“How long will you be in town, Fredeline?” Mila asked.
“It was supposed to be one week. My flight back to Port-au-Prince is next Friday. I don’t know what I will do now.” She fingered the strand of pastel clay beads that hung from her neck.
“Can you tell us about the program that brought you here?” I asked. “How did you become acquainted with Josephine?”
“She was a godsend,” said Fredeline, her eyes brightening. “I had a dream to start a farming business in my village. I would employ women, and we would raise crops to feed our families and to sell. I applied for a microloan through an organization that collects donations from all over the world. Josephine selected my application and sent the money. But that was only the beginning.”
“I’ve heard of organizations like that,” said Farrah. “What a great service.”
I nodded in agreement and made a mental note to look into it myself. I had donated money to relief efforts after the big earthquake in Haiti years ago, but I imagined the need was still vast.
“After she transferred the money, she began writing to us. She sent us nice letters filled with encouragement and advice, sometimes with extra checks. And I sent her pictures of our farm.”
I sat up in my seat. “She gave you her address? Where did she live?”
Fredeline gave me a strange look before she answered. “I don’t know where she lived. All our correspondence—the letters, the donations—came through her business, Sister Seeds. The address was a post office box in Arizona.”
“Sister Seeds,” I echoed. “I tried to look them up a few months ago when Josephine asked me to deliver seed packets for her. I couldn’t find anything about the company. It seems surprising that they don’t even have a website. Did you ever deal with anyone in the company besides Josephine?”
“There was a secretary who signed the checks. Her name was Jesse O’Mara, I believe. But your aunt was the heart and soul of the business.” Fredeline shook her head. “I don’t know anything about websites and such things. All I know is that Sister Seeds saved us. There was another company, a big multinational corporation that donated seeds to other farmers in Haiti. They said they were doing this wonderful thing, feeding the poor, but they weren’t. Their seeds were bad. They were mutant, impotent, poison!” She scowled.
“You’re talking about GMOs,” said Mila. “I’ve read about this. Small farmers are upset because they become dependent on the corporations to provide new seeds every year. These crops don’t produce their own seeds, so the farmers can never become self-sufficient.”
“That’s right,” said Fredeline, her eyes flashing. “The farmers become prisoners, forced to always use the products of these giants, their herbicides, their chemically treated mutant seeds, all of it.”
“So, with the money from Sister Seeds, you were able to buy heirloom seeds?” I asked.
“No, the money was for other expenses. The seeds she gave us for free. For two whole seasons, we grew beautiful plants from her seeds and harvested the seeds for the next year.”
“That sounds right up her alley,” I said.
“She was a good woman. She sent me money for a plane ticket, so I could come here and learn from her. She was going to teach me more about seed collection, as well as ways to expand to other villages. In essence, she was going to teach me to be a teacher.”
She grew silent then, as she gazed into the bottom of her wineglass. I didn’t know what to say. I looked helplessly from Farrah to Mila.
Mila patted Fredeline’s arm. “It seems to me that you are already a teacher and a leader. You’re leading by example. You also have a deep thirst for knowledge. You’ll continue to learn and grow, I’m sure of it.”
“You are very kind,” said Fredeline.
“I’m so sorry she died before you could meet her,” said Farrah, glancing from Fredeline to me. “Both of you.” She sniffed and dabbed her eyes with her cocktail napkin.
“Don’t be sad,” said Fredeline. “At least, don’t be only sad. Death is a natural transition. In Vodou, we believe that our spirits leave our bodies at death, but they do not depart the earth. For one year and one day, they stay in the air around us, before proceeding to the afterlife. I believe Josephine’s spirit is still here, in the treetops and the grassy fields, on the breeze.”
At that moment, the wind kicked up, lifting our hair and fluttering our dresses. Farrah’s eyes widened, while Mila clapped her hands in delight. “Perfect!” she exclaimed.
I smiled in spite of myself.
