Gun of Wrath

Chapter 9- Vita Post Mortem

  Stars twinkle above me in the remote desert landscape. My feet slip around on the soft sand as I walk, coming to a fire. A winged figure sits on the ground humming a tune just audible over the crackling hiss. “Hello,” I call out quietly, not wanting to startle her.

   “Come, sit by the fire with me,” she invites, without looking around, patting the ground beside her.

   “What are you doing out here?” I ask, warming myself by the fire.

   “Waiting for you, of course! So, how are you getting along?”

   “I’ve sold my soul, killed two men, left my entire life behind,” I count off. She chuckles.

   “Slow start, huh?” I turn to look at her astounded. Astarte flashes a brilliant smile at me, fire dancing in her eyes. She shrugs. The fire crackles and pops. Logs fall in on themselves, sending flurries of hot ash into the air, reclaiming our attention. “You are doing well, Joan. Most people can only dream of the opportunities you have been given, but they do not come without consequences and responsibilities. You have had to step out of your comfort zone and it feels a lot like the world is caving in on you now. But, you are resilient!” She looks over at me again. “The world needs you, Joan.”

   “What’s so special about me?”

   “Why does there need to be anything special about you for the world to need you?”

   With that, Astarte turns her attention back to the fire and begins humming. The fire grows with the volume of her voice until I’m forced to close my eyes against the brightness and her voice thunders in my ears. I open my eyes and the sun is shining through the thin curtain in my room. It’s unseasonably warm today. The sound of a motorcycle engine fades into nothingness.

   Rubbing my eyes and yawning, I get out of bed. I unlock my door and walk into the living room where a mug full of steaming coffee sits on the coffee table next to a note. Had to get some things. Be back later. Don’t touch. I smile to myself then pick up the coffee and take a sip.

   After grabbing a shower and an apple, I throw myself on the couch and turn on the tv. Ugh, news. Before I can change the channel, I realise they’re talking about me. I sit up and stare in grim fascination as the anchorman reports on my disappearance. “-search for a 33-year-old woman from Centerville. Police found blood at the scene and are not ruling out homicide.”

   Jangling at the door startles me and I accidentally touch something on the remote which makes the tv turn to static. The lock clicks as I hit the power button and I toss the remote back onto the coffee table. Purson appears through the door. My chin tucks down as I look at him. “I wasn’t t-“

   He holds a hand up. “I know.” He shuts and locks the door. It isn’t until he turns around that I notice a reusable black shopping bag in his other hand. “I figured you would want some of your own things,” he says, walking into the living room. He hands me the bag before draping himself over his chair.

   I rummage in the bag, looking at things as I place them on the table. A small baggie containing a quartz pendulum, small taper candles of various colors, a pocket atlas, a pack of artist’s pencils, paintbrushes, a pack of tarot cards, several small glass vials and jars, and an ornate box that looks large enough to fit everything with room to spare. I look up to find Purson watching me from across the table. “Thank you. For all of this.” The abrupt awareness of my inability to pay him back, or support myself in any way hits me full force, clenching my stomach.

   “You needn’t feel indebted to me. These are only a few of the tools of the trade which you have agreed to learn. Think of them as office supplies. Now, I told you yesterday I would teach you how to find the answers you seek. If you will, put away all but the tarot deck.” I organize everything in the box and put it off to the side. Unwrapping the deck and pulling the cards out of the tuck box, I look up for further instruction. “Study the cards.” He says with an air of simplicity, before getting up and retrieving a book.