Spiritwalk (14 page)

Esmeralda rubbed at her temples, then shifted to the swivel chair, which she pulled up in front of the computer screen. “I’ll need some things, Jamie,” she said. “Maybe you could tell me where to go look for them to save my wasting any more time.”

WHATEVER WE HAVE IS YOURS, Jamie replied.

10

Hidden from the moon’s light by the deerskin flaps of his conjuring lodge, Migizi sat gathering silence from the quiet places within his spirit. His shadow lay upon his shoulders. His soul watched from outside the
jessakan
, leaning against its birch poles and deerskins, listening to the soft sound of the water drum calling the grandfather thunders, the chanting that asked Grandmother Toad for her aid.

The air was close inside the lodge, thick with sacred smoke. High above the glade, Nokomis’s blossom moon
wabigwanigizis
rode the sky, listening to Migizi, accepting his smoke. When Migizi stepped outside the lodge, she bathed him with her light, adding her strength to his strength, and then they came.

A band of manitou, Nanibush’s spirit guides, walked the
meekunnaug
, the Path of Souls that the spirits of the dead travel to reach the west. The moon came down to be by Migizi’s side, Grandmother Toad standing there, holding his wrinkled brown hand in one of hers, the hand of his soul in her other. The spirit guides were dressed in their finest white buckskins, their braids bedecked with feathers and shells, their shirts with complex beadwork designs. Spirit drums sounded quietly in the darkness.

“
K’neekaunissinaun
,
ani-maudjauh
, “ they called softly. Our brother, he is leaving.

“Not I,” Migizi replied softly.

Grandmother Toad turned from Migizi then to face the woods. Drawn by the kindness that the moonlight showed in her features, the strange manitou drifted from the woods to join them in the glade.

“We bring you a sister tonight,” Migizi said, for he saw now, with Nokomis’s strength joined to his, that this manitou was female. “She is lost.”

The sound of spirit drumming was a soft thunder all around them. Sacred smoke given sound.
Animiki
speaking.

“Come with us, sister,” the spirits said.

The strange manitou hesitated.

“Come with us,” the spirits called.

Grandmother Toad crossed the glade to take the manitou’s hand. “I will show you the way,
nici’men
,” she said, calling her “little sister.”

A moment longer the strange manitou hesitated; then she let Grandmother Toad lead her onto the Path of Souls. Migizi watched them go, the spirit guides walking all around them, the sound of spirit drums following them as they traveled west.

“Go in peace, little one,” he said. “
K’gah odaessiniko
. “ You will be welcome.

When they were gone, he lifted his gaze to the moon of blossoms, thanking her, then returned to his conjuring lodge for his spirit pipe. He filled it with tobacco and took it with him to where his soul sat under the honeysuckles waiting for him. He raised the pipe skyward.

“
Saemauh k’weekaunissimikonaun
,” he called softly to the manitou. Tobacco makes us friends.

His shadow nestled against his back. His soul looked westward. He lit the pipe with peace in his heart. He thought of the naming ceremony the next day would bring. Some might think it was his due, as a grandfather
mede
of his people, to name the daughter of Bebon-Waushih and Misheekaehnquae, but they were not he. Migizi considered it not his due, but a great honor that the child’s parents would ask him to help her find her name.

The finding of a name was a sacred task, so he offered smoke to the thunders and asked for their blessing.

Two

1

Esmeralda sat alone in the Silkwater Kitchen. She had changed into jeans, a flannel shirt and sturdy walking shoes. On a chair beside her lay a gray leather jacket that someone had left behind in the House when they moved away. Jamie had told her to go ahead and borrow it as she had brought nothing suitable with her. Beside it was a small leather bag, stuffed full of the things she felt she might need, collected from her carpetbag and various parts of the House. There were herbs and candles in it, charms and fetishes. And because this was no longer England, tobacco as well, for she knew her journey would be taking her into the spirit realms where the native manitou dwelled.

On the table in front of her was the copy of
The Tale of the Seasons
—the old poetry journal that she’d left behind in the House’s Library when she’d gone away years before. It had a blue leather cover and the pages were stiff and cream-colored, covered with tidy handwritten words in green ink. She had been leafing through it, stopping to read a verse here, another there. Now she looked out the kitchen window at the dark garden, the words thrumming in her head.

