The Wiccan Diaries

Chapter 5 – Halsey




The following morning, I booted up my laptop, searching for a WiFi connection, and logged in to my e-mail account. It had all the usual spam. However, there was a message from Becca, my best friend at school. I clicked on it.

It was early, 5 a.m. I didn’t know why, but I hadn’t been sleeping well lately. In fact, I did know why. The thing was, my parents had been dead since before I could remember. Why should their deaths be bothering me now?

I went into the hall in my bare feet, searching for breakfast. The lack of any kind of appliance was my only gripe with my current living conditions. I was willing to trade it all in for the upsides, though. Among them, that I was no longer at St. Martley’s Academy. There was a vending machine. It didn’t sell coffee, which is what I chiefly wanted, but I remembered the Succo del Gatto and looked to see if the machine carried something similar. Something bitter. I needed some kind of pick-me-up. I settled upon a non-alcoholic campari––it gave me the kind of brain food kick I needed when I trawled the interwebs, looking for information.


I ignored my landlady, whose disembodied eyes I could feel following me back to my room, shut and locked the door, and popped the campari open.

It tasted excellent.

A light breeze from the doorway onto the balcony felt divine. I could hear shopkeepers opening their stores down below. I would have to visit all of them. Before I got lost last night––I momentarily lit upon his face––I had seen many more avenues full of interesting places.

There were sights and sounds and tastes and purchases to explore––now and in the future.

It took a while, but I found a service provider––the signal was strong. I checked my e-mail.

St. Martley’s touted ‘an education most becoming of the sensitive lady.’ That meant taste. As if they could teach us posture and diction as well as the dark arts. Actually, St. Martley’s was an opportunity to find myself in a clique, the kind that either opened doors, or shut them forever.

I had been one of the ones who was in, which meant that I could get away with being a bitch.

I never abused my powers––loaded word––without cause.

My friend was Becca.

Becca started a clique that was elite.

I clicked on the message with the title COVEN GIRLS.

(“So she’s just a major bitch. Talk about whore of the whorepocalypse. Forget me. No, seriously. Forget me. If I have to talk to you while you’re out living it up while I’m stuck in this prison...”)

I sipped my campari. Becca being Becca. Least she was entertaining. Couldn’t say that for all them girls. She did tend to forget about others while she got stuck in her own little CW dramas. What was she talking about?

(“Write to me, kid. Don’t think because you’re gone you ever left. I intend for you to keep me up to date on all your loser guy conquests. Slut.”)

I sighed. If she only knew. I was tempted to reply back: “I haven’t met anyone yet,” but remembered that wasn’t true. I wanted to keep it to myself for now. She would understand that. She was all for letting things develop. I wondered how things were going. Her correspondence tended to be less with the hard facts, more with the gossip.

Gossip was making things true by saying them. She taught me that.

(“I’m so over him. Did I tell you what he said?”)

I scrolled through the rest of it.

(“Bound to be better than this place. I hate that you’re not graduating with us. Have some time. Let me know if it’s worth seeing. Becks.”)

I responded: “No losers on the horizon, sad but true. Flip your tassel for me. I’m inspecting things. Keep you posted. Gotta go. Bye.”

It had that proper rushed feel, while saying nothing at all.

I missed her. I didn’t think it would be that way if she were here. But a certain distance had brought nostalgia. I thought temporarily of Mistress Genevieve, my headmistress, and how I wanted her to think well of me again.

This is your world now, Halsey. I quoted some Latin. One of the benefits of St. Martley’s.

The one about living for the moment, not squandering sunlight, etc. I felt my education, like a ball of energy. I could squeeze it at will. Graduating was just a ceremony. I felt the reigns of my own life in my hands, now. It felt nice.

Before I did anything else, I took another bath. I had so much time. A lifetime of time. I soaked, lathered, rolled and wallowed. I thought of him. I thought of why I was thinking of him. I was hooked on his eyes.

There was something about him.

He would be here tonight. He said so. What did that mean, though? It wasn’t like he was going to knock on my door or anything, was he?

Were we just going to meet? How was it going to happen? I hadn’t thought it through. It was probably because of how sudden it all had been. He came out of nowhere, all at once. Lennox....

I searched for his name on the Internet. Not enough to find a match. If I played my cards right, I could wheedle information out of him tonight. The word was like magic.

I have a date. Tonight.

I decided not to quibble over semantics––he was probably just checking up on me, like a doctor with a patient. Wink. I finished the thought and soaked some more. In the closet was the backpack. In the backpack was my future. It wasn’t necessarily a good future. I decided to let myself have this. You deserve it, I said. Somehow, I didn’t think so.

