When I do, he’s quick to reply.
Leo: It’s an ash.
Me: He’s a wise, old soul.
Leo: Yggdrasill was an ash. That’s the tree Odin hung himself from in order to gain its knowledge.
Wait a minute, seriously? I think I just ‘read’ a tree. I peel myself off the ground and find another friend to introduce myself to—a maple, so Leo informs me once I’ve sent him a picture. We do the same with two more trees. He effortlessly identifies them both, and I accurately sense their energies.
Fed up with typing, I call him. “How can I sense trees if they don’t have emotions?”
He lets out a low laugh that, despite the miles between us, I somehow feel. “In a way, they do.”
“Trees have feelings?” I’m skeptical, but I pat the sycamore I’m leaning against, just in case I’ve insulted it.
“Not like we do, but each plant species has its own properties.Have you read about that yet in Avery’s book? Anything about protective herbs, maybe?”
“Oh, yeah.” I recall right away what I’ve learned about correspondences, and suddenly I draw the connection. “But not just herbs. Crystals too.”
“Hematite, black tourmaline—” His pitch drops, “Amethyst. They all have protective energy.”
Eagerly, I connect more dots. “So that’s what correspondences are all about? The energy things give off?”
“Yep. Think about—oh, I don’t know—cinnamon or dragon’s blood. They give off the energy of strength. Jasmine, attraction. Selenite, cleansing. I’m sure Avery could tell you all about it, how she uses correspondences in spells.”
Like the mugwort and white sage she used in our charging ritual. She was adding their protective energy to my amethyst.
“But you don’t have to be psychic to sense correspondences, do you?” Surely not everyone who practices witchcraft is psychic. Or do most witches just memorize the charts?
“No. Some people, with years of practice, can sense energies. But only a fraction of whatyoucan.”
“So, the difference between a psychic and a normal person is just a matter of degree?” I like the thought of everyone being at least a little psychic. It makes me feel less alone.
“Not quite,” he says, letting me down, but with an obvious smile in his voice. “Look at is this way: you have extra receptors that a ‘normal person,’ as you call them, doesn’t have. So there are certain types of energies they could never pick up, no matter how hard they try.”
“Like how humans can’t hear a dog whistle.” Or how I was the only one who felt Jason’s panic.
“You got it. And different types of psychics have different types of receptors.” I swear I can hear him stretching and getting comfortable; can picture his crossed feet rocking. “Let’s say we took Averyand Aaron to the spot where the mill-workers died. There’s a good chance Aaron wouldhearthe accident.”
It takes no effort at all to imagine what he’d hear: crashing logs, shouts and screams, splashing water. Crushing bones.
I shudder and press my back firmly to the sycamore’s trunk.
Leo continues, “And Avery would probably have to touch something—a log, or the train car, or one of the worker’s shirts or something like that. Then she might see flashes of what the worker saw.”
And those visions would be just as heart-wrenching as what I experienced.
I think aloud, “So it’s like the three of us pick up the same energy, but interpret it differently.”
“Exactly. You each have your own psychic language, and yours is emotion.”
I think of the Tarot cards, how they whisper to Aaron and flash images for Avery. But like trees and crystals, they don’t have feelings. “Am I picking up other energies, then, besides people’s emotions?”
I get another one of Leo’s deep chuckles. God, I miss him. “All the time. It’s just that human emotions are the loudest to you. They’re the most accessible because they’re already in your language. You don’t need to interpret them.”
Hmm. For such a metaphysical topic, this makes an awful lot of sense.
“You know,” I say as I tip my head against the sycamore trunk with a satisfied sigh, “I never paid attention to trees and plants until I met you. Now I can’t get enough of them.”
