Among The Cloud Dwellers (Entrainment Series)

ISBN 978-0-9821023-3-6

0-9821023-3-X

P
orzia Amard has left her French-Italian roots and her beloved wine making family behind in Tuscany to pursue her journalistic studies in the USA, eventually settling in Florida; Pensacola, to be exact, where hurricanes abound. And it is on the forceful tail end of one such hurricane that her life suddenly takes a mystical turn and the story begins.

Porzia is a fairy tale archetype disguised as a pragmatic food writer leading a satisfying professional life as an epicurean globetrotter. Never mind the fact that her pathetic love life amounted to nothing more than a devastating relationship with an alcoholic pastry chef.

Stubborn and beautiful, yet often playful, her colorful and sometimes blunt comments make her irresistible in the eyes of one special man.

When she unexpectedly inherits the legacy of unusual powers at her beloved grandmother’s deathbed, her usual self-assurance is shaken, yet she stays true to her promise to accept the challenge before her. Tormented by doubts, Porzia has no time to fully absorb the enormity of her life-changing decision before she finds herself in the middle of events she cannot comprehend.

Under the caring guidance of her spiritual mentor Evalena, Porzia abandons the straightforward path after a past life regression introduces a distant soul mate, revealing a love so intense it has resisted the tarnishing of time.

On her way to Australia to write about a new Shiraz being released, she meets famed off-road racer Gabe Miller. Their attraction is immediate and impossible to resist. As they experience a love only few of us can imagine, let alone have ever savored, she finds herself believing Gabe to be her lost soul mate reincarnated. But Gabe’s past holds secrets and a destiny to fulfill which keep Porzia constantly questioning herself and her choices as their romantic encounter leads to intense passion, mystery, and a journey of self-discovery.

With mystical powers in full swing, a Tarot card reading triggers conflict and a profound transformation, and for Porzia, once the key has been inserted into the magic portal, the inherent powers— held dormant for so long— sweep her off her feet and there is no turning back.

GIULIANA SICA

9600 Stone Avenue North

Seattle, Washington 98103

Copyright 2012 Giuliana Sica
Reprint Edition for Green Darner Press 2013
 
All rights reserved.
 
No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, with out permission in writing of the copyright owner.
 
This is a work of fiction. While, as in all fiction, the literary perceptions and insights are based upon experience, all names, places, and incidents are either products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. No reference to any real person is intended or should be inferred.
 
 
Cover design by Anahi Carrillo Felch
Typesetting by Enterline Design Services LLC
 
ISBN-13: 978-0-9821023-3-6
Library of Congress Control Number: 2011940511

Porzia believes that a gourmet meal without wine is like a song that has great music but lacks intelligent lyrics. I believe that a life without magic is like a song with intelligent lyrics but it lacks the quintessential ingredient necessary for us to truly live and not merely survive.

Magic manifests itself in a smile, an extended hand, a spark of recognition in the eyes of someone who, having just read a written-under-the-influence manuscript, sniffs the intoxicating aromas of the truffle in the dirt and believes in it.

My magic has names, many names. To me it came in vibrant shapes and forms. Occasionally it shyly awaited, lingering in midair by my windows for my terrestrial eyes to acknowledge it, but more often than not, it barged in and brutally ruffled my feathers; mostly, my enormous Leonine-ego feathers, as in the case of Brad Hopkins of Russell Dean and Company, author of the most atrocious ruffling, which began to pick at the earth-caked nugget, wondering how in the world a Tuscan truffle ended up in the Pacific Northwest. Brad, your advice to “write to the extreme, there is always time for the editors to reel you in” is still my motto today.

To Justin for eating scrambled eggs for an entire week and brainstorming Gabe’s name in front of beer, not wine. To Cheri, Marta, and Yvonne, the three fairy godmothers who cradled the manuscript and, reverently brushing off some dirt, told me it was timeless. To Ilene for wanting to live in it. To Johnny for forcing me to face the Wizard of Oz.

