Willow: Wolfmoon, #2

By nikki broadwell

Maeve's dreams are disturbing her sleep but when she consutls the psychic she leaves with more questions than answers. But  when a shipment of paintings arrrive at the gallery where she works she realizes where her dream images have been ocming from--Within the ornate frames she sees landscapes that she recognizes. But from where? 

When she finds out that her mother is actually alive and living in Scoltand her need to meet with her becomes nearly overwhelming. And her boyfriend, Harold, encourages her to go. Little does she know what will face her before that fateful trip or what it will mean for her and Harold's future.  

• Language: English
• Publisher: Airmid Publishing
• Release date: Jul 26, 2016
• ISBN: 9781536554304

nikki broadwell

Nikki Broadwell has been writing non-stop for sixteen years. From the time when she was a child her imagination has threatened to run off with her and now she is able to give it free rein. Animals and nature and the condition of the world are themes that follow her storylines that meander from fantasy to paranormal murder mystery to shapeshifters--and along with that add the spice of a good love story. 

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License Notes

This is a work of fiction. All names, characters and ideas presented here are a product of the author’s imagination.

All rights reserved

Acknowledgements

Many thanks go to Emily Trinkaus, Steph Wilder, Lisa Costantino, Karalynn Ott, my patient husband and all my friends and family who have suffered through the many drafts of this book.

My apologies to all native Gaelic and Scottish speakers for the many mistakes I’m sure I’ve made.

Lastly, I express my enduring gratitude to all the Celtic goddesses who have guided me through this story.

Praise for Willow

Broadwell once again had me under her spell from the moment I turned the first page. She uses powerful and vivid descriptions that transported me into Maeve’s world so that I could hear and see first hand what she did, and the air of mystery and the unknown throughout the story left me on the edge of my seat.

Reviewer: Cindy Taylor

www.allbooksreviewint.com

Dedication

For all those who see with their heart—may your journey be full of magic

I hate this wretched willow soul of mine, patiently enduring, plaited or twisted by other hands.

Karin Boye

Chapter One

New England

Fall, 2009

Gertrude Besnik reached for Maeve Lewin’s hand, peering closely at her palm. You have strong and unusual lines here. Would you like a reading?

Maeve hesitated, startled by the woman’s appearance. Dark eyes pierced through Maeve’s soul, bracelets jangling on the woman’s arm as she tucked a strand of black hair into the brightly colored turban on her head. Beneath her long Indian print skirt her feet were bare with toes adorned with silver rings—the cliché of the gypsy crystal ball reader. But when she introduced herself in a throaty calming tone, Maeve relaxed. The woman’s eyes weren’t as dark as Maeve originally thought; they were soft brown with tiny flecks of gold. 

After a nod of assent, Maeve followed Gertrude into a square room with no windows where musky incense filled the air.

Sit, Gertrude ordered, gesturing to the table where a lit candle sent a tiny halo of light into the dark room. Gertrude took the chair across from her as Maeve glanced down at the cards spread out on the faded scarf.

Are you familiar with the Tarot? the woman asked.

Not really, but I’ve heard of it.

Gertrude smiled, deftly pulling the spread into a tidy pile.  This deck is very old. It belonged to my great-grandmother who was also psychic. You must shuffle and then cut the deck three times. Think about the question you want answered as you do this.

Maeve thought about the recurring dreams. What did they mean? She picked up the cards, shuffled, and divided the deck as instructed as she tried to bring into focus the whispery images of trees, water and fog.

Good. Gertrude carefully picked up each section and restacked them into one. Now give me your hands.

Gertrude’s eyes became glassy and unfocused as her fingers came in contact with Maeve’s hands. Her voice droned on as she talked about the lines on Maeve’s palms. Maeve heard the words,  ‘lifeline,’ ‘love affair,’ ‘trip,’ but her eyelids refused to stay open. Her last conscious thought was how hot the woman’s hands were—from that moment on it was as if she was in a trance or asleep. In the distance she heard the slap of cards being placed on the table, Gertrude’s indrawn breath, words muttered in a foreign tongue. Something happened, a sound or a clap that brought her back. Across the table, the psychic’s eyes were wide, her mouth open in an expression of shock but a second later she smiled and rose from her chair.

