I HAD BEEN CAMPING at Pfeiffer Big Sur State Park for fourteen days now, seven over the usual park limit. Doctor Mendez had worked hard to “bend the rules” and procure fifty-six consecutive days for me in the same location. It took some doing, but somehow, he’d convinced seven people to rent this space for seven days each and then pass them on to me. I had thirty-nine days left, and here I sat in my mega-tent no closer to contacting Antonia. Of course, I hadn’t been trying that hard. There had been many distractions.
What surprised me, though, was that Antonia hadn’t contacted me either. Should I just wait it out, as Adam had suggested— “She’ll contact you when she’s ready” —and continue hanging around until she made the first move? Maybe she was okay now. Maybe she had resolved what had been bothering her. But if this were the case, why was she communicating with Adam, a complete stranger? Was it because AD somehow dissolved the barrier between her world and his? Or did Adam’s lack of the need to control—what she might say, what she might demand—open him up to her message?
I crawled out of my tent only to find myself separated from the rest of the world by a swirling curtain of morning fog. The temptation to crawl back into my sleeping bag and wait for Mother Nature to be more cooperative drew me with a force that proved hard to resist. In two days, it would be my twenty-ninth birthday. Twenty-nine and still searching.
After starting my campfire, I heard a trembling voice penetrate the fog. “Marjorie?”
“Holly? Over here, sweetheart.”
She materialized out of the mist as if the fog had taken on human form. Her outstretched arms guided her into the dome-like clearing created by the heat of the fire. “Could you make me some hot cocoa?”
I motioned for her to sit down. “It would be my pleasure.”
“I know you think I’m brave, but I’m scared,” she said, scooting as close to me as the physical constraint between familiar strangers would allow.
I put a saucepan of bottled water onto the fire to heat. “It’s daytime and your parents and your brothers are nearby.”
She peered at the grayness all around us and pulled her pink jacket more tightly around her footed pajamas. “Daddy says there are ‘Dark Watchers’ out here.”
Darn that man. “He did?” I’d heard of the Dark Watchers legend: giant human-like phantoms, shadow people, only seen at twilight, silhouetted against the night sky, along the peaks of the Santa Lucia Mountains, staring into space, seemingly at nothing.
“I think they’re watching me,” Holly whispered.
Yeah, me, too. I shrugged, hoping to downplay her fear. “What’s wrong with that? You aren’t doing anything wrong. Maybe you make them happy.”
She bit her lip as she considered this. “They see me visiting Adam.”
“Maybe they visit Adam, too.”
“They do. Adam talks to them. I’ve seen him.”
“So, if Adam isn’t scared of them, why are you?”
“I don’t know. I just am.”
I emptied a package of cocoa into a mug and added a spoon. “Someone very wise told me once that fear is just an illusion.”
“What’s an illusion?”
“Something that’s not real.”
“It’s real to me.”
She had a point there. Though most of our fears are about things that might happen, but likely never will, they seem real indeed. “Tell you what. You’re welcome to stay here whenever I’m gone. As long as you take good care of my things.”
She nodded, her curls jiggling in silent imitation of Anne’s bangles. “Okay.”
“But you’ll have to let your parents know where you are.”
She avoided my eyes. “Is the water ready yet?”
As I blended hot water with the cocoa in her mug, mini marshmallows floated to the top. I inhaled the sweet, chocolaty aroma. “At least tell one of your brothers, okay?”
She reached for the steaming mug, still avoiding my eyes.
I stirred the cocoa before handing it to her. “Is your family staying here long?”
Holly tested the cocoa with the tip of her tongue before taking a sip. “Dad and Mom’s summer jobs here pay for the park fees. Otherwise we’d be homeless.”
“Doesn’t the park supply some kind of dorm housing for its employees?”
“Not for their families. Anyway, Dad says camping here is like getting a free vacation.”
“What about school?”
Holly shrugged, keeping her eyes on the mug. Marshmallow foam lined the top of her lip, reminding me of a milk ad, except with an angel instead of a celebrity. “Adam has a God jar.”
