“Are they? Asa Finney is a loner. They will find no one to vouch for him. Will Asa be sacrificed on the altar of Boyce Lingo’s ambition?”
I couldn’t figure Jennifer’s interest in Finney. Did her zeal grow from a commitment to the principles of her discipline? Or was it born of something more personal?
“I’m unclear what it is you want me to do.”
“Nullify Lingo’s poison. Make a public statement. You’re a forensic specialist. People will listen to you.”
“I’m sorry, Jennifer. I can’t do that.”
“Then talk to Lingo. Reason with him.”
“Why are you so concerned about Asa Finney?”
“He is innocent.”
“How can you know that?”
There was a moment of dead air, then, “We are members of the same coven.”
“You are Wiccan?” I couldn’t keep the surprise from my voice. I’d known Jennifer eight years and hadn’t a clue.
“Yes.”
I heard an indrawn breath then silence. I waited.
“Come to Full Moon tonight. We are having an esbat ritual. Meet us. Learn our philosophy.”
My battered brain cells were screaming for sleep. I started to decline.
“You will see. Ours is a joyous religion born of kinship with nature. Wiccans celebrate life, we do not take it.”
The conscience guys piped a voice through the pain in my head.
“When?”
“Seven P.M.”
Barring horrendous traffic, I could make it to the university and get home in time for a power nap before leaving for Full Moon.
I reached for my tablet.
“I’ll need directions.”
26
THE NAP DIDN’T HAPPEN. IRELAND INSISTED ON SHARING A BLOW-by-blow of her SEM prep process. Then I spent an hour creeping through a construction slowdown on I-85. I arrived at the Annex in time to feed Birdie, pop two aspirins, and set out again.
Jennifer’s directions sent me along the same route I’d taken to the Klapec scene on Thursday. This time, a quarter mile before hitting the lakeshore, I turned onto a small, winding road. At an abandoned fruit stand, I made a left and continued until I spotted a hand-painted wooden plaque with an arrow and the words
The sun was low, turning the woods into a collage of green, brown, and red. As I slipped in and out of shadow, crimson arrows shot the foliage and danced my windshield. I saw no other cars.
A quarter mile in, I spotted a wooden trellis curving eight feet above a pair of tire tracks taking off to the right. Following Jennifer’s instructions, I made the turn.
Ten yards beyond the archway, the woods gave way to a clearing approximately sixty feet in diameter. At the far side, two dozen cars angled toward a crudely built log cabin. Another hand-crafted sign above the door announced
Parking beside a battered old Volvo, I got out and looked around. No one approached or called out. Below the goddess, the cabin door remained closed.
The air smelled of pine and moist earth and a hint of bonfire smoke. Notes drifted from the trees beyond the cabin. Panpipes? A recorder? I couldn’t be sure.
Circling the building, I spotted a path and moved toward the music. The sun was down now, the woods in that murky limbo between dusk and full night. No birds called out, but now and then some panicked creature skittered away through the underbrush.
As I picked my way along, the music sorted itself into flute and guitar. A lone female voice sang lyrics I couldn’t make out.
Soon I saw the flicker of flames through the trees. Ten steps and I reached a second clearing, this one much smaller than that surrounding the cabin. Pausing at the edge of the trees, I looked for Jennifer. No one noticed my presence.
The gathering was larger than I’d anticipated, perhaps thirty people. A few sat on logs placed around the perimeter of the fire pit. Others stood talking in groups.
The guitarist was a woman of forty or fifty, with long gray hair and a whole lot of jewelry. The flautist was a person of indeterminate gender with squiggly snakes painted on his/her cheeks and forehead. The singer was an Asian girl in her late teens.
Beyond the musicians, eleven women and one man followed the instructions of a woman clothed in an intricately embroidered robe.
“Raise your hands to the heavens.”
Twenty-four arms went up.
“Inhale deeply. Follow your breath. Feel it enter each part of your body, moving down your throat, to your heart, your breasts, your solar plexus, your genitals, your feet. Repeat. One. Two. Three. Four times.”
A lot of breathing and arm waving followed.
“With each breath receive blessings from the universe. Five. Six. Seven times.”
More air intake.
“Accept a deep inner calm. Be filled with peace.”
Embroidery woman drew her hands to her mouth.
“Now, thank yourself. Love yourself. Kiss each of your hands.”
Embroidery woman kissed her palms. The others did likewise.
“Kiss your knuckles. Your fingers. You are love!”
Mercifully, at that moment I spotted Jennifer. She was wearing jeans and a black hoodie, adjusting logs in the fire with a long iron pole. Sparks spiraled around her, like tiny red stars carried on a cyclone.
Skirting the edge of the trees, I joined her.
“Hey,” I said.
Jennifer looked up, skin amber in the glow of the flames. A smile lit her face. “You found us.”
“The group is” – I was quite at a loss – “larger than I expected.”
“This is actually a small gathering. Since we’re between holidays, we’re not celebrating anything special tonight.”
I must have looked confused.
She smiled. “Let’s sit down.”
I followed her to one of the logs circling the fire.
“OK. Wicca one-oh-one.”
“Condensed version,” I said.
Jennifer nodded. “Wiccans recognize the existence of many ancient gods and goddesses – Pan, Dionysus, Diana. But we also view the God and Goddess as symbols, not as living entities.” She swept one arm in an arc. “In the trees, the lake, flowers, the wind, each other. All nature’s creatures. We view, and treat, all things of the Earth as aspects of the divine. You with me?”
I nodded, not sure that I was.
“The Wiccan calendar is based on the ancient Celtic days of celebration, with eight commonly recognized
