Witch Hunt

Witch: One who connects with the earth; wise person; shape bender

I could feel it as soon as I paused in the open doorway of my cozy loft apartment, even though everything looked the same. The same dark-gray hall carpet, the same welcome mat in front of my door with the arch-backed black cats, the same pair of boots my across-the-hall neighbor and good friend Sydney Santangelo always casually kicked off, strewn outside her door. Nothing seemed amiss.

I couldn’t quite put my finger on it—it was just a subtle shift in the air, a feeling that something, somewhere in the Universe, had been knocked out of alignment. And as an empath and overall sensitive person, the feeling was pretty overwhelming.

Although it could simply be that I’d gotten crap for sleep last night. My insomnia was back with a vengeance lately, wreaking all sorts of havoc on my psyche. It had been like this a lot since Grandma Abigail’s unexpected death last month. I hadn’t been myself since, which wasn’t surprising. Losing her meant losing my last family member, and it had left me feeling completely alone.

Plus, it was Monday, and that itself explained a lot. If that weren’t enough, a glance at my moon calendar this morning told me we were still in Pluto retrograde in Capricorn, which could yield all kinds of upsets. Pluto was all about our shadow side, and brought about unpredictability and change. And I was a firm believer that everything in life followed the cycle of the moon, which meant some sort of problem waited on the horizon.

A lot of angst for a Monday morning. I could hear Grandma Abby’s voice in my head: “Violet, you get out there and face Pluto head-on. There’s nothing you can’t handle. You’re a Mooney, aren’t you?”

Wherever she was, I believed she had her eye on me right now, and I didn’t want to disappoint her. So I’d dragged myself out of bed with every intention of being at my crystal shop, The Full Moon, promptly at nine with a smile and some good vibes, ready to help anyone who needed it.

But first, yoga.

I made a conscious effort to shake off the mood as I squared my shoulders and stepped into the hallway. I could hear Presley, Sydney’s four-year-old daughter, shrieking with laughter in their apartment. I didn’t bother knocking to see if Syd wanted to go to yoga. She’d tried it for a while after she moved to town two years ago, then gave it up. She’d told me that the whole experience left her overwhelmed and feeling not good enough. “I can’t handle those super skinny yogi chicks eating their Buddha bowls and twisting themselves into impossible shapes,” she’d told me. Although I think her hesitation was more about her crow pose going awry during her first and only class, resulting in her falling on her face. At the front of the room, no less.

I thought she was missing the point, but it was none of my business. Besides, everyone falls over when they’re learning crow pose.

I made for the elevator, even though I just wanted to go back inside and snuggle up with Monty. My fat orange cat was planning on an exciting day of sleep, and I thought longingly of joining him. I’d seen the gloom of this early January day from my full-length windows, and it was a perfect day to stay in bed.

“Knock it off,” I commanded myself out loud. “This is a bad attitude. Today is going to rock.”

Deciding to make that my mantra for the day, I got in the elevator, tucking my red hair under my black beret and wrapping my new pink scarf tighter around my neck. I loved my new scarf. I’d gotten it over the weekend when I’d treated myself to a trip to Nordstrom Rack. It was the softest, fluffiest scarf I’d found in a while, and a deal to boot.

I pushed open the lobby door and stepped out onto Water Street into the winter air, flinching as it hit my face. Instinctively, I tugged my scarf higher, covering my nose. And nearly tripped over a black cat sitting right at the bottom of the steps.

“Oh! I’m sorry.” I knelt down to pet the cat, who looked unfazed by my less-than-graceful exit from the building. He—or she?—arched and purred, looking for all the world like a model for a Halloween calendar, with piercing yellow eyes and a long slinky tail that twitched ever so slightly. The quintessential black cat. “Do you live here? Do you need to go inside?”

The cat continued to stare at me until an approaching whistle distracted us. We both turned to see Mr. Quigley come around the corner. He whistled an off-key version of “Moon River” as he pushed his noisy shopping cart ahead of him. When I turned back, the cat was gone. Blinking, I looked around. No trace, not even a blur of black streaking away.

Well, cats were fast. It was all part of their charm. I hoped the kitty found its way home okay.

“Morning, Miss Violet,” Mr. Quigley shouted from halfway up the block, finally noticing me.

