Strega (Strega Series) (9 page)

My internship at the Newburyport Press would help me get into UC Berkeley, I hoped. The day my journalism teacher encouraged me to sign up, I drove straight to the paper to submit my application. I pulled up to the modest brick building where all the town's papers were printed, and gave myself a quick pep talk before nervously going in to meet the executive editor, Mr. Bernard Turner.

When I stepped inside, Angela, the administrative assistant, made a quick call to Mr. Turner and directed me to the newsroom. Mr. Turner sat rigidly behind his desk and waved me on. Eagerly, I handed him my best news stories from class, along with the application that I'd just filled out in the car. After quickly thumbing through it all, he hired me on the spot.

The first week, I covered two stories for the town. I interviewed Signora Sovana as part of a series on local restaurateurs. Then, I met with a biologist at the Parker River National Wildlife Refuge to discuss the endangered piping plover population on Plum Island, and the protective measures implemented to preserve their nesting sites. Mr. Turner never assigned me any critical breaking news, just feature stories. He never wanted to put me in over my head, though I often wished he would.

I got a sense of a newspaper's unwavering deadlines, saw the buzz of the newsroom, and got to know the flow. Advertising, space issues, priority stories. I met all the full-time reporters who were out getting the real news from town officials, law enforcement officers, and people on the street. Mr. Turner didn't want me tagging along with reporters on assignment unless he specifically approved it. But some called and took me along anyway. Kate was one of them.

Kate's car disappeared in my rearview and I wondered where she was going. Any other day I would have followed her.

"Just waiting," I said, out of breath and pointing to Mr. Baker's door. The administrator continued to stare at me over her glasses as I settled into the chair outside his office.

Each minute ticked by slowly and painfully. I sweat profusely as my mind spun out of control, trying to make sense of all I'd seen and experienced. There was too much to process and no way to rationalize it anymore. I shifted in my seat as a door several offices down squeaked open. A familiar voice floated out into the waiting area and Mr. Baker emerged. As soon as he saw me, he threw his hands up in the air as if he'd just witnessed a miracle. In his right hand, he clutched the blade.

"Jay! You have good timing."

He walked toward me, eager to introduce me to Mr. Whitmore, who reached toward me and enthusiastically grabbed hold of my hand.

"Hello!" he said with a smile. I'd never taken any of his classes, but I'd seen him around school. He was much taller than Mr. Baker and about ten years older. He towered over me like a tree and peeked over thin-rimmed glasses that sat low on the bridge of his nose. His short dark hair was streaked with silver highlights.

"Listen," he said, anxiously signaling to his office. "Do you have a few minutes to talk right now?"

"Yes!" I said, thrilled that he was willing and available. "Definitely."

I turned toward Mr. Baker, assuming that he would join us.

"Unfortunately, I have a few things I have to get back to," Mr. Baker said, signaling to his office. "But maybe we can all talk later. I'm interested to hear about your conversation."

He thanked Mr. Whitmore and put his hand on my shoulder.

"Keep me in the loop, will you?"

"I will."

Mr. Whitmore enthusiastically turned toward his office, and I was eager to follow. But suddenly he stopped and turned back.

"Oh, Mitch!" he called to Mr. Baker, signaling to the blade he still clutched in his hands.

"Oh, of course." Mr. Baker ran back and gave me the blade, letting out a nervous laugh before he turned away again.

Mr. Whitmore seemed just as anxious to talk as I was. Before he even shut his office door, he was already getting down to business with his first question.

"How much do you know about the ancient civilizations of Europe?" He rubbed his hands together and made his way to his chair, though he didn't actually sit. "Specifically, the Etruscans."

He leaned in toward me as he stared, anxiously anticipating my answer. My mind was officially blown.

"Not too much. Just bits and pieces really," I said as I adjusted myself in the chair, trying to maintain my composure as I recalled the book in the library. "Why?"

He picked up the blade, which I'd placed on his desk.

"I'll answer that question in a minute." He held the blade in his hands and allowed the fabric to fall away from it. "But first, I have to ask you
—where did you get this?"

From his grave tone, I could tell he knew something. It terrified me as much as it brought me relief. If anybody was going to be able to help me, it would be him.

