preserver.
“We sisters were just having a little impromptu meeting of the hive of the Nashville Wiccan Coven,” I explained.
“We did have an appointment—?” Sterne asked.
“Absolutely,” I assured him. “And appointment trumps impromptu,” I said to Sally.
If looks could kill—and perhaps they could, with this band of necromancers—I was not long for this world. Sally looked from me to Sterne to the ceiling. She turned her hands palm up and held them before her bosom, as though they were supporting an invisible cup.
“The tears of the One Source, the Divine Incarnate, flow on this, our sacerdotal womb,” she said. Her eyes drifted down to me. “We shall all know sadness until the earth is once again joyful.” The others raised their hands like hers and they all shut their eyes. And in a mournful voice accompanied by her own tears, Sally intoned with the others:
Mar to ainghlich is naoimhich
A toighe air neamh.
Gach duar agus soillse,
Gach la agus oidhche,
Gach uair ann an caoimhe,
Thoir duinn do ghne.
When they were finished, they began to hum.
Sterne leaned toward me. “That was Celtic,” he whispered. “A prayer, I think.”
“Saying what?”
“The only words I recognize are ainghlich is naoimhich , ‘angels and saints,’” he said. “I would imagine they are asking for celestial help.”
“Swell.”
The humming stopped a few seconds later and, as one, the women opened their eyes. From somewhere in the distance—the bathroom off my bedroom, it sounded like—the cats mewed miserably in unison. Smiling, Sally left, the women falling in behind her.
I watched them vanish in the darkness, then turned to Sterne. “Well, that was New Age-y,” I said.
“Old Age-y is a more apt description,” he said. “Fourth or fifth century B.C ., I would guess.”
He had corrected me in that professorial manner that reminded me of just one more reason why I didn’t like him. We stood in dumb silence for a few moments after that. I realized I had nothing to say to this self-serving jerk who had helped set up dear Thomasina for a fall.
“You have papers for me?” I asked, turning my back and walking to the sofa. I slid behind the coffee table and sat.
He unzipped the pouch and stood there. “It doesn’t have to be like this.”
“Yeah, it does. Extortion is a dirty business.”
“I’m truly sorry about that,” he said. “Bringing in a coven wasn’t exactly fair play, either. And from where I stood, those Wiccans seemed none too pleased.”
“I was desperate,” I said.
“So was I,” Sterne replied. “This research we’re doing is important. Your uncle lived here long enough to understand that. We’re trying to retrieve history that has been plowed over. He said something to the effect that, as a kid, he was always frustrated by the fact that there were no pictures of Moses or Abraham or Solomon.”
I had been staring at a dent in the carpet made by the leg of the sofa. I looked up at him. “Uncle Murray said that?”
“On the record at a town council meeting,” Sterne said. “There are descendants of the African Americans who lived here who feel the same—”
There was a sharp rap against the front window that caused us both to start. I stepped over, saw a small crack in the glass, and went outside. A dead bat was lying belly up on top of the rose bushes in front of the window. Its head was bloodied. I looked across the yard. At the edge of the yellow glow cast by the porch light, I saw the Wiccans standing by the street, pointing at me.
It was too far for them to have actually thrown the poor—but disgusting—little creature. It must have flown right into the glass.
“Please go or we’ll call the police,” said my knight in shining tweed.
“Call whomever you wish,” Sally said. “ You are the trespassers, not us. We will be back to see that our pact is not perverted.”
“Hey, I have a bat, too,” I said. “His name is Louisville.”
The women
“We sisters were just having a little impromptu meeting of the hive of the Nashville Wiccan Coven,” I explained.
“We did have an appointment—?” Sterne asked.
“Absolutely,” I assured him. “And appointment trumps impromptu,” I said to Sally.
If looks could kill—and perhaps they could, with this band of necromancers—I was not long for this world. Sally looked from me to Sterne to the ceiling. She turned her hands palm up and held them before her bosom, as though they were supporting an invisible cup.
“The tears of the One Source, the Divine Incarnate, flow on this, our sacerdotal womb,” she said. Her eyes drifted down to me. “We shall all know sadness until the earth is once again joyful.” The others raised their hands like hers and they all shut their eyes. And in a mournful voice accompanied by her own tears, Sally intoned with the others:
Mar to ainghlich is naoimhich
A toighe air neamh.
Gach duar agus soillse,
Gach la agus oidhche,
Gach uair ann an caoimhe,
Thoir duinn do ghne.
When they were finished, they began to hum.
Sterne leaned toward me. “That was Celtic,” he whispered. “A prayer, I think.”
“Saying what?”
“The only words I recognize are ainghlich is naoimhich , ‘angels and saints,’” he said. “I would imagine they are asking for celestial help.”
“Swell.”
The humming stopped a few seconds later and, as one, the women opened their eyes. From somewhere in the distance—the bathroom off my bedroom, it sounded like—the cats mewed miserably in unison. Smiling, Sally left, the women falling in behind her.
I watched them vanish in the darkness, then turned to Sterne. “Well, that was New Age-y,” I said.
“Old Age-y is a more apt description,” he said. “Fourth or fifth century B.C ., I would guess.”
He had corrected me in that professorial manner that reminded me of just one more reason why I didn’t like him. We stood in dumb silence for a few moments after that. I realized I had nothing to say to this self-serving jerk who had helped set up dear Thomasina for a fall.
“You have papers for me?” I asked, turning my back and walking to the sofa. I slid behind the coffee table and sat.
He unzipped the pouch and stood there. “It doesn’t have to be like this.”
“Yeah, it does. Extortion is a dirty business.”
“I’m truly sorry about that,” he said. “Bringing in a coven wasn’t exactly fair play, either. And from where I stood, those Wiccans seemed none too pleased.”
“I was desperate,” I said.
“So was I,” Sterne replied. “This research we’re doing is important. Your uncle lived here long enough to understand that. We’re trying to retrieve history that has been plowed over. He said something to the effect that, as a kid, he was always frustrated by the fact that there were no pictures of Moses or Abraham or Solomon.”
I had been staring at a dent in the carpet made by the leg of the sofa. I looked up at him. “Uncle Murray said that?”
“On the record at a town council meeting,” Sterne said. “There are descendants of the African Americans who lived here who feel the same—”
There was a sharp rap against the front window that caused us both to start. I stepped over, saw a small crack in the glass, and went outside. A dead bat was lying belly up on top of the rose bushes in front of the window. Its head was bloodied. I looked across the yard. At the edge of the yellow glow cast by the porch light, I saw the Wiccans standing by the street, pointing at me.
It was too far for them to have actually thrown the poor—but disgusting—little creature. It must have flown right into the glass.
“Please go or we’ll call the police,” said my knight in shining tweed.
“Call whomever you wish,” Sally said. “ You are the trespassers, not us. We will be back to see that our pact is not perverted.”
“Hey, I have a bat, too,” I said. “His name is Louisville.”
The women
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