Bound & Bound – the Curse and the Captives – - 7. Chapter 7: The Scrying

Chapter 7: The Scrying

I STEP ON THE BRAKES AND PANIC. As if in agonizing slow motion – one that takes only moments to unfold – I helplessly feel my tires slide on the streetcar rails that have been slicked down by a drizzle, see the car pivot ninety degrees, and watch it hydroplane out of control towards the Benz that just ran a red light.

The people on foot in the crosswalk scream as that black car swerves to avoid hitting them; the car screeches sideways and accelerates to avoid slamming into me. Then my car starts sliding straight for the pedestrians.

In another moment, I come to a dead stop less than half a metre from entering the crosswalk.

My foot is still full on the brake. My hands grip the wheel at the ten and two o'clock positions. My pulse throbs in my temples like a migraine. But, it's all over; no one has been hurt.

Suddenly, as if I am just seeing him now, a big man angrily pounds on the hood of my car. He's burly and aggressive, and looks like a steelworker or a longshoreman. His voice comes right through the windshield as if it's no barrier at all. "Fucking punk! You could have killed my daughter and me!"

I blink, and for the first time notice the figure of an angelic girl of about five cowering behind him. Her dark hair is in long curls that frame her pretty face like Shirley Temple. Her finger is at her mouth.

The man kicks his elbows back and stalks over to my side window like he wants to drag me out through it. He purses his lips in a show of ire and motions for me to lower the glass.

I don’t. Instead, I shout through it, "It was not my fault. He, he ran a red!" I twist and point over my shoulder and down the street like an imbecile.

"Asshole!" The man makes a disgusted sound and spits on the ground. He begins to move away only after his daughter calls out to him.

Cars honk like screaming cranes once the light changes and I am still in the intersection.

Nervously, I put my car in reverse, and turn the wheel so I can continue down the street I was headed. I inhale deeply, trying to shake my adrenaline rush down to my toes, and drive on more cautiously than ever.

Since my father's funeral, and the dramatic twist with the disposition of his will, unaccountably upsetting things seem to be hounding me.

I grip tighter on the wheel as I feel my tires slip on the streetcar rails. It has been lightly raining all day, and sometimes when traffic is congested like it is today, driving on Queen Street West creeps me out. The damn tracks – level as they are with the pavement – act like two rods of ice to slip and slide on.

Thinking back on the odd occurrences, there was the near miss of me tumbling down the three flights of stairs at the building where my flat is. I have never tripped in my life, and my ability to arrest my fall this time only felt like cold comfort considering a broken arm, leg, or neck could just as easily be the result the next time.

Other 'happenings' are my phone rings with phantom calls, and my inbox is chock-a-block with staticky and wordless voicemail. Maybe my receiver is just on the fritz, but then why is my phone at home doing the same thing?

But worst of all are the 'dreams.' Weird, horribly indistinct visions about gothic places I've never been to, and they all seem to resolve back to The Necropolis Cemetery and the blood rolling down into my eyes after the raven attack.

I tap on the brakes, seeing a yellow light, and my car swerves slightly. I'm prepared, and let the steering wheel right itself while I apply gentle pressure to bring the car to a stop for the red.

As I wait for it to turn, my glance drifts up to it, and my hand goes to press the cryptic gold coin under my shirt tightly against my chest.

'Damn, Emeric,' I think. 'Enough of this shit.'

The feelings of frustration and sheer fatigue have been enough over the past week to make me do what I am doing right now. I just hope to God this decision is truly mine, although I know my recluse father's hand is guiding me, but to where and what I have no earthly idea. I don't want to be angry with that man, but it's getting very hard not to.

˚˚˚˚˚

The drizzle continues, but at least it's not accompanied by the driving wind that sometimes makes Toronto feel like it deserves to snatch Chicago's nickname for itself.

I scrunch down and look across the street.

A neon sign burns preternaturally bright through the dampened haze of a moody afternoon.