"I found it," I said, hoping that this would be enough to satisfy him, but he stared at me waiting for more. "In my aunt's basement. Well, technically she's not my aunt, but she's like an aunt to me..."

I rambled nervously until he interrupted.

"Your aunt's basement? Who is your aunt?"

"Actually, you might know her. Ruth Russo. Mr. Baker knows her and her husband Jack. They are both professors at Merriam College. Well, Ruth retired, but she still works at the Maritime..."

"Wait. Jack Russo?" he said, staring at me with surprise.

I nodded. "You know him?"

"Yes," he said emphatically. "I just met him actually. In Italy. What a strange coincidence. Wait, so you found this blade where?"

"I live with Jack and Ruth. I found it in their basement. But...I don't think it's theirs," I said, flustered, trying not to give away all the bizarre realities that led me to this conclusion. "I've just never seen it in the house before..."

"Well, for the record, I don't think it belongs to them either. I'll explain why in a minute," he said, letting out a deep exhale as he finally sat down. I was stunned again. I did find it in their house. Why would he so quickly dismiss the possibility that it belonged to them?

"This is a unique find indeed. I don't think you realize how significant it is." He looked at me over his glasses again. "Before we discuss it further, I have to ask...Do you consider yourself to be a spiritual person?"

"I don't know," I said, wondering what this had to do with anything.

"Do you know much about world religion, ancient customs, spiritual practices?"

"I know some," I said. I always found the subject interesting and read quite a bit on it, but I was no expert.

"How about paganism?" he asked. "The world's first religion."

"Worshipped many gods, practiced magic rituals, etcetera?" I added.

"Yes," he confirmed. "The Etruscans were pagans, and lived in a time when the world's people embraced the mysteries of life in all their rawness. A time when magic, and those who possessed the ability to harness it, were revered.

"The Etruscans were a very unique people. Among them, there were a chosen few who were said to possess amazing gifts, granted to them by the mother goddess Diana to protect and defend her people from the evils that roamed her lands. They were the practitioners of
La Vecchia Religione
, the Old Religion. They were the
Strega
. The world's first witches.

"The modern words
witch
and
Wicca
are actually terms based on the Old English word
wicce
, meaning wise. Unfortunately, these words have mostly dark and negative associations in western civilization after centuries of smear campaigns that date back to the beginning of Rome's domination. And the end of the Etruscan race.

"The practice of magic, sorcery, and witchcraft is still very much alive across the globe today. It has ancient roots and common ties. Since the beginning of time, societies have relied upon their witches, sorcerers, sages, and medicine men. These people are thought to be gifted, connected with earth and spirit in a way that transcends the known boundaries of science. It is said that their physical and ethereal senses are sharper than most humans, much like animals in the deep forests and plains of the earth."

"Strega were considered a gift to their people. Unfortunately, we do not know much about them. So much history has been lost. But various unofficial accounts confirm that some survived persecution. Those Strega, by necessity, would have been forced to keep their practices secret throughout the centuries, relying on their ancestors to teach them the ways. I can tell you with confidence that the tradition has indeed survived. To this day, in the remote villages of Tuscany, if you listen closely you can still hear whispers of their power.

"The intent of benevolent magic is to heal, to harm none, and to act for the greater good. And just as Christians are plagued by Satan, the lord of hell, Strega are said to be engaged in a war against forces of darkness in our world. I wish I knew more. When I was in Italy, nobody would speak of this with me."

He paused for a moment and signaled to the blade in his hand.

"That is where this comes in," he said, peering at me with focused and determined eyes, as if waiting for me to figure out the connection.

"I still don't understand," I finally said. "What does any of this have to do with that blade?"

"Oh, Jay, this is not just any blade. This is an athame."

Stacks of books were crammed onto Mr. Whitmore's shelves. On his desk, amongst scraps of scribbled-on paper and notepads, more piles of books were scattered. Several were on the subject of Italy and Ancient Rome.

"What is an athame?" I asked as I watched him trace his finger along the symbols on the blade's handle.

"An athame is actually a common tool in the modern practice of Wicca. But to Strega, it was their most powerful weapon." He handed it to me and I examined it as if for the first time.

