Dragum

By K.c. LaSaga

Naïve young Kali Colombe craves to venture out into the world. Instead, she falls into a risqué relationship with another woman. Losing sight of her travel plans to Paris, Kali begins settling into life with her newfound love. Confident her parents will be thrilled to hear she’s staying in the country, Kali is quickly proven wrong. She fights to maintain balance within, falling victim to depression despite her grandfather’s intuitive energy called “dragum.”

Conflicts consume Kali, but she has no time to stop and take a breath. Alone and crowded by the opinions of others, she loses sight of her dragum powers and her very own identity. With her intuition compromised, she endures a silent battle inside her head.

As her body mutates and her nightmares consume her, Kali is the only one who can save herself. Hanging on for dear life, she seeks a place of acceptance from her internal battle against social norms. She now travels the world on a quest for her essence of home.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Nov 18, 2021
• ISBN: 9781663218087

K.c. LaSaga

Newfoundland native K.c. LaSaga works in the Vancouver film industry as an on-set dresser on numerous shows each year. She is the author of two children’s books, Roar Baby Dinosaur and The Polka Dot Frog.

Book preview

Copyright © 2021 K.c. LaSaga.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

iUniverse

1663 Liberty Drive

Bloomington, IN 47403

www.iuniverse.com

844-349-9409

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Getty Images are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Getty Images.

ISBN: 978-1-6632-1807-0 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-6632-1808-7 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2021923046

iUniverse rev. date: 11/17/2021

Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Author’s Note

43057.png

If you are struggling with mental health issues

(or know someone who is), please call Canada Suicide Prevention Service at 1-833-456-4566.

Dragum (adjective) 1 An invisible power given to a relative selected by a designated family member who can source and hold the gift to dictate intuition towards various journeys influencing future life paths. 2 Usually passed on by ancestors of a select bloodline at death to the youngest grandchild. 3 Can only be muted by links of the same bloodline but never destroyed. 4 If muted, can be recharged through the force of nature.

Dragumed (verb) 1 Unknowingly and knowingly channeling dragum energy, where life may feel as if in a dream or magical state. 2 Feeling physically pulled away from making the wrong decision or pushed forward to the right one. 3 Feeling a burst of warmth when making the best decision, burning when in danger.

Dragollis (noun) 1 Creatures, spirits, props, and tools used to summon or defer energy for dragum practices. 2 Can sometimes take the form of dreams or nightmares, when ancestors communicate messages in a time of desperation.

Chapter 1

One by one, all my close friends from film school secretly moved away, finding their forever homes across the globe. Meanwhile, I was advancing in a career I couldn’t be bothered with for the long haul: processing shipping orders for a local television show.

Living in a city that had once been foreign to me, I was comfortably uncomfortable in my accidental forever home. However, settling was never part of my life plan, and when I tried to convince my mother it was time for another change, she pushed back with, If it was supposed to be fun, it wouldn’t be called work, Kali.

Breathless conversations with her left me feeling defeated, since she always volunteered a solution to my first world problems. The more she pushed, the more my desire to rebel strengthened, leaving me to ponder, What could possibly be out there that she doesn’t want me to discover?

My mother’s influence to keep me from completely leaving Canada overshadowed my dream to step down from the life I was building in the city of Vancouver, British Columbia. She had assumed it was the hard work that made me squirm with itchy feet, but it was never the workload. If I had to pinpoint anything, it would be the environment. I felt misplaced and always have. I was different. I yearned to travel to find my people, my tribe, beyond my Mi’kmaq heritage.

My intuition told me they might be in Europe, and I gravitated towards France. It was during a high school trip that I forgot a piece of myself at the Musée du Louvre, promising to return and reclaim the hollowed void inside of me.

Regardless, I had to find a loophole and get away from yet another trap I had planted myself into before allowing my father the opportunity to convince me to move back home to Newfoundland, for once I returned to my roots, I’d be trapped in my hometown forever. I just couldn’t fathom the thought of losing the person I had finally become. I had gained too much independence to forfeit my freedom now.

At least I could still breathe while I paced along the culturally flat city of Vancouver, and despite being homesick, I had grown immensely into my adulthood. I wasn’t the little girl everyone remembered, the one with migraines and anxiety attacks from the stress of arguing adults around me. The paranoia would leave me tearing my bedroom into pieces at the drop of a hat because it was the only way to release my suppressed anger; my emotions would eventually turn into tears of frustration, and there were nightmares, visions, voices, dolls, magic, and spells. Later, they turned into underage binge-drinking to drown out my teenage sorrows and numb my altered reality of lost loved ones and sense of self. But the past was now behind me, and I could only move forward and onward with my search for some sort of essence of home.