“Morning, Mr. Q.” I waved and decided to wait for him because it was polite and because I did like Mr. Quigley. Today he wore his usual outfit—a giant flannel shirt, black vest, and a furry hat with earflaps that made me think of Alaska. His beard was getting longer. He liked to grow it in during the winter months, which left him looking a bit like Gandalf from The Lord of the Rings. “Where are you off to so early?”

“Collectin’ my cans,” he said, drawing up next to me. He had his ever-present pipe clamped between his teeth, which gave his words a slight lisp. “You?”

Every morning Mr. Quigley went around the neighborhood and collected any cans people had discarded. When he had a good stash, he cashed the money in and donated it to the local food pantry. It was a lovely gesture from someone who clearly could’ve kept the money for himself. I wasn’t sure where exactly he lived, but I guessed it was in one of the subsidized apartments around the corner. I felt a rush of gratitude for my own cozy apartment, and my business that made it possible. And all the little extras I got to enjoy. Like coffee and sushi. And yoga.

“That’s nice,” I said. “I’m working today, but I have to go to my yoga class and get my coffee first. Walk with me?”

He fell into step beside me. “Weird morning,” he said after a moment.

I glanced up at him. “What do you mean?”

Mr. Q shrugged. “Just feels weird around here. Like the calm before the storm.”

I felt a chill that had nothing to do with the temperature. Same feeling I’d had earlier this morning.

Before I could ask him about it, Mr. Q’s eyes narrowed as he caught sight of another man heading down one of the side alleys. “That’s my dumpster,” he muttered. “Shyster. Someone’s encroaching on my territory. Bye, Miss Violet.” He darted down the alley, almost as quick as the black cat, his cart jangling against the concrete.

I continued on down the block, walking as fast as I could to escape the cold. North Harbor was quiet this morning. It usually was in these earlier hours, and then later in the day it turned into a mini Manhattan as the restaurants and bars filled up and people strolled the streets. The sound of seagulls filled the air ahead as they swooped in and out of the river just up the block. The Long Island Sound was so close I could smell the salty air, an added bonus I hadn’t expected when I’d moved here. The ocean was my happy place. It filled me with energy and cleared the muck out of my brain. Which was why I always wanted to be within smelling distance of it. And later, when my shop really takes off and I could afford it, I wanted to live smack on top of it.

Something to aspire to.

Shanti, the yoga studio around the corner from my building, had a steady stream of people pouring in despite the early morning hour. Natalie Mann’s early class was one of the studio’s most popular. Natalie’s approach both calmed and energized people, and she had a knack for infusing messages into her classes that always resonated.

I joined the yogis entering the studio, intent on making it to my favorite spot in the back next to the wall. I wasn’t confident enough in my yoga abilities to take a spot up front. I fully expected to fall on my face one day also. Luckily, a lot of the early birds preferred the front of the studio, so the back was still blessedly empty. I unrolled my purple mat with a snap of my wrist and grabbed two blocks and a blanket. Natalie spotted me and smiled, making her way over with her burning stick of palo santo, clearing the room’s energy for class.

“Hey girl,” she said, giving me a quick hug while managing to not set my hair on fire. “Thanks for coming.”

“Of course. I need this today.” I sniffed the heady scent of wood appreciatively. Natalie arrived early to make the studio welcoming. I admired her dedication to yoga, which she’d said many times had saved her life. Today, though, she looked tired. I got a glimpse of muddy browns and greens in her aura, which was not like Nat. Reading auras was a skill I’d realized I had back when I was a teenager, and while it greatly helped my work, sometimes it gave me insights that I didn’t ask for. “How are you?” I asked.

“I’m fine,” Natalie said. Her cheerful smile seemed forced. “Busy week. I might need to come in and do a crystal session soon.”

In addition to selling quality crystals, holding classes, and bringing in other energy healers regularly, I offered custom crystal consults and crystal “prescriptions” based on the session. It was what I loved best—one-on-one time with clients, using their auras and energy to create a menu of stones that could truly make a difference in their lives. “Of course! Anytime. Just let me know. I have a bunch of open slots this week.”

“I will.” She flashed me a dazzling smile, looking almost like herself for a moment, then moved on to resume clearing the room and greeting students. When she’d finished, she waved her stick to put out the flame and sat up front, pulling her dark hair into an effortless bun and closing her eyes. “Welcome,” she said, and all the chatter quieted.

I settled back and closed my own eyes, sinking into the mat and the smells and sounds of the room, hoping this practice would chase away this gnawing feeling of unrest.