‘I’ve heard of lay lines, but what are they?’
‘Whoever wrote this didn’t know much either. They misspelled it. It’s l-e-y, not l-a-y,’ said Jeanne. ‘They were first described in the 1920s—’
‘As recently as that? I thought they were supposed to be ancient. Stonehenge, that sort of thing.’
‘They are, but no one noticed until about ninety years ago. Some fellow in England, I’ve forgotten his name, looked at stone circles and standing stones and even the oldest cathedrals and noticed that they all line up. They’re built miles and miles apart, but if you connect the dots they’re in straight lines. He came to the conclusion there was a reason for this.’
‘And it was?’
‘Energy. The earth seems to give off more energy along these ley lines. Some people’, she leaned forward and darted her eyes to make sure no one else was listening, ‘don’t believe this.’
‘No,’ he whispered back. Then he picked up her brochure. ‘Someone knew you well enough to know how to get you here.’
And someone needed the psychic here at Easter. To contact, and create, the dead.
Ruth Zardo was also up, though she hadn’t actually gone to bed. Instead she’d been sitting at the preformed white resin garden furniture she called her kitchen set, staring into the oven. It was on the lowest setting. Just enough to keep Rosa and Lilium warm.
It wasn’t true what Gabri said. There was no way simply cracking the shell had hurt Lilium. She hadn’t done much, just a little crack, just enough to give Lilium the idea, really.
Ruth got up, her hip and knees fighting her, and limped over to the oven, instinctively putting her shrunken and veined hand in to make sure the element was still on, but not too hot.
Then she bent over the little ones, watching for breath.
Lilium looked fine. She actually looked as though she’d grown. Ruth was sure she saw the little chest rise and fall. Then she slowly made her way back to the white resin chair. She stared a little longer at the pan in the oven then pulled a notebook toward her.
When they came to harvest my corpse
(open your mouth, close your eyes)
cut my body from the rope,
Surprise, surprise:
I was still alive.
She could see the pink scalp and yellow beak poking through the shell. She was sure the little one had looked at her, and squealed. Called for help. She’d heard that geese bond with the first thing they see. What she hadn’t heard was that it goes both ways. She’d reached out then, not capable of just watching the little one struggle. She’d cracked the shell. Freed little Lilium.
How could that be wrong?
Ruth laid down her pen and put her head in her hands, her knotty fingers clutching at the short white hair. Trying to contain the thoughts, trying to stop them from becoming feelings. But it was too late. She knew.
She knew that kindness kills. All her life she’d suspected this and so she’d only ever been cold and cruel. She’d faced kindness with cutting remarks. She’d curled her lips at smiling faces. She’d twisted every thoughtful, considerate act into an assault. Everyone who was nice to her, who was compassionate and loving, she rebuffed.
Because she’d loved them. Loved them with all her heart, and wouldn’t see them hurt. Because she’d known all her life that the surest way to hurt someone, to maim and cripple them, was to be kind. If people were exposed, they die. Best to teach them to be armored, even if it meant she herself was forever alone. Sealed off from human touch.
But, of course, her feelings had to come out somehow, and so in her sixties the string of words she’d coiled inside came out. In poetry.
Jeanne was right, of course, thought Ruth. I do believe. In God, in Nature, in magic. In people. She was the most credulous person she knew. She believed in everything. She looked down at what she’d written.
Having been hanged for something
I never said,
I can now say anything I can say.
Ruth Zardo picked up the little bird, no longer needing her warm, new towel. Lilium’s head fell to one side, her eyes staring at her mother. Ruth lifted the tiny wings, hoping, maybe, she’d see a flutter.
But Lilium was gone. Killed by kindness.
Before, I was not a witch.
Now I am one.
Clara had been in her studio since midnight. Painting. A feeling had crept over her since the party. Not yet an idea, not even a thought. But a feeling. Something significant had happened. It wasn’t what was said, not totally. It was more. A look, a sense.
She’d sneaked out of bed and practically run to her canvas. She’d stood back from it, staring for many minutes, seeing it as it was and as it could be.