Linda Robertson: Arcane Circle

The personalities of the elements arrived as I had always experienced them before. I knew earth was present when a tingle touched my skin. Air was announced by a warm breath swirling around me, lifting my hair. I called to fire, and felt its nips and small gnawing bites of response. Lastly, I called to water and felt the pressure and the pull of a current, then it subsided and buoyancy took hold until it all faded away.

At this point, I lit an extra white candle. Goddess, watch over Ross and see that his soul finds its way to the Summerland to heal.

Sitting cross-legged on my bed in front of Johnny, I used the pillows to elevate my knees so they could touch his and be nearly level. When I positioned the heavy slate on our knees, it took a minute to make adjustments but finally the slate slab rested on our bare skin and seemed reasonably level.

“Is this the genuine version of the Ouija board?” Johnny asked, fingers skimming over the gray-black smoothness. Symbols of all types had been drawn on the surface in faded and occasionally chipped white paint.

“Kinda. ‘Ouija’ is just a made-up name and we aren’t using it to contact spirits or demons or what-have-you. But it is something that can help in … well, communication. This piece of slate has supposedly been in my family for generations. The story goes that in the 1860s my great-great-great-grandmother stole this slate from the ruins of an altar to Hecate and painted these symbols on it to ensure she got it out of Greece.”

“So your whole family is made up of spunky chicks?”

“Spunky?” Not the word I would have used. “I guess you could say that, but we’re not even sure her account of things was completely true.”

“Spunky and a liar? Say it ain’t so.”

“More like spunky with Alzheimer’s.”

“Oh. What are all these fancy scribbles?”

Confident he recognized the numbers and the alphabet, and could read the “yes,” “maybe,” and “no,” for himself, I explained the rest. “Runes, zodiac symbols, planetary symbols, astrological glyphs, the various stars, here … you know a pentacle.” It was in the middle of the rectangle. I pointed to symbols. “These are just stars with more points. A hexagram—like a Star of David—has six; the heptagram has seven; here’s eight, the octogram; and nine, one form of an enneagram. Here’s the symbol for infinity, and you know the Wedjat and the ankh.” There was no wasted space, yet the symbols weren’t crowded. They each had their place.

“Why’d we have to take our pants off to hold this slate?”

“So the physical energies in our bodies have direct access.”

“I do like direct access,” he said.

I chalked another point into the air for him.

“And this?” He held up the fluorite. The purple and blue hues were frosty, not glossy. It wasn’t smooth and round like a marble, but a normal tumbled stone you’d find in the bins of any rock-hound’s store. It had edges and flat spots. “It isn’t the same as those.” He pointed to the purple stones I’d placed with the white candles.

“Those are sugilites and they are receptive. This is fluorite and it’s projective.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning those stones around the circle will aid in drawing the answers out of you, while this one will project those answers onto the slate.”

“And the purple theme?”

“Spiritual. We’re tapping our souls, but we’re also tapping your subconscious.” I waited a second. “You feel all right?”

“I’m kinda horny.”

My nonplussed expression made him defend the statement.

“What?” His attention flitted from my chest to my face. “I’m in your candlelit room, that little aphrodisiac stick is smoking, and I’m on your bed in my skivvies.”

“That little stick is incense, nag champa, and it is for meditational purposes. As in calming.”

Johnny sniffed the air, wiggled his brows. “I disagree.”

“I meant, does your arm feel all right?”

“Yeah, yeah. My arm is fine.”

“Put that stone in the middle on the pentacle, then put your hands like this.” I held my hands in front of me as if I was going to clap, but instead of bringing them together, I placed them on the outer edges of the slate. The tip of my middle finger rested at the midpoint of the side, and the cool edge of the stone stretched along that finger, into my palm. Johnny mimicked it. “Your fingertip must touch mine,” I said.

He adjusted.

Now we held the stone rectangle like a tray we were ready to lift, but we weren’t going to be moving. “Will you be able to keep your arm there for a while?”

“Yeah.”

“I can get more pillows if you want to prop it.”

“Nah. I’m good.”

I bit my lip, then said, “I know.”

The gleam in his gaze was soft, adoring, a bit sad, and it said much more than flattering words ever could. “I’m ready.”

“You’re always ready, but for now, I want you to close your eyes. Breathe deep. Good. Again.” I kept my voice even, soothing, and my words slow. “Ground and center. Feel your heartbeat, feel how steady it is. See the light inside you. Now slowly increase the scope of your vision as if backing up. See yourself, see your light remaining steady in this place, while your view of it moves farther and farther away, until you can see the whole universe, with your light at the center.” I gave him a moment. “Now slowly glide back to that light, embrace it and become one with it, calm and steady.”

His breathing was deep.

“I am going to ask you questions and make statements. Do not use your voice to answer me. When you hear the stone tumbling around, do not open your eyes. Concentrate on that light, on keeping it in your embrace. Listen to it hum and let it shine through you, down your arms and into the slate.”

He nodded.

“Go back, reach into the past. You’re waking up in the park. Naked, confused, covered with tattoos. You don’t even know your own name.” I paused. “Now go back further. Reach into the unknown.”

Wrinkles appeared around his eyes as if he was squinting. His breathing had quickened.

“Don’t force it. Just feel, feel the weight of time lifting from your shoulders. Imagine a clock, and the arms are spinning backward. I do not expect you to know the answers. They are locked away from your conscious mind. But they may not be locked from the subconscious. Just focus on the clock and let your subconscious answer through the stone between us. Breathe. Breathe.” I repeated it a few more times until I could sense serenity around him again.

“Good.” Directing my awareness onto the fluorite resting on the pentacle, my first few questions would be easy, to set the tone. “Can you answer?” I whispered as low as possible, almost soundless.

The fluorite remained still.

I asked again, waited again. Nothing.

With closed eyes, I sought that piece of Johnny’s soul I now carried. Breathing in the incense, I imagined that ethereal essence searching for that memory and reached out for my alpha state. Johnny, I thought. Johnny.

What?

I stilled. For an instant, I could have sworn that I’d heard his voice. Silly me. I’m not searching for Johnny, but for the memory he gave me.

Targeting that more precise request, the memory awoke and answered my call. It sparked like neurons firing across my brain, and finally it filled my sight.

I saw Johnny, in his late teens. His hair was shorter, and he had no piercings, just the tattoos. As before, with Menessos, I was watching Johnny and yet I was one with him, impossibly seeing this moment from the outside, yet also inside his thoughts, feeling his fear.

His eyes were too wide—the dark blue like lapis lazuli set in ivory and encased in ebony, like on a mummy’s sarcophagus. His arms were wrapped tight around him as he paced inside a jail cell, then stopped, staring at the open door. He wanted to rush through it, to flee. The naked bulbs along the walkway beyond the cage were dim, and some burnt out, but he could still see the endless rows of cells, the filthy floor, and dingy block walls. There were no windows here.