The Witch’s Grave (18 page)

My robe slapped against my legs as I climbed the hill behind Abby’s house. In the east, the sky was beginning to lighten, and the world was quiet.

I’d been to this place of magick before, where the energy of the earth ran close to the surface. Then, I’d sought to use magick in the wrong way. Today, I wasn’t looking for revenge—today, I sought enlightenment.

While the horizon became tinged with rose, I made my circle of salt. I faced the north and thought of the rich black earth beneath my bare feet. I made a quarter turn and faced the brightening horizon to the east. Taking a deep breath, I let sweet, clean air fill my lungs. Turning again, I faced the south and pictured in my mind the safety and warmth of the hearth, of fire contained. And last to the west, and saw water giving life to all living things.

Finished, I spread the mat I carried on the dew-soaked grass and sat. The air around me throbbed with repressed energy, as if only waiting to slip its bounds. Sitting there, I tried to let the silence fill me and my mind to still. No thoughts of Madeleine and the Gaspards, Stephen, or the Vargas family. It was hard. My mind was like a radio tower picking up twenty stations at once, all containing nothing but static.

This is wrong. My mind should be empty, not jumping from thought to thought in random order.

I couldn’t control it. I felt my brow wrinkle in concentration as I struggled with the images flitting through my head. Madeleine, the Gaspards skeletal bodies piled in heaps, a golden necklace. Other images, other faces, flashed by…a Romany woman holding a china cup close to her face as she studied the tea leaves gathered in the bottom; a tall blond man wearing a funny hat, casting bits of bone on a skin rug in a smoky longhouse made of logs; a warrior monk standing guard in the snow at a temple gate high in the mountains.

A heavy weight crushed down on me as if I were being buried alive. A hot wind blew through my soul, bringing with it the fire and the flame. My skin burned, and I felt consumed by heat. Panting, I struggled to fill my lungs, but the parching wind seared my throat. I burned from the inside out. I saw myself crumbling, piece by piece, until nothing remained of me but a pile of ash. Destroyed, the fiery wind would blow what was left of me to the four corners.

And when I thought I couldn’t stand anymore, I felt a drop of water touch my spirit. The flame within me sizzled and the wind stilled. The drop was followed by another, then another, and another, until a torrent of water poured over me, washing away the ash and leaving me clean and new.

The cascading water slowed to a gentle rain, and with the rain came the deepest sense of peace I’d ever know. A warm glow spread through my mind, my body, my spirit—to the tips of my fingers, to the tips of my toes. I felt at one with the world.

I opened my eyes expecting to see scorched, muddy earth. The world around me had changed—the woods below the hill were filled with birdsong under a sky shot with streaks of pink and gold.

Sitting quiet and still, I savored the importance of this moment. Part of me had been stripped away, and in its place
was a confidence I’d never experienced. Nourished by the earth, strengthened by the wind, tempered by the fire, and quenched by the water, my sense of self, who I was, what I was, spread its roots like a growing thing.

Rising smoothly to my feet, I closed my circle—grateful for the understanding I’d been given. Abby had always said we were conduits, but I never quite got what she meant. Now I did. The vessel must be empty before it can be filled. I had to surrender before I could receive.

And I did receive. In the process of giving up control, I saw that the answers I’d sought were there all along…in my dreams, in my conversations, in Abby’s vision of flames and ash. Stephen’s password—a mythical bird rising from its own ashes.

Phoenix.

Abby answered her back door at my second knock. Dressed to work in the greenhouse, she wore a chambray shirt over a light top, jeans, and clogs. Her silver hair snaked down her back in a braid.

Holding the screen door open and drawing me inside, her eyes scanned me from tip to toe. “All you all right?”

“Yeah,” I croaked, my voice sounding funny to my ears. “I think so.”

Abby wrapped her arms around me in a tight hug. “Of course you are.” She kissed my cheek. “I’m so proud of you,” she whispered in my ear. “Come on,” she said, ushering me into the kitchen and guiding me to a chair. “You need to eat.” Her eyes traveled down to the bottom of my robe. “The hem’s wet. Do you have clothes with you?”

I shook my head. “I’m wearing shorts and a T-shirt underneath.”

“Well, then, let’s get that robe off of you,” she said, helping me to my feet and stripping off the robe as if I were a child. She draped it over the back of one of the chairs, spreading the sleeves wide.

It looked like a second guest sitting at the table.

