Boleyn curse, p.17
Boleyn Curse, page 17
“I’m fine. Really, I am. What are you two up to, anyway?” I asked, hoping to change the subject.
Mindy opened her toolkit and pulled out a measuring tape. “We took today off because it’s Carl’s big day.” She vibrated again. “Carl’s having his first big show at the Kingston Art Gallery. His work will be on display until Friday, if you can imagine.”
“Wow,” I replied with all the exuberance I could muster.
Carl nodded. “Yeah, I do junk art. Lately I’ve been focusing on hairdryers. They make for a unique medium.”
I stared back. I didn't know what to say. These people were way too weird for me.
Mindy mistook my empty gaze for genuine interest and continued. “Carl transformed a bunch of old hairdryers into the most beautiful ballerina you will ever see. It is a true masterpiece. My man is a genius. You should come see the show.”
I managed a polite question. “And where do you find your junk, Carl?”
“He gets it from all over the place,” Mindy answered. “In fact, we fell in love in the dumpster behind McLaren’s Hardware Store. Remember?” She nudged Carl. “We were looking for toilet seats and copper piping that day. He kissed me right there in the middle of the broken shovels and banana peels.”
“Well, good luck with your art show, Carl.” I stood on shaky legs, getting ready to make my escape. “I should get going.”
Carl put a firm hand on my shoulder. “Ellie, before you go…” He pulled me back into the cow-fur chair. “Have you ever had any strange incidents with fire?”
I wasn’t sure how we made the switch from banana peels to fire, but my guts responded with a surge of nausea.
“What?”
Tattoo-Carl was now serious, not at all put-off by my reaction. “Mindy and I have been talking about you ever since the séance. And we want to know. Have you ever set something on fire…without using a match?”
“No,” I responded with a defensive snap.
Mindy folded her arms across her chest and settled back into her cow-fur chair. Carl seemed equally unconvinced. They sat there watching me, waiting me out.
“Well, only by accident. I set everything on fire when I cook,” I finally confessed.
Carl’s smiled as if I had just confirmed something he already knew. “Ellie, I want to show you a little trick.”
I wasn’t sure how it happened, but in a matter of seconds, goofy Tattoo-Carl had transformed into this wise and confident owl. “Mindy, do you have those séance candles in your backpack?” he asked.
Mindy pulled three pillar candles from her bag and placed them on the table.
“You ready?” he asked.
I didn’t respond. I wasn’t sure I wanted to see what he was planning to show me. He shifted his gaze to one of the candles in the line and exhaled a long slow breath. Then with the blink of his eyes, the wick of the first candle popped into flame. He looked up to assess my reaction but my eyes remained on the candle. Tattoo-Carl had just lit the candlewick—without using a match.
“You see.” He blinked again and the second candle flickered to life. He smiled as the third candle lit up too.
My mouth yawed open like a barn door on squeaky hinges. “How did you do that?”
“I will the fire,” Carl explained. “I imagine it and then I will it.”
To my utter amazement, the flames began dancing together, extinguishing and reigniting in sequence. The effect was both eerie and profound. It was like watching a light show put on by a symphony of ghosts.
“But that’s impossible,” I whispered.
Carl narrowed his eyes. “Ellie, I’m showing you this because I think you might have the same gift. There are signs you may be a Fire Goddess.”
“A what?” I said a little too loudly before shrinking in my cow-fur chair. I looked around to check if anyone had noticed.
Mindy jumped in. “Do you remember how the flames pointed at you the night of the séance? That was a sign, we think.”
Suddenly the Lady with an Ermine flashed through my mind. “Burn him… Burn him…” I felt myself go tense. The invisible hands at my throat squeezed. My guts became slick too. If I didn’t get out of there, I was going to puke.
“Guys.” I said, my voice cracking. “Sorry but no... I just can’t...no.”
Carl smiled casually as I backed away. “Listen, if you ever want to test out your natural gift, I’d be happy to guide you.”
“I’ve gotta go.”
Mindy shouted as I stumbled toward the door, “We’ll be at the Kingston Gallery all week if you change your mind...”
