Chapter 11

Chapter 11 of 56 · 14-minute read

After focusing on the trees and fence, my vision is drawn back to what lies between them. It’s like looking through a windshield and then back at the glass itself. I don’t recognize what the vision shows me, but the fear swallows me.

The room is small, but the fluorescent lights make it brighter than necessary. There are no decorations, no plants or pictures on the walls. The only thing inside the room is a hospital bed with a woman lying in it, who looks like my mom. But there’s something different about her, something off. It’s her, but not quite her—like pieces of the puzzle are missing. She may look like my mom now, but her energy isn’t quite the same.

As I approach the bed, I’m hesitant to touch her for fear that she’ll shatter like glass. It’s as if she’s already gone, and all that’s left is an empty shell of who she used to be. But I know deep down that it’s still her, just a fragment of what she once was.

I hold her delicate hands in mine, but they seem so tiny. Like bird bones. So fragile, so breakable. I don’t speak. All I do is rub the backs of her hands with my thumbs to soothe her. I think that her eyes are closed, but she stares at me, then over my shoulder, then back at me. Her sunken eyes grow large. Her mouth works to form words but, at first, nothing comes out. Then, a small croak, but still no discernible words. I can read her dry, cracked lips.

And the panic in her face.

“Behind you!” her voiceless lips say.

I shake away the vision. It can’t be something in the past, even if she has had a couple of hospital stays she hasn’t told me about. In the future? But how far? She looked ten years older in the vision. I didn’t recognize her surroundings. Was the vision showing me my mother’s death? I can’t shake the look of terror in her eyes or the words of warning she mouthed.

“Behind you!”

“Are you okay back there?” Virgil twists his head just enough to ask me over his shoulder. He bumps to a stop and kills the engine.

I dismount before he can ask again. My knees are shaking, and not just from the vision. I see so much more.

Death is all around this man. Not a sense that he is soon to die or that he causes death. But Death, like a living, breathing entity. Virgil’s energy isn’t one of healing or even—given he retired from the military with disabilities wrought in combat—one of protection or defense.

I’ve seen this before, long ago with one of the witches in the Dragon Hart Grand Coven. In that case, Death-Walker energy belonged to a homicide detective.

I can’t get a clear read on this facet of Virgil’s energy. The impression of Death is stronger here near the woods than back in the house where I grew up. Maybe that’s because my mom’s energy is so needy and overpowering now. Or because Dix was standing there with memories of the past and undisguised regret for what-if. Or because my good-for-nothing relatives had scouted out the place for how they might take control of my mom’s financial and legal situation and left their muddy braids of energy weaving across the farm. Any of those energies could have interfered with a clear read on Virgil. Although my dad’s energy strangely no longer lingers, maybe having been banished or perhaps truly ready to move on for lack of being grieved by those he mistreated, the resonance of a lifetime of abuse still festers and crowds out more positive life forces.

And then there’s Bobby’s energy in nearby woods and swamp. I feel him. Still. After almost forty years.

“Laurie?” Virgil scratches at his close-cropped silver beard. The lightning-shaped tattoo on his right wrist gleams at me.

It’s the mark of a witch. I’m sure of it. One of the witches in the Grand Coven—Harlan?—had one, but I don’t remember the details of it except that he was a member of some non-Wiccan coven that didn’t live by our rules. I’ve never seen it anywhere else, before or since. Being around another witch can amplify supernatural talents, just like covens working together. The principle is that multiple witches gathering in the name of a single intention can press more energy toward manifesting the group’s end goal. If Virgil is a witch, we could easily raise each other’s vibrations and amplify each other’s supernatural gifts.

Assuming he’s an ally.

Do I simply ask him if he’s a witch? As I’ve learned before, asking questions like that can be an unsettling risk. If I’m wrong—if I’ve misread him somehow—I may lose him as a friend. Maybe even set off an uproar in my hometown and have the locals chase me with actual torches and pitchforks. Witches once wore necklaces of a single sewing button to signal their identities to other witches, but we don’t have anything so mundane now. The closest thing to a calling card is Virgil’s tattoo.

“Yeah, I’m fine. Why did we stop here?” The trees along the path lead to the swamp I’ve not visited in decades. It’s still a quarter mile away on a crooked path that eventually leads back closer to the house. On a map, everything is close together, but the labyrinthine paths around an impenetrable copse of trees and bramble or fingers of a reptile-infested cypress lake give it an impression of being miles wide. It’s walkable, but not comfortably, and I’m barefoot.

Virgil throws his leg over the four-wheeler seat, retrieves his cane, and stands. He jerks his head in the direction of the tree line and the long, narrowing path that leads to it, a fence on either side. “I’m sure this field road was passable when your dad was still in good health and managed the farm, but not only is it impossible to get a truck through here—I’ve tried—but with some of the fences falling down, even the ATV can’t make it through. The only other way to get through might be to take the highway on the other side of the woods and come at it that way.” He studies my frown. “Oh. Yeah, I ride the perimeter fences of both your mom’s farm and mine. To, you know, make sure we don’t have trespassers.”

