Eye of the Falcon (Psychic Visions #12)(18)
But sometimes there was no help for it. He was forced to comply. He picked up his sketchbook and then dropped it immediately.
No, apparently he wasn’t supposed to sketch. He shrugged and walked to an easel, randomly chose a canvas, and put it up. One of the most difficult processes in his life had been to learn to trust his psychic process. To trust that what was coming through needed to come through.
If it meant destroying the canvas or making something completely not saleable, then that was okay too. As he reached for his paints, his hands stayed in the air, and he realized, no, this image had to be charcoal. Something he hadn’t worked with in months.
At the sideboard he found a long piece of charcoal with a sharpened end and came back to the white canvas. He stood in front of it.
“Who are you, and what can I do to help?”
And then, in the process that had taken him years to perfect, he surrendered. Seconds later he watched as his hand lifted—his hand still attached to his arm, attached to his shoulder, and then to his body—but a hand following directions from some other soul.
He watched the black lines show up. And they made no sense, and he realized this was one of those times where either he wasn’t meant to see what was coming or a message wasn’t coming through clearly. He closed his eyes and sent out a message of hope and love to whatever desperate soul was screaming at him.
Mentally he kept getting a garbled sound of screeches and cries. Not the same as the woman he had contacted several days ago. But similar in an odd way. With his head bowed, he let his hand do what it needed to do.
When he finally stepped back, his arm dropping to his side, he took a deep breath and opened his eyes. And stared. He’d done this many times, and often the results were shocking. Sometimes they were brilliant. Sometimes they were horrifying. And sometimes they were just childish blotches that meant nothing.
But this, … this was exquisite.
The door opened behind him, and Celina walked in. She stopped and gasped. “My goodness, that’s beautiful.” She raced to his side. She slipped her fingers into his hand, and the two stared at the beautiful snowy owl on the canvas. “Who is it?”
The name when it came out made no sense. But even as he tried to make it into another name it refused to comply.
“Humbug,” Stefan said. “That’s the only name I get. Humbug.”
“That’s not a name,” Celina argued. “That’s more like an expression of disgust, like Scrooge saying, ‘Bah humbug.’”
Stefan gave her a crooked grin and said, “This isn’t about Scrooge. But what I can tell you is, this owl is called Humbug. And he belongs to somebody, and somebody belongs to him. And he’s missing that person.”
“They’ve been separated?” Celina whispered, her fingers stretching out as if to stroke the downy feathers on the canvas. “Wow, poor thing.”
He wondered if the charcoal would smear, but he didn’t need to worry. Her fingers actually never touched, just wafted across the air above the canvas. “Yes, they’ve been separated.”
She turned to him with a smile and said, “I think I like this new direction of your talents.”
He shook his head. “I don’t know that there is anything new about it.”
“You’re connecting with animals. Animals in need. That will never be a wrong thing.” She turned back to the painting. “How can we help Humbug?”
Stefan put down the charcoal, picked up a rag, and wiped his hand. “I have no idea.”
Chapter 7
Issa awoke with a start. Her heart slammed against her chest, and images flashed through her mind. Humbug on the roof of her cabin. Roash on the fence post. The sound of the men sneaking around the cabin. The panic, the fear. She lay frozen, her body trembling as she relived the moment she’d realized she was in danger. Staring straight ahead at the ceiling above her, she worried and wondered. What was going on? Were the men coming yet again? Was that why she woke from a nightmare?
In the back of her mind she heard a faint screech.
It was Humbug. Did Humbug have the same abilities to communicate as Roash? The trouble was, she hadn’t known Roash could do that until this started. And even now she wasn’t exactly sure just what was going on with him. But he understood her pain. That he brought somebody to her aid was amazing but fell short of the connection she’d had with the falcon soul buddy of her childhood.
Her mother had always mocked her, telling her that she was imagining things. That the falcon was just a well-trained bird, and the bond between them wasn’t extraordinary. Issa knew her mother was wrong. But there’d been no point in arguing with her then.
The minute she brought up her falcon’s name or the old country or the life they’d led, her mother would shut her down with a sharp voice, telling her that life was gone. They were all gone, and Issa was never to speak of it again. And, if she persisted, her mother would get up and walk out.
And Issa got the cold silent treatment. She remembered the pain and loneliness when her mother went silent, letting Issa know so clearly that her mother wanted no part of her. Growing up, that had been as hard as anything. So she went out of her way to avoid upsetting her mother. As an adult, she recognized the controlling tactic. One she hated. No one should ever withhold love and affection from a child. She didn’t give a damn what the reason, it certainly should not be simply for asking questions about your history.