Magical Memories

by Donna Fletcher

  The door closed behind her before he could react, and he was relieved. He didn’t know how a flannel nightgown could be sexy but hers was and his thoughts were anything but pure at the moment. And why did she have to go kiss him and stir his emotions?

  He pulled off his sweatshirt and threw it on the rocking chair. With an unsteady gait he made it to the bed, unhooking his jeans and sliding them down his legs before he sat down on the bed. With a little effort and a few tugs he had his jeans off. He folded them and laid them on the floor beside the bed.

  He left his white briefs on and climbed beneath the covers and sighed heavily.

  “Damn,” he muttered. She was just too attractive, and he’d been here only one day. The doctor said it would take at least six weeks for his ankle to heal. How the hell was he going to last six weeks alone with Tempest and not kiss her, touch her or make love to her? It wasn’t humanly possible.

  And besides, she wasn’t the type of woman that would go for a man like him. He’d be a mere dalliance to her, and he’d had his share of those. Not that he was looking for a permanent relationship in his life, but he was tired of brief flings that left him feeling physically satisfied but emotionally starved.

  He draped his arm across his head. Hell, he didn’t know what he was looking for. He wasn’t even sure why he had chosen Scotland as his exit port. The place always fascinated him, and strangely enough he felt a connection to it, but what he expected to find here, he couldn’t say.

  Maybe he was hoping to find himself, because he sure felt lost. After his mother died he felt that he didn’t belong anywhere. There was no permanency to anything, not a roof over his head or food in his stomach. Not someone to care about him or love him. It was like he had been set adrift on his own and he had no oars to steer his way. Whichever way the wind blew is where he went. Until he dropped sail and landed here in Scotland.

  His eyes grew heavy, and he knew sleep would soon still his jumbled mind, though he didn’t care much. It would be good to sleep and not think or dream. He turned his head and before his eyes drifted shut completely he looked at the strange symbols on the wall and whispered, “Protection.”

  It was dark, a dark so black that he could not see his surroundings, and yet he knew where he was going. He sensed that he had walked this path many times, and he did not require light to guide his way. Actually he preferred the darkness, took comfort in it and relished its protective cloak. His steady steps brought him to the mouth of a cave and before entering he turned to glance into the darkness. He heard the distant hoot of an owl, and then there was complete silence. His presence frightened the forest creatures and they hid and would remain so until his departure. He smiled at that knowledge and with a sweep of his black cloak around him he entered the cave, the darkness swallowing him.

  Here again he did not need light to guide his way. He walked the awkward, twisting passageway with a man confident of his direction and in only minutes he came upon a large open area. With a steady wave of his hand torches flamed to life; they protruded from the cave walls that ran at least ten feet high. A stone altar sat in the center of the round-shaped room. A wooden bowl sat to one end, three white candles circled the middle, and a gem-encrusted dagger, the large rubies sparkling bright red in the flames’ lights, lay at the other end.

  Slowly but eagerly, he reached his hands into the bowl. His fingers worked their way around the smooth, black stones, and he felt their rush of power race over him. He grabbed a handful and dropped them on the altar in the center of the candles.

  He took a step back, braced his hands on the altar’s edge and lowered his head with a groan. His black, shiny, chest-length hair fell like a protective cape in front of his face and brushed the altar.

  “Not again,” he said in a harsh whisper. “The power should be mine. I am the stronger one.”

  But the etched symbols on the stones told him a different story, and their portent angered him. He straightened to his full height, casting a shadow that towered to the height of the cave.

  “I will not accept this,” he said with a frightening strength in his deep voice that sent the torches flames flickering. “She will give me her power, willingly.” He smiled... a smile of darkness. “Most willingly.”

  He returned the stones to the bowl, his fingers moving them around until he scooped a handful up and dropped them on the altar with a whispered, “Guide me.”

  A pleased smile surfaced on his grim face. “The witch will surrender to the warlock.”

  He laughed with a deep power that echoed off the cave walls and down the stone corridors and out into the dark night. The forest animals shivered as they huddled in their dens, and the forest fairies took flight to avoid the evil sound from touching them.

  Michael woke with a start, banging his head on the sloped ceiling, the strange sound still filling his head. It took him a minute or two to focus his sight. It was dark, much too dark, a dark that seemed so heavy it frightened him, and he felt a shiver race down his spine.

  He nestled his head down on the pillow and attempted to recall the odd dream. It came in fragment, small bits and pieces he fought to make sense of and forced himself to remember. But full wakefulness was beginning to take hold of him, and he realized that as reality intruded, the bizarre dream would fade.

  He rarely dreamed and didn’t put much stock in dreams. There was one dream he would never forget. It was so clear, so vivid, that to this day he swore it wasn’t a dream. It was right after his mother died. He was staying with Mrs. Garcia while his fate was being decided. She had made an effort to seek custody of him, but was told she had too many children of her own and too little money to provide for another child.

  He often wondered how different his life would have been if...

  He pushed the thought aside and concentrated on the dream. His mother had come to him. It was around three in the morning. He remembered because he looked at the glowing alarm clock on the rickety nightstand next to the bed. Then he glanced down at the bottom of the bed and there sat his mother in her waitress uniform, smoking a cigarette, the way he would always remember her.

