The Witch's Grave

by Shirley Damsgaard

  Padding down the hall in my bare feet, I knocked on Tink’s bedroom door. “Hey, don’t be on the phone too long—”

  The door opened a crack to reveal Tink standing there with her cell phone to her ear. “How did you know I was on the phone?” she asked, eyeing me skeptically.

  “You’re always on the phone. Tell Nell hi, and remember your essay.”

  With a roll of her eyes and a nod of her head, she went back to her conversation.

  I shut the door with a chuckle and went downstairs to the kitchen. While I tried Karen Burns again, I poured a glass of lemonade.

  Still no answer. Maybe I was dialing the wrong numbers.

  I carried it with me back to my office. Standing in the doorway, I took a deep breath and surveyed my room.

  This was my place, my place of magick. Crystals lay scattered on my desk and on the end table near the wing chair sitting by the windows. They seemed to radiate a soft glow from their position on the bookcases lining the walls.

  I crossed to my desk and checked Stephen’s date book for Karen’s number. Nope, I had the right one.

  I lit a white candle and propped my feet up on my desk. I reached out and picked up a piece on amethyst lying to my right. Rolling the stone over and over in my hand, I watched lightning bugs flicker on and off in the backyard as I thought about the past twenty-four hours.

  I felt a strong need to talk with Karen Burns. Since she worked closely with Stephen, she would know about his life. If I could talk with her, I had a feeling some of those pieces would fall into place. But how could I talk to her if she wouldn’t answer her freaking phone?

  My thoughts moved on to that afternoon. Could the falling tiles have killed me? I suppose—if one would have hit me on the head. But no matter where they landed, I would’ve been hurt. I stroked the crystal with my thumb. What had caused their sudden fall? Ron hadn’t offered any explanation. Could a squirrel, or something larger like a raccoon, skittering across the roof knocked the tile through the hole?

  I still pondered my last question when the phone rang. Picking it up, Darci’s voice greeted me. “Turn on the TV,” she said without preamble.

  “Why—”

  “Never mind, just do it,” she insisted, cutting me off. “Hurry.”

  I ran to the living room, grabbed the remote and hit the power button. “What channel?”

  “Thirteen.”

  Punching the buttons, I watched as the channel came on.

  My face, with the expression of a deer caught in the headlights, suddenly filled the screen.

  Peachy.

  After a brief conversation with Darci, bemoaning my bad luck at getting caught on camera, I checked on Tink and wished her a good-night. Returning to my office, I crossed to the window and stared out into the night.

  No stars or moon lit the sky. Clouds moving in from the west had hid their light. Good. Maybe the clouds would bring rain and much cooler weather. They had shrouded the backyard in complete darkness. Even the lightning bugs were gone now.

  With a sigh, I turned back to my desk. I was upset about appearing on the news. If the whole town hadn’t known I was present when Stephen was shot, they would now. I’d be fending off questions from curious old ladies all day tomorrow. I was willing to bet that Edna Simpson would be the first to arrive. The heat had kept her home today, but tomorrow I wouldn’t be so lucky. The woman loved reading true crime, and now she’d have a chance to hear about one firsthand. She’d want to know how much blood, how much gore. But most of all she’d want to know what Stephen had said.

  It was apparent in the interview that I’d lied to the reporter. The way I clutched my purse, the way my eyes widened when I was asked the question, a person would have had to be an idiot not to see that I wasn’t being honest. And though Edna Simpson might be old, she was not an idiot. She also loved to embellish whatever tale she heard. By the time she finished repeating her version of the story, I wouldn’t recognize it when I heard it.

  Shake it off, Jensen, there isn’t anything you can do about it now. Leaning forward, I spun the amethyst. You have more pressing questions on your mind.

  My eyes traveled to the old leather pouch lying on the corner of the desk. My runes. They had originally belonged to my great-grandmother, Annie. Picking up the pouch, I shifted their weight back and forth in my hands.

  Well, if ever there was a time for clarity, it’s now.

