Flock Page 7

  “Well, not exactly. That’s kind of the point.” Jinky unwedged her butt from the swing and stood in front of me. “This is my initiation, my rite of passage.”

  “What?” I was up out of my swing now, too. “I’m your test run?” Her role was becoming clear to me as well. And she wasn’t just a conduit, she had wings to earn.

  I walked in the direction of the immense green turtle.

  Jinky followed. “Hey. You, more than anyone, should get it.”

  “Get what?”

  “That it’s not a choice. As spiritual beings, we have to act on our premonitions. To ignore a gift, to not rise to the calling, is a willful defiance of our true purpose. For us, there is no coincidence, no chance.”

  That last bit got me. It’s what I’d thought yesterday about the holes. I turned my back on Jinky and braced my arms against the monster turtle; my fingers landed in something sticky, the residue of some kid’s snack, no doubt. I stepped back, wiping my hands on my jeans. When I looked back up, Jinky was holding something highly suspicious in my face: a bundle of weeds and a lighter.

  “I’m not into that stuff,” I said, holding up my still-gooey hands.

  “It’s sage, for smudging,” she said, communicating both her impatience and condescension with a shake of her head.

  “And what are you going to do with that?”

  Jinky ducked down, way down, and crawled below the turtle. “I felt a strong vibe that I had to connect with you tonight. Around here, this was the closest thing I could find to a domed sweat lodge. I’ll have to improvise.”

  “What, here? Now?” I had to stoop and address the underside of a big green turtle.

  “Have you got somewhere else to be?”

  I sighed, a big huffy thing. And though I couldn’t believe I was doing it, I bent down and scrambled below the belly of the concrete reptile, jettisoning a juice box out of my way.

  In the cramped and dark space, Jinky sat cross-legged. I did the same. With a click, she lit the bundle. I coughed; she shot me a look. All was proceeding normally. Even her motions were just like last time. She held up the smoking bundle, waved it over her head and around her shoulders.

  “We pass the smudge wand,” Jinky said, “to cleanse the space and to purify our bodies and minds.”

  She handed me the burning sage, and I copied her smoke-bath routine.

  I remembered there had been more to the giving of thanks that first time. Improvising meant the abridged version, I assumed.

  The smoke collected under the curve of the turtle’s back. It burned my nose, and I felt sick to my stomach.

  “We call to the spirits on behalf of one whose journey crosses into the ancestral realm and beyond.”

  It was clear to me why I was not a smoker. The stuff was nasty. My eyes were watering. I couldn’t clear my throat. And I was getting light-headed.

  Next thing I knew, Jinky was two inches from my face, asking, “What about Frigg?”

  I coughed and rubbed my eyes. “What?”

  “You said: ‘From the goddess Frigg, one seeks forgiveness and the other offers life.’ And that ‘within them lies a solution.’”

  “I did?”

  “Yes. Do you remember anything else?”

  “Frigg?” I repeated groggily.

  “Do you know what that means?”

  “That I need to get some friggin’ air,” I said, crawling from under our improvised sweat lodge. I took a deep, cleansing breath of clear air and staggered to my feet.

  Jinky followed me.

  “Do you even know who the goddess Frigg is?” she asked.

  “No.”

  “Frigg is the queen of Asgard. Only she and her husband, Odin, sit upon Asgard’s highest seat and look out over the universe. She is the goddess of marriage, childbirth, motherhood, and wisdom.”

  “Now, that’s a résumé,” I said, “but are you sure I said Frigg?”

  “Yes. But it was only a moment of clarity. Obviously we need to find a real savusauna, and a place of concentrated ancestral energies, if you’re to walk with the spirits again.”

  I was on board with the walking part. I wanted out of there.

  “Can we call it a night?” I said. “I think I’m quested out for now.”

  We headed back in silence and at a humane pace. My ankle felt better, but it was my head’s turn to twist. Had I said Frigg? Did I have a brief vision? Despite my confusion, it felt like progress. And I now knew Jinky’s role. But what did Frigg have to do with it? And where would we find a savusauna around here?

  I had only the vaguest recollection of arriving home Sunday night. Either I was already half asleep or whatever altered state shaman Jinky had enabled had been more powerful than we’d thought.