Pushing me back down in the chair, she busied herself making breakfast. “First you need tea.” She stoked the fire in the wood cook stove, and soon the teakettle whistled merrily. Pouring the hot water over the silver tea ball in a mug, she carried it to the table and placed it in front of me. “Put plenty of sugar in it—you need to replenish your energy.”

I watched her, puzzled, as I waited for my tea to steep. “Abby, do you know what happened?”

“Not the details, but I know you went through your trial.” Her voice was calm, like what I’d experienced was an everyday occurrence. “The change is written on your face.”

My hand flew to my face. “I have marks?”

“No,” she said, and laughed, “but your eyes are different. There’s a light in them now that was lacking.”

Shaking my head, I sipped my tea and fell silent.

Lost in our thoughts, Abby and I didn’t speak for several minutes. The only sound in her kitchen was the sizzle of sausage and the click of the wire whisk against a stoneware bowl as she scrambled the eggs. When she removed the toaster from the cupboard, I stood to help her. She waved me back into my chair.

“Drink your tea,” she said, popping two slices of homemade bread into the toaster. “You need to replenish your fluids. After breakfast, you can have a nice nap in your old bedroom.”

“I feel fine. Kind of euphoric.” I sat back in my chair and smiled at her. “And I’m not tired—I slept eleven hours last night.”

She poured the eggs in the skillet, making it crackle. “It just hasn’t caught up with you yet…it will,” she said, whirling the eggs in the skillet.

When the toaster snapped, Abby quickly buttered the slices and brought them to the table on a small plate. “Here,” she said, setting the plate in front of me, “go on and eat your toast.”

“Why didn’t you ever tell me how to get in touch with my abilities?”

She patted my head before returning to the stove. “It’s not something one can explain. I could only try and guide you in that direction.”

I picked at a piece of the toast. “That’s what all the lecturing about letting go, the empty vessel, etcetera, was about?”

She tossed me a grin over her shoulder. “Yes, but you had to reach the point in your journey where you could accept that on your own.”

Crumbling a bit of crust with my fingers, I thought about her words. “Abby, it’s taken me so long…does this mean I’m a late bloomer?”

Her laughter rang out. “No—it means you’re a little more stubborn than most.” She frowned as she flipped the sausage. “I think the guilt you felt over Brian’s death, the feeling that you should’ve been able to save him, slowed your progress.”

“Now that I get it, everything will be easier, right?” I asked, and bit into the toast.

Scooping the eggs into a bowl, she arched an eyebrow. “Whatever gave you that idea?”

My head jerked in surprise. “But isn’t that the point? To achieve a sense of peace, an understanding of my gift, and to accept?”

“Yes,” she replied in an even voice, “but that doesn’t mean you’ll never again face a challenge, or that life will roll along without problems. It means you now have the ability to deal with them.” Taking up the sausage, she carried both the crisp brown links and the bowl of eggs to the table and placed them in the center. She returned to the cupboards and quickly took out plates and silverware. Handing me mine, she sat in the chair across the table from me.

“Life’s about lessons, my dear, and we never quit learning,” she said, and handed me the platter of sausage. “It’s
different for everyone, but I think all the garbage you’ve carried for so long had to be burned away…”

I paused as I forked a link onto my plate. “I thought you said you didn’t know the details?”

“I don’t, but I know you. You needed to find your core, but you’ve never been able to do that. Your center was too full of past hurts and resentments to allow anything else in.”

“I guess,” I said, cutting the meat into tiny pieces.

Abby smiled at me from across the table. “Now that you’ve rid yourself of all of that, you have a place of peace inside of you. Getting in touch with that will help you whenever you’re feeling troubled.”

“I’ll find my answers within?”

“Something like that,” she commented, filling her plate. “But that doesn’t mean you’ll always like those answers.”

My fork clattered to my plate as I jumped out of my chair. “Answers…the disks. I don’t have time to eat. I know Stephen’s password now.” I took a step away from the table. “I have to go.”

She pointed her knife at the chair I’d just vacated. “You sit right back down. You’ve waited this long to read his notes—you need food and rest before you tackle the next problem.”

I sank back into the chair as I realized that the elation I’d felt earlier had slowly ebbed away. My muscles now quivered with a deep tiredness. Propping my head in my hands, memories of my dream stole over me.

I raised my head and looked at Abby with weary eyes.