The Seeing Fox, it says. The running text on the flapping awning assures passers-by that this place has it all, I guess. "Psychic Readings by a Real Gypsy Drabarni." I don’t know what that last word means, but I've seen enough black and white 'B' movies to suspect it's an old woman with a silk scarf tied around her head, a piano shawl clutched over her shoulders and spare change jangling about her waist. Not to mention the prerequisite hag nose with hairy black mole on it.

"Geez, Father!" I plead. "What have you done to me?"

I open my door and let the early summer humidity seep in. I step out, dash across the street, and somehow the light precipitation landing on my cheeks feels good – like a series of mini wake up slaps.

I duck under the awning for The Seeing Fox and pause. There are glass windows, so I try to peek in. Unfortunately they are all covered by tightly pleated curtains fixed from within the shop, but the window glass itself is decorated. Reverse-painted clichés offer visual proof of the occult doings within: a splayed left palm with thick and identified 'Love' and 'Destiny' lines, a tarot deck spread like a hand of poker with a huge 'L'AMOVREVX' card showing a pair of mediaeval women latching onto a man in a short doublet and stockings. They apparently fight for him while over their heads a cockeyed cupid flies and aims his bow from the centre of a blazing sun. I step back and see the painting on the window on the other side of the door includes one of a sparkling jewel; it is slightly red-tinted, and hanging from a cord. Lines of what I can only assume are magical radiance shine out of this gemstone in all directions.

The glass of the door is curtained too, so I cannot see into the shop, but some sounds come out to me – a vibrant woman's voice saying something about 'the kid.'

I place my hand on the doorknob, and almost feel the frenetic energy from within the shop zap into me through the brass.

The feeling I get is weird: they are expecting me.

Taking a deep breath, I twist the knob and apply pressure. A hanging set of door chimes jingles just over my head and I look up to see their shimmering gold-coloured metal in motion.

Now the sounds I heard from outside assail me.

A woman is handing out orders in no uncertain terms. I can't see anyone, so I eavesdrop while I step in and close the door.

"…You will take your little brother upstairs, and stay there!"

"But, Mum!"

"No buts…."

They continue to have their behind-the-scenes discussion, but I partially tune them out. Instead, I look around. This front space is small. There are a few chairs lined up against the windows with end tables hosting magazines and scarf-draped lamps. The countered-off area up front makes me instantly think 'dry cleaners,' but the colours of the decor are much too sombre for any Chinese laundry I've ever been to. Rich ambers and scarlets climb up the walls in vertical stripes to a satin-tented ceiling. A pressed tin lantern with stain glass panels crowns the centre tuft of hanging red fabric. As I'm thinking 'more like Igor's bordello than Frankenstein's castle,' a small child suddenly ducks under the hinged section of the countertop and slowly comes towards to me.

He's a boy of about four, and has dark hair that is fine, shaved close around his temples but kept long down the centre. Some adult has spent an inordinate amount of time to make this middle section stand up in glossy spikes.

The boy stops and eyes me with the fingers of his right hand going to his mouth.

While the sounds of the heated discussion drift back to me, I squat down and hold out my arms.

"…I don’t want to go upstairs, Daj. That's not fair!"

The little boy walks into my embrace. He partially sits on the top of my thigh.

"What's your name?"

"Lupasc."

"…Schav, you will do as I say...!"

"Oh, that's a handsome name." The boy's eyes are as clear blue as rippling water, and he looks at me with frank appraisal. "And how old are you?"

Lupasc holds up a wavering three and four fingers with his left hand.

"Three and a half...?" I guess.

The boy crooks his head with an impish grin; he nods.

I squeeze him a moment by the shoulders, and then get startled.

A guy is standing on the other side of the counter. I suppose I had noticed the argument come to an end, but did not hear anyone enter the room.

There is something resembling dour antagonism on this guy's face as he glares silently at me.

I pat the boy to make him stand fully, and then rise to my feet.

In an odd way, this man behind the counter is a full-sized version of little Lupasc. He's in his late twenties, I guess, has dark spiky hair, but is fair skinned and possessed of piercing blue eyes. He's also masculine in a hyper sort of way. He wears all of his body movements in an aggressive posture; a manner that says at first glance 'don't even think of messing with me.' His physique is just barely hidden beneath a tee-shirt and jeans, and his wardrobe selection seems to be chosen to point out that he spends a good portion of his week 'at the gym.'