To the gang at Gemelli Press – Jason for tapping into my vision; Kari and Sally who rather than fluff my feathers, decided to fluff Porzia’s instead. I am eternally in debt to you both, but the Brunello I am drinking alone.

To Aurora, Andrea, and Marcellina – more than Magic, you are angels. To Melissa for her encouragement and friendship and for holding my hand when most needed while birthing this baby.

To my beloved Artur for steering away from car manuals and reading the whole thing. You are my King and my Merlin.

And to my father who gave me markers and walls at the tender age of 4 … and my mother who, three months later, finally gave me paper so I would stop doodling on those walls.

~
Grazie

was clear to reach my heart down through the eyes

which have become the halls and doors of tears.

—Francesco Petrarca,
Rhymes in Life & Death of Madonna Laura

Firenze, Italia. Galleria degli Uffizi.

T
he echo of the security guard’s footsteps slowly faded toward the distant museum exit.

Silence.

Silence echoed along the austere arcades on the first floor. Sunset filtered through the ancient windows, the sunrays interrupted in their paths by massive walls. Golden light ricocheted and dispersed off myriads of confused dust motes. At the end of the high-windowed galleria, the heartbeat began to pound within the chilled white marble of Michelangelo’s Davide. Life’s essence stirred through his perfectly chiseled body until strength and heat gave him power to move. He slipped from his pedestal and headed toward Venere in Botticelli’s room.

From the darkening sky, a full moon replaced eternity and cast an inquisitive look down. Davide’s shadow glided undisturbed amongst dozing masterpieces. On the upper level, beneath gilded ceilings, silence reigned.

Venere stepped out of her golden frame, and leaving her seashell behind, she entered reality. The angels’ gazes followed her progress while her
ancella
gently smiled and wiped a lonesome tear.

Still wet from the scented sea mist, Venere’s long auburn hair trailed, barely covering her glowing body. Desire stirred deep within her soul, conjuring rhythmic waves within her.

She met Davide on a sunset-lit windowsill. Doubts dissipated, washed away by the high tide of her will. The lovers allowed the salt-scented mist to subdue them, slowly, to unfold erotic dreams.

Please let reality be what fantasy was.

As the sun’s light faded away she drew him in, savoring primitive rituals, riding the moist rhythm of the waves to slowly drown their thirst. With the moon silently smiling, they reached for the sky and left agony behind.

That was the night my parents gave me life.

This life.

If I were a color, I would be gold. Born under the blessing of the full moon, protected by ageless winged guardians, I played hopscotch with Giotto on checkered floors and hide-and-seek with masterpieces along marble staircases, among their golden frames and moth-dappled velvet drapes. My tiny hands pressed against rain-streaked windows while outside the river Arno swelled and found its way to the sea.

I grew up by the shadow of the leaning tower of Pisa. And although the colors of Tuscany in August blush my skin, it is the Manouche mystery that pounds through my veins. I know the woods where Dante lost his way like the palm of my hand. I could escort you to the inferno door blindfolded, for I have knocked on it often myself. I crossed the Mississippi River and heard Jesse James ask Huckleberry Finn if he was real.

I swam with dolphins in the Gulf of Mexico and danced with the Queen of New Orleans on a wet, humid winter night. I got drunk with Ezili in Savannah and cursed life, screaming at the moon in rage. I wandered in meadows restlessly and watched the winds with a longing I could not understand.

Absolutely still in a Veronica, I held a crimson cape of fears, enticed a crippled wolf to charge, and defied time.

I challenged the Goddess, belied my powers, and regretted it all. I soared with a majestic eagle toward a sinking sun and caught up to it by Ayers Rock where, anguished, I bowed. Subjugated at last, I embraced magic.

Too wild, too strong to be mortal, I wove a dream with love in my heart, passion in my soul, and the breath of my life.

I have summoned the elements, conjured my yearning into a spell to be taken away across the endless sky. I have swallowed my pride and begged the gods to give me proof that life is worth the fight. Now I walk through sorrow barefoot, careful not to step on the sharp, shattered pieces of my broken dream.

Now I lie still, numb and spent, waiting.