P c cast goddess summo.., p.1
P. C. Cast - Goddess Summoning 00, page 1
Goddess by Mistake
P.C. Cast
L
Lifemates Books
Part
I
I / 1
Finally, on my way. My Mustang felt sweet (why is it that cars seem to drive best when they’re freshly washed?). Leaning down, I popped a CD into the player, skipped forward to track 6, and began singing at the top of my very tone-deaf lungs with Eponine about the futility of love. As the next song keyed up, I swung around a slow moving Chevy and yelled, “God, I love being a teacher!”
Of course, the date was June 1 and the summer stretched before me, pristine and virginal. “I have ahead of me all those days of sleeping in to go!” Just saying it aloud made me happy. In my 10 years of teaching I’ve noticed that teachers tend to have a bad habit of talking to themselves. I hypothesize that this is because we talk for a living, and we feel safe speaking our feelings aloud. Or it could be that most of us, especially the high school teacher variety, are just strange.
Only the crazy would choose a career teaching 16-year-olds. I can just see my best girlfriend Suzanna’s face screw up and the involuntary shudder move down her spine as I relate the latest trials and tribulations of the high school English classroom.
“God, Sha, they’re so… so… hormone filled. Uck.” Suzanna is a typical college professor snob, but I love her anyway. She just doesn’t appreciate the opportunities for humorous interludes that teenagers provide on a daily basis — which made my mind wander back to the last day of school…
“Why are you all milling about my desk like moths? Shoo! Sit down! Get your #2 pencils out, and fo’ God’s sake try to appear intelligent and prepared!” Shuffling, dragging of feet, goofy smiles thrown at me as they disperse back to their seats. Not rookies anymore and they’re used to me by now.
“Shhht!” I give them my Austin Powers imitation. It’s show time. “I have here your final.” This is accompanied by the appropriate student moans and groans as I’m passing out the test. “When you finish place, the test booklet—” Pause. “Notice, little angels, that I say booklet because the thing is so darn long!” I cackle like a crazed witch of the west, and wipe pretend tears from my eyes. God, I love test day. “On the round table. Place your scantron sheets next to the booklet. Be sure that you complete all 180 questions.” Here several “little angels” look like they just swallowed a bottle of Stridex Acne Medicine — whole. “And remember, I’m asking for the most correct answer. Which means there very well might be more than one answer that is technically correct. So, simply think like me and you’ll do just fine.”
Several heads drop to their desks and I catch a muttered, “I’m dead” from one of my favorites.
“Darlings!” They give me what I like to think of as their group grump look. “Statistics say that listening to classical music can raise your test scores up to twenty percent. So, I’ll play a little Bach for your edification. See how much I love you!” They grumble and go back to The Test From Hell.
Jean Valjean interrupted my musings, bringing me back to Oklahoma East I-44 and June 1.
“Yep, this is it — the Ufe of a high school English teacher with a sense of humor. Doomed to having no damn money, but plenty of comedic fodder. Oh, crap, there’s my exit!”
Luckily my little Mustang could take the hard, fast right onto US-412. The sign said Locust Grove 22 miles. I drove half with my knee and half with my hand while I fumbled to reopen the auction flier that had my written directions. Okay, somewhere about midway between Locust Grove (what an awful name for a town) and Siloam Springs there should be a big sign that points to a side road till another sign, another side road, and so forth, until I come to the “Giant Estate Auction — Unusual and Unique ítems — All Offers Considered — All Must Go.”
“Well, I certainly like weird, old stuff. And I really like weird, old, cheap stuff.”
The sign read Locust Grove City Limits. So I slowed down, blinked, and the town was gone. Soon I passed through the tiny town of Leach (another unfortunate name) and topped a rise in the road. Oklahoma stretched before me, suddenly looking untamed in its beauty. Wild flowers painted the tall, graceful prairie grass with splashes of rust and saffron and violet. The land rolled. Not jagged and rough, like parts of Arkanses, but with a sweet softness that made me understand why settlers once raced to own pieces of it. Trees grew straight and proud in the summer sun, the richness of verdant oak mingled with the lighter colored, more delicate fronds of the fuchsia flowered mimosa.
