Sage Advice

 

Alexa deMonterice

Pellie stood before the memorial. With bare hands, she’d cleared about a four-foot-square patch of forest for her brother’s place of honor. The hotel had gardening tools, but she hadn’t wanted to be caught sneaking in again. Besides, the feel of earthy things was a joy, a welcome contrast to the concrete harshness of Los Angeles.

It wasn’t legal to spread human ashes on another’s property, so a bit of discretion was required: not Pellie’s forte. The sprawling mansion turned fancy-schmancy bed and breakfast had equally sprawling grounds, so Pellie pretended to be hiking while heading for their favorite spot. No one was the wiser. Somewhere along the way, though, she lost a sandal. She didn’t remember it happening, but she’d simply kicked off the remaining shoe and continued barefoot.

The store where she’d bought her tank top from had labeled it “sage green.” Hopefully, a favorable omen, indicating she’d be able to successfully put her brother Sage to rest. His silver cremation urn gleamed in the California sunlight. She ran her palms down it to the tree stump upon which it stood.

The stump stood near their favorite sequoia tree. This newly created shrine was off the hiking trail, discovery unlikely. The rich tourists preferred the manicured paths.

It infuriated Pellie that her beloved mansion had turned “destination spot.” This was her childhood home, her woods. Hers and Sage’s.

But that was before. Before her dad died. Before her mom followed him with a broken heart. Before Sage, her older brother and only sibling, left to join Doctors Without Borders. He’d helped to raise her from a six-year-old until her early graduation from high school at seventeen. Their grandmother had legally been their guardian, but she’d been bent with grief at the loss of her daughter. For the elderly woman to have two kids to care for, plus a mansion to keep up, was daunting. Easier to sell the damn thing.

Coming back to their childhood home in Redding had been Pellie’s mission. Sage should rest where he’d been born. Pellie, too, needed a rest. Driving from her LA apartment had been arduous. She remembered the many times before, when her brother had sat beside her in the front seat, windows down, wind whipping her hair. Pellie used to ruffle his ginger locks, saying he ought to grow it out; he’d grab her hair, calling her rat’s nest head.

Sage, though still on the seat beside her, was confined to a small cardboard box. Yeah, fun times for the Peters siblings.

~

After eleven years’ absence, Pellie couldn’t contain her anger. She’d smashed the hotel’s logo china. Seeing guests enjoying breakfast in the dining room—her dining room—drove her mad momentarily. Hotel security tried but failed to catch her.

To top off the frothing-at-the-mouth anger, The Grand Hotel—as it was pretentiously called—was known for “ghost tours.” Ghosts, her bony ass! If there really were ghosts here, they were her damn relatives! Pellie didn’t believe in that crap. Offensive to think you died and became a fucking tourist attraction!

Along the way to their favorite spot, she stopped to destroy a paranormal investigation van. “Ghost Be Gone” read the slogan on the truck’s side, complete with cheesy painted wisps of vapor. Ripping off doors, smashing windows, tearing up seats felt good!

Real mature for a twenty-seven-year-old, Pellie acknowledged to herself. Class act, Sis, Sage would’ve said. He was a mellow Buddhist; his Zen nature wouldn’t indulge in losing his cool. No way in hell he’d become a ghost. He was surely in some peaceful afterlife.

If he could speak to her now, he’d say something wise. Sage advice, she used to tease. “Chill out, little Sis,” he’d likely say. “You’re making yourself nuts like a catnip-addled kitten. Some things you can’t change. The universe loves you, even if you don’t understand it. Pause and enjoy the rosy-posies, Pellie. Ignore unhappy stuff. You can’t force the world to bend to you.”

He was a father as much as a brother—that’s what happens when a teenager helps raise a ten-year-younger sis. Finally, when he wastwenty-seven—the same age she was now—he moved Pellie to a dorm at Berkeley. She’d been excited about graduating a year early from high school to start college at seventeen, but the unfamiliar surroundings overwhelmed her. And then he’d gone and joined Doctors Without Borders.

She’d given Sage a fierce hug. He’d deliberately tangled her hair as he kissed her goodbye. Using his stern voice, he’d said, “Now, Penelope Peters, you will have fun and—most importantly—find your unique Pellie-ness. ‘Cause somewhere beneath that rat’s nest of red hair lurks a free spirit yearning for educational adventures and—”

Pellie smirked. “’Educational adventures?’ Where’d that shit come from?”

