jingles a few times through the day and I catch myself wondering each time if it’s Nathan. I’m shocked to find that when it’s not his tall frame in the store, I feel a twinge of disappointment. I want to see his gray eyes again; to confirm that my memory isn’t playing a trick on me. Are his irises outlined with the thick dark line like I remember? Had I seen it wrong? Or maybe the light yesterday had made them appear a color they weren’t. The stormy sea, or the storm clouds above a raging sea?
I shake myself. I was so far adrift in firing synapses trying to remember Nathan’s exact eye color that my hands had stopped their repetitive sorting and cutting.
I look down at the pile of lichens on the table. Some people call it Old Man’s Beard. It’s bushy and coarse and it tends to hang down in clumps off dead trees like green hair. Nathan’s hair is such a warm shade of honey brown, highlighted with the essences of sun and wind. It looks thick and soft to touch, too. In fact, I wouldn’t mind feeling it for myself. Lance’s hair on the other hand is black. Shiny clean and neatly cut but definitely black.
Lance De’Lao. That’s a whole other subject my brain wants to examine. Why on earth did he say he wanted me to know he wasn’t with anyone right now? Was he being that direct with me? Was he saying it to see if I would tell him if I was dating anyone? He invited me to his party tonight. Did he really care if I came? Surely he can date just about anyone he wants. He’s rich and cute and young and he hangs out with famous musicians. He’s a catch, I know, but I’m just not feeling anything for him. The truth is, I’ve never been interested enough in any guy to keep a relationship going for very long. Another weird truth — if it were Nathan asking me to a party, I wouldn’t hesitate for a second. There’s something different about him. I could’ve told Lance I was involved with someone but I hate to lie and I have to play it smart. This is too important for Jared. Avoidi
ng Lance is my best and only option.
No, don’t go for the rich cute guy who likes you, go for the guy you know nothing about, that you may never see again. Urrggg! What is the matter with me? Stop thinking about boys! Who are you today?
With the lichens prepped, I stand up from my seat at the table and stretch my arms overhead. For the next half hour I can focus on weighing and measuring the ingredients for the tincture and give my mind a needed distraction from the circles it has been carving inside my skull. How can a guy cause so much distraction?
After packing the jars full of the usnea and pouring in the alcohol and water, I screw on the lids, stick on some labels, and store them away in a cabinet, feeling satisfied with the work I completed. As I look around for the next project Grandma buzzes in and busies herself like a bee moving from flower to flower. She moves jars and bags and does a quick tidying up of the room, talking to me as she organizes.
“Are you still willing to close today? I have to be in Durango by seven.”
“Yeah, I’ll close up.” I look at the wall clock. 5:30. We close in a half hour. “Do you want me to come in on Monday?”
“Julie, honey, you should enjoy your summer. I can manage around here. And who knows, you might have a date on Monday.”
“I’m sure I won’t be on a date.” My eyes roll around their sockets.
“Don’t be too sure.” She gives me a wink and I want to cringe at the thought that my social life means so much to her.
She stops moving and begins to empty half the contents of her handbag onto the countertop. I look around the yellow kitchen trying to weigh out how much time I have left versus starting a new task. Time wins. There’s not enough of it and I don’t want to stay late.
“Ah, here it is.” She turns to me holding up a small brown wadded up bundle on a string. “Will you be a dear and keep this for me? Temporarily of course, I’m going to need it back.”
Before I can answer, I’m not even sure what it is she’s holding, she steps forward and slips the thin leather cord around my neck.
“I need this kept safe, Julie. I can’t leave it just anywhere, you see, and I don’t,” she pauses to look at it up close then lets it drop onto my chest, “want to take it with me tonight.” She has a small satisfied smile on her face.
Death Lies Between Us (An Angel Falls Book 1) Page 10
