The story begins on your birthday, Dad. Happy birthday. Sending you love.

First post of manuscript I started in 2016. To be completed. Please overlook any errors, I haven't looked at it in years.

THE OLD WAYS

BOOK ONE: WINTER'S LORE

By R. M. Maurer

-For all the lost boys, and the girls who have loved them.-

Faeries, come take me out of this dull world,
For I would ride with you upon the wind,
Run on the top of the disheveled tide,
And dance upon the mountains like a flame.
~William Butler Yeats

CHAPTER ONE

She woke. It was not yet morning, but the manifestation of it was beginning to reveal itself as the objects in the room -her desk, the bra draped over her chair, the bulletin board with the maple leaf pinned to it, and the card from her mother -the one that she had wept upon, all became evident to her tired eyes. She was immediately aware that she had been dreaming again. The horse had been there -the grey one with the dappled coat. It was a being that she felt strongly that she knew somehow. She wondered if it was representative of a person in her life, but the energy was different than that of anyone she knew. What had the horse been doing? There was someone else there too, but she couldn't picture them, she just had a sense of it.  It had been snowing. There was an overwhelming sense of peace, but also a feeling of urgency. Could those two states co-exist?  She rubbed her temples in her struggle to remember. The more she tried to focus on details, the more quickly they evaded her. It was similar to those moments of déjà vu in which she had a knowing that was just beyond her reach, like the blurry edges of a leaf trapped under a thin layer of ice; the water rushing beneath, all just beyond her grasp. 

Mare pulled back the curtain on the window adjacent to her bed. She could see the yard coming into form -the edges of the flower beds against the picket fence. It was now depleted of flowers, but the juniper bushes remained standing to attention like gnomes, frozen at the first hint of light.  It was mid-December, but it had not yet snowed, although the cold New York air and grey skies threatened.  

She swung her feet over the side of the bed and as they hit the cold parquet floor of her small apartment. Intent upon checking the time, she grabbed her cell phone from her desk, disconnecting it from the charger. She noticed she had a missed call and a voicemail. When had those come in? She had been up late working on the proposal for her dissertation and had been completely immersed in her work. She had not even had anything to eat for dinner, although she had managed an entire pot of coffee on her own.  

The call was from Clive, the man she had been casually dating. She was unsure where she stood in this relationship as they had not yet been intimate. He was an attractive man and was in attendance at the law school at Columbia University, which Mare also attended. They got along well and had similar interests for the most part, but Mare wondered over the integrity of their relationship, because something was holding her back from letting him in. 

 The message asked about getting together that evening and Mare sighed, looking at her computer. The battery light was flashing, she had better plug it in. It was tired, just like her. She was weary of looking at the dissertation. The words started to blend together and not make sense anymore. She was starting to question the entire premise, but as a student of psychiatry she was also overly analytical. Every minor thought, comment, or idea needed to be analyzed to the point of exhaustion. 

The thought that maybe she should take a break and go out for the night crossed her mind. Sometimes stepping away would bring fresh perspective.  Or she could meditate.  In opposition to her psychology major, or perhaps in perfect unison, Mare was also a huge proponent of Eastern philosophy and a self-admitted meditation and yoga junkie.   There must be something wrong with this new relationship if she would prefer to meditate than go out with a hot guy. She wished she could put her finger on it...maybe it was his name, Clive. "Hmmm."  She shook herself to free the thoughts, like a horse shuttering with the landing of a fly.  

After feeding Milo, her Abyssinian, and taking a hot shower, she dressed in a tan sheath, and brown leggings and boots. She quickly put her long, raven hair into a clip and applied some mascara. She grabbed her satchel and threw it over her shoulder.  "See you later, Milo", she said making a kissing sound. Her chirped back at her as she closed the door.

CHAPTER TWO

Columbia University, not so much longer she thought, sighing deeply. She felt like she had been here for the longest time. She and this school were old friends.  She had felt this connection even before she began her attendance, however. She considered that perhaps she had been part of this institution in a past life.  Mare continually had strange thoughts such as that, most of which she was careful to never voice, especially amongst the group of scientific-minded academics who were her peers. She could see that science was slowly becoming more friendly and open to subjects such as reincarnation, but she didn't want to push it, although once she presented her proposal, she may just be ostracized.  She feared that moment more than anything. She had asked herself the question if it caused her so much anxiety, why didn't she choose an easier, more widely accepted topic? This, she could not rightly answer. 

The school certainly was old though, and Mare could feel the richness of its history whenever she was ensconced within the walls of its many monumental buildings.  Founded in 1754, it was the fifth oldest college within the country and the oldest within New York State. The department of Psychology was housed within Schermerhorn Hall, one of the more modern buildings built at the turn of the twentieth century. It's institutional brick facade still echoed the voice of the industrial revolution, a time that Mare considered one of the darkest periods in human history.  This morning Mare would be meeting with Professor Blackwell, who was overseeing her as she stumbled through the dissertation process. Working closely with him, Mare felt a strange attraction that seemed to be mutual, but she continued to doubt that it was two-sided, endlessly forgetting the fact that she was an intelligent woman with above average scores in the beauty department. 

"Good morning, Mare," Professor Blackwell called in a sing-song voice without looking up from his desk.  She loved his voice, perhaps, because like her, he didn't speak with a New York accent.  Clive had one, which, although subdued, would surface here and there, and in Mare's opinion was a strike against him. The professor was poised over his morning coffee and crossword puzzle, a tradition that the forty-something academic had been carrying for a good two decades since his own time in graduate school.  He needed a haircut and his sandy hair fell in his face as he peered down, pen in hand. Mare studied him for a moment, thinking how much younger he looked with his graying temples hidden.  He had a young face but he was predisposed to perpetual five-o-clock shadow and a generally unkempt appearance. 

"Good morning, Professor," Mare sighed back.  He had repeatedly told her to call him by his first name, Will, but Mare couldn't bring herself to do it. Somehow it didn't feel right. Perhaps she was afraid it would shatter the last pillar of professionalism between them and she wasn't prepared for the wall to be gone yet. 

"What is an eight letter word for infatuated?  It begins with a B..." asked the professor.

 " Infatuation, that's all it is," thought Mare to herself.   "I'm not sure," she replied.

"Beloved? No, that's seven and that isn't quite the same. Hmm...betrothed, no, begotten, no, besotted? Yes, that's it!" he exclaimed.

Mare found it quite humorous and entertaining how a grown man could be so completely immersed in a crossword.  She moved a pile of books and made herself comfortable on the red, velvet lounge beneath the window that overlooked the grounds. She glanced around the office and mentally cleaned it, thinking what a gorgeous office it could be if she had her way with it. Mare wondered if the professor had ever had a woman in his life to do such things. She knew he wasn't married and she had never heard him mention a girlfriend. She was quite positive he was hetero, but she had been wrong on that count before as well.  She had never been to his house, but she pictured it much like his office, filled with books, on shelves and in various piles. Mismatched furniture and a layer of dust covering every surface.  She turned her attention to him once more. His brow was furrowed, but his ice blue eyes were full of fire. Even if he were to try and hide his passionate nature, his eyes would give him away.  Finally, he shoved the crossword to the side and looked up at Mare, the blue daggers piercing her.  She realized he now knew she had been sitting there watching. His glance had been too quick for her to have pretended anything else. They sat for a moment looking at one another and the professor's mouth slowly began to form lines on each side as it was given to a boyish grin. 

"Well, Mare," he finally said. "What do you have for me today?"

"Nothing. Absolutely nothing. I have been working on this all hours and not getting anywhere. The research is sparse and at this point in the game it is far too late to conduct any sort of viable study of my own."

He gave her a mock frown, that immediately righted itself again. "You sound so fatalistic.  Where is that passion that I saw in you when you started all of this. It was something that you really believed in."

"That was before I looked to the supporting evidence and didn't find any."

"Then you must be looking in the wrong place, because I liked the direction you were going. That's why I took you on as my mentee."

"Oh, I thought it was because you loved my sense of humor and flair for style," she said.

"That too," he said pausing a little too long while he looked at her. She wondered what must be going through his mind in that moment.

"But seriously," he finally continued.  "Go back to the beginning.  What were your original thoughts. What brought you to this subject to begin with? Go for a walk; take some time to reflect. Find that passion again." 

"It's just getting much too convoluted," Mare sighed.

"Then simplify it. What is the thesis? State it to me in simple terms."

"Ok...well, basically? That one's beliefs create one's reality. It sounds so simple. Is it really that simple?

"It really is," he replied. 

***

She had left the professor's office with renewed spirits and a reconnected sense of purpose regarding the project that she was so arduously undertaking.  It had elevated her mood so much that she had decided to take a walk through Central Park before heading back to her apartment to hit the grindstone. She had hoped to get lost among the trees as she did as a young child growing up in rural Connecticut. She would spend hours in the woods behind her childhood home playing with her sister, Gayle. She always felt most connected to her true self and her source of inspiration during those times. That is what she had hoped for now, but the energy of the city was too strong even for this solid, 843 acre piece of nature. 

Mare considered herself to be an empath, although this would conflict with the sensibilities of the science crowd with which she associated. She often wondered why she continued to live in the city, knowing how the emotions and feelings of the masses around her affected her so deeply. Some nights she would walk into her apartment so emotionally charged and longing for release that she would collapse on the floor as soon as the door had shut behind her, and rock herself, her arms wrapped around her bent knees. This seemed to do well to reset her disjointed nervous system, and she seemed to do alright with exercise and meditation practices. But now, her perception was being colored by something dark and she felt she could not shake it.

 The very reason she had come to this place had been entirely negated and she felt the sudden urge to leave. She began to run.  As she ran, she noticed others running as well. She had not seen anyone running as she had entered the park, but now runners surrounded her in every direction.  Some passed by her, glancing or raising a hand in greeting as they ran. She could hear footsteps behind her, and although she was running as fast as she could now, the footsteps grew closer and closer. She pressed on, feeling the adrenaline surging through her. It had grown dark and she pictured the runner behind her coming up on her and overpowering her. She had heard news stories of female joggers being assaulted at night and that was all she could think.  Terror filled her body. The runner was almost upon her now and she knew she could not outrun them. She could feel her lungs begging for mercy and she surrendered to them.  As she bent over, gasping for air, the runner passed her. She glanced up and could see the faint silhouette of a man, with a runner's physique, wearing spandex shorts and neon running shoes. She knew what her mind had done to her and she had even known it during her panic, but how do you reason with a mind that won't believe you?

***

"What's wrong?" Gayle's voice rang through the phone.

"Nothing," replied Mare, trying to hide the defeated and weary tone from her own voice.

"Are you sure? Because I'm afraid I have some bad news," she went on without waiting for Mare to answer.

Mare knew instantly what her sister was calling about. She called so infrequently now, but when she did it was usually for the same reason.

"Yes...where is she this time?" she quietly questioned her older sister.

"She's at Silver Hill," said Gayle.

"I can't do this right now," Mare sobbed, the tears spilling from her eyes.  She had tried to retain composure, but Gayle's news robbed her of her last ounce of strength.

"You? You can't do this?" replied Gayle, a sharpness in her voice that hadn't been there a moment ago. "Who is the one there, doing this every single day -taking care of Mom, every single day, while you are off living the life in good old, NYC?"

"I didn't mean it like that," said Mare, defensively. "I was just having a bad day and have been under a lot of stress."

"Me too," said Gayle, her voice softening.  "Listen, Mary," she spoke using Mare's full name, which only their mother ever called her by.  Hearing it, pressed upon a wound deep within her that she couldn't quite locate or understand. "They say she'll probably be there a while this time. She is pretty bad.  I saw her this morning and she acted like she didn't even know me. I've been her daughter for thirty-five years...taking care of  her for the last eight, and she acts like I am a stranger."

Mare could hear her sister's voice starting to break now as well, but she quickly regained her composure. She always did. "If you don't want to visit her right away, it won't be the worst thing in the world."

Mare didn't know that she wanted to visit at all, but the guilt would be too strong if she were to not.

"Yeah, give me a few days. I am in the middle of developing my dissertation.  I present my proposal to a panel on Friday. Once that nightmare is past, I can take a drive out and see her...and you."

"Ok, Mare, just let me know when you plan on coming. I have to get going now," replied Gayle, her voice sounding distant.

"Have a good night, Gayle. Try not to stress too much."

"You too. Goodnight."

Mare put the phone down and sank down. She stared at the pattern in the floor, following the lines with her eyes, imagining they were a road built for tiny, little people. She wished she were one of those imaginary people right now, that she could escape to an alternate world within the linoleum where there were no dissertations, no psychiatric hospitals, no past, no future, and no feelings.

Mare woke with a start. She could hear her phone ringing loudly but didn't know where she was.  Within a moment, she recalled the phone conversation she had with her sister, the conversation she wished she could forget. Rubbing her sore neck and hoisting herself from the floor, she realized she must have fallen asleep right there on the linoleum in her little kitchen. Glancing up, she saw Milo watching her from beside his food dishes. The microwave clock read seven pm. She had been asleep for nearly two hours and had forgotten to feed the cat. 

"Sorry Milo, I can't believe I fell asleep like that, and on the cold, hard floor, no less. I don't know what's wrong with me."

Milo chirped in reply. He continued to serenade her as she proceeded to fill his food dish.

"Good boy, Milo. Good kitty."

Mare picked her phone up from the floor and turned on the screen. Two missed calls. The first from Professor Blackwell and the second from Clive. Both had left messages. She pressed one for voicemail and listened to them.

"Hi Mare," said the professor. "I came across some research that I thought could be of some help to you. Give me a call and let me know when you might like to stop by and I can share it with you. Thanks."  His voice sounded muffled, like he was talking to her from inside a fishbowl. Clive's voice then came on the line. 

"Hey there, beautiful. I haven't seen you in a few days and I miss you. I know you're stressed and busy. Give me a call when you have a chance. Bye." He really was a nice guy. Mare wondered again what her issue was. She picked up the phone and dialed Professor Blackwell, knowing that hearing his voice would be a comfort to her.  It vaguely occurred to her that her supposed boyfriend should be the source from which she derived comfort, but for some reason this was not the case.  He answered on the third ring.

"Hello, Mare," he said, taking her off guard.  She was continually forgetting the advent of caller ID.

"Hi Professor," she answered.  "I got your message; I hope it's not too late to be calling?"

"No, not at all, Seven O'clock, Mare." His voice sounded incredulous.  "Besides, I'm a night owl. Why do you think I drink so much coffee during the day? It's not only because I love the taste," he chuckled.

"You said you had something you wanted to share with me?"

"Yes, but I would rather in person. Would you like to meet for a cup of coffee?" he laughed again.

"Sure," why not, she had just had a two-hour nap. Coffee sounded nice.

"Are you available tonight or would you rather wait until morning?  I pictured you hard at work and know that you had been feeling stuck. I thought this might help break up your night and also help you gain some more clarity in your work."

"That would be lovely," she replied.

They arranged to meet in an hour at Lenox Coffee, a rustic coffee shop on West 129th.  After hanging up with the professor Mare paused for a moment and then immediately jumped into action. She quickly took a shower. Then she got to work primping herself in front of the mirror. She almost did a double take after a closer look at her eyebrows, which hadn't been plucked in days. "I look like frickin' Burt from Sesame Street!" she said aloud.  Normally she would wear tinted lotion and mascara only, but tonight she found herself also applying eye shadow, eyeliner, and lipstick.  She blow dried her hair into glossy smoothness and chose a black pair of leggings, her riding boots, and a cream colored sweater. She also put on some perfume, something that happened even more rarely. 

As she readied herself, her actions had little actual logical thought behind them and were fueled from more of an animalistic impulse. She was a student of psychology though, and she knew exactly what she was doing and the underlying intention, however subconscious. Before leaving, she paused to look at herself one more time in the mirror. She looked good -fresh and well-put-together, not whorish, and overdone as she had originally feared. Mare knew the secret fear held by the subconscious mind of being made apparent, and she could feel it retreating ever so slightly back to internal darkness. 

CHAPTER THREE

As she sat in the taxi, watching the snow that had begun to fall, illuminated and refracted by the multitudinous lights of the city, Mare remembered the last time she had seen her mother, whole.  She had crunched up the snow incrusted steps to her mother’s farmhouse, pots of frozen chrysanthemums at her feet.  Opening the door, a rush of warm air and the vague smell of oatmeal and fireplace soot hit her face.  Her mother stood at the kitchen sink, soap suds up to her wrists.  Turning to Mare she had said, “Hi Mary, there’s macaroni in the fridge if you want some.”  

Mare had recently returned home to Connecticut, due to the unexpected death of her father and was taking some time off from her undergraduate studies in New York and had been getting used to home cooked meals again.  Sitting down at the table she had remembered countless games of chess with her father.  Trying to remember her perspective as a child was often a difficult task.  Occasionally a smell, a sound, or a branch waving in the breeze would trigger something within her that she could never quite grasp.  He had often sat in that chair, a chess board between them, his eyes laughing at her like they always had.  “Watch out for your Queen, Mare.” 

***

“Mare,” a voice had echoed that night. Had it had it been real, or had she been dreaming? 

"Daddy?"  She had shot up in bed.  Sweat ran down her face, in small beads.  Linus, her mother’s Siamese cat stretched out at her feet and the cord of the blinds clicked against the window as the forced hot air spat out at them.  She glanced around.  All else in the room was still and quiet.  She had the eerie feeling as if someone had been there and recently left.  As she put on her slippers and padded down the hall towards her mother’s room, the door swung shut behind her.  Her mother's shape ensconced in a gigantic quilt, lay on the bed.  The opening of the door didn’t entice her mom to move an inch.  She was sleeping soundly.  The digital on her dresser read 6:36. Mare would not be able to get back to sleep at that point.  

In the woods behind the house, the sun had just made an appearance, in shades of smoky blue and pink.  It was going to be a clear day, quite a change from the stormy weather they'd had the week of her father’s funeral.  It had been a blizzard that day.  The snow made it impossible to see much more than a foot in front of you, and she had felt as if she had never really seen her father leave her.  “You haven’t left me Daddy, you’re in here.” She had choked as she put her hand across her heart.  “That’s complete bullshit, Mare, once someone is dead, they’re gone forever,” she had said, becoming angry as she wiped away a tear that had formed in the corner of her eye.  A pine branch cracked beneath her foot as she made her way into the clearing.  A blue jay was startled and flew up into the trees.  As her eyes followed him, she was suddenly a young girl on her father’s back again, out in the snow, as he pointed out the chickadees peering at them.  She had trudged back to the house to find her mother's frame sitting at the kitchen table, but the person inhabiting it had no longer been her mother. 

Now, eight years later, on her way to meet the professor, a tear rolled down her cheek, followed by another. "Jesus, what a great time to be having such wonderful memories, after all the work I just did on my face" she thought to herself.  She sat up straighter and took a deep breath, letting the memories escape back to the deeper recesses of her soul, and wiped her cheeks with the backside of her hand. Pulling out her compact she saw that little damage had been done. 

"West 129th," the driver called. She paid him and stepped out into the cold, snowy air, shrugging off any lingering sadness.  She could see the professor sitting by the window reading something. He was waiting for her and so was her life.

***

She entered the coffee shop. It was quaint, but warm and inviting. The rustic decor could make you forget you were even in the city, if it were not for the throng of people crowded into the small space. Luckily, the professor had secured them a table.  Norah Jones' "Say Goodbye" was playing.  Hearing this, combined with the energy of the crowd and the sight of the professor, sank Mare back into the place she had been gearing for with her eager primping.  As she walked towards him, being careful not to bump into anyone, he glanced up at her and the two shared a look. Unspoken words were sometimes the loudest.  He looked more collected than usual himself, in a blue gingham button down shirt tucked under a grey, ribbed cardigan, with belted, black dress pants. Although his hair was slicked back across his head, five o'clock shadow still graced his face. He smiled at her, small lines appearing around his eyes, adding extra warmth to his expression.  

"You're looking refreshed tonight, Mare," her greeted her. She wondered if that was a compliment.

"Yes, well I did have a bit of a nap before I spoke with you. You are looking quite alert yourself."

"This is my ninth cup of coffee today," he grinned, holding up his mug towards her in demonstration."

"That just can't be good for you," she answered.

"I've been doing it for so long, I'm pretty sure my body has adjusted. I have a high tolerance for caffeine. I need to drink this many to get the effects that I used to with just one or two."

"Addict," she replied, the sarcasm evident in her voice. At times she tried to utilize sarcasm, but hadn't quite perfected the art. Most often the inflection in her voice was too subtle and people took her seriously. 

 The grin returned to his face, and he looked at her.  The look lingered a little too long for what Mare would consider platonic, but what did she know?  She wondered if she was imagining all she saw between them, never trusting herself when it came to relationships and feelings. Her logical mind continued to dismiss the idea that there could be any romantic feelings on his end, it tried to do the same on her end as well, but Mare's heart knew better. She removed her pea coat, draping it on the back of the chair, and sat down across from him.

"So, you took a nap," he pondered aloud. "I guess that means you haven't done much work on your thesis since we last spoke.  That's good."

"No, I haven't.  Are you being sarcastic?" asked Mare. She had never known the professor to be derogatory towards her in any way.

"No, not at all. It's good because I think the whole direction of your work could be influenced by what I have come across."  

"Then do tell," answered Mare. "I am literally on the edge of my seat." She had shifted forward in her chair to hear him better. He laughed.

"Have you ever read any of the work by 1950s psychologist, William Sargent?"

"Not much," answered Mare. "I've more or less just heard mention of the name. Didn't he have something to do with the Korean War?"

"Yes. What he did was demonstrate how the Chinese were able to entirely change the beliefs of captive American servicemen.  This is where the term 'brainwashing' is derived.  He had hypothesized that beliefs originate largely in an accidental nature due to the circumstances of your environment. What you are exposed to is what you believe.  The brainwashing was performed by changing the underlying subconscious beliefs of the soldiers."

"That is rather in opposition to what I have been trying to say, basically that your beliefs create your experience," returned Mare. 

"Rather like the chicken and the egg, I suppose. What this agrees upon, though, is that belief is largely perception. You learn to perceive the world due to your environment and the preconditioned beliefs that are placed upon you due to the people surrounding you. It is perception that changes your experience of the world, and it is belief that alters perception. But this is a two-way street. Perception can also alter your beliefs. It is not a system based upon Newtonian physics. Belief and perception are not two solid masses acting upon one another -they are energy, and their effects occur on an energetic level. We are always looking for that one chemical in the brain, that one neural pathway that will explain everything, but things like this can't be accurately measured with the physical tools with which we are equipped, even in this technology laden age of ours." The professor grew more and more excited as he spoke. He went on, "you have been looking for a way to measure your hypothesis. You know what you want to study, but you are unsure how. Is that correct?"

"More or less," answered Mare.  "I need to be able to explain to the panel what method I will be using to expand upon this hypothesis.  This is where I am lost. I know what I believe, but I don't know how to explain why."

"Well, that's exactly it. Your hypothesis is a belief in itself. In order to get others to change their beliefs to be in line with it, you need to change their perception. "

"And how is that scientific, if this is all just belief?"