I know where I walk you can’t always go
for all my strange talk, you can’t always know
there’s a madness in my soul, a demon in my head
a power born of hollow hills, gold and twilight-led
I know where I walk Great Pan is not dead

She didn’t know the person who’d written those words. Not anymore. At the same time, she knew that girl very well. The words she had written spoke of a time when the winds that moved inside her were a source of confusion and fear. They dated to a time before she had learned to ride their currents, to when she still fought the strangeness that they had brought into her life.

I know that my ways don’t always seem kind
sky-clad I grew once, root, leaf and vine
if I speak of love now, speak of love for you
gather in the harvest, reap the brambles too
I know that my ways lead now to you

Too often she had made of them a pretense, thought of them as something that was charming and whimsical, and even mystical, but not real—just as Emma had. As Emma still did. They had seemed to be a source of creative energy, a muse, but not something to steer one’s life by. She had drunk at their well in those days, but made no payment in return.

there was a star once, o how it did shine
fell into the shadows, time out of mind
there’ve been so many stars that did fall
hear the strains of madness, hear the demon’s call
there was a star once, now the dark is all

And now? she thought, looking out to where the night lay on the House’s garden. She had moved out of the shadows, risen from the darkness, to study, to explore, to learn. How the spirits moved. The sources of their powers. The vessels they chose to reside in. She had cloistered herself in years of study. Passing on the lore to those who asked, to those who came to drink at her well. She had embraced the beauty and the mystery, yet how often had she walked back into the shadows to sow the mysteries’ seeds in the darkness?

Well, she was doing it now. Horned Lord, Mother Moon. She was doing it now.

“Leaving so soon?”

She looked up to find Tim standing by the kitchen counter with an empty tea mug in his hand.

“For a time,” she said. “But it’ll be a short journey this time.” In how we reckon time, she thought. Who knew what distances she would travel, moving through the spirit realms? “Have you been working?” she added.

“I live on tea when I’m writing.” He took the cozy from the teapot and filled his mug, then held the pot up, offering her some.

She shook her head. “You’ve reminded me that it was time I was going.”

Closing her old poetry journal, she left it where it lay and rose from the table. She put on the borrowed jacket and slung the bag over her shoulder. Tim called to her as she went to the door.

“You’re going the wrong way—that just leads into the gardens. I guess you forgot. The gardens are surrounded on all sides by the House. You can’t get to the street that way.”

“The journey I’m taking won’t take me out of the House,” she said. At least not by routes he would know.

He gave her an odd look, then nodded. “Like meditation?”

“Something like that. Hopefully, I’ll see you in the morning, Tim.”

“Sure.” He raised a hand. “Happy trails.”

“Thank you.”

She stepped out into the night and closed the door before he could say anything more.

* * *

The gardens enclosed in the protective embrace of Tamson House always seemed far larger than their actual acreage should allow. They were riddled with paths that twisted and wound around deep stands of trees and bushes. Statues hid in the greenery. Flowerbeds lay thick with spring growths. Little nooks with benches appeared out of nowhere, only to be swallowed again when one walked on. The paths all led to the central knoll that was Esmeralda’s destination.

It was quiet there. The fountain hadn’t been turned on yet and the city beyond the walls of the House might never have existed, its presence was so little felt here. Esmeralda sat on the stone lip of the fountain, her bag on her lap, and collected her thoughts. Above her, an ancient oak overhung the fountain with the wide spread of its branches. The quiet she nurtured inside soon echoed that of the tree above her, the gardens around her. Her taw, the silence that is like music, filled her with its potent strength. When she heard footsteps approaching, they seemed loud, for all that the man who came out of the trees walked softly like a cat.

He stood and regarded her, and she him. In the moonlight they could make out little more than general features.

“A strange night,” the newcomer said quietly. “I never thought to find one of the Powers in this place, Lady, but then this rath delights in surprise.”

“You must be Taran,” she said. “The bard.”

