Between Darkness and Dawn

by Margaret Duarte

  Anne paled, but said nothing. Another surprise. She loved butting heads with this man.

  “What I discovered was” —a pause while Cecil stared at Anne, apparently to add a little Hitchcock suspense before releasing his bombshell— “unexpected.”

  What could he have dug up that was giving him such satisfaction?

  “Hey, Marjorie,” he said. “Did you know that your friend here was a nun?”

  Anne set down her plate and stared at the stain on her skirt. Like a thorn in my side, I know it’s there.

  “Her superiors compared her to Hildegard of Bingen,” Cecil said. “Guess ole Hilda had special powers, too.”

  Anne placed one hand over the stain as though protecting a wound.

  “Hildegard heard voices, had visions, and could tell the future,” Cecil said, taking a step closer to Anne. “She even wore a pentagram. Do you?”

  “What do you want?” Anne asked.

  “Did they kick you out of the convent, or did you desert?” Cecil persisted.

  The serenity of Anne’s features had the transcendent feel of Hildegard of Bingen—herself no stranger to controversy. Her face appeared lit from within, her expression untroubled. “Did your research into my apparently not-so-private information make you feel better, Cecil?”

  His smile was one of amusement. “Actually... Yes.”

  Smart-ass. I pulled in my breath slowly so as not to attract Cecil’s attention. How could this turn into anything positive? What was there here to learn?

  “So, what is it you want, Sister Anne?”

  “Trust, respect, love.”

  He gasped and brought his hand to his chest. “Gosh, is that all?”

  “No,” she said. “I also want honesty.”

  Cecil’s eyes dulled, and his smile turned into a sneer. “You ask too much.”

  She smiled. “I know.”

  “Where is he?” Cecil demanded, as if losing patience with his cruel, one-sided game. “I need to talk to him.”

  Anne’s eyebrows shot up. “Need?”

  He reddened under his tan. “I want to talk to him.”

  “That’s too bad,” Anne said, giving each word a staccato punch. “He doesn’t want to talk to you.”

  For an instant, Cecil froze. But like the robotic villains on TV, he recovered quickly and shot back. “I bought the statue.”

  “Goody for you,” Anne said, and I applauded the way she was holding on, despite the frustration she must be feeling.

  Cecil aimed his gaze at me. “I don’t know what my father told you, but, knowing him, it was a line of bull. He’s quite the con artist, you know. He’ll play on your emotions and do just about anything, if it’s for his own good.”

  Following Anne’s lead, I tried to remain calm, but my heart was bouncing off the walls of my chest as if preparing for a sneak attack.

  Cecil surveyed Anne’s camp with the condescending expression of a tourist on a slum tour. “So, where is he? Living it up in one of those Big Sur Lodge cabins? I wouldn’t put it past him. The only one he ever loved, besides himself, was my mother. That son of a bitch left without a word.”

  I pictured Adam and saw only kindness and love. How could Cecil misjudge his father in this way? “He left a note. You said so yourself.”

  Cecil pulled back his lips and exposed even white teeth. “Except he neglected to mention where he was going or how long he’d be gone.”

  “He didn’t want to burden you,” I said.

  “Oh, please. He burdened me plenty. I’ve been searching all over for him. Even took time off work—” Cecil slapped his forehead with his palm. “Hold it. Are you his whore?”

  It took two eye blinks on my behalf before comprehension set in. Of all the nerve. I itched to slug him.

  Maybe if I caught him by surprise...

  “Your anger is making you small,” Anne said.

  I flushed. Did that include me?

  “He’s got you eating out of the palm of his hand,” Cecil said.

  Frustration seemed to be building inside of him, reminding me of a pressure cooker without a release valve. Something had to give.

  “I don’t think we’re discussing the same person,” I said. If anything, we were talking about Cecil, not Adam. Buying my sculpture when it wasn’t for sale labeled him a con artist in my book. Someone who would do just about anything if it was for his own good. On top of that, he owned a mega yacht. Come on, who was the one living it up?

  Cecil grabbed onto my comment as though hungry for a lead. “Then let me see him.”