"Because there is profound truth in your belief, and you know that. In between the world of the physical and the world of thought is the world of energy.  All thought and all matter are connected by an invisible web of energy.  All intuitive messages come through energy.  Mare, if you have a fire of knowledge, let others light their candles with it.  The universe is a hologram that projects what we experience as matter. Light energy particles communicate faster than the speed of light. This is all scientifically proven, but not widely held as a belief.  You need to conduct the research, and you need subjects. The members of the panel will be your subjects.  By altering their beliefs, you will be proving your hypothesis."

"That is an interesting premise, but I am still lost on how I could possibly accomplish such a task."

"That's part of why I wanted to meet with you. I believe in synchronicities, don't you?"

"I think so."

"Well, this morning after you left, I had a crossword, 'an artificially induced altered state of consciousness, characterized by heightened suggestibility and receptivity to direction.' The answer? An eight-letter word, beginning with the letter H."

"Hypnosis?"

"Exactly....you're good.  Well, I had this word and was pondering it for a few minutes. Then I remembered a course I had taken during my undergraduate studies. It was taught by a professor who actually left quite an impression on me, so I don't know why I didn't think of it sooner. He was a very passionate individual.

"Like yourself," Mare interjected. She could have sworn she saw a slight blush come over his face.

"Yes, well, at that time he was lecturing about the power of suggestion," he went on.  "However, although he was a psychotherapist, he was also a hypnotist.  He claimed that in order for hypnosis to work, first one needs to believe that it will.  Once the mind is open to something, it then allows that something to flow freely and become integrated as part of the consciousness. "

"That reminds me of medical treatment, and how much more effective a treatment is, based upon the individual’s feelings towards it," Mare wondered.

"That's exactly what it is!  It's all the power of the human mind. It's astounding!  That's why I didn't hesitate to work with you when you came to me."  

She watched him becoming more animated and passionate as he went on and hoped that wasn't the only reason he had wanted to work with her. She also wondered if that passion could be directed in another way.  A small shiver ran through her whole body, conducted like electricity. 

The professor continued, "during his lecture, he decided to give a demonstration to the whole class. He asked for a show of hands to see who believed that hypnosis was powerful and real.  Only a small number of hands went up. He chose a quiet girl from the back, who I had never even noticed in class before. He brought her to the front of the class and sat her in a chair. He told the class that we were going to witness the power of the mind through its ability to affect the body, but we had no idea where he was going with that. He explained that the body can't tell the difference between the touch of a very cold or very hot object when not actually seeing the object with the eyes. After blindfolding his subject, he proceeded to test a cold metal instrument and a freshly burnt-out matchstick on her inner arm. She was to tell him which instrument she believed to be cold and which to be hot.  She was accurate in about two out of every three. 

Then, after removing the blindfold, he told her he was going to inform her which instrument he was using, and she was supposed to say how it felt. He showed her not the items that he had been originally using, but rather, a frozen metal dowel and a metal pin which had been heated so that it was glowing red and hot.  Placing the blindfold back over her eyes he instructed her to call out which sensation, hot or cold, she felt as soon as it had touched her skin. Reaching for the ice-cold instrument, he said ‘this is the cold one, tell the class how it feels.’ He touched her skin with the instrument, and rather startled by the temperature extreme, she called out 'cold.' Then the professor held up the freshly warmed pin to the girl's face so that she could feel the heat, saying 'I am going to touch you with the hot one now.' He then placed the pin gently back down on the tray and withdrew a pencil from his jacket pocket and proceeded to touch her inner arm with the pencil eraser. The girl cried out in pain as a small welt instantly appeared on her skin where the eraser had touched her.  There was a cry of awe throughout the classroom.  

My close friend and classmate, Eddie Barton, looked at me and said, Will, I just can't believe she did that with her mind.'  Due to his disbelief, he asked the professor that the experiment be done on him as well.  The professor told him no, that it would not work on him.  Eddie asked him if this was because he had already seen it done.  The professor responded that, it was not that he had seen it done that would keep it from working on him, it was that he had seen it done and still didn't believe that it was true. 'The power of belief is just that strong,' he told the class."

"I find it surprising that you have only thought of telling me this now," replied Mare. 

"I know, I am surprised myself. I guess my memory fails me in my old age."

"You're not old," chuckled Mare.

"I'm quite a bit older than you," he responded, looking directly at Mare, his face becoming serious again.  Mare could feel his gaze and the sudden sobriety that instantaneously robbed her of any feeling that this night would be headed where she had hoped. She looked down at the table, realizing she had never gotten any coffee.  No matter, she would need something stronger to drink at this point. 

She looked back up at him, noticing that his look had softened again. "So, I can see the link between hypnosis and the human mind as far as belief goes, but I'm not sure I understand where you think I am supposed to go with this. Am I to hypnotize the panel into supporting this hypothesis?" she said, surprised by the snide tone in her voice.

"No, Mare, that's not what I'm saying.  What I'm saying is, you can focus your research on hypnosis and the science behind it as far as beliefs, and you might just find the answers that you need.  It might just be the lead that you're looking for," said the professor, cocking his head as if trying to read her.  He went on, "there's a hypnotherapist. She's becoming very well known in this area, I've heard a lot of good things about her. People claim that she's amazing at what she does.  I want to refer you to her. You should go talk to her. Talk to her about hypnosis; see what she says.  Her name is Dr. Judy Burkoff.  Surprisingly, she's a psychologist as well."

Mare wasn't sure she liked how this conversation, or this night were heading.  She couldn't ignore the discomfort that was rising up within her and she felt the sudden need to leave.  "I'll look into it," she told him, trying to be nonchalant, but knowing that she wasn't, with too much tension rising in her voice.  She rose from her chair, and he quickly did the same, knocking his backwards slightly. "I'll give you a call tomorrow and maybe we can discuss this some more," she said, knowing that she probably wouldn't.

"Mare," he said, looking at her, reaching for her hand and then merely brushing it like someone wiping dust from atop an old piano.  She looked into his eyes and saw something there she'd never seen before.  It was like looking into the eyes of a caged animal, wild and longing to be free.  He glanced down.  "Have a good night," he said, his voice barely audible now.

"You do the same," she said, donning her coat.  She left the coffee shop telling herself not to look back at him, and she didn't.  Climbing into the cab, she felt lost once again. It's funny how outwardly something can look just fine, but inside you know it's not. Energy often speaks louder than words. 

CHAPTER FOUR

"Where are you headed," asked the cab driver, eyeing her in the rearview.  Mare got the sense that he was interested in her and her need for a drastic release was sparked.

"176 E 96th St," she told him, wondering if she was making a mistake, but not caring.

The snow was beginning to fall much more heavily as the taxi pulled up in front of Clive's apartment. Taking the chance that Clive would actually be home, Mare paid the taxi driver. He handed her a card, saying "here's my number, in case you want to give me a call later."

"Oh, um, thanks," replied Mare, looking at him for the first time and realizing he was actually quite easy on the eyes.  She was being a complete snob by thinking that someone in such a position was beneath her, and she knew it.  She also knew that with paranoid tendencies, she would never call or meet someone she didn't already know somehow. She'd heard too many stories.

"Have a good night," she said, shutting the door. He held up his hand in the gesture of a wave and then pulled away.  She was left standing in front of the thirty-story building. She had never actually been to Clive's place before even though they had been seeing each other for a month now. They had been intimate only with small kisses and touches here and there. Mare didn't understand why but was about to try and change all that. She found his name "Clarence Reed" on the Marquee, thinking how much better she preferred the name Clarence over Clive, by which he was more widely known. She buzzed his apartment, #2002 and crossed her fingers.  She stood for what seemed like forever and just when she was about to turn away, came Clive's deep and reassuring voice.  "Yes?" it questioned.

"Good evening, Clive. It's Mare," she returned.  "Can I come up?"  For the first time it crossed her mind that perhaps she was intruding by just showing up at his place.  There was no further reply, but the heavy metal door suddenly sounded mechanically as it unlatched.  She entered the brightly lit lobby and pressed the up arrow on the gold, metal elevator before her. As she stood, waiting, a thin older man in a dark coat and top hat stood beside her. Either he was someone of importance or he was a kook to be wearing that, she thought. He glanced at her. "It's coming down fast," he commented as the doors opened and they stepped on.  

"Yes," she replied, not knowing what to make of this character.  

"A good night to spend warm inside," he went on, winking at her, a dozen more wrinkles appearing around his eye. She felt as though he was seeing right through her and gazing at her intentions. It certainly didn't make her feel warm.  As the elevator reached the twentieth floor and she stepped off, perhaps a little too quickly, he nodded at her, and she felt a little shudder travel down her spine. 

***

As Mare approached the door to Clive's apartment, her heart began to flutter in her chest. She was starting to have second thoughts and once again wondered why she would feel this way about someone she was seeing.  She should be on cloud nine that in a moment she would be in his presence, but in the back of her mind all she could think about was Professor Blackwell...Will.  Then she remembered his remark about how much older he was than herself and she was reminded that her feelings towards him were nothing but fantasy.  As she was reaching to knock on the door, her cell phone buzzed from within her pocket.  She pulled it out and looked at it.  It was a text message from Gayle.  "When are you going to see Mom??"

 "Did we not just talk a few freaking hours ago?  I'll see her when I am good and ready," she thought aloud.  Being reminded of that situation irritated her and she was consumed by a mixture of guilt, sadness, and anger.  Now she was more than ready to see Clive and get her mind off of everything.  She knocked loudly on the thick, wooden door and waited for what seemed an unreasonably long time before it opened.  

Her eyes were met with the sight of Clive's impressive frame backlit by the soft, incandescent light of his apartment and it took her a moment to realize that he was wearing only sweatpants and no shirt. There was another frame standing next to Clive and a couple inches behind.  It let out a soft growl but ceased the second that Clive raised his hand in a gesture apparently meaning stop.  

"Sorry, Mare," he said.  "I wasn't expecting you.  I'm all sweaty and gross; I was working out when you buzzed."  He stood back to let her enter and she glanced around the sparsely furnished open space for the first time.  

"I don't see any workout equipment, are you sure you weren't doing something else," she asked, straining her neck to look into the bedroom.

"What are you implying?" he grinned at her.  "Not a very trusting soul, are you?"

"Not lately," she sighed.  "I'm sorry, I've just been so stressed out these days."

"Care to unload?  How about some wine?"

"That sounds lovely, actually."

"Red or white?" he asked, walking behind the island of the open kitchen that looked out across the living area.  

"Red please, thank you.  I forgot you said you had a dog." said Mare, looking at the large creature that currently lay at Clive's feet.  

"I'm not sure that I did mention it," returned Clive, choosing a bottle of Merlot and pouring the smooth, deep red liquid into a green wine glass. "Her name's Asa.  It's Icelandic for God, but since the name is a palindrome, I figured it could mean dog as well. " He chuckled, handing Mare the glass of wine.

"Interesting thought.  What kind of dog is she? She looks more like a wolf than a dog," said Mare, eyeing the creature who had moved within inches of her feet and was now looking at her.

"She's a Czechoslovakian Wolfdog.  She is actually from my first ever court case.  We had a puppy mill shut down and I ended up taking one of the puppies.   She's still young, not quite two yet, but her training is impeccable," he answered, handing her the wine.

"Did you train her yourself?" asked Mare, looking back at Clive.  She realized she had never seen him in anything but a suit before, and without it he seemed like a completely different person.  

"Yeah.  We had a lot of dogs growing up.  It just comes naturally for me, " he answered.

"What about your own training?" she asked, looking over his well-defined muscles. "I still don't see any workout equipment. " Mare's version of working out indoors consisted of a treadmill or elliptical and a set of weights.  

"Not all exercise involves equipment.  I practice Jiu Jitsu." 

"What are you, a black belt?" asked Mare.  

"Yes, actually, I am."

"Oh, wow." Mare wasn't sure what to say. She was learning more and more about this increasingly complex man, by the second.  "Well, I'm glad I came here, otherwise it might have been another month before I learned these things about you. "

"I'm sorry, Mare.  I know, there is a lot about me you don't know and this relationship has been on the slow track, but that's because I really care for you and don't want to rush things."  Mare's opinion of Clive was shifting a little more with each passing minute.  "Anyway," Clive went on, "do you mind if I jump in the shower quickly, so I feel a little less disgusting?"

"Of course, not," laughed Mare.  Clive smiled at her and made a quick disappearance from the room. Asa remained at Mare's feet.  

Mare looked around the room, beginning to notice things about it, now that Clive was no longer in her line of sight, serving as a distraction.  It was quite a bit bigger than her own place...and nicer.  She wondered how he afforded it.  Yes, he was in law school, but he wasn't a lawyer yet, and his school debt had to be at least as much as hers.  The couch upon which she sat was placed perpendicularly to the kitchen and the large French doors that led out to the balcony.  She could see the city glittering beyond.  A view like that could make you feel very small.  She rose from the couch and as she did so, Asa rose as well.  Mare glanced down at her, "are you supposed to be guarding me?"  she asked.  The dog sat down and cocked her head, studying her.  

Mare walked over to a desk positioned to the side of the room.  It was one of those large executive desks, and it seemed somewhat out of place where it sat, shoved up against the wall.  Piles of papers were neatly stacked across it.  A small picture frame sat amidst the piles and Mare picked it up and looked at it.  In black and white, a woman with a drawn face and two long braids sat holding a baby, tightly wrapped in a bunting.  The woman looked distinctly Native American, but was wearing a bohemian type of garment, flowing and adorned with crocheted lace.  Mare peered at the woman.  She had a beautiful face, and there was a sense of familiarity to it. She put down the picture and glanced up.  Hanging above the desk was a beautifully crafted Native American tomahawk.  Red feathers hung down from the handle in adornment.  Mare brushed the soft plumage with her finger.  She never knew that Clive had an interest in Native American history.  

"That was my grandfather's," coming out of the bedroom, Clive gestured toward the tomahawk with his left hand, while toweling his wet hair with his right.  

"It's beautiful," said Mare.  "Where did he get it?"  

"He made it," answered Clive.  "He's Abenaki... Native American."  

"I had no idea," said Mare, looking at him more intently all of a sudden.  She would never have guessed it with Clive's ruddy brown hair and inky watercolor blue eyes, but she could see it now.  Yes, in the bridge of his nose and the lines around his mouth.  "That makes you?"

"Half Abenaki."  That must have been Clive's mother in the photo.   

"What is your ancestry on your father's side?"  

"My father was half English, half Scottish.  He grew up in England. He came here to attend Harvard, with full intentions of returning to England, but met my mother and stayed.   

"Where are your parents living now?"

There was a pause. "They aren't," answered Clive, glancing away for a moment.  

"I'm so sorry, my father passed a few years ago, and my mom is all but lost, so I think I can relate."

"I think you can too," said Clive, pulling her close and looking into her eyes.  

"There's a lot I didn't know about you Clarence Reed," she said, furrowing her brow.

"There's a lot you still don't know," he replied, the side of his mouth raising in a half smile.  "And what about you, Mary Victoria MacAughtry?  What secrets are you keeping?"

"I have no secrets, I'm an open book," she smiled at him.

"I somehow greatly doubt that.   I am very good at reading people, but I am having trouble reading you."

"I must not be a very good story."

"That's not it.  It's just that it's the kind of story you only want to read a little bit of at a time, because you don't want it to ever end, so you savor it, every second of it," he placed his hand along her jaw line confirming in Mare, the feelings that had been arising since Clive had first opened his door to her.

***

The pale light of morning filtered through the tan curtains draped across the windows of Clive's room.  Mare wasn't sure where she was when she first woke, a sensation that seemed to be recurring lately.  She was immediately aware of the softness of the bed upon which she lay.  She arched her back and contracted her legs, lifting her arms above her head in a deep stretch.  She felt wonderful as though she had just made up for several years’ worth of poor sleep.  It had been a dreamless night, for once.  She remembered Clive tucking her in with a gentle kiss upon her forehead and turning out the light.  A deep heaviness had come over her and she had been asleep almost instantly.

Meanwhile, Clive had made a place for himself on the couch with a blanket and pillow.  Asa lay on the floor, leaning against the couch.  Clive stared at the ceiling recounting the evening.  He had seen how intently she had been staring at the tomahawk.  He didn't want to lie to her, but he wasn't ready to share his whole story yet.  He had to take things at the right pace. If he was completely open with her, she may get scared and turn away from him.  He wasn't willing to risk losing her forever.  However, if he didn't open up and share with her, he was in risk of losing her that way as well.  

They had talked for hours, and he had given her little details to his life here and there.  His mother had raised him, his father had run off when he was very young.  Why? No one really knew.  Maybe he just couldn't handle the responsibility of raising a family.  His grandfather had stepped in and acted as a father-figure to him.  He was still alive, but 92 years old.  He lived with the Missisquoi tribal division in Vermont.  Clive had given her a history lesson...yes, they were Abenaki, but they had never been recognized as an official tribe and had therefore been subsumed into the Algonquian tribe.  Yes, it was wrong.  Yes, he was angry over his ancestors' history.  He had kept the deeply burning truth of his soul from her, saying there's no use crying over spilled milk.  She had given him a quizzical look, but he had not been willing to say more. Over the past week he had felt her becoming more and more distant with him.  He knew there was some other man in her life for which she had feelings, but as he had told her, he had a very difficult time deciphering her.  

"I don't understand, Asa.  I never have such trouble, unless someone has a serious mental block on their thoughts.  I am usually able to know exactly what's going on right away. " The dog looked at him and let out a small, low-pitched whimper, telling him of the deeply buried pain that lay within Mare. 

"I know," he said.  "It hurts me to see it too.  I will abide."  

CHAPTER FIVE

A couple of days had gone by since Mare had spent the night at Clive's.  She thought about it frequently, in wonder at how she could have known so little about him.  The Professor had tried calling a couple of times in the last couple days, but she had not answered.  She felt awkward about it.  She knew that most of what she had to feel awkward about was in her own head, but she couldn't help it.  He probably had no idea that she was feeling any of it.  She also had not touched her research in those two days.  She just needed some time away from it -some breathing room, so to speak, but she was growing increasingly anxious, as it was now Wednesday, and she would have to present to the panel in two short days.  She didn't understand why she constantly did this to herself, procrastinating to the point of utter panic.  

Today she was at her part-time job which consisted of silk screen print making. She had been doing this work for the last three years, and the process was now mechanical and second nature for her. However, there was a creative component that remained, and this kept her continually interested.  She could find herself lost in the process for hours at a time and not be bored. In a way, she felt connected to a place within herself, that was otherwise lost in a world that seemed to discourage creativity at every turn. 

 Today she was working on an order of 1,000 t-shirts for a local Punk Rock band.  This large order was not her favorite type of work, as it utilized a larger printing press to produce the large quantity of product that had been ordered.  The particular press that Mare was using was a four-screen press. She merely had to load the pre-determined amount of color, black, gold, grey and red, and it would be delivered equally between each of the screens.  Operating the press was still a manual process and Mare lowered each of the four presses individually, creating the image of a hammer shattering concrete, and the words, "Hard Lies," beneath the image.  Mare had heard them play live once, and thought they were actually pretty good.  Punk Rock wasn't her favorite genre, but she was a lyrical person, and she felt that their lyrics contained a certain amount of truth and edginess to them, and she liked that.   

"Hey Mare, do you want to go out for drinks tonight," asked her co-worker, Tanya, interrupting Mare's train of thought.

Mare looked up from across the room. At first Tanya's invitation sounded extremely appealing, to lose oneself awash in a sea of alcohol...to not have to think about her mother, the dissertation, the men in her life.   "I wish I could, but I have to get this dissertation finished, I only have a couple of days left," she returned, feeling deflated and worn.

"Oh Mare, I can't wait until that thing is done, so you can live a little," sighed Tanya.  Mare had been out with Tanya a few times after work, and although they weren't the type of friend to call each other on the phone and talk about all their problems, they always had a great time when they got together. 

"You and me both, " sighed Mare, "you have no idea."

***

After work, as the sun slowly began to set, Mare matched its pace back home to her apartment.  Although the time for completing her work was beginning to dwindle, she was in no hurry to get back to it.  Anxiety welled up within her, and she was the one fueling it.  She always did this to herself though, and always pulled through in the end.  As she stewed it over in her mind, she reassured herself of this.  Thinking back to her undergraduate degree, she could picture herself, a young woman, standing by the brook behind her parents’ house.  The sun had been setting then too, as she stared at the frozen surface, she could see water moving below. She had prayed aloud for winter to pass and to get through her studies quickly. It had indeed passed. That was a few years ago now. 

"This too shall pass," she spoke quietly to herself, and was filled with a minute sensation of peace.  Her cell phone quietly buzzed in her purse, on vibrate since being at work.  She reached down and picked it up, looking at the glowing screen.  It was Clive.

"Hello? " Mare, formed the word as a question despite knowing the caller's identity. 

"Hi," returned the voice, sounding smaller than Mare had expected. "I was calling to see how you were doing; I hadn't heard from you in a couple of days."

"I, I know," she started with a slight stutter as she began to collect her thoughts.  "I've been busy with work."

"No, worries, how's it going? Have you made any progress with your proposal?"  At the mention of the word, Mare felt her body tense, as an uneasy feeling, thick like honey, but not so sweet, flowed through her.  

"Yes, it's almost finished," she replied, not knowing why she was lying to him.

"That's great! You must be so relieved. Listen, I was hoping once it's over, that I could take you out to celebrate.  We haven't gone out in a while, and I would like to continue our new habit of getting to know one another better."

"Sure, sounds good, only two more days and it will all be over. I'm just about home, I have to go." 

"Mare," said Clive, haste in his voice, "I had a nice time with you the other night. I'm looking forward to seeing you again."

"I did too, talk to you soon, okay?"

"Okay...bye."  

She hung up the phone, feeling a strange mix of emotions, the primary of which she could identify as guilt, sadness, and panic as the thought of the impending deadline seized her body.  There was something else there too, touching her deeply, but it was an emotion that had been for years, suppressed within her.  Now that it began to scale its way to the surface, she was unable to put a name to it, but vaguely recognized it as something akin to love. 

At the door to her complex, she paused for a moment, looking at the sky.  The snow that was falling quickly that morning had now completely stopped, and the firmament shone crystal clear, streaked with pink and fiery orange, the stark lines of tree branches grabbing at it, like naked bones.  Mare sighed to herself, "the weather can be so fickle, but so can the human mind.”

***

In his office, Professor Blackwell sat at his desk, a blank expression canvassing his face, his hand resting upon his chin in a pensive fashion. 

"Time is running out," came a voice from a place not within nor without, but perhaps more in between, and from a presence not seen but grippingly felt.

"What can I do?" answered the professor, his expression unchanged.

"The girl, she needs a push," replied the voice. 

"I've tried everything I can, she wants nothing more to do with me."

"You aren't playing on her weakness; that which should be so obvious to you," came the voice again, soft like butter, and smooth like silk. 

"I have been, for weeks," snapped the professor, anger suddenly molding his expression.

"Not that which involves you.  Are you so blind you cannot see it? Or is it that you choose not to?"

He had seen it.  Every time the girl looked at him, he could see it.  He could also feel it...the electricity that pulsated beneath her skin. It touched him and he had never felt anything like it before. As it captured him, he felt a deep and unwelcome longing for more.  He remained silent, not answering the voice. 

"Perhaps you share the same weakness?" it questioned, the words hissing like a snake and echoing around him.