Is that look on his face for me, hostile? There might be something around the edges of his flinty stare that suggests another, deeper emotion, but I do not know what that could be.

"Silviu!" A woman's voice precedes her as she rips open the curtain from the back area. She steps up and joins the guy behind the counter.

The man instantly becomes docile though a series of head lowerings and eye blinks.

The woman glances at me for a split second, and then softens her tone. "Silviu, son – will you please take your brother upstairs?"

"Yes, Daj."

I feel I can safely assume 'Daj' means 'Mother.'

The woman's grown son lifts the counter flap and walks towards Lupasc and I. As he squats down, I have to resist the urge to chuckle. At close range, the older brother's hair is a dead ringer for the little boy's spikes, only the grown man's hair stands up at least the breadth of a man's hand, if not more. I have unwittingly found out who coifs the lad's hair with loving attention every morning.

He eyes me for a brief moment – those blue peepers getting uncomfortably near – and I can suddenly smell him clearly. He wears an excess of some off-the-shelf body spray – it seems as if he's bathed in it too.

"Come on, brat." Silviu uses both hands to encircle the boy's waist, he then acts like he's toting an empty suitcase. The boy spins off of his feet into a horizontal position. He gets tucked deep under his brother's big arm, and is walked behind the counter in a torrent of giggles from the little one.

Lupasc gives me a slight wave, and I quickly return it before Daj slaps Silviu's ass with a "Hurry it up!"

After they vanish behind the curtain, the woman straightens down her skirt, and adjusts her hair briefly with open palms by her temples.

She strides out to me with a professionally restraint smile, and extended hands. She is self-possessed, elegant, and anything but a black-and-white Hollywood 'crone.'

"Ah. What may I do for you, young man?" Suddenly her typically Ontarian tone is overlaid – overburdened, really – with an 'old-world' accent.

I take her right hand and puzzle for a quick moment with what to do with it. Haven't I seen in all the 'B-movies' that Gypsy matriarchs want their hands kissed?

I lift it and for some reason turn it. I kiss the inside of her wrist, and instantly feel her body shutter and stiffen.

I release her hand in total embarrassment and stare. Her hair is jet-black, and her eyes are just as ravishingly blue and beautiful as her sons' are. I must have totally blundered, for while I watch, she acts as casual as she can, closes her open mouth, and gently draws the flesh I have just moistened along her skirt. I guess to wipe it clean. Well, no more cheap movie lessons for me on how to be 'suave.'

"Well…I…I…" I stammer. Was she really going to make me explain what I had no notion of myself: why I was here, apparently making quite the fool of myself.

In lieu of answering, I suddenly become enamoured with her as a person. She is dressed all in black, and far from the movie cliché of a 'fortune teller' in flaring skirts, she is slick in a form-hugging dress. If I know my Prada, she's attired in designer fashions of the highest taste, and I do know my Prada, my Dior, my Ziliotto, because of my fashion-plate aunts.

Also striking is her age. She's no grandmotherly type, and I can imagine she's in her early fifties, but no older.

I level with her. "I'm not really sure why I'm here."

She smiles and pats the top of my hand. "Well, in that you are not alone, um…."

"Emeric."

She gently grips onto my hand. "In that you are not alone, Emeric. Many people are guided to have a psychic reading from the other side." Her eyes narrow, and her azure gaze shutters in a rising leer. "You do believe in the other side, don’t you?"

"Um – like, God?"

"Well, young man. I believe you are among the least likely to tell yourself you are here just by chance."

"Um…" I stammer again. "There is a word on the awning outside – Drab…."

"Drabarni?"

"Yes. What does it mean?"

"It means, a seer. A person who can look into your troubles, and via spirit guides, figure out what ails you. You…." She falters, and lets my hand drop.

"I…what?"

"You want that, don’t you? That is why you are here."

"Yes, I suppose it is."