“I, the great Sage, only say wise shit. Look, it’s scary now, but it will soon be fun. Give it a chance.”

A tear rolled down her face—then a whole lot more tears.

Sage had cried, too. It was the first time they would be apart.

Now his adventures were over, and Sage and Penelope were together again.

Pellie kissed the urn, brushing against a nearby periwinkle. Wildflowers circled the tree stump holding his remains; she’d pulled them up, replanting them near Sage. A long strand of red hair snagged on the ragged wood. Annoyed, she gathered up her hair, twisting it around her hand, piling it atop her head and then pulling the ends through into a rough bun.

Kneading the soil with her fingertips, she felt the silken kiss of an earthworm. Pellie grinned. Life rippled within this free-spirited patch of forest. Inhaling the soft scents, Pellie stroked flowers interspersed amidst the pine needles. Honeysuckle yellows touched red and white asters, commingled with blue morning glories and swayed near lavender geraniums. They flowers felt like gentle caresses against her bare arms and legs.

Remembering their playful berry and flower fights as kids, she tossed a blackberry at Sage’s urn. “Skype and Facebook are not the same as in person,” she told the urn. “No berry stains.”

She smiled fondly. “Remember your first Facebook post, calling me ‘Gag-ably Goth’? Even coming up with a ditty: Bethcha fell pell-mell down the well, bruised your eyes (‘cause that shit can’t be makeup!) and now ya smell.”

Pellie laughed. “Long past the Goth phase, Sage, but not tats. New one here.” She pointed to the bandage on her upper left arm. Peeling the gauze back revealed blood crusted over lavender roses. Sage’s name peered out amid green leaves.

“Still bloody, ‘cause I got it right before I picked you up. When crusty stuff falls off, it’ll be Sage-tastic. On par with that peace sign tat on your back. Of course, that didn’t survive the whole ‘burn-him-up’ procedure.”

Pellie knelt, arranging leafy branches, a sprinkling of pine needles, and plump berries around Sage. She even smeared petals on his urn. Then she rubbed her tender tattooed flesh against it, hoping—who knows?—to bring him nearer the earthly realm. Yeah, right! Might as well ask a Ghost-Be-Gone geek to raise her brother’s spirit.

Her spirits—ha, ha—could use some lifting. She felt she’d let Sage down. This measly memorial was not enough. Shouldn’t she do more? Before Sage died in some third-world hovel, she’d sometimes wondered if he would’ve been better off without the burden of his sister. He’d never referred to her that way, but what brother wants to hear complaints that no one but he understood her; and when, oh when would he return?

“I’m a shit! You did everything for me, and then for the whole fucking world, because that’s what you do. Sage the healer. But you couldn’t damn well heal yourself! It’s, ‘Hey, here I am home, Sis—in a fucking box!’”

Penelope glared at the metal, wanting to both slap and hug the urn. She tore a blackberry bramble free from the forest floor with a satisfying shower of earth, hands bleeding from its thorns. She didn’t care; a little blood sacrifice from Pellie to her one-and-only brother. Hell, her last relative.

She wound the bramble around the tree stump, spiraling it up to the urn. The urn itself was shaped like a vase: if you ignored the lid on top, dead guy’s ashes inside. She opened it just a gap—don’t look in, don’t look in—and secured the vine inside, then firmly closed it.

“Back to nature enough for ya? What ‘Sage advice’ would you offer now? Don’t mourn, Sis, circle of life, blah, fucking blah?”

Pain stabbed her heart. How did such emotional agony not actually cause death? (Though she and Sage told people their mother had died from grief, Jack Daniels Single Barrel was the real culprit.) The tattoo needles that recently pierced her flesh felt like a goddamn caress in comparison to her heartache now.

“You have no idea—none!—how awful that drive was. You all silent in your goddamn pile of ashes,” Pellie screamed. “Why’s the only time I see you at funerals? Grandma’s, Aunt Belle’s. Did you prefer your fellow Doctors Without Borders more than me?”

