I will always find you, p.27
I Will Always Find You, page 27
The Romani witch sighed, surrendering to the warmth of the red-haired man’s strong embrace. He nestled in closer, a playful glint remaining in his eyes. “Alright, you win,” he said, a teasing smile tugging at his lips. “Go ahead and ask me.”
“If you don’t have any plans for the rest of the day, how would you like to attend a séance with me in town later?”
“A what?”
“I can’t believe I let you talk me into this.”
The Romani witch noted that the living room of the small house on Saint-Jean Street, one of the oldest commercial streets in Québec City, smelled faintly of cigarette smoke, lavender talcum, and hot dust from the radiator. It was a Thursday evening, just past nine, and the television—an RCA Victor with a bulging screen—had been switched off. The barkcloth curtains, with their bold floral pattern and nubby texture, were drawn against the oncoming dusk of night, and only a single lamp, its shade turned low, lit the room in a soft, amber haze.
A small group of participants from the film crew of I Confess stood chatting in a loose circle around an old oak table adorned with an off-white tablecloth and lit candles.
The Romani witch had never heard of such a thing as séances. The last time he had drawn breath at the dawn of the nineteenth century, these spiritualist happenings were not common practice. This was not a coven, nor even occultists attempting to pierce the veil between realities, summon or invoke ancient beings, daemons, and gods, or endeavour to understand the theory of magic.
These individuals were often housewives and even children, he was informed, not witches, all of whom were attempting to communicate with ghosts. They asked the spirits about missing wills, hidden money, and even lost or stolen jewelry. These dime-store mediums sought answers even regarding the fidelity of spouses.
The Romani witch recalled that both his grandmother and Abriana Bianchi had used their ability to scry for the benefit of others, such as predicting when a child would be born, when love would enter someone’s life, or sometimes to determine if a person was cursed. Only, their foresight was freely given, never traded for coin, despite what people saw these days in Hollywood movies.
He believed—no, he knew—prescience was not a job. It was a gift to be revered and shared, a blessing meant for the whole community. People gave from the heart, offering a portion of their hard-earned bounty as a thank-you; it was not as a bribe to compel a witch to perform on their behalf. He was dismayed by how things mystical and spiritual had degenerated and been commodified since he last walked the Earth.
The Romani witch regarded the seer with a sharp eye, his skepticism bubbling beneath the surface. This so-called psychic demanded an outrageous fee for her insights, leaving him to wonder if these predictions were worth their weight in gold or just a clever charade.
“Only true witches and wizards have the power to channel spirits and speak with the dead. This French woman, wearing that head scarf and shawl, is absurd. She’s not Romani, only acting the part, and badly. It’s insulting.”
“Shhh, it’ll be fun,” Marshall whispered. “I promise. I’ve heard Madame Albertine is excellent. The real deal! Not some gypsy charlatan. I wish Hitch and Clift could have come. I’d love for you to meet them.”
The defamatory comment did not sit well with the Romani witch, especially since it came from the man he loved. He expected better from him. No other version of Aeneas had ever been so careless with his words regarding the Romani and other travellers, not even the blasphemous one in Madrid.
“I told you that I am Romani, Marshall. I don’t appreciate the slanderous comment. We are a proud people, and our abilities, our gifts are true.”
Marshall felt terrible. It had been a stupid, off-the-cuff comment made from ignorance. Still, he knew that was no excuse. “I’m sorry, really,” he whispered. “I should know better than to slander another persecuted group. Forgive me. I promise, I’ll never do something so stupid and ignorant again.”
The Romani witch could never stay mad at his beloved; he knew the goodness within his heart. “Of course, I accept your apology.”
“I want to kiss you so badly,” Marshall whispered seductively into the Romani witch’s ear. “I want to make you feel better about my stupid blunder, but—’
“Just hold that thought for later. I’m not going anywhere.” The Romani witch patted Marshall’s butt, and he did not care if anyone saw.
Marshall blushed. “You’re bad! Now, pay attention. It’s about to start!”
