I interrupted, “Jean, I mean to go a bit further back.”
“Oh, OK.”
“You are a descendant of the Celtic fire goddess, Aodh. She was a very powerful white witch who could summon fire. The fables tell of her hurling fireballs at the invading Romans. My mentor, Elizabeth told me that Aodh understood the alchemy of harvesting the powers of the sun through her fingertips.”
Jean stopped snapping her fingers with a horrified look.
“Oh, no, Jean, you won’t be able to wield that power but with enough practice and understanding the physics behind your power you shall be a formidable force,” I told her.
“I don’t understand, Terra. Do I just think it and it happens? I’ve been practicing all morning. I picture fire, I can feel the heat in my fingertips but nothing comes out except small puffs of smoke.”
I leapt up next to Jean on the couch. I looked around and spotted my reflection on the antique mirror leaning against a potted plant. “Jean, come with me.” I led her to the mirror. Jean stood in front of it, turning left to right then looking over her shoulder.
“I look 30 again and thin.”
“Do you believe the image in the mirror, Jean?”
“Yes, of course, I’m looking right at my reflection.”
“The image you see is what your mind portrays you as. This is your true self, your true light. This is as Aodh perceived herself and all her descendants. Because you believe it, it is true. The same is true for your powers. You must believe that you can summon fire. It must be as sure to you as the sun will rise tomorrow or the stars will shine tonight. You must believe that it is part of the physics of nature. Believe it and it shall be true.”
“Terra, I feel the heat rising from my body to my fingertips.”
“Stop thinking, Jean, empty your mind. Do you need to think to breathe?”
“No, I just breathe.”
“It’s mechanical, Jean. The same is true of your powers.”
As we spoke, small flames rose from Jean’s fingertips. She raised her hands and stared with a delighted smile.
“It begins, Jean.”
Doris Stickman
“The goddess Oya controlled winds and storms. She ruled over Nigeria and before that the fertile crescent where mankind began,” I told her. “Her bloodline and yours goes back much further than humans.”
“Terra, my ancestors were slaves. They were brought here in the 1700s. My grandfather four times removed was a slave here in North Carolina until the emancipation. He helped the freed slaves settle on the land at the Biltmore estate,” Mrs. Stickman said.
“That’s on your father’s side of the family. Wiccans carry their mothers’ bloodline.”
“Like most descendants of slaves, there is not much official documentation about my family before the Civil War.”
“When you threw your sticks into the fire, Oya appeared to me. You are her descendant.”
Mrs. Stickman rubbed her pointy chin. Her great-grandchildren ran in from the backyard, jumping on her lap. “Nana, why do you look so good?” the youngest asked.
Mrs. Stickman smiled and rubbed the young boy’s head. “Y’all go back outside now. I have business with Mrs. Twiggs.”
Mrs. Twiggs smiled at the children as they ran back outside. We could hear their laughter as they played. We sat in Doris’ library. When we had arrived, I admired her collection of first editions, most of them written by African-American authors, including an original diary written by abolitionist Harriet Tubman. She had caught me glancing at it. She had told me her great-grandfather was an acquaintance of Ms. Tubman. Her early 20th century-Craftsman style home was small compared to the other ladies but it was well built and comfortable. It was built on the land that was originally given to the freed slaves by George Vanderbilt.
Earlier, as we drove up the long gravel driveway to her house, I had seen many slaves walking the open meadow, carrying sickles on their way to the crop fields. I was the only one who saw them.
“Terra, how do I begin?” Mrs. Stickman asked.
“There is a barometer within all of us. Do you ever feel you can tell when a storm is approaching?”
She thought for a moment before replying, “My arthritis acts up if a cold front is coming. My sinuses bother me right before a rainstorm.”
“Your body is in tune with these changes in the atmosphere. Think of yourself like a lightning rod reacting to the atmosphere around you. This is a symbiotic relationship. As the weather affects you, you too can affect the weather. Have you ever felt gloomy or sad on a rainy day?”
“Yes, I think many people do.”
I thought for a minute. This was a lot to convey to her. “Doris, I’d like you to think of something sad right now. Would you please?”
Doris nodded her head and closed her eyes. As she did I ran to the window. Nothing. It was a beautiful sunny day.
“Doris, what were you thinking about?”
“I was thinking about the other night at Mrs. Tangledwood’s and the fire.”
“No, Doris, think of something that touches you deeply. Something very personal.” As I spoke, Doris turned her eyes to the framed picture of her and husband’s wedding photo. Her husband has passed years before. She picked it up and sat behind the desk. She closed her eyes. Behind her, the large palladium window began to ping from drops of rain. Storm clouds gathered. She began to cry. The clouds opened up and a torrential rain came down upon the house. She opened her eyes and just as quickly the storm clouds disappeared and the sun peeked through. She looked at me with disbelief. “You need to learn to calibrate those emotions so you can control them.”
“How do I do that?”
I ran over to Mrs. Twiggs who opened her purse and handed me a pigeon feather. I took it in my mouth and then leapt onto the desk in front of Mrs. Stickman and dropped it in front of her. She picked it up and stared. “Think about your husband and then blow gently on this feather.” As she did, I could see some leaves rustle in the window. “Now, Doris, blow hard.”
As she did, pebbles flew against the window. “That’s enough for now,” I said. Her smile lit up her face. “Concentrate your emotions and picture the elements. And then you will be able to control them.”
Nupur Bartlett
I could smell the curry as Nupur hurried herself about her kitchen. She insisted on making a special meal for us before beginning her training. Pixel was very excited. He had never tasted East Indian food. Abigail and Mrs. Twiggs sat at the dining room table, talking softly as Nupur bustled around the kitchen. “Me hungry,” Pixel said.
“Don’t be rude, Pixel,” I told him.
“Mrs. Bartlett is so quiet and reserved. How are you going to make her a slayer of demons?” Abigail asked.
“It’s in her blood. She needs to build her confidence. Quiet, here she comes.”
Nupur backed out of the kitchen though the swinging doors carrying a tray filled with steaming Indian food. “I have prepared chicken curry, jasmine rice and nanna.” I could hear Pixel’s tail thumping under the table. Tracker sat quietly by Abigail’s feet.
Mrs. Bartlett hesitated before allowing the animals into her home. Her beautiful 5,000-square-foot colonial was located on the southeast corner of Biltmore Forest, and was surrounded by lovely gardens. Mrs. Bartlett’s late husband was renowned for his roses. He had served in the Carolina senate for nearly 40 years and like many men of his age had passed, shortly after retirement.
Mrs. Bartlett served the food. Abigail placed bowls under the table for us “animals.” I suddenly felt ridiculous, eating far eastern Indian food off fine china under a table next to Pixel who was grunting and slopping food everywhere and Tracker who was licking his bowl clean. I finished eating and wandered throughout the house leaving their conversation behind me. I stopped to admire an Atul Dodiya painting, “Woman from Kabul,” an Indian modernist master reinterpreted. I stood transfixed. I had seen similar paintings in the Biltmore. I rubbed my head against the gold leaf wallpaper which could be seen as garish yet somehow fit the great room. I glanced back at my comrades sitting around the Henredon table, overhead a Swarovski crystal chandelier. Mrs. Bartlett had made a lovely home for her family. It made me sad to think I would never have a home like this and even sadder that I would never have a family.