  “You have no idea what you’re asking,” Anne said, her eyes bright with wisdom tempered by wrinkles of concern.

  “I’ll take my chances.”

  Anne’s face cleared, as if she’d decided to give up her fight for trust, respect, love, and honesty. “Okay.”

  Cecil’s eyes narrowed. Anne’s easy submission likely struck him as suspicious. “You’ll take me to him?”

  Anne stood. “Sure.”

  “When?”

  “Right now.”

  What was she doing? This spoiled man could destroy Adam if he chose. Then again, it was Adam’s son we were dealing with. Anthony, the cute little kid depicted in Adam’s sculptures, trying to catch a butterfly with his doting mother looking on. Did that sweet child still exist somewhere beneath Cecil’s caustic exterior?

  Cecil looked at me, and I shrugged. What did I know? I was the one who got Adam into this mess. Good work, Marjorie. See where your interference has led?

  “Follow me,” Anne said.

  ~~~

  Adam sat on a floor of leaf litter, eyes unfocused, stroking Buster.

  “Hi Adam,” Anne said.

  He didn’t look up or smile at Anne’s greeting.

  “Is this some kind of joke?” Cecil blurted.

  “No joke,” Anne said.

  “Where’s my father?”

  “Right in front of you,” I said. Was he blind?

  Cecil snickered. “That bum and his mangy dog? What kind of idiot do you take me for? Anyway, my father’s name isn’t Adam.”

  Adam got to his feet, a rather slow and painful-looking process, and walked off with Buster at his side. We watched in silence as they disappeared into a break between the brambles and vines.

  “So, you don’t believe me,” Anne said.

  Cecil puffed out his chest. “Quit wasting my time. That’s not my father.”

  Anne stared at him for several seconds before saying, “Follow me.”

  I trailed behind them, dreading the scene that was about to unfold.

  The shaded grove and pond looked like a playground, its occupants frozen in time: Mother with child, child at play, mother staring off into space, child asleep. Sculptures everywhere. True signs of Adam’s love.

  Cecil jerked to a halt. His head swiveled back and forth as if trying to take in all at once. He dropped to his knees and released a moan that sounded more animal than human. I thought of Antonia. Did her pain come from the same place?

  “Damn it,” he said. “Damn it. Damn it.”

  Finding Cecil’s pained reaction too disturbing to watch, I turned away and met Anne’s troubled eyes. “I’ll wait at my camp.”

  She nodded. “That might be best.”

  “Do you want to talk to your father?” I heard her say.

  “No,” Cecil said. “Dear God, no.”

  I prayed that Adam wasn’t around to hear.

  ~~~

  Waiting for Anne was misery. I paced, cleaned, fetched, and brooded, to no avail. Guilt had taken hold of me and wouldn’t let go. I’d come to Big Sur to step into my own life story, not interfere with someone else’s. What had I set in motion with my stubborn insistence that Adam share his work? How could good intentions have gone so bad?

  If only I could go back and start all over, knowing what I knew now. Of course, if life came with a rewind button, how many rewinds would it
take for me to finally get things right? And how would I ever move forward if I was constantly revisiting the past? Time to fess up. My actions had contributed to the mess Adam was in. Now, I had to step forward to help get him out of it.

  “How’s Adam?” I asked on Anne’s return.

  She sat on one of my tripod camp stools and reached for the pot of coffee. “Not good.”

  Hopefully, in her current mood, she wouldn’t notice that the coffee was cold and had lost its flavor. “And Cecil?”

  She poured the coffee into a mug, took a sip, and winced. I handed her packets of creamer and sugar. She passed. “He’s a coward like the rest of us during unexpected moments of crisis. It takes superhuman strength to face some of life’s cruel realities, even more so when it involves the people we love.”

  Sometimes Anne’s wisdom seemed aimed directly at me. I hated to admit it, but when it came to cowardice during unexpected moments of crisis, Cecil and I had a lot in common. “Did you tell him that Adam has Alzheimer’s?”

  “Yes. And he asked why his father wasn’t in a medical facility getting treatment. I tried to explain about his participation in an experimental program to relieve the symptoms of AD, but he wouldn’t listen. I think he’ll be back with the cops.”