We watched the sun set over the vineyard as we finished our sandwiches and tasted a few more varieties of wine. Mila switched to grape juice, since she was our designated driver, but the rest of us became increasingly relaxed as the evening wore on. At one point, Farrah became emboldened enough to ask the question I knew she had been dying to ask.
“Fredeline,” she began, “what you said before, about your religious beliefs and spirits lingering after death, I thought that was really beautiful. But I have to ask: do you really practice voodoo?”
“Vodou, yes,” said Fredeline. She didn’t appear to be fazed by the question. “I heard some Americans are afraid of Vodou, no? They think it’s hocus-pocus. Strange, evil stuff. They know so little.”
“I’m not afraid,” Farrah declared. “I’m just curious. I’ve never met a voodoo practitioner.”
“There’s a lot of misunderstanding about it,” Mila said. “But Vodou really isn’t that different from other mystical religions. Vodou practitioners believe there’s a spiritual realm, where magic occurs, which can affect what happens to us in the physical realm. They also believe in one God who has many intermediaries, called Loa, who are sort of like spirit guides. Is that right, Fredeline?”
Fredeline looked impressed. “Very good. Yes. We honor the Loa. They are spirits, each with a particular specialty. We also venerate our ancestors.” She shot Farrah a coy look. “We do not stick pins in dolls to punish our enemies.”
Farrah laughed nervously. “I know. I didn’t think that was real.”
“Movies and TV spread a lot of false information,” Mila said. “I don’t think there’s any non-mainstream religion that doesn’t suffer some level of misunderstanding because of pop culture.”
“For sure,” I agreed. “Like witchcraft. It’s precisely because of all this misapprehension that so many witches like me hide out in the broom closet.”
Fredeline’s eyes grew wide. “You practice witchcraft?”
For a moment, I froze. Had I made a mistake in outing myself in front of a new acquaintance?
“I practice witchcraft,” Mila said cheerfully. “But you have to understand that ‘witchcraft’ is neutral, just like all forms of energy and energy manipulation. It can be used for good or evil.” Her eyes twinkled as she spoke. “I use my power with a great sense of responsibility and gratitude.”
I decided to own up. “I practice witchcraft, too. It’s a particular type called Wicca, and it’s definitely a good kind of magic. It’s all about being attuned to nature.”
“Ah. I see.” Fredeline turned to Farrah. “And you? Are you a witch too?”
Farrah shook her head. “Not me. I’m too chicken to mess around with magic stuff. If I tried to cast a spell, I’d probably goof up and turn myself into a toad.” She saw Fredeline’s astonishment and laughed. “I’m only joking. Mostly.”
Mila smiled and turned to Fredeline again. “You should stop by my shop sometime this week. I carry a few books on Vodou, as well as some statues and beads. I’d love to show them to you and hear more about your tradition.”
“Thank you. I would like to come.”
A waiter stopped at our table to light the candle centerpiece. Farrah checked her watch and exclaimed, “Oh, gosh! I gotta go soon. I have to get home and change into my dancing shoes. I have a late date at the Loose Rock. Don’t want to keep Randy waiting.”
I signaled for the check and grabbed my purse. “Who’s Randy?” I asked.
“Randy Sykes.”
I stared at her. “Randall? So, you are dating Randall! Since when?”
“Since a couple weeks ago, when I stopped by your office and you were too busy to take a break. He’s super nice.” She paused and gave me a plaintive look. “Isn’t he? He’s not going to turn out to be a jerk, is he?”
“No, no. He’s fine. He’s a nice guy. I just feel so out of the loop, that’s all. Do you like him a lot?”
“So far, so good. He’s really funny. Tells the best stories.” Farrah waggled her eyebrows mischievously. “Plus, if we ever run out of things to talk about, there’s always you. You’ll give us loads of conversation fodder.”
“Great.” Just what I needed, my law partner hearing embarrassing stories about me from my best friend.