44280.png

Daydreaming of what my future could look like, I sulked at the thought that nobody stuck around to celebrate the holiday season with me. Even my new roommates, who I had become good friends with, split for the holidays to spend time with their families. Slumping onto my mustard suede sofa, I pulled my body forward and grabbed my laptop, sliding it closer along the travel trunk I used as a coffee table. Scrolling through Facebook to ease my mind, I only began to feel sorry for myself after stumbling upon a featured photo of Tom Stevenson, an old friend from my earlier years in Vancouver. He was standing with his family, smiling. I stared at it and began to feel even sorrier for myself. I looked at his family, wearing tacky Christmas sweaters and happily displaying their homemade tiramisu for me to drool over. I couldn’t possibly know what it was like to have a playful family like Tom’s. Even with cake on their face, they all looked so put together. The men, tall, dark, and handsome. The women, slim, cute, with perfect smiles. If Sears called, they would be the ideal family for every seasonal campaign.

Filled with jealousy, I continued to scroll, ignoring what I wished I had. But I felt bad that I might have accidentally manifested negative energy towards his family; I couldn’t help myself and backtracked by typing, Yum! Looks delicious! Acting as if my ritual was a proven form of reverse magic to my envy, even though I was silently judging that they would probably never eat all that cake, anyway. It was probably baked solely for the social media clout.

I continued clicking away, only to discover a brand-new message notification. It was Tom.

Hey Kali! What’s your plans for Christmas break?

Surprised, I remained nonchalant: Nothing. At home.

Newfoundland, home? Tom asked, seeking clarity.

No. Just Vancouver home, I replied, remaining vague.

I know this is last minute, but wanna join us at the cabin on Sunshine Coast next week for Christmas?

I can honestly say I wasn’t expecting an invite. It had been so long that I was even surprised he messaged me, but I was in the market for change. Maybe I had manifested this.

I met Tom during my second year in Vancouver, my party year. Breaking the ice through booze and our common Newfoundland backgrounds, we grew a close bond that somehow faded once I began to settle down in my boring film career.

Hmmm, I don’t know. I pressed send and continued typing, I don’t want to crash your—, but Tom’s next message deterred me from pressing send again, so I used backspace, instead.

Come on, you’re family, he wrote. You already met my sister.

The thought of spending Christmas with him and his family warmed my heart, despite the long period of silence in recent years. However, I was enjoying my time alone, wallowing in my depression. Plus, I’d never blend in with a family like Tom’s.

I placed my hands over my bloated stomach, feeling somewhat guilty for silently judging their eating habits while I stared at the empty plate on my coffee table, having devoured a huge piece of apple pie for dinner. I had regretfully reflected my own unhealthy relationship with food onto them.

Mildly curious, I asked, When would I need to leave?

Tibb’s Eve, Tom was quick to reply.

Still hesitant, there was a lump in my throat, screaming at me to dive in. And when would we return?

Boxing Day.

I knew he was probably staring at the three little dots mimicking a caterpillar at the bottom of our chat window, so I had to think quick. There was absolutely no reason not to go. This really couldn’t have been a more perfect invitation, given I’d been asking the universe to mix things up for me.

Convinced this could be another adventure, or at least an opportunity, I replied, Sure. Okay!

Great! I’ll tell my Mom, and we’ll pick you up at the ferry terminal. Let me know which crossing you’ll be hopping onto. Tom followed up with a line of emojis and then said his goodbyes: I can’t wait to hang out. It’s been too long.

My anxiety bubbled up into my throat like acid reflux; I looked at the living room window and checked the reflection of my chunky face against the night sky. I wondered if Tom was going to notice how much weight I had gained over the passing years, the way my father had. Then again, Tom was too polite to ever bring something like that up.

I leaned back on the sofa and shut my laptop with my foot as I closed my eyes, trying not to overthink life. Regardless, wanderlust was present, and I felt a sense of urgency to find my essence of home, the way Tom was embraced by his.

Even though I think I enjoyed fantasizing about Christmas more than I actually enjoyed celebrating it, this was a four-day, three-night kind of trip. I could do that. So while I waited for my family getaway with the Stevensons to begin, seasonal depression continued to tease me, influencing my eyes to wander for distractions like Craigslist. I had convinced myself that Craigslist was worth another shot since it was responsible for my last relationship, an eight-month dalliance with Tory, a reputable girl in the middle of earning her university degree. She came from a good Catholic home, played several instruments, and even wrote a song for me when she asked me to be her girlfriend that one special night on the beach.