1514
CHATEAU CLOS-LUCÉ, LOIRE VALLEY, FRANCE
The moon was as round as a ripe summer peach. It hung low on the horizon, casting orange shadows over the chateau’s manicured shrubbery. Anne and Marguerite walked to the edge of the woods where the tree branches jutted like graveyard bones in the darkness. They crossed at the footbridge and then deep into the wildwood, stepping over brambles and avoiding branches at eye height. An old oak tree, long since dead, stood like an ancient augur pointing the women to their final destination.
“Where are we going?” whispered Anne.
Marguerite’s face was in shadow, her expression hard to read. She had been surprisingly quiet tonight, not her usual talkative self.
“Tonight is the summer solstice, Anne. The Sabbat marked by the fire festival.”
“Fire festival?” asked Anne.
“Yes, my child. Others also worship the Goddess in these parts of the valley. And tonight you are to be the guest of honor.”
They walked for a few more minutes through the copse, climbing the steep hill to its crescent. Anne was filled with questions but she kept them to herself. Something told her to stay quiet tonight. The air seemed to crackle with raw energy and she could have sworn the trees were whispering her name.
At the top of the bluff, they arrived at a clearing in the forest. Anne thought she could make out a group of people circling around a campfire. Most of the members of the procession wore long white shifts, fabric blowing in the warm summer night’s breeze. Two women walked naked in the moonlight, breasts swinging, flesh jiggling, unconcerned with modesty.
Anne gasped. “Why do those women wear no clothing?”
Marguerite smiled. “We all worship the Goddess in our own way. Some choose to know her in their truest form.”
Marguerite stepped from their hiding place in the trees and faced the group of revelers. She put her hands in the air and raised her voice officiously to the crowd. “I am come, dear coven. And I bring the maiden of the festival. I bring you Anne Boleyn.”
A sea of faces turned to look upon Anne, charcoal-blackened human masks eying her with greedy fascination. The people circled around her, touching her, eager to catch a glimpse. Anne wanted to run. She wanted to hide. But Marguerite stood beside her with a hand at her back in a small gesture of reassurance.
From the treeline, a dark figure approached. She was a young maid with a belly as round as the moon.
“Claude,” Anne gasped, her voice flooded with relief.
“We have been waiting for you,” Claude replied.
A rhythmic beat found its way into the voices of the congregation and an erratic dance of black hands and inky faces accompanied the chanting. Some raised their palms to the sky as they stomped upon the willowy field grasses. Others spun in circles with childlike delight, heads tipped up towards the magic of the summer moon.
Torches blazed in the nightfall, painting long streaks of light as the revelers waved them through the air. The smell of wood smoke infused with rosemary and sage welcomed the newcomers with aromatic enchantment. One woman raised herself up and howled at the moon.
Baffled by the scene, Anne averted her gaze to the shadows. She noticed a male figure sitting cross-legged at the edge of the gathering. He was as still as a stone, his long silver beard flowing down his white linen nightshirt. A charcoal pentagram decorated the features of his old face.
“Is that Leonardo?” asked Anne.
Claude nodded.
“What is wrong with him?”
Claude laughed. “He is praying to the Goddess. And when he is finished, the ceremony shall begin.”
Leonardo mumbled under his breath, his lips moving with mysterious enchantment. Anne watched with fascination as his eyes rolled back in his head. Finally, Leo got to his feet. He held up his hands and quieted the crowd.
“It’s starting,” whispered Claude.
Leonardo approached Anne and then waited until the crowd grew silent. “Good Litha, my coven. I thank you for gathering. This Sabbat marks an important night in our earthly calendar and we mark it each year with a fire festival. However, this Litha is special because we are joined by someone who has been marked. I have this seen girl in my visions. This child, Anne Boleyn. She is a powerful creature, much loved by the Goddess and marked with six fingers on her right hand.”
Leonardo pulled back Anne’s long sleeve and raised her six-fingered hand in the air. The coven members gasped.
