Shaman's Moon Page 9

  “Aunt Hermione…”

  “Poltergeists and worse. And then there are the poor ones who don’t realize they’ve passed into transition. But they don’t necessarily get in your hair, just go sort of stumbling around wondering where they are and why. And they mean well, poor things. Most hauntings...”

  “Aunt Hermione!” She grabbed her aunt’s hands. “Stop this. We have a serious problem here.”

  Her aunt’s shoulders drooped. “Yes, I suppose we do.”

  “Someone ‘wants your soul.’ Okay. Got it. But what does that mean, exactly? Are they casting spells? Writing nasty letters about you? Screwing up your ads in the West County News? Slipping poison into your food?”

  Aunt Hermione looked down at the reflections of town lights in the water, Buckland on one side, Shelburne Falls on the other. “It could mean any or all of those, I suppose.”

  “And why me? What gives me special skills to solve this? I’m a travel agent, for crying out loud.”

  “Now, Stoner, you know better than that. Look at the number of people you’ve helped out of trouble.”

  Stoner felt frantic. “But it’s not my area of expertise. I make it up as I go along.”

  “And rather successfully, too. Which means you have excellent intuition, wouldn’t you say?”

  “No, Aunt Hermione, I definitely would not say.” She took a deep breath. “I can’t do this myself,” she said firmly. “We’ll find someone who can, but it can’t be me.” When her aunt didn’t answer, she turned to look at her. “I can’t,” she said again. “It’s your life.”

  “Oh, no, dear,” the older woman said, taking her hand and giving it a squeeze. “It’s not my life they want.”

  “Then what?”

  “They want my mind.”

  Sometimes the old house was too quiet. The silence felt lifeless, when the moon was new and the dark like velvet pile. It was better in the winter. Then at least the wood joists creaked and popped as they cooled, as the house released the day’s stored up heat. In the stillness of spring, her thoughts were too loud. Even Gwen’s soft breathing, beside her in the four-poster bed, wasn’t enough to stop the thoughts.

  They’d called Edith Kesselbaum first, of course. She said she’d heard of being driven insane by all sorts of things—from chemicals in the brain to life in the army to visiting relatives—but by the loss of one’s soul? That was a new one.

  Or, rather, an old one. There were stories of persons in primitive societies who went out of their minds because they believed they’d been cursed. But those were peasants, who were ignorant and superstitious.

  This got Aunt Hermione into a huff. She believed the Ancient Ones—the people who hadn’t been on Planet Earth long enough to develop ‘civilizations’ and go rampaging around looking for things they didn’t really need and ruining it for everyone else—weren’t superstitious at all, but knew what the rest of us didn’t have the sense to know.

  In the interest of avoiding an argument in what was clearly a crisis, Edith suggested they put off that discussion until another time.

  Aunt Hermione agreed.

  If things turned out all right, Stoner could look forward to that. Edith might have the weight of science, education and history on her side, but Aunt Hermione could be very persuasive when she felt matters of Truth were at stake. Given enough motivation she could, in her own words, “get Jesus to change his mind.”

  An odd expression, one Stoner’d never heard from anyone else. She wasn’t sure what it meant literally, but she certainly knew what it mean in Aunt Hermione’s case. When it came to this kind of argument, she was the World Heavyweight Champion.

  If she was losing the logic and science rounds—which wasn’t the best way to discuss the supernatural, anyway—and referring to her opponent’s personal experiences wasn’t taking her anywhere, she’d fall back on what she called “tricks” and didn’t really have much respect for. Aunt Hermione’s ability to manipulate the “laws” of physics was formidable. In fact, she refused to grant them the status of “laws,” and referred to them instead as the “suggestions” of physics. She had even survived a Paradox—shifting into a different space/time dimension and running into her pre-travel self with her returning self, then convincing her pre-travel self not to go.

  It was widely believed that this would cause the universe to collapse, but it hadn’t.

