Page 69 of I Will Always Find You
A deck of tarot cards sat upon the table in front of the hostess, whom everyone whispered had “the gift.” The woman, who appeared to be in her mid-sixties, wore a multicoloured wool skirt and pearls, along with her knitted shawl and silk headscarf; her eyes were distant, as though she had already stepped one foot into another realm. Her face was heavily lined, and she smelled of cloves with a heavy dusting of lemon verbena.
The Romani witch found the mixture more than a little acrid.
“As most of you do not speak French, I will conduct this session in English.”
Madame Albertine’s English was quite fluent, though her accent was thick. Most of the participants sensed a slight hint of annoyance in their hostess’ tone. They were not incorrect in this deduction. She hated tourists, but liked their money.
“Sit down and place your hands on the table, but do not touch one another. Some mediums like you to join hands—I do not. It interferes with my connection to you as individuals, to your spiritual past, present, and future.”
The Romani witch and the crew members ofI Confessdiligently followed the instructions they had been given.
“We are not alone in this world,” Madame Albertine stated in a monotone voice after everyone was seated. “I will now attempt to contact the other side. One or more of the departed may come through, and perhaps not for all of you. I may also connect with one or more of you individually, on a deeper level, through your aura and spirit. I may see something without the aid of the spirits. I cannot say how this will go. The Weave works its Will. I am merely an instrument of interpretation.”
Oh bother! This is too much.
Immediately upon finishing his thought, the Romani witch saw Madame Albertine raise her head and fix her gaze on him.
“You are also gifted, I see. Though one so young should not be so cynical.”
The Romani witch gasped.
“Are you okay?” Marshall asked, whispering from the side of his mouth.
“I’m fine. Nevermind. Let’s just see where this goes.”
Focusing on what lay before her, though she maintained a slight devilish grin, Madame Albertine lit a white candle in a teacup saucer and then placed her hands lightly on the table. The room grew quiet. The ticking of the ebony wood mantel clock became deafening in the silence.
“We call upon those beyond the veil—friends and family. If you wish to communicate with us tonight, I beseech you to come through. I will be your anchor and your voice.”
A soft, eerie creak echoed from somewhere within the house, breaking the heavy silence that enveloped the group. A solitary candle’s flame began flickering fitfully on the table, casting trembling shadows across the walls.
Margorie, a local French woman, one of the crew members’ dates for the evening, nearly jumped out of her skin. “C’est quoi ce bordel—?” [“What the hell—?”]
“Do not speak!” Madame Albertine commanded. “Gardez le silence!” [“Keep silent!”]
Margorie obeyed, and the rest of the room remained quiet.
The air seemed to grow heavier, colder. A draft stirred, though the windows were shut tight.
Suddenly, the table jerked.
A collective gasp rose from the group as the wooden surface beneath their hands began to tremble. All except the Romani witch, who sat there in silence, still and stoic.
“Yes, I see you there, moving about in my mind’s eye,” Madame Albertine whispered, “walking in the shadows of remembrance. Who do you have a message for? Show me your story.”
The mantle clock ticked loudly, with each passing second feeling more burdensome than the last. Madame Albertine remained quiet for several long minutes, her gaze focused on the Tarot cards laid out in front of her, but her mind was somewhere else—somewhere far, far beyond the realm of the room’s mundane reality.
“Something—something is not right,” the medium stammered. “I feel—I feel—”
Madame Albertine’s pulse quickened. As the room began to spin for her, the colours of the walls melted into one another,swirling in a kaleidoscope of indiscernible shapes. She squeezed her eyes shut, willing herself to stay grounded, but the force pulling her deeper into the vision was relentless.
In the darkness behind her eyelids, images began to emerge—blurred at first, like a distant memory struggling to come into focus. So many images. So much history.
“I am old, ancient!” the old seer cried out. “They tortured and crucified him! I am angry, enraged upon a great mountain about to erupt—I am—I am on fire, burning! I am in darkness! God, help me! Ça a pas d’allure! [It makes no sense at all!]”
The Romani witch was aghast, for he understood what the medium meant with her chaotic ranting.Great Hecate! Is she channelling me? I never considered this a possibility!
Suddenly, Madame Albertine opened her eyes, showing that her pupils had dilated. Her withered hands clenched into tight fists, and her nose began to bleed as she shook violently. “Je suis ce que je suis, et si je suis ce que je suis, qu’est-ce que je suis? Qui suis-je?! [“I am what I am, and if I am what I am, what am I? Who am I?”]
