The Familiar

Morgan Harlow

October 1     

 At first I thought it was my own reflection, vivid but flat against the wild grape leaves crowding the windowpane. By the time I realized there really was someone standing there, outside on the porch, I couldn't move.    

The Reverend Cynthia Ramey closed her eyes and shuddered, remembering the paralysis that  overcame her body though her mind had stayed alert to the horror and the frustrated impulse to run.

Flowers of thistle and milkweed framed the awful face, and ants and dull winged insects crawled over ridges and crevices less recognizable as actual features than as the underlying structure for a pair of cheeks, the bridge of a nose, a forehead. I had the impression that face had been ripped right out of a meadow, some cold forgotten meadow where it might have lain for centuries, dominated by the prominent scar—shaped like a strange runic letter—on the forehead between the eyes. The lips parted, crumbling like decaying sandstone; the words, grating: "Est'ce que tu as un chat?" Do you have a cat? 

She looked up from her journal to check on the kitten that slept, burrowed into the sleeve of her coat, on the kitchen chair beside her. It had appeared as if out of nowhere just yesterday morning. Cynthia might have overlooked the little grey tiger-striped cat, curled up, as it was, in a nest of silver maple leaves the autumn wind had blown against her doorstep, had it not stretched out a paw to touch her bare ankle as she bent to pick up the morning paper. She'll grow up to be quite a mouser, thought Cynthia, again counting six—not the usual five—toes at the end of each forefoot.       

The face vanished and was replaced by my own, far paler than usual. As I continued to gaze, I saw myself  older. My eyes were darker and bruised looking; I looked troubled, but wiser; and I smiled at myself, liking the way my reflection smiled back in kind understanding.  

Cynthia wrote down all her dreams, never knowing in advance which ones would turn out to be prophecies of great spiritual significance. This one, though, seemed to be the aftermath of some neighborhood gossip—quite the opposite of divine revelation. 

Ed had come yesterday to install footlights along the main aisle of the church. Cynthia had offered what help she could, and, involuntarily, her ear.  Patiently reminding herself that Ed was doing her a favor, she had half-listened, quietly, resisting the temptation to lecture him on how it was better to talk about ideas than about other people.

* * *

"Reverend Ramey, didn't you ever wonder if Penny Johnson's hair was dyed? Well, I was running a little early when I stopped by to fix her washer the other day, and she probably wasn't expecting me 'cause her hair was in a towel and a box of red hair color was on the kitchen floor—looked like it'd been thrown there." He worked intensely as he talked, never looking up; at one point it seemed as if he were carrying on a conversation with the screw he was driving in.       

Cynthia wondered just how often Ed was 'running a little early.' His work allowed him entrance beyond the borders people construct, to accidentally view those private regions only made public by a loose tongue.

"You know that woman who moved into the old Severson place?" Ed continued, squinting, bringing a screw within an inch of his right eye to examine, presumably, its thread. "Well it's the darnedest thing, she asked if I could wire the barn for computers and office lighting.  I said I'd take a look.

"It was kind of dark and I tripped over a box. Papers spilled everywhere.  She said, 'don't bother,' but I picked them up and stuffed one in my coat pocket. I got it right here." Ed pulled out the crumpled sheet and held it out to Cynthia. 

Cynthia reached for the reading glasses she kept on a blue silk cord around her neck. "The Old Religion News," she read aloud, "for all who practice an earth religion. Contact Corrine Clover, Editor, Rt. 2, Moth Station." 

"What do you make of it, Reverend Ramey?" Ed directed his question to a frosted plastic footlight cover.

"May I keep this, Ed?" Cynthia had asked, folding and smoothing the crinkled edges of the paper thoughtfully.

 Twenty years before, Cynthia Ramey had come to the village of Moth Station with the purpose of integrating a small town rural community with the larger world, to foster its sense of belonging within the larger contexts—national, political, global, historical, even cosmic. This had all worked out very nicely on paper in her graduate thesis, which she had completed at age twenty-four.  But the real world had complications she hadn't counted on, namely people and their ingrained rhythms and attitudes. By the more experienced age of forty-four Cynthia had been forced to examine her own sense of belonging within the smaller contexts—something she had not needed or wanted to do since early childhood.

On Cynthia's tenth birthday, her Aunt Sarah Ramey had presented her with a copy of the Ramey family genealogy. It was far from being just an ordinary family tree, for Aunt Sarah had lovingly footnoted its branches with enough romantic and adventurous tales and sketches to capture a young girl's imagination. Cynthia had eagerly adjusted her vision beyond the Iowa hog farmers and Kentucky bourbon distillers who made up her more immediate family, to focus on the lives of her illustrious ancestors—the Huguenots and Remi of France, the Rameses of Egypt.  All had been great religious leaders. 

