Free Song of the Ancients (Ancient Magic Book 1) by Sandy Wright

works in the spirit world. I mean, think about it. I'm asking for help in conducting a damn séance." I shook my head in disbelief. "And you're going along with it. I'm going to need all the help I can get."
    Kamaria steepled her fingers and tapped them together, staring at the ceiling while she thought. "What did the shaman tell you?"
    "He said to act with intention, and my mother was my guardian spirit, so I needed to find a way to contact her again."
    She nodded slowly. "He's right. You must know what you want before you can make it happen. And you must believe it's possible. We all must." She looked much calmer now. "Up to this point, I sense you have been a passive observer. You've simply allowed things to happen around you, so it's all taken you by surprise. Now it's time for you to take control. You get ready for this, Samantha. When you are ready, I will help you."
    I felt so much better after visiting Kamaria. Ready to tackle the challenge of contacting Mom, I stopped by the library on my way home from work. An hour later, I staggered back to my truck and packed the back seat with books I'd found on various methods for contacting the dead. Who knew the public library would have such a selection? I put a pizza in the oven, opened a bottle of red wine, and sat down to study.
    A little after midnight, I looked around my cluttered dining room. Piles of books and scribbled notes were strewn everywhere. I rubbed my gritty eyes and yawned. Enough. I dumped the pizza remains and empty wine bottle in the trash, stacked the written pages into a pile and shoved them into a manila folder.
    I turned off the light and headed to bed calm and resolute. I was ready to contact my mother.
    * * * * *
    "To do this, we need three people or a number divisible by three," I told Kamaria, looking through my notes. "A willing participant. Someone with similar beliefs. So I asked Rod Standing Bear, and he said he would be honored to attend. We have three."
    I wanted to use a neutral location. Rod offered his house and gave me directions. We agreed to meet on Thursday evening after work, so I would have time to round up supplies.
    The hewn-log cabin felt rustic but cozy, backing up to a stand of aspens next to Oak Creek. Standing Bear had a fire crackling in the huge stone fireplace, and it warmed the one large room he used as a combination den and studio. Quiet music played in the background, Native American flute and rattle. The whole cabin was mellow and masculine, but grounded like its owner. I knew immediately I'd made the right choice asking him to work with us.
    We sat down at his round dining table. I pulled three white pillar candles out of my supply bag and handed one each to Kamaria and Standing Bear. "Hold them in your hands while we visualize the power of fire burning bright to light the way for my mother's spirit." Then I took the 'charged' candles, lit them and placed them in the center of the table. Next I pulled out an empty glass jelly-jar, a square velvet cloth embroidered with the words 'yes', 'no' and 'maybe' in white thread, a stub of pencil and a blank sheet of paper, placing them on the table. Kamaria lit charcoal in a small incense burner, and I laid out my mementos of Mom from the Samhain ritual. Standing Bear scattered pungent clumps of dried herbs—mugwort, sage, chaparral, acacia, and eyebright—onto the charcoal to aid our psychic workings.
    "Would you mind leading from here?" I asked Kamaria. "I need to concentrate and don't think I can do both."
    "Relax, mi bella ," Kamaria said. "I will do this."
    We put our hands on the table edge, palms up, our fingers overlapping. I felt the room fall away, while my perception of our little space seemed to sharpen. The same feeling of increased awareness I'd had when Nicholas conjured spirits in the circle at Samhain settled over me. But this time I wasn't afraid.
    While the incense burned, I told stories of my mother, fond memories from my childhood years: Riding horseback