Slowly, I nod. That would explain his energy along the fence line. Every trip around the perimeter would leave traces of his energy. Maybe his wards hadn’t been intentional? Just a nice man looking out for his elderly neighbor? I’m loathe to say I’m “too old” at anything, but I’m too old to believe in coincidences.

“Come on.” He beckons. “We’ll have to walk the rest of the way. And don’t worry—” he raises his cane with a wink— “I have a weapon in case of varmints at the swamp.”

If he expects a laugh, he doesn’t get it. I know what’s in the swamp. Or what was. And not just my Uncle Bobby.

I force a smile and follow him down the narrow path, catching up to walk beside him where the old road is wide enough. As I start to step over a fallen pine that cuts through both fences, Virgil grabs my hand and holds me back. He takes a few steps ahead of me and scans the other side of the broken tree.

“Just checking for snakes,” he says. “Didn’t mean to scare you.”

Maybe there’s good reason I sense death around him. He did say that he works at the local nursing home and specializes in end-of-life care. And now I know that he also owns a green cemetery and tends his mother’s grave there.

I don’t sense anything malicious about him. Is it so farfetched that the veil between the worlds might be thin around someone who works in its wake on a daily basis? I guess that after Scott came back into my life seeking to reconnect and find an easy mark for marriage, I’m a little suspicious of any man who wanders into my life, whether friend, foe, or romantic partner.

“So, Laurie, how was your day today? Already told you about mine. Sorry if it sounded like I was whining.”

I trudge beside him. “You really want to hear about my dentist appointment?”

He laughs. “Did it go okay? Did my buddy Neil-Junior treat you well?”

“Well enough. He fixed my tooth and it doesn’t hurt anymore. I call that 100 percent success.” Even if I had wandered the corridors while under anesthesia.

“But?”

“But… oh, thank you for getting me that walk-in. I appreciate that more than you can imagine.”

“But? Your mind is churning away, Laurie. Did something happen in town?”

I try to avoid the question by looking at the ground. In town. At the dentist’s office. At the grocery store. At my mom’s house – places that were once my hometown but now feel foreign and strange.

“No. No, everything’s fine.”

“Are you telling me that? Or telling yourself?”

I sigh heavily. “You know, I really love the land here. I love the farm. I love Mother Nature here. I love everything about it.”

“Except? There’s definitely an ‘except’ under all that love you express for your home.”

“Except for the people. It’s no secret that I never fit in here when I was growing up. You know how small South Georgia towns are. Everybody knows everybody’s business, and what they don’t know, they’re happy to make up. They still look at me like I have three heads.”

Virgil chuckles. “They haven’t seen that many people leave here and come back. I can’t say that they don’t look at Dix and me in the same way they look at you, but they do regard us both as having at least a head and a half. Look, you’re an independent woman, twice divorced, and a lot of drama around you in days gone by. Nobody knows firsthand what you went through. They’re not even geographically close enough to make assumptions so their opinions are all far removed from reality, and you know as well as I do that the important thing to them isn’t the truth but a good story. How else can they feel superior? Half of them have never traveled beyond the Georgia State line except maybe just over the boundary to the dog races near Tallahassee.”

I shrug. “I get that some aren’t the brightest tools in the shed and that others aren’t well-travelled or well-read enough to accept anyone slightly different. Doesn’t mean it doesn’t hurt, though. “

“Are you sure they’re all bad, Laurie? When I first heard you were coming back for a visit, everybody was talking about it and⁠—”

“Oh. Great.”

“Not everybody complained.”

“You mean you and your brother.”

Virgil shakes his head. “No, I mean a lot of people were happy to hear it and eager to see you again. There are people here—besides Dix and me—who are happy to welcome you home.”

“I doubt that.”

“Do you wanna know what I think?”

I do, but I suspect I won’t like it. He’s about to tell me I’m wrong.

He taps my shoulder and turns me around to face him. “A long time ago, some people in this town treated you very badly and ones who didn’t treat you badly also didn’t treat you well because they didn’t stand up for you. You didn’t deserve that. I was just a little boy at the time, but I remember. You were super shy, but people took that as being aloof and thinking you were better than them. Some of those people are still here. But some of them grew up and became better people. And some of them here now never had that history with you so they have no idea of how you were once treated, or even who you are.” His voice drops. “Or what you are.”

He blinks.

I blink.

Is he trying to tell me something? Does he know what I am? A Third Degree High Priestess of The Morrigan?

“Laurie, is it possible that the experiences you had when you were young trained you to expect all people here will mistreat you? If you’re looking for mean people or negative people, you’ll certainly find them. Selective attention, I believe it’s called. Just like if you’re looking for—oh, I don’t know—a red car, you’ll start to notice them everywhere you go. You might not have noticed before or you might be in a place where now you expect lots of red cars. My point is, you came back here expecting to be mistreated because that’s what you’ve been taught to be aware of here, and I don’t doubt that you found some of that already, in less than twenty-four hours. But I promise you, there are people here who would love to be your friend and, once they get to know you, or get to know you again, they’ll welcome you with open arms.”