Daj turns on her expensive designer heels and walks away. At the curtain, she pauses. "Well. There is no time to lose, Emeric. You better come in for your reading."

˚˚˚˚˚

It has been a few minutes now.

The fashionista psychic showed me into this room, sat me down at a table, and said she needed "to prepare."

She then walked out and left me.

It seems that has been quite a while ago, and I look around, thinking, 'Okay, this is creepy.' The Hollywood decor from the waiting area is doubled and trebled in spades in this inner sanctorum.

It is not a very large space, about four metres square, and in fact is a nook carved out of a larger space, with only one curtained doorway and no windows. The walls are painted in a semi-gloss hue that appears almost black, but on closer inspection proves to really be a dark purple – an aubergine of the most intense kind. A Persian rug covers the floor nearly to every corner in muted shades of red and brown.

Pictures on the wall are mounted in wide mattes and baroque frames, which are not gilded, but shine in black lacquer. Inside of them are somewhat macabre images of fortune telling: an ace of spades rises whole out of the torn remnants of the ace cards of the other suits; a skeletal Death figure from the tarot deck, with scythe in hand, props a bony heel on the lid of a cracked grave; the third is an odd illustration titled Cain & Abel, but showing two unclothed men and foliage wreathing them from all sides. I turn around and lean forward on my chair to take a closer look at this picture. It shows a naked man lying on the grass with his arms coming out to the viewer. Since he's prostrate on the ground, and presumably dead, he must be Abel. Above him, and sitting on what appears to be a wellhead, is a figure with a slip of red loincloth at his waist and the jaw of an ass in his right hand. He lifts forlorn eyes to the sky, and the thumb of his left hand points to himself abjectly. I suppose he has just heard the Divine command to exile himself east of Eden.

I inhale and return to face forward. I plant elbows and notice the table that I'm sitting at is round, and that there is only one other chair, which is directly across from me on the other side.

The surface is covered by a spotless, wrinkle-free linen tablecloth. A solid black handkerchief is laid out under a gleaming brass stand in the centre. This tripod has a ring near the base that joins three lion-paw feet. A trio of curlicue arms sweeps upward from these feet to cup empty air. Something is clearly missing for the stand to support.

To the left and right of this vacant holder are gold-plated candlesticks. They're plain, hold thick and unburned white tapers, and have block letter inscriptions encircling the base of each one.

I dare not touch them, seeing how highly polished and mirror-like they are, but I partially rise in my chair and train the letters around the one on my right: "E–L–O–H–E."

I switch my weight and read the other one: " E–L–O–I–M."

If I remember my Sunday school correctly, those are two of the variant names for God in the Old Testament. Okay, that's a weird thing to be placed on candle stands. Is it a 'God is the light of the world' kind of thing..?

Casting my eyes up, I see the fixture for this room comes in the form of another hanging lantern, in brass this time, and one I could swear I saw on the cover of the Pottery Barn catalogue a few years back.

There is a fragrance in this space, a sooty warmth that tingles my nostrils. I find its source. On a small table pulled up to the central one, a gilded incense burner has a glowing piece of charcoal in it. This brazier looks like an antique Neoclassical open-top urn on three tall and fluted legs. It is beautiful in its detail, and stunning, in that it is barely twenty centimetres high.

On a small silver tray below it, various pebbles of incense are stacked, and next to them are neat piles of differing herbs.

'Wow,' I think. 'This set is hot and ready for filming!'

Motion from the curtain catches my eye.

Daj leads with an elbow pushing the fabric aside; she has to, for her hands are full.

"Sorry to have kept you waiting, dear boy, but the crystal needed to be cleansed." Her professional 'Gypsy' accent is laid on thick again. All her consonants are honed like steel, and every vowel drips with lengthened exaggeration.

In her arms she cradles an unseen object swathed in black velvet. It’s about the size of a cantaloupe.

"Cleanse?" I inquire.

She makes her way to the table and sets the still-covered item carefully on its stand.

"Yes, not cleaning, but cleansing. Spiritual purity is of the utmost importance. To scry with the most perfect vision, the vessel must be neutralized with distilled vinegar and polished faultlessly with silken velour."

