by Weston Ochse
“But I can see you.”
“And they can, too. See, I’d heard of Granny Annie before. And when we were at the campground, it was her great troll of a husband who gave it away.”
“Buddha?” Matt grinned.
“That’s him. And I’d also heard of The Christmas Witch.”
Matt couldn’t help regarding his friend in astonishment. “Where do you hear about these things when you’re always with me?” Matt snatched a long, golden stalk of wheat form beside the road and twirled it in his free hand.
Jacket smiled slightly. “When we go places I get to meet other spirits, especially at your school. Heck, there are hundreds of other spirits there trying to babysit their wards, comparing notes, complaining. What do you think I’m doing while you’re learning how to multiply and divide?”
Matt blinked. “Oh.”
“It’s sad, I know, but we gossip.” Jacket had the good grace to look a little sheepish. “We talk about the lives we lived and others like us. It was worse when you were smaller. Gosh, but a grown dead man can only take so much Sesame Street before he gets sick enough to barf.”
Matt couldn’t stop his giggle.
“What you laughing at?”
“You. I used to call you Oscar because you were so grouchy.”
“You remember that?” Jacket grinned. “I’d almost forgotten.”
“I never want to forget anything.”
A hint of sadness skipped across Jacket’s craggy features. “Part of becoming older is forgetting. You should get—“ Jacket stopped suddenly, then actually trembled.
Matt realized the spirit was staring at a large house with an immaculately manicured lawn and bright beds of multicolored flowers.
“What is it?” Matt asked worriedly. “Jacket, what’s wrong?”
“We’re here.”
“At the witch’s—”
Jacket’s hand was over Matt’s mouth before the boy could finish his sentence. The cold of the spirit’s touch made his breath catch.
“Be careful what you say.”
Matt nodded, his gaze darting around the landscaping as they stepped off the road and onto the green grass. Kubla whined softly and crept low at Matt’s side. Matt petted his head, then grabbed the dog’s collar. After a dozen or so steps they saw a woman on her hands and knees, bent over a plot of orange and purple pansies.
As they approached, the woman raised her head, spoke harshly to the flowers, then stood. She brushed dirt from the front of her pants and turned around.
Matt breathed a sigh of relief. Despite the talking-to-the-flowers thing, this person couldn’t be a witch, even a Christmas one. She was far too normal-looking. Dressed in jeans and a Mickey Mouse T-shirt, she was only slightly taller than Matt, with dark, curly hair and blue eyes. Her pretty face had a perpetual smile that invited a returning grin from Matt.
But Kubla shrank back as the woman approached. Jacket stood next to the shivering animal, and for once, neither seemed to mind the other.
“Matt Cady, Mr. Johnson.” Her blue gaze cut to the dog. “And Kubla Khan. Welcome all to my home. The flowers told me you were coming, and I’m afraid that they told me rather late, or else I’d have had lunch already prepared.”
When she stuck out her hand, Matt automatically took it and they shook like grown-ups. Releasing him, she turned and strode toward the house.
Matt, Jacket and Kubla stayed where they were, not sure if they should follow. Halfway to the house, she stopped and turned back to look at them. “Well, come on. I know why you’re here, and there isn’t much time.”
She got about a dozen feet before Matt whispered, “What does she mean, we haven’t much time? How does she know?”
Suddenly a wind came tumbling down the steep sides of the canyon. As it whipped across the mouths of the flowers, they could just hear a strange humming sound. It reminded Matt of the noise a thousand children made in the school auditorium right before the principal made them be quiet.
Matt stared hard at the flowers, wondering what they really were.
At the kitchen door, the woman glanced back at them one last time. “Don’t ask Mr. Johnson, Matt,” she said flatly. “Ask the flowers. They know all the secrets of the world.”
X
THINGS ARE NOT AS THEY SEEM
The strawberry-rhubarb pie she fed him was the best he’d ever had. Matt, on his second piece, eyed the pie for a possible third. It wasn’t as if Jacket was going to have any.