  The next morning, I woke early and went straight to my computer to Google Frigg. Jinky had been correct in the goddess’s basic bio: Queen of Asgard, home of the Warrior Gods. Scanning a few different sites, I found a few more details of interest. She had an inner circle of nine faithful handmaidens, a tenth — Idunn, the Goddess of Eternal Youth — had been booted for incompetence. I also focused on Frigg’s role as the goddess of childbirth and motherhood. In one saga she is said to have sent a magic, fertility-boosting apple to a childless King Rerir and his queen. It seemed important, given Marik’s claim that apples were the “life-giving fruit of all the realms.” Nor was it lost on me that a third queen (after Brigid and Safira) was making her presence known. Great. At this rate, I could host a state dinner. Except I feared I’d end up as the main course.

  Leira’s crying jarred me back to the here and now. I closed my laptop, walked to the closet, grabbed a pair of jeans, and ran a hand across the selection of tops. I elected to go with a peasant blouse; it seemed to mirror my predicament.

  Thankfully, school was uneventful. In Design, Ms. Bryant handed me a chaperone form that my dad needed to fill out and return — by tomorrow. I sighed and jammed it into my book bag. At least it was one of Ms. Bryant’s assignments where neatness didn’t count.

  If nothing else, it was an excuse to visit Jaelle after school.

  She gave me a full-flash smile as I walked into the office.

  “Well, hey there, Ice,” she said, using her own personal nickname for me, a reference to my white-blond hair. “What gives?”

  “Santa, if you’re good,” I said, borrowing a line from Afi.

  “Oh. I like me some sass,” Jaelle said. “Kind of like a mini me.”

  Her mention of a “mini me” reminded me that I’d failed to sway Grim into changing her recommendation at our last meeting. I still felt that it was a bad sign, one leading to fertility issues for Jaelle and Russ. I found it all so maddening. They’d make excellent parents; any child would be lucky. Again, I wondered why I hadn’t received Jaelle’s second bestowment assignment. As with Jacob — a soul I had placed last year — I could have guided things, steered the essence gently toward Jaelle. It wouldn’t have been without its problems, however. From his past life, Jacob had been drawn to his former-mother Julia’s familiar presence. Jaelle wouldn’t have that advantage. I clung to the hope that there had to be a way to stack things in her favor next time — if there was a next time — the contemplation of which frustrated me.

  “Kitty Kat, why the pout?” my dad asked, emerging from his office.

  “Just my Monday face,” I said, snapping to. I retrieved the chaperone form from my bag and smoothed it against Jaelle’s desk. “Ms. Bryant needs you to fill this out.”

  “Anything for Ms. Bryant.” My dad plucked a Sharpie from the desktop pencil cup and began filling in boxes. “Any more cave-ins out at Jack’s place?” he asked without looking up.

  “Not that I know of.”

  “I heard about that,” Jaelle said. “What a shame about all those trees. I just hope it was those tart green ones, not the sweet pinks I like so much.”

  I hadn’t thought about which variety had been affected. Jack’s family did grow quite a few different types.

/>   While inking his name to the dotted line, my dad asked, “So who’s your partner for this project again?”

  “Marik.”

  “You mean the big hunky guy from Saturday night?”

  There was no correct way to answer that question. To say yes was to agree that Marik was hunky. To say no was to infer that Marik wasn’t my partner or hadn’t been present on Saturday. Moreover, since when did my dad call other guys hunky?

  “Yes, the big guy.”

  “What about Penny?”

  “She’s partnered with Jinky.”

  “Now, there’s an odd couple,” my dad said.

  My dad stepped away for a phone call. I sat down in the chair next to Jaelle’s desk. While leaning down to her lowest desk drawer, she groaned.

  “Are you OK?” I asked.

  “Fine. Just a little sore from the weekend’s home-improvement projects.”

  “What did you guys do?”

  “We painted the spare bedroom.”

  Jaelle and Russ had recently purchased a house, one with a swing-set-containing backyard and just a block away from the elementary school.

  “What color?”

  “Pink.”

