The Skye in June (11 page)

“
I’ve found a real friend for us! Hurry up,
Mommy
.”

“
Now?” Cathy asked, putting the shirt on a hanger. “I’ve got to finish this so we can be on time when your sisters get out of school.” She picked up a dress from the basket of clothes.

Grabbing her mother
’s hand, June pulled at her and Cathy chuckled at her daughter’s excited insistence. She laid down the dress and turned off the television set.

They walked down the hallway and out the back door. Incense filled the air as they descended the steep wooden stairs to the second landing. The aroma was all around them when they reached their downstairs neighbor
’s porch. An old woman sat at a rusted metal table covered by a faded orange colored tablecloth with large green leaves. On the table was a brown teapot with the makings for a cup of tea, a crimson silk scarf wrapped around an object, a photo album and incense burning in a tiny cast-iron pot.

The old woman
’s eyes were like bottomless black pools. Her salt and pepper hair was loosely piled up into a bun on the crown of her head.

Ah! This must be the old woman Jimmy mentioned, Cathy thought.

June squeezed her mother’s hand excitedly. “Mrs. Gorzalkowski’s our new friend.”

Cathy heard
“new friend” followed by a garbled word. Shyly, she smiled and said, “Hello. Hope she’s not been a bother.”

The old woman chuckled and winked at June, who smiled broadly as she looked back and forth between the two women.

Earlier that day, Mrs. Gorzalkowski heard the delightful sound of a child
’s giggles. Curious to see who it was, she squinted through her kitchen window to the back porch. She saw a small silhouette sitting at the table with a doll on the opposite seat. The little girl was chatting away to her stuffed friend.

Before she could call out a greeting, June turned to face her neighbor and shouted a cheery
“Hello!”

Mrs. Gorzalkowski came out of her kitchen and the girl jumped up to stand in front of the old woman. At that moment, their eyes locked. It seemed as if June saw her own image in Mrs. Gorzalkowski
’s fathomless dark eyes.

A jolt of energy flooded the old woman
’s senses, pumping blood through her veins and quickening her heartbeat. In a sudden flash the old woman saw herself young, inspired, and innocent, much like the little girl standing before her. For many years, she had a good life. Sadness filled her soul as she recalled what was to follow that happier time.

There had been a time for Lechsinska Gorzalkowski when it had been safe, not frightening, to see what others could not.

Her grandmothers had predestined Lechsinska
’s life from the second they saw the newborn’s dark, inquisitive eyes staring back at them. They tenderly washed her plump body and coal-black hair and swaddled her in pure white cotton cloth on the frosty fall morning of her birth.

“
An old soul. A magical child,” the two old women agreed, shaking their gray heads in a way that only the wise can do.

They devoted their lives to teaching Lechsinska the age-old craft of herbal healing and the sacred art of visioning. In the years to come
, the girl grew in beauty as well as in psychic powers. Her reputation as a seer was respected far and wide. Farmers listened with deference as she directed them to avoid crop failure. People young and old, seeking successful unions, had success through her visions. The villagers agreed that Lechsinska was more accurate than the local matchmaker.

That was before the horrors of war had robbed her soul of her true identity. She was terrified into denying her sacred gift of prophecy.

It started with death.

When she heard that
the invading German army had hanged her husband and sons in the village square, Lechsinska violently tore at her clothes, ranting to God she would never serve Him again. She fervently denied her life of mystical service. Still, her highly developed psychic mind, trained to hear and see beyond the physical world, heard the pitiful nightmarish cries of dying people begging her to guide them to peace. Fearing insanity, she forced herself to focus only on the survival of Tesia, her last remaining child. Lechsinska and her daughter hid in a damp cave-like room under the floorboards of a barn owned by a sympathetic farmer. There they survived the war.

Eventually, the voices stopped seeking her wisdom and Lechsinska had accepted a life without visions
and spiritual guidance. That was until she met her spirited young neighbor who stood before her, announcing, “I’m June.”

Joyful memories of life before the cruel war flooded Lechsinska
’s soul. June’s presence was the sun that penetrated the dark cloud of spiritual exile. Once again, Lechsinska heard the voices guiding her to share her sacred magical gifts. Like her grandmothers, she understood that she was to guide and encourage psychic abilities and her student stood before her.

In a husky, accented voice, the old woman introduced herself to Cathy. “I’m Mrs. Gorzalkowski,” she said. She extended her gnarled hand to Cathy, who stuttered over the pronunciation of the woman’s name.

“
It’s okay. Nobody in America can say it right,” she laughed. “Call me Mrs. G.” She pushed a chair toward Cathy. “Sit.”

A joyful feeling, like being welcomed home by a loving
grandmother, spread over Cathy and she allowed herself a glimmer of hope. Taking in a whiff of the incense, she asked, “Isn’t that frankincense?”

Mrs. G nodded
, “Yes.”

“
I recognized the scent. They use it at Benediction Mass,” Cathy said.

“
We’re Catholics,” declared June. She sensed her mother was comfortable with Mrs. G. Maybe Mammy can be friends with her, too, she wished privately, thinking of how many hours her mother would sit staring out the window toward the ocean.

Mrs. G said,
“Your daughter, she…I say in my tongue,
wizjonerka.”

“
What’s that mean?” June asked, intertwining her tiny fingers around Mrs. G’s weathered hand.

“
Your mind sees many things different than most people,” said Mrs. G, tenderly stroking June’s rosy cheeks.

“
Aye, right you are!” Cathy rolled her eyes at her young daughter. The women laughed.

