Page 3 of I Will Always Find You
His hands, afire with pulsating energy—his very life force—remained buried in the soil of Vesuvius. The spell persisted.
“Yet,” the Romani witch continued, breathing heavily, “—yet you have never chosen to look in my direction, to reveal yourself to me. Do you—do you only watch over and protect the women who seek your guidance, your strength?”
Hecate’s countenance of youth, the Maiden, fresh with the bloom of life, shifted to that of the haggard Crone, wise with experience yet exasperated by the burdens that come with endless time, thought, and toil.
“You are either very brave or very foolish to speak to me so, little witch. I am older than any in the Pantheon of these lands. My roots within this sphere of earth and blood are deep and expansive. I am the elemental and the ethereal. I hear countless pleas and incessant desires from mortals near and far. Women and, yes, even men. Witch and the mundane alike. I come only to those who deserve my attention, good or ill.”
“And who makes that distinction?”
“We do,” the three countenances of the goddess, Maiden, Mother, and Crone, stated. The architect of witchcraft showed how easily and quickly her face could switch between them, as their voices sounded in unison. “It is our power, our right.”
“My cause—is just,” the Romani witch stammered, bitter, angry, and exhausted.
“Is it? We shall see.”
“So—you will help me?”
Hecate paused for a moment before answering the weary young mortal. She sniffed the night air around Vesuvius, noting its thickness due to the noxious hot vapour seeping out from the ground. She snickered, for the disturbed mountain was not all her nose could sense.
“Vesuvius is angry, but that petulance is not all I detect. I also smell your desperation hanging heavy in the air as plainly as I see in your mind’s eye the attempt earlier to call upon another to help in this time of need—or is it desire? That distinction is essential, but I will speak on that in a moment.
“Allow me to explain why the great god of hate and vengeance, the god of shadow and secrecy, has ignored your pleas. He is a broken god, with a heart turned cold from a true love—afatedlove—denied. He will hear no more requests from mortals. He cares for nothing and no one, consumed solely by the memory of his great lost love, whose absence haunts his every moment.
“I came because you intrigue me, young witch. I know what those fearful, ignorant fools did to your great love. But unlike poor Olympius, god of heartache and impotence, your suffering has driven you to action! A deep desire to rain fire and retribution down upon the witch-killers of Pompeii! But you need the power of a god to complete this act of revenge—”
“Justice!” the Romani witch cried out, interrupting the goddess. “Not—not just revenge. I see now that calling it that lessens the weight of their crime. Aeneas and I were more than wronged. He—he was—what they did to my poor, innocent, beautiful—” But the Romani witch had no strength left in his mortal body to speak condemnations or explain his cause of righteousness. “I—I am out of time. Will you help me—or not?”
The bold question from an exasperated young man was barely audible, little more than a wheeze but not yet a death rattle.
“All magic has a price, witch-boy. The power you desire to accomplish such a feat as this!” Hecate lifted her arm and pointed toward Vesuvius, her vibrant sashes illuminating it from base to peak. “The eruption of this mountain’s simmering fury, the desire for destruction on such a level, will come at a steep price.”
“I will pay anything. Take—take my blood.”
“I am no blood-drinker, witch-boy! I am magic incarnate! You are so quick to give up everything for love. But what if the price is to lose that love forever, to never see Aeneas again?”
“What—what do you mean? We–” But no more words would come out. His breath was too shallow; his vitality spent; he was near death.
The witch-goddess observed that the lingering spark of determination within the young mortal had all but flickered out.She recognized that he could no longer sustain himself without her assistance.
And so Hecate bent closer to the mortal, her voice a melodic whisper weaving through the air as she cast an enchantment. A gentle breath, soft as the morning mist, escaped red lips, her mouth again that of The Maiden, and washed over the Romani witch’s body like warm water, infusing him with strength.
Almost immediately, a vibrant surge of vitality flowed through him, reinvigorating his tired limbs and uplifting his spirit.
Hecate withheld her magical energy from his spell, however, choosing not to amplify its effects just yet; whether to join forces for that task remained to be determined.
“Thank you,” the Romani witch expressed with renewed vigour, his dark eyes sparkling with sincerity.
“That was as much for me as for you. I wish to discuss your situation further without all the wheezing—and dying.” Hecate smirked as she gracefully floated a few steps back to her original spot. “Still, that shall be the first and last time I grant you my power freely.”
The Romani witch nodded his understanding.
“How can you say Aeneas and I shall never meet again, witch-goddess?! We will be reunited in Paradise! I know this! Along my journey to that land, as a spirit, I will first visit meaningful points from my mortal life, pausing at each location to connect with the memories of those places, as is the Romani belief, our tradition, our truth. And eventually, I will arrive at my eternal resting place—with Aeneas, in Paradise.”
“No, you shall not,” Hecate declared, her voice low and serious.
Again, she glided effortlessly across the ground, back closer to the young witch, and began to dance. With each graceful movement, the sashes of her flowing garment unfurled, swirling and twirling as if caught in a gentle breeze. Their bold colours—deep purples, fiery reds, and striking golds—intermingled and danced in a mesmerizing display, drawing the Romani witch into a trance.
“Behold your destiny should I lend my power to your quest for destruction,” she sang, her eyes glinting with ancient knowledge and a hint of mischief.