"Enough!" he spat out, responding to the button that had been pushed so precisely.

"So, you will take care of it" came the voice again, both in question and command. 

"It is done," answered the professor, his face no longer betraying him, his eyes staring straight ahead into the darkness.

***

"I'm screwed!" exclaimed Mare, slamming down the screen of her laptop and folding her head into her arms on the kitchen table where she sat.  Milo sat on the table at the other end, looking quizzically at her upon her sudden movement, then dismissing her as he absently licked a paw.   Mare felt the warmth of her own breath upon her arms, and as she sank into the sensation, she realized how short and shallow her breathing had become.  She consciously made an effort to breathe more slowly and deeply, and as she did so, her mind touched upon images from her youth - running through a field of buttercups, her long, brown hair flowing behind her. She had been laughing so hard. What had she been laughing at? Who was there with her, laughing with her?  She must have been seven or eight years old.  

Another image - the Connecticut shore, holding a hand, staring at the waves, feeling the hand slip from hers, and then feeling hollow and empty.  Trying to remember details that were not easily retrieved, caused them to slip more deeply into the subconscious realm.  Chasing after them merely pushed them further away.   

Other memories came more easily, such as another time at the shore when she was about twelve, walking with her father and finding a giant conch shell, glowing pink and completely intact. It sat untouched upon the sand, a glistening treasure amongst the other broken bits of clam, mussel, and horseshoe crab shell.  "This is incredible!" exclaimed her father, gingerly scooping it and giving it a once over before holding it against his ear, his eyes gently closing as he listened.   She could see the lines of his face clearly in her mind's view, so carefully etched by the Michelangelo of time, his premature, gray hair tousled softly by the ocean breeze, the faint hint of a beard that was ever present. 

 As she sat there now remembering this image, she felt something warm touch her arm, feeling the tears there before realizing that they were coming from her own eyes. He had told her that the shell had been left there just for her and that it held a message for her, that all she needed to do was hold it to her ear and she would hear it. She had laughed at him as he handed her the shell and she had listened to the sound of the ocean coming from within. She still had the shell; it sat upon her bureau with a small collection of treasures from over the years.   

The tears came faster now, along with a pitiful moaning sound that caused Milo to jump from the table and surprised Mare, herself.  It echoed of terrible loss from which she had never recovered.  Everything in her that caused the slightest amount of pain, had merely been buried more deeply.  The moaning signaled its rising up again and the more Mare cried, the more it seemed to slowly release its hold upon her flesh, until she had become limp, with the pain superficially running through her, like a jellyfish ready to sting anyone who dare to touch. 

***

Mare had given up on her work for the night. She had one day left to complete it, but at this point she didn't care.  She had donned her bathrobe and sat upon her small couch, flipping through old photo albums.  Certain photos would give her pause as she continued to try to dredge up old memories and emotions.  She stopped at one picture as something caught her eye, and she gazed more intently.  It was a picture of her, taken in the springtime when she was about eight.  It must have been Easter, because she was wearing a white dress and hat.  She had a huge grin on her face, but she wasn't looking at the camera.  Her eyes were directed to the right as though she were interacting with someone there, but there was no one else in the photo, just the sunlight reflecting off the lens, causing flare to pollute the image.  

Suddenly the buzzer rang with a loud shrill, startling Mare and causing her to drop the photo album to the floor, loose pictures scattering the carpet.  She quickly collected them, and shoved them back in the album, sticking it beneath the coffee table.  "Hello?" she questioned, holding down the intercom. 

 "Mare, it's William, may I please come up?"

She paused for a moment, as her brain took a moment to associate the name William with the appropriate face. She had been calling him Professor Blackwell for so long, the name William still sounded foreign to her. 

"This really isn't a good time," replied Mare as she remembered her tear-stained face and the bulky robe that ensconced her deflated frame. 

"Please, Mary," returned the voice, using her proper name, and taking her off guard, "this is important, I need to talk to you."

She realized it didn't make a difference what she looked like anymore, why create any false pretense with him?

She pressed down the intercom button in an act of surrender, "alright, come on up."

***

Mare headed to the kitchen and on her way, unbolted the door, so that she at least wouldn't need to answer the door looking the way she did. She began to busy herself by making a pot of coffee.  Her father had always taken his coffee black.  Mare could never acquire a taste for it that way, needing the thickness of cream and the sweetness of sugar that she would add by the spoonful.  Now, she had thoughts of drinking it black, as if it would somehow bring her closer to her father, bring him back again, if only for a moment. 

A faint knock came, the hollow sound causing a shiver to run down her spine.  "Come in," she called, realizing how softly the words had sounded and that he may not have heard.  He had.  The door opened and there he stood, in her physical sight for the first time since she had left him at the cafe.  He wore a plain white, button-down shirt under his wrinkled, brown overcoat.  His dark tie had slipped from its tight knot and now hung loosely from his neck.  His hair was at least combed but appeared as if it may have been an afterthought.  Perhaps remembering, he had quickly grabbed the comb from his pocket and run it through his hair before knocking upon the door.   

He looked at her and only at her, as though nothing else existed in the universe but her.  And although he gazed at her, she no longer worried about her appearance, because he wasn't looking at the external image of her, he was looking at the being behind it.  This made her weak and she turned, bracing herself against the counter, hanging her head limply in defeat.  Only then did the invisible cord of longing that hung between them fall.  He came to her side, questioning softly, "Mare, what's wrong? You've been crying."  

"Nothing's wrong," she responded, not looking at him. Why did she think she could hide from him? 

"It's written all over your face."

She busied herself again with the coffee, pouring some into her favorite cup - the one Gayle had given her some Christmas with the picture of Emperor Palpatine and the quote, "Good, good.  Let the caffeine flow through you."  Their father had been a Star Wars fanatic and had passed his love for it down to his girls.  Mare loved it because it brought back fond memories of her father, but she didn't go crazy like Gayle, who had a special room in her house for Star Wars collectibles. Mare owned only this mug and the Ewok pillow that she sometimes still snuggled with at night. 

"Would you like some coffee?" she asked holding out the mug.  

He glanced at it, not noticing the meme, and again looked at her.  "No, thank you. "  

She kept the cup in front of her, she imagined it as a small, impenetrable force field between them.  Bringing it to her lips, she took a sip of the black liquid, and felt the warmth of it running through her. She concentrated on what this felt like, grasping to feel anything other than what she felt for him.  She still disliked the bitter taste.  That wasn't going to change, neither were her feelings, no matter how hard she tried to suppress them. 

"Mare, I don't know what's happening.  I can't get you out of my mind.  Ever.  You're always there.  The last couple days have been torture for me.  I've never felt this way before and I don't know what to do about it.  I had to see you." It seemed great effort for him to speak these words and his chest visibly rose and fell as if breathing had suddenly become difficult for him.  She couldn't imagine that in his whole life he had never before experienced what he was stating.

"Calm down, you're breathing too fast," she replied, averting her eyes.

"My heart is also racing, feel it," he answered, gently taking her hand and leading it to his chest.  His touch startled her and as she touched him, she realized this was the first time she had ever done so.  His chest felt so solid and foreign, and the touch lent the same feeling as stepping off an airplane in a new country, just waiting to be explored.  She had somehow expected her hand to pass through him, as if he were just a figment of her own imagination, but there it lay, against his warm chest and his heart was, in fact, beating a mile a minute.  It seemed to only speed up even more at her touch. She jerked her hand away quickly in a motion that felt more a lifesaving measure than anything, a simple reflex, like a slap on the back to a choking person.   "Mare, don't," his voice implored softly, as she had then again, turned away from him. 

She couldn't look at him. Since he had walked through the door, she had felt as though her form was somehow slowly changing in constitution, like a body of water set to heat and turning to steam, her own molecules spreading further and further apart.  She grabbed the coffee mug and took another quick drink of the hot, bitter liquid.  

"Mary," came a voice, entering her mind. Then again, "Mary."  She looked at William, expectantly, but when the voice came a third time, she realized that he was looking at her, but not speaking.   Disbelief passed over her face, and it became drawn and tense to the point where he looked at her closely, and implored, "please Mare, don't be upset with me. I am sorry if I have upset you, if you want me to go, I will."  She continued to look at him, wondering where the voice had come from, or if she was simply losing her mind.

  Something soft brushed against the bare part of her leg sticking out from under her bathrobe and she looked down to see Milo peering back up at her inquisitively.  His presence was her saving grace.  Knowing there was another sentient being in the room with them gave her the ability to come back to herself.  Finally, she looked straight at The Professor and stated, "I don't understand what you are going on about."

"I am trying to tell you my feelings for you."

"But seriously where is all this coming from?  You have never even hinted at feeling this way before, and as you had said so yourself, there is quite a gap in age between us." She was on a roll now and she was enjoying how it felt to regain some power. 

He sighed, "I guess feelings like this aren't supposed to make sense."

"How long have you felt this way?"

"I don't know..." he hesitated as though he wasn't sure he should continue, "since the very first time I laid eyes on you.  You were touring the school with a group of people. You didn't see me, but I watched you.  You looked so anxious, yet so determined.  While everyone else was happily mulling about and talking to one another, you stood in front of the university library as still as the statue of Athena that you were staring at.  You were gazing so intently.  As the cool autumn air filled my lungs, a deep wanting occupied me as well.  I thought you were the most exquisite creature I had ever seen."

She remembered that moment as well.  The statue of Athena, Alma Mater, had captivated her. Athena was the goddess of love, but she did not sit fawning over herself or any other object of love.  She sat straight with her arms raised, palms up as if allowing the power of the universe to flow through her. She held a scepter in her right hand and atop her lap sat an open book.  

As Mare had gazed at the statue, she noticed an owl ensconced and hidden in the folds of Athena's robe.  This representation of love was entirely different from that portrayed by society.  The elements of wisdom and strength that ran through the statue were undeniable.  

 Thinking on this now, she was suddenly struck with the question of what she truly felt for the professor; was it some form of love that she was feeling that caused her longing, or was it more a feeling of deep infatuation -a schoolgirl crush?  She would hate herself for that, but now she wondered.  

He reached out and touched along the line of her jaw, looking at her with full attention.  As he did so, a deep surge like the tidal bore of a river welled up in her.  And, as he kissed her mouth, she could feel a force as strong as the moon's influence on the ocean pulling her to him.  If this wasn't love, she really didn't care, because the feeling, whatever it be, was not one that she ever wanted to end. 

Again, out of the stillness that swelled around her, came a voice, "Mary."  It was not William's voice, as he continued to hold her in a voluptuous embrace. "Mary, no," again.  This was not the same voice she had first heard.  Although they had both been male, this voice sounded much older, it too echoed with familiarity. 

It had been enough. She broke away from the professor.  Looking surprised, he questioned what was wrong.

She suddenly felt dizzy, like the room was spinning around her.  Something was not right, but she could not ascertain what.  Was she going crazy, hearing voices?  She rested her forehead against her hands.  He reached out, resting his hand upon her hair "are you all right?"  

"I'm not sure," she replied. "I feel dizzy."  

"Have you eaten anything today?"  She had been known to forget to eat when she was deeply involved in a project.   She thought for a moment.  She had eaten a croissant for breakfast with her coffee. Had she eaten since then?  A few grapes at lunchtime, but that had been all.  

"I've had a little, not much.  I don't know if that's the problem."  

"I think you should sit down for a few minutes; I'll fix you something to eat."  He looked into her eyes, imploringly.  She nodded at him, "ok."

***

She walked over to the couch, rubbing her temples.  She had never felt so strangely before.   She felt like she was walking along the edges of reality, unsure what was real and what was not.  She felt a pulsating lightness and wondered if she might not float away.  

Lowering herself onto the couch, she glanced down at the coffee table and noticed the photo album she had shoved beneath.  There was a picture sticking halfway out the top.  Even in her bewildered state, her OCD tendencies remained strong, and she reached down to push the picture back into the album.  Something stopped her and instead of pushing it back in she pulled it out and looked at it. She was stunned.  She had never seen this picture before.  Perhaps it had been stuck behind another. The album had been one her father had kept of her, as he had done for each of his girls.  He had been an avid photographer, a hobby he had picked up when Gayle was born. 

 In the picture, Mare sat smiling atop a beautiful silver dapple horse -this was inexplicably the same horse that she had been having dreams about for the past several years.  She could not at all recall this memory that had been captured forever by a camera.  Her love of animals, especially horses had driven her to take riding lessons for a period of a couple months when she was a small girl, but the experience was cut short when the stable hand filling in for the instructor one particular day had chosen a horse that was still too green.  The young chestnut thoroughbred had become spooked by something and had thrown Mare from his back.  She had been alright, a few minor scrapes, but her mother, who was not keen on the lessons to begin with, had deemed them too dangerous for her daughter and would not allow her to continue, no matter how profusely she had begged. Up to that point she had ridden the same horse for each weekly lesson.  She remembered him well.  A brown horse with a white blaze upon his face, he had been a retired gelding named Ace, who was as sweet as he had been slow.  The perfect beginner's horse.  

The horse she looked upon now had eyes like a grandparent, gentle and kind.  Within the darkness of them seemed to be a knowing of deeper truths that ran beneath the surface of reality. Its silver-black mane cascaded down its neck.  It was the most beautiful horse mare had ever seen and there she was, sitting bareback atop its impressive frame.  

"Mare?"  The professor's voice broke her reverie.  Startled, she almost dropped the photo.  She quickly plunged it into her bathrobe pocket.   She had nearly forgotten he was there; she had been so engrossed.  "What's that?" he questioned. 

"It's nothing," she replied, feeling the need to hide it from him. 

He set a plate down upon the coffee table along with a glass of water.  "Here, eat something."  He had arranged some cheese, crackers, apple slices, and raspberries.  "You need to get some groceries, this is about all I could scrounge up."

She glanced at the plate but did not feel in the mood to eat.  She picked up a slice of apple to appease him, and looked at him with a tender longing, a feeling that was now overshadowed by an intent curiosity and resolve to understand what she had just seen in the photograph.  "Thank you."

"I feel badly for coming here and spilling my heart out to you, Mare. I feel rather like an imbecile now, actually."   

"Don't.  I'm glad you did. "She looked away towards the window.  The sky was slowly lightening as the sun began to rise. Had he really been there that long already? She had lost track of time completely.  She looked back at him.  "If we're being honest, I have felt something for you as well, for a long time.  I am just not sure exactly what it is, or how to describe it."

"That's how it is for me as well.  Like I said, I've never felt this way before." He studied her as if looking for answers. 

"This has just left me so confused.  The way you were the other night, and now...I don't know what to make of any of it," she sighed. 

"It was the other night that made me wake up and realize how much you mean to me." 

She sighed again and took another apple.  Milo, who had disappeared for a time, now returned with something in his mouth.  Still holding the object, he gave a muffled chirp and dropped it at Mare's feet.  Thinking it was a small dead prey, she gave a quick shriek and yanked her feet towards her body.  Looking more closely, she realized it was her dream catcher with the blue feathers that had been hanging from the window in her bedroom. 

 "How did you get this, Milo?  Bad kitty," she scolded.  

Looking it over she saw that it was completely unharmed.   Feeling the soft plumage between her fingers, she suddenly had a flashback to feeling the feathers hanging from the tomahawk in Clive's apartment and was overcome with remorse about her feelings for the man now sitting at her side.  When she was with Clive all the confusion and negative feelings left her.  She felt completely safe and at ease and her whole body was able to let go and relax.  What she felt now, sitting next to the Professor, was entirely confusing, the exact opposite.

 Milo had positioned himself between them on the couch and was now purring loudly and nudging his soft head against Mare's hand.  William had moved to the farthest end of the couch, away from Milo.  Mare looked up at him, "are you allergic to cats?"

"No, I am just not very friendly with them."

Mare frowned, "not a cat person?"

"I guess you could say that."

She was now struck with the thought that there was very little she actually knew about this man on a personal level.  For some reason, her attraction towards him had made her feel like she knew him very well, but nothing could have been further from the truth.

Glancing quickly at Milo and then back to Mare, he changed the subject, stating, "I think you are under too much stress right now with the deadline and what's going on with your mother, I am going to request an extension for you so you can take time to sort things out and get back on track."

"I never told you about my mother, how did you know about that?" she questioned, her voice now icily cold, reflecting the sudden chill that had run through her body. 

Looking at her and blinking, he replied, "your sister called me." 

"Gayle? I didn't know she had your number." Mare didn't know if she had ever even mentioned Professor Blackwell to her sister. She began to doubt her own mind even further.

"She must have looked it up," he replied.  "She is worried about you. She said you haven't taken your mother's illness well in the past and that she thought maybe the dissertation is too much on you right now, given that fact. She seemed very scared when I spoke with her. Mare, what was she referring to?"

Staring straight ahead, not looking at any one thing, she willed the tears to stay inside her skull, but they refused to listen, and her already distorted vision became blurred upon their arrival.  In her mind she went back to images that had collected there, surrounding a time she would rather forget. With those images, came deep, overwhelming emotion that she could feel rising up within the confines of her breast.  

She was back on that snowy, winter day. Her mother sat looking at her from across the table.  Her eyes were deep and hollow, without directing them at Mare, she slowly and deliberately said, "why are you doing this to me?"

"Doing what?" Mare replied, completely stunned.

"Why are you doing this to me? Ruining my life? Both of you girls...I could have done whatever I wanted to, been whatever I wanted.  I had a future.  Now, I am stuck here in this shitty house with two shitty, ungrateful daughters and your father decides to leave me here with you.  Screw him, the fucking bastard."

"Don't talk about Dad that way!" was all she could respond, although there was so much more that wanted to come, so many questions that needed to be answered.  Her mother's words had just shaken the very core of her world, more than even her father's passing had.  She stared at her mother in disbelief.

"Get out!" her mother screamed. "Get out of my house! Get out of my fucking house!"  

Mare had run from the house then and gotten into her rusting red Volkswagen Jetta, driving the thirty minutes it took to get to Gayle's home.  Gayle was a high school science teacher and was at work for the day, but Mare knew where the spare key was kept, in a secret compartment in the bottom of a bird feeder.  She and Gayle had each gotten one as a Christmas gift from their mother a couple of years prior.  

She quickly located the key and entered Gayle's cozy bungalow.   The warmth of the small space was welcoming.  Stepping into the kitchen, she placed the key onto the half wall that separated the room from the living area.  Looking around, she was reminded by what a neat and tidy person Gayle was, and Mare suspected that her sister had some degree of OCD, like herself.  This was opposite from their own mother, who could leave a sink full of dishes and piles of laundry for days, after which she would be struck with a sudden manic urge to take care of everything all at once.  She would fly around the house like a crazed person, jumping from one task to a next and working herself into a frenzy, through which she would inevitably snap at one of her family members. 

 Mare knew her mother's wrath all too well prior to what had happened that morning, but never to such a degree.  What bothered her the most was the vileness behind her mother's words, something she had not ever seen in her before.  It was as though some inhuman thing had taken over her body and Mare was in the initial state of shock that one experiences before a period of deep and intense mourning.  

Maybe their father had been the only thing stopping her from getting out of control, from gaining so much momentum that there would be no way she could stop herself from going over the edge of a cliff.  He had been her rock, strong and solid, but when she would crash against him, she wouldn't break.  He would enfold her in his arms, as though absorbing the shock.  They would stand there together for several minutes in an intimate exchange of energy and her manic vibrations would be transmuted.

 Her father had been the alchemist of her mother's heart.  With his loss, there would be no one to take his place, no adequate stand-in who could sooth her back to her self.  

***

Mare had restlessly paced Gayle's apartment that day.  She had texted her sister letting her know she was there but had not indicated the reason.  She looked over picture frames from when they were younger: pictures of the family on vacations to Maine, New Hampshire and Vermont; a photo of Gayle's cherished black Lab, Carley, who had passed the previous year due to a tumor on his liver.  She finally settled herself with a cup of hot cocoa and waited for Gayle's return.  Eventually, after it had gotten much too dark, by Mare's estimation, Gayle came through the door, garbed in a long beige pea coat, with a burgundy scarf draped around her neck, her black shoulder-length hair flaked with snow.  In her arms were shopping bags filled with groceries. 

"Didn't you get my message?" Mare asked her, already knowing the answer, since Gayle didn't look the least bit surprised to see her.  

"Sorry, I finally saw it on my way out of work."  

"Then why did you go shopping if you knew I was here?"

"What do you want me to do, Mare?  I needed groceries.  I figured I could make dinner for the two of us since you're here."  Mare had occasionally spent the night in the past when she wanted to have some time away from school and be somewhere other than with her own parents.  Gayle probably just figured this was another of those occasions. 

"I don't know if I will be spending the night. I have to go back to Mom's.  I left my duffle and all my stuff over there."

Gayle looked at her quizzically.

"The reason I came over is because I wanted to talk to you about Mom."

"What about her?"

"Do you remember how she used to get when we were younger? Like, when she was on one of her cleaning tirades?"

"Yeah, she was a wicked bitch."

"She was just like that to me, but a thousand times worse."

"She is most likely reacting to the changes that are happening in her life right now," answered Gayle. "I wouldn't get too upset about it."

"But it was awful.  She swore at me and called me and Dad names. She has never done that before, has she?"

"I think she may have called me a name or two in my teenage years," reflected Gayle. 

"She also said everything was my fault, that I was doing something to her," replied Mare, feeling very defeated.  She had thought what had occurred that morning with her Mother had been a huge, scary event that warranted careful thought and discussion, and that some sort of action needed to be taken.  Exactly what action, she didn't know. She had been hoping that Gayle could help with that, but so far, Gayle was making it sound like what had happened was really no big deal. "She called you and me bitches and said that we were ruining her life.  She called Dad a fucking bastard," Mare persisted. 

"Me?" questioned Gayle.  "She said I was ruining her life?"

"Both of us."

"I should give her a call.  She must be calmed down by now.  Something must be bothering her," replied Gayle after thinking for a minute.  She picked up her cell phone from where she had placed it on the counter and dialed their mother.  Mare watched her as she held the phone to her ear for what seemed like an unreasonably long time. Finally, she set it down and looked at Mare. 

 "She didn't answer." Gayle glanced at the clock.  "Six thirty, I guess I will take a ride over there and check on her.  Do you want to come...since you need your stuff, anyway?"

Mare had little desire to face her mother while her wounds were still fresh and open, but she also wanted to see some resolution to the situation, so she consented.    

***

They drove together in Gayle's Subaru Forester, which was much better in the snow than Mare's beater, in desperate need of tires that she could not afford.  The majority of the drive was in silence as they both sat in their respective reveries.  A couple times Gayle questioned Mare as to details over what had happened earlier, and Mare responded to the best of her memory.  Before long they were pulling up the long drive of their childhood home.  

Every window within the 1920s farmhouse was glowing from within. For a moment, Mare had sat in the car, staring at it.  She remembered cold winter nights when she would return from a day -long adventure in the woods and walk back to the house. It always casted a warmth into the cold blackness, and as she approached its facade and the long farmer's porch, feelings of comfort and contentment would wash over her.  She would enter the warmth and smell dinner, fragrantly wafting through the home. Her mother would spot her and say "Mare. I was wondering where you were. Go get cleaned up for dinner." Then they would then all sit down as a family and eat together. 