In the time it took to finish toweling myself off, Becca had already messaged me back three times. (“Spill. I know you’re seeing someone. You probably have a rendezvous.”) She was always saying things like that. They were goat-getters hoping to get me into revealing too much. I wasn’t so enamored with her that I didn’t think she was above talking behind my back, even if we were best friends, and blood sisters, and part of the same coven. I had always suspected her of frenemishness; no one could be so habitually indiscreet and keep your confidences. (“I bet he’s hot. Is he hot? What’s his name?”) I blushed slightly. (“Come on! You can’t have a Roman holiday, and not let me in on it.”)

That was so unfair. “That is so unfair,” I wrote back. “Go to class. You know the pact. We sign off on each other’s guys.”

* * *

Today was going to be crazy. I found a place nearby I could park a scooter. So I rented one for the summer. It was an interesting shade of orange. A Vespa. I was soon to learn scooters were ubiquitous, in Rome. They were absolutely everywhere.

The gentleman who rented it to me made me wear a helmet. “It’s the law,” he said. I got a pair of sunglasses to go with it.

So with my hair being matted, and my cheeks pinched, I started the 10.7 horsepower engine, and was off, wobbling a bit before I got my footing. He waved nervously. I saw him shake his head in my rearview mirror.

It was perfect. It was exactly how I wanted to travel through Rome. I had my backpack on my back. And it was perfect.

My ensemble for today consisted of the last of my clean laundry: a black cotton T-shirt with ciao written on it in purple and sparkles, a pair of jeans that were beyond loose from having been lived in for so long, and boots.

The first stop was the police. Despite what Lennox said, I wanted to at least let them know someone or something had attacked me last night. Unfortunately, they didn’t really take my report seriously. A detective who spoke English said, “You are alive, yes. Not harmed, yes.” He reminded me of the minicab driver, just not as nice.

“But I was robbed,” I said. “He took––”

“Ah. So it is not. Ah.”

I filled out a form. “If we find anything, we will let you know,” he said. Scratch going to the police, I thought. As I moved through the precinct, I couldn’t help noticing a lot of detectives moving around. I saw them go into a room, where a lot of people were, and close the door.

It was obvious that they were working on finding whoever was killing all of those people. I couldn’t help noticing how worried they all looked. Like they didn’t have a clue.

The sun was out. My skin, unused to so much light, was beginning to darken before my very eyes. I was going to be bronze-colored before long. It was amazing how beautiful everyone was. I sat on my Vespa, waiting to turn into morning traffic, and thought about him again.

He felt so fragile to me. His large, liquid eyes were like purple ink, staining parchment, drawn into the fibers. I thought he may have worn eyeliner––it made him all the more seductive.

I had to get a grip. I promised myself to be more casual, if we ended up bumping into each other again. No way would he just voluntarily come to pick me up. I had a few essentials to get: new clothes, shampoo. I wanted to drive around a bit. I liked how the Vespa cruised around almost silently, but when it came to a steep hill, it had the ability to go up.


I was at this huge interchange. It was massive. I had never seen so many people and automobiles coming from so many different directions. But I got in a pack of other motorini enthusiasts and together we formed a large school of mopeds big enough to keep them at bay. So I scootered around with them for a while.

It takes a Vespa to get you to see all of the other Vespas in Rome. Who you were, or whatever, was totally a non-issue. This must be what a motorcycle gang is like, I thought.

I left them, waving good-bye, and headed for a place called Trastevere, my Vespa humming with excitement. Ballard worked there, in a motorcycle shop, coincidentally enough. They did repairs and whatnot. I should fit right in. Right? I gulped. This was going to be weird.

Hi. You sent me this stuff. So I dropped out of school and crossed the Atlantic Ocean to come talk to you. I’m staying in Rome for the summer....

Even in my head it sounded lame.

I didn’t even know how old he was or what he looked like.

You’re not dating him, Halsey. You’ve just come to talk. No strings. You’ll just say your bit and go. Stop making so many judgments all the time.

I knew what Becca would say, if she were here. “He sent you that, halfway around the world? Oh my god. You better sleep with him.”

He was going to think I was crazy! “Crap,” I said to myself. Breathe. I had to pull over, get my bearings.

Knock, knock.

Who’s there?

It’s me, Halsey.

Halsey, who?

Halsey You-Sent-Me-A-Package-From-Italy-And-Now-I’m-Here-Three-Months-And-Four-Thousand-Miles-Later.