  “Pink!” I had a hard time modulating the surprised tone of my voice. “Is there something I should know?”

  “Not yet, but I believe in the power of positive thought and in being proactive. And I want a girl first.”

  “Wow.”

  “You think I’m crazy, don’t you?”

  “Not at all. I think you’re right, in fact. Proactive is the way to go.”

  “Precisely,” Jaelle said. “I’ve got it all planned out: pink curtains, pink comforter, pink shaggy rug, and a menagerie of pink stuffed animals. It will be adorable.”

  A few minutes later, I left Jaelle with a gurgle of hope in my chest and ideas ’shrooming like spores. It felt great.

  At home there was a stack of flattened boxes near the back door.

  “Is there something I should know?” I asked, entering the kitchen.

  “We got the house,” my mom said, bouncing Leira on her lap. “We were even able to negotiate a short closing.”

  “Congrats,” I said, “but how short?”

  “A week from Saturday.”

  “What? That’s not enough time to —”

  “It will have to be. The papers are signed,” she said, snapping a lid on the baby bottle and our conversation.

  I sulked off to my bedroom and flopped onto my bed. I didn’t have time for homework, working at Afi’s, breaking a magical pact, and boxing up my life.

  I was about to let such negativity cloud my plans when my cell phone rang and I saw Jack’s name on the caller ID.

  “Hello,” I said.

  “Hey.” It was a simple word: expendable in most sentences, but the way he delivered it, growly with affection, undid me.

  “What’s up?” I asked.

  “Just checking in. I thought you were going to call last night.”

  Ugh. Forgot. Plus was underneath Big Turtle.

  “Sorry. I worked and then . . . had a bunch of homework. We got that house, by the way.” I was happy for something newsy as a change of subject. “We move a week from Saturday.”

  “That’s fast.”

  “And will be a lot of work.”

  “Then we should do something fun this weekend. We’ve got an overtime crew going out all day Saturday, but my dad will have to give me some time off on Sunday.”

  “What should we do?” I asked.

  “There’s a hike I haven’t done in a long time: Alpenstock Conservation Area.”

  I should have known his idea of fun would be a nature outing that took stamina. Personally, I’d have preferred a department store that took Visa; my dad’s, of course. I must have gone too long without commenting.

  “Did you have another idea?” Jack asked.

  A movie. A play. A restaurant. Bowling. Putt-putt golf. A scenic drive. A pumpkin patch. Or even a corn maze, for goodness sake. But it occurred to me that it was his turn to pick.

  “A hike sounds pretty.”

  “The forest is old-growth. It feels like stepping back in time.”

  Better than through time or to another realm, I thought after hanging up with him, reluctantly, as always.

  Contact with Jack gave my mood, and confidence, the boost it needed. While in the bathroom getting ready for bed, I turned my attentions back to Jaelle. Why not paint a room pink if your heart is set on starting a family with a girl-first preference? Made sense to me. And it inspired me. I had been proactive in placing Jacob with Julia. Why not Jaelle? The only small snafu was that with Jacob I had a specific soul to beckon, thus I could tailor my efforts to his personality.

  I spat toothpaste into the sink and looked up at my reflection.

  How would I begin such a thing with Jaelle? Also troubling was the pesky issue of the other potential vessels. If the soul had no previous attachment to Jaelle, how could I guarantee that she would prevail as the chosen vessel? As with Jacob, I was willing to explore the reach and sweep of my powers, and even employ subtle manipulation, but I wouldn’t lie during the council meeting. Even without a rule book or set of Stork laws, I sensed such a maneuver would be the kind of transgression like the one that got Dorit booted. I also knew an incompatible placement wouldn’t benefit either Jaelle or the soul. So what were my options? One thing I knew for sure, the child I placed with Jaelle would do well to have an easygoing personality; Jaelle had the strength of will for two, or more. And to sign on with this renegade mission of mine, a sense of adventure was a must. And given the palace that awaited her, an affinity for girly things wouldn’t hurt, either. These criteria were, if nothing else, a starting point in my search. I plinked my toothbrush into the sink-side cup and pulled the headband from my hair.