A sad name, she thought, for it meant a child not blessed by fire and water. An outcast. He moved closer and lifted one arm. The moonlight shone on a leather glove stretched tightly around a clawlike appendage that had once been a hand.

“Bard no more,” he said.

Esmeralda shook her head. “That’s something that can’t be put on or taken off like a cloak.”

“Without music...”

“Your heart is silent?”

He thought before answering. “No,” he said finally. “But without a channel, the fire burns dim. Half of any creative gift is in how it communicates to others.”

“There are musics you can make with only one hand,” she said. “You should ask Blue about synthesizers.”

He gave her a puzzled look.

“Never mind. I’ll show you what I mean when I get back.”

He nodded. “You mean to walk the Middle Kingdom?”

“I wish I was. I know it better than the spirit realms of this land.”

“It’s all the same realm,” Taran said. “That’s what the trees taught us.”

“But the dwellers change.”

“Or perhaps it’s just how we see them.” He smiled. “I’ve missed this sort of talk. I speak with the rath—with Jamie—but it’s not the same as speech with flesh and blood. Barriers lie like hidden reefs in the written word.”

“Voices lie, too—sometimes it’s easier to follow what’s written down.”

“This is true.” He glanced at the bag she carried, obviously sensing some resonance emanating from it. “You travel well prepared.”

“I’m going to look for Emma—Blue’s friend. Do you know her?”

He nodded. “I was a part of those who did her ill. Though she doesn’t remember, I can’t forget.”

“You also saved her life,” Esmeralda said.

Taran shifted uncomfortably at that.

“It’s true,” she added. “I was there—at the end.”

“I remember... a wind...” He gave her a sad smile. “I’ll leave you to your business, Lady, and wish you the moon’s own luck.”

“We’ll speak again,” Esmeralda said. “When I return.”

“I would be honored, Lady.”

“Call me Esmeralda.”

He shook his head. “
Gaoth an Iar
,” he named her. Wind of the West.

He walked away, vanishing into the woods with his catlike quickness and silence, before she could reply.

“We’ll speak of names again,” she said softly, then turned once more to the business at hand.

Her taw was easier to reach this time, cloaking her with its quiet strength in moments. She attuned herself like a divining rod to Emma’s spirit and the Autumn Heart that lay inside her lost friend. Memories of the Weirdin she’d drawn rose up in her. The Acorn. The Forest. The Eagle. She bound them to her seeking with threads of thought, then let the winds arise.

They gusted around her feet, rising and circling about her, carrying the scents of the garden with them, filling her with a spinning array of perceptions. Blossom scent. Moonlight. The call of a stag on a distant hill. The sweet taste of wild strawberries. Feathery touches on her skin.

Her hair whipped loosely about her head. Errant leaves, dried and escaped from last autumn, whirled in a dance around her. She rose from her seat at the edge of the fountain, bag clasped against her stomach, and took a step. Another. The third step she took was out of the garden, out of its world, following the ribbon of light that connected her to Emma’s Autumn Heart.

Behind her, by the fountain, leaves drifted down to settle on the stones where she’d been sitting. The moonlight looked down through the trees, but if it looked for her, it was disappointed, for she was gone.

2

They sat in Judy’s garage in Sandy Hill while they waited for Hacker and Ernie Collins, another friend of theirs, to show. The garage was filled with motorcycles in various states of repair, the air heavy with the metallic smells of grease and machine oil. Judy lounged on a bench tinkering with a Harley carb and watching Blue reassemble the shotgun that he’d taken apart to fit in his saddlebags for the bike ride over.

“How come you’re riding Esmeralda so hard?” she asked finally.

Blue shrugged. “I don’t know. She pisses me off for some reason.”

“Because she’s so self-possessed?”

“Seems more cold to me.”

“C’mon, Blue. Don’t shit a shitter. What’s really the problem?”

He snapped the last piece into place and looked up from the shotgun. “What’s she doing here?” he asked.

“Helping Emma—just like us.”

“Yeah, but why now? Why didn’t she show up before Emma ended up in the hospital? Why wasn’t she here last year when all that weird shit was going down? Instead she sends this cryptic message that you’d have to be somebody like Tal or Sara to figure out.”