Between Darkness and Dawn

by Margaret Duarte

  I heard the flap-flap of a flag, the cah-wok of a seagull, and the roar of a boat motor. “Is that a Jacuzzi on the upper deck?”

  “Appears so, plus an area for sunbathing and a bar.”

  “Wonder what it looks like inside?”

  Anne elbowed me and increased her pace. “Only one way to find out.”

  I followed Anne, my mouth dry and scratchy, my palms beginning to sweat. “What are you planning to do? Jump on board and knock on the door?”

  “Yep.”

  “What if nobody’s home?”

  “Then we’ll take a self-guided tour.”

  A man dressed for fishing, unlocked the gate to the marina dock and passed through. We caught the gate before it clicked shut and followed him in. Then we marched to Cecil’s yacht, crossed the gangway to the port deck, and took the stairs to the covered-aft-deck lounge like a couple of rookie thieves. A set of glass doors leading to the main salon stood open—an invitation to enter. Cherry woods abounded in the yawning space, offset by ivory carpeting. An oversized couch and matching armchairs in blues and whites faced a 50-inch plasma-screen TV. Next to the entry doors, stood a granite-topped bar.

  “Holy cow,” Anne said in a volume usually reserved for places of worship, though her words conveyed a less reverent tone.

  “My sentiment exactly,” I said.

  “Check out the chandelier above the dining table,” she said. “Looks like it weighs more than I do. Can you imagine all those leaf crystals clanging together in choppy weather? Last place you’d catch me during a storm.”

  “Can I help you?” asked an amused voice from behind us.

  I jerked around, my stomach in sudden knots. Then I remembered to be angry. “I want my sculpture back.”

  Cecil had the nerve to smile. “Sorry, can’t do.”

  “What,” Anne said, swinging her arms wide to encompass the extravagant surroundings. “You have so little, you need to rob the poor.”

  “Poor?” Cecil raises an eyebrow. “Marjorie’s not poor.”

  Anne hesitated for only a moment. “And how would you know?”

  His smile widened.

  Anne snorted before picking up what appeared to be a fishing-float paperweight from the bar and twirling it in her hand. “Seems you’re possessed by what you wish to possess.”

  A cloud passed over Cecil’s face, but he said nothing.

  Anne must have sensed that she’d hit a sore spot, because she poked it some more. “Shiny new objects, self-absorption, and distraction. The spirituality of our time.”

  Again, no comment.

  “Let’s get out of here,” Anne said, turning to me. “We’re wasting our time.”

  It would be good to get off this mega-sized boat. It symbolized all I’d left behind in Menlo Park—stuff and more stuff—but not the stuff of life, which was free. I recalled a quote attributed to the Greek philosopher, Epicurus, who had lived three-hundred years before Christ. “If you want to make a man happy, add not to his riches but take away from his desires.”

  How little had changed since then.

  I glanced at Cecil. He stood with his back to me, staring out the window. Anne was wrong. Coming here had not been a waste of time. It took being here for me realize that creating my sculpture, when and how I did, had occurred for a reason. My mission wasn’t to hold on to that burden basket of transformed clay, but to let it go. I had the power to shed the weight of ownership as well as that of anger and hate. I, not Cecil, was in charge of, and responsible for, the conditions of my life. He was a side issue, not the reason I was here. I would not allow him to steer my course, as I had allowed my mother and ex-fiancé to do for too long. I would donate the money he’d paid for the sculpture to Alzheimer’s research, thereby turning something negative into something positive.

  Anne threw the paperweight she’d been holding overboard. It splashed as it hit water, but didn’t sink. Instead, it buoyed on the surface as though weighing nothing at all.