Mrs. G poured black tea while Cathy opened the photo album on the table. On one page was the photo of a man, a woman and some children. Mrs. G pointed at it with a teaspoon.

“Husband, gone. These boys,” Mrs. G waited for Cathy to get a good look at the photo, “my sons. Gone. All dead. The war.”

She took the top off the sugar bowl and handed Cathy a spoon.

“I’m so sorry.” Cathy gave the old woman a sad half-smile. “It was a horrible time, wasn’t it? Thank God it’s over,” Cathy said.

Mrs. G pointed her finger at her heart.
“Not over here. You, too, family lost in the war?”

“
A brother,” she answered.

“
Husband? Baby?”

Cathy busied herself arranging the teacup on the saucer.
“No, not my husband. You’re right about a baby. Two. Daughters. They died, but not in the war. After.”

“
But you have other daughters to love,” Mrs. G said, her wise eyes piercing through the vapors of the steaming tea.

Wanting to be part of the conversation, June said,
“I have three sisters. Annie, Maggie and Mary. They go to school. I’ll go to school soon, too.”

“
Four girls. You are a lucky woman. You see in time. Your daughters bring you much happiness,” said Mrs. G. She adjusted her arthritic body into the chair and took a long sip of tea. Slowly, her eyes came up from her cup. “You still sad like me.”

“Yes, of course. N
o wonder. After seeing so much,” Cathy said. “Oh well. You know what I mean, don’t you.”

“
Yes. This old lady know much of tears and death,” said Mrs. G.

June broke the slight pause of conversation between the women.
“My Mommy can play with us instead of watching television. We didn’t have a TV before Daddy bought it so Mommy wouldn’t be so sad.”

“
June! That’s enough.” Cathy shook her head. “Well, she’s right. I do watch it too much. Couldn’t afford one in Scotland. Like everyone else we knew.”

“
America. So much to have. In Poland we have not television. We have each other. Time for friends,” said Mrs. G, handing Cathy the creamer.

With the ease of a gentle breeze on a spring day, Cathy and June settled in with their new friend as if it had always been that way.

They would have stories of their homelands to share.

Every school morning after walking the older girls to school with her mother, June tromped happily down the old wooden backstairs to be with Mrs. G. Mostly they talked and laughed. Their strong affection for each other surpassed the difference in their ages. Mrs. G kept the chatty girl busy with easy household tasks, or they would tend to the flowers in the small garden at the back of the building.

June
’s education in the realm of magic began with her wise old Polish friend and started in the small garden at the foot of the backstairs. Mrs. G said the weather in San Francisco, mostly sunny days coupled with moist, cool fog, was perfect for the flowers, tomatoes and herbal plants she grew. She sang in Polish as they gardened. Curious, June wanted to know what she was saying.

“I tell them h
ow much happiness they bring. How they help us be healthy.” Mrs. G returned to pruning back a lavender bush. “This one help if you have headache. It also can heal sadness of the past.”

June sniffed it. They moved on to a lemon tree.
“She make your stomach good when sour,” Mrs. G said.

“
How’d you know it’s a girl tree?” June asked.

“
I talk to the garden angels.”

“
I’ve got an angel, too,” June said proudly.

Mrs. G kept working, pulling off old dead leaves.
“I know,” she said.

“
What do your garden angels look like?” June asked, squeezing a firm lemon.

“
You can see them. But you must be still.” Mrs. G put down her shears and motioned for June to stop touching the lemons. “Close your eyes,” she instructed.

Being still was not
easy for the rambunctious four-year-old. But, wanting to please her friend she squeezed her eyes closed, held her arms straight down with her fingertips pointing at the earth and remained motionless. She breathed in the bountiful scents in the garden. The fragrance of the lilac bush relaxed her.

“
Listen,” Mrs. G said softly.

At first
, June only heard the rumbling of a plane overhead and faint sounds of distant hammering and sawing. After a moment, she could hear the buzzing of insects visiting flowers. Then the air around her moved with a light swishing noise. It gently disturbed a corkscrew curl that had escaped a bobby pin at the side of her head. The curl danced in the breeze, brushing across her cheek and tickling her nose, yet she continued to hold still. She felt the grass move under her feet. Maybe its ants going to work she giggled to herself, thinking of an army of tiny black ants with lunch pails like her father had. Then it seemed something touched her leg. It felt like a small warm hand. She jumped. The garden was full of life.

“
They’re here. Wee tiny green people,” June whispered.

“
The garden angels,” Mrs. G whispered back.

It was there in the garden
June learned to communicate with nature’s energies; seen and unseen. She would stand in front of a plant, listen for a few minutes and relate to Mrs. G what it needed, whether it was pruning, water, less water, or a song. The old woman would consider what she said, and usually agree.

On colder days
, the two would stay in Mrs. G’s living room with the gas-burning fireplace blazing. There they would drink tea made with heavy cream and spoonfuls of sugar. June asked if they could talk to the wee green garden angels inside the house. Mrs. G explained they could enjoy the garden without even being there. She said the mind has great abilities to see places without being present physically. June knew about going to other places in her dreams, but wasn’t sure how she could go to the garden using only her mind. To help, her old friend suggested they play a fun game she learned as a child.

Mrs. G would imagine a place she had been to and June would attempt to describe it
, as though she were walking alongside her friend. As the description was given, Mrs. G would say “Very good!” or “Close enough,” or “Look again.” But never once did she say “Wrong.” June’s confidence in her psychic abilities was bolstered with each game and her mind’s eye became keener. Visiting places inside her mind became easy to do.

* * * * *

Chapter 13