  “Poor Adam.”

  Anne nodded.

  We sat in silence until I changed the subject. Anything to get my mind off Adam.

  “Anne, about being a nun...”

  “It’s true,” she said. “I made the mistake of sharing some disturbing visions with our mother superior. I was scared and thought she could help.”

  “Why didn’t she?” I asked, then remembered my mother’s reaction when I told her about the voices I’d been hearing. Shock. Disbelief. And later on, verbal abuse.

  “She believed that I was seeing and hearing things all right,” Anne said, “but that the visions and locutions were coming from the devil. So, she limited the time I spent alone, giving me extra work to prevent such dangerous nonsense. I had no objection to that. Anything to stop the voices and visions.

  “For weeks, then months, I hoed weeds, scrubbed floors, and did double kitchen duty, until every bone and muscle in my body ached. But the voices and visions continued. The other sisters started avoiding me, crossing themselves whenever I was near, fearing for their own spiritual contamination. Thus, forcing me into a form of solitary confinement. All the while, I was terrified that my soul was damned and my mind infected by the devil. In time, the things I’d heard the voices predict started coming true and, despite Mother Superior’s assertions that it was the devil communicating with me, I started wondering if the voices were coming from a beneficent source.”

  Anne paused to catch her breath, which sounded ragged. “I don’t blame Mother Superior completely. She was doing her best to save my soul. In the end, what it amounted to was that she didn’t believe in the afterlife, except as outlined in the Bible. She believed in unexplainable events that happened thousands of years ago, but not that they could happen today.”

  “Instead, you’re considered crazy or evil,” I said with the confidence of at least partial understanding.

  Anne traced the quote on her coffee mug, a gift from Truus, my adoptive mother: Courage, dear heart. Words I’d longed to hear from her the day before I left for Big Sur. “Since then I’ve learned to be careful,” Anne said, “with whom I share my experiences.”

  My nails pinched my palm as I balled my hand into a fist. “Did they kick you out of the convent?”

  “No. I left.”

  “Why?”

  “There are subtle forms of punishment, Marjorie, that are quite effective. One is withholding love.” Anne dumped the remainder of her coffee into the fire ring. “There was only so much loneliness I could take.”

  “But all those clothes you shared with me and your talk about getting burned.”

  Anne looked up, her eyes blue fire. “After I left the convent, I rebelled against my vows of poverty and of chastity. Big time.”

  I pressed my chin onto my clasped hands. How lonely, how desperate Anne must have felt. Talk about journeys of self-discovery. “But why turn to witchcraft?”

  “I figured if what I was hearing wasn’t coming from God and if that made me some diabolical threat to society, it was my responsibility to discover where the communication was coming from. So, I took to studying the lives of other women who didn’t fit into society, who were banished, so to speak, for their visions and their intuitive, holistic ways of seeing things.”

  “Witches,” I said.

  “Exactly. And what I discovered astounded me. Did you know that during the late Middle Ages as many as sixty thousand women were burned at the stake as witches?”

  “That many?”

  “And most of them were midwives who helped ease the pain of childbirth and women who used herbs for healing and had knowledge of nature’s way. They included women who were smart, unmarried, childless, or owned property. The list goes on. And you know what?”

  I shook my head.

  “With witchcraft, I’ve found a place where womanhood is elevated to the place where it rightly belongs, where the intuitive, imaginative part of one’s self is respected not condemned, and where one is able to connect with the invisible world through symbols and creativity. In other words, I found my home.”

  “You’ve been through hell,” I whispered.

  Anne straightened her shoulders. “I am the master of my fate, the captain of my soul.”

  The words hung like a dark cloud between us. My throat swelled with tears. Regardless of all my recent affirmations about lessons to be learned on this journey we call life, at that moment, I felt no hope.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  IT WAS AUGUST 1, four nights short of a full moon, but we could wait no longer. Anne, Veronica, and I had gathered on a secluded north-west bank of Pfeiffer-Redwood Creek to form a circle, as sisters, for the well-being of Antonia’s restless spirit.