  Cecil let us go without comment, which was a comment in itself.

  ~~~

  We found Veronica standing in the Big Sur Lodge Café/Expresso Bar eating a double scoop of Pistachio Nut ice cream. “You’re lucky he didn’t have you arrested,” she said when we told her of our little escapade.

  I gave her a hug and kissed both of her cheeks.

  “Hey, watch my cone,” she said, swinging it clear of my hair. “Want some?”

  “All I want is to dominate your time for the next couple of days,” I said, “so we can talk, talk, talk.”

  Veronica bit into her ice cream.

  Watching her made my teeth hurt. “It figures you don’t lick ice cream like everyone else.”

  “I don’t do anything like anyone else.” She turned the full force of her gaze on Anne. “Hi, want some?”

  Anne had been standing by without comment, which surprised me. She had a strong opinion on just about everything and usually didn’t hesitate to voice it. “Maple Nut if they have it.”

  Veronica headed for the expresso bar. “Coming right up.”

  “How come her hair’s black?” Anne asked.

  “She said she hated being blonde. So, she dyed it.”

  I’d seen Veronica as a blonde in Carmel Valley when she pretended to be me in order to save my life. I could still feel the shock I experienced on seeing her. It was like looking in the mirror, except for her eyes.

  They had been such a cold, cold blue.

  “Good thing you’re not having ice cream,” Anne said. “You’re shivering.”

  “Where have you been all day?” I asked on Veronica’s return. I tried to keep the accusation out of my voice, but failed. Why wasn’t she as anxious to see me, as I was to see her?

  Veronica handed the double-scoop of Maple Nut to Anne. “Eat it quick. It’s starting to melt.”

  “Mind if I take it with me?” Anne asked. “I have to check on a friend of mine”

  Veronica shrugged. She’d purchased another double-decker of Pistachio Nut for herself and appeared intent on finishing that one, too.

  “Toodle-oo then,” Anne said as she headed for the door, licking the ice cream dripping down the side of her cone.

  I didn’t repeat my question, curious if Veronica would get around to answering it.

  After downing half her ice cream, she smiled, her eyes thawing from cold cobalt to waves of summer warmth. “I completed a written assessment and a panel interview today at the San Francisco DEA Recruitment Office.”

  “How’d you do?”

  “Don’t know yet. Even if I pass both of them, I still need to go through a drug test, medical exam, physical task assessment, psychological assessment, background investigation, the works.”

  “That’ll take forever,” I said. Why was she was putting herself through all this? For the privilege of what? Getting inserted into hostile organizations? Getting herself killed?

  “The whole process usually takes about twelve months. Hopefully, the undercover work I did for the DEA in Carmel Valley will fast track my acceptance into their training academy.”

  “Around here?”

  “Quantico, Virginia.”

  Bad news. That meant we’d be separated again.

  “Unlike you, I can’t afford to sit on my duff all day,” she said.

  I laughed. Veronica had plenty of money. Her...our...father had seen to that. But being the type of person she was, she still wanted to work. And she loved working with the Drug Enforcement Administration.

  People were staring at us. No wonder. Veronica looked like a Hollywood celebrity and I her pale reflection. She was the luxury model, with all the bells and whistles, I the stripped-down version, no power windows, no leather seats.

  Veronica broke into a wide, soul-warming grin. “You’re so needy, little sister. It’s written all over your face. Makes me feel loved, though, the way only one other person can.”

  And that would be Ben G
entle Bear Mendoza, who had taught me about my Esselen ancestors, Earth Medicine, and the Medicine Wheel. “So, are you two still seeing each other?”

  “What do you think?”

  I smiled. It was hard getting a straight answer out of my sister. “I’m glad.”

  “How’s Morgan?” she asked.

  “Fine,” I said, doing my own version of evading a question.

  Veronica inclined her head. “Just fine?”

  “I miss him.”

  “But you can’t go back to him until you’ve resolved the situation with Antonia, right?”

  “She talked to me at the Esalen Institute, Veronica. She mentioned our father.”

  “What about him?”

  “She said to ask you.”

  Veronica looked away.

  “We have to help her.”