In particular Cynthia had been influenced by a little recognized link between the Ramey line and Joan of Arc, the village girl who became a national heroine and was elevated to sainthood. Joan was known in her lifetime as Jeanne Romèe—taking her mother's maiden name as was often done by girls in Joan's native village of Domremy, in 15th century France. "Remember dear," Aunt Sarah had said with a wink, "don't let the pronunciation or spelling of a name fool you. Rameses, Remi, Romèe—a rose is a rose is a rosy, even if they all don't smell as sweet."

Now what did she mean by that, Cynthia had wondered. And why was the 16th century lineage missing? Cynthia remembered her mother had always hinted that Aunt Sarah had something missing—more specifically, that her aunt had "overdosed on Gertrude Stein." Cynthia had let it go, hoping that someday, perhaps, she would be able to fill in the missing pieces for her aunt.  

In the meantime Cynthia read everything she could find on Joan of Arc, convinced she had inherited Joan's ability to hear voices in the way her dreams often told her what to do—and often in French, the language she had naturally pursued in school. They had told her not to marry Guy Roper, son of the richest man in the neighborhood, when he proposed. He had and she hadn't.  They had told her to go to college, to study theology and follow the path of her ancestors. She had and here she was years later, Reverend Cynthia Ramey of Moth Station Congregational Church, still faithfully recording her dreams and never losing hope that someday something great would come of it.

Cynthia closed her dream journal, securing it in its hiding place in the antique bread box she kept in plain view, on the sideboard which lined a long stretch of wall—the one that curved around to the mud room—in the old farm kitchen. She tumbled the kitten gently out of her coat sleeve, provided her with a fresh bowl of kitten chow and water, and was soon out the door, walking down the road to meet Corrine Clover.  

* * *

Cynthia had progressed only a few feet onto the winding gravel driveway of the old Severson place when a large woolly dog closed in behind her and herded her the rest of the way. She began to wish she had driven the two miles out of town. The day had grown cloudy during her walk, and the brilliantly colored aspen and hickory trees gave a warm yellow light that made her want to lie down on the fallen leaves and take a nap. She rounded the last bend and came suddenly upon a woman working in a patch of dry corn stalks.

"Good girl, Clotilda," said the woman to the dog. She extended her hand to Cynthia. "Dr. Ramey, I presume? I'm Corrine Clover."

Cynthia nodded and shook the hand, noticing how Corrine's purple cape, green and silver rings, and deep red hair together struck an unexpected harmony with the muted backdrop of orange autumn color.

"I've been expecting you," said Corrine. "I should have known you'd come on Saint Remi's feast day. Any relation?"

"Incredible as it may seem, yes," answered Cynthia, blushing. Saint Remi, as she was painfully aware of at the moment, was most famous for baptizing Clovis, pagan king of the Franks, in 506.

"I've found that credibility is merely a function of personal experience," said Corrine. "You see, I'm a student of early European history and through my research, I've discovered I'm a descendant of Clovis."     

The two locked into one another in a long stare down.

"What are you growing here in your garden?" Cynthia asked, glad to think of a reason to turn away, unable to bear it any longer.  

"Organic popcorn," Corrine explained, holding out some small ruby ears.  "Nature, in all her wisdom, has found it fitting to store summer in a teardrop."

It began to rain, and Corrine invited Cynthia into the old farmhouse. She lit a fire in the fireplace while Cynthia looked on, then swept the wood bark from the hearth. "Goodness, it's getting cold—hypothermia weather with this rain.  I never go anywhere without some sort of reliable transportation," Corrine said, parking the broom in the corner.

"It was sunny when I started out," said Cynthia.

"Back in a minute." Corrine left the room. Cynthia eyed the broom closer and noticed, somewhat disappointedly, the local hardware store label still attached. Her eyes wandered over the room until they rested on the faint daylight spreading through the living room window. Large yellow-green leaves pressed, damp, against the glass from the outside. The Severson place had been vacant for twenty years or more. Cynthia imagined how the wild grape vines must have crept slowly into the yard and finger felt their way into the crevices of the old stone house, until they now peered into the windows. Were they looking for a way to get in? She gazed into her own eyes reflected green and luminous in the windowpane. It was all so familiar. Then she remembered her dream, the face in the window, a split second before her own eyes melted into the hardened stare of—

"Nicholas Remy!" shouted Corrine, coming up suddenly behind Cynthia and knocking her down. 

* * *

It seemed like ages later when Cynthia opened her eyes and found herself gazing into the fire. She was lying on the floor, her head resting on a soft cushion.

