Magick and Oranges

I was letting my mind slide and twirl up and down the words spoken by my guest. There we were, at the end of the video interview and I felt satisfied. Hell, I had enough material for a whole series. We closed the discussion and I turned off and packed my gear, while the lady looked through the window.

With the baroque armchair she was sitting in, by a stunning copper Moroccan tea table, in a morning sun lit room, the sight had a strong and rich aesthetic. What stood out the most though was her unusual face: the almond eyes, the satin skin and the heart shaped lips gave her an otherworldly aura that was laced by the discreet marks of time framing her traits. To complement the enthralling visual, she had this habit of beginning her anecdotes with cryptic philosophical thoughts. Her adventures unfolded a little like a play, seasoned with metaphors and dual meanings, or strategic figures of speech. Maybe all writers have this particular gift of telling their ideas with craft and artistic qualities, but Lauranna Gardens expressed herself with some kind of next level Magick. She vibed and played with emotions like one would strike the strings of a lyre, with agility, poise, and vulnerability. I had a strong impression, as if this moment was more important than what could be seen, as a weird hyper consciousness… She continued:

“Sometimes, the wind shifts and I can feel its omen rushing up my spine. My senses awaken, alert, grabbing the present moment with everything they have got. Intuition? Survival skills? Download from the Universe? Sixth sense? Déjà-vu? Call it whatever you want, it splatters my life’s timeline at the dawn of major turns...“

She had stopped talking, lost in her thoughts, mindlessly playing with her long dark teal hair. Did she read my mind? She spoke, looking in the distance as if she was reliving a memory:

“Let me tell you a secret.”

I wanted to press pause. I wanted to ask if I could record that special story, but I feared the slightest distraction could waste the spell-like vibe I was experiencing. My mind lit up with an amused curiosity; there was something occult about her tone, an ancient wisdom previously absent from her lively conversational speech. I sat down in silence, surrendering to the intrigue.

"When I was 23 years old I travelled to Andalusia with college classmates for a linguistic immersion. Our assigned Spanish teacher and guide had just warned us regarding our next trip. Sevilla would be breathtaking, but it swarmed with gipsies and they have a reputation of theft, trickery and pickpocketing apparently. I had prepared well so I carried my belongings in a zippered crossbody backpack I had placed to the front of my torso so I could access it and protect it easily. While most of my classmates seemed a bit worried, I had a feeling of preparedness and calm. Little did I know that Sevilla brooded over a centuries old Magick that would imprint on me for the rest of my life.

Our group visit to the cathedral was set for in an hour or so and we decided to split up and meet again by the Cathedral’s entrance. I had grown tired of having company and chose to explore Seville by myself. I wandered into the sinuous network of back alleys where the locals hang out and shop, away from the tourists. The juicy fragrance of the oranges in the trees married the musk, spices and dust in a colorful kaleidoscope of bright and deep colors. There was beauty and happiness everywhere I went.

A white cotton tunic caught my attention. It was light, soft and laced with pretty crocheted ornaments. I had a feeling. It suited me amazingly and remained comfortable and light even in the Andalusian sun of May. I kept it on, paid for it and followed my path in reverse to return to the main touristic avenue, buying a navy blue t-shirt for my father on my way back. I met with a few other students at an intersection and we headed towards the cathedral for the scheduled visit with me closing the march. I was silently feeling the moment, a little dreamily distracted, following my friends.

We were crossing an open space across the monument of destination when I noticed two gipsies waving rosemary branches offering palmistry readings for good fortune and monetary donations. We had all been warned about this being a devised strategy to distract the target, so much so that a lady among us panicked and jumped away when the second gipsy woman approached her. It created a bit of a commotion and a lot of laughter from passersby. In the midst of the noise and movement, the first gipsy, taller and slimmer than her counterpart, probably older too, came towards me, intently, slowly. I raised my hand to decline her offer of services but she shook her head and locked her eyes in mine. I insisted that I didn’t have any money, yet she kept looking at me with a depth in her eyes, reassuring, warm. Without a word, she had begun to reach for my hand, though she halted, waiting for my approval. I searched my soul for warnings and fear without success. I became more and more aware of my breathing when I turned my palm to the sky for her to study. She smiled while expertly grabbing my hand to trace the lines with her unexpectedly graceful right index.