It took a moment for me to adjust to the change in subject. “What’s that, dear?”
“When he has a problem, he writes it on a piece of paper and puts it in a jar. Then God takes care of it.”
Let go, let God. “What an excellent idea, just letting God handle things.” A matter of not trying so hard. Allowing the battle between what you know in your heart and what you have been taught to believe time to play out. Watching, listening, and staying on track. Even if that track leads away from all that’s familiar. Holly and Adam—direct and uncomplicated—served as golden threads to the spiritual side of the universe.
“I can make you one,” Holly said. “There’s lots of jars around here that people forget to put in the trash. I’ll wash one and decorate it for you.”
“Why thank you, sweetie. I could sure use a God jar right now, a reminder to let our father in Heaven handle things when I feel out of control. And since you’ll be tent-sitting for me, I’ll pay you five dollars a day.”
“Then I’ll have a job,” she said, eyes bright as firecrackers on the Fourth of July.
I added lukewarm cocoa to Holly’s mug, more conducive to warding off a child’s fears than the steaming hot variety. “But you can only tent-sit if it’s okay with your mom and dad.”
The brightness left her eyes. “They don’t like you.”
Even considering the source, the words stung. “Probably because they don’t know me.”
“Dad says women who travel alone are asking for trouble.”
“What do you think?”
“I get into more trouble when I’m with my brothers.”
Little girl pout, Buddha brain. How right she was, though sometimes “getting into trouble” is a necessary ingredient in life, an ingredient I had purposely avoided—until my dead mother came calling. “You’re pretty wise for your age. Now finish your cocoa and head back to your tent before your family wakes up and notices you’re gone.”
Holly gulped down the last of her drink and wiped her lips on the sleeve of her jacket before handing back the mug. “Thanks, Marjorie.”
“You’re welcome, Holly.”
She got to her feet and disappeared into the mist, entering a world I wasn’t part of and to which I didn’t belong.
~~~
After straightening up my campsite, I decided it was time to visit Anne’s lodgings for a change, instead of her always visiting mine. I knew more or less which direction to take, considering she always approached my place from the east. And her dugout shouldn’t be too hard to find. Just be on the alert for some kind of bohemian grove, with dream catchers and dried flowers dangling from tree branches in celebration of nature and summertime.
As it turned out, there were no dream catchers and dried flowers dangling from the trees. Instead, the lace windsock, paper lanterns, and scarf-like sheets flapping in the breeze were a dead giveaway. As was the yurt, with its lattice perimeter and umbrella-like roof. Colorful Moroccan panels skirted its walls, which included two vertical windows and a door.
Wonder how long it takes to put up and take down this mega shelter.
“Hello,” I called.
No answer.
I knocked on the door. A real wooden door! “Anne, it’s Marjorie.”
No answer.
Her Volvo was parked in the space next to the yurt, so she couldn’t have gone far. And it was a bit early to relieve Brock at Adam’s camp. Maybe she was still sleeping. Ha. It would be nice to discover that Miss Fit-as-a-Fiddle was a late riser.
I tried the door. It was unlocked. I opened it a crack. “Anne?”
I didn’t encounter the groggy, disheveled person I had envisioned. Instead, Anne was dressed in a flowing white robe and kneeling in front of a small altar fitted against one of the rounded sides of the yurt. The altar held two lit candles—one gold, one silver—two bowls—one filled with water, another with what appeared to be salt—plus, a chalice, a bell, a wand, and a small cauldron.
I must have gasped, because Anne opened her eyes and held up a hand to silence me before rising to her feet. “I bid you hail and farewell,” she said four times, facing a different direction with each incantation. Then she added a farewell to a Lord and Lady, while circling the interior of her yurt, counterclockwise, with what appeared to be a magic wand.
Saying my skin crawled, just about summed up my reaction. It felt as though I was encountering a complete stranger, someone performing some kind of Wiccan divination.