"An athame's power is in its magical charge," he said. "Modern practitioners of Wicca use them during ceremonies or rituals to direct energy. In this tradition, they are more symbolic than anything else. But Strega were known to use them quite literally to channel their power and defeat their enemies.

"The symbols etched upon an athame have profound, pertinent meaning to the one who wields it. These markings often represent certain gods or spirits that are called upon for strength. Just by looking at this, I can tell you without a doubt that it's not the athame of a modern witch. It is the athame of a Strega."

He stood before me with his arms crossed, staring at the ceiling deep in thought.

"I just can't wrap my mind around how you found it. You don't just stumble upon one of these. A Strega's athame is highly revered and closely guarded. Always with them. Never out of their sight. You're sure you found this...just lying on the floor?"

"Yes, in the basement," I said in confirmation, still unsure what to make of all he was saying. "Could it be a replica? I mean, maybe it's not the real thing."

"There are two things you need to understand, Jay," he said as his expression grew even more serious. "For one thing, Etruscan relics are rare because so much has been destroyed. The handful of items that have survived are all behind glass in museums. And magical tools are never among them. Whatever does exist is hidden, protected within Stregherian families. Even if someone wanted to produce a replica, they couldn't because they would have no model for it. Aside from the Strega that possess them, no one has ever seen an authentic one."

"So if you've never seen one, then how do you know this is one of them?" I asked as politely as possible.

"I will get to that in a minute," he said. "The second thing you need to keep in mind is that Strega, though scarce, still walk among us. And so do their enemies."

He paused for a moment and leaned over his desk, looking me in the eye.

"What you've found has a very real purpose. It belongs to a Strega that lives and breathes in our time, I am sure of it. I just do not know how or why she was separated from it. Jay, you found it for a reason, and we need to figure out why. There's nothing you're not telling me?"

I was shaking. My fear of telling him the truth suddenly clashed with my fear of withholding it. I had to take the risk. I had to trust him. It helped that he sounded just as crazy as I felt. Surely he wouldn't judge me for what I was about to say. I took a deep breath and the words slowly tumbled out of my mouth.

"There is something else. Something happened to me. But it's very strange. Unbelievable, really. I just don't know what to make of it yet, and I didn't want to tell you because you'll think I'm crazy."

"Tell me," he said desperately. I felt like I was about to jump off a cliff.

"I did find this blade in my aunt's basement, but not how you might think." He looked at me with wide eyes and rolled his hands to urge me on. Something about his enthusiasm told me that what I was about to say wouldn't surprise him.

"I first saw it in a dream," I finally said. "But then this morning, it appeared again as if out of nowhere. And I saw something strange in it. A face. A reflection almost, but not my own."

Once the words left my mouth, I panicked. It sounded even worse than it did in my head. The look on his face made me wonder if he wanted to know more or if he was about to kick me out of his office.

"My friend thinks I am just sleep deprived. Maybe I was just seeing things..."

I justified myself, trying to soften it before he showed me the door. I had my hand on my bag, ready to run, but he interrupted me.

"Do not underestimate this, Jay. What happened next in your dream...after you saw the athame?"

I sat back and exhaled with relief. I proceeded to explain the rest of the dream, growing more comfortable as I went on. It all meant something to him, though I didn't know exactly what yet.

"Was this the first time you had a dream like this?" he asked in a peculiar tone, like he already knew it wasn't.

"No," I said. "I had this exact dream as a child, years ago. Then it came back about a month or so ago, after my grandmother died. It was different last night, though. More vivid. Even more intense than usual. But I'd had a traumatic night
—"

"What do you mean
traumatic
?"

"Somebody followed me home last night. Chased me right to my front door. I barely got inside
—"

"Wait a minute...someone was after you?" he asked as fear spread across his face. "Do you know who?"

I shrugged my shoulders and nodded.

"Did you at least see his face?"

"No."

He let out a deep moan and paced anxiously.

"This is what I was afraid of." He scratched his head and rubbed his eyes beneath his glasses.

"What do you mean?" I asked as I shifted forward in my seat, feeling my own anxiety soaring to a new level.