Mare quickly wiped her eye as it had begun to sting from the threat of tears.  She could no longer expect things to be as they once had been.  The light from the home was no longer warm.  Now it beckoned in an unfamiliar way.  As she and Gayle entered the house, they called out softly for their mother, so to warn her of their presence.  They did not want to startle her, or to set her off again. There was no response.  

As they moved through the rooms, calling her name, their pace quickened, and the urgency was felt between them with shared intuition.  When they reached the last room in the top of the house without any sign of their mother's presence, they went down to the basement and looked around, the cool darkness eerily lit by a single incandescent bulb suspended from the ceiling.  She wasn't there either.  Coming back upstairs, they sat across from one another at the kitchen table, perplexed.  Her car had been in the driveway when they arrived. 

"Where the hell is she?" Gayle broke the silence first. 

"I don't know," replied Mare. "I'm worried."  She somehow felt guilty, like she was to blame for her mother's earlier outbreak, and now, her disappearance.  A part of her believed her mother's words, that somehow, she was a bitch who was ruining her life. When she was a child, she believed that everything her parents told her was the truth. She believed in Santa Clause because they told her he was real. As she grew, she began to learn that her parents were not the ultimate authority in the universe, that they didn't know everything, and that they were just human like everyone else.  But they would always be her parents and inside her somewhere there was a small child who still believed.

"She must be outside," came Gayle's voice again, quiet and weary. 

"Doing what?" questioned Mare.  Their mother had never been known to spend much time outdoors, and doing so now would be especially strange, particularly given the current cold, snow, and dark. 

"I have no idea," answered Gayle, "but she's not in the house, so she must be outside."

They found a couple flashlights from one of the kitchen cabinets their father had kept packed with emergency supplies, and forged their way out onto the back deck, waving the flashlights along the ground and out into the dark, while slowly calling to her. 

"Shh," said Mare, "I think hear something."  Gayle stopped in her tracks and shut her flashlight off, as though the light had been preventing her from hearing clearly.  They both listened carefully, and then, as Mare was about to dismiss her notion, there came a low and mournful, whimpering sound.  

Mare did not move, did not raise her flashlight toward the source of the noise.  She did not want to see what was causing it, although she knew.  No matter, Gayle did the task, turning her flashlight back on and shining it into the darkness.  Along the tree line of solemn pine and naked oaks, their mother lay, a solid heap upon the snow. 

"Mom?" Gayle called, fear in her voice.  The form continued the noise it had been making and did not respond.  As she became more and more assured in her mind that what she was seeing in front of her was her own mother, Gayle began to run to her.   Mare held back out of confusion and apprehension, but called out "Mom, are you okay? What's going on?" Still no answer.

As Gayle came upon her mother, she loudly gasped and at hearing this, Mare ran to their side. "She's only in her nightgown!" Gayle cried. "Mom, what are you doing? Why are you out here in this cold?"  

Mare had a sickening feeling run through her veins.  She'd caused this. She hadn't been there for her mother the way she should have been, and now the woman who had always cared for her was lying in the frozen snow on a twenty-degree night, wearing only a thin nightgown.  Mare was slightly relieved to notice there were also slippers on her feet.  Gayle repeated her questions. Still no answer.  

"Mare, I am going to get a blanket or something, I will be right back," Gayle looked at her affirmatively.

 Mare nodded; she did not want to be left alone with their mother in such a situation. It scared her.  But the situation also warranted action, and she was more than happy to allow Gayle to take charge. 

"Mom? Mom, are you okay? Please answer us," Mare probed the whimpering creature with her words. No answer.  As Mare continued to question with no response, she began to feel angry.  Why was their mother putting them through this? She was supposed to be acting like a mother and taking care of them. Yes, their father, her husband, was gone, but their mother should have been there comforting them, not lying nearly naked in a pile of snow. 

"Jesus Christ, Mom, what the hell are you doing?" she tried one more time, the anger and frustration now clearly evident in her voice.

"I'm not your fucking mother!" a voice spat back from the dark. "Go and leave me be."

"I can't leave you be.  You are going to become hypothermic. This is crazy. Why are you doing this?" Mare needed answers to fill the open spaces of her soul that her questions were drilling into it. 

"Leave me!" it screamed, so loudly Mare could feel the words rippling through her. She had the impulse to run, to leave her mother just as she had been told, and to never come back, but now Gayle was again at her side and this gave Mare enough comfort to steady herself. 

"Mom, here," said Gayle, handing their mother her warm bathrobe. "Get up out of the snow and come inside."  She ignored them and continued to rock herself as she had been doing.  Gayle leaned over and placed the bathrobe over her mother's shoulders. She did not fight. "Ok, Mom, let's go," Gayle tried again. Nothing.

Mare began feeling the cold herself and was becoming frustrated and resentful at being subjected to standing outside at night in the middle of winter.  "Mom, just get in the freaking house right now!" she screamed at her mother. Gayle looked at her dejectedly. "Mare, is that necessary? Yelling is not going to accomplish anything." Surprisingly, their mother clumsily rose to her feet and began trudging towards the house. The girls shared a look and began after her.  

They followed her into the house and watched her collapse into a kitchen chair. She placed her head into her hands and was motionless.  Then, her body began to heave in huge waves; they heard her sobbing, and through that pitiful sound came the words, "I'm sorry," which she began to repeat over and over."  Gayle sat down beside her and placed her hand on her mother's back. "It's okay, Mom. It will all be okay." The crying and chanting continued for several minutes, and despite her obvious concern, Mare began losing her patience for the whole situation.  Just when she was about to say something that she would most likely regret, the sobbing came to a halt, as did the manic repetition.   They sat in silence for what, to Mare, seemed like forever.  Finally, their mother's voice, soft and raspy from moaning and crying, came "Call Dr. Sherman, I don't think my meds are working right."

Neither Mare, nor Gayle had known that their mother was on medication.  She had started taking them, she said, since about a month before their father had died.  See had been seeing a psychiatrist, Dr. Sherman at her own accord, as she had wanted to be a steadier companion for her husband as they began the journey towards old age together.  So many times, she became wrought with anxiety and depression, and he had been her steadying presence.  In an attempt to get her mental landscape in control, she had hoped to do the same for him. Only now, he wasn't here anymore for her to do so.  

After that episode and her return to a state of semi-normalcy.  Mare had hoped that her mother would never go over the edge again.  Her hopes were soon dashed three months later when her mother had been admitted to the psych unit at Norwalk hospital after purposely letting all the cows loose at a neighboring dairy farm.  There had been about 30 of them, so it had by no means been an easy fix and town officials were not readily assuaged.  This began a long series of hospitalizations over the next eight years, which became customary to Mare in some ways, although it never became easier.  Four of these hospital stays had been after attempts at taking her own life. 

***

Now in her little apartment in Manhattan, the sun had risen, and birdsong could be heard, its symphony returning her to the present moment. She stared out the window, and finally turned back towards William, saying, "my mother was diagnosed with schizoaffective disorder.  After a small mental breakdown of my own, my sister had urged me to see a psychiatrist, so I went to see my mother's doctor. He told me that he suspected that I had some of the same traits towards a mental disorder as my mom, but that he would need to assess me further. I called bullshit and never went back.  My sister, on the other hand, is paranoid that he was right. I am all she has now, so she is scared."

"Is she right?" he asked softly, his eyes urging her towards honesty. 

"I have my moments, everyone does, but I am not my mother. I am not a fucking lunatic," she glared at him, indignation in her voice. 

"I am sorry, Mare, I didn't mean to imply any such thing. I just care for you and want to make sure you're alright."

I'm fine," she shot back.  Realizing how short she was being, she added, "thank you for your concern, but I am okay.  I have gotten myself through some difficult times and I am still standing."

"No one should have to go through it alone," he answered her.  There was silence between them for a long period.  The professor broke it, as he shot up, saying, "no matter, I am having them extend the deadline.  Take as much time as you need to sort things out. Go visit your mom, reassess things, see where you're at, you know?"

She nodded back at him.

"Everything will be as it should be."

"Okay," she said. "Thank you."

He looked uncomfortable like he desperately wanted to leave but didn't quite know how to go about it. "Mare, you know I..." he started, not knowing how to finish his words. 

"I know," she said. "I will be fine; I'll call you later."

"Oh alright," he said, looking at her tenderly while taking his hand and smoothing her hair down across her head.  She wanted to jump into his arms, but she couldn't make herself move. At this point she felt like she could barely look at him. She felt more emotionally spent at this moment, than she believed she had at any other point over the last eight-year ordeal with her mother, and she didn't know why. 

"Until later, then," he said, looking at her wistfully, then turning and walking to the door.  When he reached it, he paused and looked back at her one more time, nodding, and then he was gone.

Mare took a huge breath and sighed, releasing many things from her tired body. She felt so relieved to finally be alone again.

CHAPTER SIX

Over the next couple of days Mare spent her time on her own.  She had voluntarily disconnected herself, turning off both her phone and her computer.  Slowly, her body and mind fell back into accord, and she once again, felt like herself.  She spent the days carelessly playing with Milo, reading books she hadn't picked up in months, and watching the changes in the light as the afternoon sun danced with shadows of tree branches along the bedroom wall.  

Finally, she looked at her cat and said, "very well, I suppose I need to get some groceries. I think I'll go for a walk."  She was already dressed in jeans and her favorite green sweater, nappy and worn over the years, which added to its softness.  To this, she added a pair of large-framed sunglasses which covered half of her face, and she draped a floral scarf around her head.  Glancing at herself in the mirror, she fancied she looked a little like Jackie-O and was pleased that her identity was well hidden.  She felt a strong need to retain her anonymity at the moment.

As she exited the front door, she bumped into a man entering her building.  She was startled by this and feeling disjointed, was about to mumble a derogatory remark, when looking up she realized it was Clive.  "Mare?" he questioned, looking at her with slightly squinted eyes, trying to discern the figure before him.

"Oh, hi," she returned in a small voice.  She felt like someone who had been doing something wrong and had just been found out. 

"Sorry to just show up like this, but I've been trying to call you for the last couple days and your phone goes straight to voicemail.  I was worried."  He looked concerned. 

Mare suddenly recalled their conversation a couple of days earlier in which she had told him her dissertation was going well and was almost completed.   

"I figured that you must have done it intentionally so that you wouldn't have any distraction from your work," he added, as if reading her thoughts.  "But I was still worried; can't help myself. So, how did it go?"

She was pleased he had asked more than one question in a row, so she would only need to answer the last one, although she could feel a lie forming behind her closed lips and the uneasiness in her belly that accompanied it. "It went great, the panel loved it, now I have some changes to make and then submit the final draft after winter break.  Then I am home free." Her lie was a perfect little package, complete and embellished with a pretty little bow, but she did not understand what had compelled her to wrap it, other than the fact that she didn't want Clive to know she had been deceitful to begin with. 

"So, your time with Professor Blackwell is coming to an end." Clive's words hung above her head like a cloud, suddenly darkening her world. 

"Uh, yes, I guess so...although he will stay on with me until the end." She realized she couldn't remember ever discussing William with Clive.  He looked at her with an intensity and she felt like she would be pulled apart until every encrypted part of her was totally exposed and understood, but then he smiled and said, "may I walk with you?" 

***

It was an unseasonably warm day, with all but a few dirty traces of snow left, pushed along the curb.  They walked along together with a disconnected step that troubled Clive. He knew she was keeping something from him, he could sense it.  He could feel the other man's presence in her energy field.  He wanted her to be comfortable and open with him, but for some reason she was not.  How though, could he expect her to be honest with him, if he was also keeping things from her?  He could not, and so, they walked along not saying too much.

"I am going to see my mom," she said finally.

"When?"

"I think I will go tomorrow. I don't know if I will stay the night though, I would have to stay with Gayle. "

"Your mother won't have you? Or, you're just too uncomfortable there?"

"My mother is at Silver Hill Hospital."

He stopped walking and looked at her. "I'm sorry, Mare, I didn't know. Why didn't you tell me?"  He peered at her with such tenderness, she wanted to melt into his arms then and there on the busy Manhattan sidewalk.

"I'm sorry," she said, taking off her sunglasses and looking back at him, "I really am. I have been going through a lot and I haven't been completely open with you about it. I don't know what it is, but there's something holding me back from letting you in."

"I've noticed," he said, gently smiling again.  His eyes were part of that smile, and told her it was genuine, and as she looked back at him, she felt something let go inside of her.  It was a tightness, somewhere in her chest that she hadn't even realized was there.  Now that it was gone, she felt completely relieved and grateful.

"It's okay," he went on. "My grandfather's health is also ailing.  That's one of the reasons I had wanted to talk to you.  I am planning a drive up to Vermont to visit him the next few days and I wanted to let you know I will be away."

"Oh," said Mare, "okay."  For some reason the idea set her on edge.  Although she didn't see Clive every day, or even talk to him that often, it was a comfort to know that she was sharing the space of the city with him.  If he were to go, she knew she would begin to feel that deep and hollow loneliness that seemed to be an old friend.  "When?" she asked.  Maybe she could coincide her visit to her mom so it wouldn't seem so bad. 

"I was planning to head up tomorrow."

"Ok...I'll miss you."

"I will miss you too," he answered, solemnly.  

She placed her sunglasses back over her eyes and they began to walk again.  It hadn't been quick enough.  He had seen a hint of fear in her eyes, and he knew that the fear was for something deeper and more real than she even knew herself.  He stopped walking again.  She looked at him, expectantly. 

"Would you like to come with me?" 

"To see your Grandfather? I wish I could, but I really need to see my mom."

"I know.  How about I come with you to visit your mom and then we continue on up to Vermont from Connecticut?  It would help break up the drive for me and we could make a trip of it...a sort of getaway, although we are both going for reasons we would rather not, I suppose." His voice had become increasingly less excited as he spoke.

The first thing that crossed Mare's mind when she heard this proposition was that she would need to be alone with Clive for hours while they drove in the car.  Would this be too uncomfortable?  Then she thought of the night at Clive's apartment and how nice it had been, how at ease she had felt, and she smiled inwardly.  Before giving it more thoughts and perhaps, leaning in an opposite direction she answered, "I would enjoy that."

"You would?" asked Clive, sounding somewhat surprised.

"Yes of course," replied Mare.  She had continued to think, second guessing her original inclination, a habit that more often than not, got her into trouble.  He would, most likely be meeting her crazy mother, maybe he would wait in the car while she went in to visit? No, that wouldn't be right, he would come in with her.  Then she would have to explain maybe more than she wanted to this man she was still slowly coming to know.  She would also have to meet his grandfather, who was a Native American, and she wondered how this would be.  Being the Anglo-Saxon that she was, whenever she encountered a race to whom her ancestors had been less than kind, to put it mildly, there was an apologetic embarrassment to her interactions with these individuals, whom she prayed didn't find this aspect of herself to be too apparent.  Also, being together in a car could be an intimate thing, would it lead to their taking that intimacy to another level?  Where would they sleep? 

Clive's mind ran through questions of its own.  The other man was traced in within the lines of her face, hidden within the deep furrow of her brow that had formed while she had squinted at him.  When had he been with her, and what misdeeds might he have accomplished while he was there?  He wanted to question her, but he knew if he were to pry, she would shrivel away from him like oil in a pan that had become hot too quickly.  He'd never had a read so difficult as Mare.  His intuitive abilities were normally on point, but not with her.  She carried a protective fog around herself, and he knew that if he wasn't careful, he could become lost in it for days, destined to wander until by chance he found his way out again.   This was driving him mad, but perhaps an extended amount of time with her, such as during a car ride, would enable him to hone in on what his mind was now just scraping against.  He could perhaps also decipher something more through casual conversation, piecing things together as they went.  He also knew that if he wasn't able to retrieve the information that he needed, through his own abilities, then his Grandfather would.  He feared for her safety, an emotion mostly foreign to him until now, as he was raised to be fearless in his pursuits.  Why this should be any different, he did not know.  What he did know was that the other man, this professor, was a threat to Mare's safety, and right now her safety was his number one priority.  The Elders had made that clear.  "Very good," he smiled at her.  "Can we leave at eight? I will pick you up."

"Perfect," replied mare, flashing back a quick, jilted smile. 

***

Silver Hill Psychiatric Hospital was a broad campus, nestled upon 42 acres along the Silvermine River.  This was not where Mare's mother, who was known to the rest of the world as Joan, was always admitted.  Typically, when she was in bad shape, she would be sent to the local ER, by her doctor or of her own accord, and from there they would locate a bed for her within one of the nearby hospitals.  Mare had visited her mother at this campus once before, although this was her third time admitted there.  

Clive's blue Jeep Wrangler inched down the tree-lined and scenic road of the main campus, heading to the Patricia Regnemer House where Mare's mother was bedded. This was quintessential Connecticut countryside, a mixture of field and forest, perfect farmhouses and colonials bedecked for Christmas with evergreen wreaths and swags.  Stone walls lined the road, marking the boundaries of the various properties, a lasting remnant from ancient dairy farms.  Asa barely stirred from the backseat, curled up sleeping on the heavy plaid blanket Clive had placed there for her.  He glanced over at Mare.  She was staring straight ahead, hands palm down, one upon each thigh.  She was very still, all but for her mouth where she was wildly chewing at her bottom lip.  They had already been in the car together for nearly two hours.  A drive that without traffic would only take a little over an hour had become prolonged due to typical congestion on I-95, and yet, they had said very little to one another.  The initially dull grey morning had given way to a bright sun shining and glistening off of the thin layer of snow that had fallen overnight.  He reached over with his free hand and rested it upon Mare's own -the first physical contact between them since that night at his apartment.  The chewing stopped.  

His touch had taken her out of her head, away from her racing thoughts and back to the present moment.  It was both comforting and grounding. 

"Are you doing okay?" he asked her.  "I mean, do you feel ready to see her?"  That struck Mare as an odd question.  She had never before considered herself "allowed" to have a choice.  Her dissertation had been one thing and was acceptable as an excuse, but without it in front of her, there was no justifiable reason for her not to visit.  She did, however, have reservations she would continue to refrain from disclosing to Clive.  Each time Mare had entered one of these facilities to see her mother, she felt some sort of shift in her own consciousness.  It was as if the patients comprised their own world to which outsiders were not privy, but even as an outsider, Mare could still sense that world.  It was akin to walking through a dark room, trying to find the way, feeling the edges of things and knowing them for their parts, but not seeing them as a whole.   It scared her to think that her connection to their inner reality was indicative to her own mental state.  "As ready as I will ever be," she replied, trying to make her words sound in jest, but knowing the truth of them all too well.  

She looked up at the trees which bordered and overhung the road as they drove.  With a light dusting of snow, their bare branches glistened in the sunlight creating a natural cathedral of light.  She remembered the first time she had come here to visit her mother with Gayle.  It had been June and the same trees had been ensconced in a bright green facade.  The wind had picked up that day and as Mare had watched them, they seemed to be dancing with the light that filtered through.  

"This too shall pass," she silently told herself.  She looked over at Clive and took his hand in her own.  It was large and warm and felt like home.  If she could ever return to a sense of belonging, this might be the closest she would come.  Suddenly, she no longer wanted the moment to pass.  This was the moment she wanted, here, with him, in his Jeep that shimmied ever so slightly as they drove. Maybe that's what love was all about, being completely present with another person.  She had been staring at him and realized it without knowing exactly how long it had been.  He cleared his throat and said, "what can I do to help you with this?"

Mare, again shielding herself in jest, answered "I don't suppose you can take the crazies away from people, can you?"

"I think the first step to that would be in recognizing that no one is actually broken the way that you think they might be." His words were slow and deliberate. His gaze remained on the road.  He did not look to her to gauge her reaction.  He did not need to, as it would not change him, his words, or his interaction.  Mare didn't know if she found his self-confidence disconcerting or reassuring.  Disconcerting, to know that she did not possess the same, or reassuring because of that fact.  She had not expected him to answer her question in a serious manner, as it had not been asked as such.  But now her mind quietly pondered his words and was still trying to decipher an understanding when he pulled into a parking space and shut off the car.  

They sat in silence for a moment, stillness hanging in the air as the engine settled.  Mare began to open her door, letting out a sigh of we might as well get this over with.  As she did so, Clive reached across her lap and pulled the door shut again. Turning with a question on her face she was met with her lips pressed against his.  He gently held her with them, soft and welcoming.  She was taken off guard, but she found herself sinking into him like quicksand.  Suddenly, any illusion of time or space had disappeared.  There was only this moment, here and now.  Then, as quickly as it had come, the moment was over.  They had broken apart, but at whose volition, she did not know.  She again looked at him, now with a mixture of shock and wonder over what had just occurred. This was the same man who had been sitting next to her for the past two hours, but at the same time he was completely different.  His energy was somehow hers and hers, his, and it connected them, like an invisible spider's thread, heavy with dew between their lips.  His face was like chiseled stone; there was an expression, a knit brow, but she couldn't place what emotion the sculptor had intended.  "You aren't broken either, " he said, his thumb and index finger tracing along the slope of her jaw.  Then, turning away he said nonchalantly, "come on, let's go see your mom.

CHAPTER SEVEN

The man stood on the edge of the riverside looking down at the precarious drop to the frigid water below. Dead leaves lined the bank and retained a muted version of their original autumn crunch.  It really was not all that far to the water and if he let himself go, there was a chance he would still survive. That was not his goal.  The thought of remaining in this reality with gouged and bleeding flesh, battling the freezing torrent, held him back.  It's not that he couldn't deal with the pain. Physical pain was no problem for him, it helped take away the other pain, the self-loathing, the nothingness. He had hurt himself many times for this reason; the scars up and down his arms proved it. It was more the fact that he could not bear to take the chance of escaping and then failing. Failure was not an option. Not this time. His foot gave way for a moment as it slid over some pebbles.  He regained his footing in a brief second, but the stones rolled down the precipice and into the river, making very little noise as the rushing water swallowed them whole.  

Maybe the voices were wrong and this world was worth living in.  Dr. Belkin was always telling him that he had a good head on his shoulders, and it would take him places if he allowed it to.  What did that really mean, anyway? What places? Like Paris and Tokyo? Or did she just mean he would be successful?  And by head, did she mean his mind, and if so, how was he stopping it?  It seemed to him that it was his mind that was the problem, it was his mind that was keeping him from what he truly wanted.  And what was it that he wanted, anyway?  He couldn't remember. Not this, surely.  

His consideration of these questions was interrupted again by the voices.  They came in hushed whispers.  They were not inside his own head, he always adamantly denied this to Dr. Belkin, and yet, they were not from without either.  "You shouldn't be here," they spoke, the word "here" reverberating, although there was no surface from which this effect could originate. There were multiple voices, but they came from only one being. This he knew.   More than anything, he wanted to be free from the voices. Dr. Belkin maintained that they were in his own head, and if she was right about that, they would go away if there was no longer a head for them to be in.  

This idea propelled him and he once more stepped towards the edge of the ledge, peering over at the water.  "You are not wanted," they came again.  "You're not wanted here."  He closed his eyes, shutting them more tightly than normal, not wanting to see what he would do. Letting out a deep and torturous scream, he lurched his body towards the direction of the water and then, let go. 