The loamy smell of soil and crushed pine needles were replaced by an odor she’d smelled before, but couldn’t remember where: smoky, like a crackling fire, and accompanied by loud smashing sounds like when she destroyed the ghost hunter’s van. The air seemed to vibrate. Her hands trembled. The auburn hairs on her arms stiffened. A ring on her right hand gleamed brightly; it bore the logo from her florist shop. Co-owned, by her silent partner, the always-absent Sage.

She seethed with rage.

Though never hitting the urn, she tore up the area she’d just cleared, ripping at every plant she came across. Her hair loosened from the makeshift bun. Her fury escalated and she tore at the earth, too. All this was once theirs. Now it was just a dirty little secret memorial. “Mine! Ours,” she roared, screaming and flailing. Her head throbbed with anger.

A blinding flash made her squint. She paused, panting, bare skin covered with scratches, fingernails chipped or missing. Blackberry pulp and oozing sap mixed with her blood. Pellie swiped hair out of her face with the back of a hand and discovered a huge lump on her forehead and what felt like deep gash. How could that have happened?

A twig snapped.

“You know, I spend considerable time trying to keep these grounds neat,” a soft voice said.

For one breathless second, she thought it was Sage. Instead, a very real figure stood silhouetted against the sun.

Another goddamn hotel employee to grab the crazy lady, she thought. Pellie scrambled for her jean jacket, wrestling it free of the mess, and threw it over Sage’s urn.

The elderly man wore overalls. His long gray hair was tied back with a bandana. He walked with a kind of grace. “May I help you up?”

Crouching like a feral cat, Pellie just stared.

“Look, I saw the urn. Obviously, a sad day for you.”

She growled in response.

That was weird. When had she ever growled?

Whatever. She had a right to lash out at Mother Nature for taking Sage, and now at this guy for discovering Sage’s sacred garden. Sure, she decimated it, but it was her goddamn right to do what she wanted on her family’s land. Pellie stood. Forest debris fell from her. “Help. Me. Up? Did I fucking ask for your help?”

“You’re in a rage of pain. I don’t like to see anyone that sad.”

She’d cursed at him and he was being kind? What the fuck was this guy’s problem? “Um,” she managed. Looking around at the destruction she’d wrought, Pellie felt ashamed. “Got a little upset. You probably think I’m some nutjob.”

The man laughed. “Yes, ‘upset,’ sums it up nicely. I don’t judge. Heard a commotion, thought maybe a raccoon was making mischief. I’m Cheveyo.”

“Pellie,” she mumbled.

The man’s pocket beeped.

She jumped. Was he about to call the security goons?

“Sorry, meant to turn it off to enjoy the peace while I worked. I don’t think you’re nutty, but why worry what people think?”

“You sound like my brother.”

“That his urn? I’m sorry if so.”

“He was supposed to leave Doctors Without Borders and come back to LA for a while. He got sick in Zimbabwe and only made it back in a coffin.” Pellie’s chest hitched with a sob. “And I just—”

“What?” he encouraged soothingly. His voice hummed along the fine hairs on her arms.

She shook her head.

“You wanted to do something special.” Cheveyo gestured to her jean jacket and the shape beneath.

“Oh, please don’t tell; please don’t tell.” Pellie tried to take a steadying breath. Failing, she rushed on. “We played here before the house was sold and then watched our home turn into a tourist trap. I’m a friggin’ trespasser now. Ooooo, stop the evil trespasser.” She waved her arms dramatically, affecting a horrified expression.

“Painful, losing your home and seeing strangers in it. And, don’t worry. I’d never reveal a personal thing like your brother’s final resting place. “

“Wow, kinda solemn. ‘Final resting place’,” she intoned, making air quotes. She hated when others made those stupid gestures, but it felt necessary at the moment. “I couldn’t leave him surrounded by death in some cemetery.”

She continued, feeling a bit calmer. “I didn’t want to take him to my LA apartment: too creepy. Am I supposed to look at his urn while I go about my normal routine? I wish I could buy back just this small patch of land in his memory. Sage and I loved the forest and the untamed trails.”

Pellie realized Cheveyo was staring at her curiously. “I don’t know why I feel better talking to you,” she said.

“Everyone likes a little company,” Cheveyo said. His phone beeped again.