  Sitting on the edge of my bed, I whispered, fanning the words with a whisk of my right hand, “A soul, a girl, is sought. She should be a lover of pink, sweet-natured, and an explorer at heart.” I slipped under the covers satisfied with my appeal.

  Barefoot and in a coarse and tattered dress, I awake at the edge of a great forest. Before me, a serpentine path twists between two watchmanlike trees and continues into the dense woods.

  I set off with a sense of urgency, stumbling once, and then again, over sharp, white pebbles, whose regularity indicates the marking of a trail.

  I follow the stones for a very long time. Darkness settles like mist from the forest’s canopy, and strange grunts and screeches announce the presence of feral creatures. I am cold and scurry with arms drawn tight to my chest. Hunger pounds in my belly like a drum.

  Weak with fear, exhaustion, and starvation, I stagger around a curve in the path, when before me appears a cottage. From within, it glows, revealing a white-capped roof and thick russet-toned walls. And it smells delicious; my mouth pools in anticipation. Advancing quickly, my hand brushes over its low stacked-stone garden wall. The stones, to my surprise, are springy, cakelike, and they, too, smell delectable.

  Weak-kneed, I hurry along the cobbled front path. The smells of nutmeg, cinnamon, clove, and — above all — ginger are so strong that I am borne upon them like a wave. At the front door, I pause, studying its strange surface. It glistens with a sheer glaze and is sticky to the touch, and it, too, smells wonderful, like caramelized sugar. I swing the door open. From its lintel, a fat morsel crumbles into my hands. I lift it to my nose, sniff, and take one exploratory lick, after which I gobble up the chunk of gingerbread greedily.

  From inside, I hear a baby’s laugh. I stoop to pass under the low doorway and find myself in a tiny space. Flames dance and leap from a massive fireplace. A mouse skitters across the floor, drawing my eyes to a corner-hung cage. Within its iron bands lies a baby girl. As I approach, she coos contentedly. Tripping the latch, I gently lift her out of the horrible contraption.

  The black-haired bundle pokes at me with a fat finger, and I giggle at her playfulness. My own laugh, howev
er, is soon drowned out by another, one that is haunting and wicked. Someone is coming, and I must get the baby out of here. The cackle reverberates through the cottage, causing the rough-hewn beams — pretzel logs? — to shake; granules of salt fall like hail. The raven-haired child’s face crumples, her heart-shaped lips tremble, and she lets go a desperate wail. I spin, clutching the girl to my chest and knocking the hanging cage; it groans on its rusty chain.

  I spy a back door: thick strips of black licorice banded together with ropes of red. I move toward it, passing a low cupboard. Its biscuit-shaped door swings open to reveal a very young boy. He sits cowering with his arms wrapped around pudgy knees.

  From the front of the house another peal of laughter erupts. I gasp. The girl leaks fresh tears; the boys eyes widen. I extend my hand to him, urging, “Quick.”

  I watch the tot take a large gulp of air and fill his dumpling cheeks with courage. He puts squat fingers in mine, and I hoist him from the cubby and onto his bandy legs. Clutching the girl and tugging the boy, I storm out of the strange house and into the pitch of night.

  I woke confused and flat-tired, not a good sign. Normally, I felt a sense of elation following one of my Stork dreams. This time, however, it felt incomplete. Not only had none of the vessels — not even Jaelle — been present, but there had been two essences. Of course, multiples were not unheard of. But from what I understood, twins and triplets (and up) presented together, in a like location and as the same age. I remembered Svana had once described a set of identicals in a hollowed-out pumpkin shell. An older child, such as the boy, happened occasionally, too. It indicated a soul that had hovered for some time without selecting a mother. The two anomalies — their separate locations and different ages — were, thus, puzzling.

  Nor could I help thinking of the similarity between my dream and the classic “Hansel and Gretel” fairy tale. While it certainly had all the markings of a Stork dream, I wondered at the borrowed imagery — complete with evil witch — that was so recently suggested to me with our new “gingerbread” house. Despite this, I knew the children were essences, so where were the prospective mothers? And why the element of fear? Unfortunately, none of it put me any closer to helping out Jaelle. But it was, if nothing else, a lesson in that patience Hulda had so recently preached.