  “You don’t have to plead your case with me,” she said. “I’m here to help in any way I can, just as promised.” Finished with her ice cream, she gave me a long overdue hug. Not the bear hug I would’ve preferred, but, with my sister, I’d learned to take what I could get. “I missed you, too,” she said. “Come on, let’s get something to eat.”

  “You just ate two double scoops of ice cream.”

  “Not so loud, Sis. People think I’m thin because I starve myself.”

  “As if you care what people think.”

  She nodded at the host who held up two fingers and motioned toward a table by the window. Heads turned our way as we took our seats. Veronica tossed her hair over her shoulder and opened her menu.

  “How did it go with the interview part of the exam?” I asked unable to my control my curiosity. Her interest in becoming a DEA special agent fascinated me, petrified me. “You must have some idea...”

  “You mean after they got over the shock of my appearance and actually looked at my resume?”

  At my nod, she grinned. “I think I brought some excitement into that office.”

  “They’ll be lucky to have you.”

  “Love you, too,” she said. “Now let’s talk about Antonia.”

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  IT WAS AFTER FIVE in the evening by the time Veronica and I approached Anne’s campsite. There were no swirls of dripping fog, no gusts of wind. The trees stood still like monumental totem poles to commemorate what we were about to do. The birds made no sound. All of nature seemed to be holding its breath, big and silent, except for the steady flow of the Big Sur River. I drew my jacket more tightly around me, but couldn’t shake off the chill I felt inside. We were heading into strange and unmarked territory, about to ask Anne to guide us in a ritual that was foreign to us.

  She had explained to me that witchcraft wasn’t anti-Christian or anti-religion. Wiccans, she assured me, believed in God and weren’t linked in any way with the Christian summation of evil. Unlike what Hollywood would have us believe, Wiccan rituals weren’t dangerous or evil. They, instead, sensed and used natural energies that weren’t recognized by mainstream science as available to us all.

  So, why was I now so terrified?

  Anne sat on her geometric-patterned yoga mat in front of the fire pit, skirt tails caught up between her legs and tucked into her waistband and a jacket draped over her shoulders.

  I ran unsteady fingers through my hair. “Anne, Veronica and I would like to...” I looked at my sister, but she waved away my silent appeal for assistance. “Veronica and I are joining forces in reaching out to Antonia and decided we needed your help.”

  Anne raised an eyebrow and patted the mat next to her. “Might as well sit down. Sounds like this may take a while.”

  Veronica did a quick visual search for alternate seating, apparently not keen on joining us on what had the look and feel of a magic carpet.

  “You’ll find a lounge chair and some pillows alongside my living quarters,” Anne said, pointing toward the yurt, currently topped with a colorful afghan throw. No ho-hum nylon tent and canvas chairs for Anne. More like boho décor bliss.

  Veronica picked up a turquoise starburst lounge chair, unfolded it, and tested it for strength.

  “It’s sturdier than it looks,” Anne said dryly.

  “Where’d you get this thing,” Veronica asked, “at a Bohemian camp sale?”

  “You can get just about anything online these days,” Anne said.

  I concentrated on the popping campfire and the smell of burning wood in an attempt to calm my fraying nerves. When that didn’t work, I said a silent prayer. God, please understand what we’re about to do. “Anne,” I started again. “Could you help us contact our mother?”

  Anne pulled in a relaxed diaphragmatic breath, followed by an extended exhalation. “I’m not a psychic, Marjorie, or a medium.”

  Even in the cold, I felt beads of sweat form on my forehead. “Given your knowledge about Wiccan ritual and its use for spiritual attainment and positive change, I figured you’d know what to do.”

  Anne glanced at Veronica before addressing me. “What have you told your sister about me?”

  “That you’ve found the path on which your spirit is most content via the Wiccan religion,” I said, “and that you blend different forms of spirituality to come up with your own rituals.”

  Anne blinked several times, and silence stretched like a rubber band chain. A breeze kicked in and the totem tree branches began to sway. A rustle in the bushes started me shaking, which I knew would soon become uncontrollable to the point of pain.

  “Shocked the hell out of me,” Veronica said, accompanied by a fine imitation of a befuddled hair scratch. “Marjorie hanging out with a witch? Never thought I’d see the day.”

