Storm Witch

by Alys West

  Jenna shook her head. She couldn’t go down this road. The past led nowhere. As Mum always said, ‘The here and now is all we’ve got and we’ve got to make the most of it’. Wrapping her good arm around her body, she stared at the flowers on the front of the card. Was this woman the one they were looking for, the person who’d killed her, stolen The Spiral Path and was now conjuring up dangerous storms? It was impossible to believe there were two out-of-control spellworkers on the islands. They had to be the same person.

  Suddenly feeling a little sick, she swallowed. Mum had known this woman, trusted her, tried to teach her. And she’d turned against her and killed her. A shiver ran through her. Suddenly, it felt more immediate. Instead of an unknown murderer, she’d a picture of a woman hitting Mum’s head, holding her down until the life left her body, leaving her floating on the cold December sea.

  She was going to have to tell Winston, show him the letter. She was still angry with him for the stunt he’d pulled on Saturday. What had he been playing at? There was nothing between them but he’d made it seem like there was. She’d repeated to Hal that she and Winston were only friends but she’d seen him frown and avert his gaze as if he thought she was lying. She could only hope that as time went on, Hal would realise she was telling him the truth. There was nothing between her and Winston and there never would be.

  She clicked her fingers for Jet and he ponderously got up and came over, his black head nosing her hand in case she’d got any food. She stroked his ears and sighed. She’d have to ring Winston. Text would be better but with no mobile signal she was back to old school communications.

  ***

  “I’ll stack the dishwasher,” Jenna said.

  Dad shook his head as he took her empty plate away. “You’re supposed to be resting that arm, love. It won’t take me a minute.”

  Jenna fidgeted with her unused cutlery for a moment and then stood. She couldn’t just sit and watch him work, especially when she’d got something to tell him he wouldn’t want to hear. With her good hand, she returned bottles and jars to the fridge and wiped the oilcloth covering the kitchen table. They’d had cherry tomato and feta quiche with mixed salads. The quiche was left over from yesterday’s bake at the tearooms and Dad had brought the salads with him when he’d returned after the lunch rush had calmed down.

  The tearooms’ kitchen was three times the size of this one and there, as he oversaw orders and baked the food the Palace Tearooms were famous for, he almost came back to life. It never lasted though. It was as if, as he stepped back into the house he’d shared with his wife, all that drained away and grief regained its hold.

  A plate of slightly over-browned scones which had not met Dad’s high standards sat on the counter. Jenna reached for one. Then she pulled her hand back. She’d gained almost two stone in the years since she’d come home. She’d known she should do something about it but what was the point? It wasn’t like it was affecting her almost non-existent social life. But with Hal back, it mattered. Not that she thought she could lose two stone in a few weeks by simply giving up scones but she had to do something, and not eating scones was a whole lot easier than taking up running or going to the gym at The Pickaquoy Centre.

  Jenna glanced at her watch. Nearly half-past three. Dad would be going back as soon as Nicky, the tearooms’ supervisor, left at four. She couldn’t put this off any longer. “I’ve invited a friend over later. I hope you don’t mind.” Friend felt like a stretch when it came to her relationship with Winston but it was the easiest way to explain it.

  Dad didn’t lift his head from precision stacking the plates in the dishwasher. “You know any friend of yours is welcome here.”

  “You might not say that when you meet him. He’s a druid.”

  When Dad straightened, his face had lost all its colour. “Where did you meet him?”

  “Through work. He’s an archaeologist. He’s here for the Ness of Brodgar dig.”

  “And how did you find out he’s a druid? I don’t imagine that came up in conversation while you were talking about bones and stones.”

  “No.” Jenna clutched her injured arm to her chest. She hated lying to him. But it was the right thing to do. She wouldn’t risk telling him anything that could make his illness worse again. “We got talking and he figured out who I was.”

  With a heavy sigh, Dad turned away and looked out of the window. “I guess he would do that seeing as he’s a druid.”

  Jenna moved to stand beside him. To the left were the towering cliffs of Marwick Head with the Kitchener Memorial at its tip. Silhouetted against the sky, its crenulations sharply delineated, the Memorial looked like a chess castle. Above it, the sun burst through high cirrus clouds. The grey tinted sea moved ceaselessly, the waves rolling into the arc of the bay. “I’d like to show him some of Mum’s books. If that’s okay with you?” she said quietly. It was easier to lie when she didn’t have to look at Dad’s face.

  He took a moment before he nodded. “If you want, love. But don’t let him take anything away.”

  “No, of course not.”

  He dropped his hand on her shoulder for a second before returning to the dishwasher.

  Chapter 16

  He was going to be late. Really late. He’d known he’d not be there by six when he left the dig. Caught up in a discussion with Jim, the site director he’d lost track of time and now every agricultural vehicle in Orkney seemed to be travelling this road.

  Accelerating past a tractor on an almost blind bend he swerved out of the path of an oncoming car. As it hurtled towards him lights flashing and horn hooting, adrenaline pulsed through his veins. He caught a glimpse of the faces of the driver and passenger, anger masking their fear. Then he was away, pouring all of his concentration into the next curve of the road.

