Spirit Caller 01 - Spirits Rising

woman, never. All her years birthing babes. Folks used to say she had an angel sitting with her.”
    I shook my head. “Is there anyone on this island that doesn’t believe in spirits and such?”
    Mrs. Saunders sniffed. “They’re probably all in St. John’s.”
    We pulled up to the site’s interpretive building and parked. I frowned. The lot was full. “I thought the site was closed in the evenings.”
    “It’s supposed to be,” Jeremy frowned. “Tourist season is pretty much over now that the icebergs and whales have moved on.”
    “There’s no way I can do a ritual with a bunch of tourists gawking at me,” I grumbled, but I climbed out of the vehicle.
    I gathered up my gear while Jeremy gathered up Mrs. Saunders. We took our time and made it inside the building. It was easier to go through the building and take the boardwalk, than tramp across the bog that surrounded the area.
    I walked in and stared. I knew my mouth was hanging open but I couldn’t close it. There were people here. A lot of people, and they looked ready to do business. Bibles, pentagrams, crosses. A chill went through my body and it had nothing to do with the howling wind outside.
    Manny stepped forward and I asked, “What is this?”
    Red rose in Manny’s face, but he answered me, his voice soft and diffident. “They’ve come to help you.”

    CHAPTER 14: It’s Time, Spirits

    My mouth twitched up into a grin. My neighbours, people I knew only by sight, and even some complete strangers stood in the building. At least sixty of them. Most were wearing snowsuits, not because it was snowing but because the wind coming off the Atlantic would rip a person’s skin off with the cold. Several carried hunting rifles with them. It’s one of the good things about being in a rural Canadian area: no one has hand guns, but everyone has a rifle.
    I gulped down my surprise and excitement. I wasn’t sure how much they could help, but there was a lot of comfort in not being alone.
    We headed out to the site. The grass- and moss-covered field-bog hybrid lacked its usual verdant vibrancy, the autumn beginning to steal its emerald tones, replacing them with the golds, reds, and browns of the coming season. The Atlantic Ocean, raw and relentless, crashed against the shoreline a stone’s throw away. Stunted balsams framed the small field, the reds and yellows of birch and maple poking out amongst the dark green needles.
    It was picturesque: pretty as a painting. Except, in real life, you struggled to catch your breath. Not from the beauty, but from the pervasive wind that slammed against your lungs and sucked the oxygen from them.
    People talk about how hardy the Vikings were, but if you really want to see how tough they were, dress up like one and go stand outside at the settlement site in L’Anse Aux Meadows.
    That’s assuming you can catch your breath from the wind. Think about it: the Vikings abandoned this site. Then, look around at the people who settled and stayed on that rock.
    You know a group of people are hardy when even the friggin’ Vikings couldn’t tolerate their weather.
    We avoided the reconstructed Viking mud houses and instead I led the group to the original dig site, now covered in grass after having been refilled decades ago. A thousand years before, Vikings lived and died on this little site. And, tonight, I was going to lay the spirits to their rest.
    Or lose my sanity trying.
    We brought a wheelchair for Mrs. Saunders, the one I usually took when we went shopping together. Jeremy pushed her as far as he could, then she walked the rest of the way over the uneven ground, cane in one hand, holding Jeremy’s arm with the other. Once in position, she thumped herself back down in the wheelchair, blowing out a breath of air.
    “Mrs. Saunders, you ready?”
    The old lady nodded.
    I looked at the people around us and said, “Can everyone stay back, please? Manny, I need you with me.”
    Manny traded places with Jeremy, who stepped back out of the way. I put my hand on Mrs. Saunders’s shoulder and squeezed. And then, I began gathering my focus and will.
    Next to me, Manny recited the words of the original spell, while I focused on calling the ancient spirits of the area: the Beothuk and their ancients, who once frightened away the Vikings; the prehistoric residents, some who roamed the province ten thousand years ago. I called out to any that were not at rest.
    The headache grew and I knew it was working. My hands began