Matt paused eating long enough to breathe and took a long, cold sip from the tall glass of milk. It tasted richer than the kind his mother bought. The coldness chased the warm strawberries down into his stomach. With a gasp, he sat down the glass and took another bite.
Yes. Definitely the best strawberry-rhubarb pie he’d ever had. After two more bites, he reached over and grabbed the glass of milk again. As he brought it to his lips he noticed that it was just as full as it had been before. Strange. He was sure the Christmas Witch hadn’t refilled it.
He glanced to where she leaned against the counter, petting a small hairy thing that pretended to be a dog. The smile on her face wasn’t entirely pleasant. Her lips were just a little too tight, as if they held back something that shouldn’t be allowed to get out. As she blinked, her blue eyes changed, flashed yellow, then returned to normal.
Matt snorted his milk and set it down a little too quickly, causing the milk to splash over the rim of the glass. No sooner had the milk hit the tablecloth than the sound of angry buzzing started to rise in the room. The noise came closer, and closer, then it seemed to be everywhere. Then Matt saw what was making the noise—flies!
They spilled out of every corner of the kitchen and descended upon the white drops. The milk disappeared beneath a layer of undulating flies as they bumped and prodded their way to the rich liquid.
The Christmas Witch walked over to the table and grabbed the plate. Only a few tiny pieces of crust were left. These disappeared in the blink of an eye as an impossibly long, green tongue shot out of the mouth of the dog resting in the crook of her left arm and snapped back into its mouth with a fly.
Matt’s chair flew back as he jerked away from the strange creature and the vile insects. He spied Jacket and Kubla huddling in the corner of the kitchen by the back door and hustled toward them. They had the right idea. In a matter of seconds the milk-engorged flies retreated, sliding back to their hiding places.
“Waste not, want not,” said the witch as she placed the dish and fork into the sink. “If you’re not going to finish your milk, Matt Cady, then I’ll feed it to the kitties.”
Her normalcy amidst the crazy magic lulled him into answering. “Kitties?” he repeated innocently. As soon as he said the words, he caught Jacket’s incredulous expression. Clearly, the spirit wished that Matt would just shut up.
“Yes. Don’t you know the rules? Witches must have black cats. The more the better, if you get my drift.” She snapped her fingers and a dozen mewling balls of black fur tumbled down the steps outside the doorway, then ran into the kitchen. They glared expectantly at the milk in the glass on the table. “Matt, darling, would you pour it for them in that bowl over there?” She gestured with her elbow toward a tall stainless steel bowl by the refrigerator.
“S-s-sure,” he managed to say.
“No, Matt,” warned Jacket. “Don’t do it.” Even Kubla whined, ducking his head toward the floor.
Matt hesitated … but no. He refused to be scared of a bunch of kittens. He stood a little straighter and threw his shoulders back, then leaned over the table, his every movement followed by twenty-four unblinking eyes. He glanced at them and swallowed as a couple licked their lips, showing needle-sharp fangs that seemed eager to taste the little boy. His arms began to itch, almost as if his skin knew it was dangerous to get too close to the bloodthirsty felines.
Even so, Matt took the glass of milk to the bowl. As he began to pour, the kittens lowered themselves into a crouch and began to creep toward him.
He knew they were coming closer and closer, but he was too afraid to pour faster—then he might spill the milk and draw the flies. He was halfway through pouring when the first kitten reached him. Without hesitating, it stood on its hind legs and dug its claws into Matt’s ankle. He fought back a whimper and the urge to kick it away. This was the Christmas Witch’s pet and there was no telling what would happen if he harmed it.
He was saved from action by Kubla. The dog’s desire to protect his master finally beat down his fear. The German shepherd leapt across the room, barking and nipping at the smaller black creatures. The one climbing his leg let go and turned with the others; as one they rose on their hind legs, fangs bared as they hissed. Kubla dodged around them and slid to a stop between the cats and Matt, baring his own much-larger teeth. But he refused to move and instead returned their hisses with a deep warning growl.
Matt froze, part of the standoff, afraid any move on his part would make either side attack, knowing he’d be part of the collateral damage if they did.