  Their conversation had been strange. She explained that she had done her part, served her purpose and could do no more for him. He was now on his own. She advised him that life would not be easy for him, but that he would find the strength he needed to face his challenges, to meet his fate. She warned him in a sharp tone, one she used when she expected him to listen and obey, that he should think and choose wisely. That wisdom brought clarity and the truth. She told him how much she loved and admired him, and how grateful she was to have been a part of his journey. She hugged him and whispered, “Remember my love for you, and one day it will help you to understand.”

  His eyes grew misty but he shed no tears. He had cried enough that night so long ago and for many nights to come, until he felt that there were no more tears to shed and that there was no one who cared that he wept.

  He shook his head. Why he recalled that dream now he couldn’t say, or perhaps it was because on first waking from this dream it had been as clear and vivid as the one with his mother. But he couldn’t hold on to this dream. Maybe he didn’t want to; maybe it frightened him more than he wanted to admit.

  He rubbed his hand over his face and groaned. In an instant he brought the groan to an end and shivered. His groan sounded identical to the one he heard in the dream. Had that mysterious figure been him? Where had he been? What was he doing?

  He turned his head, punching his pillow either to soften it or to release some of his frustration—he wasn’t certain which, but either way it felt good. He nestled his head and yawned when he once again jumped and hit his head on the ceiling.

  “Damn,” he said, rubbing what he was certain was a growing lump on his forehead. His eyes searched the room, and he shook his head when he caught sight of the shadow that stretched up upon his ceiling. It was of a bear that looked about ready to strike. He finally discovered the whereabouts of the culprit.r />
  “Bear,” he whispered.

  The black cat stopped licking its paw and looked at him. A faint light from the half-moon cast upon the pure white snow entered his window; he supposed it was the cause of the shadow. Though the light wasn’t very strong, he still couldn’t understand how one average-sized black cat could cast the shadow of a bear.

  But then things weren’t what they seemed to be around here. He wondered if perhaps he had fallen down the proverbial rabbit’s hole and was in a completely different universe. He held his hand out to the cat and at first the cat didn’t seem interested. But curiosity appeared to get the better of him, and he sauntered over to the dangling fingers.

  Bear swatted at Michael’s hand a few times, and when he exchanged playful antics with him, Bear seemed delighted.

  There was no doubt the black cat was in complete charge of the game and when he tired, Bear simply jumped up on the bed, rubbed himself against Michael’s chest, then settled in a cuddled ball against him and went to sleep.

  Michael smiled. He had never had a pet and this spoiled and demanding animal simply stole his heart. Besides, it was nice having someone to cuddle with, even a cat.

  He yawned again. Sleep was creeping over him and he was grateful. He only hoped there would be no more dreams. His droopy eyes glanced at the wall across from him and he focused on the symbols that ran as a border around the room.

  Why were they so familiar? Had he seen them somewhere in his various travels or in the many books he read? He knew them from somewhere, but where?

  His eyes drifted shut and once again he whispered, “Protection.”

  Chapter Six

  The snow had stopped and the skies remained gray, making the late afternoon appear more like early evening. A thick log burned brightly in the stone fireplace in the living room, and

  Michael sat on the couch, his ankle resting on a chintz ottoman whose floral design was nothing less than chaotic.

  He had opted to wear his own clothes, a worn denim shirt and his jeans, though he had borrowed the slippers as the cumbersome cast left no other footwear possible. He relaxed now for the first time since morning. Tempest had breakfast cooking when he had entered the kitchen, and the smell of French toast and sausages almost made him lick his lips. After breakfast he had helped with the dishes, and then went to work in the greenhouse, finding he favored working with the plants, and besides, Tempest was a patient teacher. Not to mention that he enjoyed watching her. There was no doubt she was physically beautiful, but something else about her had appealed to him, though he couldn’t quite understand or explain it. And stranger still, the nagging feeling was familiar.

  He had pointed out some minor repairs the greenhouse could use and suggested that after his ankle healed he could repay her hospitality by making the repairs. She had agreed without hesitation, and it had made him feel that at least he would be of some substantial use.

  After a light lunch she insisted that he rest and with a slight twinge reminding him of his injury he decided that it might be a good idea. That was a couple of hours ago, and he had been reading ever since. The book was a history on Scottish witchcraft and he found it fascinating.

  Witchcraft dated back to Scotland’s earliest days. In the second century, witchcraft enticed King Natholocus to send a messenger to the island of Iona where there was reputed to live a famous witch. The king wished to know the outcome of a rebellion mounting in his Kingdom. She foretold of his doom with great accuracy.

  Christianity brought the fall of pagan worship, the practice which was based on the cycles of nature. It was actually a practical practice, since survival was dependent upon the growth of crops and the abundance of wildlife. It wasn’t until the reign of Mary in 1563 that the Scottish parliament made witchcraft legally punishable.

  The witch-hunt sent many practitioners into hiding and forced them to pass on their knowledge secretly until such a time came when it was embraced as a viable practice.