My next client is due in a few minutes, she said, gliding past Maeve to open the door. Light from the store streamed into the room illuminating dust motes and the haze of smoke still in the air.

But wait—what happened? Maeve glanced at the cards laid out on the table but the candle had been extinguished and they were not in the line of light.

There is darkness in your future, Gertrude answered, turning toward her.

Darkness? What does that mean?

I told you everything during our session. You will remember.

But I don’t remember anything!

Gertrude didn’t respond as she gestured toward the counter where a thin young woman with a nose ring waited on a customer. You may pay there.

Feeling bewildered, Maeve moved through the doorway blinking in the brightness of the shop.

Don’t forget what I told you, she heard Gertrude call, but when Maeve turned to ask what it was, the door was firmly closed.

When Maeve left the store, visions of crows and a cold inhospitable landscape crowded her consciousness. These were new and disturbing images that had nothing to do with her re-occurring dreams, which were filled with green and water. Now the smell of pine and the sea, the feeling of safety this place evoked, had been replaced by gnawing fear in the pit of her stomach. Surely she had told Gertrude all about these nightly themes—it was the reason she had agreed to the reading in the first place. But if she had, she had no memory of the fortuneteller’s response. Why had she so blithely handed over her money at the counter when she couldn’t remember a thing of what was said? The reading should have been recorded on a CD for her to take home.

When a large crow landed on a telephone pole next to her she glanced up, startled to see him staring back at her. His penetrating gaze didn’t waver until she looked away at which point he lifted into the sky on wide dark wings. A shiver slid down her spine.

AFTER MAEVE LEFT, GERTRUDE reached into her bag for her Marlboro lights. Glancing around the room as she put on her shoes her eyes came to rest on the painted statue of Vasilia, the little known Celtic goddess of the wind. Her expression was stern, long hair swirling out from her pale face in wild curling tendrils. A staff of dark wood had been carved and cunningly placed inside her painted clay fist that was lifted to the sky as if in battle. An impulse buy from a Scottish artist years ago, the ten-inch statue had cost Gertrude a lot more than she could afford.

She closed the door behind her, pulling out a cigarette as she headed toward the front. It wouldn’t do to have her place of business smelling like stale cigarette smoke. Smoking was one of her few bad habits; she’d tried over the years to give it up but in times like this it served a purpose. And she only smoked three or four cigarettes a day.

I’ll be back in a few minutes, she told the young woman behind the desk. Once outside Gertrude lit up, inhaling deeply. Her nerves were on edge after doing the cards for Maeve. There had been something very unsettling about the formation and the girl’s obvious connection to somewhere outside of this reality. The psychic images that appeared in Gertrude’s mind during the reading were of a frozen landscape filled with creatures that, to her knowledge, did not exist. And Maeve didn’t remember the reading. In all her years of doing the Tarot Gertrude had never encountered that complete blank-out in a client.

Inhaling again, she let the smoke out slowly, watching it curl around her and then form itself into three interlocking spirals. The spiral was an ancient symbol representing the womb, feminine energy, continual change. She frowned, struggling to understand and then let her mind drift; this was the sign of the Celtic triple goddess, the three faces of the earth mother: maiden, mother and crone, but what was it trying to tell her? After the smoke dissipated she dropped the still burning cigarette on the ground and stepped on it and then picked it up to throw in the dumpster.

Above her, oily clouds moved restlessly—the sunny day had turned dark. Cold wind made her shiver and she drew her fringed shawl closer around her shoulders.  She jumped when a cloud of crows lifted noisily out of a tree and a moment later the skies opened and rain poured down. She was soaked to the skin before she could get back into the shop.