  But it wasn’t necessary to show off with a Paradox, she had once explained to Stoner, because even the most hard-headed scientific type had a secret desire to be wrong. Deep inside most people there was a tiny spark of hope that God, or Magic, or a Universal Consciousness, or whatever lay behind the struggle and banality of their lives, really existed and would some day explode in front of them in all its Magnificence. Usually, it was enough to make herself invisible or to persuade an animal to perform complex, unusual acts without addressing it directly.

  Actually, conversing with animals was the easiest trick of all. You simply did what the animals did themselves, communicate by putting thoughts in their heads. They talked to one another that way. And on more than one occasion a dog lover had suddenly had a wonderful vision of how pleasant it would be to take a walk with her pet. Only to be amazed to find that she’d had this idea at exactly the same moment as every other dog owner in the neighborhood.

  Stoner turned on her side and smelled the grassy, damp spring air that drifted in the bedroom window.

  Could anyone be putting things in Aunt Hermione’s food? That was really hard to imagine. Each of them took a week in the kitchen on a rotating basis, and Aunt Hermione’s condition hadn’t varied from week to week. No one was taking her glasses of warm milk or red wine at bed time, either. They all used the same jar of vitamins, and the same glasses and plates and flatware. Nobody had “her own” special anything… except for Stoner’s coffee mug with the painting of the Tetons that Gwen had had made to remind her of where they’d met.

  She felt a hand firm against her back.

  “What are you thinking so hard about?” Gwen whispered.

  “If there was any way anyone in the house could put chemicals in Aunt Hermione’s food.”

  There was a long silence, then Gwen laughed. “Dearest, do you really think you should say those things out loud?”

  She rolled over. “Huh?”

  “Someone could take offense, you know.”

  “But I was including myself, too.”

  “Well,” Gwen said, “that makes all the difference. Do you really believe one of us would harm Aunt Hermione?”

  “Maybe. If you’d been hypnotized.”

  Gwen gave a loud snort of disgust.

  Stoner stared up into the near darkness. She could just make out white objects—Gwen’s bathrobe hanging from the back of her closet door, the porcelain knobs on the bureau, curtains—and the deeper black of entrances. “I can’t afford to overlook anything,” she said softly.

  “I guess that’s true. Stoner, do you really believe you’re the only person in the whole world who can stop this?”

  “I don’t know. Aunt Hermione believes it, so if it’s going to happen it’ll have to be me who does it. In her mind, anyway. So anything I don’t do won’t help, will it?”

  “Then you think it’s psychological.”

  “No, but I think psychological barriers can defeat anything.” She sighed. “I could make a real mess of it, Gwen. Then what?”

  They weren’t talking about anything approaching love, but Stoner could feel it in Gwen‘s hand. She cherished that feeling. Even before they were lovers, she’d known she’d feel loved by the touch of Gwen’s hand. Before they’d met, really. The minute she’d seen Gwen’s photograph, even though Gwen was married and it was pretty tacky to want to feel love through a married woman’s hand. And when she’d finally met her—and her sleaze-bucket of a husband who now lay dead and mostly forgotten six feet under—she’d turned as possessive and jealous as an old dog.

  “I don’t even know where to start,
” she said.

  “If you’re trying to figure out which of us has the motive, means and opportunity to kill Aunt Hermione. I’d say you’ve already started. With a vengeance.”

  Nobody in the house was sleeping. The lights were out but he could feel the wakefulness. It crackled like electricity. He had to be even more careful now, after what he’d heard at that psychic woman’s store. He wished he’d been able to hear more, but when they went out on the Bridge of Flowers he knew the only way to listen without being seen would be to slip into the water and swim under the bridge. But that would make him late to meet Marylou—and wet. He didn’t want her to know what he was doing.

  He wasn’t afraid of what she’d say. He was afraid of what the ghosts’d do if they knew she knew anything. And the only way to prevent that was not to tell her more than he had to. It was hard enough, watching them come after Stoner and her lover and her aunt. He knew he’d go out of control if they went after Marylou.