  Placing the bag back on the desk, I opened a drawer and removed an abalone shell, a bag of Abby’s homegrown sage, and a square ceramic tile. Normally, before I did a rune reading, I’d do a lengthy cleansing ritual—bathing in sea salt, dressing in one of my long white robes—but tonight I didn’t have the time. Smudging would have to do.

  Opening the Baggie, I broke off some sage leaves and rolled them into a tight ball. After putting the abalone shell on the ceramic tile, I laid the ball of leaves in the center of the shell. I struck a match, lit the sage, and blew softly until a thin plume of smoke rose in the air.

  Leaning forward, clearing my mind, I gently wafted the smoke toward me with both hands.

  May I only hear the truth, I repeated in my head as I brushed the smoke toward my ears.

  May I only see the truth. I sent smoke toward my closed eyes.

  Inhaling deeply, I swept smoke around my mouth. May I only speak the truth.

  A slight groan escaped. Considering how many lies you told today, maybe you’d better repeat that one.

  I tapped down my errant thoughts and repeated the ritual. Satisfied that I was ready, I stood, and picked up the tile with the smoldering shell, walked over and placed it in the center of the room. After flicking the lights off, the white candle that I’d lit earlier followed. Removing a box of sea salt from my desk drawer and starting clockwise, I carefully sprinkled a wide circle of salt around the candle and shell. The pouch, a notebook and pen, and a linen square joined the circle. Stepping over the salt, I eased down to a cross-legged position in front of the candle and shell. I laid out the square and thought of my question.

  What should I ask? The shooter’s name? Nope, the runes didn’t work out that way. Even though each rune also represented an alphabetic letter, I didn’t expect them to spell out a name for me.

  What did I want to know—what was going on—sprung to mind, but that question was too generic. I needed to be specific. How about, Was Stephen the intended victim?

  I held that question in my mind while I concentrated on the energy above, below, and around me. Once safe and secure in my bubble, I cast the runes on the linen square.

  I’d do a reading that was commonly called a Celtic cross. The first three runes, placed in a straight line, represented the past, present, and future. Above the “present” rune, sitting at twelve o’clock, would be the rune indicating what help I could expect. The last rune, directly below the “present” and at six o’clock, would show me that which can’t be changed.

  Slowly, I let my hand move over the runes, sensing their power. When it tingled sharply, I picked up the rune and placed it on the square in front of me. I repeated the process four more times until the shape of the cross was laid out before me.

  Scooping up the remaining runes, I returned them to the pouch and focused on the ones I’d selected.

  I turned the middle rune, the one in the “present” position.

  Laguz. “Law-gooze,” I said softly.

  It represented intuitive knowledge. A female capable of dealing with challenges. Good—that made sense. I was female and a psychic. It told me I was up to facing my problem, and I felt my confidence lift.

  I flipped over the rune to the left. Hagalaz. “Haw-gaw-laws,” I said aloud. This showed the past and how it affected the current situation. Hagalaz represented elemental forces—detached and impersonal—that could cause a disruption beyond anyone’s control. It also indicated that some official had held fate in their hands. Another meaning—someone was contemplating taking a risk.

  I didn’t know enough a
bout Stephen’s life to give a correct interpretation of what this rune might mean. Had he taken a chance at some point and set the wheels in motion?

  Looking at it from my perspective, it certainly applied. My life had been disrupted by fate. An official who’d controlled my life? Easy—Bill. And the risk factor? Duh, who knew what might happen if I pursued my current course? An unknown assailant was running around with a gun.

  The next rune I turned over was in the twelve o’clock position and indicated what help I could expect to receive. The glyph was upside down.

  Not so good. Algiz. “All-yeese,” I muttered.

  Reversed, the rune spoke of betrayal and deception by others. And I would be vulnerable to it. Did it mean Stephen had lied to me? Had Ron lied to me? Or was it someone closer to me? One thing I knew for sure, it indicated that I needed to proceed with caution and be skeptical of those who appeared to offer aid.

  I flipped the rune placed in the fifth position, the one at six o’clock.