I pause before I step over the next fallen pine with evergreen needles now flaccid and brown. The telltale squawnk-squawnk-squawnk signals pine beetles crunching away out of our sight. Always a bad sign. Virgil and I exchange looks, but to me, the beetle-song feels more like the decades that my childhood trauma has eaten away at me. We make sure no snakes or other critters hide on the other side of the tree and continue toward the swamp.

“Okay,” I say slowly. “Let’s say you’re right, and not everyone here hates me. The first two people I encountered in town were ready to burn me at the stake.”

Virgil jerks his head up, then makes a concerted effort to nod with interest at what I might say next.

“I mean, you know, crucify me.”

He grins. “Or, in some equally horrendous manner, to murder you in some way reminiscent of Old World religion because they don’t understand you and you don’t fit neatly into their little world.”

“Exactly!”

Wait. Is he teasing me? I don’t pause to find out.

“Iris-Ann—ugh! I’ve known her since elementary school. I still remember her shoving me off a playground slide and causing me to rip my favorite dress. She’s still wanting to shove me, and I haven’t spoken to her since the night we graduated from high school. I have no idea what’s going on in her life, but she definitely hates my guts. Bullies don’t just thrive on playgrounds, you know.”

Virgil steadies himself with his cane as he navigates a washout from where the now-dry creek has overflowed recently. I follow, taking the stabilizing hand he offers until I’m safely beyond the hole and the fence that has caved in over it.

“That’s hardly fair to use Iris-Ann Majors as the rule of thumb for how people here regard you. She may have been a bully in elementary school and already the self-appointed queen of the mean girls before she finished junior high, but she was never going to like you once my mom hired you to babysit me. By then, she was just another ninth-grade girl drooling over Dix and willing to put up with running after a bratty kid for a chance to get close to my super-studly big brother.”

My cheeks fill with heat. I’d been one of those star-struck girls, too, except Virgil’s mom had approached quiet, non-assertive little me after throwing her hands up over more aggressive girls like Iris-Ann, who hadn’t even pretended to be interested in her younger son’s care. After I accepted the position and began spending my after-school hours playing with Virgil while his mom was working some music project and his brother was at sports practice, Iris-Ann then excelled in giving me the mean girl treatment. She was certain I was taking advantage of my time in Dixon’s home to seduce him because that’s what she would have done.

“And then running into my cousin, Chelsie⁠—”

Virgil shakes his head and motions for me to walk beside him on the suddenly wider path. “I know, I know. You can’t choose your family, so families treat each other like shit all the time because they think family has to put up with their meanness. They don’t think family can walk away, but they do. I see it all the time in end-of-life situations. We have this lovely fantasy of all our loved ones coming around to say their last goodbyes and that the person dying will pass lovingly and quietly. It’s not always that way. A lot of times, it’s a shitshow full of guilt-tripping and manipulation from the person dying and then the family feels guilty for resenting the guilt-trips. Or the family wants nothing to do with them anymore because that sweet, old, doddering pawpaw beat the hell out of his wife and kids until they ran to the far corners of the earth to get away from him at first opportunity. Too often, it’s all of the above.”

“You… you sound angry, Virgil.”

He shakes his head, then takes the lead again through a narrow route as we approach the edge of the woods. “Not angry. Tired of watching families war with themselves, though. You know—” he glances back at me— “that may explain more of why people are reacting to you negatively than just old frenemies and bickering relatives.”

“What might?”

“Well, sometimes when everything around us feels contradictory, we’re the problem, but we don’t realize it.” Before I can object, he adds, “Back when my mom was dying, it seemed like everybody was mad at me. I was probably the most, um, fragile that I’ve ever felt emotionally, even after my wife died while I was deployed. Kimber went quickly—cerebral aneurysm—but she’d had symptoms of thyroid cancer—unrelated—and had kept them from me. My mom, on the other hand, faded from cancer over several years, and I’m not gonna lie. It was hard to watch. Toward the end, strangers were literally yelling at me exactly when I needed compassion the most. Then I stopped and asked myself why. I couldn’t answer it except to say that they were awful people. Then I asked a woman why she responded to me the way she did and she said it was because of my tone, and that I was yelling at her. That’s when I realized that I was carrying all my emotions in my throat, my fifth chakra, literally swallowing them to keep my mom from seeing them, and that made my throat tight, and my voice came out sounding really tense and hateful. Other people were responding not to a man watching his mom die slowly but to what sounded like rage at them. Do you think maybe that’s why⁠—”

Virgil stops in front of me, and I plow into him. He barely seems to notice.

“Do you see that, Laurie?” He motions toward the shadowy woods ahead of us.

“See what?”

“That man. Walking through the woods toward the swamp with—where did he go?”

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