"Your head struck the window ledge when you fell," said Corrine. "I'm so sorry. Are you feeling okay?"

Cynthia felt the left side of her head. It was tender, but there wasn't any blood.

"Here," said Corrine. "Try to sit up and have some of this." She helped Cynthia to a sitting position on the floor, then handed her an earthenware mug.

Trying to dispel thoughts of poisoned witches' brew, Cynthia took a few long sips.  The worst was over, Cynthia reasoned, what would Corrine gain by drugging her now? Cynthia pushed back the thoughts of ritual sacrifice that surfaced, and noticed a bloom of good feeling take over.

"It's traditional Welsh cider," said Corrine. "Mildly alcoholic. It can't hurt."     

"What happened?" asked Cynthia.

"Good question," answered Corrine. And one that I, as a historian, am always asking. Ask what happened and you'll get different answers, depending on who you've asked."

"The face at the window— " began Cynthia.

"You mean your ancestor, Nicholas Remy? Sixteenth-century historian, witch hunter, and, since his death in 1616, lost soul?" Corrine smiled and looked into Cynthia's eyes gently, sadly. 

Aunt Sarah's missing piece, thought Cynthia. "What do you mean? A ghost?"

"More like a bad memory," answered Corrine. "It's time to put him to rest, and it looks like we're the ones chosen for the honor."  She got up and carefully pulled a book out of the shelves that reached around the room and to the ceiling. "It's all here, in this ancient record book. It's basically a history book, but it contains prophecies as well." She sat cross-legged facing Cynthia and began to translate aloud from the medieval French script.

"Nicholas Remy—guilty of sending innocent people and cats to their deaths, guilty of writing a handbook for witch hunters, guilty of believing in the devil—will be punished by the Three-Fold Law, whereby all the evil he has worked will come back unto him three times, and his soul will not rest until the dawning of a new age, when he will be released to death by the combined goodwill of pagan and Christian, who will know him by the mark on his forehead. And so it will be, and it will not be forgotten, for the good of all."

"Is he dangerous?" asked Cynthia, looking behind her towards the window.

"Not really." Corrine frowned. "Not now. But you mustn't look too long into his eyes. The horror of what he's seen would paralyze most people. That's why I knocked you down." Cynthia's eyes began to water at the realization that Corrine had saved her.

"Don't worry," said Corrine, touching Cynthia's arm. He's Piscean, and we've entered the Age of Aquarius. He's out of his time, a museum piece. He's more scared of us than we are of him."  

"But why is he here, now?" 

"Witches have a saying. 'All time is now, all space is here.'"  Corrine made a wide encircling gesture with her arms out from her sides, then back in to her heart. "You carry a little bit of Nicholas Remy with you always, just as you carry part of Jeanne Romèe's legacy. We all do. It follows that we have the power to summon what is inside us."

"You mean I called Nicholas Remy?" Cynthia was aghast.

Corrine shrugged.  "Somebody had to.  You obviously have a strong sense of responsibility for the larger contexts—historical, global, even cosmic." She laughed, nodding at Cynthia's surprised recognition of the phrasing. "I looked up your thesis," she admitted. "Too bad it doesn't work in the real world."

"Got any more of that cider?" Cynthia asked. She was sure this wasn't a dream, but she was going to write it all down when she got home anyway. 

Her cup replenished, Cynthia explained how she suspected her Aunt Sarah had left Nicholas Remy out of the genealogy on purpose.

"Your Aunt Sarah was wrong, though I'm sure she meant well. You can't hide the past—progress is made only by discovering the past and continually reinterpreting it." Corrine explained how Remy had tried to obscure his relation to Jeanne Romèe by referring to her for the first time as Jeanne d'Arc in his histories, more than a century after she burned at the stake. "He was afraid people would find out he was related to a witch." 

They continued talking about the ironies of history—how the Black Death reached the proportion it did because witch hunters had killed off the cat populations that had kept the plague carrier, the rat, in check. How devils and demons were invented by the Church, who then punished people for believing in them. How Clovis's wife Clotilda, a zealous Catholic, was sainted for finally being successful in badgering him to convert to Christianity. How different history might have been if Clovis had kept a written record. And how very strange it was that it had fallen to them, Cynthia Ramey and Corrine Clover, to send Nicholas Remy to rest in peace. They stared silently into the fire, wondering how.

Corrine drove Cynthia home shortly after midnight. "Now we wait until the time is right," Corrine said.