I like to imagine a time when these roads were just paths, and civilization hadn’t been so sure of itself. It must have been exciting to be alive then — not exciting like facing the Principal after he has just heard from a parent who is upset about me calling Guinevere a slut — but exciting in a rugged, perhaps-we-won’t-bathe-or-brush-our-teeth and we-kill-our-own-food-and-tote-our-own-water kind of way. Ugh. I find it romantic to dream about the days of cowboys or knights or dragons or the “olden days” in general, because I love that kind of literature, but reality reminds me that in actuality they did without penicillin and Crest. As my kids would say, “What’s up with that?”
“There it is!” UNIQUE ESTATE AUCTION AHEAD and an arrow, which pointed down a side road to my left.
This road was a kind of a sorry little two lane-er with potholes and deep gravel shoulders. But it twisted and rolled in a pretty way, and “Over the hills and through the woods to Grandmother’s house we go” hummed through my mind. I tried in vain to remember the rest of the song for the next several miles.
Over a crook and a rise in the “road” loomed (perfect word) what I thought was going to be the ranch house. “Ohmygod! It’s the House of Usher!” I slowed. Yep — there was another of the infamous signs, UNIQUE ESTATE AUCTION, planted next to the gravel trail leading to the estate. A few cars, but mostly trucks (it is Oklahoma) were parked on what at one time was obviously a beautifully maintained front… I don’t know… what the hell do you call something like that… it stretched on and on… yard seemed too simple a word. The Grounds. That sounded better. Lots of grass. The drive was lined with big trees (as in Gone With The Wind, minus the weeping moss).
I realized I was gawking because an old guy dressed in black slacks and a high-necked white cotton shirt was waving me in with one of those handheld orange flashlight things, and his face had an irritated “stop gawking and drive, lady” look on it. As I pulled next to him, he motioned for me to roll my window down.
“Afternoon, Miss.” He bent slightly at the waist and peered into my window. A fetid rush of air brought his words into my air-conditioned interior. He was taller than I first thought, and his face was heavily lined, like he had worked outside in the elements most of his life. Yet I noticed his complexion was a sickly, sallow color.
Good God, it was the daddy from Children of the Corn.
“Afternoon. Sure is warm today.” I tried to be pleasant.
“Yes, Miss.” Ugh — that smell again. “Please pull forward onto The Green. The auction will begin promptly at 2:00.”
Before I turned off the car, I took a minute to scope out the house. Scratch that — mansion. My first impression held. This place seriously conjured images of Poe and Hawthorne. It was humongous, in a sprawling, Victorian type of way. I’m usually drawn to Victorian homes, but not so with this one. The whole thing was painted an awful shade of gray, and it was cracked and crinkled, like an old smoker’s skin.
“There should really be some unique items to be had here.” Muttering to myself, I got ready to tear my eyes away from Usher’s abode when a shiver traveled through my body. A thick cloud passed in front of the sun and the “walking on my grave” feeling hit me like a bad dream. “Is it late? It seems to me that the light darkens.” My English teacher mind plucked the quote from Medea. Greek tragedy, replete with revenge, betrayal and death. Seemed eerily appropriate.
I / 2
Oklahoma heat was waiting to embrace me with its humid arms as I stepped out of the car and clicked the lock on my keypad. Set up around the side of the house was a large table with a line of assorted auction-goers milling about it. I figured that was the sign-in table and headed that way.
“This place sure looks like it should have some interesting stuff for sale.” I was making neighborly small talk with the receding hairline behind me.