A few of the film crew guys had noticed the romantic playfulness between the two men, but they just snickered under their breath. They liked Marshall, they were his friends, and the fact that he was a homosexual did not matter to them. They also did not care that the star of the movie they were working on was queer; in their experience, half of Hollywood was. They minded their business, did their job, and really only cared about their cheques clearing.
A deck of tarot cards sat upon the table in front of the hostess, whom everyone whispered had “the gift.” The woman, who appeared to be in her mid-sixties, wore a multicoloured wool skirt and pearls, along with her knitted shawl and silk headscarf; her eyes were distant, as though she had already stepped one foot into another realm. Her face was heavily lined, and she smelled of cloves with a heavy dusting of lemon verbena.
The Romani witch found the mixture more than a little acrid.
“As most of you do not speak French, I will conduct this session in English.”
Madame Albertine’s English was quite fluent, though her accent was thick. Most of the participants sensed a slight hint of annoyance in their hostess’ tone. They were not incorrect in this deduction. She hated tourists, but liked their money.
“Sit down and place your hands on the table, but do not touch one another. Some mediums like you to join hands—I do not. It interferes with my connection to you as individuals, to your spiritual past, present, and future.”
The Romani witch and the crew members of I Confess diligently followed the instructions they had been given.
“We are not alone in this world,” Madame Albertine stated in a monotone voice after everyone was seated. “I will now attempt to contact the other side. One or more of the departed may come through, and perhaps not for all of you. I may also connect with one or more of you individually, on a deeper level, through your aura and spirit. I may see something without the aid of the spirits. I cannot say how this will go. The Weave works its Will. I am merely an instrument of interpretation.”
Oh bother! This is too much.
Immediately upon finishing his thought, the Romani witch saw Madame Albertine raise her head and fix her gaze on him.
“You are also gifted, I see. Though one so young should not be so cynical.”
The Romani witch gasped.
“Are you okay?” Marshall asked, whispering from the side of his mouth.
“I’m fine. Nevermind. Let’s just see where this goes.”
Focusing on what lay before her, though she maintained a slight devilish grin, Madame Albertine lit a white candle in a teacup saucer and then placed her hands lightly on the table. The room grew quiet. The ticking of the ebony wood mantel clock became deafening in the silence.
“We call upon those beyond the veil—friends and family. If you wish to communicate with us tonight, I beseech you to come through. I will be your anchor and your voice.”
A soft, eerie creak echoed from somewhere within the house, breaking the heavy silence that enveloped the group. A solitary candle’s flame began flickering fitfully on the table, casting trembling shadows across the walls.
Margorie, a local French woman, one of the crew members’ dates for the evening, nearly jumped out of her skin. “C’est quoi ce bordel—?” [“What the hell—?”]
“Do not speak!” Madame Albertine commanded. “Gardez le silence!” [“Keep silent!”]
Margorie obeyed, and the rest of the room remained quiet.
The air seemed to grow heavier, colder. A draft stirred, though the windows were shut tight.
Suddenly, the table jerked.
A collective gasp rose from the group as the wooden surface beneath their hands began to tremble. All except the Romani witch, who sat there in silence, still and stoic.
“Yes, I see you there, moving about in my mind’s eye,” Madame Albertine whispered, “walking in the shadows of remembrance. Who do you have a message for? Show me your story.”
The mantle clock ticked loudly, with each passing second feeling more burdensome than the last. Madame Albertine remained quiet for several long minutes, her gaze focused on the Tarot cards laid out in front of her, but her mind was somewhere else—somewhere far, far beyond the realm of the room’s mundane reality.
“Something—something is not right,” the medium stammered. “I feel—I feel—”
Madame Albertine’s pulse quickened. As the room began to spin for her, the colours of the walls melted into one another, swirling in a kaleidoscope of indiscernible shapes. She squeezed her eyes shut, willing herself to stay grounded, but the force pulling her deeper into the vision was relentless.
In the darkness behind her eyelids, images began to emerge—blurred at first, like a distant memory struggling to come into focus. So many images. So much history.