It was Jacket who finally broke the silence. “For gosh sakes, kid, pour the milk and be done with it.”
Matt did as he was told, then returned the glass to the counter. He stepped away from the bowl and automatically slid his fingers beneath Kubla’s collar so he could pull him to the side.
One by one the kittens turned, lifted their tails in the air and stalked to the bowl of milk.
“Well, I’ll be. I never thought that would happen.” The Christmas Witch stared wide-eyed at Kubla.
“What?” Matt asked.
“A witch’s kittens never back down from a fight. And when I say never, I mean never. Especially if it involves a dog. Unless …” A look came into her eyes. The Christmas Witch set her tiny dog on the counter, then stepped quickly over and knelt in front of Kubla. Kubla jerked backward, eyes wild with fear. The Christmas Witch spoke rhythmic words in a strange language. Incredibly, Kubla immediately calmed. His eyes settled. The Christmas Witch scratched Kubla’s ear. Her touch made the dog grin and raise his snout.
“There,” the woman said, pointing beneath Kubla’s collar. She turned and gave Matt a look that was half outrage and half wonder. He smiled back uncertainly, not sure what he could do that could keep him from being turned into a gingerbread man.
She returned her attention to Kubla’s collar and gently fingered the Popsicle sticks that hung right beside the ASPCA dog tag. The sticks had been bolted together in the shape of a cross and were all but hidden in the fur.
“Who did this? You?”
Matt nodded.
“How did you know?”
Matt shrugged. “I dreamed about it once.”
“Was it a scary dream?”
Matt closed his eyes, remembering the dream in which he’d been chased through across a nightmare landscape by blood-seeking cats. Each cat had a bell dangling beneath its collar, but instead of cute, the tinkle-tinkle of their movements heralded something deadly. He’d run and run, the cats threatening to devour him at every corner. In that nightmare world, he’d seen other less fortunate people splayed on the ground, with cats licking at their bloody, chewed veins.
“Yeah,” he finally admitted. “It was real scary.”
The Christmas Witch smiled slightly. “You are a rare one, Matt Cady. Pay attention to your dreams, especially the scary ones. Those have the most truth to them.”
“You mean he was right?” Jacket asked before he could stop himself.
“Yes, Mr. Johnson. He’s right.”
Matt turned and stuck out his tongue at Jacket. “See? I told you cats are vampires.”
When Matt turned back again, he found himself face-to-face with the Christmas Witch. She knelt there and stared hard into his eyes. “That is a great secret,” she told him sternly. “One that you best keep to yourself. Hear me, boy?”
Matt swallowed. “But they’re evil.”
“Evil is a state of mind. Evil is born of need and not everyone needs the same thing.”
The force behind her words made Matt’s eyes widen and an ulp escape from his throat. He nodded hurriedly.
After a moment, she released him from her gaze and stood. “Okay, then.” She placed her hands against the small of her back and stretched a little, vaguely reminding Matt of the cats she’d just defended. “We have some dealing to be done. You didn’t come all the way out here for my pie. The flowers told me so.”
««—»»
They sat on the porch stairs, drinking iced tea and nibbling on large oatmeal-raisin cookies. Jacket had relaxed a little and now he leaned against a tall oak, while Kubla chased a seemingly never-ending supply of rabbits across the lawn. As soon as one would disappear into the brush at the edge of the yard, another would appear, sending him pell-mell back the way he’d come. Every now and then the dog would glance at Matt and the Christmas Witch and flash a grin of pure doggy joy.
Matt was just finishing his tale. “And Jacket wanted me to call my mom, but don’t you see? I couldn’t do that. I just couldn’t. After all, if my parents are going to get back together, then I need to stay lost.”
“I still think he should call his mom,” muttered Jacket.
“And I said I wasn’t gonna,” Matt said right back.
“Enough of that, you two. You came to me for help, so give me a chance to help. Okay?”
Matt nodded. Jacket, however, remained sullen.
“Okay, Mr. Johnson?” she asked again, this time with an edge to her voice.
Jacket jerked slightly, then grudgingly nodded.