***

Mare felt eyes upon her as they walked through the entryway of the main building known as the Patricia Regimer house.  The house was massive and with white siding, black shutters, and countless windows, it looked to actually be about four or five large houses put together.  As she glanced around, no one seemed to be looking at her, and yet, she could still feel it.  

There was a bald man and a mousy looking woman sitting at one of the tables that were clustered in the large open room to the right.  They looked to be having a serious and private conversation as their heads were bowed closely together.  A man with a white beard glanced up from the paper he was reading, and after a brief onceover with eyebrows raised, dismissed them and went back to his news.  

Mare did her best to shrug off the creepy crawly feeling that had come over her and looked up at Clive who strode along beside her.  He looked back at her and smiled in a kindly, I'm here for you sort of way.  If he was feeling the same as she, he certainly didn't show it.  Just realizing this absence in him, was reassuring and she took a deep breath as they came up to the reception desk.  

One woman, heavyset with tousled short brown hair and wearing a flashy pink and green scrub top, glanced up at them from the phone call that she appeared to be perturbed by.  Another woman stood towards the back of the office looking at something in a book.  She was dressed more in a casual business type fashion with a black, button-down cardigan and kaki chinos. She wore a long, beaded chain around her neck which was attached to the narrow, dark framed glasses that sat upon her sharp nose.  If she saw them, she gave no acknowledgement. 

 Mare sighed as they stood in wait and upon hearing this, Clive gave her hand a little squeeze.  Finally, after some coldly spoken words and instructions to the party on the other end of the phone, the woman wearing the tablecloth, replaced the receiver and bluntly asked, "May I help you?"  Mare couldn't imagine this woman ever being of service to her, but she managed to return, "Yes, we're here to see a patient?  Joan MacAughtry?"  

"Hold on a second." She opened up a book and looked through it quickly.  "What's your name?"

Mare looked at Clive with a raised eyebrow, but his expression remained unchanged. 

"Mary MacAughtry?" The words came like a question, as if she needed permission to be that person.  "I'm her daughter," Mare added. 

"Yes, you're on the visitor list.  She's in room 212, go ahead."  She pushed a button and the door to their right, separating them from the entry and the hallway beyond, opened.  As Mare and Clive walked towards the door, the receptionist called after them, "Hold on?"  Mare froze with the feeling that she had committed some kind of horrendous crime.  

"Sorry," said the woman.  "There are no men on the list of visitors.  You'll have to stay here."  She had been addressing Clive.  He took a step backwards, then looked at Mare apologetically. She felt sorry herself.  She had visited her mother in these places several times and still managed to forget this process, a patient's right to privacy; anonymity.  She should have contacted her mother ahead of time and asked her to add Clive to the visitor list. 

"I will only be a little while," she quietly said to him.  

"Take your time. Don't worry about me."  

Mare felt a flash of guilt, realizing the reason she wanted to keep the visit short was more for her own benefit, than Clive's.  She had been looking forward to having him there as a buffer between her and her mother.  Now she was left to face her mother with her energy alone.   "Ok, thank you," she answered. 

"Mare?" he spoke again as she had turned to go in.  She looked back at him, the question in her face only.  "Send my love, too."

Mare realized that she hadn't been approaching this visit with any intention of love, rather just obligation, and now she felt the wrong of it.  If Clive, a complete stranger to her mother, could offer her love, then why was it such a difficult feat for Mare, her own daughter?  

"You're too close," came a voice.  "You'd better check yourself before you wreck yourself."  Surprised, she glanced around before she realized the voice was coming from directly beneath her.  Not six inches in front of her was a person of very short stature and the word midget came to Mare's mind, although she felt ashamed to think it.  Why should there have to be a definition?  After all, this was just a person who happened to be quite a bit shorter than the expected average.   

"Oh, I'm so sorry! " Mare replied, realizing that she had just walked right into him?  Yes, after a closer look, she recognized it to be so, although the voice didn't lend itself to one gender or the other, and the hair was covered by a red baseball cap.  She looked behind her in embarrassment, wondering if Clive had witnessed this faux pas, but the door behind her was now shut. 

"Eh, it happens," he replied, studying her a bit more closely as well. "Are you here visiting someone?" he asked, looking at her expectantly.

"Yes, um, my mother."

"Figures.  The best ones usually are. Visitors, I mean."

"I'm sure that's not true."  She liked his way already and something about him reminded her of a sad puppy.   His eyes were soft and deep, and perhaps, a bit longing. 

"Are you...here...visiting as well?" she asked, pausing a little between each word as she awkwardly asked the question, already knowing the answer, that he was not a visitor. 

"I suppose you could say that," he answered. "I seem to visit every now and then, only my visits usually last several weeks.  This time, I have already been visiting for a month. Who's your mother?"

She supposed it would do no harm to tell him and replied, "Joan MacAughtry."  

"You're Joanie's daughter?" he exclaimed. "Well why didn't you say so? " His giddy face highlighted the roundness of his features, reminding Mare of a garden gnome. 

"Joanie?" She had never heard her mother referred to that way before, not even by her closest friends and family. 

"Yes, Joanie.  You said Joan MacAughtry, right?"

"Yes."

"She is wonderful! We all love her here.  She puts on shows for us on Tuesday and Thursday evenings. It's the highlight of the week, really. She has such a beautiful voice, as I am sure you know."

Mare had never really thought about her mother's voice, other than the annoyance that it was very similar to her own.  She had seldom heard her mother sing, perhaps happy birthday along with the rest of the family, but solitarily, no.  Although, she did have a penchant for reciting poetry and nursery rhymes.

"You're talking about my mother, right?  Joan MacAughtry?" There couldn't be more than one. "Early sixties, shoulder length white-blond hair, green eyes, scar on her chin?"

"Yes. Of course." He looked incredulous. "Why do you seem so shocked?  Didn't you know your mother was a diva?"

A diva?  That was a little bit too much for Mare, considering that the word meant goddess.  Mare certainly didn't think her mother was a goddess. 

"No, I didn't."

"Then I guess she's been holding out on you all these years."

"I guess so." Now she was the one who appeared incredulous. 

"Anyway, since you're here to see her, I won't hold you up.  If you feel up to it when you're done, I would love to have lunch with the two of you."

"I can't really stay," Mare answered, "my, er, boyfriend is waiting for me outside." She thought back to the kiss that had occurred such a short while ago.

"Let him join us then."

"He can't, he's not on the visitor list."

"Not a problem, the cafeteria is not in a patient only area.  Check with Joanie and if she's up for it, the four of us can have a bite.  I'll head over there for noon. Hope to see you again." He nodded his red capped head at her and something inside of her hoped to see him again too.

He took off down the hall, not walking exactly, but sort of skipping or doing some kind of obscure dance move as he ambled along.  

***

Mare sighed again and walked down the hall looking for her mother's room.  Someone had gone to great efforts to make the place appear less like a medically oriented facility and more like a resort with expensive looking carpet, as well as console tables decked with lamps along the hallway.  Mirrors and oil paintings hung at regular intervals along the wall.  Still, there was an unshakable sterility to it.  

Mare found her mother's room and saw that the door was ajar.  She stood back looking at it, scared at what she might encounter on the other side.  Raising her hand, she mimicked the gesture of a knock without actually touching the door, but finally allowed her knuckles to hit against the solid surface.  As she did so, she slowly pushed the door open, calling hello.  

The light in the room was dim, although sunlight filtered through the windows at the far end.  In front of them was a desk and in front of the desk sat a woman in a bright red Kimono type robe.  It took mare a moment to recognize her mother.  Her hair was piled atop her head in a messy bun.  Mare could count on one hand the number of times she had seen her mother wear her hair up.  It normally hung neatly at her shoulders in a thick bob. 

Her mother looked up from where she had apparently been writing in a journal.  "Mary?" she questioned. "Is that you?"

The way she said her name always caused Mare's hair to stand up, as though she had named her that just so that she could say it in that belittling way, Maaar-ee, just as in the nursery rhyme that her mother would often recite to her.  She would go off, Mary Mary, quite contrary, how does your garden grow?  With silver bells and cockleshells. And pretty maids all in a row. 

One particular time when she was about ten, intrigued by the rhyme and thinking that perhaps it was special to be named Mary and to have this name recited for her so often, Mare decided to look it up.  She went on Google, something very new to her at the time that she had taken much interest in and plugged in the rhyme as well as the word "meaning."  The results were nowhere near as pleasant as she had hoped.  As it turned out, the Mary of the rhyme was King Henry VIII's daughter.  She had reigned as queen for a short time and as a catholic had become notorious for executing Protestant Loyalists. Silver bells and cockleshells were apparently euphemistic terms for torture devices.  Prior to the guillotine, the instrument used for performing beheadings was called "The Maiden."  The maids of the rhyme referred to this device.  She had felt very disjointed after learning this, and her mother's insistence on reciting the rhyme became even less endearing. Couldn't she have at least picked Mary Had a Little Lamb? She could deal with that. 

"Yes, it's me," she heard herself respond.  She felt strange every time she referred to herself this way.  Who was this me she spoke of?  This particular instance, me was the definition of herself as she was in relationship to her mother.  This me, was the image of herself that had been transposed upon her by her mother's own projections. This me felt less than what she truly was. 

"Oh good. I've been waiting for you to come."

"Did Gayle tell you I was coming?"

"No, but I knew that you would."

Of course she did.  She knew that her daughter was perfectly trained to be at her bidding. Mare was about to make a snide return, but then thought of Clive. Maybe the reason she knew she would come was because she knew underneath it all Mare loved her. 

"I didn't come by myself," she finally answered. 

Her mother looked her up and down for a moment and then replied, "you sure look like you're by yourself. Please don't tell me you developed dissociative identity disorder and have been admitted here.  Are you my new roommate?" 

Mare surprised herself with a laugh.  Mirth was not an emotion she generally associated with her mother. 

"That's very funny, but alas, no.  I came with my...friend, Clive, but he wasn't on the visitor's list, so he's waiting outside for me."

"You should have called ahead, and I would have added him to the list, but no matter. I wanted to talk to you alone, anyway."

Mare's curiosity was peaked.  She had never before seen her mother so alive in one of these places.  She was seemingly more energetic and vibrant than Mare had ever seen her.  Typically, when Mare had made a visit, her mother was very down and blunted.  Whatever medication she was on at the time would stop her craziness, but it would also pull all the color and the life from her. She wondered what magical new medication this must be.

"Well, I would have mentioned this to Gayle, but I don't feel that she would be very accepting. I think if she were to hear this, she would immediately reject the idea and think of me as crazier than she already does, but not you.  You are different. You, I think might actually understand."

"Ok, so what is it that you wanted to tell me?"

"Hmmm, how to say it?  I guess just go on and say it.  I have been talking to your father." There was silence as she looked expectantly at Mare, anticipating her reaction.

Mare looked back at her, waiting for more.  When she realized her mother was actually finished, she said, "I do think Gayle would understand that, Mom.  It's completely normal.  I talk to him too, you know."

"You do?" Her mother looked at her blankly for a moment and then, understanding, said, "Oh, I mean, I have been talking with him.  He talks to me too." 

"You mean, symbolically, you believe you are seeing affirming messages from him?" 

"More than symbolic messages," she laughed. "See this notebook here?" Mare glanced at the leather-bound journal that sat atop her mother's desk, the one that she had been writing in only a few moments before. 

"Yes, I see it."

"Your father gave this to me after he went away."

"When he returned from Wales?" He had taken a solitary trip a couple of years prior to his passing, searching for some obscure ancestral links to a line of Celtic shamans.  

"No, this last time."

Mare stared blankly at her mother as her mind worked towards developing an understanding other than the one that she already deeply felt. 

"Mom," she said finally.  "Dad couldn't have given you that.  He's dead." She couldn't stand the words she heard herself saying.  They repulsed her and for a moment she resented her mother for even putting her in a position where she would have to utter them.  As she spoke, she reached out and held her mother's arms, one in each hand and she gently rubbed them as though this would ameliorate the harsh effect of her words. 

"Oh, Mary. For heaven's sake!  He's not dead, he's just not here. I thought if anyone would understand that it would be you."

Mare sat on the bed.  Suddenly she didn't feel strong enough to hold her own weight.  "Ok, Mom.  I shouldn't have said that. You're right. I don't understand how it really works, but I'm sure you're right."

"Ha!  Well, I'll tell you how it works.  I was showing you this book.  You see, your father left it here for me.  I was cleaning up his office a couple years after he left, and it was sort of wedged under a couple of newspapers.  I opened it up and there on the first page was a note in his handwriting and it was addressed to me." She looked at Mare awaiting affirmation.

Mare didn't see any great significance in what her mother was saying.  Her father must have addressed the book to her mother and passed before he was able to give it to her. 

"He wrote a passage, saying that he had to go away for a time and that the best way he knew how to communicate with me was through this book.  I hadn't had the heart to disturb his office sooner than I had. It took me two years to do it, but now I do so wish I had done it sooner, before I started taking medication and coming to these places."

"What is the book?" Mare asked, looking at it more closely. It looked like an ordinary journal, bound in tan leather with a Celtic knot embossed on the front. 

"It's ours.  We communicate back and forth through it."

Mare was still not making sense of her mother's words. 

"I 'm not quite sure I understand what you are saying, Mother."  Perhaps the effects of the medication were not as positive as she had initially believed. 

Mare's mother looked at her strangely and then her face relinquished any amount of strain that had been there a moment before as it now filled with a look of understanding. 

"Oh, of course, Mare.  I shouldn't have assumed you would understand what I was trying to tell you.  You are open to possibilities, but you are still conditioned by your ingrained beliefs just like everyone else."

Mare felt offended by that statement. "No, I'm not.  I just don't get the full picture of what you are trying to tell me.  Can you please explain in better?"

"Your father.  He wrote me a passage in this book.  It was dated three weeks after he went away -and I'm going to say went away, because that's what he did.  No more of this death talk nonsense.  He spoke of the world he is in now.  No, not Heaven, with a man in white flowing robes and a long white beard.  A world, much more intricate and real and familiar and strange than that.  He is there now and he is talking to me from that place.  I write back to him and leave the book and when I feel compelled to open it back up, there is new writing from him inside it. That's how it has been going now on and off since I found it. We write back and forth to one another like otherworldly pen pals." She let out a noise sounding something between a chuckle and a snort. 

 Mare knew that grief and also psychosis could be convoluted with the magical thinking that thoughts could bring about external effects and she was beginning to think her mother had fallen into that category.   If she truly believed her father wasn't dead, then it was not a far cry for her to also believe that he was communicating with her.  

"Can I please look at the book, Mom?" she said after a moment. 

"I'm not sure I'm ready for that, Dear," her mother answered. 

"And why not?  You wanted to help me understand, didn't you?  What easier way than just showing me?"

"It's like I said, this is ours -mine and your father's.  I'm afraid if I show you, it...it may disappear."  It was just as Mare had expected.  Her mother was living in her own little world, and she did not want to be broken out of it.  Who was she to stop her?  Was her mother really harming anyone by believing what she wished?  A great sadness came over Mare.

"Mom, what medications do they have you on now?" she asked.

"Medications? Oh, I don't even know. I haven't been taking them."

"You haven't? And how have you managed that?" Mare questioned, feeling somewhat shocked and slightly betrayed. After all, why would her mother be here in this place, and why would Mare be visiting her here if she was not taking her medications and working towards becoming well?  It suddenly all felt like a huge waste. 

"It's not that hard to do.  You walk up to the window, take your cup, look like you swallowed them and walk away.  The people who work here aren't really as bright as they think they are, you know. And they only ask to check the mouths of people who they suspect aren't taking them.  They have no reason to suspect me, I am playing my role here sufficiently well. They really think that the reason I am doing so well is because of my medication.  So, being my marvelous self really doesn't bother anyone.  Except for Doctor Belkin, I paint a different picture for her.   Your father told me not to trust her."

Mare couldn't quite believe what she was hearing.  Her own mother, the one who had taught her not to lie, was here, playing everyone. 

"How long has this been going on, Mom? Not taking your meds?"  

"Oh, just a few months, I suppose, since I came to understand it was the medications that were keeping me from being able to reach him.  In the beginning it worked so well, but the medication strewed my perspective, and he couldn't get to me. Now I have no choice but to come here to be able to talk to him, so I checked myself in."  

"Why? Why here?" None of this was making any sense at all.  Her mother was voluntarily checking herself into the hospital to pretend to deal with symptoms so that she could talk to her dead husband through a book?

"Oh Mary, maybe I should have told you all this sooner. Please don't be upset with me.  This time around has been particularly beneficial."

"Of what benefit is it, when you are not even following the treatment that they're giving you?" Mare asked, her voice rising ever so slightly. 

"The book, Mary.  Contacting your father.  It has only been working for me here.  For some reason I need to be here for the book to work now, but without medication.  The first time I wrote to your father was purely accidental. It was my first time staying at this hospital and I had only found the book shortly before.  I was writing to him, but I certainly never expected him to respond.  I was as shocked as I'm sure you must be feeling right now. It went well for a while, but each time I started meds again, the communication would stop.  He told me to stop taking their meds, or I would not be able to receive his messages, so I did, and I haven't looked back. Only now, they've already done so much damage that the only way to reach him is to come here."  

Mare stopped herself before she said something damaging.  She had become angry with her mother.  Not only had she lost her father, but she was now dealing with this woman who refused to face reality.  What she didn't want to admit to herself was that she jealous of her mother for living in a different world from her own, a world that still had her father in it. She felt as though she were grieving the loss of not one parent, but two. 

"Mary.  Don't look at me as though I'm crazy.  This is all true. Please believe me."

How could she look at this woman and not think crazy.  They were standing in a goddamn mental hospital.  

"Mom," she said slowly.  "I'm going to need some time to process everything you just told me. Okay?"

Her mother paused.  "Oh, alright. Yes, I suppose that's fair." 

"Although I really would like to see the book myself." Mare added. 

"If that's really what you need to be able to believe me, then here" her mother said, reluctantly handing her the journal.  "You're going to need time with it.  Please take it for a little while and bring it back to me.  We can have lunch together if you'd like? After you've looked at it, and if you have any questions, I will do my best to answer them."

Mare took the book and could not help moving her fingers across the embossing on the front, feeling the smooth, rounded texture of the leather. "Your friend...I didn't even get his name.  He wanted to have lunch with us," she said, remembering the kindly round face.  

"Who was that?" 

"I told you, I didn't get his name, but he seemed awfully fond of you.  Not to be rude, but the little round man, short of stature."

"Oh, that was Darby!  I am so happy that you met him. He will confirm everything I am telling you.  He has been to where your father is.  In fact, that is where he comes from.  He has been trying for a long time to get back there.  Certainly, let's all have lunch.  That man friend of yours too."

This all just got better and better, didn't it.  "Fine," said Mare, feeling extremely anxious to get out of there. "We'll meet you for lunch in an hour, but then we can't stay too long because we're on our way to Vermont."

Her mother raised an eyebrow at her. "You and a man are going to Vermont together? What's in Vermont?" 

"Bears and maple syrup," said Mare, feeling cheeky. "We're visiting his grandfather.  He's not well and neither were you and we figured we'd make a trip of it, if you don't mind."

"I don't mind at all, and yes, I am much better now. Well, ta ta, until lunch."

As Mare exited the building, she was met with the cold winter air, and it nearly took her breath away, but then her lungs filled with air infused with smoke that must have been coming from the chimney of one of the nearby houses and she sighed in relief for the healing freshness of the natural world. 

Although the weight of it lay heavy in her hand, it was only then that Mare remembered the journal.  She trudged back over to Clive's Jeep and swung open the door expecting to see him sitting in the driver's seat, but he wasn't there. She glanced around the parking lot and across the vast lawn, but there was no site of him.  She recalled that there were several miles of walking trails surrounding the hospital and that satisfied her. That was where he must be.  She thought of calling his cell, but realized she was in no real hurry for him to get back.  This would give her time to look through the journal.  She made herself comfortable inside the Jeep and opened to the first page. 

CHAPTER EIGHT

Clive had watched as Mare went through the door and bump into another person.  He smiled to himself as the door shut and she was no longer in his sight. Most of her various idiosyncrasies and quirks made him smile. The large woman at the desk with about fifty extra pounds of psychic baggage looked at him desolately as he walked back by her.  

The sun shone brightly but was doing little to warm the cold December day.  Given the fact that these were hospital grounds, the place was oddly silent and still.  Clive didn't mind this fact, but damn it was cold.  He looked over at his Jeep and could still hear the engine ticking down. As he was about to head back to its beckoning warmth and his waiting dog, something along the tree line across the street caught his eye.  A deer disappearing into the woods?  No, this was no deer energy; he could feel a dark heaviness like a veil being lowered across the sky as the clouds also responded, drifting across where the sun had been shining just a moment before. Then a voice spoke to him.  "Clear Water, you must follow.  Do not be afraid, for something that you seek is beyond your fear."  This was the voice of The Ancestors. It spoke to him during pivotal moments in his life. It had spoken to him the first time he had seen Mare.  It had told him she was the sacred song within his heart.  So now, he listened. He did not question, for he knew that answers come in their own time to those who wait patiently for them. 

He broke into a run and just a moment later was on the trail that lay beyond the tree line. He knelt down, studying the snow-covered dirt path, for he was a skilled tracker, and the scattered leaves, broken twigs and strewn rocks told him a story.  This was no beast, but a person.  Someone who was light on their feet and wherever they were going, it had been in great haste.  He followed along the trail a little way and then the disruption in the underbrush veered him off into the thick woods to the right.  He continued to follow the marks that had been left just moments before and within a short time he could hear the water of the river rushing.  Knowing that other sounds may now be drowned out, he slowed his pace and began to creep along within the trees touching each and drawing on their energy as he passed in silent blessing.

 He stopped.  In the distance, standing along the edge of the river, there were two figures.  A tall form in black with a silver-bedecked head stood beside a shorter slender female figure, also in black.  They both appeared to be calling down the embankment that sharply dropped towards the water, but Clive couldn't make out what they were saying.  He watched intently, knowing that he was well hidden from his place between two conjoined moss-covered trees. There seemed to be a hurried and urgent energy coming from the two.  

The tall man knelt down, reaching beneath him, and Clive saw him pull up on a body and aid it down onto the bank.  Then another figure that had been hoisting the body from beneath appeared. To see this did not surprise or alarm him as he knew of what the forces his people were up against were capable. This new figure stooped down, trying to regain its breath after such an arduous task and Clive could see that it was a well-built man in black pants and a pinstriped button-down shirt, the sleeves of which had been rolled up to the elbows.  He had tousled dirty blond hair, five o'clock shadow, and a disgusted look on his face.  The body was also male.  It had thick black hair and was wearing a blue sweatshirt and grey sweatpants, but Clive could not see its face.  

The woman had knelt down as if checking for a pulse and then glanced around.  Her eyes stopped upon the spot where Clive was hidden, and he could feel the coldness of them bore into him. He recognized this person as the woman with glasses who had been at the desk just a short while ago.  If she had actually realized his presence in those woods, she gave no indication and went back to hurried discussion with the others. Clive continued to watch as there seemed to be a disagreement between the two men.  The blond man had raised his voice and Clive was able to make out a broken series of words over the roar of the water.  "Can't...bringing...madness...her...done."  Clive could make no sense of it and he stained his ears for a clearer understanding, but none was given. 

