Spirits Rising (10 page)

I crawled out of bed, showered, and sat down in front of my easel to work on my painting, a scenic view from my backyard overlooking the ocean. I focused on painting for most of the day. Jeremy came in a few times, but he left me alone. Mrs. Saunders sent over some fresh baked bread that she still bakes every morning for herself or her neighbours. She also sent over some leftover “cooked supper,” as she called it, as if there was only one meal she ate cooked.

I picked at the Jiggs Dinner, the official name for the traditional Sunday meal of Newfoundland. I have no idea who or what a Jiggs is, or how it was related to salt-cured pickled beef. But, that didn’t affect my enjoyment of the salt beef, root vegetables, and split-pea pudding meal. I took three naps and, each time, I awoke to an even cleaner house than to which I’d fallen asleep. It was just after suppertime when I awoke to the chopping of wood. I reluctantly pushed myself off the sofa and found Jeremy in the back, chopping firewood in a T-shirt. He saw me and stopped, giving me a big grin. My heart sank.

Friggin’ suckhole. I really needed to kick him out of my life.

I turned my attention to the spirits. Evil, dead things lurking all over the place, wanting to catch things and people on fire. Focus, Rachel. Ogle the eye candy later.

I sucked up my pride and called David O’Toole. I did not want to make that call, but I was convinced I needed to.

The conversation went about as well as I expected. David called me inaccurate names like “devil worshipper,” “witch,” and my personal favourite, “heathen.” Still, he agreed to meet me at the World Heritage Site.

We were fairly quiet in the car ride to the site, about forty minutes away. Mrs. Saunders sported an old snowmobile suit, borrowed from Tobe. We drove past the roadside vegetable gardens and log piles, where people cut and cured their winter fuel.

“I called Jimmy Anderson and he’s going to keep the gate on the road open for us,” Jeremy said. He was driving.

I nodded. “Thanks. I didn’t think about that.”

Jeremy let out a little laugh. “Last thing I need is to be arrested for trespassing.”

“What did you tell Jimmy?”

“I told him you needed to do something to stop spirits.”

I just stared at him. “You did what?”

Jeremy shrugged a shoulder. “Jimmy offered to help. His grandmother was some kind of midwife.”

Mrs. Saunders interrupted. “Old Maggie Anderson, God rest her soul, delivered two of my babies. She’d put a knife under the bed to scare off evil spirits. She never lost a woman, never. All her years birthing babes. Folks used to say she had an angel sitting with her.”

I shook my head. “Is there anyone on this island that doesn’t believe in spirits and such?”

Mrs. Saunders sniffed. “They’re probably all in St. John’s.”

We pulled up to the site’s interpretive building and parked. I frowned. The lot was full. “I thought the site was closed in the evenings.”

“It’s supposed to be,” Jeremy frowned. “Tourist season is pretty much over now that the icebergs and whales have moved on.”

“There’s no way I can do a ritual with a bunch of tourists gawking at me,” I grumbled, but I climbed out of the vehicle.

I gathered up my gear while Jeremy gathered up Mrs. Saunders. We took our time and made it inside the building. It was easier to go through the building and take the boardwalk, than tramp across the bog that surrounded the area.

I walked in and stared. I knew my mouth was hanging open but I couldn’t close it. There were people here. A lot of people, and they looked ready to do business. Bibles, pentagrams, crosses. A chill went through my body and it had nothing to do with the howling wind outside.

Manny stepped forward and I asked, “What is this?”

Red rose in Manny’s face, but he answered me, his voice soft and diffident. “They’ve come to help you.”

My mouth twitched up into a grin. My neighbours, people I knew only by sight, and even some complete strangers stood in the building. At least sixty of them. Most were wearing snowsuits, not because it was snowing but because the wind coming off the Atlantic would rip a person’s skin off with the cold. Several carried hunting rifles with them. It’s one of the good things about being in a rural Canadian area: no one has hand guns, but everyone has a rifle.

I gulped down my surprise and excitement. I wasn’t sure how much they could help, but there was a lot of comfort in not being alone.

We headed out to the site. The grass- and moss-covered field-bog hybrid lacked its usual verdant vibrancy, the autumn beginning to steal its emerald tones, replacing them with the golds, reds, and browns of the coming season. The Atlantic Ocean, raw and relentless, crashed against the shoreline a stone’s throw away. Stunted balsams framed the small field, the reds and yellows of birch and maple poking out amongst the dark green needles.

It was picturesque: pretty as a painting. Except, in real life, you struggled to catch your breath. Not from the beauty, but from the pervasive wind that slammed against your lungs and sucked the oxygen from them.

People talk about how hardy the Vikings were, but if you really want to see how tough they were, dress up like one and go stand outside at the settlement site in L’Anse Aux Meadows.

That’s assuming you can catch your breath from the wind. Think about it: the Vikings abandoned this site. Then, look around at the people who settled and stayed on that rock.

You know a group of people are hardy when even the friggin’ Vikings couldn’t tolerate their weather.

We avoided the reconstructed Viking mud houses and instead I led the group to the original dig site, now covered in grass after having been refilled decades ago. A thousand years before, Vikings lived and died on this little site. And, tonight, I was going to lay the spirits to their rest.

Or lose my sanity trying.

We brought a wheelchair for Mrs. Saunders, the one I usually took when we went shopping together. Jeremy pushed her as far as he could, then she walked the rest of the way over the uneven ground, cane in one hand, holding Jeremy’s arm with the other. Once in position, she thumped herself back down in the wheelchair, blowing out a breath of air.

“Mrs. Saunders, you ready?”

The old lady nodded.

I looked at the people around us and said, “Can everyone stay back, please? Manny, I need you with me.”