* * *

A few days later Cynthia received a letter from Corrine, in an envelope without a return address:

Dear Cynthia, I forgot to mention that I'm going before the town board next Wednesday to request a zoning change. I want to start a church here, a wilderness sanctuary for worship, and am setting up for publication of a newsletter. I want you to be at the meeting but PRETEND YOU DON'T KNOW ME!  Yes, I know this is the twentieth century, but--better safe than sorry. I wouldn't want to jeopardize your good standing in the community.  Remy is on for Halloween night.  — Corrine  

Cynthia had heard about the zoning request—at the luncheon following Sunday's services. It was apparent Ed and his screwdriver had been busy. No one had said anything directly to Cynthia, but what she had heard over the clashing of silverware on plates and babies crying made even the creamed corn hard to swallow: "Must've wandered out of the dark ages, poor thing. . . Why, when we have a perfectly good church here?. . .Strange howling when the moon is full. . .Ole Severson would turn over in his grave." 

Cynthia, feeling like she was being buried alive there in the church basement, had excused herself before dessert was served and walked outside.  The church, with Cynthia's house adjoining it, stood on the outskirts of town.  It overlooked the valley all around--Cynthia liked to think it was perched on a mountain, on the edge of an ancient sea. Here on the ridge she could see Corrine's place, half-hidden in the shadows below like a barnacle clinging to the rock.  She had closed her eyes to pray.

She folded Corrine's letter and placed it inside her journal, holding the tiger-striped kitten in her lap tighter for a moment. It stretched all twelve toes of its front paws and purred. "I'm beginning to think cats aren't the only creatures with nine lives," she told it. "It's a centuries-old struggle Corrine's caught up in, but I feel like I've been there since the beginning."          

* * *

Most of the town, including Cynthia, was present and already seated when Corrine arrived ten minutes early for the Wednesday night meeting. A hush came over the audience when she entered the room, as if everyone had breathed in deep at once, followed by an exhalation of excited whispering. "She looks like a witch," said the woman in front of Cynthia.     

Corrine's red hair flowed past her shoulders and onto a fuzzy-green, calf-length dress that looked as if it could have been made out of moss from the forest floor. She wore a large star-shaped amulet on her bodice, studded with rich purple stones. "Oh, oh!" thought Cynthia to herself. "She's asking for trouble."

"And I suppose rape is justified on the basis of a woman's dress, too?" Cynthia heard Corrine's voice close to her ear, though she had been watching Corrine's face and hadn't seen her mouth open to speak. Cynthia tried to catch her eye, but Corrine's face remained expressionless as she walked by her to take a seat at the front.

While waiting for the proceedings to begin, Cynthia's eyes wandered along the display of framed moths lining the walls. The country around Moth Station was home to an unusually large population of certain rare moths. The town hall doubled as a convention center for lepidopterists, those who study butterflies and moths, and each year many new donated specimens were added as an offering from the scientists to the town. The one hanging next to Cynthia's chair was particularly large and beautiful, she noticed. She was just about to get out of her chair to read the information under the glass frame when the questioning began.

"What sort of a church does the applicant wish to locate on the premises?"

"Wiccan."

"Is that a form of witchcraft?"

"It all depends on what you mean by the term 'witchcraft'."   

"Satanism?"

"Definitely not. Wiccans don't worship Satan. The devil was an invention of the early Catholic Church. Witchcraft is a primal religion, like the Native American religions. An earth religion."

Cynthia, fighting back a tear of pride for her friend, turned to rest her eyes on the large beautiful moth. It was a Luna moth, a delicate green fairy-like creature, now with pins stuck through its body and its wings, imprisoned in a glass cage so that it could be scrutinized. As Cynthia watched, the moth dissolved into brown, the wings crumbling—the crumbling brown lips of Nicholas Remy, smiling, superimposed over the dead body of the moth!     

"What about rituals? Have you ever performed any animal sacrifices?"   

Cynthia stood up, angry.  "What do you mean?" she demanded. 

The woman in green with the witchy red hair turned around to face Reverend Ramey of the Moth Station Congregational Church. Cynthia heard Corrine's voice, close to her ear: "Thanks for standing up for me!"   

Corrine turned back to face the questioner. "No," she answered steadily.  "Why, have you?"

The room roared with laughter. It was decided that the town board would vote on it and announce their answer at next month's meeting. The Luna moth still hung suspended, but the pins appeared to be gone.

* * *

The next day, Cynthia invited a Mennonite friend from a neighboring town to talk at the 11:00 Sunday service—the first of her "Images of Religion" series guest speakers. It was a great success. She arranged for a Jewish rabbi to speak the following week, and Corrine the Sunday after that—the day before Halloween.

Cynthia was impressed by the intelligent discussions generated by the series among her congregation, which included over half the town board's members.   