Suddenly, the blonde man threw up his arms, turned and began hiking his way up the remaining incline in Clive's direction.  Clive fought internally between the need to remain hidden and the desire to study the man more closely. Ultimately, his safety won out, and he lowered himself beneath the opening between the trees. He could hear the man as he ambled by, his pace heavy and angry, paying no attention to the disruption it was causing the forest floor.  

He continued to lie low for several minutes, smelling the cold earth, mixed with decaying leaves, hints of pine and fallen snow.  Once he was certain the man was gone from where he could be spotted by a hind glance, he rose back up to his original hiding space.  The silver-haired man and the narrow woman were continuing the argument that the third had abandoned.  Finally, they stopped and looked down at the poor mangled body at their feet.  Together they reached down and with considerable effort between the two, they shoved it back over the ledge from where it had originally been recovered. 

Clive heard himself gasp, a sound that had taken no conscious effort on his part, and it surprised him.  Now his eyes strained to see the man with the silver hair and could not find him.  Only the one female figure remained. Had he looked away for the slightest moment? He could not recall doing so. Where did the man go?  Clive continued to glance around, making sure the man was in no position from which he could spot him.   He was not.  Had he jumped over the edge?  Had the woman pushed him?  There had not been the slightest noise, but then again, even if there had been a noise, the boisterous river would most likely have drowned it out.  Clive could not believe his eyes and this momentary distrust was not something he often experienced, nor was comfortable with.  

He stared at the empty space where the man had been, but there was no change, so he gave up and turned his full attention towards the woman.  She stood with her head solemnly tilted down and then turned and began to slowly walk back the direction she had most likely come.  She grabbed a large branch of pine and began sweeping it across the disheveled snow, erasing the pattern that she and the blond man had made upon it with their rushed gaits. 

Clive could not allow his gaze to break this time and remained in his space against the risk that he would be spotted.  But, as he watched the woman, he saw that her eyes were empty and unfocused.  They did not move, nor did they look upon the work that her hands were doing with the branch.  They were as corpse eyes would be and the image chilled Clive to his core. He remained until she had gone and in the now relative emptiness of the forest, he was startled by a sound, which he realized to be his own beating heart, fast and heavy. 

Careful with his step, he crept towards the place where the man and woman had been standing minutes before.  He leaned over the edge and looked down. Though he strained his eyes for several minutes, he could see nothing below but the moving of the river. He thought about finding the footing to climb down to the bottom where the water met the bank, but then thought better of it, realizing the time and that Mare may already be wondering where he was.

***

As she read across the first page, Mare felt a wave of sadness fall through her.  Seeing her father's handwriting again for the first time in so long. Regardless of the fact that he had written it years ago, before he passed, it still made her ache to know it had come from him. Although, the page was dated, and the date listed corroborated her mother's story that it had in fact been written after he had died.  This of course, was in no way possible and the surest explanation was that he had simply written it wrong. We all have moments where we get ahead of ourselves and write the wrong year or month or day.  Curiously, Mare realized the date would also have been her parents' 30th wedding anniversary.  It read:

My Dearest Joan,

     Although I pen this to you, there are no words to possibly express what is in my heart, or the place in which I now find myself. It is as I always expected and somehow knew without knowing.  There are worlds living side by side, so close nuclear fission could not separate them.  Yet, you are there and I am here, so utterly close, yet ever so far.  I have been trying so desperately hard to reach you and I know there have been times in between your awakened and dream states where I have almost met you, but you break away from me just before I can touch you and of this you do not remember.  So, I will keep trying, because although this is what some may call heaven, it is no heaven for me without you and I know there are ways to bring you here without the dissolution of the body on the plane which I no longer inhabit at this point in time. I also wonder if there is a way for me to get back to you there and I have been working towards a way, whatever way necessary, to get through to you.  I want you to know that I am with you always.  Finally, I wish to warn you.  There are dark forces at work, and they stop at nothing to gain control.  They wish to control your world and are doing a very adequate job.  They control without your awareness that they are doing so, and this is largely through subliminal methods and chemical and electromagnetic manipulation of the energy fields. They do not want you to gain awareness of the place in which I now find myself, because they are not able to control the minds of those who are connected to here.  The more of you who are aware, the more their power diminishes. I want you to be aware Joan, awake and aware.  Don't let them manipulate your mind, because then my hopes of reaching you may prove futile and that I cannot bear.  All my love, always, forever,

                                  John

Mare sat, staring at the page, reading the words over and over, looking for clues in between the lines.  This made absolutely no sense.  She had seen her father a couple of weeks before he died and he had not come off as crazy, but here he sounded as loony as her mother had been the first time she was hospitalized.  And then there was the date.  It made sense of what her father wrote was somehow true, but even in the vagueness of what he had written there was the nature of impossibility. Had he known he would die? Was this his way of trying to give her mother some kind of false hope?  And what of his warning, what was she to make of that?  She read on, finding the next passage written by her mother.

John,

     I am very angry at you for going there and not taking me with you. How did this happen? I just don't understand it, and it need to understand it, John. I am not doing all that great over here. Somehow, I am slipping from my reality.  Is this because of you?  In your efforts to connect with me, are you pulling me across that line?  I can't continue this way, it's affecting the girls; Gayle can handle it, but I don't know about Mary.  She's so...sensitive.  

You either come back to me now, or find some way for us to be together, because I am clueless on both accounts.  For all I know, I am going crazy.  I always knew I would go crazy without you.  I really cannot stand being without you being with me.  I love you, more than myself,

                      Joan

Mare blinked a few times to clear the blurriness of her eyes.  She really couldn't handle the repeated reminder that her father was no longer with them.  Sensitive? How did her mother mean that adjective?  Empathetic yes, but strong.  She could handle anything just as well as Gayle, maybe even better than Gayle.  She had gone through her whole life with the feeling that her mother believed her to be a different person than she felt herself to be.  Why should she be surprised now to find evidence consistent with this?  She turned the page expecting to see the conversation continued, but the pages were blank.  Flipping through the rest of the book, she found the same.  It was blank. Hadn't she just seen her mother writing in the thing?  Surely, she hadn't just written the response Mare had just read.  Her mother had told her she had been communicating with her father for years.  The pages of the journal were worn and made the substance of the book plumper.  This gave it the appearance of a book that had been read many times, and yet, it was blank.  

Mare suddenly felt angry again.  She couldn't help feeling like someone was trying to dick her around.  She wanted answers to her questions.  She wanted to understand something that felt infinitely evasive, and this was very frustrating.  "Fucking bullshit!"  The words filled the silent space of the Jeep, and she was surprised by the harshness and anger in her own voice.  It felt like it had come from an unrecognizable entity, and not herself.  She felt something warm upon her hand.  Asa was gently licking her, and it was obvious that the dog was performing the action with the intention of comforting her.  Mare reminded herself that animals are not intentional beings, instinctual maybe, intuitive...they engaged in actions based on their intuition.  She looked at the dog.  If we could all be like you, Asa, intuitively intentional, the world would be a very different place.  The dog sighed and sat back on her haunches, cocking her head and looking at her. Mare realized the anger and frustration she had been feeling was gone.  "Thank you for the reminder," she said to the dog.

***

 Professor Blackwell drove his gray Mercedes aimlessly through the Connecticut backwoods, smoking a cigarette and replaying over and over what had occurred earlier that day.  The man had most obviously been dead.  He'd flung himself from the edge of the cliff, or had he?  Had someone pushed him, physically, or had they used mind control to make it happen?  It didn't matter now, but why had they done it?  What kind of threat was this man to them?  He again felt the lifeless body in his arms, the stiffness of death and he shuttered, a vibration rocking his body, trying to release the energy of the thought, of the death that clung to him. Belkin was dangerous, he knew this.  Her abilities of control and her thirst for power were relentless.  It was Hartman that scared him though.  The man was a wild card and sent chills through his body.  He knew how lofty he was, how he wanted William to take care of it all, saying he, himself should have no part in it.  Their part in it was far greater than his own!  He was beginning to feel like a lowly henchman.  And Mare, he could not stop thinking about her.  What did they want with her?  She was beautiful and they wanted to strip that away from her, the way they had stripped so much other beauty from the world through their dark ways.  So much nature destroyed at their hands. They wanted him to help, and he had no choice.  That deal had been sealed long ago and could not go back; but now he fought back.  He fought with Hartman because of her.  He had been controlled by them until this point, but now, not with Mare.  He couldn't do it, and Hartman was angry.  There was no telling what they would do to him, and there was no refuge, no place to hide from them.  Fallen from grace long ago, he was no longer welcome in the light.  He pulled his car into the lot of The Birchwood Motel. He would at least rest. He could at least do that. Rest and try not to think of her.

***

Clive collected himself.  The Elders had spent many hours preparing him for such a moment and he had felt so ready.  But now the realness of it was a strange feeling to him, one of disbelief and it was surreal.  It was similar to the acceptance of his application to law school.  He had thought about it and prepared for it for so long, that when it had actually occurred, it felt less real, somehow.   He opened the door of the Jeep half expecting to see Mare with an angry expression on her face but was not surprised to see only Asa looking back at him.  

"Sorry for leaving you for so long, friend.  Something came up.  I should have taken you with me."

"Yes, you should have," her eyes spoke back to him.  

"Go ahead, take a run," he said, pulling the door open wide for her. 

She bolted out of the vehicle and down across the road and on the path from where Clive had just returned.  If there was something his human eyes had overlooked, she was sure to find it.  He watched her disappear into the trees.  She would be gone a good while.  He set his own foot towards the looming building to find Mare. 

***

Unsure what was holding up Clive, but feeling confident of his return, if not for her, then for his dog and his Jeep, Mare had reentered the building to keep her promise of lunch with her mother and the newfound entertainment of Darby.  She spotted them at a corner table in the cafeteria and walked over to meet them.  Darby had a plate full of food from the buffet.  Her mother just sipped at a coffee. 

"Mary!" exclaimed Darby, quite a bit louder than Mare would have liked.  "I wasn't expecting to see you after all."

"I knew she'd be here," offered her mother, peering at Mare over her paper cup.  "You have my book?" 

Mare held up the book so that it was obvious to her mother's eyes.  

"You read it?"

"Yes, but there wasn't much to read."

"Wasn't much? You could not have read it all in so short of a time," responded her mother. 

"It doesn't take long to read two pages, Mother."

"Two pages?  There is much more than two pages."

"There are two pages written on, only two.  I'm not the crazy one," responded Mare, wishing she had not added that last part the moment she said it.  

Darby stared back and forth between the two as they spoke, but somehow continued to fork food into his mouth without missing the mark. 

"Just give it to me!" demanded her mother, outstretching her hand, not looking Mare in the face.

Mare gently handed the book to her mother, her heart filled with remorse for yet another moment of compassion withheld.  "Mother..."

"I was foolish to think that you would be able to see it," came her mother's reply. 

"Mom, I saw the two entries, Dad, and you."

"But those Mare, those were written with pen."

"And the rest? With what, invisible ink?"

"No, with my feather. It's an owl feather," answered her mother, her voice lowered. 

"You wrote invisible words with a feather?" Mare lowered her voice in turn, "Mother, you do understand that none of this makes any sense, don't you?"

"I thought if anyone would have been able to see it, it would have been you," she answered. 

"I'm sorry," returned Mare, taking a place at the table. 

Her mother looked forlornly at the journal as she stroked the design on the front with her index finger. "I found that feather on the front door step the day after you girls helped me out of the cold.  Your father has been writing in a similar manner. He left it for me and said that if we wrote this way it would be safer, so that what we said to one another could not be exploited by the wrong people. He told me that souls in his world often communicate in this way, through animals, and objects of nature that hold symbolic or spiritual significance. Only those who are in tune with the vibration of that world are able to connect and receive those messages. I thought for sure you would be, Mare."

Mare was taken aback by her mother using her favored name, rather than calling her Mary as she always did.   She was also moved by her mother's words, because her mother spoke of her in a way she had always been accustomed to thinking of herself.  What if everything she spoke was the truth and Mare was somehow keeping herself from believing?

Darby chimed in "I've read some of it Mare.  I can see it. There are many who would say I am crazy, but I know I'm not."

Mare looked at the interesting face that was animatedly speaking.  He certainly looked like someone who she or anyone else would easily label as crazy.

"Smoking a little herb once in a while also doesn't hurt," he added.

Mare giggled, but his face was solemn now as he looked at her, his dark eyes blinking beneath long lashes. At that moment Clive walked up to the table, interrupting the thoughts that had begun to take seed in Mare's mind.   She looked up at him, struck by his solidarity and the strength of his presence. 

"Sorry I was so long, Mare," he said, gently squeezing her shoulder from behind.  I had a little jaunt in the woods and lost track of time."

Mare could see her mother looking him up and down.  She appeared somewhat startled by him, but Darby was grinning from ear to ear as if he was seeing an old friend.  

"This must be the friend you spoke of Mare," said her mother. "Please join us," she added, looking at Clive and then the empty chair next to Mare.

"Thank you," answered Clive, extending his hand to shake her hand and then Darby's.  "I'm Clarence."  

Clarence.  The name sounded foreign to Mare's ears. 

"And how do we know each other?" asked her mother, becoming again, the woman Mare had always known.  The one that made her shirk down inside herself. 

"Why, we just met," answered Clive, a small bud of a smile on his face. 

It took Mare a moment to realize he had made a joke and said, "she means you and me." As soon as she realized her error, and although she found Clive witty, she was more mortified from the deep-seated belief that her mother was not someone to be toyed with, although she did so herself at every turn.  Perhaps the difference was that her own jibes were always followed by a tremendous amount of guilt.

Clive raised his eyebrow at her, but the smile did not leave his face as he took his seat beside her at the table.  Although he seemed himself, he was different somehow, like a rock that had formed the sliver of a crack. Mare could feel the coldness of the outdoors emanating off of him.

"Is everything ok?" she quietly asked.

"Yes, no worries," he answered, smiling again. Yet, she couldn't shake the feeling that something was off with him.

"I think we've met before," said Darby, looking at Clive.  I know I know you from somewhere, you seem very familiar to me."

"I don't believe so," answered Clive.

"This is my friend, Darby," put in Mare's mother.  

"It's very nice to meet you," Clive said to Darby. 

"Likewise...if this is in fact the first time we're meeting," replied Darby, continuing to look curiously at Clive with a slightly furrowed brow and narrowed eyes.

Clive shrugged his shoulders and looked at Mare.  "Are you going to get something to eat?" he asked.  "I'm pretty hungry myself."  He needed some food to ground him after his experience that morning. 

"Oh, I guess so," said Mare.  Though she sat in a cafeteria, food had been the last thing on her mind. 

"Ok, come on," he said to her, standing up from his chair and adding "excuse us," to the others.  

"How did it go?" he questioned Mare, once they were out of earshot.  

"I guess she's in the right place," replied Mare.  "But I'm not sure what to do..." she lowered her voice even further.  "She hasn't been taking her meds."  She looked up at him, expecting a shocked expression to cross his face, but it remained unchanged once again. 

"That's interesting," he answered.

This was not the reaction she had anticipated.  He found it interesting? She wanted to probe him further but knew that this was not the appropriate place.  As they selected their lunch items and stood in line to pay, she again asked if there was anything the matter, to which he again replied no and that everything was fine. 

The four of them then ate their lunch or sipped their coffee in relative silence, which Mare also found strange, but she could think of nothing to say to any of them that she would want to discuss as a group.  Clive ate more quickly than Mare and once he was done, he sat staring into space with a contemplative look.  After a moment his eyes came to rest on the journal that sat on the table across from him and his reverie was broken.  

"That's a very beautiful book," he said, looking at Mare's mother.  Do you mind if I look at it?"

Her mother looked startled, but after thinking for a moment answered, "you may, but please don't look at the first couple pages, those are rather private between me and my husband."

"Of course," answered Clive.

Mare looked at her mother and then at Clive.  She would perhaps be discussing those pages with Clive later on.  She was still unsure how much of what had taken place with her mother that she wanted to share with him.  She watched as he flipped through the blank pages, knowing her mother only shared the journal because she herself knew there was nothing to be found within.  

"I've only ever seen one other book quite like this," he finally said.  "It belonged to my mother. But I was very young and there's not much that I remember about it. It had the same embossing on the front," he said, handing the book back to her mother, who eagerly took it from him. "It's very special," he added. 

"Thank you," she answered. "It's special to me." She glanced for a moment over at Mare, but Mare had not noticed.  She was still staring at her man friend. 

"Perhaps we should think about being on our way," he said, looking back at Mare. "It will be a few hours of a drive still and we want to try to beat the rush hour traffic."

"Yes...you're right," answered Mare.  She felt both sad and eager to leave the two sorry figures that sat across from them.  She felt something yet unresolved with her mother nagging her, like a small pull in your favorite sweater. 

"I'm sorry we can't stay longer, Mom," she said.  "We have to make our way up to Vermont.  Oh, we also have a dog in the car," she remembered out loud. 

"A dog?  Yes, I suppose you must get going, the bears won't wait forever," said her mother. 

"Mom, I...I hope everything will be okay with you." She wasn't sure what to say.  

"Everything is and will be fine."

"Well, it was wonderful meeting you, Joanie's daughter," put in Darby brightly.  "And you," he said looking intently again at Clive.  "I will remember where I know you from, even if it eats at me until I am only bones."

"It was good to meet you too," answered Clive, plainly.  Then turning to Mare's mother he reached for her hand and held it between his.  "It was very nice meeting you.  Now it's easy to understand where Mare's loveliness comes from.  Take good care of that book, and I will look after your daughter."

Mare stared at this exchange.  She didn't know whether to be flattered or insulted by his words.  This was the first time where Clive had said or done something that didn't sit right with her and she didn't like the uneasy feeling, however slight it may be.

"Indeed, well ta ta!" exclaimed Mare's mother, visibly cheered.  She waved her hand at them with a little flap of her wrist, bidding them on their way.

"Goodbye," said Mare, looking once over her shoulder as she and Clive exited the cafeteria.  Once outside, she was surprised at Clive's whistle, and a moment later when Asa came bounding towards them from across the road.  She had something clenched between her jaws and she dropped it at Clive's feet.  Mare peered at the object upon the gravel and it glistened at her. In a moment, she realized what it was and let out a startled "oh!"  Between two black leather bracelet straps was a silver medallion in the shape of a Celtic knot.  Unless her eyes or memory deceived her, it was exactly the same knot that adorned the front of her mother's journal.  She had an impulse to scoop it up and bring it in to her mother, surely the coincidence was uncanny, and she would be curious what her mother would think of it.  Clive knelt down and picked up the piece, looking at it only momentarily before putting it in his pocket. 

"What was Asa doing off leash?" questioned Mare.

Clive chuckled.  The leash is only for show.  She doesn't need it. I let her go for a run, she'd been in the car so long.

"You let her go by herself?" asked Mare.

"Yes, there's no worries," answered Clive.  "Come, let's get going," he said, starting towards the Jeep.

Mare stared for a moment, and then followed.  This had been a very strange day and it wasn't nearly over yet.

CHAPTER NINE

The old man sat on his porch and watched the long driveway for his grandson.  He had not called to say he would be coming, but he still knew he was.  The air was that cold, December air that clung to your insides, and although he was thin and frail with age, he did not mind the cold, because it told him he was alive. Besides, he wore his thick flannel, lined with bear fur, and it sheltered him from the brunt of it. Clear Water was bringing the girl, he knew this also. His People, particularly The Elders, had ways of knowing and understanding that went beyond the physicality so heavily relied on by others. He did not live on a reservation, there were none for his tribe in the country.  Instead, they lived in a smattering of areas congregated throughout the Northeast and up into Canada, where there were in fact two reservations. The empty, creaky, old farmhouse in which he resided, was an outer reflection of himself and it suited him. There was no ornamentation, no decoration, and he preferred it that way.  He'd rather his attention be inwardly focused. Yet, there was a warmth and welcoming quality to the home, which could not quite be singly attributed to the character of its design of an early 1900s construction, nor the routine smudging and clearing that he performed.  He had seen with his own eyes, the building being erected and had also had a minor hand in it. Within his flesh he could still feel the mortar and stone that he had so carefully placed under the direction of his uncle, Standing Bear.  They had believed they were building it for his uncle's friend, James Blackwell, and his family, but in the end, it had been gifted to his own. 

He sat very still now as the afternoon sun began to sink below the trees in the distance, casting their shadows as blue stains upon the white canvas of snow.  A message was coming to him and he remained focused on aligning with the frequency required for receiving it. The Others...they had taken another.  It had been another one of his own and the loss was dear.  More and more Sensitives had succumb to the deceits of The Others.  Because of their nature, they were vulnerable that way, and The Others had countless ways of manipulating them, many to the point of no return, as it now was for Raven Talker. 

The old man closed his eyes and spoke a prayer in his native tongue.  He let the pain from within come out in the tone of his words and he asked that Raven Talker's spirit travel safely to the other realm and not to become trapped between worlds, as sometimes happened to those who were not truly ready to go.  When this happened, it became exceedingly difficult to come back, move forward, or even make contact with one side to the other. It was the worst kind of limbo.  If The Others were unable to mentally trap someone they viewed as a threat on this plane, then their aim was to trap them there. The whole of society was not difficult for them to control and the masses were generally under their trance, but there were still a few who were resistant.  Spiritually attuned individuals, those sensitive to other energetic vibrations, it was they who posed a threat to The Others and their ability to control.  When mind control through media; changing energetic frequencies through foods and injections; and the destruction of the spiritual force of nature through pollution, deforestation, and other methods did not do the job; they relied upon other means. For some, this meant they would be targeted, their mind entered and manipulated on a very personal level.  Often, this would result in psychiatric evaluation or hospitalization and a long road of having the connection stripped away through consciousness altering medications and the encoding of the brain through subliminal messaging. Yes, they had their ways and they were powerful, but this did not mean His People were powerless, for there were forces from the other side working with them.  It was his job to harness that connection, to find it in people and to strengthen it, where The Others sought to destroy it. 

The sky was getting dark now.  Soon it would be the shortest day of the year.  He always looked forward to that day and would spend it in quiet contemplation and prayer.  It was a day signifying change, when things would begin to turn around and the light would stay for a longer and longer lengths of time. He wished to know the transition that would take place within his own soul, his own heart, for nature was a reflection and could easily tell him everything he needed to know of himself if he built the space for listening. So, now, sitting in the cold, waiting for his grandson, he listened.

***

At first, for what felt the longest time to Mare, they had driven in silence.  Her mind was so full of everything she had learned and everything that had happened that very day...and the other night with William; her mind continued to return to that as well.  She wanted to share some of these things with Clive, but they felt so entwined somehow that she didn't know how to get the words out; they were caught in her throat. So, she kept them there until they began to hurt. 

Clive was also in his own head, but he was listening as well to his body.  He was trying to understand what he could about recent events that could be told to him with faculties beyond the external.  This was difficult to do however, while driving.  Mare's energy also disrupted him, he could feel it, almost frenetic beside him.  She too had learned things and now her mind was trying to process it all on its own.  She had not yet learned to listen to the wordless voices.  

He finally gave up on the process and turned to Mare, placing his hand on the back of her neck.  The tears that were being pushed by that thing inside her throat, now spilled over onto her face. She turned towards the window, quickly wiping them, hoping Clive had not seen. If he had, she would need to find a reason to explain them to him.