“I saw Madeleine’s death,” I told her.

Abby rose from her chair and came to stand behind me. Bending down, she wrapped her arms around my shoulders and laid her cheek next to mine.

“I’m sure it was hard for you to witness that,” she murmured.

“It was,” I said, squeezing her hand. “If Madeleine really did live, she died trying to save a Romany family from the Nazis.” My voice caught in my throat. “She failed.” I released her hand and picked at a piece of toast. “If my dreams
were
true, it happened so long ago and I can’t change it…but their deaths still haunt me.”

Letting go and standing straight, Abby laid a hand on the top of my head as if in a blessing. “What’s gone before is always with us, my dear. And whether your dreams were about real events doesn’t matter. They showed you something and they had a purpose. If nothing else, they led you to this morning and becoming one with your gift.”

She moved back around the table and sat in her chair.

I frowned. “One thing that isn’t clear…If I did truly live as Madeleine, do you think Stephen was Henrick Sorenson?” I played with the food still on my plate. “Henrick was kind of a jerk.”

“I don’t know. They do seem to have different approaches to life.”

I snorted. “No kidding. Louise, Stephen’s mom, told me that all of his life, Stephen has always fought for the underdog. In my dreams, all Henrick seemed to care about was money.”

Abby moved her plate away and crossed her arms on the table. “Maybe he’s making amends in this lifetime for being selfish in his last life.”

“Who’s making amends?”

Jerking around in my chair, I saw Darci standing in the kitchen doorway.

“Sorry to bust in. I did knock,” she said, pointing to the doorway, “but no one answered.”

“That’s fine,” Abby replied with a smile as she stood. “Would you like to join us for breakfast?”

“Oh, gee, thanks,” she said, and slid into the chair next to mine. After eyeing the robe still draped on the other chair, she looked at me, then Abby, and gave us a bright smile. “So what’s up?”

Finally, after answering Darci’s endless questions and taking a nap, I was home and in front of my computer. The disk drive hummed as it scanned Stephen’s disk. The familiar enter your password box popped up, and with trembling fingers I typed in
Phoenix.

Closing my eyes, I clasped my hands in my lap and prayed, “Please, please be right.”

The computer stopped buzzing, and I peeked at the screen. A page of notes appeared in front of me. I had to stop myself from jumping to my feet and doing a happy dance around my desk. Quickly, I became engrossed in Stephen’s notes.

They told of his meeting with a young Latino from El Salvador while Stephen was in Boston. Stephen had won the young man’s confidence, and the man had related his journey to the United States to him.

It was terrible. It took him over three months traveling by bus, train, trucks, on foot, and his journey was filled with
hardships. Preyed on along the way by bandits, smugglers, and gangs, when he reached California, he was kidnapped from a safe house by a gang and actually held for ransom. The gang contacted his family in Boston and demanded money to ensure his release. When he finally made it to Boston, the trip had cost him over three thousand dollars.

The young man had come into this country with seventeen other immigrants. Reading down through the notes, I saw that Stephen had done rough calculations. This one smuggling ring had made over $51,000 on a single trip bringing these people in. He multiplied that by the over 200,000 immigrants sneaking into the U.S. every year and came up with some major bucks. No wonder it was so hard to stop—too much money was changing hands.

His notes went on to mention how the largest source of foreign income for Mexico is the money sent home to families still living there, so it wasn’t in their best interest to discourage migration across the border. He talked of young women being sexually abused and the hundreds of people that died every year in the deserts along the border.

He listed the money the United States spent on guarding the borders, apprehending undocumented workers, and deporting them. It was astronomical.

And caught in the maelstrom of political opinion for and against immigrant workers were people like this young man from El Salvador, just looking for a better life.

“What a mess,” I muttered to myself.

It was obvious to me why Stephen had wanted to talk to Vargas. He somehow had found out about Antonio’s sister. Had he talked to Ben Jessup about undocumented workers, too? What would Ben have known about the situation?

I counted up the number of people either hurt or dead: Stephen, Ben Jessup, Antonio’s sister. Three lives. But what’s three lives when you’re trying to protect your share of millions? I needed to call Bill and turn these disks over to him.

While dialing, I drummed my fingers on the desk.

“Hi, this is Ophelia Jensen, but this isn’t an emergency,” I blurted out when the dispatcher answered. “May I speak to Bill Wilson, please?”

“I’m sorry, he’s not in,” she replied.