He knelt down to remove her jacket from Sage’s urn. She found she didn’t mind this gentle stranger meeting her brother. Cheveyo ran has hand above the bramble connected to the urn.

Pellie explained, “I pulled one blackberry vine free to link to the urn. To give Sage a real touch of the nature he loved.”

“You have to love nature,” Cheveyo agreed.

“That was Sage’s attitude. We’d camp here as kids, existing only on berries. Well, Mom packed us snacks, but we pretended to be lost in the jungle. Then this became a hotel, instead of our home, sucking the life outta the land with its big money vacuum, creating perfect little manicured trails for its rich muckety-muck—”

“Whoa,” Cheveyo stopped her. “You went from happy memories to pissed off in seconds. This is Sage’s sacred place. Shouldn’t we show respect?”

“I get these rages at the injustice: Sage dying from malaria. Malaria! That’s curable. He travels to third-world hovels, exposed to who the hell knows what, and dies from a goddamn mosquito? And then, driving up here alone but for Sage in a box no bigger than one of his hands. How is that fair? Lost my home and now my brother? I just want—I wish I’d something more to offer him than my bitterness. I want to hug my big brother again, hear his annoyingly calm wisdom. Sage advice, I’d tease. Don’t know why I’m exploring nature for answers.”

“Maybe nature is the answer,” Cheveyo suggested. “Nature craves balance, returning things, including spirits, to their proper place.”

“Like all this ghost-busting shit,” Pellie said.

“Speaking of which, may I make a suggestion I hope you won’t consider indelicate?”

“Maybe. Hit me with it. I’ll let you know.”

“I stumbled into this special shrine. Others may, too, and—”

“You’re right! They’ll say, ‘Eww, icky cremains’—did you know there’s actually a name for ashes?—and Sage will be disturbed. They’ll tear down the memorial. And—”

Cheveyo cleared his throat.

She was doing it again. Pellie backed away: Give the guy some space from the crazy woman.

“No,” Cheveyo said. “No. Come here, please.”

He took her hands, like a grandfather about to tell a child something important. With his thumbs, he traced the top of her hands: her skin pale, nearly translucent; the blue veins blending in with the soil, crushed flowers, and blackberry pulp covering them. “Sage loved this land. Right?”

Pellie nodded, worn out now.

“What’s more fitting than being a part of nature, one with the—”

A slight surge of anger perked her up. “Better not go all ‘ashes to ashes, dust to dust’ on me.”

“Well, kind of,” Cheveyo said. “Rather than leave this glinting in the sun to catch someone’s eye, why not sprinkle the contents around?”

“And have people walk on him?” Pellie tried to pull away from Cheveyo, but he prevented her gently.

“Not trod on like cigarette ash on a sidewalk.” Cheveyo chuckled. “We can ceremoniously sprinkle them, rub them into plants—however you like—and Sage’s spirit will be free to roam this special place.”

Her mouth felt too dry to speak, so she nodded.

“That’s the solution then. And I’ll put his urn in a safe place, where it will be displayed with respect, but emptied of its contents here.”

Why was he going to take Sage’s urn and not give it to her? Still, she liked his idea. She’d ask specifics later. She was too tired now. “Yes,” she croaked out, finding her voice. “Let’s do it.”

Cheveyo held the urn up, above their heads, saying words she didn’t understand in a singsong lilt. He shook his hair free from the bandana. The silvery spill framed his wrinkled, tanned face. His American-Indian ancestry was suddenly obvious. Noting her curiosity, he said, “I’m asking for the release of both his spirit and your pain.”

She nodded. Really, what could she say to that? Sage words, ha, ha.

“We’re going to grab a bramble, allow it to prick us, then rub his ashes into our palms and wherever else you’d like.”

“I’m feeling so very sad again. I can barely move.”

“You don’t have to, then,” he reassured. “Point out a blackberry vine that appeals to you.”

With a slow gesture, Pellie indicated one. God damn, she was fucking wrung out!

Cheveyo laid it across his palms, squeezing several berries into pulp. He stood, holding the vine and crushed blackberries skyward. He bowed in the four directions of a compass, then sat next to her. “Place your hands over mine. Squeeze—won’t hurt.”

“What all tattoo artists say before they jab you with needles.” But she did as asked.

