Vision (8 page)

She had bright straight cherry red hair cut
blunt, crystal blue eyes, and there was no way to guess her age.
From several yards away she appeared a young woman, still shapely
with a quick, light gait. Up close there was wisdom in her eyes
only earned by years of living. Judging by her husky, dense
Scottish accent on the phone, I had her around fifty – but there
was just no way to tell. She could be anywhere between twenty and
one hundred.

The best part of Abbey was how she seemed an
old friend. We connected instantly – a déjà vu. I felt the same
with Stuart.

“The place is fairly large for just me, so I
love having visitors. My husband died…awhile back and the kids
are…gone so it’s just me. I like to travel but I keep the place up
and of course did the remodel recently,” she sang while giving a
tour, leading me down a hall on the first floor. “And here is the
infamous remodeled room, now a bit larger, complete with its own
bathroom, TV and such. This was a tiny, almost unusable room until
I expanded. I love the French doors leading outside.”

It was definitely cozy, complete with an
ocean view. “It’s lovely Abbey, thank you for having me.” The
hospitality seemed overboard for the simple sake of giving me
whatever she had to give me, but I really liked her, our
connection, and figured this must be part of my big life adventure,
meeting new people and visiting new places.

After freshening up I joined her in the
kitchen where tea service with assorted cookies was laid out, an
old-fashioned mid-afternoon tradition in the UK.

Sudden shivers ran the length of my spine,
realizing it was time to unveil the mystery.

Abbey smiled warmly, her eyes lined with
wisdom in the afternoon light. “This must seem very strange to
you.”

“You could say that.” I sipped my tea and
shifted anxiously.

“Well, let me explain what happened then I’ll
let you read the letter. Last summer, I was renovating the room.
During this time one of the workers called me outside. They had
been excavating around the peach tree and found an old marble urn.
The urn contained the letter. In the letter there were clues, if
you will, to track down someone, namely you. The letter writer was
the previous resident, many years ago.”

I’m sure my skepticism was noticeable. “How
did you know it was me?”

“I think it will make sense once you read it
– although it is pretty hard to get your arms around, I admit. And
I had help finding you.” She signed, seeming a bit exasperated.
“Well, see for yourself.” Abbey handed me a permanently rolled up,
yellowed piece of paper tied with string. “This is how it was
found.”

My throat felt scorched. I took a couple of
deep breaths, exhaling as the letter rested in my hands several
moments without movement from either of us. Abbey was patient,
unassuming. I liked her, and sensed her unconditional support. So I
flattened the crispy paper, careful with the fragile texture. The
wait was over.

5 July, Seventeen Hundred Thirty One

In haste I write, for they come for me and
Jonathan tomorrow – cold blooded murderers, jealous, enraged. Our
first child will not be born. I have seen the end.

I am Sarah MacPhie, a midwife, healer
ordained with vision to see beyond. They call me a witch to justify
brutality. Jonathan will fall simply for loving me, my guardian.
Their instinct is to destroy our kind.

But tonight I have the gift of sight,
stronger than ever. In two hundred sixty three years my great
granddaughter six times will be born on my own birthday of 11
November. They will name her, Layla. She is a Clear, like me, like
her mother. I waited for her so I could return. She is I and he is
Jonathan. I beg you find her and bring her here. I will find my way
to her when she arrives. The remainder of this letter is for
her.

Dearest Layla – such a lovely name – use your
ability for good, to help others. He will grant eternal life, and
you will be together forever. Don’t be afraid. There are those who
gather around you to show you the way, one who you will love until
the end of time. The truth is in you.

But beware the evil ones who seek to
harm.

Forever, Sarah

Well, so much for answers, just more riddles
going nowhere. All this nonsense about Clears and Bane and how the
hell did she know my name, that I would be born? This isn’t real,
couldn’t be real. I read the letter three times before rising from
the chair mumbling, “Excuse me, please.”

Walking toward the door to step outside for
air, blackness welled up, obscuring my vision, and I felt my body
go limp.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

It was my first experience passing out, along
with the dreadful embarrassment of being a guest in someone’s home,
but Abbey was perfect, making me feel instantly at ease. “I would
have been surprised if you didn’t pass out,” she laughed
easily.