  The clouds broke for an instant. Cutter froze. They were there, clustered around the aunt’s window. He forced his hands to move, felt around on the ground for anything to throw. If he couldn’t stop or startle them, at least maybe he could get someone’s attention inside.

  The ground beside him was bare.

  Desperate, he watched them. He tried to will them to go away.

  One of the ghosts turned and looked in his direction him, its eyes empty as space.

  He had the feeling it was laughing.

  Then suddenly they were leaving, slipping back out over the window sill like water.

  The clouds closed in again.

  Hermione stood just inside the bathroom door, her hand on the light switch.

  Why had she come in here?

  She could recall getting out of bed, moving quietly and not turning on the light so no one would wake up and get nervous about her. So there must have been a purpose. She didn’t have to use the toilet. She could still taste her toothpaste, so she hadn’t suddenly remember she’d forgotten to brush her teeth. She didn’t have any other night time rituals, like face creams—heaven forbid!—or sleeping pills.

  So, what? What?

  Her mouth was dry. Water, that was it! She wanted a drink.

  She closed the door quietly and flipped on the light.

  As she waited for the water to run cold, she looked at herself in the mirror, startled at how frail she seemed. Her skin looked like old rags, shapeless and gray with the kind of gray you can never bleach out in the laundry. Tattle-tale gray, they used to call it. Her eyes were fading from blue to the color of slate. Her hair was thin and limp.

  I look as if I’ve been dead for a week.

  She hadn’t looked this bad this morning. Or when she dressed for bed tonight. As if she were aging a year for every hour that passed.

  Like a character in a Stephen King novel.

  You look like shit, she told her reflection. It wasn’t one of her favorite expressions—falling securely into the category of unoriginal—but it convinced her she was still young enough and alive enough to be gross.

  She drank, then slipped back to her room.

  Her body felt like dead weight that only wanted to sink into the bed and rest. It was as if a force were pulling her down, through the bed, through the floor, through the earth. Her eyes were heavy, the lids gritty and ponderous as rocks. There was a thickness in her lips. Despite the water, her mouth was dry. Her tongue clung to the roof of her mouth.

  Hermione went back to her room and settled herself into bed. It felt delicious to lie down.

  Suddenly she remembered that she had invited the coven for a potluck tomorrow evening. Or, as they called it, a “Cauldron Luck.” And she’d forgotten to mention it to her housemates. Not that they would mind, or that they had to be there if they didn’t want, or that they couldn’t be there. It was nothing more than a social gathering, no rituals.

  At least, she didn’t think it was a ritual occasion. They’d celebrated Beltane weeks ago. There weren’t any Sabbats coming up. Not until Solstice.

  Was it someone’s birthday? Or naming day? Was one of them Croning? Half of them were Crones already, and half of the rest were barely out of Maidenhood. But what about the other four?

  She struggled to remember their names, even their Wicca names, but couldn’t. She’d seen them just last Sunday. She couldn’t have forgotten them all in four days.

  There’s just too much going on, Hermione thought, and felt a rush of anger. It’s too hard keeping up on everything. Not enough time to do anything right.

  Tears of frustration leapt to her eyes.

  She used to be able to do things right. No matter what it was, whether officiating at a High Holy Day, or sitting down to a cup of coffee with a friend. She always did it easily and smoothly. At least that’s how it seemed in retrospect. And she’d certainly worked hard at learning social skills. Through lifetimes too numerous to mention.

  Actually, she’d been pretty rough for a long time. It hadn’t mattered in the Gypsy life, but then she’d started to take a look at what she was doing. She’d been beaten up on more than one occasion for her smart mouth, and had put her social standing at serious jeopardy among the Dakotas by not acting in the demure manner of an unwed female.

  That time she’d been too outspoken for any man to take an interest in her, even the most uncouth. She’d heard the jokes the older women made behind her back. “That Dark Cloud Dancer, maybe she should declare herself a Perpetual Virgin.” “The men should teach her to hunt and fight. She’d make a good warrior.” Then they’d giggle.