“I am old, ancient!” the old seer cried out. “They tortured and crucified him! I am angry, enraged upon a great mountain about to erupt—I am—I am on fire, burning! I am in darkness! God, help me! Ça a pas d’allure! [It makes no sense at all!]”
The Romani witch was aghast, for he understood what the medium meant with her chaotic ranting. Great Hecate! Is she channelling me? I never considered this a possibility!
Suddenly, Madame Albertine opened her eyes, showing that her pupils had dilated. Her withered hands clenched into tight fists, and her nose began to bleed as she shook violently. “Je suis ce que je suis, et si je suis ce que je suis, qu’est-ce que je suis? Qui suis-je?! [“I am what I am, and if I am what I am, what am I? Who am I?”]
Then the medium began to shout out words of bitterness and rage in Italian, then in Latin, and finally in an ancient language that only the Romani witch could understand.
“What the hell is happening to her?!” Marshall shouted.
Everyone at the table jumped up in alarm, and several people rushed toward the front door, escaping the madhouse completely. Two of the larger men tried to restrain Madame Albertine, but as soon as they touched her, they were thrown across the table by an unseen force, slamming hard into the wall on the opposite side of the room.
That was the last straw. Everyone still around the table, aside from Marshall and the Romani witch, fled from Madame Albertine’s house, followed by the two battered men.
Remaining calm, the Romani witch pricked his palm with the pin he had hidden inside his suit lapel, causing it to bleed. Without hesitation, he took hold of a panic-stricken Marshall’s hand. Before the Englishman could fully comprehend what was happening, the Romani witch smeared the blood across Marshall’s forehead and recited the activation words of the Blood Puppet spell.
“Sḏm!”
The television tube suddenly exploded with a deafening crack, sending shards of glass hurtling through the air.
“Marshall, I want you to leave this house, go back to your room at the Château Frontenac, take off your clothes, get into bed and go to sleep. When you wake up in the morning, you will remember nothing about this night except that we left here together after an uneventful séance. We then went to dinner, had a lovely time, and returned to your room to fuck ourselves silly. You will not ask any more questions about this night. Am I understood?”
“Yes,” Marshall responded, devoid of emotion and autonomy.
“Good. I love you. Remember that, always. Now go, and don’t talk to anyone.”
Once Marshall left and he was alone, the Romani witch turned back to confront Madame Albertine, who was still very much in some possessed state.
“Who are you, spirit?” he asked in a serious tone.
“T’as fait ça à moi! [You did this to me!]” the old French woman shouted over and over again.
Walking closer to the woman, the Romani witch asked his question again, but this time it was a demand, not a request. “Who are you? Tell me!”
Only the Romani witch had gotten too close, too overconfident in his approach, and the possessed Madame Albertine reached out and grabbed onto his arm, trying with all her unnatural strength to pull him towards her.
As he fought against her, the Romani witch saw her eyes turn wholly-black, and a viscous tar-like substance erupted out of her mouth, spilling down her chin and bathing her shawl in the ebon substance from another realm.
Still clutching the Romani witch, Madame Albertine stared into his eyes with the dual black pools that had formerly been her own blue orbs, and screamed in his face once more: “Mi hai fatto questo! [You did this to me!]”
A piercing wail erupted from the medium, and a spectral force hurled the Romani witch across the room, slamming his body into the wooden and plaster wall with bone-rattling force. The séance chamber, once a sanctum of whispers and flickering candlelight, lay in utter ruin, as if a tempest had ripped through it, leaving chaos in its wake. The table was overturned, and the tattered curtains fluttered like ghostly apparitions.
Madame Albertine lay slumped over, still sitting in her chair, her body lifeless, as dead as a doornail.
The Romani witch, battered and bruised, but thankfully still in possession of an unbroken body, picked himself up off the floor and surveyed the catastrophic scene. “What the hell just happened here?!”
Walking over to the dead medium, wading through the debris, he gave a thorough examination of the black ichor covering the old woman. However, he knew better than to touch it.