If the letter was the answer to all recent
events, I was no less confused. This was a hard sell, even to a
clairvoyant.

I tried questioning the authenticity of the
letter, but Abbey confirmed she had it analyzed before contacting
me and showed me the certificate of authenticity. It was indeed
from 1731. A private investigator tracked me down. With my unusual
first name and birthday, it took just hours.

And then I remembered.

The visions.

Sarah was the one who visited me nightly.

Sarah had called me here.

She was like me…we were – Clears. There was a
name for what I was, for what she was. Clear. Bane. And she called
Jonathan her guardian. I was the recipient of a guardian charm.

And Mom?

Was this the explanation for her calls and
texts? How could someone so…detached be a…Clear?

It couldn’t be true.

Sarah was wrong, or perhaps just partially
right.

And how Sarah saw me, knew I was coming…knew
I would be born. We were connected.

And ‘he is Jonathan’?

Who was he?

Witchcraft.

Sarah.

Bane.

Clear and Bane.

Good and evil.

A small hint of nausea bubbled up in the back
of my throat.

I ran to the bathroom to hurl.

A tray of tea, toast and water sat in the
room when I returned. Abbey was respectfully discreet, magically
honed in on my needs without intruding, as if she knew receiving
the news would be a challenge. The letter was open on the bed where
I left it no worse for wear after
20
raveling through time.

Sarah had predicted her own death, her
husband Jonathan’s death, and she carried a child, murdered for
witchcraft. Then I remembered the email, and the letter. Jealously,
lust. Witchcraft was an excuse for murder.

Were we witches?

Was Clear another name for witch?

Grateful I brought my laptop, I hooked up to
Abbey’s slow dial-up internet service and opened up a search
engine. After several hours, I found no information linking Clears
with witchcraft. In fact, nothing came up for Clear as a noun and
nothing for Bane in the context of a person or group aside from a
nineties rock band from Sweden.

I remembered the notes left on Stuart’s car
suspiciously linked to Andre, but he had disappeared after the
incident. Or had he been in the black sedan? And the charms – a
guardian symbol and Celtic knot with no return address,
nothing.

Someone was watching me but whom?

Living in England had transformed my life
into a full-blown cirque de freak show, and none of the pieces made
sense. Now I was visiting a remote Scottish island with a strange
woman and a really old letter comprised of riddles.

There were plenty of unaccounted for secrets
that everyone around me seemed guilty of harboring…even Stuart
remained a mystery, and while we grew intimate he still kept a wall
up, distracting me with seduction whenever I asked too many
questions.

I felt disconnected, unplugged, and way over
my head. My ‘Clear’ abilities seemed haywire – would I ever get
used to that label – and unreliable for honing useful
information.

Was I a wayward witch not using my
powers?

Should I learn how to brew things, cast
spells?

The light had shifted to darkness and the
house was quiet. There was a note on my door from Abbey telling me
there was shepherds pie in the fridge if I was hungry. She had gone
upstairs to her room.

Was I hungry?

I wasn’t sure about anything any more.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

It was like gazing at my reflection ten years
in the future – I hadn’t noticed as much before, in the other
visions. The resemblance was uncanny. We stood facing each other,
saying nothing. The wind whipped up to blow our hair in every
direction. There were no sounds until somewhere in the distance the
hateful, seething shouting penetrated the night. They were
coming.

Sarah’s eyes glistened as she quickly turned
around. Behind her the mob carried torches, at least twelve angry
men wearing traditional Scottish kilts. The one in front was the
largest, probably the strongest, perhaps the leader. They spotted
us, picking up their pace.

“
Run!” Sarah whispered loudly.

Disappointment engulfed me, discouraged
nothing had changed. Can’t someone serve up a different vision? “Oh
not this again. This is the same…”

Suddenly paralyzed with fear, I watched the
men close in, their voices growing louder as they shouted foul
obscenities.

