Excerpt: Borderlands Journey

Chapter Twelve

She was in the Fire, through the Fire, part of the Fire. Her voice roared from deep within the Fire. The deep puissant thunder in her ears was like the monstrous cacophony of a thousand forest fires. She was a living flame, deep within the cauldron of fiery eyes. She sang the threnody of firesong within herself, singing the essence of breath, of life, of all which Caitlín Fennelly O’Connor had loved, had cherished, had been. She gave herself, utterly, once more to the Being within the fire, gave herself as completely as ever she had chosen to join with Himself, and she surrendered herself once more to the inescapable passion with which she had approached the Flame.

And she was answered. This was different. It was not the wave upon wave of climax, of corporeal sensation, of sexual fulfillment, which she had heretofore received for the asking every time she had chosen to join with Himself. This was a series of mental images, as seen through the glowing light of fire, hearthfire, lamplight, even lightning, the images illuminated in her mind’s eye as clearly as if she had seen them in mundane reality, each image lasting just long enough for her to observe and understand it before going on to the next one. It was the ultimate “this is your life” slideshow, one of which she could not afford to miss or misinterpret a single frame. It was, literally, illumination of her current circumstances, and it was her key out of here. She looked, deep in the heart of the Flame, deep from within the Flame. In essence, she became the Flame. And she saw.

She saw, in the eye of her mind, or from whatever vantage point she was now able to see anything, she saw comprehensively the entire scope of the world she had left behind.

She saw her own earthly body, left in a steel refrigerator drawer downtown until she had time to be dealt with, and she knew, without seeing it, that that was going to be Monday morning, three days from now, and that if she were ever going to get her life back, any and all efforts to that end must succeed before the ME opened her office on Monday. Well, she told the Universe, calmly and firmly, that’s what would have to happen, then. The wee bit of Work she had done back there in the house when she actually had been in the room with her own remains would, she knew, stave off the onset of decomposition for three days, and only three days. Well, she’d have to have all completed by that time, then.

She saw her slumbering child in the cot in the back bedroom of her sister’s apartment, and was relieved, feeling that relief with an extra burst of the energy in the living flame, to see that Fiona was apparently all right and in safe care and keeping, with family. She spared a fleeting thought, a spark, she thought with amusement, to wish that her sister Rose had any scintilla of the Gift, so that Cait could speak to her somehow, could say thanks. But she knew better. Rose was as mystical as a tin of peas. Just be thankful her calm and phlegmatic demeanor would be good for wee Fiona. She even saw Rose, on the desk chair in her study, making phone calls from a list, inviting people to Cait’s wake. Better make certain she attended that, her mind made a note. Might be something to learn there. But Rose, Rose appeared to be her usual efficient self, not bowed down by grief but dealing with it in her usual fashion, by making herself busy. A safe haven for Fiona, any road. Well, that was sorted, then. Next frame…

She saw her struggling husband wending his weary way home from town, and spared a questioning thought what he had been doing there in this worst storm so far of the winter season? What had taken him bareheaded out into the driving rain in the night, not even in the car? But it suddenly came clear to her in a flash of insight (and again she chuckled at the aptness of the phrase) that of course, he had been to see his auld buddie, Marty Malloy. The Priest, of course, it would have to be the priest that was in it. Where else could Ian find a modicum of comfort? She hoped he was feeling better now, and hoped he didn’t catch his death a’cold, struggling along in the sweep of rain and icy wind without even a coat. It had always been Ian’s way, to fight the elements when he was upset, to take out his frustration or anger or sorrow or confusion by battling wind or wave or rock. Almost like a Witch, she thought sarcastically. Almost. She wished him safe at home, and sent a frisson of the Flame to warm him a wee bit…if he could feel it, and if he would accept it.

She saw Gerry Monaghan in her own wee kitchen, mixing with her fingers in a marble mortar and pestle some unidentifiable substances, murmuring words of invocation. She did not try to hear those words, nor did she trespass in any way upon the Work the younger woman was doing. But somehow, she was comforted, here within the living Flame, knowing that the Work would have to be being done for her, would be having something to do with her. She saw and felt the flicker of energy that was her own, the calling of her own flesh and blood to the substance within the mortar. She suddenly realized that Gerry had been with her great friend Rose, probably, all the way through this, and Rose had baby Fiona. Did Gerry have some physical token, some flesh-and-blood link with which to call Fiona’s mammy back to the land of the living? She felt the drawing, felt the pull of the Blood. She would have reached out through the Flame had she not wanted to leave the working undisturbed. She would, of course, in due time, be finding out all there was that was in it. She just had to wait.

She saw auld Maggie, her own mammy’s Auntie and Matriarch of her Line, stirring some kind of potion on her own kitchen fire, the fumes from it visible to her and almost even the acrid scent permeating her own Flame. She felt something in that potion, a drawing, a pulling of her insides back along forgotten pathways. She knew Maggie could mix up practically anything whatsoever from her huge mental mother lode of spells, any herb, plant, natural or “unnatural” object that would bring together the energies that would do her bidding. All her own life she had been drinking Maggie’s potions, wearing her charms, carrying her spell-bags, doing her magical bidding as not only niece but as student of magic. So she knew without a shadow of a doubt that whatever Maggie was doing was being done for her, to bring her home, to reach her in the Flame and guide her back. She knew this, even if she wasn’t certain exactly how that might be brought to pass. But she had ultimate faith in the efficacy of whatever Auntie Mags might be doing, and even there within the living Flame she felt for a moment her longing subside to the warmth of peace and surety. Whatever was needful to be doing, beyond a doubt Auntie Mags would be doing of it.