Then I had a worse thought. What would happen if Farrah dumped him? She’d been known to break a few hearts in her day. It was practically inevitable. That could make things a little awkward at work.
I sighed. Oh, well. There was nothing I could do about it.
As we headed to the parking lot, I began to brighten. Soon I’d get to finally spend some quality time with my favorite date.
* * *
Alas, for the second night in a row, the house was dark when I got home. This time, Wes wasn’t in bed. According to the note on the counter, he’d come home from his newspaper job only to be called in to his second job as a backup bartender at his friend’s nightclub—the very same club where Farrah was meeting Randy. I had half a mind to head there myself, but then I thought better of it. I could take advantage of having the house to myself.
I had been waiting for an evening alone like this.
I hurried to the bedroom and unlocked the cedar chest at the foot of the bed. Let’s see. What will I need? I filled my arms with as much as I could carry—white altar cloth, silver chalice, book of spells, magic wand—and hurried to the spare bedroom where I’d moved the wooden console table that once stood under my bedroom window.
It wasn’t that I couldn’t perform spells with Wes in the house. When I closed the door to the spare room, he never disturbed me. He respected my privacy and my religion. Still, I felt freer and more relaxed with no one else at home. This way, if I felt moved to chant or raise my voice, I didn’t have to feel self-conscious.
The spell I had been planning—and postponing—in recent weeks seemed frivolous now. I had intended to call upon Saturn for some assistance with time management, but there were more important things on my mind now. The loss of my aunt was starting to sink in.
I cleared off my altar table and covered it with the white cloth. As I gathered candles and arranged them on the table with the items from the chest, I thought about Aunt Josephine. For so long, she had been an almost mystical presence in my life, like a guardian angel or spirit guide. But she wasn’t a spirit all those years. She was a flesh-and-blood human being. I had built her up in my imagination, but I never really knew her at all.
The way Fredeline had described her made my aunt seem like a really lovely, altruistic individual. I was sure I would have liked her. And yet . . . what kind of person cuts herself off from her family—her loving, worried family—with no explanation? My mom was heartbroken when I told her I’d identified Josephine’s body. Thinking of it now filled me with sadness once again. Her pain was double what it might have been: she lost not only a sister, but also the last vestiges of hope that they might one day be reunited.
Suddenly, my sorrow turned to anger. I stood before my altar and stared blindly at the cover of my spell book. Was Josephine really that selfish? That heartless? Why couldn’t she have written a nice, long letter to my mom, instead of pithy postcards every few years? Apparently, she kept up a substantial correspondence with Fredeline Paul in Haiti, but she couldn’t make an effort to connect with her only sister?
I dropped my head and blew out a frustrated breath. I was so conflicted. I supposed I shouldn’t judge my aunt. As I’d already realized, I didn’t know her. I didn’t know what secrets she carried, or what internal demons she battled. All I could really do right now was to pray. In my own way, of course.
I picked up my wand, a tool I’d made myself from the branch of a willow tree. The smooth, carved wood felt good in my hand. With the fingers of my other hand, I traced the delicate vines that spiraled toward the tip, where I’d fastened a tiger’s eye with copper wire—all the better to harness and direct magical energy. With a deep inhalation and measured exhalation, I walked slowly around the altar, using the wand to draw a circle in the air. At each cardinal direction, I paused to call the quarters:
Come now, guardian of Air, watcher from the East,
Breath of inspiration,
Winds of knowledge,
Poetry of the Pagan priest.
Come now, guardian of Fire, watcher from the South,
Power of will,
Heat of passion,
Flaming from the dragon’s mouth.
Come now, guardian of Water, watcher from the West,
Drops of love,
Stream of tears,
Wash me in the rivers blessed.
Come now, guardian of Earth, watcher of the North,
Peaks of strength,
Trees of growth,
Grounding roots send forth.