  Oh, that’s just great!

  My heart sank. The rune showed that which could not be changed.

  Thurisaz. “Thor-ee-saw, reversed,” I whispered with eyes wide. The hammer of Thor; backward, it meant thorns, torture, and again, betrayal by a man. Well, at least I now knew it would be a male who let me down. And it was another warning that I needed to be careful and think things through before I blindly rushed in.

  One more rune to go, the rune farthest to my right. The future.

  I gave a sigh of relief. Jera. “Yare-awe.”

  The harvest. On the whole, a positive rune. It related to karma, and if the seeds sown were good deeds, the reward would be positive. But if negative thoughts and actions had been seeded, the result would be just as negative. It also showed that all things have a season, and seasons can’t be rushed. The harvest would be reaped in the fullness of time.

  Not necessarily comforting to someone who lacked patience. Someone like me. I wanted answers and I wanted them now.

  I picked up the pad of paper and the pen. Carefully, I drew each rune in its specific position on the paper. As I did, I tried to think of them in relation to each other, the overall pattern. It seemed the runes were more about me than Stephen. Did it mean Bill was right after all—I was the intended victim?

  No, that still didn’t feel right. They spoke of my ability to handle whatever it was I faced, but that I needed to exercise caution. Not to go rushing in without careful consideration.

  True, I hadn’t always listened to my instincts, had second-guessed myself and as a result reached the wrong conclusion. They warned me not to do that this time. To listen to my feelings.

  What puzzled me most was Thurisaz—that which can’t be changed. Was it something from my past? Would a past betrayal by a man reach out and affect what was happening now? Or was the betrayal yet to come?

  Perplexed, I looked at the rune again. Sure, I’d experienced my share of letdowns, but nothing major. Nothing I could see that applied to the now.

  Reversed, the rune also indicated a habit of blindly following my own wishes—again rushing ahead—of being stubborn.

  Okay, I thought with a grimace, maybe a little.

  My eyes moved to the last rune, Jera. A karmic debt I owed? Boy, if that were the case, I hoped the debt wasn’t a bad one. I’d learned in my thirty-some years that redemption didn’t come easy.

  Feeling a little fried, I placed the pad and pen down and rose to my feet. Crossing to the edge of the circle, I walked counterclockwise, letting the energy slowly leave the room. When I arrived at my starting point, I got on my knees and crawled along in the same counterclockwise direction, sweeping up the salt in my hand. Once I gathered it all, I dumped it in the shell and mixed it with the ashes of sage. Then turning the lights back on, I quietly left the room and went out into the backyard.

  I paused at the edge of the patio and waited for my eyes to become accustomed to the darkness. Enough light spilled in a pool from my office window so I could get my bearings. Walking toward the light, I stopped outside of its circle.

  I began by facing the north. Taking a small amount of the ash and salt, I sprinkled it on the ground, returning it to the earth from whence it came. I turned to the east and cast a small amount to the wind. With a quarter turn, I looked to the south and thought of the cleansing fire that had burned the sage. As I did, I dropped ashes and salt. Another turn and I faced the west. At my feet, the grass was damp with dew. I dumped the remainder on the ground and used my toe to mixed the ash and salt with the moisture.

  Finished, I took one step toward the patio, when a neighbor’s dog began barking furiously. Startled, I dropped the shell in the wet grass. As I bent to retrieve it, I heard a loud pop, followed by the sound of shattering glass and the roar of a motorcycle.

  Stunned, the sounds melded together in my mind, making sense.

  Damn, somebody had just tried to shoot me!

  Twelve

  The promised rain hit with a vengeance. Through the window, I saw lightning cut across the sky in bold flashes. And thunder rattled the pictures hanging on the wall. Inside the house it wasn’t much calmer. Cops crawled all over my cottage, looking for evidence.

  My first call had been to Bill, my second to Darci to please come and pick up a wide-eyed Tink and get her out of harm’s way, and my third was to Abby. Darci had evidently broken every traffic law to arrive at my house in record time. Even though I could see that she hated missing out on the excitement, she packed up Tink and tried to overcome Tink’s reluctance at leaving with promises of homemade banana splits waiting for them at her house.