“Yes, I couldn’t agree more.” The hairline fidgeted, blinking sweat out of his eyes. “I heard that they will be auctioning several pieces of Depression Era glass, and just knew I had to make the trek. I find American glasswork fascinating, don’t you?” By this time his squinty little eyes had found my cleavage, and it was obvious that glass wasn’t all he found fascinating. “Um hum, glass is cool.” I stepped forward.
“Actually,” he leaned way into my Personal Space, “I’m in the middle of editing a wonderfully informative coffee table book on the origins of Depression Era art and how to distinguish the difference between authentic pieces and facsimiles. I would be happy to offer you my expertise if you find any pieces you are interested in bidding on. I would hate to see such a lovely young woman taken advantage of… “
“I’ll be sure to let you know if I need you.” My turn, thank God.
“Name, please.” I could sense Hairline’s ears growing to catch the answer.
“Shannon Parker.”
After listening to the typical auction directions, I grabbed my number and fled before the hairline turned into a sticky booger. I
The bulk of the auction was behind the house in what once must have been gorgeously landscaped gardens. Smack in the center stood a crumbling fountain complete with a naked nymph. The auction lots were in a rough semicircle around the fountain — the open end of the circle pointed towards several pieces of farm equipment. The other items were grouped in lots, and upon closer inspection it was obvious that someone had been meticulous in setting them out.
The art was where I gravitated. The soon-to-be ex-owner’s tastes were certainly consistent. All of the paintings displayed on the easels had a like theme — mythology. I wandered from watercolor to acrylic to oil. Everything from Venus’ birth to a great lithograph of Wotan’s farewell to Brunhilde.
Three male statuettes were placed on one table. They each stood about two feet high. I paused and gave each the respectful, proper attention they seemed to deserve, while trying not to ogle as I read the identification and lot tags: Lot #17 Statuette of Zeus, Thunderbolt at the Ready (very nude — actually naked, and he looked very, um, ready).
“Sorry, sweetie. Can’t take you home — too kinky.” Lot #18, Statuette of Hellenistic Ruler, possibly Demetrios I of Syria. Demetrios was a large, muscular, naked man. Very large.
“Oh, baby, wish you were Pygmalion and I was your enamored sculpture.” I giggled, while I looked around to make sure I wasn’t causing a stir.
Lot #19, Statuette of Etruscan Warrior. Too skinny for my tastes — only two things stuck out about the statuette: his weapon, and, um, his weapon.
“Bye-bye boys. It’s just so … well… hard to leave you.” I laughed at my own pun and moved to the next table, which was filled with about half a dozen large vases. My gaze drifted over the elegant urns…
And the world stopped. Suddenly, and totally, the day stood still. The breeze stilled. Sounds ceased. I didn’t feel the heat. My breath stopped. My vision tunneled until my awareness was completely filled with the vase before me.
“Oops, sorry. Didn’t mean to bump ya.” Breath rushed into my lungs and the world started again as a kind man grabbed my elbow to steady me.
“That’s okay.” I sucked air and attempted a smile.
“Guess I wasn’t looking where I was going. Almost ran ya over.”
“I’m fine now. No harm done.” He looked at me like he wasn’t sure, but nodded and went on his way.
I brushed a trembling hand through my hair. What was going on? What happened? I was looking at the vases and …
My attention turned back to the pottery table, and my eyes were immediately drawn to the last of the vases. My feet were moving toward the end of the table before I told them to go. My still shaking hand reached out to touch the lot identification tag. It read: Lot #25, Reproduction — Celtic vase, original stood over graves in Scottish cemetery — Scene in color represents supplications being made to the High Priestess of Epona, Celtic Horse Goddess.
My vision felt funny, blurred and hot, as I looked back at the vase. Rubbing my eyes I studied it, attempting to ignore how strange I was feeling.