“Tonight, on this midsummer’s eve we celebrate the sun, we celebrate fire. We bring forth a young fire Goddess!”
A wild cheer erupted from the group as their enigmatic dancing began anew. Bodies contorted as the chanting grew loud again, arms and legs flailing in synchronized chaos. One naked woman took Anne by the arm and led her to the fire at the center of the human circle.
Anne stood motionless, unable to look away from the dancing orange fire. The flames were coppery demons, erratic and fierce. Sinewy fingers appearing and disappearing at random. The campfire seemed to call to her, to seduce her with an energy that both tickled and burned.
“Let your instincts guide you, Anne,” shouted Leo, “and call this fire to burn!”
In spite of the peculiarity of the situation, Anne’s unease slipped away. The flames welcomed her, their flickering tongues seeking her guidance. She had received no training nor guidance on the matter, but she knew what to do. For the first time in her life, Anne was confident of the power surging within her. A hot energy danced through her, snaking into her loins and tickling her sex, flowing like lava into her arms and legs. Her body was alight with an energy she knew and trusted. It had always been a part of her. She had just never understood it before.
She raised her right hand and whispered, “Burn.”
The meagre fire popped and sizzled as a great blaze erupted. Sparks flew in wild disarray as the conflagration took hold. Flames licked into the sky higher and higher, throwing off a ferocious heat. Coven members scrambled to avoid the carnage as Anne willed the fire to burn brighter and truer than ever. In a few minutes, the modest campfire had become a veritable inferno.
The congregation contorted with excitement. A few members ripped off their nightdresses and threw them in the flames. As the energy intensified, the dancers began to levitate around the fire, forming a circle in the air around the blaze. Their bodies hung like weightless dolls in the night sky, hovering around the orange and yellows hues that overwhelmed the darkness.
Taking her cue from the others, Anne too drifted upward into the sky, pushing herself away from the Earth and gliding up to meet her coven. Soon Marguerite, Claude, and Leonardo joined her in the ring of bodies, suspended like marionettes on strings around the blaze.
Suddenly, emerging from the smoke, a shadowy form appeared. Anne struggled to make it out at first, but the ethereal shade soon became a fulsome image. She was a full-breasted maiden, naked from the waist up, long red hair covering ripe nipples. Her lidded green eyes and luscious sensual lips created an image of perfection. She was youth. She was vitality. She was the Goddess.
“Anne Boleyn,” the Goddess cooed. Her voice was rich and earthy, as ancient as the stars. “You are come to me at last.”
Her voluptuous form swirled through the flames. She snaked and twisted around Anne’s floating body. “Anne, you are marked by me, you are cherished by me. You are my fire child.”
Anne could only watch, paralyzed by the sight of her.
The Goddess moved in closer to inspect Anne more intimately. The apparition smelled of the trees and the wind, of the earth and the ocean. She dragged a fiery finger along Anne’s delicate cheek. “What shall I grant you Anne Boleyn? You need only ask....”
Anne felt a pull in her loins, a deep heat rising, but again she held her tongue.
The Goddess spiraled long and slow, the softness of her naked breasts dancing across Anne’s face. “What is your heart’s desire?”
Still Anne did not speak. Something about the Goddess felt dangerous. Her beauty, her seduction warned Anne to resist. Until now, she hadn’t been afraid, but as the Goddess encircled her body, her skin prickled with alarm.
Now a tickling sensation ran through Anne’s chest. It was like a set of searching fingers pressing and pulling through her soul. It searched for Anne’s truths. It searched for Anne’s secrets. In spite of her desire to resist, Anne opened up like Pandora’s Box and her deepest desires pushed their way through, speaking with an urgency of their own.
Images of Anne’s childhood floated into view. Her sister dancing on the lawn as a little girl, spinning and laughing, laughing and spinning, until they both fell down. Her brother on the back of a horse, teaching her to ride in the green woods of Hever. “Harder, Anne. Harder. Show the mare you are in charge…” She hadn’t allowed herself to think of her brother and sister during her time here in France. But now she missed them dearly. Homesickness pressed down in a fleeting moment with despair.