  “Interesting book?” Tempest asked and handed him a mug of hot chocolate which he eagerly accepted. She took her mug, shook off her shoes and curled her sock-covered feet under her on the oversized chintz chair opposite him.

  “Very much so,” he answered, admiring her long, narrow, pale-blue knit skirt and matching turtleneck sweater, not to mention her pale-blue and white polka-dotted socks.

  “Scottish Witchcraft.” She read the title from the book’s spine. “An interest of yours?”

  “Not until I picked up this book. Now I find it a bit fascinating,” he admitted and sipped at the hot chocolate that tasted as good as he remembered from his youth. He closed the book, placing the jacket’s flap in the page he was reading to serve as a bookmark. “Is it an interest of yours?”

  “I have many interests.”

  “I can see from your collection of books that your range is wide, though you do have many on ancient pagan practices.”

  “History fascinates me. I don’t feel it is portrayed accurately, and therefore it leaves room for debate and interpretation.”

  Michael found himself drawn to her intelligence. “What makes you say that?”

  She hugged her mug in her hands after taking a sip. “History itself proves it. All one needs to do is look at the portraits of powerful people. They are always portrayed as regal characters, dressed stylishly and lavishly, their expressions imperial. If it is a battle scene it is mostly victorious; even a death scene demonstrates how eagerly and bravely lives were given for country and king. If it is a feasting scene it is a lavish ordeal with much merriment. No true suffering, heartache or injustices of the common people are shown. The very people who make a country thrive and grow.”

  Michael raised the book he had been reading. “Pictures in here portray the suffering and injustice of those tried for witchcraft.”

  “Look more closely at the pictures. Those doing the accusing or torturing are portrayed as saviors. They are not only saving the innocent, they are saving the evil souls of the damned. And in the end all confess their evil deeds, begging for mercy, and of course they are mercifully put to death. And another soul is saved. Another battle is won. Another victory claimed.”

  “Obviously it’s a period in history you feel strongly about?”

  Her smile was filled with sadness. “Power, greed, ignorance and fear breed disaster and causes needless suffering, and the tragic loss of far too many lives.”

  He looked at her oddly. “You sound as though you speak from experience.”

  Memories flared and the cries of the tortured innocent souls filled her head. She shook the heartrending images away. “Too much reading,” she said with a salute of her mug.

  Why didn’t he believe her? She spoke with such conviction, and he could easily see the hurt in her eyes. He thought on it briefly before saying, “Have you dated back your heritage to the horrific witch burnings?”

  For a second his question surprised her, and then she realized he meant her ancestors and could answer honestly, “Yes, my heritage touches that period.”

  He grew excited. “Are you a descendant of a witch?”

  Another honest answer. “Yes.”

  His eager interest surfaced with a grin. “Tell me about her, and how you discovered her existence.” He waited, but another pertinent question broke his patient silence. “Oh, the symbols upstairs,” he said excitedly. “Do they pertain to witchcraft?”

  “Some believe so.”

  “Tell me,” he said like an eager child impatiently waiting to hear a tale.

  She shared his excitement and thirst for knowledge. “The symbols you refer to are called runes. Many date their inception back to the Germanic tribes, and they are a solid part of Viking history. They have been associated with witchcraft, and the symbols resemble some of the ogam symbols of the druids. If you look closely at history, and the migration of the various tribes you can understand how many of the symbols intermingled. So it is difficult to say where one began or joined with another. Regardless the
symbols appeared to be an early form of written communication.”

  “You have books on runes and ogam?”

  “Several that you may find interesting.”

  “Tell me about your ancestor the witch,” he said eagerly.

  Tempest found herself in a quandary. Exactly how much information should she impart, and was she safe in sharing any? She glanced at his eyes, so dark they almost appeared black, though on second glance she could see they were a dark brown and cynical. He didn’t trust easily, reserving his opinions and emotions. Who really was this stranger sitting across from her? She needed to know; not only for herself, but for him.

  His own excitement kept him questioning. “Did she cast spells? Fly a broom? Turn people into toads? Cavort with the devil?”

  Tempest looked at him oddly. “You talk like those who once condemned witches.”

  “Foolishly,” he said with a laugh. “I imagine I’m predisposed to believe in all the nonsense once told to me about witches. I never really stopped to think about witchcraft. It wasn’t given much attention in history classes, and most people’s image of a witch is the hag so prominently displayed at Halloween.”

  “Witches look no different than anyone else.”

  He tapped the book with his finger. “I’m beginning to understand that, and how predominant they were throughout history. It is amazing to realize that monarchs sought out the advice of witches or those with supernatural powers.”

  “Insightful. Whether it was witches, druids, shamans or wizards, it was their extraordinary ability to foresee and comprehend the results of thought and action that learned men sought.”

  “Did your ancestor help monarchs?”

  Tempest nodded. “She was known to give a word or two of advice.”

  “What became of her?” Michael asked with concern.

  “She found it necessary to hide her skills and keep silent her talents.”

  Michael tapped at the book. “Do you believe there were those who practiced the Craft that intentionally sought to do harm?”