"Scry?" I repeat, knowing I sound as ignorant as I actually am.

Daj sits down with a self-satisfied grin. In one fell motion she reaches for the cloth, pauses there holding the corner dramatically, and tells me, "Scrying mean seeing, my dear."

She whips off the cover and there is a crystal ball of almost stunning blankness. It's a perfect globe – no blemishes inside or out – and I am suddenly relieved I did not dare to lay a finger on this lady's candlesticks.

She shifts on her seat to draw my attention to her.

"Do you know," she asks me softly. "What divination means? Do you know what it entails?"

I slowly shake my head.

"Divination is the telling of secrets via means of occult procedure. Ritual can concentrate one's present sight to visions of an unknown future, or to the remembrance of a forgotten past."

"Where does the psychic part come in?" I'm not ready to buy the Brooklyn Bridge quite yet, but I'd like to kick the cables a bit, so to speak.

"Psychic," she tells me in a calm and motherly way. "Is the connecting line of communication. It's a gift from the Divine with its own esoteric rationale, and only limited acceptance by the uninitiated."

'Well,' I think. 'That's me.'

"There are different forms of divination, Emeric. Bibliomancy is telling from random passages in books; spodomancy is telling through ashes; oneiromancy is telling through the reading of dreams."

"Oh." Yeah, now I really feel like a dummy, and note her accent has dimmed precipitously again.

"But as I said, the word scrying means seeing, and comes from the same root as 'descry' or 'discern.' This form of divination is achieved through gazing into a translucent surface – through a precious gem hanging on a cord, or a bowl of water, or a globe of crystal. This is the most ancient form of divination, and the natives of Australia practiced it at least forty-thousand years ago."

"Wow." That is impressive.

She leans forward. Daj's upper body comes to rest on the flattened elbows she plants on the table. "Anything odd happen in your life?"

I swallow down my fear. "What do you mean...?"

"I mean, anything out of the ordinary, that has been on your mind."

"My father just died – "

"And...?" She cuts me off.

"And…bad things – weird things – have been happening ever since."

"All right. Give me no details at this point. But, what reasons brought you here, specifically to me?"

"It was…I was left a letter."

"Ah. I see."

'Really?' I scoff silently to myself. 'I don’t see a damn thing.'

She sits upright, and nearly sighs: "You're sensitive; I mean, you have the gift. Do you know that?"

The question floors me. It is something that I have often shoved to the back of my mind, but yes – I guess I do know that.

I make no reply.

The Drabarni changes tactics. "Do you know why people seek this form of counselling?"

I shake my head.

"Out of fear, a desire for hope, or a dreadful need to have a malediction confirmed. Which one do you think you are, Emeric?"

I think I sense some colour tinge the top of my ears. I feel like a plaything for her.

I shrug, but hold her gaze.

"Well then," Daj says, sitting back on her chair with confidence. "Let's start. We've had enough talk."

The woman leans to her side slightly, and rummages through a pocket. She holds up a plastic lighter, flicks it, rises and lights the candles. I indulge in a wicked side thought that maybe the lighter has J–E–H–O–V–A–H engraved on it, but I cannot see that level of detail.

Putting the lighter away, she sits and gestures towards the brazier and incense.

"I ask you," she instructs. "To clear your mind fully, and then when you are ready, pick a scent and offer it to the gods."

I inspect the variously coloured and textured piles. I do empty my mind and avoid thinking about my dad.

She croons softly, with her azure eyes sparkling towards me, "Which one are you drawn to?"

I pick up some rather nondescript brown bits that are like thick sawdust. I glance to her for confirmation, and she motions for me to place it on the charcoal.

An acrid and green-smelling cloud arises.

"Ah," she explains. "That's mugwort. It’s a cleansing scent."

On top of it she offers a pinch of dried lilac flowers, and instantly the room feels brighter.

She indicates for my hands, and we lean in to link up on either side of the crystal ball. Our arms form a circle that enclosed the stand and object of scrying, but exclude the lighted candles outside of it.

Daj whispers, "Completely clear your mind."