So I began browsing the web for a seasonal companion that same night; I clicked on Women for Women and scrolled through endless posts of women searching for connections deeper than the surface. I, myself, didn’t want anything but surface; however, I wasn’t looking for a one-night stand, as most of these posts implied.

I started to question why I was wasting my time on this stupid site. About to close my laptop and get back to my acoustic guitar that I had been recently practicing, one last headline grabbed my attention, and I was sucked down the rabbit hole, pulled by the leather choker around my neck, egging me on.

So Much More

Hey peeps! All alone for Christmas this year and wanting to check out the Boxing Day Bash at LesQ. If you’re interested, hit me up. My friends are all out of town. Jessie

This post appeared innocent and pure. No attached strings. I’d never been to LesQ before. I took a brief moment to consider what I was about to do; I was ready to experience lesbian culture at one of the trendiest clubs in the city. I clicked reply and began my response to Jessie, knowing nothing about her or her involvement in the queer community. My justification to engage basically came from my desire to go run and be one with the lesbians.

Re: So Much More

Hi, Jessie. I read your post, and you seem like a nice person. I find it very hard to meet anyone in this city, aside from work friends and past film school classmates, who have mostly moved away. After years of hearing about the club, I’m interested in seeing what LesQ is all about. I love coffee. So we could go for one of those too, if you’re interested in getting to know me. Hope to hear back from you soon. Kali

I took some time to send my response as I contemplated my actions. With a quick Why the hell not? it was out of my hands as my heart raced from adrenaline. This could have been a scam. Regret washed over me, and I began to feel dirty, wishing I could have retracted my message, which I judged as too bubbly and rehearsed. Then again, was I just using the words of other people to judge myself? The message wasn’t that bubbly, was it? I was just being authentically enthusiastic, wasn’t I?

Eventually, my feelings of panic and vulnerability dissipated; I pushed my laptop aside, eyeballed my unwashed pie plate, and reached for my guitar again, strumming to Jason Mraz in hopes the angelic chords would calm me down.

43826.png

Before I knew it, it was the morning of Tibb’s Eve, a traditional Newfoundland celebration where most islanders get drunk with their friends, loved ones, and a handful of mummers at neighboring kitchen parties before spending quality time with immediate family over the Christmas holidays. So with my one bag hiked up over my shoulder, I watched the ferry dock onto the wharf of the Sunshine Coast. My eyes widened and wandered at the beauty of the surrounding land, ready to kick off the Christmas season with Tom’s family.

Approaching the Stevensons’ vehicle after crossing a grated bridge, I was greeted by Tom’s father, meeting him for the first time. ’Ow was da ferry ride, love? he asked in his thick Newfoundland accent, waiting for my answer.

Great, actually. Super-fast. I almost finished reading my book too! I met him halfway on the hug he was holding out for me, book in hand: The Traveler’s Gift by Andy Andrews.

Great. I’d love ta ’ear ’bout dis book later dis evenin’. Oh, here. Let me take dis fer ya. He grabbed my bag off my shoulder and slid it onto his shoulder instead. Veering left, flashing his vehicle lights, he announced, Dis is us.

Mr. Stevenson tossed my single bag inside the hatchback of his SUV and invited me to get comfortable inside with the gang. I smiled, nervously helping myself into the back seat, next to Tom.

Tom scooted to the middle towards his sister, Brie, and I buckled up, saying my Hellos and How are yous? to the Stevensons before continuing my text conversation with Jessie, flirting with the idea of European travel.

Jessie and I had become involved in each other’s life after communication picked up between our regular emailing. It turned out that my rehearsed email must have made some kind of impression because she chose to take me to the upcoming LesQ Boxing Day Bash. However, with the Stevensons’ vacation, I wasn’t sure if I’d have an internet connection since I was planning to turn my cellular data off. So Jessie and I upgraded our conversations to texting a few days before my departure.

However, while Mr. Stevenson drove, I actually forgot to switch my data off and received an unexpected incoming email notification. It was from a man named Darcy, a real estate agent from my earlier years in Vancouver. My mom used him when she was considering buying a place in the city.

Curious, I opened up the email. Darcy had a proposition for me, telling me about a foreclosure that might be right up my alley. I hesitated before replying and texted my mother instead, looking for guidance. Something didn’t quite seem right.