  While I sat on the couch in the living room with Lady curled up at my feet and Queenie resting on the back, Abby bustled around in the kitchen making tea. Ha—tonight I had no intention of drinking any, no matter what she said. I didn’t need Abby’s home remedies floating around my system.

  Bill sat on the other side of the coffee table in a wing-back chair, and, at the moment, didn’t look too pleased with me.

  “Now do you believe me?” he asked in a taut voice.

  “Believe what?” Abby asked entering the living room. She carried a tray full of steaming cups. After offering a cup to Bill, she held the tray toward me.

  “No thanks,” I said, giving her a knowing look.

  An expression of innocence flashed in her green eyes, but I wasn’t buying it. I shook my head and waved the tray away.

  Turning back to Bill, she said, “I’ll take the men in Ophelia’s office some tea, and when I return, I want an answer to my question.”

  After watching her leave over his shoulder, he focused his attention back on me. “You didn’t tell her?”

  “No, I didn’t want her to worry.”

  “Not telling her wasn’t smart,” he said with a frown. Pulling out his notebook, he flipped it open and removed a pen from his shirt pocket. “Tell me everything that happened today.”

  I held up a hand. “Wait a second. I don’t want to sound snitty,” I said carefully, “but I live within the city limits of Summerset, and this isn’t your jurisdiction. Why isn’t one of the police questioning me?”

  Bill’s hand stole to his head and he gave it a quick rub. He looked exasperated. “I’m doing the chief a favor while he’s on vacation. These officers are new—they haven’t even been to the academy yet—so Tom asked me to cover anything unusual while he’s gone.” He poised his pen over the notebook. “And residents getting shot while standing in their backyard is definitely unusual.” Giving the pen a click, he rolled his shoulders like a wrestler going into the ring. “Any more questions?”

  “No.” I tucked my feet underneath me and waited.

  “Let’s start with the shooting.” He glanced down at his notebook. “Your call came in at 11:45, so the shooting happened after eleven-thirty. Are you normally outside that time of night?”

  “Of course not,” I huffed. “I’m usually fast asleep in my bed.”

  “What was different tonight?�
�

  “I’d been doing a little…ah…work in my office, and—”

  “Were the lights on in your office?” he asked, cutting me off. “Could you be seen through the window?”

  I thought about it. Someone could have watched me while I sat at the desk, but I wouldn’t have been visible sitting on the floor with my runes. Did I want to try and explain that one? No.

  “Yes, the lights were on and, yes, I suppose someone would’ve been able to see me most of the time.”

  I felt a little shiver at the idea of being watched in my own home.

  “So you finished working and went outside.” Bill scribbled in his notebook then looked up. “Why?”

  I focused on a spot over his shoulder. “Um, well, I needed some fresh air before I went to bed.”

  “How long were you outside before the gunshot?”

  “Not long—no more than ten minutes.”

  “What happened next?”

  “I’d started to walk back to the house when a dog barked. It startled me and I dropped something—”

  He didn’t let me finish. “What did you drop?”

  Just then Abby came strolling back into the living room, carrying an empty tray. She took a place next to me on the couch but said nothing.

  “What did you drop?” he asked again.

  “A shell.”

  “You were walking around the yard, in the dead of night, carrying a shell?” He looked first at me, then at Abby. “Never mind. I don’t think I want to know,” he muttered to himself while clicking his pen rapidly. “What happened next?”

  “When I bent to pick up the shell, I heard a pop and the shattering of glass. Then I heard a motorcycle.”

  “Did you see anything? Any movement?”

  “No, it was too dark.”

  “Where did the sound come from?”

  “The dog or the motorcycle?”

  “Motorcycle.”

  “I think it came from behind the trees at the back of the yard. Maybe toward the west side.”

  Bill flicked the switch on the small radio clipped to his jacket and it crackled to life. “Ben, have someone check the west side of the property for tire tracks.”