I close my eyes, and as I let my thoughts and emotions drain, I begin to perceive something. At the ends of my fingertips, just where the seer grasps me, a sustained and mild static charge builds.

She murmurs, "You are very gifted."

When I reopen my eyes, it's as if the lights of the room have been turned off. The only source of illumination now seems to come from the centre of the quartz globe in front of me.

I feel balanced between relaxation and concentration, and the light from the middle of the sphere becomes cloudy – like I am sitting on the grass of my university campus and gazing up to a rolling sky of white billows. This haze of translucent smokiness gradually evaporates.

In its stead, fleeting images appear. They move with stately succession, and linger in and out of one another for a while until the old one fades and the new one predominates. I find I can vocalize what I see in simple, two-word lists.

"Some clouds."

The cleared area forms itself into a skull. It is not a scary Halloween skull, but one seemingly made of green glazed porcelain. Its face is a smooth and glassy one.

"A skull."

The tingle on my fingers increases.

The very vitreous gloss of the skull begins to rotate slowly. It increases speed, and soon blurs into the blue-marble serenity of the revolving Earth itself.

"A globe."

That blue streak transforms into a flashing moment of fright; an amorphous blue eye blinks once at me. It belongs to a barely seen, but hauntingly beautiful woman.

The sensation of electricity on my fingers grows uncomfortable.

"An eye."

I involuntarily blink to shake the woman's gaze off of me from within the orb, and into the pleasing sky, a flock of birds appear. They gather and swoop in the air like a playing school of fish might in the water. They come together and fly off towards the setting disc of an orange sun. Then a single white bird flutters up close before it slowly fades away.

Like a zap, the touch of the Drabarni becomes too much for me to stand. I let loose of the seer and then a real jolt hits me; I reel back with the stinging sensation of having been shocked by a thousand volts.

In another moment, the apparently internal light source from inside the crystal shuts off.

I look around, first up to the ceiling. The illumination in the room is exactly as it was before the scrying.

The Gypsy woman leans back dramatically in her chair, the very Hollywood picture of 'drained.'

She gathers herself and says very softly, "You saw those birds as well?"

"But…" I stammer. "I didn't mention them."

She looks surprised. "Emeric, I saw everything you did – we saw them together." Then she adds as if it were an announcement, "The answer is clear!"

"It is?" I sound dubious, but find both confrontation and comfort in rubbing my sore digits.

She leans forward again with great anticipation. "You saw the visions too, you cannot deny it. So review it with me. First there was…."

"A skull, a creepy woman's eye, a rotating globe – "

She cuts me off to add the conclusion herself. "A flock of birds flying into a sunset, then a single lingering white bird. Yes?"

"Yes," I admit. "I saw all of that too."

"Yes, dear boy. A skull for wisdom and/or death; a globe for travel; an eye means evil is watching your every move; a flock of birds flying towards the dying sun means news of loneliness, hopeless despair and perhaps a fruitless death."

Fuck. "And the single bird?" I ask.

"I should think that one is obvious. That is for hope. That dove is the herald or messenger of struggle and rebirth. Do you see what it all means? What the total message is?"

I shake my clueless head, and feel sick to my stomach. Maybe I know, but it's too awful to…to –

"You, Emeric – dear young man – are cursed. It did not happen to you, or because of anything you did. What caused it perhaps happened many generations ago. I speculate that your father's recent passing meant the family misfortune moved onto your shoulders then and only then. Your sole hope is to travel to the origin of the curse, and you have been shown the skull as a sign that you can obtain the wisdom needed to unbind you from the hex."

She clasps her hands together like entreaty. "Do you believe me?"

"It sounds, well, pretty hard to accept."

The Drabarni settles back into her chair, and there is an audible gulp. "You already know what I say is correct."

The woman folds arms over her Prada and just dares me to defy her.

Funny part is, she's absolutely right. I know somehow none of it, none of any of this, is bullshit.

I blink. "But where would I go, to break this thing?"

She tosses back her head and laughs as if the answer were obvious.

"The Old Country."

"Which, old country..?"

"Where it all began, my boy. Romania!"