  Slowing for a bend he felt his mobile vibrate in the breast pocket of his jacket. Probably Jenna wanting to know where he was. Unless it was another flirty message from Suzie. They’d been messaging a lot over the last few days and they’d agreed to meet on Saturday evening. He was flying home on Friday. Ostensibly to attend a conference over the weekend but also for a much needed dose of civilisation.

  After parking the bike in the tearooms’ car park he pulled his mobile from his jacket pocket. There were two messages. He must have missed the other one coming in.

  Suzie: “How about I meet you at Blue Dog at 8? It’s always humming on a Saturday night and it’s not far from my place. Just in case…” Running his fingers through his hair, he grinned. If that wasn’t an invitation then he didn’t know what was.

  Finn: “Has the Storm Witch whipped your sorry arse? If not you owe Zoe an apology. No excuses Grant!”

  Crap! He was going to have to ring when he got back to the B&B. He stuck his mobile back in his pocket. Problem for later. Right now, he’d got enough to worry about and not only the storm witch. He had to make sure the inconvenient emotions he’d felt on Saturday were well and truly back in their box. Or completely disappeared. That would be best. He didn’t need them hanging around in boxes ready to pop out again at any minute. He was here to gather information. That was it. Everything else was strictly off limits.

  There was a gate to the left of the tearooms’ entrance marked private. Following Jenna’s directions, he opened it and took the path around the rear of the building. He paused as the view across the bay opened up before him. Shadows chased over the water, creating an ever-changing kaleidoscope of patterns as they mirrored the clouds’ movement across the sky. It really was something. Nothing in the world would make him live in the arse end of nowhere like this but, he had to admit a view like this was a nice consolation prize for those who did.

  Reaching the bungalow, he kept walking. Jenna had said she’d meet him in Nina’s room which was tacked onto the side. It was a wooden extension, painted in a gentle blue with a wide window overlooking the bay. He peered inside but she wasn’t there. Hag stones, strung together to form a circle, hung in the window and a witch bottle
stood in the centre of the windowsill.

  Hearing a dog bark, he turned. The garden opened out at the side of the house. Neat flowerbeds were filled with bedding plants, a stand of pampas grass grew exuberantly next to the fence and in the corner were half a dozen raised beds which seemed to be growing only weeds. Jenna was beyond the fence, next to the shore. She waved and walked through a gate, a black Labrador following her.

  “Winston.” As she got closer, he could see that her cheeks were pink, her eyes bright. The horrible pallor, the staring eyes of Saturday had gone. “I was starting to think you’d got lost.”

  “Got caught up with work.” The dog tentatively sniffed at his jeans and he bent to rub its ears. “Potentially interesting find which I needed to talk to the site director about.”

  “I was just having a word with Mum.”

  Christ! Could she communicate with the dead? Why had she not mentioned that before?

  Jenna gestured towards the gate. “She’s buried through there. If you want…”

  Not communicating then. Grieving and all of this was bringing it back. He gave the dog a final pat and straightened. “What’s his name?”

  “Jet. He was with Mum the day she died. He probably knows who killed her.”

  “If only they could talk, eh?”

  “Yeah.” She sounded so bloody sad that he felt a momentary qualm for stirring the memories up.

  She turned to cross the lawn and he fell into step with her. Jet trailed at their heels. He pushed open the gate. Jenna cradled her injured arm against her chest as she stepped through. He had to ask. It’d be totally out of order not to.

  “How are you? You look better.”

  “Not like shit, you mean! Thanks.” The words made him glance at her and he caught a slanting glance under her lashes that on anyone else he’d have sworn was flirty. “The stitches come out on Friday and then I can drive again. I hate not being able to drive.” The ghost of the lost look he’d seen on Saturday flickered in her eyes.

  Quickly he looked away, gestured towards the stone in front of him. “How come she’s buried here?”

  “We had to fight for it. Dad knew this is what she wanted. They’d talked about it not long before she died. That’s one of things which makes me think she knew what was coming. We had to get permission from the Council. This land is technically part of the garden even though the fence is back there. It delayed the funeral for a few weeks having to wait for the Council to say yes but it was the right thing.”

  “I can see that.” He looked down at the low white stone which sloped towards them like the surface of a lectern. Nina’s name was carved on it but instead of dates, there were two hands holding a selection of herbs. He pointed to them. “What are they?”

  “Sage, lavender, hawthorn and rosemary. They help with grief.”

  He glanced at her. “Help you much?”

  “Not really.” She was cradling her arm again. “But then I don’t have Mum’s talent. It wasn’t only the herbs, it was the magic she infused them with.”

  He let his gaze range over the bay towards the horizon. Nothing out there except the Atlantic. Late rays of sunshine dazzled the surface of the water. He could imagine a lot worse places for a last resting place. “Thanks for showing me this.” He didn’t know what else to add that wouldn’t sound trite or insincere. Jenna glanced at him and nodded.

  As they turned, he said, “How’s Duncan and…?” He couldn’t remember the bride’s name. He trailed off, hoping Jenna would fill in the gap.

  “Duncan’s doing better. He’s out of ICU and on a normal ward. Amy and Kenny have been in Aberdeen with Carole, Amy’s Mum. Not exactly the honeymoon they’d planned.”

