Memories swarmed across my forehead and filtered into my facial bones. My mother’s face came into focus, fingertips of both her hands stroked my cheeks.
Mama, too, wore a crown and a white ceremonial gown. A dry section of my heart plumped with the drops of maternal love radiating from her eyes. I arched farther, basking as I was cradled, wanted, and loved.
Other images moved across the movie screen of my forehead—some of them were definitely my memories; some of them were snapshots that could have been from my life, or my mother’s, I couldn’t tell and didn’t need to know—until I came to a moment I remembered all too well. The scramble to pack what belongings we could fit into a dented Volkswagen Bug and the long, long drive from the coast of Maine to the coast of British Columbia and our arrival at my mother’s sister’s house.
My mother’s death.
A crack zig-zagged horizontally across my chest. The flames that earlier had danced so pleasingly over the front of my body now branded the muscles between my ribs. I gasped and arched further in an attempt to flee the pain.
Mourning. Going to school. My first period. High school, band of girlfriends. Dating. College. Environmental studies. Meeting Doug. The sense of inevitability around our courtship and marriage. Being forced to choose him rather than continuing my studies into graduate school and greater activism.
My magic shutting down.
The burning sensation across my chest turned to ash.
Mutual abandonment. The births of my two boys. The joy. My job. Finding my way. Autonomy. Becoming respected. The boys growing up. Doug and I growing apart. Divorce.
My determination to find my way.
The little bright and shiny bits and pieces I kept tucked away. The simple joys and pleasure of being with my plants. The compulsion to connect with living, growing green things.
Living, growing, green things.
Plants sprouting, seeding, dying, becoming loam for their offspring. Cool moss at my back.
The lightening sky that presaged dawn. Soft voices. Careful whispers, sent in my direction, pull me back into the circle.
“I am Sorceress. I offer the Circle the gift of time out of time and the powers of alchemy.”
“I am Crone, the old one. I offer the Circle the gift of listening and the power of divination.”
“I am Dark Mother. I offer the Circle the gifts of solitude, retreat and hibernation, and the power of destruction as it leads to rebirth and letting go.”
“I am Transformer.” L’Runa—I knew that voice. “I am the source of All. I offer the Circle the gift and power of fear as an ally, the power of courage as we embrace change. I am the Carrier of the Cauldron. I am the Cosmic Womb and the Oracle. I am Shakti, and I am breath.”
That final word—breath—lingered, repeating itself over and over in my awareness as I came more fully awake. I heard Rose open the circle. In unison, the other witches affirmed the ritual was over and that the door to the other world had closed. I was offered sweetened tea from a thermos, and many hands helped me to sit then stand. The whispered reminder to breathe buoyed me during the long, slow walk back to the tent and acted as a pillow for my heavy, empty head. Busy—I knew it was my tent-mate because of the gentle hum—placed a lightweight blanket over my chest and throat before zipping me into my sleeping bag. Before she left the tent, she also placed a heavier, folded blanket over my legs and belly. The added weight sent me over the edge and into sleep.
Chapter 13
I awakened to silence, slightly disoriented and unvisited by dreams. A few whispered greetings, a metal bowl of steaming oatmeal and a refreshed thermos of tea, and I was back in the Jeep and on my way home.
The logging road out of the park was gouged with ruts, and the chances of blowing a tire or being run off by a logging truck offered an ever-present danger. I didn’t have a moment to process the ritual until I hit the packed dirt road ringing Lake Cowichan. My fingers finally released their death grip on the wheel. I relaxed into the seat back and opened the windows for fresh air.
Did I feel different? The tattoo on my belly was itchier, reminding me I really should look into getting it removed or altered. Loosening my zipper so I could give it a scratch, I darted a glance to the passenger seat. I’d tossed my things, including the length of joined ribbons and yarns, into a canvas boat bag. Perched atop my wrinkled red dress was a crown. I was going home a princess.
No, a Priestess. What was it Rose said? This ritual marks the start of your vision quest…
For the rest of the drive, I stayed alert to anything that could be construed as a sign or an omen. Aside from the occasional kettle of vultures circling overhead, I found no auguries in the sky, trees, or on the ground, nothing beyond the hyper-bright light of a cloudless summer day. I made my ferry, napped on the quick thirty-minute ride, and backed into my empty driveway.
I positioned the Jeep close to the outdoor hose, my hair and skin every bit as dust-coated as the exterior of the vehicle. A bubble bath followed by a slathering of moisturizer was foremost on my mind as I tramped up the stairs and deposited my load of gear on the floor. I had just taken off my boots and was getting ready to peel off my dirty clothes when a scuffle on the front porch alerted me I had visitors.
Harper and Thatcher stood in the doorway, the screen section opened wide and distressed looks distorting both their faces. My ex-husband stood behind them. He was shorter than our sons, and
