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A Visit from Gaia

Karin answered the knock on her door with a surprised raised eyebrow. The last thing she expected was I would pay her a visit. She recovered quickly and invited me inside.

Dear God, how can the woman write in such a dark atmosphere? Not a single light on in the place, even though a thunderstorm was raging. Her drapes were open, and raindrops hit the screen door to the balcony. She seemed to revel in the brisk wind gusting through her apartment.

Two storage racks stood just inside the door in the wide entrance hall, her kitchen off to the left had a counter loaded with small appliances. Her dishpan stood in the single sink with dishes from two or three meals sitting waiting to be washed.

“Wait just a moment,” she said. Walking into the living room I noticed she had gathered a jumble of crystals into a large clear glass bowl, and moving easily in spite of her crutches, went out the balcony door leaving the bowl on a table exposed to the elements.

“All right, now that they can recharge in the storm, we can sit and have some tea.”

She led the way through her galley kitchen and told me to have a seat at the table.

“I’ve been writing non-stop for the last few days, so excuse the mess. And this storm, well I couldn’t miss the opportunity to let mother nature cleanse my crystals and recharge them for me.”

“Don’t make anything special,” I said. I could see she loved her tea. Several cannisters of loose leaves were arranged in alphabetical order on the counter.

“I’m thinking Earl Grey,” she said, “with honey?”

“Honey?” It was my turn to raise an eyebrow. Few insisted on the old fashioned sweetener these days. In fact, most of my clients used Stevia extract or those horrid yellow packets of Splenda. “That would be just right for an afternoon like this.”

Thunder cracked, and lightning struck across the street, and the power went out.

“Well I guess the best laid plans,” she said with a laugh. “To what do I owe the honor of a visit from the famous Gaia O’Connor?”

“It’s my great granddaughter. I need a way to teach her the family history. You’ll need to write it into our lives soon. She’s going to Ireland in a few months, and the witches and wizards she’ll meet will expect it.”

“No lights on because I knew the power would likely go out. I’ve shut down my laptop, so reach behind you and pass me some paper. You can tell me about the family. I’ll write it all down, so I can put it into your lives.”

She opened a drawer and rummaged for something and found a box of matches. When she struck one, I saw the candles scattered through the living room and two fat white vanilla scented ones sitting between us on the oak kitchen table.

“Give me a minute, I’ll just light a few of these. The power’ll be out for at least half an hour, and we can talk while we wait. I hope you parked up the hill?” She uncapped a fountain pen, and settled down with the legal scratch pad, ready to take notes.

This was going to be easy. I should have known she’d understand what I needed.

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