“Well have a good evening, sir. And watch your step.”
“I will,” I acknowledged. “Thanks again.”
As the uniformed cop and I continued in different directions, a tickle in the back of my mind told me that something about that van was supposed to be familiar. An itch in the front of my mind told me to go home and steep a handful of willow bark in a cup of hot water then drink it as fast as I could. The itch won.
By the time I reached my truck and climbed into the chilly cab, the makings of the all out migraine had at least settled enough for me to make it home in one piece.
“Wherefore, since you, Rowan Linden Gant, are fallen into the damned heresies of Witches, practicing them publicly, and have been by legitimate witnesses convicted of the sin of heresy, or by your own confession received by us in Court; and after your capture you have escaped, refusing the medicine of your salvation: therefore we have summoned you to answer for the said crimes in person before us, but you, led away and seduced by a wicked spirit, have refused to appear…”
My heart pounds forcefully in my throat as I run to escape the angry voice.
Darkness surrounds me.
Agony envelops me.
Fear feeds upon me.
“And whereas the Holy Church of God has long awaited you up to this present day of kindness and mercy, that you might fly to the bosom of her mercy, renouncing your errors and professing the Catholic Faith, and be nourished by the bounty of her mercy; but you have refused to consent, persisting in your obstinacy…”
I cannot escape the voice.
I cannot escape the darkness.
I cannot control the fear.
“Therefore, following in the footsteps of the Blessed Apostle Paul, we declare, judge and sentence you, absent or present, to be a stubborn heretic, and as such to be abandoned to secular justice…”
I pump my legs harder against the frozen ground, each step excruciating torment.
The fear has become visceral terror.
I am consumed.
“And by this our definitive sentence we drive you from the ecclesiastical Court, and abandon you to the power of the secular Court that, if it ever should have you in its power, it will moderate its sentence of death against you…”
Silence.
Pure.
Clean.
Dim light creases the darkness before me.
The sturdy form of a tree unfolds itself in the light.
A tree bearing corymbs of white flowers, their very presence making it stand as an oddity against the snow at its base.
A European Mountain Ash.
A Rowan Tree.
So enraptured am I at the appearance of this tree in full bloom that my fears are forgotten.
My terror melts away.
My pains dulled to non-existence.
Slowly I begin to circle the tree as red fruits appear and the delicate flowers wither.
I continue as the berries follow in the same fashion, leaving only the feather-like leaves.
When I round the backside of the tree, they too atrophy and die.
The once sturdy timber now stands bereft of its foliage, appearing sickly and barren.
Confusion fills the void once occupied by fear.
Deep in the now dull and lifeless trunk a scar puckers. As I watch, it forms a circle bisected along the arc by small hash marks. In its center an X marries itself with a P.
Below it another appears.
And another…
And another…
And another still…
A quintet of the blemishes now infects the peeling bark.
Sound interrupts the stillness.
Metal against wood.
Stabbing.
Scraping.
Carving.
I continue my trek around the dying plant in search of the source.
In a surreal wipe, the back of a robed figure appears opposite me.
Finding myself devoid of words, I simply stare in silence. The scraping sound ceases, and the figure cocks its head to the side. Slowly and purposefully the figure reaches up and pulls back the hood of the robe to reveal a tangle of fiery red hair. The figure turns to face me.
Kendra Miller stares at me with vacant eyes, in her hand an athame. On the quickly rotting tree trunk behind her is a freshly carved Monogram of Christ. With nothing resembling any form of emotion, she raises her hand and points the athame at me.
My confusion flees.
Fear returns in force, surging upward from the depths of my bowels.
“Whereas you, Rowan Linden Gant have duly and properly admitted your crimes, and having before us the Holy Gospels that our judgment may proceed as from the countenance of God, by this sentence we cast you away as an impenitent heretic and sorcerer…”
The intermittent sounds of creaking punctuate the sentences that spill imperiously from the dark voice.
“… And do hereby deliver you unto the power of our most Holy God. As you are damned in body and soul, your sentence on this day is death. The sentence, to be executed immediately and without appeal in the manner of hanging.”
My eyes snapped open at the explosive sound of a gallows trap door violently swinging wide.
The first thing I saw was the pitched ceiling of the upper floor of my house. I tilted my head forward and stopped the moment the sore ache shot from one side of my neck to the other. Awakened by its friend in the upper vertebrae, a nagging pinch began to dance about my lower back. Acute awareness of my position in the chair told me I had been there far too long.
Slowly I allowed my head to begin its forward tilt once again but decided to take things one-step at a time and told the rest of my body to stay put. A well-worn paperback copy of the Malleus Maleficarum was splayed out on the desk in front of me with my glasses placed carefully in the center. A half empty bottle of beer sat to the right; next to it, a ceramic mug that had contained willow bark tea.
The sound of the fan on my computer hummed in a medium pitched drone punctuated by a regular staccato smacking noise to my left. I shifted my bleary gaze in the direction of the wet sound, and it came to rest on the corner of my workstation.
There, Salinger, our Himalayan was perched carefully on the edge of the desktop peering wide-eyed at me over the rim of a bowl. His wary feline gaze locked with mine, and he tensed in preparation to bolt but continued to lap at the discarded remnants of my dinner.
After a moment or two of playing stare down with the fluffy cat, I shifted my weight and allowed the chair to pivot forward. Salinger immediately leapt down as the springs groaned in protest but took only a few quick steps before turning and planting himself a short distance away with Emily and Dickens. Apparently, the cats had been taking turns at the feeding trough while the other two acted as lookouts.
I rubbed my eyes to dislodge the sleep still clinging in them then slid my glasses onto my face as I stood. The