  “First, we need to take a ritual bath,” Anne said, aiming the beam of her flashlight over the surging black water, “in order to cleanse ourselves of negative energies. A nice warm soak with herbs, scented oils, and Epsom Salts would be preferable, but we’ll just have to make do.” She propped the flashlight on a boulder facing the creek. Then, calm as you please, she stripped off her white velvet cape and tossed it a safe distance from the slippery rocks on which she stood. The chill night air closed in on her naked body, but she waded into the waist-deep water without so much as a whimper.

  Veronica whistled between her teeth. “No burning candles? No incense to set the mood?”

  Anne didn’t answer. It was too dark to be sure, but I suspected goose bumps had gathered over her bare skin by now. No human—except maybe those living in the world’s ‘frigid zones’—could saunter into ice-cold water at nine in the evening without major discomfort.

  “Getting into that creek buck naked is crazy,” I said, feeling my back grow rigid. “It’s too cold and, besides, it’s indecent.”

  Veronica set her flashlight next to Anne’s, then turned to me and smiled as she unfastened her black-hooded cape and let it slither to the ground.

  All she had on was a black thong, no better than naked as far as I was concerned.

  Anne splashed water at Veronica. She yelped as liquid ice smacked her unprotected behind. Then she swung around to face her tormentor, her stance that of Artemis, Goddess of the Hunt and the Moon: independent, yet feminine; swift; decisive; quick to rescue—and to punish. Lickety-split, she dove into the creek and yanked Anne’s feet from under her. Anne, rather like Hecate, the goddess of intuition and psychic wisdom, of magick and divination, landed with a splash. I stepped back, distancing myself from this out-of-control twosome.

  Veronica paused from her war game with Anne. “Whatcha wearing, Marjorie? Thermal underwear?”

  My teeth chattered in spite of the sumptuous cape—compliments of Anne—still wrapped
around me. “I wish.”

  “Your turn,” she said, edging toward the bank of the creek.

  I took another step back, waving my flashlight. “You two are nuts. Tomorrow you’ll both have pneumonia.”

  “Drop the cape,” Veronica said, “or I’m coming after you.”

  She was serious. She’d pull me in and enjoy doing it. I was shivering. Heck, I was shaking so hard I found it hard to stand. This wasn’t a ritual. It was torture.

  Veronica rose from the water, her wet hair plastered against her face and shoulders, her nakedness shimmering in the moonlight, the visage of a proud, dark goddess. “Drop it, NOW.”

  I aimed the beam of my flashlight toward the trees, vines, and bushes that edged both sides of the creek. The vegetation looked dark and shadowy, even more threatening than the icy water and its two lunatic occupants. I fumbled with the ribbon at the collar of my cape, stalling. It was too far to hightail it back to camp, especially wearing a long cape and with bare feet. Plus, it wouldn’t be smart. I’d be labeled, “chicken” for life.

  Veronica stepped out of the water and onto the bank.

  I set the flashlight on a flat rock, making sure it faced at right angles to the beams shooting from Anne’s and Veronica’s flashlights, so we could see what was coming from alongside the creek. Just in case.

  Then I dropped my cape and edged to the bank of the creek.

  Veronica jerked to a halt and bent over laughing.

  “What?” I said.

  “I can’t see,” Anne cried. “It’s too dark. What’s going on?”

  “She’s wearing a cream bra with matching panties,” Veronica shrieked, “probably with the day of the week embroidered on them.”

  I looked down at my lacy briefs and serviceable bra and, for a moment, forgot the cold. Okay, so they weren’t Victoria’s Secret, but...

  Someone pushed me from behind. Veronica! I flew into the ice-cold river, head first. Couldn’t scream. In order to scream, I’d have to breathe in. I came up choking and spitting. No sympathy from my companions. Oh no. Their cackling even disturbed the birds. A hawk screeched. An owl hooted. Or maybe it was Anne. I didn’t know, or care, too busy gagging, shivering, and planning my revenge. I unhooked my bra and barely had time to appreciate the carrying capacity of two Double-D cups before filling them with water and flinging the icy liquid at the two crazy women with whom I was sharing the creek.