Freak. I parked my Vespa in a pack of other scooters outside a café, and took my backpack off, putting it down on a round glass table for two. The waiter hurried over as I unsnapped my helmet and set it down. I ordered a cappuccino and a cream-filled brioche.

We were just off a vicolo––one of those crazy alleyways Lennox had saved me from, and for which I now seemed to harbor a hidden phobia––in an almost-piazza. Cars came and went within inches of our tables. I saw the ‘scissor doors’ that went up, like in Lamborghinis, which meant their occupants could get out in tight spaces.

According to my guidebook, Trastevere was like ‘stepping back in time.’

I generally liked to prepare myself when traveling through time. I dug inside my backpack, my fingers finding the spines of several books. I recognized my notebook. The cloth on the spine had a nice tactile feel. I took it out just as my waiter returned with my order. I tipped him and he shooed.

My first taste of Italian coffee did not disappoint. Yum. It had a sprinkle of some delicious spice or another atop creamy foam. I opened my notebook, not bothering to wipe my fingers before turning the pages, with the brioche in my hand.

Writing things down to remember stuff should have explained why I wrote things down. I just wanted to go over everything again.

There was an elastic band and a pocket in the back that could hold things. Mine held the letter Ballard had sent to me. I had read it so often, I practically had it memorized.

The ink was faded in spots. There were smudges and coffee stains. I was a messy reader.

Anyway, I read it again. It still had the power to upset. I felt vindicated in my choice to throw my future away.

“Dear Miss Rookmaaker,” it began. I took the opportunity to smile over the messy penmanship.

“Please excuse the electrical tape. It’s all I had to seal this up with. My hands are greasy from working on a bike all day. I work in my uncle’s motorcycle shop. I clean engines and change parts and handle grease rags and all that. My name is Ballard. Buon giorno!”

I sampled some more of the brioche, rubbing the powdered sugar from my fingertips before continuing.

“I bet you’re wondering how I found you? Don’t worry. I’m not some stalker.

“I do not often have the chance to write foreigners, and an opportunity such as this cannot be squandered. Especially to write in English. So I will say that the contents––this letter aside––require every bit of care. I assume you have looked through them? They are not to be trifled with, missy, as my Uncle would say, and as I now inform you.

“This book belonged to your mother,” he wrote. “Let us just say that if you are what I think you are––and obviously you must be, otherwise why would you be going to St. Martley’s––you will want to have this in your possession.

“Such manuscripts are dangerous. I do not feel comfortable even flipping through it.

“Here is the material point. My uncle knew Kinsey and Maximilian Rookmaaker––

“But he died last week. I was named executor. It was my job to go through his stuff. Among his few possessions was this.

“I did not know him to be a hoarder. Anything he kept would have been important to him. Things that he did keep were mostly in scrapbooks. So I noticed this right away.

“I saw the design on the cover. I was immediately disturbed by it and picked it up. When I opened it, I found the inscription. I will leave it to you to decipher what it means. I do not know.

“There was also a note from my uncle. The note I keep out of sentimental reasons, it being his last correspondence in this world. But it scared the ever-loving bleep out of me.”

I read his transcription of it. It had lost none of its potency.

“Such things are beyond my understanding,” he continued. “But a little digging told me the gist. I pass it on to you, now. Although I cannot help thinking I have burdened you, only to be rid of it myself. I hope this package finds you well. If you can think of anything, or would like to discuss this further, correspondence directed to my uncle’s shop, will find me. Ciao, for now. See that you do not cut yourself playing with old daggers. Somebody told me that once. I hope you can tell me what it means, because I certainly don’t understand it.

“Ballard.”

I put it away. My journal entry from three months ago read like a gunshot.

‘I don’t think the Rookmaakers died natural deaths. The bodies that were recovered were quickly cremated. If I am to believe Mistress Genevieve....

‘She has never given me cause not to. But these morbid feelings. She wants me to see a shrink. I don’t think somebody rattling around in my head will find anything I can’t. Some wounds cut too deep to be cured. I don’t tell her about my journal. I don’t tell her how it makes me vent, or that it can be therapeutic. Or that I suspect things, I am not willing to share. I don’t tell her jack shit.

‘Implicit is the fear that I may go too far, and vent on someone who can’t handle my angst. I will keep my mouth shut, for now.’

* * *

As I stood to go, I heard a rumble. It made the pigeons disperse. A sound, like engines, was coming down a corridor.

It grew in intensity, and then I saw them break through, into the morning sunlight.