She saw Bridey Leary, her dear neighbour, walking the Land in front of her house, pacing out protection and warding, and for all the world weaving a net of flame even like the flame that now consumed herself. She knew without doubt nothing would be able to happen in that house that would in any way interfere with whatsoever she, Cait, had in mind to do there. She knew that, of the small and close-knit cadre of women unrelated to her own Line, but whose witching she nonetheless knew and trusted, Brigit Leary was the one whose own soul and heart were most akin to her own. In a desperate yearning she felt her own spirit move outward from the Flame, reaching for her great friend, trying with all her Will to convey the message that she was here, that she was within the Fire, that she saw and knew what the other woman was doing, that she was grateful. She saw Bridey’s pace falter for a moment, and her head raise from contemplation of the path she was tracing, looking up as if at a sudden sound. She knew, on some level, she had managed to make contact with the other woman. She knew when Bridey finished her pacing she would go into the house and sit and think about it. For now, let her finish her Work. For now, this would have to do.

She saw Moira Fitzgerald, her old college friend, sitting at the table in her beyond-luxurious flat, inscribing sigils in the book she had created to store her family’s magical heritage. She smiled to herself within the flame remembering how she had teased Moira about becoming a wiccan and writing a book of shadows, and how Moira had used her usual analytical and scholarly approach to magic to explain the difference between a book of shadows, which was an anti-witchcraft invention of the late medieval times, and a grimoire, which was the compendium of lore, spells, recipes, dreams and divinations of the authentic working witch. Even now, she remembered the feeling it had given to her to realize that the other woman saw magic as a scholarly discipline worthy of study and preservation, and even within the Flame she spared a thought of gratitude for the other Witches who were Working on her behalf at that very moment, in their own styles and practices but all with the same intent, to communicate with her, to bring her back to herself, to find out what she Willed and to help her do it. She remembered that, unorthodox and scientific by comparison to granny witching as were Moira’s methods, they were obviously highly effective, as witness her current level of position and prestige. It wouldn’t have been what Cait herself wanted, but the woman obviously knew what she herself wanted and how to obtain it. Assistance from someone so capable could only benefit her, she decided. And a spark of thanks to Moira, whatever it was she happened to be doing, if it would help.

And so she watched, and she saw, and she paused, remaining still, unmoving within the living Flame. Knowing all this Work was being done for her was highly reassuring, as if with all the energy being exerted on her behalf she became even more certain of its efficacy, of her final achievement of her goal. She watched in wonder and gratification as even Ian seemed to be working in his own way for her, as she caught a glimpse of him slipping in, out of the storm, into the rear chancel of the church, and lighting a candle. As he fell to his knees weeping in one of the rear pews, she suddenly realized that even his prayers, his wishes for her well-being, even in the safe confines, for him, of his Catholic Church, even that was to be achieved through the magic of fire.

And so, finally, as the images began to swirl around her, mixing and mingling, no one piece of the puzzle remaining any longer discrete but all disintegrating and re-forming, she became one with the Fire. The vision was suddenly a mosaic in motion, like an unending swirl of fiery leaves harried by the Autumn wind, and she rode the storm, became one with the whirlwind, embraced the Flame. She stretched to the limits of her own capacity for liminality, for numinousness, immolating herself with joyous abandon in the chaotic patterning of the energies swirling within and about her. Abandoning all thoughts of Himself as an entity outside of her own being, recognizing that he was indeed her own Fetch, a Being of her own making, she plunged headlong into the identity of Herself, of Caitlín Eileen Fennelly O’Connor, as a living flame, as a sentient fire, as a force of Nature.

And, paradoxically, suddenly, there he was. She fell into the obsidian eyes, she felt the deep penetrating touch of the sinewy fingers that had so often exhilarated her, brought her to frenzied delight, there, and there, and there. She had never personified Himself, never given him a name or features or attributes. He was simply there, simply hers, simply Himself, what she needed and wanted and desired on the instant of the desire, the want, the need. He was always there, he came when she called, he gave, he took, he left. And suddenly, he was no longer acquiescent, no longer malleable, no longer entirely hers. Somehow, suddenly, he was, indeed, as she had always called him, Himself. A being in his own right, with wants and needs and desires. Still no features, but a definite personification, a strong male presence with a Will as strong and sentient as her own.

She felt the swirling and plummeting of her own Self within the Flame whirl to silence, and she felt once again in control of her Being, her core essence, almost felt as she had felt when inhabiting the body of flesh that was no longer with her. She was all of a piece, suddenly, a woman in her power, and she was standing beside another Person, a male person, watching her, waiting, self-contained and powerful. And words formed within her mind, words in a cadence and voice she knew without doubt were neither her own nor those of anyone whom she had ever known nor encountered in her living flesh. This voice was new, real, and entirely its own. And to her, it said, simply,

“I understand you have something you wish to say to me?”

And there was silence.