THE MORNING AFTER HER reading Maeve took her coffee to the window seat, staring unseeing out the window of her second story apartment. She hadn’t slept well and her mind was on yesterday, trying to sort through her session with Gertrude. It was strange just being in that part of Milltown at all—it was not an area where Maeve shopped. Somehow she had become turned around and ended up on the unfamiliar street. Nor would she go into a place that advertised psychic readings, sold crystals and Tarot decks. It was the book on herbs in the window, a recent interest of hers, that had drawn her inside.  If Gertrude hadn’t initiated the meeting Maeve would have fled right after she purchased the book.

Sitting here now, Maeve had the oddest feeling she had been transported somewhere during the session but the details of this other place were only vague sensory images with a lingering uneasiness that she had forgotten something important. The main thing she recalled, besides her future being filled with darkness, whatever that meant, was Gertrude telling her that she would find something she had lost. Maeve couldn’t think of anything she had lost unless it was her keys, which she tended to misplace quite often. 

A car horn blared bringing Maeve back to the present. On the street below the day was in full swing as men dressed in heavy aprons unloaded produce from trucks, calling out to each other in some guttural language she couldn’t understand; she was going to be late for work. Again.

Maeve hurried into the bedroom, pulling on the straight black skirt, white button up shirt, and clogs that seemed to have become her uniform. A plaintive wail sounded from the apartment next door—her neighbor Naomi’s three-year-old, awake and unhappy. A moment later Naomi’s cat Marmalade meowed from somewhere outside. Maeve ignored it all as she wrapped a scarf around her neck—the orange and green one that complimented her russet hair and green eyes—something to distract from the dark circles that had become nearly permanent. Hastily grabbing her purse and a grey poncho she rushed through the door, pulled it shut and then clattered down the concrete steps. The cat came toward her as she ran by but there was no time this morning to scratch behind his ears.

Heading west, she hurried along the sidewalk toward the river and the art gallery where she worked. Indian summer seemed to have disappeared overnight, replaced with a chill wind that made her shiver. The route took her through secluded back alleys where renovated mills had been turned into chic boutiques, coffee shops and galleries. Leaves of yellow, orange and brown swirled around her feet in little eddies, making a dry rustling sound as she plowed through them, bringing back memories of her childhood; fall in New England was truly spectacular.

The river was high after the recent rains and the current carried small sticks and bright leaves swiftly downstream. Sunlight sparkled across the opaque surface as the water rushed and gurgled. The vivid scene called to the artist in her but she didn’t stop, heading straight for the First Street Gallery on the other side of the square. 

Jeffrey Susskind, an architect and one of the owners, had turned part of the lower section of the old brick building into an elegant and modern art gallery. The location was ideal with its proximity to the river and the view of the fountain in the center of the square; the metal sculpture of the coiled sea serpent spilling water from its wide mouth could be seen from the entryway/office, where industrial windows faced the plaza and the coffee shop beyond. In summer, tourists tended to congregate around the fountain for picture taking and picnics on the surrounding benches.

Maeve pulled open the heavy metal and glass door, stopped to wipe her feet on the mat, and then hurried up the two steps to the front office space. Jeffrey had replaced the worn floors of the original building with light hardwoods, which gleamed in the morning light.  To her left, an arched opening gave way to three shallow steps leading down to the spacious gallery room below. No windows interrupted the white walls that curved in a semi-circular wave; it was perfect for showing sculpture as well as wall art. At this moment it was dark since the recent show had been taken down and the new one hadn’t yet gone up.

Susan Hart, her co-worker, was already busy working on a pile of papers on the desk. As usual she looked professional in her DK navy suit and crisp white-collared blouse. Her dark hair was neat and tidy, pulled back into a chignon at the nape of her neck. When she glanced up, her thick tortoiseshell glasses caught the sunlight slanting through the window. Her lips pursed in irritation. You’re late.

Sorry, Maeve said, feeling chastised as she pulled off her poncho and hung it on the coat rack. She smoothed her wrinkled skirt and tucked in the shirttails that had pulled out. Has the shipment arrived?

Oh yeah, they unloaded it over an hour ago, it’s all in the garage.