Manny traded places with Jeremy, who stepped back out of the way. I put my hand on Mrs. Saunders’s shoulder and squeezed. And then, I began gathering my focus and will.

Next to me, Manny recited the words of the original spell, while I focused on calling the ancient spirits of the area: the Beothuk and their ancients, who once frightened away the Vikings; the prehistoric residents, some who roamed the province ten thousand years ago. I called out to any that were not at rest.

The headache grew and I knew it was working. My hands began to tremble. The wind whipped my hair around. Dammit, I should have brought a hairband. I ignored the Medusa image that came to mind and focused on a steady calling of the spirits. I would ask the Vikings to return to their rest. Then, once they were gone, I’d try it again with the first peoples.

“Holy crap,” Manny whispered next to me.

I didn’t need to open my eyes to see what caught Manny’s attention. The pressure I was feeling was more than enough. There were spirits. Thousands of them. A few dozen Vikings and thousands upon thousands of aboriginal peoples.

I struggled to stay conscious. If I hadn’t spent the day quietly painting and napping, I’d have passed out by now. As it was, I felt the warm trickle of blood drip off my lip.

I felt a pop and realized that a protective sphere had formed around the three of us. I fought back the surge of relief. It actually worked!

“Mrs. Saunders, I need you to start praying the way you did at my house when you sent them away. Manny and I are going to tell the spirits that it’s time for them go back. First you, Manny. Thank them for their help. Then, I’ll let the others know the invaders are gone and they can go back to sleep.”

“Got it,” Manny said.

Mrs. Saunders didn’t respond. She merely began her prayers.

“Rachel!” David shouted from somewhere in the blackness of the night. I couldn’t turn to see him. I was too afraid to move, afraid to break the fragile sphere that protected me. I could not banish them. There was no way that I could. I needed Mrs. Saunders to do it.

“Can’t talk,” I shouted back.

The spirits screamed and charged us. They bounced against our flimsy sphere of protection, somehow angered by our banishing spells.

Mrs. Saunders merely prayed louder, words merging between French and English, and perhaps even a little Latin, her Hail Marys coming out in a cornucopia of languages.

It wasn’t enough. The spirits faded a little every so often, but there were simply too many of them. They began pulling up headstones, hurling them at each other, marble smashing against marble, sending crushing pebbles through the air.

A wave of chills shivered through my body.

“Our Father, who art in heaven, hallowed be thy name.” David’s voice came closer to me. “Thy kingdom come. Thy will be done on earth—”

The sphere grew in strength and encompassed David. I could feel the power drain a little when it wrapped around him.

“David, don’t fight it. Let it come over you. It won’t hurt you. As long as people stay out of the graveyard or inside this sphere, the ghosts cannot hurt.”

“What can we do?” he asked.

“Focus on something you believe in.”

I must have been shouting when I said it because, all around us, I heard the increasing voices of people, as though they were standing around the graveyard. I opened my eyes and saw the flicker of movement farther off in the distance. A bit of reflective striping moved.

Then I heard it, the words coming clear. Prayers. Wishes. Someone even hummed

AC/DC’s “Thunderstruck.”

Cold coursed through my veins. Not from the pouring rain or even from the cool night air. But from the power that surged around us.

The ghosts stopped and stared at me. Really stared at me. We could see into each other’s souls at that moment. They could see my loneliness, my isolation, my fruitless yet endless longing to be normal. And I could see into them. Their pride in the land, still unmarred by development. Their burdens of watching their people disappear into spirits over the centuries. Their haunting and shaping of the new visitors that arrived and their struggle against those who did not believe in the ancestors.

Mrs. Saunders stood up, not needing my help at all. She walked through the protective sphere. It bent and buckled, but snapped back into place once she exited. I let out a breath of relief. Mrs. Saunders approached the Viking leader and lightly touched his chest. He collapsed to the ground in front of her. The others followed suit. The Beothuk man approached her. They stared at each other before the man turned his eyes away. They did not kneel but Mrs. Saunders did not seem bothered by it.

“You were brought here against your will. Go. Be at peace in the Otherworld again. Do not return.”

The Viking leader looked up at her, a weary smile on his face. He faded away, as did the others.

Then, the elder spirit emerged from the shadows. She smiled at us and said, “Good bye, little spirit caller. I’ll be seeing you.” She looked at Mrs. Saunders and bowed. “You, elder one, will one day be very special indeed.”

A moment later, the sphere broke and the spirits were gone.

Mrs Saunders collapsed to the ground, and I rushed to her side to give her a hand up. She was pallid, and wheezed, “Oh my, I’m too old for this foolishness.”

David reached down and helped me lift Mrs. Saunders. “We don’t agree with this witchcraft of yours but we decided we couldn’t let evil exist. We came to exorcise the demons.”

“Thank you.” I meant it.

He grunted. “I hope to see you at church on Sunday.”

I gave a polite smile and began walking Mrs. Saunders to the car.

“Will you be going to church on Sunday?”

“Doubtful,” I said honestly.

“Good. I’d hate to think all your bluster against religion was just a show.”

I let out a laugh. Yes, this place was my home after all.

****

Thank you for picking up Spirits Rising! I hope you enjoyed it. Please feel free to share this story with your friends! Check out Red Iris Books for the best in dark fantasy and paranormal!
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Here is a special sneak look at Rachel’s next adventures in DARK WHISPERS, coming November, 2012.

It was a dark and stormy night. A good paranormal romance could never have a better opening. You know how it goes. Girl meets boy. Boy is a vampire. Girl gives in to carnal temptation. Tab A inserts into Slot B. Someone shoves an assault rifle up a demon’s ass. Everyone lives happily ever after.