Once the circle was cast, I paused before the altar and thought for a moment. Something was missing. To honor my aunt, I should have something to represent her.
Taking my athame, I cut an invisible doorway in the air and stepped through it to exit the circle. I went straight to a stack of folders I’d left on a side table and found what I was looking for: a photo of Josephine. I had copied it from a book on Edindale history. The section on the 1960s and 1970s included a short description of the Happy Hills Homestead alongside a snapshot of three smiling hippies at the entrance to the commune: Josephine in the center, with flowers in her hair and freckles on her cheeks; Fern Lopez, in braids, to her left; and a long-haired man with a scraggly beard to her right. I’d blown up the photo back when I was asking around about Josephine, all to no avail.
Now, I found an empty frame in the closet and placed the photo in the frame. Then I reentered the sacred circle, closing the “door” behind me, and stood the framed photo on the altar. After a few centering breaths, I considered what I wanted to do. What did I want?
Peace.
Above all, I wanted peace. For my mom and our family. For myself. For Josephine. I hoped her soul was at peace, free from earthly worries.
With this in mind, I picked up a white candle and scratched the outline of a dove into the wax. I lit the candle and placed it next to the photo. Then, I opened the slim drawer below the altar table and rummaged through the bottles, vials, and jars until I found one that suited my intent: powdered vervain. Known as “the witch’s herb,” vervain was handy for many purposes, from pain relief and stress reduction to the promotion of peace and harmony. It was even known to enhance dream questing. I sprinkled the herb into my chalice, added water from a small pitcher, and swished it around. Perhaps I’d make a proper tea later, but this would do for now. I raised the chalice in a toast to the heavens and took a sip.
As I set the chalice back on the table, I closed my eyes. After three purposeful breaths, I murmured words that came from my heart:
Like the birds that fly so high,
Above the trees, into the sky,
Like the stream that flows to sea,
Gently, dreamily, just to be . . .
Peace shall come in its time,
No wars to fight, no hills to climb,
Peace at last, calm and free,
As I will, so mote it be.
I fell silent and remained standing with my eyes closed. Images began to appear in my mind. I saw Josephine as a girl, younger than the flower child in the photo. She was laughing, pushing a playground swing holding a smaller girl—my mom.
I saw her in flashes then, at different times in her life: a young wom
an, barefoot in a garden; then as an older woman, hiking through a desert. I saw her in all aspects women share with the Triple Goddess: maiden, mother, and crone. Josephine had lived a full life. She had lived to reach maturity.
But, no. That wasn’t good enough. This wasn’t right. Her life had been cut off too soon. Someone had ended it before her time.
I sighed and dropped my arms. There would be no peace for Josephine, nor for me. At least, not until I could figure out why she had been killed.
Clearly, Josephine had some unfinished business.
CHAPTER SIX
Sunday morning, I awoke early with one thought in mind: I need to go into the woods. I wanted to find the spot where my aunt had died, and maybe even figure out why she was out there in the first place.
Not surprisingly, Wes had left before me again. This time, the note on the counter said, “Be back by noon.” I shook my head, as I flipped it over to leave my own note for him, to tell him where I was going. This can’t be healthy, I thought. How long can a couple survive a relationship-by-note?
Pushing aside that dreary thought, I hopped in my trusty silver-blue hybrid and headed to the country. Twenty minutes later, I parked near the office at Briar Creek Cabins and made my way to the trailhead behind the farthest log cottage.
I was familiar with this place. I’d stayed in one of the cabins before and found it to be charmingly rustic, though modern and comfortable. But the grounds were the real attraction. The woodsy, secluded property provided a nice, easy access point to Shawnee National Forest, and the owner of the cabins was welcoming to day visitors. Since he didn’t advertise his open-door policy, the trails were generally quiet and tourist-free. One of the trails, I knew, had a partially hidden offshoot, which led to a large clearing, perfect for bonfire rituals.
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