“This isn’t blood, but an unnatural substance,” he whispered to himself. “Or perhaps a supernatural substance! It looks like—no, that’s impossible.” Only the Romani witch knew very well that nothing was impossible.
The black ichor resembled the living darkness he had encountered before.
Was this a directed assault against him? Was the medium used as a pawn, a tool for a greater power to strike out at him? He had enemies: Baba Yaga and the dark wizards of the Black School, even the blood-drinker god. He had defeated all of them, one way or another, but none of them, he believed, were truly gone forever.
Staring at the dead medium, the Romani witch asked, “Was this you, Cannibal Hag? Attempting to strike at me from the Shadow Realm?”
He did not expect an answer.
Nor did he receive one.
Knowing that none of this substance could remain in the mortal realm, the Romani witch apologized to the dead woman for what he was about to do. He said a prayer over her, an ancient one from Éire, taught to him by Aodhán, to help her spirit cross over gently. To cleanse her from any dark taint this incident may have left upon her.
As he stepped through the threshold, a surge of fiery energy crackled at his fingertips, and with a flick of his wrist, the Romani witch unleashed a torrent of flames that engulfed the house in a raging inferno. The air was thick with the acrid scent of burning wood and ash, a stark contrast to the chilling scene he left behind. He knew there could be no evidence of what had transpired, especially nothing from the Shadow Realm lurking in the mortal world.
Before he left, he spelled the fire to not spread past Madame Albertine’s house.
When he returned to the Château Frontenac, the Romani witch tracked down every participant of the séance, all of whom were traumatized, and wiped their memories of the night.
Whatever had occurred in the old French woman’s home on Saint-Jean Street, now a pile of ash and burnt brick, the Romani witch would take the burden of this knowledge to his grave, alone.
What began that late August day in 1952, between Marshall Collingsworth and the Romani witch, starting with a simple gift of a cocktail, was the beginning of a love story that would last for decades until their deaths.
And then the cycle would begin again.
ITALIA 1st Century CE
POMPEII
Atense stillness hung in the air between the witch-goddess, Hecate, and the Romani witch, as they stood beneath the looming shadow of an angry Mount Vesuvius.
“What are you saying?!” the Romani witch exclaimed, stepping back from the witch-goddess and the absurd claim she had just made about him and Aeneas’ destiny.
“Aeneas’ soul is destined to experience countless mortal lives—yours is not,” Hecate replied coolly. “Upon your demise, you shall travel to the Elysian Fields, the Celestial Realm, Nirvana, or the Kingdom of Heaven, for there are many names for that place beyond death. Your soul, witch-boy, shall never be reborn to mortality. As far as my divine vision can see, that is your fate, your reward for a life lived with honour and goodness.
“Though The Fates no longer have any reason to interfere with your threads, it seems that enigmatic force, the Wheel of Destiny, ultimately has different paths planned for the souls of the two young lovers named Aeneas and—”
“No!” the Romani witch shouted, cutting the witch-goddess off, an action that did not sit well with her. “Never!”
“I present you with this gift of foresight, meant to serve as a cautionary beacon for your future path, and you dare to take such a tone with me, mortal!”
The Romani witch, fueled by the energy that Hecate had granted him to rejuvenate his tired body, had not intended to express such aggression in his outrage and disbelief. However, he felt deeply wounded by this unexpected and unwelcome news.
“I meant no challenge to you, witch-goddess. Forgive me, for I allowed my renewed constitution to fuel my shock and disbelief. I have relented to The Fates, but I shall not submit to the Wheel of Destiny any more than I would submit to a broken wheel on a farmer’s cart.
“How do I rectify this, great Hecate? To never see my beloved again, to be eternally without him, his touch, his love, is an unthinkable damnation. Worse than an eternity in the underworld with the memory of what I have lost. No, I would rather be forever unmade by the gods and returned to clay, my soul sent back to the fire of creation and burnt to ash. Less, to nothingness.”