I did not understand a thing she carefully expressed. I kept eye contact, letting the music of her Andalusian accent dance around my ears. I was so grounded, so in the moment, that the time felt stretched until it froze, in the warmth and humidity of the Sevillian afternoon. We exchanged something that day. Our souls met and recognized each other. She blessed my forehead, across the third eye before bidding me farewell and returning to her companion who had retreated in the shade.

“Did you get what she said, Lauranna?” asked a friend, visibly amused by the encounter I had.

“None of the words she said…” I replied, absolutely blissful, yet completely bewildered."

Lauranna paused before completing her thoughts:

"I will never really know what she said to me that day, or what her enthusiasm and her affectionate manners meant in reality. All I know is that I felt blessed to have such a pure encounter with her soul-to-soul. And little did I know that she had given me the key to bettering my future life. Right there, inside my bag, under my passport, she had sled something I would find only ten years after. A little black book.”

“She reverse-pickpocketed you?” I inquired, but my guest smiled in silence for a few seconds. She kept going, leaving me confused whether I had guessed right, or not.

“Ten years after, I had spiraled down to a very dark place. I was still healing several traumas and the dire financial struggle weighed heavily on my shoulders. I knew that my loved ones worried deep down that I might never be independent and self-sufficient again... I remained patient and resilient, but I could not find a way to make things work for me. Then one day, I unboxed old stuff and found my Spain trip backpack. It still had sand stuck in the fabric folds. Struck with nostalgia, I proceeded to unzip all openings to shake all the sand out but as soon as I opened the tallest pocket, a distressed black notebook fell at my feet. I had never seen that specific notebook before.”

“And you assume that it was the gipsy witch’s?” I asked, unsure.

“Wouldn’t it be fascinating, if it was? What a great story after all!” She cleared her throat before focusing again on her story. “While the black covers were torn and dented in a couple places, the sheets seemed to remain protected and perfectly usable. The only marks visible were inside the front cover. I could notice a few numbers scribbled in ink, visible only when you tilt so the ink can catch the light. There is 2, 8, 18, 27, 31 and 55.”

“And what do they mean?” I asked, drowning in curiosity.

“Nothing. I looked high and low and tried several times to use the numbers without success. No, instead, I used the notebook to write down ideas and goals. Every single thing I wrote in it came to life sooner or later. It’s how my first novel all started, even. It’s my deepest secret,” she explained with an amusement I was not sure to understand completely. I paused reflexively.

“What if I wrote, let’s say that I win $20,000? What if you are the Magick behind it all? What if you are the Manifestation Force and that notebook was just a regular one?”

“Maybe it is just a regular notebook indeed. Maybe I am Magick. But if so, aren’t we all, then?”

I could not find any words to reply. I laughed. She laughed too. I could not make sense of the whole gipsy story, or the magical notebook and it was definitely intriguing.

When I exited the building I stopped by my favorite convenience store where I grabbed a coffee and a few oranges. At the cash register, Mrs. Morales, the store owner, inquired about the confusion showing up in my face. I replied to her question with one of my own: “Do you believe in Manifestation and Magick, Mrs. Morales?”

“Magick is in everything you choose to focus on, my love,” she replied as naturally as if I asked for the price of a chocolate bar. “It’s Wednesday today, do you wish to get a lottery ticket? Big money at play!”

I smiled and bought a lottery ticket at random without really thinking about it. I promised Mrs. Morales to share the lot with her, if I won and went home to write my article. Whatever stream of thought I caught, I could not reconcile this coincidental power of manifestation with the success path my guest was threading upon. In fact, I failed at writing a solid interview and did not make the deadline, losing my job in the process. I began to get obsessively frustrated about Lauranna and her gipsy witch and their stupid notebook. I dreamed about it day and night, bitter about the confusion it planted in my mind. Orange trees. Always these damned orange trees.

A week later, Mrs. Morales asked me about the lottery ticket I had forgotten about. I found it, all crumpled in my now empty bag of oranges I had shoved down my purse. The minute I looked at it, shivers of awe cascaded down my spine. It read exactly 2, 8, 18, 27, 31 and 55.

The store owner grabbed the piece of paper from my cold fingers and placed it under the scanner. She jumped in glee when the little melody announced the win. The rest happened in a bit of a blur, suddenly overstimulated. I caught the scent of oranges, warming under the sunrays, and I knew exactly what direction my feet were to follow. I received a $20,000 check a few days after. My bag was already packed by then.

“Hello. What is your destination, miss?” the airport service agent asked.

“Spain, sir. Sevilla,” I replied, visibly amused by my own words.

Sometimes, you just have to follow the lead of the oranges.