"You're allowed to feel, Mare," he said, looking at her.  "That's part of what life is about, it's part of being a human."

Why had she somehow learned that it was wrong to feel one way or another?  So many years she had been arrested by the guilt that came from allowing herself to be exactly who she was. 

"When you hold yourself back from it, that's where the pain comes from," spoke Clive again.  "You need to listen to how you feel, because it tells you things about your life and who you are. It shows you your alignment with who you truly are, and what might be getting in the way of that."  

"Oh?" was all Mare could manage to say.  It startled her the way he always seemed to know her from the inside.  No matter how hidden she tried to keep her heart, he always found it.

"It's when people act outwardly on their feelings, without first understanding them, that it becomes a problem.  It gives the feeling more power over them, like adding gas to a burning fire. It only pushes them more in the direction of misalignment than they had already been.  The key is to go inside and find what the feeling was trying to tell you in the first place.  When you do that, you are then able to let it go, with only understanding and compassion."

As she thought about his words for a moment, it occurred to Mare that maybe the reason she felt like she didn't really know who she was, was because she never spent any time with that person.

 "Where does all this wisdom come from?" She asked him. "You speak like someone wise beyond your years.  I'm pretty sure it's not learned from law school."

"You're on your way to meet him," replied Clive. 

"Well maybe he'll teach me a thing or two," she said.

Clive looked over at her, the expression on his face was gentle and open.  "More likely he'll just remind you of things you already know," he said to her. 

After that brief exchange they continued the remainder of the drive in silence once again, but with changed energy -a letting go of previous thoughts that were clouding up their minds.  Mare settled into the leather of her seat. Closing her eyes, she was lulled to sleep by the vibration of the vehicle and the rhythmic breathing of the dog behind her.  

***

The beast moved beneath her.  With each step her own body moved with the motion of its gait.  Two separate beings, yet with this communion, they were somehow one. Both the solidity and the warmth between her legs, provided a comfort beyond understanding.  She spurred the creature on, first to a trot, and then a canter, which quickly advanced to a full-fledged gallop.  Around her the trees quickly moved by like an old cord and reel projector.  The wind hit her face and the cold air stung her nose and clung to her lungs.  Her heart began to race, and she squeezed her thighs more tightly to the horse's flesh.  She wore no saddle and her hands clung only to the horse’s mane.  Yet, she did not fall, and she knew she would not.  The coalescence of their souls somehow prevented this.  They spoke with a wordless language; they both knew where they were going.  This is what freedom feels like, thought Mare.  

As quickly as these images and feelings had entered her dream state, they were gone.  A deep, blackness now moved through her, and she was alone. The darkness of it was impenetrable.  There was no adjustment of the eyes, no recognition of outlines, such as with objects in a dark room.  This darkness was all consuming and with it came an icy feeling through her core and up into her chest.  It was not normal coldness. Rather, like the darkness, it was ubiquitous, and it seized her body.  She became both inside her body and without. She was aware of her own heartbeat, projected and loudly pulsating in her ear; but also ringing inside her own head. The beating became heavy and fierce like a tribal drum and just when she prayed for it to stop, silence. 

***

 She was startled awake by Clive gently shaking her shoulder.  She was confused momentarily because it was now dark in reality, but this new darkness was nothing like the one of her dream. It was full of contrast and also of light; the moon shone and reflected light off of Clive and she was able to see the shape of his face, and the whiteness of his eyes and his teeth when he spoke to her. 

"Mare, you were dreaming," he said.  "You were crying out in your sleep."

She was still too entwined in her dream to feel embarrassed.  It had felt so real to her that a part of her wondered if it was actually now that she was dreaming. "Sorry, she said.  "I didn't mean to."

"Don't apologize.  Whatever it was, it seemed to really upset you.  Do you want to talk about it?"

She thought for a moment.  How could she explain it adequately to him?  He would probably just get the wrong understanding and deem her afraid of the dark. "No, that's ok," she answered, looking around.  She was aware of a source of light that came from a house next to where the car was parked.  She could make out a porch, but the light wasn't the typical warm, yellow incandescent porch light she was so used to from her parents’.  This light came from a single kerosene lantern dangling from the eves.  

"We're here," he said, "at my grandfather's."

She peered at him through the blackness and began to feel shy of him, his grandfather, this situation.  She was out in the middle of the Vermont wilderness with a man she had only known for a short time and possibly still didn't really know, and was now to meet someone else, and it was nighttime, and the home was much darker than she would have expected it to be.   Maybe the dream had just thrown her through a loop.  Clive reached out his warm hand to help her out of the Jeep and he gave hers a reassuring little squeeze.  This made her feel better.  He then moved the seat forward allowing Asa to jump out, and Mare found the reminder of the Dog's presence comforting as well.  The dog pressed her body up against Mare's legs as though she knew her feelings and was offering her own sort of reassurance. 

"Would you like to come meet him?" Clive asked, looking into her face.  

She looked back into his eyes, and although she could more or less only make out the shape of them, they were still warm.  She nodded, "yes."  

He took her hand again and led her up the steps of the porch and in through the front door.  The old man had gone inside and had been readying the rooms, lighting lanterns as he went.  He appeared, greeting them with a smile and extending his hand towards his grandson.  

"Hello Clearwater," he said.  His voice was loud and deep. Mare was surprised at the traditional name, as Clive had never mentioned it to her before.

As Clive reached back for the handshake, his grandfather pulled him into a long, deep hug, which Clive reciprocated.  It appeared to Mare that something let go in Clive that moment, some heaviness released that she had not even noticed had been there until it was gone. When they released from their bond, the old man stood back, looking at Clive for a long moment and nodding his head.  Then he turned to Mare.  

"Mare, welcome," he said and reached out his hand to her as well.  For a moment Mare felt anxious that she may be required to hug him, but he shook her hand firmly instead.  His hand felt like pure ice, yet it was warm in its greeting and energy.

"Mare, this is my grandfather, Spirit Keeper," said Clive.

"But you can call me Martin," said the old man.   

"It's great to meet you, Martin," said Mare.  She wondered where his health must be failing, because he was the most robust person in his nineties that she had ever met. 

"What time is it?" she asked Clive.  After having fallen asleep, she was completely disoriented. To her it felt like it must be close to midnight.

"Just about six," answered Clive. 

"It's dinner time," added Martin.  "I have prepared a meal; would you like to eat with me?"  

"Of course," said Mare. 

"Mare, first I want to show you around, so you know where everything is.  This place is a little different than you're used to," said Clive.  

He took her through the home, showing her where everything was located.  The rooms were relatively small and flowed like a typical farmhouse, segregated from one another in a way that preserved heat.  Mare learned that the home was not equipped with electricity nor running water.  She would have to use a bucket and empty it outdoors, or just go directly outdoors for her elimination needs. "I guess we will know each other better than we wanted after this trip," she thought, picturing herself squatting over a bucket with Clive nearby. There would be no shower either.  She and Clive were supposed to be staying for at least a couple days.  This was starting to feel too much like camping, and in December, no less. At least there was a large woodstove putting out heat in the center living area, that seemed to take the edge off the cold from the surrounding rooms.

Finally, he showed her to the bedroom.  Gesturing to the lone full mattress on the floor in the corner of the room, he said, "I brought a sleeping bag in case you aren't comfortable sharing a bed.  My grandfather only has this bed and the twin in his room.  I don't know if you noticed the wooden couch, but it's not very comfortable for sleeping in."  He laughed for a quick moment. 

She had noticed the wooden seat in what appeared to be the living area.  It was a long section of tree trunk, unadulterated other than being cut down to a flat surface and sanded down to a smooth finish. In fact, the whole home was very sparsely furnished, but was still comfortable and inviting. She eyed the bed, longing for sleep, but afraid of returning to the blackness of her dream.  Having someone there with her when she next ventured into sleep would be a comfort. "No, that's ok," she said to him. We can share a bed."

"Alright, as long as you're okay with it," said Clive.

Martin appeared in the doorway.  "After dinner we are having a sacred circle," he told Clive.  "I would like you to join us."  He looked at Mare and added, "you're welcome too, of course."

Mare wasn't sure what a sacred circle entailed and was also wondering who he was referring to when he said we.  She didn't get the sense that there were all too many people inhabiting this area. 

"Yes, grandfather," answered Clive.  Mare noticed the reverence in his voice. 

"Good, then come to dinner," replied the old man, as he ducked out of the doorway and back down the stairs. 

"I suppose we should go eat," said Clive, looking at Mare.  "Are you hungry?"  

Her stomach gurgled in response; it was aware of her hunger even before her brain recognized it. "Yes," she answered, adding, "why are you always so kind to me?"

"Do I have reason to be anything but?" answered Clive.  "You mean a lot to me, and I was taught to take care of the things you love."

Mare’s heart skipped for a moment hearing that word in the context of her relationship with Clive.  It is gratifying to hear spoken words confirming that which one's heart somehow already knows.  Clive took her hand and led her back down the stairs and into the dining room.  She felt incredibly light all of a sudden and almost giddy but was careful not to show it. 

The dining room held a simple farm table with four straight backed wooden chairs and Clive pulled one out for Mare and sat down in the space perpendicular to hers.  Martin came through the door, carrying a pitcher of water and placed it on the table.  "We have the good fortune of a natural spring emptying into the rock formation not ten yards from the back door," he said to Mare.  "Clear Water will show you.  You can use it for drinking and washing.  He's the one who made it."

Mare looked at Clive, raising one eyebrow.  "You made the spring?" she asked.

He laughed in response, then said, "I just happened to discover it when I was young.  I am sure it had been there for the longest time."

"It was not there," said Martin.  "If it had been, we would have found it long before.  Be honest with her.  If you are true in your intentions, she needs to know who you are.  She needs to know who we all are."  

There was that we again.  She knew there were things about Clive that she still didn't know, but the way the old man spoke made her feel as though they were living in two different worlds. 

"Yes, Grandfather," said Clive now concentrating intently on the food in front of him. 

"Good, " replied the old man.  His face was solemn.  Mare peered at the bowl of stew in front of her and was about to take a bite, when he continued to speak.

"We take into our bodies this meal sent forth to us from The Great Spirit, our Creator and we give thanks. We pay homage to those who cannot be with us here. We pray for the spirits of those who have left us to safely pass to the spirit world.  We mourn the loss of another of our brothers today at the hands of The Others and pray that he will be guided to his Source.  In the name of the Earth and the Sky and the Four Sacred Directions, we pray, for all of Creation."

"I didn't know he was one of ours," said Clive.

"Yes, their power is strong, but we cannot stop fighting, because The Great Spirit is stronger," replied Martin.

Mare looked back and forth between the men, both with somber faces.  She wished someone would clue her in to what they were talking about, because the entire gist of it was making her very uncomfortable. 

They continued their discussion no further and neither offered her any explanation.  Finally, not able to deal with the silence any longer Mare said, "that was strange that bracelet that Asa found, wasn't it, Clive?"

He looked up at her and appeared to have been taken off guard. She went on, "the strangest part is that the symbol on the bracelet is the same symbol on my mother's journal.  Did you notice that?" 

Clearing his throat he said, "yes, I noticed."

"So what do you think of that?"

"It's a very strange coincidence," he said.  

She wasn't buying it.  Clive was too honest of a person to be very good at lying, and she could tell that there was more thought going on in his head about this coincidence, beyond what he was letting on.

"I think it's more than a little coincidental," she said.  Of course, Clive didn't know the story behind the journal that Mare had just learned earlier that day, but she couldn't help but feel like that tied into it somehow.  

"What symbol do you speak of?" asked Martin.

"It's a sort of Celtic cross design, set in a circle, I think," said Mare.  She looked at Clive.  "Do you still have it? You put it in your pocket earlier."

Clive reluctantly reached into his pocket and pulled out the bracelet, placing it on the table.  Martin looked down at it, but he didn't speak.  Mare looked at it again, yes, this was the same symbol that appeared on the front of her mother's journal.  The center of the circle was geometrically square with the appearance of interwoven squares radiating out into four directional branches reaching to the circumference of a circle of intricately woven Celtic knots. Although she recognized the symbol from the journal, something pulled at Mare's memory and she had a strange feeling that this was an image she had been acquainted with in her past. 

Martin turned to Clive.  "Where did you find this?" he asked. 

"I didn't," answered Clive. "Asa did."  The dog stirred from under the table at the sound of her name. 

"Where?" asked the old man.

"At Silver Hill," Mare answered for him.  "It's a psychiatric hospital."

"This was Raven Feather's.  I feel his energy in it," replied Martin.

Clive's face went pale.  

"I know he was your friend, Clear Water," said his grandfather.  

Mare observed Clive close his eyes and lower his head as though he were in a different place.  He was silent for a moment and then he looked back up with an empty expression.  "I didn't know," he said.  "I didn't know it was him."

Mare continued to stare at Clive, trying to understand.  He went on, "they left him there.  I should have tried to find him."

"The Others?" asked Martin.  Clive nodded his head. 

"Wait, you know the owner of this bracelet?" asked Mare in complete disbelief.

"I did," said Clive.

"How is this even possible?" asked Mare, wondering how Martin could know it belonged to this Raven Feather person, unless he had seen him wearing it, and even then, it could just be a coincidence.  She was sure there must be more than one bracelet like this in the world. 

"My dear girl," said Martin gently.  "All manner of things are possible."  

He reached out across the table and placed his hand on Clive's shoulder.  "You have known great loss, but no matter how familiar you may become with it, the weight will always surprise you."

"He was my friend," said Clive, taking the bracelet and putting it back in his pocket.

The rest of the dinner was completed in silence, but Mare's head was reeling as her mind continued to try to make sense of everything she had just heard.  Although she felt that she didn't fully understand what Clive and Martin were discussing, she nevertheless felt safe in their presence.  

***

After dinner, Mare began to help clean up the table and Martin stopped her, saying "do you wish to join us this evening?  You may find some of the answers that you seek."

"I'm not sure what the sacred circle? is all about," she replied, "but I guess I should find out."

Clive looked unsure.

"Very good.  You should go make sure you are dressed warmly enough.  There is a chest in the bedroom with some things you may find suitable.  Clear Water and I will meet you in the backyard," said Martin.

She watched them leave the room together.  She felt disconnected from Clive like they had drifted worlds apart in the course of a day and she didn't know the reason for it.  She thought for a moment about skipping this thing and just going to bed for the night.  She longed to be snuggled in her own bed with Milo and now worried that the four full bowls of cat food she had left him would not be enough.  

Then she thought better of it.  She had told Martin she would join them, and she didn't want to make a liar of herself. She found her way back to the bedroom that Clive had shown her and noticed that there was in fact a wooden chest in the corner of the room opposite the bed.  The coldness of the air in contrast to the main part of the house was more obvious to her now.  As she opened the trunk, an even colder air rose up and touched her face. She peered inside and began sorting through several garments within.  One piece she noted, was a velvety soft cloak and as she lifted it from the chest, she realized that it was in fact very thick and heavy.  It was made from a combination of furs, from what animals, she could only guess, but it was beautiful and pristine.  It clasped at the neck with a leather loop and what she assumed must be a bear's claw.  Wearing animal hide made her feel somewhat squeamish.  She associated it with death and decay, but the only odor she noted was the cedar of the chest. 

She continued to look through and stopped for a moment, pulling out a flowing cream colored shirt with embroidery.  She recognized it as the shirt worn by the woman in the photo she had seen in Clive's apartment, the one she believed to be Clive's mother.  It made sense for these things to be here then, in her father's house.  Mare was just about to shut the chest when she felt something hard like a book under her hand. Thinking it could possibly be a photo album, her curiosity took over and she pulled the object from the chest.  Stunned with her find, it slipped from her hand and landed on the floor with a thud.  Had her eyes deceived her?  She bent over to look.  Sure enough, there upon the ground lay a leather-bound journal.  Embossed on the front was the same symbol that lavished her own mother's book.  

"This can't be for real," she heard the thought escape from her mouth. 

Her heart began to race as she opened to the first page.

Persephone,

     How can I describe for you, the world in which I now find myself. I know we've all been here before. After a short time it all becomes so familiar again, as though I'd never left.  But there is no way to put into words an experience one must find out on their own. In a way, like becoming a parent, no one can tell you what it's like or how it feels; there's no way to know for sure, until it happens to you.  No one could prepare me for the love I would feel for Clarence, and no one could prepare me for this place. Both have been truly wondrous.  

So, I am here.  I could be here and forget the place from where I previously came so easily, but I cannot. Not when you and Clarence remain there, apart from me. I need you to know that I am always thinking of you.  There's never a moment when you are not in my thoughts.  I have been searching for a way to speak to you. I am almost certain these words will make it to you now.  Somehow, we will be together again, my love, you and me, and our son.  There are others who have been able to travel back and forth.  My aim is to do the same.  Please wait for me.  I love you,

     Alistair

The world in which Mare had woken to that morning, was now changed.  There was no way she would be able to return to her old state of unawareness when she had witnessed so many strange things in the course of a day.  She felt off balance with the vague discomfort that accompanies disrupted beliefs.  She thumbed through the remaining pages; unlike her mother's journal, the majority of them held writing.  She stopped herself, knowing Clive and Martin were waiting for her, but instead of placing the journal away in the chest, she put it under one of the bed pillows, planning to find a moment to read it later on. 

***

The old man stirred the fire that blazed up from between the carefully placed rocks that formed the fire pit. Clive could see his grandfather's face become illuminated and casted with shadows that caused him to appear ancient beyond his years with deeply hollow cheeks.  Two figures appeared from the shadows and walked over to Clive, each shaking his hand in turn.

"Clarence, it has been a long time," said the first. 

The speaker had short graying hair with matching five o'clock shadow.  His voice was rough, but his eyes were warm and creased from years of laughter. He wore jeans, leather boots, and a heavy flannel jacket with a hood.  This was David, an old friend of Clive's father and the family.

The second figure said nothing but took a place on one of the logs that surrounded the fire. Clive looked over at her. Carys.  She was just as beautiful as she had been when they were kids.  She wore a red parka and her straw-colored hair spilled out from its hood and down around her shoulders.  Her eyes gazed into the fire and Clive could see she was being careful not to look at him. She knew him too well and his ability to read her and so, she held her poker face. He watched the fire dancing in her eyes for a moment longer and then averted his gaze.  Her presence shouldn't affect him, he was with Mare now.  

As if manifesting with his thoughts, Mare appeared on the edge of the circle. Wearing a soft, hooded fur cloak, she looked like a part of the surrounding scenery.  Martin had somehow known she was approaching, so he had gotten up and led her to a seat next to Clive.  She had watched for a moment before she had made her presence known, assessing the group surrounding the fire.  Martin was closest to her with his back turned so she couldn't see his face.  Across from him sat a young woman and Mare had peered through the darkness trying to study her more closely, but the intensity of the dancing fire prevented a clear assessment. Her curiosity had been peaked not only for the fact that this person was the only female present besides herself, but also because of Clive.  She had seen something flash across Clive's face when he looked at her.  It was only for a fleeting moment, but it had been there nonetheless and had betrayed something in him.  The other man sitting to the left of the girl, across from Clive, was unthreatening and so, she joined them.  As she sat down aside Clive, her leg brushed against his for a moment, and he reached over and placed his hand on her knee. "A gratuitous gesture," thought Mare. She glanced over at the other female again now that she was in closer proximity and saw that she was young -at least as young as herself. Her features were delicate yet striking and Mare's old familiar insecurities began to surface. She looked over that the man across from her and he smiled at her but said nothing. Then she looked back at Martin, expectantly.  Was no one going to introduce her to these strangers?  As if on cue, a third stranger appeared and took a place beside Martin, handing him a long wooden pipe, adorned with feathers. Mare thought of the tomahawk in Clive's apartment and remembered him saying his grandfather had made it.  Now here she was, a few days later, sitting in the deep cold of Vermont winter, around a campfire with him and his grandfather and three other people whom she did not know. She was beginning to question her sanity. 

The newest member of their group was an old Native American woman with long braids.  She had a drawn face and was the sort of figure that somehow cause Mare anxiety as if she were guilty of something, much like a Sunday School nun. 

Martin looked in Mare's direction, but not at her.  He spoke. "We're all here, so we may begin. We need no formal introduction, as we already know one another on a soul level."

Mare looked back at him and around at the others, "speak for yourself," she thought. 

Martin held the pipe and turned to face away from Mare. She saw him sprinkle something on the ground.  He seemed to be filling the pipe, but was out of her view, so she wasn't sure. Maybe he had turned away intentionally so she couldn't see what he was putting in it.  She had enough education to know that in these sorts of situations, the pipe was traditionally passed from one individual to the next and didn't know if she would be expected to partake. 

Martin spoke. "Red is the east.  The star of daybreak arises in the east. This start brings us knowledge."  Mare couldn't help but wonder if this was similar to the star of Bethlehem.  It was Christmastime, after all.

He continued, "Red is the rising sun.  It brings for us, new experiences.  The Great Spirit blesses us with the continued opportunity to live on Mother Earth, day after day.  There is virtue and wisdom to be had and for this, we thank Wakan Tanka. The knowledge that we gain will lead us to peace within the world."

Mare noticed that everyone was looking in the same direction as Martin as he spoke.  Even the older guy across from her. He had practically turned his neck in a 180 like an owl.  

Martin then turned to face the direction of his own seat, staring across the vast yard and the others turned with him. "Yellow is the south," he began.  "Mother Earth brings new growth to the world. She sustains us with her beauty and her bounty. This is a time of extensive growth, strength and physical healing. This is a time when we plant new seeds for what we wish to see become manifest, and we load the pipe so that it may assist us in visualizing our hopes."  Mare saw Martin add something to the pipe. 

He now turned to face Mare and Clive. Solemn faced, he said "black is the color of the West.  It is here that the sun sets.  The day turns to night and the light gives way to the darkness.  It is here that those of spirit come to us. They offer protection, foresight and release.  West is the direction from which the rains come. They give us life, yet black is of the spirit world, where we will all eventually journey. We are given spiritual wisdom from the west and we must heed the guidance. We must walk in truth if we are to journey to the other side unburdened."  The others were all also looking in Mare's direction. She tried to unnoticeably sit up a little straighter. 

Finally, Martin turned towards toward the seat where the other girl sat.  Mare took the opportunity to study her more closely.  She felt inclined to dislike her in some way, but there was a natural likability to her that prevented this.  She seemed down to earth, but Mare also sensed a rawness in her, like a wounded animal guarding its hurt.  She was fair, but her eyes were dark and deep, although what actual color was too difficult to discern by the firelight. She looked at Martin as he spoke.  Her face carried no discernible expression.

"White is the color of the north," Martin spoke once more. With the north, Mother Earth delivers to us purification on the form of the white snow that covers her in a blanket. This prevents many sicknesses." 

"Not my mother's" thought Mare, remembering her mother that night in the snow heaves. 