  Anne bit her lip in what appeared to be a suppressed smile.

  “Will we need bat’s wings, eye of newt, and a cauldron?” Veronica asked.

  My face burned. I wished she would stop.

  But Anne was sharper than I’d given her credit for and knew Veronica’s teasing for what it was, a breaking of ice, an easing of fear. “What we’ll need is courage and patience.”

  “Do we have to cast a spell?” Veronica asked, but this time, I sensed a note of genuine interest.

  “We’ll want to send our wishes into the universe, along with certain words and rituals—”

  “Like in church,” I interjected, trying to add a touch of normalcy to what we planned to do. “In an ask-and-you-will-receive sort of way.”

  “It’s okay, Sis,” Veronica said. “I think Anne’s telling us that witchcraft is like prayer that you don’t recite out of habit.”

  Anne and Veronica shared a look and appeared to come to a silent agreement—I’m in, if you’re in—before Anne eyed me with the studied attention of a busy mind.

  Another pause in conversation, but more comfortable, more elastic than before. The rickety lounge chair squeaked as Veronica shifted her weight. She was watching Anne closely.

  I recalled what Dr. Mendez had told me while trying to explain my psychic connection to Joshua. “We are not separated minds in isolated bodies, but part of a collective consciousness in which all minds are united.” He compared us to beings without borders and said that, according to the holistic theory of the universe, it may be possible to tap into the collective consciousness, of which the minds of the deceased are a part.

  Anne slapped her knee. “We’ll form a circle.”

  I thought of our group experience at the Esalen Institute, the way we’d formed our chairs into a circle, with me in the center.

  “There’s a mental atmosphere that surrounds us, which is receptive to our thoughts,” Anne said. “It has the power to do anything and is meant to be used.”

  I compared what I’d learned from Dr. Mendez’s holistic universe and quantum physics theories to my experience at the Esalen Institute. “And we can multiply our effect on this power through our united consciousness, right?”

  The lighthouse beam of Anne’s eyes settled on me, and I swear I could feel its warmth. “
Exactly. If we send thoughts into this spiritual intelligence, telling it what we want, we may be able to break through the veil.”

  “And help our mother,” I said.

  Anne frowned and stared into the leaping flames. “The Great Mind works in wondrous and mysterious ways.”

  “Okey-dokey,” Veronica said under her breath.

  Anne ignored her. “We’ll perform a ceremony.”

  Veronica shifted in her chair.

  An owl hooted.

  “A sharing,” Anne said, “with ritual to help bypass the conscious mind. The mind of order—of the director.”

  Even from a distance, I could see Veronica freeze, which made me nervous, afraid of what she might say or do if provoked. Her face twitched, but she said nothing.

  Anne continued. “In ceremony, one reaches out mentally to the unknown, the unseen, and feels the power of inspiration.”

  “I’m all for that,” I said, though to be honest, I was growing increasingly uneasy about the whole thing. More than once, I’d experienced inspiration from the unknown, but I’d never intentionally invoked it. Except, of course, while trying to contact Antonia.

  And see where that got me.

  “What kind of ceremony do you have in mind?” Veronica asked, her voice soft.

  Darn, I hated it when she got that distant look in her eyes.

  “We’ll make one up,” Anne said.

  “Oh, wonderful.” Veronica’s sarcasm caused my uneasiness to turn into downright dread. Calm down, I told myself. You’ve done something similar with positive results using the Medicine Wheel. How is witchcraft any different? Maybe Antonia’s hopes, fears, and plans hadn’t vanished after she died, but had turned into thought forms that had somehow been recording in the cosmic airways and could be accessed by other minds. What other explanation was there, except that maybe my mother’s consciousness still existed in a parallel realm from which she was trying to reach us? Both theories sounded crazy. But the alternative was equally crazy, that the voices Veronica and I had been hearing were an illusion.

  “It’s easy enough,” Anne said, “as long as we take it seriously and follow our instincts.”

  I drew in a breath, always a comfort, but also a delaying tactic. I tend to judge and reject events before allowing them to unfold, often to regret my presuppositions later.