Page 31 of The Mare Rider of Cornwall Cove
“Okay, yeah, we can do that.”
“Let me get our ghosty film equipment set up, then we’ll work on the supernatural stuff,” Phil said as I glanced in his direction. He handed the camera to me and began setting up some of our equipment while I began emptying bags.
“I think we’re ready,” Phil called out as he placed the last tiny tripod holding one of our used and abused but deeply loved static cameras. They were tossed around pretty good at Lake Killikee but still functional. Once they were in use, they would film steadily in one fixed position while Phil roamed about with his handheld camera. There were four of them now, as we’d been gifted a few from an anonymous donation after the holidays.
He seemed pleased.
“Cool,” I said. “We’ll begin setting up a circle with the blue paint rimmed with salt. We’ll need to leave an opening for the rider to pass through to enter the circle, and then we’ll close it quickly once it’s inside. That will keep it from leaving while we talk with it. If it rebels and wishes to remain a negative spirit, then we’ll have to revert to plan B.”
“Which is?” Phil asked, kneeling on a flat balloon and pulling out a cheap paintbrush from our supply sack, then another, passing one over to me.
“Not anything I wish to envision. Let’s project the good energy the Loa are wishing us to spread,” I replied, parroting what Monique had suggested for me to mention.
Loa are the intermediary spirits who connect those on earth with Bondye, the creator. Without her presence, I wasn’t sure the spirits would even speak with me, but in for a penny, as the old folks at the senior center like to say.
“Positive energy. Yep, that’s our vibe,” he whispered as we began applying paint to the cracked floor. Phil met me halfway. We left a gap of about ten feet paintless. Monique’s words about calling forth a Loa named Papa Legba rolled around my head. Phil seemed unsettled. “What if the rider isn’t into chill vibes and just wants to be a dick forever?”
“Then it’s onto plan B,” I softly replied and got a look that shouted his worry. “It’s good. We’ve got this. Positive thoughts. Positive energy.”
“Right, positive thoughts, positive energy.” He began saying that over and over, his steady chants calming.
I joined in, whispering an old chant that Grandpa passed to me that’s supposed to purify the mind, body, and speech. Tonight, we could all use some purity of mind, body, and speech. The “Om Muni Muni Maha Muniye Shoa” mantra mixed nicely with the other chanting taking place. I dug into the offerings tote we’d lugged in, removing a glass bottle of rum, some unwrapped chocolate bars, and a box of cigars. I placed them into a small basket and added a brass key, some shelled peanuts, and another key. Throughout the offering, we chanted, keeping the words flowing steadily. We had no drums or other means of music, but the human voice was incredibly alluring to those on the other side.
I placed Monique’s basket filled with offerings on top of a rotted card table. It was iffy if it would even hold the basket, but it did. Phil put the cup of cold coffee beside the basket and then turned to me.
“That’s all I can do for now. Once we have the rider contained, I’ll do my best to converse with it. If that succeeds, I’m going to invite Papa Legba to open the door between our world and the world of the dead.” I prayed I seemed resolute. “We’ll give the entity a chance. If it wishes to move over, then Papa Legba will guide it through the door. If not, we’ll need to do something different.”
“And if the big jerk refuses to go?” I threw him a look. “Plan B,” Phil mumbled.
“Plan B,” I repeated and threw back my shoulders. “Okay, so in order to catch a spirit that likes to slip into dreams, someone with some big otherworldly willy energy should be napping.” I walked into the nearly completed circle, dropped down to sit, and closed my eyes. “Someone sing me a lullaby.”
Phil, as expected, lost his shit.
“No, no, totally nope, all over that!”
“Look, someone has to toss him a worm. He’s probably lurking about in the shadows, watching and listening, wary, like a barracuda hiding in the reef. It’s going to take a big, tasty treat for him to appear, and what bigger or tastier tidbit than a seer with perhaps a thousand years of dreams locked inside him?”
Phil gaped at me in stunned silence.
I didn’tthinkI had the dreams of my ancestors in my head, but it sure sounded good. Sure, I had some really odd stories play out at night, things that were not of this world or time, but that usually happened after I ate too many nachos before bed. I did know I had a connection to my mother’s spirit as the scent of lotus came to me in times of great stress, but that wasn’t…well, I didn’t know what that was other than comforting.
“Archie, falling asleep isn’t a good idea,” Phil insisted as I got comfy—or as comfy as one can on a freezing cold tile floor in the middle of a haunted mental institution—and closed my eyes.
“I’ll be meditative, so not wholly asleep,” I whispered to my boyfriend. A kind of unhappy pallor fell over the area as he chewed on that. “Close to sleep but still awake. Now, please continue chanting that positive energy mantra.”
“I hate this,” I heard Phil mumble before he picked up his mantra. I dug into my front pocket, removed my cell and the gris-gris bag and hid them under my thigh.
I did my best to settle into a calm state. I’d always had trouble meditating despite the hundreds of times I tried with Grandpa. There were too many voices in my head, and not all dead ones. Thoughts scurried around inside my skull like that hyped-up squirrel fromIce Age.With the chant of a man I trusted and loved dearly, I worked to quiet the monkey chatter as Grandpa called the whirling thoughts, with three deep inhalations and exhalations.
I loosened my shoulders, relaxed my jaw, and shifted from listening to Phil to focusing on my breathing. The process took some time, and I had to keep shunting random thoughts aside to come back to my breathing, but I soon felt a warmth settle in my chest. My ass was freezing, but my sternum had a small briquet of tranquility glowing inside it. I pictured a soft golden light flowing out of me, showing my ribs and spine, as the sweet smell of lotus blew under my nose. My breathing jumped up, my heart thundered, as I saw my mother’s face in front of me. A delicate beauty with gentle brown eyes, long black hair, and a dimple. She began singing as gulls overhead joined in the serenade.
Into her arms I crawled, sea spray on my cheeks, as she sang of a bright baby boy, a quiet moon, and a gently moving cradle. I buried my face into her chest as we rode along the waves, my head warm from the sun. She requested that I close my eyes. I was tired, and Mama smelled so good. Papa hummed along at the sails, his voice deep and strong. My eyes closed quickly, her heartbeat under my ear. Then a scream, a shout, the boat tipping violently, Mama being torn from my arms. I fell to the floor of the boat and hit my head. I cried and cried and cried, but no one would kiss my cheek and tell me it was okay. Where was Mama? Mama, Mama, where did you go?!Mama!
Chapter Eleven
“Archie!”
The shout snapped me out of the dream. I lurched forward, fell about five feet to the floor, and groaned at the impact of my ass on the tile.