“You can come on in now,” Anne said as she began to dismantle the altar and put the ritual supplies into a small drawer on its side. “I’m a porta-pagan,” she said into the silence. “I carry my altar with me.”
“Do you practice witchcraft?” I managed.
She stared at me for a moment before answering. “I’m too lazy to be a full-fledged witch, my dear. I just fill in the empty spaces with some earth-based religious practices. And, in case you’re wondering... No, I don’t have any supernatural abilities. The forces I use are right here for the taking, available to all.”
“Not like the witches on TV?” I said, trying to keep the conversation light while my brain wrapped around this new development. Our friendship had taken a sudden turn. Witchcraft was something I didn’t understand and, in truth, didn’t want to understand. Could I muster the courage to withhold judgment and continue on as before? A seed of mistrust had been planted in my heart, a new awkwardness. The way she dressed should’ve tipped me off. Modern-day hippie, my foot! More like a priestess, shaman, witch doctor, and nurse all wrapped into one.
Anne studied me, blue eyes gleaming. “There are many types and traditions of witches. Ask a hundred witches a question and you’ll get a hundred different answers. However, all in all, we try to live in harmony with nature and take responsibility for the environment. I happen to be a solitaire. I find all the info I need in books and through practice. I make up my own rituals.”
“You make them up?”
“As I go. Sure. Whatever works for me is real for me. Guess you can call me an eclectic Wiccan. I borrow from Hawaiian and Native American traditions as well.”
Anne reopened the drawer in her altar and pulled out a small silver octagon. She held it up, and I recognized it as a St. Christopher medal, almost identical to the one hanging from the rear-view mirror of my Jeep. “Have you ever prayed to Saint Christopher to protect you in your travels?” she asked.
I remembered once using this same argument with my mother—and failing. “Of course, I’m Catholic.”
“So am I,” Anne said.
“You can’t be both,” I blurted, though I should’ve known better. Hadn’t I been attempting to experience the mysteries of the Native American Medicine Wheel in my search for understanding, while, at the same time, holding on to the rituals offered by the church of my upbringing?
A faint smile crossed Anne’s lips as she took note of my uplifted palms. “Did you know that convent and coven come from the same root?”
I didn’t, but also didn’t see the significance.
“Have you ever made chicken soup for a sick friend?”
I pulled my telltale hands into fists. “Of course, who hasn’t?”
A flash of sympathy burned through Anne’s widened smile. “How about wearing a lucky outfit or carrying a lucky charm?”
I thought of my mouse totem. “Sure.”
“Have you ever knocked on wood?”
“Okay, okay, I get the picture. These are all forms of magick, right?”
Anne clapped her hands. “My God, she’s getting it!”
I ignored her sarcasm. “I also believe we should live more simply and focus less on the material—”
“Are you going somewhere with this?” Anne asked.
“Well, I’m interested in the spiritual, New Thought, New Age, and the beliefs of my ancestors.”
Anne stared at the medal in her hands. “So?”
“Well, I would never become a Wiccan, but—”
“No one’s asking you to. Wiccans are smart enough to realize that their religion isn’t the path for everyone.”
“Will you quit interrupting? I’m trying to say that I might be able to incorporate some rituals of the Wiccan faith into my life.”
“I’m so relieved to hear that.”
“Darn it, Anne. I’m trying to understand.”
“I know, sweetie, I’m just playing with you.” She put the medal back in the drawer of her altar. “We’re both attempting to live spiritually and in tune with nature, just going about it in different ways. Anyway, I have bad news. Adam didn’t feel inspired to use our reinforced clay. Although he did use our piece of plywood as a base for a beautiful mud sculpture of his wife holding his son.”
“Can’t you try firing it anyway?”
“I did, and it exploded in the kiln.”
“Darn,” I said, disappointed, but not surprised.
“However, your sculpture is already at the gallery,” she said.
“What!”
“I was afraid you’d change your mind now that Adam wasn’t carrying through.”
“You are a witch,” I said, not half as upset as I thought I would be.