Turning back to Sarah, I followed her toward
the water trying to keep pace. But this didn’t feel the same. The
ability to wake myself up seemed stymied.

“
Get her!” Shouted one of the mob.

“
No!” I screamed, running behind Sarah.
“Leave her alone!”

Another shout was heard. “Ay, it’s two for
one night!” My heart pounded in my ears to no particular rhythm,
while my feet moved swiftly, hovering slightly above the grass.

They could see me. It didn’t feel the same
because I was visible.

There was a spark of light, like a camera
flash, and we were in the center of a circle, surrounded by vile
men frothing anxiously with the intent to harm us. Sarah stood in
front of me like a human shield, guarding me from the mad men. They
taunted us with the flames of their torches, flicking them at us as
we jumped to avoid igniting. This game made them laugh
uproariously. They smelled foul – of alcohol and dirt and
sweat.

Someone was behind me, pulling my arms back,
whispering in my ear. “Aye, I will have ye and then I will kill ye
just for being related to the devil!”

Struggling against the brute strength of my
oppressor was impossible. Whoever held my arms had no intention of
releasing me. The mob broke apart revealing Sarah lying on the
grass, torn dress, stoic and silent. The leader walked toward her
clutching his torch, lowering the flame it until it touched the
bottom hem of her dress. The cloth caught instantly.

They laughed.

“
Burn witch burn! Devil women! Child of
Satan! Evil doer!” Their profanities were deafening, sickening. Is
this what Sarah had endured? Looking around for a hose to
extinguish the flames, the realization hit me I was in the wrong
century for that particular device.

She was already running toward the ocean
without a sound. Somehow I broke free, running after her.
“Sarah!”

I tried catching up but her feet seemed to
glide over the surface of the ground, never making contact with
earth’s solid mass. The vast ocean grew closer, the sky swirling
with vivid pinks, purples, and oranges. I heard the crashing waves
below and hoped Sarah wouldn’t suffer. I didn’t want her to feel
pain. But this had already happened, so there was nothing I could
do.

Just before reaching the edge running at full
speed, she glanced over her shoulder, pointing past me to the men
still in pursuit. In the distance, Jonathan was kneeling, accepting
the sword of death as if welcoming a way out.

Turning back to watch Sarah, her outstretched
arms were like wings, allowing her flight like a bird toward the
sea, until she dropped into the dark abyss of water.

“
No, Sarah! I don’t know what to do!” I
pleaded. The mob approached and I was trapped. Either I stayed to
meet my doom, or I followed Sarah. There was no choice. Backing up
a couple of steps, I sprinted toward the edge of the cliff,
spreading my arms like she had done, flying away to
eternity.

I didn’t want to die, I thought, yet here I
was falling to my doom, anticipating the ice-cold water and the
sudden impact of death. I hoped it didn’t hurt much.

The great irony about living is, as soon as
you start to figure things out on your way to happy, the whole
bottom can drop.

And the only thing on my mind was how I never
got to love Stuart.

Coffee fumes snaked into the room. The oven
was hosting warm bread, the perfumed aroma seducing me from a deep
sleep and a dream so real, I was joyfully surprised and grateful
when I awoke to smells of the living.

After breakfast and small talk with Abbey, I
walked outside in the crisp, cool, windy air, racking my brain for
answers. Regret about turning down Stuart’s company gnawed my
stomach. I missed him deeply, and scolded myself for being “bloody
stubborn” as he would say.

Just yards from the house the ocean crashed
as it had in my thousand dreams. The atmosphere was a schizophrenic
mix of stillness and intense vibration, and I imagined my personal
spirit world here must be alive and well, close enough to smell and
taste if I concentrated hard enough.

Millions of information bits randomly floated
in my head. The connections between Bane and Andre were
unshakeable, but he was a teenager like me. It was odd someone so
young would carry such aggression, especially with the world at his
disposal. But he had shown a violent side, and I had been lucky to
walk away mostly unscathed without facing the police or worse,
thinking about what Stuart appeared capable of doing. And speaking
of Stuart there were still no answers for his impeccable timing
except that we were “connected.”