The vase was probably a couple of feet tall and shaped like the base of a lamp. A curved handle balanced off one side. The top was open with a gracefully ridged circumference. But it wasn’t the shape or size that drew me; it was the scene painted into the pottery, stretching from one side all the way around. The background color was black, which made the scene seem to jump out with the other colors all highlighted in golds and creams. A woman reclined on some type of cushioned lounge chair. Her back was to the viewer, so all that could be seen of her was the curve of her waist, one outstretched arm with which she motioned to the suppliants on their knees before her, and the cascade of her hair.
“It’s like my hair.” I didn’t realize I had spoken aloud until I heard the words. But her hair was like mine, only longer. The same red-gold, the same wavy semi-curls that never wanted to stay put. My finger crept forward of its own accord and I found myself touching the vase, transfixed.
“Oh!” It felt hot! I yanked my finger back where it belonged.
“I didn’t know you were interested in pottery.” Mr. Receding Hairline squinted up at me. “I am actually quite knowledgeable about several categories of Early American pottery.” He licked his lips.
“Well, I’m not really interested in Early American pottery.” Hairline’s reappearance into my Personal Space had served to dash cold water on whatever weird feelings I had been experiencing. “I’m more of a Greek/Roman-esque kind of girl.”
“Oh, I see. What a fascinating little piece of pottery you were admiring.” He reached his sweaty hands out and in a jumpy, cockroach-like movement he lifted up the vase, turning it upside down to peer at the bottom. I observed him for any signs of weirdness, but he just kept on being his normal, nerdy self.
“Um, you don’t notice anything, well, odd about that vase, do you?”
“No. It’s a rather well-made reproduction, but I don’t detect anything odd about Epona or the um. What do you mean?” He put the vase down.
“Well, it seemed to feel a little, I don’t know, hot, when I touched it.” I stared into his eyes, assuming my neurotic breakdown was obvious.
“Might I suggest,” he leaned even further into my Personal Space, practically resting his pointy nose on my cleavage, “that the heat may have been generated by your own body heat?”
He was almost salivating. Ugh.
“You know, you might be right.” I purred. He stopped breathing and licked his lips again. I whispered, “I think I have been running a low grade fever. Just can’t seem to get rid of this horrible yeast infection. And it sure is sticky in this heat.” I smiled and squirmed a little.
“Goodness. Well, my goodness.” Hairline quickly receded from my Personal Space. I smiled and followed. He continued backing up. “I feel that I had better go back to my Depression Era glass lots, I certainly want to be there to open the bidding. Good luck to you.” He turned and scuttled away.
“Guys are such a pain in the ass.” But really easy to get rid of, just call into play the dreaded Female Problem card and watch them freak out. I like to think it’s just one small way God lets us get even (I mean, we do have to give birth).
“Now what’s up with this damn vase?” It was just too Dark Shadows for words. Blurred vision — loss of breath — hot pottery — same hair. Oh, please, I was probably just having a premature hot flash (twenty years early — okay, fifteen years early, at least). So, I decided I’d simply confront the source. The Dreaded Mystery Vase/Urn/Friggin’ Pot.
It sat innocently enough just where Receding had left it, vaguely moist spots glistening where his sweaty little fingers had smudged the glossy surface. I took a breath. A deep breath. It certainly was an intriguing looking pot. I squinted and bent to get a closer look, careful not to touch it. The Priestess did have hair that looked like mine, only longer. Her right arm was draped in a creamy, gauzy white cloth, and there was a definite grace and beauty about the way it was stretched, palm held up and forward, slightly tilted. She seemed gracious in her acceptance of the offered gifts from the kneeling suppliants. A rich looking gold armlet snaked around her bicep, and golden bracelets adorned her wrist. She wore no rings, but the back of her hand seemed to be decorated with a design—
“Oh, God!” My own hand flew to my mouth to stifle my screech. I felt a sinking in the pit of my stomach, and all of a sudden it was again difficult to catch my breath. Because it wasn’t a tattoo or a jewel that decorated the backside of her hand. It was a scar. A scar from a third degree burn. I knew because my right hand was “decorated” with the exact same mark.