A long unbroken line of men and women on motorcycles. I could tell the motorcycles were the fast type because of how the riders sat on them. They went past, one after the other, with their helmets shining in the sun.

The bikes all said DUCATI on them.

Some had just one rider. Others were guys who had their girlfriends riding on the backs. The engines roared like fierce cats. I felt a silly smile on my face when I got on my own little motor scooter. When I turned the key, it started like it was apologizing for something. I patted it and got ready to meet Ballard. I drove down first one vicolo, then another, searching for his uncle’s motorcycle shop.

I think I loved it. Trastevere was a different place than the other areas I had seen so far. It looked lived in. The sides of the buildings, all squished into one another, were weathered and sun-beaten. Lines crisscrossed overhead full of laundry airing out in the morning sun. I could see the tops of Romanesque bell towers; they beat the hours. All the shutters were thrown open. It had a bohemian heart.


As I drove, I was ‘transported back in time.’ Good old guidebook. I couldn’t help smiling. Grandmothers with shopping bags on their arms knocked here or there. Broken down cars that nevertheless still worked, waited on their owners. Through it all I navigated my shiny orange Vespa.

I could hear the rumbling. I was surprised, when I turned the corner, to see them hanging outside a makeshift storefront. I caught a glimpse of them with their helmets off. They were all extraordinarily tall, the riders.

The women were ‘Italian beautiful,’ with dark hair longer than mine, and a certain cut to the way they held themselves. One threw her head back and laughed confidently at a joke; she had a bright red motorcycle helmet beneath her arm, and she was dangling a pair of leather riding gloves in the other. She had on black leather pants and a jacket, trimmed out with strips of red that accentuated her helmet and set off her hair.

They were parked in front of Ballard’s shop. My nervousness jumped to a whole new level.

I was never good with introductions, and time apart, even from close friends, caused a nervous reunion  . Part of me wanted to just keep on driving by. But I rode up on my motor scooter and parked. The sign outside advertised AUTOFFICINA. Some kind of mechanic shop. Above it in hand painted letters was TRASTEVERE MOTOR CLUB––WE FIX IT. In Italian, of course. I felt foolish pulling up. When I put down my kickstand, they all looked at me.

There had to have been ten of the most attractive young men I had ever seen standing there. Becca would have died. They were all athletic and muscular and all exceedingly tall. Six-foot-nine, at least. They looked like the scantily-clad models I had seen on billboards advertising the latest designer fashions.

The woman, who seemed to be my age or a little older, was conspicuous foremost by her beauty, but also because she was the only one with a full head of hair. The others had shaved theirs off. They were playing with the throttles on their expensive-looking motorcycles or else passing the time. They looked like they were waiting for someone. When I got off my bike, the girl looked at me. She continued her conversation uninterrupted but gave me a friendly smile. It was enough. I took my helmet off and walked up to her, unsure of what happened next.

“Hi.”

Her smile got even wider. “It’s buon giorno. You got to know where you’re at,” she said. The way she said it––it was like she had been all over the place.

“I’m afraid I don’t speak Italian,” I said, hoping she would understand. She looked over at my bike. I waited nervously for her to pronounce judgment.

Instead, she said, “I like your wheels.”

“I like your wheels too,” I said, wishing someone would put me out of my misery. She just smiled some more. It looked like she sympathized.

“I have three brothers. If I don’t ride motorcycles with them, their feelings will get hurt. It’s not like we can braid each other’s hair.” She nodded at their deficiency in the hair department. “Can I help you with something? You’re not lost, are you?”

“Ballard.” I clung to that word. “Do you know who that is?”

She changed a little bit; there was more cunning in her eyes. “Who did you say you are?”

“I didn’t.”

Her eyes became unfocused and she said something to the others that caused them to go quiet. “I’m not here to start any trouble. I swear,” I said.

We stood like that for a while. “I see,” she said.

“Do you know where I can find him?” I finally asked.

The smile returned. “Of course. He is my little brother,” she said. My mouth formed the word O. “Ballard! Ballard!” she shouted. She unzipped one of her pockets and took out a pack of gum, offering me a piece. “Suit yourself,” she said. She chewed it, still thinking. “Ballard!”

I heard a machine shut off, inside. Next second, a teenager with oily jeans and a torn T-shirt appeared, carrying a rag in his hand, and said, “What, Lia?” He had brown eyes, curly black hair, and a pair of goggles on top of his head. He looked at each of us, waiting for somebody to talk.

“Buon giorno,” I said, feeling like a fool. “I got your letter.” His smile widened.