Maeve walked past the desk and opened the wide paneled door on the right. It was one of few things left from the original building with its brass knob and dark wood.  Four steps led down to the sunlit garage stacked high with unopened crates. I had no idea there would be so much! Maeve stared in surprise at the array, wondering why she hadn’t been filled in on the details. She pressed a button to close the garage door, turning on the lights as it began to whir into action. Susan, why did you leave the garage open? Someone could have stolen the crates.

I thought they closed it after they off-loaded the work. I was busy.

Do I detect a note of irritation?

If you’d arrived on time you could have dealt with U.P.S. I’m just trying to do my part of the job.

Maeve sighed. Susan had been working at the gallery long before Carol Susskind and her husband, Jeffrey, hired Maeve. Answering phones, booking artists in for shows, keeping track of the shipping of artwork and generally keeping the place going had all been Susan’s responsibility, but when Maeve arrived she seemed happy to relinquish some of her duties. Maeve took over hanging the shows, connecting with artists and consulting, as well as dealing with caterers and any special set-ups required to enhance the work. This current show had been organized many months ago, before Maeve had come on the scene.

Maeve bent down to examine the crates. I thought we only represented artists from this country, she called over her shoulder after studying the foreign shipping labels.

Carol mentioned that this show might be a bit different but she didn’t say much more than that.

Maeve poked her head through the door. I wonder why nobody consulted me. Do you have the contact info?

No, not really. I don’t think Carol even knows who the artist is; she mentioned something to me about a friend of hers having vouched for the high quality of the art.

Maeve was supposed to be the last one to approve the artwork; it was part of her job description. Feeling miffed she grabbed the crowbar and forcefully pried open one of the crates. The nails gave way with a satisfying creak and she pulled the boards apart. 

The heavy paintings were wrapped in bubble wrap with cotton batting beneath. Maeve unwrapped the first two, surprised to see the ornately carved wooden frames that surrounded them. Had the artist done these as well? She moved them into the light. In the first, a landscape of dark trees rose into an indigo sky filled with gray clouds. In the space between the trees and clouds a swarm of birds made a dark smudge against the sky. In the shadows next to the trees she could just make out some small figures that looked sort of human but not quite. Her heart sped up and she drew in a ragged breath. The second painting was of a hooded female figure floating in space. Maeve moved closer, drawn by the bright object held in the woman’s open palm—a luminous stone radiated light into the background shadows. She turned back to the first one. Yes, the stone was in this one as well—above the tree line shining like a tiny star.

As she unwrapped a few more she noticed that all of them contained the stone somewhere in the format. An intense feeling of déjà-vu made her dizzy and she grabbed the edge of a crate. Tiny black spots swam across her vision. Maybe she hadn’t had enough breakfast; come to think of it, in her rush to be on time she hadn’t eaten anything.

You look like you’ve seen a ghost! Susan said, peering at her from the doorway.

I think I’m having a low blood sugar attack but there is something about these paintings...

Susan walked down the steps and leaned over to examine one of the paintings. They seem pretty normal to me. Maybe the subject matter is a bit far out but that isn’t unusual for this gallery.

There’s some kind of energy coming off them, can’t you feel it?

No, I don’t feel a thing. You better get some food. I’ll finish uncrating the rest.

Maeve’s teeth chattered as she walked across the square to the coffee shop and she knew it was not from the cold. Her connection with the paintings was physical, like a thread of energy. But Susan hadn’t felt it.

Passing by the fountain, the serpent’s green-gold eyes seemed to be focused on her and she thought she saw the tongue flick in and out of the wide-open jaws. Her breath caught in her throat and she hurried past, looking over her shoulder once she reached the coffee shop; now the sun glinted off the bright metal scales and water poured out of the motionless mouth, splashing innocently into the wide bowl below. Her imagination must be working overtime, she thought as she sat down heavily at a table in the sun and closed her eyes.

When Melanie approached to take her order she jumped.  Hey girl, you need to do something about that startle response, Melanie said in her liquid voice. Her brown almond shaped eyes crinkled into a smile. What do you want, your usual Americano?