Mom, why do you think Darcy, the real estate agent, is contacting me about a foreclosure?

Tom’s mom leaned into the back seat, and I gazed up to make eye contact before I had the chance to hit send.

We’re just gonna stop at da grocery store first, to get da turkey and some fixin’s.

Sounds good, Mrs. Stevenson.

I reverted back to my phone, pressing send to the message for my mother on a long exhale, unfazed by Mrs. Stevenson’s thick Newfoundland accent. Feeling the vehicle turn into a parking lot, I held onto the sweet smell of Mrs. Stevenson’s perfume that wafted into the back seat as she turned to face forward. Her smell held an essence of home, the one I’d been searching for.

After the vehicle parked, everyone started to exit while I typed another message to my mother. Allowing room for time to marinate, I waited until I walked inside the grocery store with the Stevensons before texting my mother again, Just to be clear, I still want to travel to Europe.

I joined Tom and his family inside the grocery store for some holiday feast shopping; I kept to myself as they made their selections. I felt overwhelmed by the idea of food, unless it was coffee, a film’s catering table, or some form of pastry.

Kali! Your favorite. Remember these? Tom was holding up a bag of potato chips.

Grab whatever you two want and put it in da cart, loves. Mrs. Stevenson gestured towards the already overflowing buggy.

Oh no. That’s okay. I have digestive issues now and get these migraines from the sodium, I said, trying to decline the chips with excuses. I had become much more of a closeted eater.

Don’t be silly. Tom, put them in the cart! Mrs. Stevenson smiled while her husband rubbed her lower back. Just in case you change your mind, darling. We’ll have lots of fruit and veggies too.

Thanks! I placed my hands on my hips as a distraction. In actuality, I was measuring the fat along my midsection within the grip of my fingers. My body dysmorphia led me to believe it was growing outward by the second. Cold, like the flesh around my thighs on a typical winter day, my love handles didn’t belong to me. Yet, they were part of me. What I thought was going to flare my anxiety only brought on a sense of relief, as my body fat pulled heat away from my hands just enough for me to feel whole again.

I looked up and pulled my hands away from my body; Tom’s sister danced over to the cart, distracting me. Brie twirled her homemade evergreen floral dress, placing a jar of rosemary marmalade in the buggy, not a care in the world. I watched Tom sneak in next to drop the bag of chips inside the buggy. He gave me a look as if to say, I’m sorry.

I looked back at him with a soft, reassuring gaze and said, Don’t worry about it, while Brie continued to dance around us like a butterfly.

I watched in amazement at how free-spirited she was. I wanted to be adopted by the Stevensons. They were so posh. So intellectual. So loving. They radiated such a kind demeanor and sense of self. I needed more of this calmness in my life.

43832.png

When we arrived at the cabin, there was a hint of snow as we drove down a steep driveway leading us to what became a jaw-dropping reveal of our holiday rental home.

Look, Tom! I pointed at a homemade wooden sign at the foot of the driveway: Newfie Parking Only.

Tom played up his Newfoundland accent, God love. It’s like d’eh knew we were comin’.

Offloading the groceries from the back of the SUV, we all shared a chuckle. Mrs. Stevenson added, It’s some good to have friends in ’igh places. You can t’ank yer uncle Joe fer da steal of a deal on dis chalet.

Welp, if I owned this right here, there’s no way I’d be rentin’ it out to strangers, Mr. Stevenson said a little more seriously.

Who’s strangers? Brie whipped her head around. Her dad must have hit a chord because of her undeniably unique personality.

Mrs. Stevenson pinched her husband’s butt cheek and winked at him, ignoring Brie’s question; she quipped, If you owned dis, we’d be rich, and I wouldn’t have to werk so hard.

Reacting to Mrs. Stevenson’s pinch, he dropped the canned cranberries, and Brie ran, rushing to save them from rolling over the cliffside.

Good t’ing it wasn’t my marmalade, Brie said, sighing. Turning to her parents, she teased, You guys are the strange ones. Ew! Get a room.

As I admired the entire family, I followed suit and picked up the grocery bags I placed on the ground. This moment was picture-perfect as we made our way to the side of this dream home via an elaborate entranceway, which wrapped around the entire cabin as an overhang. We allowed our eyes to adjust, catching views of the surrounding area. This place was a dream. I saw white doves in the distance and could hardly believe that I was staying at this beautiful log cabin which overlooked a barely frozen lake.