Corrine's presentation was held in the church's circular lounge, where she described how holiday customs around the year had their origins in pre-Christian traditions. The discussion ran half an hour over, and everyone left in a party mood. "I'm jealous," said Cynthia.  "How did you do that?"

"I used to teach eighth grade history in the Bronx," explained Corrine, "an audience that supplies the entertainment if you can't. Besides, people love a witch at Halloween. But don't worry, you'll be able to upstage me tomorrow night—have you decided what you're going to do yet?"

"Do?"

"Yes." Corrine looked around the room guardedly. "You know, about Remy."

"You mean you're not—“

"Sorry, it's your responsibility to undo what was done. Remy's your legacy, not mine."       

"But the ancient record book, the 'combined goodwill of pagan and Christian'."

"That's for you to find, inside yourself. Don't you think it's time to put your ancestors back on the family tree?"

"Of course! I've already started to insert Remy into Aunt Sarah's book.  It takes time."     

"That's not what I mean. I'm talking about your pre-Christian forebears, the ones whose identity has been obscured by centuries of history interpreted and recorded by Christians."

Cynthia thought for a minute. "Eve was a bit of a witch, wasn't she?"

Corrine gave her a hug. "I have a feeling you'll do just fine tomorrow."       

* * *

Cynthia spent Halloween day paging through some books on Wiccan religion which Corrine had lent to her. There was so much to learn—history, philosophy, psychology—but no easy formula for sending a lost soul to its final resting place. Late in the afternoon she carved her pumpkin into a jack-o-lantern, half hoping it would come to life and tell her what to do. She placed it before her on the kitchen table, and sat by its wavering candlelight with the kitten on her lap until after sunset. Nothing happened. A few trick-or-treaters came to the door, but a cold wind and rain had apparently discouraged most of them from walking to Cynthia's house at the edge of town.

When the candle had burned down to its end, Cynthia decided a walk would do her some good. Whatever was going to happen would surely happen at midnight, nearly two hours away. She left the kitten sleeping on the chair, under the watchful eye of the jack-o-lantern, and slipped out the door.

She stopped inside the church, turning on the newly installed aisle footlights. In the darkened room they gave the appearance of an airplane runway to the altar.  To safely guide spirits in taking off and landing, she thought. How incongruous with Nicholas Remy. His would most certainly be a crash and burn landing, unaided and unmourned. She realized then that there was one major obstacle in sending Nicholas Remy to his peace: she couldn't forgive him.                    

"Must I, dear God?" she asked aloud. Her words echoed back to her in the empty space. She walked through the sanctuary and shoved open the heavy back door, nearly falling into the graveyard behind the church.  

"It seems unfair, doesn't it." Cynthia heard Corrine's voice. "But it all balances out in the end, and so it will be, and it will not be forgotten—" 

For the good of all, Cynthia remembered. Of course! I'm not doing this for Remy, or for myself.

She left the graveyard and the church and started down the road leading out of town. All time is now, she thought, all space is here—an intersection of time and space. A historical and cosmic—

"—Carrefour." She heard the voice of Nicholas Remy, rough and course, finish her thought. It had come from up ahead, where County Trunk Z divided Luna Moth Road. There Cynthia saw two faint lights, red like burning embers, glowing in the dark in the middle of the road. She might have been lost in an instant, frozen in terror at encountering Remy once more, had it not been for the kitten darting out in front of her, breaking her gaze safely away from Remy's fiery stare. "Kitten!" she cried, as she recognized the little grey cat on the ground before her. Out of the corner of her eye she saw Remy, now lurching towards the six-toed cat. . . 

"Stop," commanded Cynthia. "I summon Jeanne Romèe—let past, present and future come together on this night!" 

Out of the darkness, a swirling blue shape appeared and swiftly transformed into a figure on horseback. As the great heroine, Joan of Arc, dismounted, she seemed quite unaware of Cynthia or of Nicholas Remy. She removed the hood she was wearing, releasing her long dark hair, and, after she had bundled the kitten gently into it she placed it near the front of the horse's saddle. She remounted without a word or a look, turned her horse in the direction she had come from and rode away. 

Remy dropped down a moment later and died, apparently from the shock of seeing the ghost of his ancestor. Cynthia bent down to close his eyes, but her hand went through nothingness. Nicholas Remy was laid to rest at last.

* * *

Next morning the kitten was at Cynthia's doorstep, meowing to be let in.  Cynthia scooped her up from the silver maple leaves. “I'll name you Jeanne,” she said, “and I think even Aunt Sarah would agree—you've earned a place of distinction on the family tree.”