Yes, please. I guess I got spooked. Some weird artwork just arrived at the gallery—could you add a turkey sandwich to my order, please? I didn’t eat any breakfast.

No problemo, we got turkey this mornin’, I’ll make you a good sandwich.

Thanks.

Melanie’s ample jean-clad form disappeared through the doorway.

Maeve opened her eyes when she heard Melanie’s cowboy boots on the concrete patio. It felt like she had been transported for an instant to a landscape much like the ones in the paintings. The pungent pine-scented air was still in her nostrils. As the memory faded, she was left with a hollow feeling.

WHEN MAEVE ENTERED the garage twenty minutes later the paintings were stacked neatly against the walls next to their cartons. Susan sat at the front desk again, busily marking things off the list.

Did you find out who the artist is?

It says F.L. and they came from Scotland, I think—the bill of lading is from Edinburgh. Susan glanced up from her desk. You look a little better.

I had a sandwich but...

I like the paintings. They’re unusual and a little bit new-agey for me but they’re still quite lovely, especially the ones of the little girl.

Little girl? I didn’t notice those. Maeve tried to ignore her uneasiness as she went back into the garage.

Early in the afternoon Maeve called Carol to ask about the artist but only got her voice mail. After leaving a short message she decided to use her own judgment—she was a painter herself and her expertise in this area was why she had been hired. She brought the paintings from the garage into the gallery, placing them in groups according to type. As she stepped back to assess them she noticed that several paintings did not seem to fit anywhere—their swirling colors led the eye inward toward the center and the glowing stone. As Maeve bent down to examine one it seemed like the colors were moving, pulling her inside. Dizziness made her sway for a moment before she regained her balance. There was no mistake now—there was something very odd going on.

JUST THE PERSON I WANTED to see, Carol said in her Tennessee drawl as she waltzed through the door around four-thirty. Her brown eyes were heavily made up and a pink mohair sweater strained across her ample bosom. Did you get the show up?

Well partly, but I hope you didn’t expect us to get it all done today—I haven’t even spoken to the artist yet. Did Carol expect her to have all the paintings hung in one brief afternoon? Didn’t you get my message?

No. I turn off the cell at the antique store, it’s too distracting. Carol’s antique business financed the gallery and it was where Carol spent most of her time. Carol’s father had started her on this path, taking her with him on his buying trips when she was a little girl. Living in Tennessee had provided access to semi-valuable pieces discarded or just forgotten in attics. Many times Carol’s father, a wheeler-dealer, was able to finagle pieces from people who didn’t know what they had, getting valuable antiques for next to nothing. With the less valuable ones he slapped on a coat of varnish and re-sold for a profit.

Now Carol had contacts in the south and enough money from her husband’s architecture business to afford a higher quality of furniture as well as a driver and truck for transport. Here in Milltown she catered to a wealthy crowd, re-painting or using layers of lacquer to make the old pieces shine again.  In high demand, imports from Asia had been added to her collection.

I just wanted to know if the artist is going to help with the hanging.

Honey, I don’t even know who the artist is!

Maeve was surprised by Carol’s breezy attitude. Where did they come from? I mean I know they’re from Scotland but how did you find this artist?

I told Susan all about it, I’m surprised she hasn’t filled you in. A friend of mine recommended her so I decided to go out on a limb.

At least now I know the artist is a woman. I guess that’s a start, Maeve muttered to herself.

Carol fished around in her enormous faux leopard skin purse. I can give you Sandy’s number since she knows more than I do.

Carol handed her a card with a number on it. The name Sandra Brighton was scribbled underneath. Now let’s look at what you accomplished today. She turned on her spike heels and headed into the gallery.

Carol pulled out her close-up glasses and peered at the paintings. The woman seemed like a complete ditz but somehow managed to run two businesses with little problem. To Maeve she always looked overdone with her glitzy lipsticks, teased hair and tight sweaters. But who was she to judge these things? Maeve could hardly call herself competent in matters of style at this point in her life, she thought, glancing down at her drab and wrinkled outfit.

So each painting has a moonstone, Carol remarked, looking up at Maeve over