Away from the noisy city streets, we embraced the still breath of nature. Feeling the gentle wind at our faces, seeing the small ripples grow in the body of water below the cliffside, and smelling the pine from the tall trees around us, we visualized the taste of home-cooked holiday food for days, which played in our imaginations from the ingredients residing in our grocery bags at hand.

Standing in awe before walking inside, nature’s silence was broken by a text message transmitting to my cell phone: Call me when you get a chance, love, Mom. xo. Taking my first step inside, my heart began to race as I could feel a paradigm shift hovering in the near distance, amplified by the creaks of the wooden floor.

Making my way up the stairs, I found one of the six rooms in the mansion of a cabin and settled in; it was easy to get comfortable here. Calling my parents back; not so much. They wanted to discuss the foreclosure.

Don’t you think this is peculiar, Mom?

I really t’ink you should give this place a look, no? she replied, her Newfoundland accent coming through.

Complicating my life decisions, my father chimed in over speakerphone, offering to gift me money for the down payment.

Tell you what, Munchkin. You go check it h’out. If you like it, we’ll give you da money to help you get on your feet, alright?

I was thrilled at their generosity but not certain if I was ready to be a homeowner; this was not what I had in mind when I said I wanted to travel. However, in their minds, I was twenty-four and needed to get my act together and start acting like an adult in the real world (whatever that meant).

But Dad—

No, no, no. You go look at it, and we’ll see what we can do to help you out.

You’re not hearing me, Dad; I want to go traveling.

From below, I heard a faint voice calling my name, mixed with chatter from the ground floor of the cabin. I had forgotten where I was in the moment.

It was Tom, asking, Hey, Kali! Want to join us for a board game?

Oh, God. I’m sorry, guys. I gotta go. I’ll call you back, okay?

Projecting my voice to the lower level, I responded to Tom, I’ll be right there.

I hung up my phone and left it on the bed for the rest of the evening.

43840.png

Sometimes, my parents were really frustrating. They made an art out of appearing helpful in situations that were created by them, and not ideal for me, as they were never my ideas. Now, I couldn’t help but wonder if my mother used some type of magic to invite Darcy back into my life. Was she up to her old tricks again, trying to get what she wanted? Did she plant a seed to make me question my decision to go to France? She was a self-proclaimed wiccan, after all. That was how I got into magic at such a young age.

43835.png

The next two days passed quickly, as I indulged in food, holiday movies, nature walks, reading, and deep thoughts in front of a real-life roaring fireplace with the Stevensons. Despite being completely present, I continued texting Jessie the entire time, as if my global positioning had not changed. We were still on for the LesQ Boxing Day Bash, and I was starting to get excited to meet her, based on our enlightening text conversations. Intrigued as to how one becomes a librarian, I kept the conversation going on an intellectual level, saying, I’m fascinated by your career. Your brain must be exploding with information. Do you have access to some sort of grapevine for new book releases before they’re even announced?

Jessie responded calmly, Yeah, it’s pretty cool. We usually get a breakdown at the end of each month with new book titles. Aside from learning about birds, I’m really into witchcraft. So I like to keep my eyes out for those titles. What’s your favorite genre?

I smiled at the familiarity I held for wiccan culture, but also suspicious with all the magic coincidences currently in play; Darcy and now Jessie. I continued, Tough question. It’s not so much about the genre for me but a captivating storyline. Self-help books are pretty cool, too. And learning about birds must be awesome. I followed up with, Hey, can you recommend any good reads for a wannabe nomad?

43842.png

Jessie and I talked every day. While she shared her life with me, I shared mine with her, narrating our daily routines to one another.

Eager for a second opinion, I spilled the news about Darcy to Jessie, writing, So a real estate agent contacted me.

No way! And said what?

That he has a foreclosure for me to look at!

Jessie asked, I thought you were going to France? I mean, you seemed passionate about it just the other day.

Sheepishly, I texted back, I know, but my parents think I should at least check it out.

Well, you had your heart set on traveling, but only you know what’s best for you. Jessie came off as so matter-of-fact, which made her even more appealing.

However, now with the idea of owning an apartment, I tried keeping my goals in check. As somehow, I began to internally lose myself in a future with her. Maybe it was because she listened like a sounding board as I expressed my passion to backpack France that coming spring, or maybe it was the fact that she simply enhanced my reality by asking self-reflecting questions. Anyhow, I was smitten over Jessie, but had to make some considerations when the Stevensons’ announced their vacation extension.

I couldn’t tell if I was being selfish or setting boundaries since I decided to continue with the original plan. After all, we did agree to the