  The truth was, she wouldn’t have minded being a hunter or a warrior. More than that, she’d wanted to be a holy person, maybe even a ghost dreamer. She already had the power of seeing the shadows of the future. But her mother had laughed and scolded her when she told her what she wanted.

  One day, a band of Omahas raided the camp. The Dakotas quickly ran them off, but Dark Cloud Dancing caught the eye of one of the Omaha braves, and he took her with him as his woman.

  That entire lifetime was so unpleasant she spent the next three incarnations as a man.

  Why was she thinking about that now? And where had she started?

  She tried to trace her train of thought, but it was like unsnarling a backlash in a fishing line. She poked and plucked and worried it, and finally gave up.

  “It’s too much,” Hermione whispered to herself in the darkness. “Too much.”

  She closed her eyes and let the tears come.

  Dear God, I’m so tired. I can’t do this any more. Can’t make appointments with doctors and dentists. Can’t remember to save receipts for my tax returns. I’m tired of never having quite enough money to stop worrying. I don’t treat my friends well. There’s never enough time for them. I don’t like to talk on the phone any more. I want to clean the house but don’t know where to start. There are piles of things all over my room, and I can’t even make out what they are—just stacks of colors and shapes. I started to read a book last week, and now I can’t find it, and I can’t remember what it was called or even what it was about.

  Sometimes I read a paragraph over and over and don’t even realize I’m doing it. Last Sunday I didn’t understand the comic strips in the Globe.

  Memories of old hurts flooded her. An unfaithful lover. Being mocked and called names by the other school children. All the times she’d trusted people and they’d turned on her. The insults her sister showered her with, which she pretended didn’t bother her even though they cut like whips. Her parents never came to her rescue. She thought they encouraged it.

  She wondered what it would be like to go insane. Sometimes she was tempted to “just do it,” as they said in those silly sneaker ads. Just throw herself into it the way you’d throw yourself down a well or over the side of the Empire State Building.

  They probably don’t let you do that at the Empire State Building, though. It’s probably all glassed in and stuffed with security guards and school children
. It’s not right to hurl yourself off the top of the Empire State Building in front of school children. Not even nasty school children. You probably can’t even lean over and take a good look. You probably have to look at the view on a TV screen.

  She remembered looking over the side of the Empire State Building. At least, she thought she did. But that might be a past life memory. She might have been one of the Native Americans on the original construction crew. Though she really couldn’t remember a past life in which she hadn’t been afraid of heights. And as for her present life, well...

  Even during the few months she’d spent as a nearly-middle-aged hippie hanging out on Stanyan Street in San Francisco and dropping acid... Even stoned out of her mind, finding meaning in a grain of sand and convinced her physical body could fly, she’d never really been attracted to leaping from high places.

  Actually, the glamour of that scene had worn off fast. When you knew the things she knew, getting high was pretty mediocre entertainment. Besides, she made the kids nervous because of her age. They felt as if they were getting stoned with their mother. They were always gracious to her, of course—you did that in the Summer of Love—and even let her join their nude Be-ins. But she could tell they weren’t entirely themselves around her. So when autumn came, she changed into “square” clothes and, nearly broke, hopped the train back to Boston, and the family scandal.

  The scandal had been the best part.

  Her mind went blank.

  Hermione rolled onto her side and a pillow slid to the floor. She didn’t remember coming back to bed. Wasn’t she just in the bathroom? She glanced at the clock. Time had passed. When? How? It’d be dawn in just a couple of hours. She ought to think about what needed to be done for the potluck. But she couldn’t make her brain engage.

  Damn.

  Okay, back to the last thought.

  Scandal.

  What scandal?

  She’d been remembering riding on a train. Crossing prairie, going east. Probably Colorado or Wyoming. She’d spent a lifetime or two in that neighborhood.