Dominique reads the inscription:
‘NOTIS. THIS WERRY ELABORTE PILE IS ERECKTED IN MEMORY OF TOLOMATO, A SEMINOLE INGINE CHEEF WHOOS WIGWARM STUUD ON THIS SPOT AND SIRROUNDINGS. WEE CHERIS HIS MEMERY AS HE WAS A GOOD HARTED CHEEF. H E WOOD KNOT TAKE YOOUR SKALP WITHOUT YOU BEGGED HIM TO DO SO OR PADE HIM SUM MUNNY. HE ALWAYS AKTED MORE LIKE A CHRISTSUN GENTLEMEN THAN A SAVAGE INGINE. LET HIM R.I.P.’
‘Lovely.’
Evelyn stands before the grave marker, her eyes closed, her lips mumbling something incomprehensible. After several moments she opens her eyes, then leaves the dwelling without saying a word.
Dominique follows her outside. ‘Look, maybe this isn’t such a-’
‘One must adhere to proper etiquette, child. Let’s walk, my home’s not far from here.’
They continue to the corner, turning right on Cordova Street, its sidewalks shaded by oak trees. After several minutes they arrive at the sealed metal gates of an ancient cemetery.
Evelyn nods. ‘Tolomato Cemetery, one of the oldest graveyards in North America. Prior to 1763, the site was occupied by the Christian Indian village of Tolomato. The first bishop of St. Augustine is buried in the mortuary chapel at the rear of the cemetery. Most of the Spanish settlers preferred to be placed in stone crypts, our “New World” soil never considered holy ground.’
Evelyn continues walking.
Dominique remains by her side, the thought of so many old dead people lying so close sending chills down her spine. What am I doing here? Get back in your car and drive home to Palm Beach County where the blue-hairs are still alive and kicking.
Evelyn closes her eyes and bellows a bizarre laugh, as if sharing a private joke with a ghost.
Jesus, she’s a lunatic. Wonderful. You’ve wasted all evening escorting a nut job back to her loony bin. ‘Evelyn? Hello, Earth to Evelyn?’
The old woman turns, her azure-blue eyes radiant.
‘Listen, it’s getting late, and I have an early self-defense class. How about we do this another time?’
‘Your grandmother says she misses working the onion crops with you in the Guatemalan Highlands. Her knees and back always felt so much better after your evening swim in Lake Atitlan.’
Dominique’s skin tingles. ‘I was six. How did you…’
‘My place is just over there.’ She points to a two-storey red-brick, its paved walkway lined in white and purple impatiens.
The house is over two hundred years old, its security pad brand-new. Evelyn touches her fingertips to the soft rubber pad.
A click and the front door swings open.
Dominique follows the old woman through an arched corridor into a library, its floors made of beechwood, its furnishings contemporary. An entertainment center activates along one entire wall, broadcasting a CNN News- Flash:
‘… and in Antarctica, another glacier has separated from the Ross Ice Shelf, this one estimated at three times the size of the Irish Republic. Environmental scientists working with the United Nations insist that global warming has not escalated beyond anticipated figures for this year, despite the multiple pure-fusion detonations that vaporized large sections of Australia and Asia three months earlier. In other news-’
‘Shut down, please.’
The screen blackens.
‘That’s better.’ Evelyn turns to Dominique. ‘You must be famished. I took the liberty of ordering a few things on the trip up, they should be in the delivery pantry.’
Too hungry to argue, Dominique follows her into the kitchen, a room harboring the latest in voice-activated appliances. ‘Mmm, is that fresh garlic bread I smell?’
‘Yes. And pasta with marinara sauce.’ Evelyn opens the pantry door. Built into the exterior wall is a three- foot-by-five-foot stainless-steel hot box, one end opening to the pantry, the other to the outside of the house, allowing access for local deliveries.
The old woman removes the hot pouch containing their dinner and sets it on the black pearl granite kitchen table.
‘Come. We’ll talk while we eat.’
Dominique takes a seat as her host sets the table, then opens the Styrofoam containers, unleashing the aroma of fresh Italian food into the room.
‘You miss him, don’t you?’
Dominique breaks off a piece of bread and stuffs it into her mouth. ‘Miss who?’
Evelyn smiles, placing her palm on top of Dominique’s hand. ‘My dear, dancing around the truth will only wear both of us out. Do you know what necromancy is?’
‘No.’
‘Necromancy is the art of communicating with the souls of the dead. Some believe it’s a black art, but that all depends upon who’s doing the communicating. The practice can be traced back to the ancient Egyptians and their leader, Osiris, creator of Giza, who summoned the dead to obtain valuable guidance.’
‘So… you’re telling me you communicate with dead people?’
‘With their souls.’
Dominique scoops up a forkful of pasta. ‘I don’t mean to be skeptical, but-’
‘The body is made of physical matter. At creation, each of us is linked to a specific soul, our life force, or spirit, the energy force that strengthens the body-soul connection.’
‘Okay, let me stop you there. First, I’m not a very religious person. Second, Ouija boards and all that hokey crap give me the creeps.’
‘But you’ve used them recently, haven’t you?’
Dominique swallows hard.
‘Because you’re seeking answers to something.’
‘Yes.’
‘You want to know if Michael is still alive.’
Dominique holds back her tears. ‘I just need some sense of closure. You know, so I can go on.’
‘What does your heart tell you?’
She sits back, wringing her hands nervously against her thighs. ‘My heart tells me he’s alive. My brain says something else.’
For a long moment the old woman just stares. ‘I can guide you on part of your journey, Dominique, but I can’t give you all the answers. If I did, it could alter the future.’
‘What journey? What future? What the hell are you talking about?’
Evelyn contemplates. Says nothing.
‘I said what journey?’
‘Your journey, Dominique. Your destiny, and the destiny of your sons.’
‘Know what-I made a mistake. I’m not ready for this.’ She stands to leave.
‘Leave if you want, but it won’t change a thing; in fact, it will only make things worse. For whatever reason, a higher power has chosen you to be part of a greater good, just as I’ve been chosen to guide you. I’m not your enemy, Dominique, fear is the enemy-fear of the unknown. If you allow me, I can shine a light into the void and help eliminate your fear. I can give you the knowledge you seek.’
Dominique pauses, then sits back down. ‘Say what you have to say.’
‘The first thing we must overcome is your lack of trust. I’m not a screwball. I’m a psychiatrist who relies on science and scientific observation to guide me. At the same time, I come from a family whose maternal ancestors were always adept at inter-dimensional communication.’
Evelyn holds up a finger, stifling Dominique’s question. ‘To understand inter-dimensional communication, you must first accept that we are surrounded by energy, and energy is everything and all things, it is only our perception within this universe of energy that changes. This table, for example, appears solid, yet it is made up of atoms, all of which are in constant motion. If we examined an atom of this chair under a powerful microscope, we would see mostly empty space. High-speed particles-electrons-would zip by like asteroids, and if we could delve