"It is the time of the north now," said Martin. "Now is a time of great contemplation.  We must think about this time as it applies to the length of our lives, when we are near the end, what do we wish to look back and see. We must do all things through love so that we may know peace. This is a time to engage in creative works with courage and determination so that we may know ourselves before our time is through."  He sprinkled more tobacco on the ground and added it to the bowl of the pipe. Mare had noticed he had done this for each of the four directions. He then touched the pipe bowl to the ground saying, " green is the color of Mother Earth.  Everything that we have been given on this plane has come from Her. We may plant the seeds ourselves, but it is She who nourishes them and gives them life. She has our deepest debt and respect and we honor Her." He sprinkled more tobacco and added to the pipe, then pointed the pipe at an angle towards the sky. Father sky gives us the energy of the sun, the fire that gives us warmth and the energy that we need to survive. He works with Mother Earth and they are our true parents." 

Now he held the pipe straight to the sky, saying "Wakan Tanka, Great Spirit. You have created us all and all of which we have spoken here, the four sacred directions and Mother Earth and Father Sky. We owe it all to you and we turn to you for guidance. We offer you this pipe and pray that this offering may bring us answers to questions that are asking."

He then handed the pipe to the older man sitting across from Mare, who produced a lighter from his pocket and lit the end of it.  Then he drew in a breath of it and quickly let it back out. Even above the fire, she could see the smoke drift over his head. He handed it back to Martin, who took his own breath of it and handed it to the stern-faced woman beside him. She also took a breath, let out and handed the pipe back to Martin. She then picked up a flute she had placed beside her and began to play a deep and haunting melody. Mare had heard Native American Flute music before, but something about this sent a shiver up her spine, though she was warm within the folds of the fur cloak. 

Martin walked over to Mare and held out the pipe, nodding his head. 

"You don't have to if you don't want to," she heard Clive say beside her.

"I want to," she returned. Suddenly she had the urge to participate, even though shortly before she had been worrying over this moment. She took the pipe from Martin. It felt heavier than she had expected. She brought the mouthpiece up to her mouth and as Clive lit the end.  "Just breathe long enough to gather the smoke, but don't inhale it, just let it back out," he whispered to her. She wondered that he thought she wouldn't be able to handle it, so she ignored him and instead drew in a long deep breath and held it as long as she was able. She could feel the smoke begin to fill her lungs and it forced its way back out in the form of a cough. Clive gave her a look she didn't understand but knew she would wonder over the meaning of it for the rest of the night. He took the pipe from her, and she watched him take a breath just as he had instructed her to do, letting the smoke right back out into the cold, night air.  Mare saw that the other girl did the same when it was her turn with the pipe, and she now understood that was how it was done and felt foolish for not listening to Clive. She was starting to feel something else as well.  She was more fully aware of her body and could sense a vague vibratory quality within it. All at once she was fully aware of herself sitting in front of the dancing fire, but she was experiencing another place and maybe another time. She saw a face through the heat of the flames.  It didn't belong to any of the others, and wasn't really there, yet somehow, she saw it. She recognized it in her heart, although she could not put a name or relationship to it. Then she felt a deep longing. Before she realized, she had reached out her hand to touch the face, to keep it there with her always, but it was gone. It was someone that she loved. That was all she knew. 

Clive looked at her.  "What did you see, Mare?" he asked, his brow furrowed.

"There was someone there," she answered.  "They went away before I was able to know who they were." 

"Just be with the message you are receiving," he said. 

"He's gone." she said to him.  "He's gone."  Mare didn't know why she was saying this, but she knew she was repeating words she had spoken before.  

"Where did he go?" asked Clive. Mare wondered why he was asking her these questions and at the same time, it felt completely natural.  She was speaking without conscious effort to do so. "I...I don't know," she answered. "He left me here.  He keeps leaving me. He always leaves me." 

"Can you find him?" asked Clive

"How?" asked Mare. "Who is he?"

"I can't tell you how," said Clive. "I can't tell you who.  All you can do is take the message you are receiving."

"Before, before he could come back," said Mare. "Now he can't go forward or back."  He is stuck there Clive and it hurts.  It is the most tremendous pain.  That's all I can feel. Please make it go away," she silently screamed the last few words and felt her body give out under the weight of the psychic impression she was receiving. Clive quickly held her up and she felt like a feather in his solid arms. The weightless feeling, cause her to grasp onto him more tightly, as though she feared if she did not, she would somehow float away. 

"Where is he?" asked Clive.  "Ask him where he is. How can we find him?

She felt the image retreating now and she was coming back into the time and space of her normal consciousness.  She felt her own feet beneath her, solid against the frozen earth. Clive still held her and he looked intensely into her face. "Mare?" 

She looked back at him but had no words. Her mind was empty and all she could think was how his eyes looked like the ocean on a rainy day. Then, like a whisper a word floated across the space of her mind. She could see it written, white and spectral across a black canvas, the words " Tech Duinn." It escaped her mouth.  It meant nothing to her, but Clive's face became drawn. "Ask how I can get to him, Mare. Ask him."

"I can't," said Mare. "He's gone."  She didn't feel like herself in that moment. It was as though the energy of the apparition had taken place within her and as it left it took all that she had known of herself to that point in time, stripped of ego.  

"She's had enough." said Martin, coming aside Mare and placing his hand upon her shoulder. Clive continued to stare at Mare as though he would be able to decipher something in her appearance.  "Clive," said Martin. "Take her back to the house so she can rest. We will continue the circle." 

Clive was reticent.  He needed more answers. Now his mind was reeling.  So many questions. Why had he not been the one to connect to Raven, why had it been Mare? This type of connection usually occurred between spirits that had been close in this life. Therefore, shouldn't it have been him and not Mare?  He knew Mare's abilities were rather profound, more than she knew herself, but then, they were really no different than the abilities that he had himself, which brought him back to the question, why her and not him?  He had grown up with him.  They had been friends for a good part of their lives and although they had a falling out a few years prior, he knew that on a deep level they had still been brothers. Nothing would have been able to change that.  

Mare was in obvious shock.  Her pale face was blank, and she was shivering. He drew her to him and held her close, absorbing some of the energy that still had no place. "Come on," he said, "let's get you to bed."

***

Blackwell had lain in bed wide awake staring at a brown water stain on the ceiling that vaguely resembled a dog, until he could not take it any longer. This situation was becoming intolerable. He could no longer be a part of their games if they were going to continue to involve Mare. He was starting to feel uncontrollable anger for Hartman, the only father he had ever known. The man had raised him, had taught him about the world and their part in it.   He had been chosen to work in this realm in shutting down people who were a threat to their control. These were people with deep psychic connection and understanding. They said Mare was a great threat, but she didn't yet know her own abilities. A college psychology professor was the perfect setting for targeting young adults who were in the same situation. There had been a few.  By the time he assisted in disabling them through the power of suggestion and often the aid of hypnosis, they were shells of their former selves. Many, no longer knowing how to handle their sensitivity to the psychic realm and the emotions of others, would end up lifelong members of the mental health scene. He never really cared before; it was just part of his role. He knew the part he had to play, and he did it. In return he was promised to continue his life. God knows he had lived a long one. He had been playing this game for centuries, he and Hartman, but now that the power of The Others had grown so strong, there was no more going back and forth between worlds. He grew weary of this; this purely temporal plane had grown boring and the game tedious. And now, there was Mare. What was it about her?  She threw him off balance, he had never before questioned his role and now all of a sudden, he was. He was arguing with Hartman even knowing how dangerous he was, but when he thought of her, there was an aching in his core that he didn't understand. No one had ever made him feel like that before. It wasn't love. He was not capable of love. He learned this early on as well. He had the urge to get out of himself and though he was not one for drinking because it so dulled his abilities, the impulse to imbibe was biting at him. At least it would be better than continuing to stare at the dog stain and drive himself crazy. 

The Lucky Stag was a dive just three blocks from his hotel, but it was open. He didn't care what the place looked like, he just wanted to feel the burning rush of liquor flow down his throat and the light, hazy feeling that almost immediately followed. The place was almost empty aside from a few shady regulars propped along the bar stools. The smell of smoke hung thickly in the air and clung to his nostrils like the dust that coated the walls. There was a small group of young people over by the pool table. They gave the guise that they were playing pool, but the two guys were really just trying to impress the self-conscious brunette in the low-cut crop top and the mini skirt. She, of course knew this and was eating it up, because anything that assisted in balancing the scale against the side of self-doubt was soaked up like a sponge by her impressionable mind. The other girl, rail thin and mousy in jeans and a tee shirt appeared less than amused, considering one of the loafs was her boyfriend. 

Blackwell gave them no more than a quick glance and sat down at the empty side of the bar. He nodded at the bartender, a young man with bleach blond hair spiked up on top of his head. 

"What will it be?" the man asked him.

"Just a scotch on the rocks," he replied. 

"You got it brother."

The bartender shoved a glass of ice and golden liquid at Blackwell, who shoved a ten back across the counter. "Keep the change," he said. 

The mixture was icy, but it burned going down and he winced at the discomfort and placed the glass, now half empty, down on the counter. 

"Can I get you another?" came a deep voice beside him. It was not the youthful voice of the bartender; no, this voice Blackwell would recognize anywhere. He didn't bother looking up. "Get the hell away from me, Hartman," he said. 

The other man laughed, not out of mirth or congeniality, but from a place much more sinister. "William, you're digging yourself a rather deep hole these days. Do you care to find your way out of it?"

"Why don't you just bury me in it Hartman, and be done with it? I'm just the decrepit old dog that you just refuse to shoot." 

"You're hardly decrepit, William, just the opposite I would say. You're getting too fiery for your own good. You know emotions are not your friend and somehow after all these years you're getting too careless with them.  Arguing with me over the body today was hardly a wise choice."

Blackwell looked at the other man. Hartman's top hat was back in position upon his head after the day's earlier fiasco. He had an impulse to punch it off the man's stupid skull and reveal the grey bedecked baldness that sat beneath. What would happen then, he wondered. Hartman's bloodshot blue eyes gazed at him, and Blackwell felt as though his thoughts were being read, in fact, he could almost guarantee that they were. He felt another twinge of anger mixed with jealousy. Of all the things Hartman had taught him, telepathy and mind control were two skills he had not been privy to.

"The body would have been the perfect prop to trigger the girl properly, and yet you refuse my orders regarding her. Why?"

"She's innocent in all this. I frankly don't know why you're targeting her. She has no special abilities, she's no threat to you or any of us. Why don't you just leave her alone?"

"She is a threat. She's a threat to you! If you would disobey my orders over her, question my authority? What is going through your stupid head, William?"

"Why don't you tell me?" returned Blackwell, staring icily at the old man.

"What I will tell you, is that either way you will screw yourself if you don't give up your illusions about her now. She is a much greater threat to us than you could possibly realize. Now, if you have leanings of fondness towards her, pray you don't lean too far. You know what love means for our kind. We can't exist where love exists and if you give yourself over to that force, you will perish."

"I don't love her, she just...I don't know what I feel, but I want you to leave me out of it. I want to cut my ties with her and be done with it. Find someone else to do your dirty work on this one."

"No, no, I'm afraid I can't do that, William. You're in it now, and we need you to make this play out the way we want it to. You need to remember where your allegiances lie. You pledged yourself to me long ago and you're bound to your ties, but I can see that you're weary." He sat back on the barstool and cracked his knuckles before going on. "You've been of great service to me, and I realize that even a slave who is fed, and clothed and well cared for, still feels the cut of his shackles and yearns to be released from his bondage. So, I'll make you a deal. Finish it. Finish it with her, the way it was planned, and I will...release you. You will be free."

Blackwell, who had been studying the remains of his drink while he listened, now looked up at Hartman. Hartman's eyes did not betray him. He was speaking the truth.

"Just lay the bait and make the switch, William."

"You would give me my freedom? I have your word?"

"Just deliver on this girl and I will release you. There have been many, William. She is no different." 

Blackwell took another swig of his drink and banged it down on the countertop, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.  "Alright," he said. "What do you want me to do?"

Hartman chuckled. "It would have been so easy, if you had just listened earlier instead of arguing with me, but now the body is gone to the ethers. So, I want you to listen very carefully and do not deviate from what I am about to say."

"Ok, I'm listening."

***

Amelia Belkin sat at her desk. It was the large, deep and sturdy sort and it sat in the middle of her office. It wasn't quite inviting though and put a good four feet of space between her and whoever may occupy the chair across from her, most often one of her patients. It was also metal, not wood and looked more like it belonged in a surgical suite than in a therapy office. But, then again that's what she was doing more or less, surgery. This just happened to be the psychic kind. Mind control was her forte and metal proved to be an excellent conductor of psychic energy.  Leaning further back into her red leather desk chair, she thought for a moment about the boy, well not really a boy in his late twenties, but to her, he was a child. She was centuries old herself. She could still feel the weight of his unforgiving lifeless form right before she released it from her grasp back down the edge of the ravine. The fact that this event somehow bothered her, bothered her. She was not usually so moved.  She had done worse and felt no remorse, but this time was somehow different. This time it was too close. She had raised him from the age of nine when she had legally adopted him from the foster system. She had taken him away from the East Coast and they had lived in Seattle for a time where under the guise of psychiatrist, she continued to mentally disable people whom The Others foresaw as threats. When the threat of John MacAughtry had disappeared with his passing, she and the boy, who she knew as Luis, had moved back to Connecticut so that she could continue to carry out the mission of The Others. It was then that Luis had gotten mixed up with the other side in his interaction with the Abenaki tribe and The Elders. He had been given a new name, Raven Feather and was becoming too informed for his own good. She hadn't wanted to do much more than erase his early memories and keep him away from the girl, for together, their power would have been too much. But, because of his involvement with The Elders, she was forced to use her mental manipulation on him and to drug him beyond comprehension. He again lost his identity and everyone he loved, just as before. She wouldn't have had to go this far if it hadn't been for the girl. Although Belkin was incapable of love, over the years she had developed some sort of fondness for Luis, but Hartman would give her no other option. It was the girl's fault; it had always been. Now she was struck with the furor of revenge. It had not been personal, and now it was. This loss had been for nothing; they could not now use Luis' memory as a break in Mare's psyche, because that Goddamn Blackwell had refused to assist in it. Again, it was the girl's fault. She had cast some sort of spell across Blackwell and caused the idiot to screw everything up for them. Now Luis was gone, and it was for nothing. Nothing. 

She sat with the setting sun until the liminal shades of twilight caused the furniture in the room to lack any character aside from shape. "Master," she said, not aloud, "what do you now wish of me?" 

CHAPTER TEN

How long he had been lying in darkness, he did not know. It felt like the blackness, hollow, cool and endless must be all he had ever known. He knew nothing else, and yet he had a sense that he had once been someone or something. Now, he belonged to the darkness. Yet, something within him began to stir. Something that felt warm began to emanate from within, until he began to see light again. It contrasted the black and accentuated the fact that the darkness was fathomless.  Then when it seemed that the light couldn't possibly fill the deep void, it grew once again. It grew from within itself as if another ring of light starting in the center of his own consciousness, expanded out, even brighter than the previous expanding ring of light. Now the edges of shapes began to appear. He tried to focus on them and make sense of their nature, but the more he focused, the less clear they became, and so he let go and observed again. He had no burning desire to be elsewhere or do anything, he didn't feel that he could, in fact, do anything. He was merely an observer. As he continued to observe the process that was somehow originated in the core of his own consciousness, the light once again radiated out in expansion and increased brightness and now faint color began to appear and give depth to the shapes.  The process continued for a long time and the picture continued to expand and deepen before him, becoming something of substance, something tangible. He first had the sense, and now he could see, that he lay within a small valley. The grass upon which he lay, was green, although he did not yet know the name for this color or what color was. The valley expanded and a line of tall structures with long brown stems and gently swaying green tops reached up towards a grey-blue misty sky. He lay in the little valley between this row of trees and the edge of the land where it then dropped down giving way to a sand filled dune with rocks and driftwood of all shapes and sizes, scattering the landscape. Water rushed up against the land and then subsided in formation of deep, foamy waves. Suddenly he was aware of another sentient creature as a gull swooped above and let free a deep guttural call, which to him seemed to say, "welcome home." 

***

Clive guided Mare to the bed. All of her senses were alive and acute. She could smell the smoke from the fire on him, mingling with his flesh and aftershave. His body was formidably solid and strong in front of her and radiated with his energy, which to her, held only promise, life and the possibility of a lover. 

"I'm sorry," he said softly. "I shouldn't have pushed you so hard."

"What was that about?" she asked, suddenly returning to the images that had fleeted from her just a short while before. Her body still pulsated from the aliveness of herself that had been delivered through the smoke of the pipe.

"There is much you don't know," answered Clive. "If I tell you everything, I risk putting you in danger, and that's not something I am willing to do." 

"I deserve to know what's going on. I feel like my whole world has gone topsy turvy. I can't simply go back to the way things were before and pretend this whole day never happened. 

"I'm afraid that's what you're going to have to do."

"Then why did you bring me here?"

He looked at her searching for an answer to give, but none came to him. Why had he brought her here? He should have known he couldn't keep her out of this; she was a part of it and always had been. 

"There are worlds other than this one, and they are trying to reach you, Mare." I don't know if you're ready."  He went on, "there are dark forces at work, and I need to protect you from them, but the more you know, the more danger you will be in, so that's all that I can say."

On any other day if she had heard those same words uttered to her, she would have deemed the speaker crazy. If Clive had said this to her yesterday, she would have dropped him in a hot second, but it was not yesterday, it was today and now she could do nothing but believe him. 

"I don't need your protection," she said, keenly aware the words she spoke were most likely not true but needing to appear strong. 

Clive studied her, his hands resting on her hips arm’s length away. "Maybe you need my protection less than I need to feel like I am protecting you," he answered, adding "it's hard to know how to keep oneself safe when you don't know what you're up against. 

"Then tell me."

He again paused, before sitting down on the bed. She lowered herself beside him so they were sitting thigh to thigh. 

"I'll tell you a story. There is an Abenaki legend about the story of creation. Before The Great Spirit created the world, he fell into a deep sleep and he dreamed, and what he dreamed became our world. This was created out of light and life, which were perfect and still remain in a perfect creation, but the dream world, this world, it was imperfect. As humans entered this world they lost the connection that they had to that original sacred space and The Great Spirit. This is the concept of fallen man; we no longer see things for how they truly are, including ourselves. We are misguided by the veil of this world and are ourselves dreaming. We think we are the only race, but that is untrue as well. There is a great race of light beings on a higher plane of existence, and there is a world between the two as well where some may become trapped in another dream of sorts. The middle world is connected to both the higher realm and ours and some within it can communicate with both sides. There are those who can cross back and forth between this world and the other. They are called The Hidden People. There was a time in history when we had a much stronger connection with the other worlds and with the Hidden People, but that connection has been severed, much in part due to the work of a dark force of beings that are known as The Others.  The Elders of my tribe as well as other Native groups have worked hard at maintain a connection as strong as possible, but it has been difficult. That being said, there are those born into this world who come here with a predetermined purpose, which is to destroy the force of The Others and join the worlds; to reestablish the connection…to dream a new dream.  Only, when these beings get here, they forget that they are dreaming and get caught up in this world. My grandfather's mission, and my mission is to protect those beings, so they can fulfill their promise. The Others stop at no cost in destroying them, because they know how powerful they would be if they were able to fulfill their purpose. We call them The Sensitives because they are sensitive in their connection to the energies of the other realms and to the Hidden People. You, Mare, are one of them."

Mare sat in silence, having a flash back to a time in her undergraduate dorm room when she and her ex-boyfriend, Darren, had tried LSD.  Darren had told her he had been abducted by aliens and his body had been implanted with the soul of an alien being from the planet Zoltron. She had become immediately freaked out and started hitting him with her bed pillow, until he started laughing hysterically and then told her to get a grip. She had spent the rest of the night in fetal position rocking herself in the far corner of her bed. The next day she had broken up with Darren and he was arrested the following week with possession with intent to distribute a class D substance. She wondered now what may have happened to him and if she was reliving the same sort of experience all over again. "That's a nice story, Clive, but you can't honestly expect me to believe you, can you? I mean, this is crazy."

"I wouldn't be sitting her in all seriousness saying this to you if it weren't true, Mare. You have felt it for yourself. Can you tell me it isn't real?"

"In this moment. I don't know what is true anymore. I am faced with either believing my whole life has been a lie, or that the man sitting next to me is a lie."

"I'm not a lie, Mare."

"How do I know that? I now doubt everything, even myself. How do I know that what you're saying is real? How do I know that you're real? How do I know what I can possibly trust?"

"I'm real, Mare. Trust me. Trust this," he said leaning into her, his lips deeply pressing against hers, his warmth encapsulating her body. His tongue found its way to hers and she found her body being drawn closer to him, his soul inviting her to merge with his. They began to remove the thick layers and Mare could vaguely feel the cold of the room upon her skin. It more aroused her than bothered her and she felt Clive's warm body again in stark contrast to the other sensation. Skin to skin, they coalesced again and again. There was no moment other than this, they, the only two in existence. Mare could feel his love for her throughout every cell his body that came into contact with hers. Her skin trembled at the touch of his love.  And in that moment, she knew that everything he had told her and everything about him was true and that she loved him. If she never knew another thing, that would be okay. 

***

How long he had lain there, between the shore and the forest, he didn't know. It seemed that it had been forever. She had come to him; she had been there. In another life he knew her and now that he had seen her, he knew her again. His dearest friend. She had seemed surprised to see him at first, and then a look of recognition spread across her face, but as quickly as it had come, it faded. He reached out his now apparent arm to her and she reached back as her image faded in and out like a flickering candle, and then like an extinguished flame, gone. He let out a wail, that didn't sound human, but then again, maybe he wasn't human anymore. What was he? He began to look around and he remembered. He had been here many times before, ever since he was a child and wanted to escape his troubled life, he would lie down on the rock formation in the woods and be transported here -only this time, he knew there was no going back. He stared at the blue sky above him, the clouds slowly passing in front of the sun and an occasional bird flying across his line of vision. Slowly he lifted first his head and then his torso so that he was in a seated position, his legs out in front of him.  He shook his head, it felt heavy and his ears felt as though they were full of water. He looked down at his body, which was clothed in the garments he had often worn in this place, brown boots to his knees, gray pants into which a flowing cream colored tunic was tucked. He stood and waited for the dizzy feeling to pass, before looking around once more at the landscape. He took in a deep breath of the cold and salty air laced with pine and he smiled to himself with sudden contentment. As he stood, he felt the ground begin to vibrate and, on the horizon, he could see a group of horses galloping in his direction. He admired the creatures as they came closer, recognizing many of them as they came to a stop in front of him. In the head of the group a grey mare stood.  

"Hello, Raven," she said without physically speaking. "We have missed you."

"Hello, Ipona," he spoke back. "I have been gone a long time, but now I am back for good."

***

As Clive climbed out of the warm bed and the comfort of the multi-colored quilt that had been lovingly pieced together by his grandmother, he gazed down at Mare, who was sleeping on the pillow beside his, her dark hair falling round her face. He reached over and smoothed a wisp back behind her ear. She looked peaceful and he wished for a moment that he could stay here with her this way forever. He had never imagined someone like her would come into his life, although he also felt there was a part of him that had always known her. Now that she was here, he knew he would do anything to keep her safe, even if it meant facing The Others head on. He tucked the quilt more tightly around her, taking one more lingering glance at her delicate face before exiting the room. 

Downstairs he found his grandfather sitting at the table.