“So, let me first say this to you, little Matt Cady. What you have done is an incredibly stupid thing.”
Matt’s eyes widened and he automatically opened his mouth to retort, but before he could, the Christmas Witch continued. “On one level, I think Mr. Johnson is correct. I think we should call your mother. There are dangerous people out on the road. You met Ali Baba. I know all about him, and he’s on his way to doing something truly bad.”
“What about Granny Annie?” Matt asked defensively.
“People like Granny Annie and the Buddha are few and far between,” the Christmas Witch told him. “There are a lot more people out there like Bovine Mack than there are like Granny. And without your friend Reggie to look out for you, all you have is a dog and a spirit.”
Jacket raised one eyebrow.
“What you need is an adult, a real flesh-and-blood adult to escort you. But we’ll get back to that. Kubla!” she suddenly yelled and waved her hand in the air. The rabbit Kubla had been chasing disappeared in a swirl of mist. With his chest heaving, the dog skidded to a stop and stared, perplexed. “Come on over here, dog. You need to get yourself some water.”
As if Kubla understood what he’d been told, he loped over to the bottom of the steps and began to lap water from a tall stainless steel bowl that Matt didn’t remember having seen before.
“But on another level,” the Christmas Witch continued, “I think you should continue on your journey.”
Matt, who had been watching his dog, looked up and grinned from ear to ear.
“You are a very brave little boy,” she noted. “But what you’ve done this time wasn’t done out of bravery, Matt Cady. It was done out of desperation.”
“But—”
“I’m not through yet,” the Christmas Witch said, her eyes briefly flashing orange. “What you need is some courage. You need to develop an understanding of the difference between bravery and desperation. You need to develop an understanding about the nature of faith in oneself.” She leaned in close and stared deeply into Matt’s eyes. “Have you ever heard of Crazy Horse?”
“What?”
“Crazy Horse. Have you ever heard of him?”
“Do you mean the Indian?”
“Yes, the Indian. Actually, Native American is the term we use now.”
“All I know is that he was a great warrior and they’re building a gigantic statue back behind Mount Rushmore. My dad says it’s even bigger than the
presidents’ heads on Mount Rushmore. Reggie says it’s too little too late, though.”
The Christmas Witch tilted her head. “Be that as it may, to understand how faith relates to courage, Matt, you need to understand about Crazy Horse. You see, Crazy Horse wasn’t merely a warrior. He was a leader of the Lakota Sioux. He led them and fought against the settlers who were stealing the land. He was one of the reasons that General Custer and the entire Seventh Cavalry was defeated at the Little Bighorn. He fought with courage and never shrank from a battle. He was always at the lead of each attack. After twenty-two battles, he was finally wounded. He was a great warrior, truly.” She smiled to herself, as if she was reliving a great memory, then her eyes twinkled. “But did he do it all on his own? Some say that there was magic involved.”
“Magic?” Matt repeated.
“Yes. You see, because he was one of the leaders of his tribe, Crazy Horse wore an embroidered and beaded shirt. Not just any shirt, mind you, but a special shirt, a War Shirt. He’d been told that as long as he wore that shirt, that specific shirt, he’d remain unscathed and he’d win every battle.” She folded her hands in front of her. “And it was true. Crazy Horse trusted in the shirt and went without fear into the teeth of the U.S. Cavalry. Stories say that during one battle he rode directly at a line of soldiers. Each time he charged, fifty rifles fired. Each time he’d return, one soldier would be lying on the ground with Crazy Horse unhurt. Seven times Crazy Horse did this, and seven times he killed, but never once was he even harmed. Somehow, someway, Crazy Horse was never hit.”
“Then it must have been magic!”
“That’s what they say.” A corner of the Christmas Witch’s mouth turned up slightly.
“If only I could have a shirt like that.” Matt stared wistfully at the yard.
“Like that? Why not the same one? I hear that his shirt is still around somewhere.”
“Like in a museum or something, probably.”
“Nope. It was never found.”
Matt frowned at her, not sure. “Then how do you know about it?”