“Is there any way I could reach him?”

“Would you like to speak with a deputy?” she asked, not answering my question.

“No, could I have his cell phone number?”

“No. We’re not allowed to provide that information.”

“Can you tell me how I can find him?”

“He’s at the scene of an accident.”

“Where?”

“We’re not allowed to provide that information.”

I thought about asking if there was any information she
could
give me, but decided the remark might come out kind of snippy.

“Okay, thanks,” I said with a sigh, and hung up.

Leaning back, I locked my fingers behind my head and swiveled my chair in a slow circle.
Now what?

I remembered my notes from the rune reading and pulled them out.

Scanning through them, it was obvious the reading hadn’t been about me at all. It had been about Madeleine. Her present in Paris 1941 had indicated a psychic talent. That was true—my dreams had revealed her talent at telling the future using cards. Her past was in the hands of an official.

My mouth twisted with bitterness. Vogel.

Her future had shown that she’d receive no assistance. Again, that was true. Henrick could have helped her save the Gaspards, but refused. As a result, she died.

The doorbell rang then, startling me, and I shoved the notes back in my desk drawer. When I reached the front door, I saw Darci standing on the front porch, literally bouncing up and down.

As I opened the door, she rushed past me, waving a sheaf of papers in her hand.

“I’ve got it,” she cried with excitement.

“Got what?” I asked, shutting the door and following her into the living room. “Don’t you have a class today?”

“Nah,” she replied, plopping down on the couch, then spreading the papers across the coffee table. She stopped and studied me. “Have you done something different to your hair?”

Instinctively, I reached for my head. “No. Why?”

She tapped a finger to her chin as she looked me over. “I don’t know…there’s just something different about you.”

I hadn’t shared my experience on the hilltop with Darci, and didn’t want to try and explain it now. It was too new, too personal, to share with even my best friend. Maybe later, once I felt more comfortable, I could.

Instead, I sat down beside her on the couch and changed the subject. “What’s this?” I asked, pointing at the papers scattered on the table.

“Well, the only names you gave me were the Gaspards, Madeleine, and Henrick Sorenson,” she said with a wiggle, “First I tried looking up Jacques Gaspard on the Internet, but didn’t find anything.”

I felt a wrench of sadness. “I don’t imagine you did. If they did exist, they would have disappeared in the Holocaust, like so many others.”

“And,” she picked up where she left off, “with just ‘Madeleine,’ I tried looking up French resistance fighters, but the search came up empty. If you do this again, try and get the last name, too,” she chided.

I arched an eyebrow and stared at her. “Darce, I don’t plan on doing this again,” I said vehemently. Picking up the papers, I rattled them at her. “So if you couldn’t find anything out, what’s this?”

She gave me a sly look. “I didn’t say I couldn’t find
any
information.” Her lips formed a smug smile. “Henrick Sorenson.”

I glanced at the papers in my hand in disbelief. “You found Henrick? He really did live?”

“Umm-hmm,” she said with a self satisfied nod. “And he was honored by Sweden for his work in helping refugees escape the Nazis.”

“But…but in the dreams,” I stuttered, “all he cared about was ripping them off.”

“Not between 1941 and 1944. He used his father’s company to smuggle them into Sweden.”

“Really?” I was amazed. “What happened after 1944?”

“Well, the honor was given posthumously—”

“He died?”

“Yup.” Taking the papers from my hand, she thumbed through them quickly. “Here it is,” she said, giving me a page. “The war was turning against Germany. The Soviet Union had driven them back, and the Allies were getting ready to launch the invasion of Normandy.” She pointed to a paragraph. “Henrick went back to Paris for the last time. There, he lured a German colonel…umm…what was his name?” she asked, peering at the paper my hand.

“Vogel,” I said without looking.

“Right,” she commented with a snap of her fingers, “Vogel. Henrick persuaded Vogel to meet him in the Catacombs, near—”

“Menilmontant,” I provided for her.

She cocked her head and stared at me. “Hey, did you already know this?”

“No,” I said softly.

“Once he had Vogel in the Catacombs, he executed him using a garrote.”

“He strangled him to death.”

“Yeah, slowly, I guess. One source quoted Sorenson as saying during his interrogation that he didn’t want Vogel to die an easy death.”

“I take it Henrick was arrested?”

“Yeah. After he killed Vogel, he calmly turned himself in. He faced a firing squad the next day.”