Cheveyo chanted again, the melodic sound as soothing as Sage’s laugh. Pellie closed her eyes, drinking in the feeling.

The cadence slowed, and he asked her, “Pellie, when was the last time you felt truly loved—surrounded by it?”

“When I last saw Sage on Skype.”

“Do you feel his love now?”

“I—” A light wind tousled Pellie’s hair, so like Sage, or maybe her mother. “I sense someone. For a moment, I thought it was my mom.”

“That’s a good thing, if other spirits are gathering in welcome.”

“I don’t want other spirits called from wherever they were resting. I want Sage and everyone dead to be at peace.” Pellie started to pull away again. Maybe they were making things worse.

The elderly man comforted her with his smile. “This is working, I promise. A moment longer, and done. Point to where you want Sage’s ashes placed and we’ll rub them there.”

Pellie waited as he sprinkled ashes on their hands. Then she pointed to the large sequoia tree Sage loved. Chanting, Cheveyo reverently rubbed his hands against bark and dug them into the soil.

Pellie’s eyelids drooped with fatigue. She lay back against the tree stump, which still displayed Sage’s urn, though it was empty now.

The chanting stopped. “You should watch this,” Cheveyo said.

She dragged her eyes open. Cheveyo clapped his hands together and made an outward gesture of release. He repeated it in all four directions. The air shimmered like waves of heat rising off a steamy highway. Penelope felt cool, instead. A sensation like butterflies flitted across her flesh.

Cheveyo regarded her, a strange expression on his face. “You’re like some wood nymph, the look on your face just now. So peaceful. It gives me joy. I hope you can move past this sorrow.”

“Mmmm.” Fatigue overtook her, but one eye cracked open and she saw. Really saw!

“It’s a canopy of stars,” Pellie whispered. “But it’s not night yet. Am I seeing Sage’s new home?”

“Look more closely, Pellie.” Cheveyo leaned next to her. “Feel more closely. Do you sense anima, a soul, feel it blossoming outward?”

“Mmmm.” Anointed by Sage’s ashes, she felt the earlier cool sensation melt into her. Warm joy bathed her with love. Now you’re trying to make me feel better, Sage? What took so long? But that was just a last surge of bitterness; it passed and she relaxed again.

The stars seemed to fall, or the ground to rise up. She remembered a car, a crash, a fire, mind-numbing terror and despair. “No!”

“Pellie, what you remember now has no power to hurt you anymore,” Cheveyo soothed.

“Sage?” Pellie managed a whisper. The stars winked out and the shimmering air enveloped her whole body.

“He’s here for you, Pellie. Embrace him.”

“I miss you so much, Sage. Take me with you.”

With those last words, she released her soul. Sage’s urn flashed brightly for a moment, then disappeared

 ~

“Nice work, Cheveyo,” his fellow investigator said as he stepped from his hiding place.

“I told you that sticking an EMF reader and your damn cameras up some poor ghost’s ass only makes it worse for the angry ones. Did you have to keep tracking me when you knew right where I was?” He pulled the EMF reader from his pocket. “Beeping could’ve scared her off.”

“Force of habit, man.” His coworker took out his tablet. “Now, let’s write the report so we can get paid.”

Cheveyo sighed. “I liked her.”

“You like them all, you big softie,” another scientist piped up.

“Cheveyo, your report?”

“Penelope Peters case: Her distraught state, combined with uppers, caused her to lose control and plunge her car over the cliff. Police reported skid marks, indicating she hit the brakes, but too late. So not suicide. She was so traumatized by Sage’s death—and so focused on getting him home—that she didn’t know she was dead. That’s a powerful combination, creating a very angry spirit. She just needed some gentle talking to and a tailored ceremony of passing to move on, though she wasn’t sure what was happening to her. The high level of amphetamines in her system probably added to her confusion. She’d probably wanted to drive the eight hours or so without stopping. Likely, the drugs addled her brain before and after death.”

“Elvis syndrome.”

“I hate that term, but yeah,” Cheveyo agreed.

“Yup, big softie.”

A gentle breeze stirred as Cheveyo looked back to Pellie’s memorial space for Sage. What was …?

Floating down from the sky, a blackberry vine fell toward him, landing in his hair. It didn’t snag, or prick.

Cheveyo smiled.