Abby L Vandiver [Vandiver - Witch’s Wheel

ChapterOne

There he is, Calayiah said, a wide grinon her face. She clapped her hands, bobbling in her seat, her green eyessparkled. She pointed to the tarot card shed just turned. There he is. Herlong, red crinkled wavy hair bouncing with each excited jump.

I see him, Lybbestre said, her green eyesset with indifference. She let out a huff. You know, Layah, Im not atall for this.

Oh stop it, Sister. Calayiah picked upthe cards and put them in a stack. Just stop it. Itll be fun. Not only willwe get to help, but we get to go out. We havent gone out in ages. Ages! sherepeated.

We have enough work here to keep us busy.The raven haired one shook her head. I dont want to do it.

Oh for Goddess sakes, Calayiah said, alopsided smile on her face. Libby, youve turned into an old witch.

We are old witches, Layah. So, I dontmind acting like what I truly am. She gave her sister a look of disdain. Youshould think more of acting your age.

My age has brought me wisdom, and itswhat has given me the power to know he needs us. She scrunched her nose.Yours, dear Sister, has only served to make you overly cautious and quite dulland dreary.

Calayiah heard the stroke of the largegrandfather clock that sat in the corner and looked at her watch. It wont belong now! she said, her cheerfulness returning. She rubbed her hands togetherand giggled. It wont be long now.

Hello there. Welcome to Normal Junction. Aplace where time and space are relative, and the vastness of the things in theuniverse collide and conform for good.

Okay, maybe it isnt that big of adeal, but surely its worth taking note of.

And it is true that Normal Junction iseverywhere.

So, that is kind of important.

What do I mean by everywhere? Well, itswhere you are, no matter where that might be, at exactly the time that you needto be there. It is a state of mind, a state of being the road to that silverlining right behind your dark cloud.

It is certainly a good place to be.

Well. For most people.

Have you ever wished that you could justsleep through the bad times? Or perhaps shut your eyes so tightly that youdbecome oblivious to all the misfortunes that had you pinned against the wall,then open them up, and all was right again? Maybe youve wished that you couldslip through time to a place that wasnt so filled with worry, doldrums, or theeroding strife that is eviscerating the very fibers of your life.

For some it may have happened almost justlike that. Eyes shut or wide open, thanks to a place like Normal Junction, theymade it through with only a few scars to show. They are the few (or maybe itwas many more than we know) who have found a way to overcome. Conquer. Trounce,and yes, even Triumph over lifes hiccups, heartaches, and headaches, and comeout the better for it.

Unfortunately, however, Teagan Bales wasntable to weather the storm and find the optimism and hope buried in hisdisconsolate circumstance as others might have. It hadnt been his fault, thesadness and hurt that had seeped into his existence and forged the mold of theman he came to be. It was just life the general course of things that we allhave to endure. And, in Teagans defense, it happened when he was very young.He had been just a small boy who was unable to find the shelter offered by sucha place as Normal Junction. No, not then. But in a place like this, where thecontinuum of time is fused with space into a dimension of the fourth kind, itis never too late. And that, Dear Reader, may just prove to be Providence forTeagan Bales, who, unbeknownst to him, has just arrived.

He looked at himself in the mirror, and ranhis hand over the stubble of his five oclock shadowed square jawline. His coololive-colored skin was smooth and looked more youthful than his thirty-fiveyears. Leaning in close to the mirror over his vanity, he wiped a finger acrossthe lid of his eye trying to ease the twitch that seemed, as of late, to plaguehim. Deep set, his almond-shaped eyes were bordered by thick lashes, thecorners becoming etched with the emergent of crows feet.

Teagan closed his eyes, took in abreath and counted to ten. When he opened them the same hazel eyes stared back,filled with gold flecks that never sparkled, they were expressive only of thefatigue and desolation that seemed to constantly embrace him.

He was dressing to go to an obligatorygala. One that he dreaded more with each passing moment over the last month anda half. With each step he took toward walking into those doors at theGabrisette House and being consumed by the fragments of his familys fracturedlegacy, the emptiness of his actuality crowded out more and more any compassionand substance he had left. The fundraiser gala had been the life of OliviaGrafton-Bales, the grandmother who raised him. And to the utter detriment ofany promise he had held at the tender age of twelve, it had been the death ofher.

Olivia Bales had thrown theextravagant gala every year for more than twenty-seven years when her body,found during the party, put a screeching halt to any future philanthropicundertakings by the family. That was until now. In the tradition set by her, anafternoon fundraiser a soiree of sorts was being held. It would mark thefiftieth anniversary of the event, and also the end of the familys ownershipof the House and its vast outcropping of the robust vineyards that suppliedtheir celebrated winery.

The looming affair had penetrated his usualtough faade and given him sleepless nights and troubled days. He tried todismiss his misgivings, seeking comfort in work and women, but neither easedhis ache.

In his bouts of sleeplessness, hed heardvoices - familiar, but too distant to recognize. Always reciting the samemantra. And eventually, even in his waking hours, the words seeped through tohis consciousness and replayed over and over in his head all day.

Youre losing time.

Teagan picked up the tube of gel andsquirted a generous amount in the palm of his hand and ran it threw his darkblonde hair. He styled it with his fingertips, and once satisfied with how itlooked, washed his hands, and dried them on a white towel, throwing it into anearby hamper once finished.

Teagan, not one to give into premonitionsor mystic beliefs, knew that the dreams nor the voice, though agonizing, meantanything.