But the thoughts did not last long. Before she knew it, the prodding hands of the Goddess pushed another secret button. Anne felt the desire click at the base of her naval. All in an instant, her siblings were forgotten, their images fading to nothing. Instead, her thoughts turned to King Henry. His strong jaw and dazzling blue eyes. His slim waist and brawny torso. It was enough to take her breath away. She had thought often of Henry during her time in France and her yearning for him was strong. She wanted him, the taste of him, the weight of his body on her own.
The Goddess smiled. “I can hear them, you know, the whispers in your heart. Even when you resist me, I can hear them…” She breathed in Anne’s ear, close and seductive.
Anne hung in the night sky, unmoving and stiff.
The Goddess glided away, moving back to the fire. The orange flames licked at the apparition’s breasts like suckling puppies. “Anne Boleyn, you are marked by me, cherished by me, and I will do your bidding.” The Goddess smiled beguilingly. “And when I do...you and I shall be bound.”
The Goddess vanished with a pop.
In seconds, the warm energy in Anne’s belly drained away, as though her fingers and toes had split open and liquid heat poured from her body. She became cold. She became empty. The world was spinning in a swirling, sickening array of orange, yellow, and red against the black sky. Her body spiraled through the night in a kaleidoscope of color. Then it all went dark.
PRESENT DAY
QUEEN’S UNIVERSITY, CANADA
I cleared my head on the walk home from the Sleeping Goat, grateful to have escaped from Mindy and Tattoo-Carl and from that terrifying talking painting. I still couldn’t believe any of it had really happened.
I took the long way home through the university campus, past the student ghetto, and finally to Gate Street. It took some doing, but as I walked, I managed to force the candle-lighting fiasco into the attic of my mind. I wanted it locked away with all the other dangerous family memories. It didn’t technically belong in there, but having it out of the way, did make me feel better.
Once it was safely secured behind mental lock and key, my headache miraculously disappeared and my nausea subsided. By the time I arrived at our little hobbit house, I was feeling more like myself again.
Grapes was dressed in a pair of blue men’s coveralls with ‘FROSH DO IT FASTER’ stenciled across the back, and a miner’s helmet affixed with a large light. This was Grapes’ standard issue cleaning outfit. She wore it every Tuesday without fail when she scoured the house from top to bottom. She bought the coveralls at a used clothing store on Princess Street a few years back, no doubt a leftover relic from frosh week of years past. The miner’s helmet was Grandpa Riley’s. She said she liked to wear it because it was good for finding dust bunnies in dark corners, and it reminded her of him.
I found Grapes hovering on her hands and knees under the love seat, sucking up dust and dog hair with a handheld vacuum.
“Those bunnies don’t stand a chance, Grapes,” I said, dropping my oversized backpack in the front hall.
Zach was sitting on the couch, watching with curiosity as Grapes zoomed beneath him. She popped her head from under the couch and smiled.
“You’d be proud of me, dear. I got three big spiders from over there in the corner.” She stuck her head back under the sofa and continued zooming.
“What can I do to help? Maybe I could do the high-up windows?”
Grapes was relentless about her weekly cleaning schedule. Over the years, I had learned not to resist. It was much easier to simply get on board. When I was younger, she had assigned me all the easy cleaning jobs, but since she had started using the walker, I usually took on a few of the challenging tasks.
“No, no, dear. I did all the tall windows before you got home.”
I looked up to see the high-up windows were sparkling clean.
“Grapes! You promised you wouldn’t do them anymore. How did you get up there without a ladder, anyway?” I scolded.
Grapes waved me off. “Now dear. You know I like to do the windows. It’s therapeutic for me. You wouldn’t deny an old woman her life’s greatest pleasure, would you? And besides, you have your research to do.”
I shook my head in defeat. This woman was as stubborn as a stain. And besides, she had finished all the work. The house was so clean you could eat off the floor. Lemon furniture polish wafted through the air. The surfaces gleaned. The windows sparkled. Even Zach’s food dish had been scoured, no longer smeared with left over kibble and dog drool.