  “Are they rescheduling the wedding?”

  “I don’t know. Hal hasn’t said. I guess they want Duncan home and back on his feet before they start thinking about it.”

  “Everyone still think the Council’s to blame?” He held open the gate for her and waited as she and Jet passed through.

  “That’s what I’ve heard. If you really want to know then have a look at The Orcadian when it comes out tomorrow.”

  He raised an eyebrow but held back the sarcastic comment. Did she really think he had time to read their tinpot local paper? Instead he said, “How’s it going with the research?”

  “A lot more folklore than fact. Sorry, I haven’t asked, do you want tea, coffee?”

  “Got anything herbal? I’ve already exceeded my caffeine quota for today.”

  She shot him a quick glance and he prepared for the piss-take which was bound to follow. “Dad runs a tearoom. We’ve pretty much every herbal tea known to man. What’d you like?”

  “Lemon and ginger?”

  “No problem. I’d not got you down as the herbal tea type.”

  “There’s a type?” There was always a jibe. No one just accepted it and made him a cup of herbal bloody tea.

  “Trust me, when you run a café for four years you know the type.”

  Before she could add anything else, probably about hipsters and blokes with trendy beards, he jumped in with, “The research turn up anything useful?”

  “There were a couple of well-known sea witches in Stromness in the nineteenth century. There’s stories of witches selling ropes or handkerchiefs with knots in to sailors. When they untied the knot, wind would be released. Even relatively recently, in the forties and fifties there are stories of fishermen who wouldn’t take the boat out if they’d spoken to a certain wife.”

  “Whose wife?” he asked as they reached the path around the bungalow.

  “Wife is the old Orkney term for woman.”

  “Bit generic, isn’t it? Didn’t they have any spinsters?”

  Her steps quickened. “That’s all you’ve got to say about it? Typical!”

  He sped up to keep up with her. “Now what have I done?”

  “Why should a woman be solely defined by her relationship to a man?”

  He’d not had her down as a feminist. Another thing that surprised him. “I’m happy to debate feminism with you anytime you like but can we do it when we’ve not got a storm witch to catch? Preferably in a nice pub with a glass or two of Glenfiddich?”

  “I might take you up on that.” She smiled at him for a second with her hand on the front door. She started to push it open and then hesitated. “I told Dad you were coming. But I don’t think you’ll see him. He doesn’t like to be reminded of Mum’s magic.”

  “You told him I’m a druid?” He didn’t know why he was surprised. Perhaps because Jenna mentioned it so rarely.

  “It seemed easiest.” She shrugged and then grimaced as if the movement hurt. She wasn’t okay. She was putting a brave face on it. And not only today. Jenna wore a smile as a defence, the way other women wore make-up or smart clothes. It was when she let the smile slip that he caught a rare glimpse of the turmoil within.

  “How long are you staying?” he asked, following her through to the kitchen.

  “Until Friday lunchtime. Dad’s going to take me to the doctors to have the stitches out and then I’ll go home.”

  “I won’t see you then. I’m going home on Friday morning.” He leaned against the worktop and crossed his arms. “Got a conference this weekend.”

  She filled the kettle and switched it on. “You don’t sound very happy about it.”

  Winston grimaced. “I’m giving a paper on Sunday morning. With all of this going on, I’ve not put as much work into it as I should have done.”

  “Are you worried about it?”

  The surprise in her voice said too much about what she thought of him. He bit back the half-formed joke and instead told her the truth.

  “Not as worried as I am about the storm witch. But yes, a bit. My head of department’s been on at me. I’ve not published enough this year.”

  Using only her right hand, Jenna took mugs from an overhead cupboard. “Oh, I tend to forget...”

  “Forget what?”

  “That you’re
an academic as well. How do you juggle the two?”

  “Most of the time it’s not a problem. Being a druid gives me an innate sense of the earth which means I’m not as dependent on geophys reports as other archaeologists. Because I chose to specialise in the Neolithic when, we think, folk were more connected to the earth it’s easier for me to propose theories. Proving them is another matter entirely.”

  “So, being a druid makes you a better archaeologist?”

  “I wouldn’t say better. It makes me more open and perhaps more aware of what Neolithic people might have been thinking.”

  “Because you can feel the same energies?” The kettle switched off and she poured boiling water into the mugs.

  “I think so. Obviously, I can’t prove that but if they did feel the same energy as me then that’s a good reason for siting, say, stone circles where they did.”

  “You think the energies are why they chose the Ness of Brodgar?”

  “That’s what I’ll be proposing on Sunday morning. Principally with regard to the number of incised stones we’ve found. But God knows whether anyone will believe me.”

  He was used to keeping the two entirely separate. He could cope that way, both in neat boxes that didn’t overlap. Only Jenna fitted in both worlds. She wasn’t an archaeologist but she loved history. He’d seen that during their first meeting when they’d discussed ways to interpret finds. And she knew he was a druid and understood, even if she’d been absent from it since Nina died, the magical world. Feeling another question brewing in her quick brain, he added, “What are your plans for the weekend? Once your stitches are out and you can drive again?”