Chasing the White Witch

by Marina Cohen

  I rolled my eyes and reached into my pocket. I got on the bus and dropped two tickets into the fare box. Good thing I had some money — I’d have to buy more tickets for the ride home. I almost started walking down the aisle when I noticed, out of the corner of my eye, Hollis still standing on the curb. I swung round and grabbed her arm and pulled her on board.

  “Threefold,” I muttered under my breath. “More like bounce back three-million-fold.”

  “What’s that?” asked Hollis.

  “Er, nothing,” I said.

  As the bus bumped and jostled its way toward the subway station I had to deal with Hollis and her barrage of whiny questions.

  “So, where does this White Witch live?” she asked.

  “No idea,” I said, which apparently caused her all sorts of anxiety.

  “What? What do you mean you don’t know where she lives?” Hollis yelled.

  “Keep your voice down,” I said. “Stop attracting attention — I am skipping school, remember? And anyway, I told you to trust me — I have a plan.”

  “Claire Murphy, you are the last person in the world I trust,” said Hollis. “And if we’re not going to the White Witch, then where exactly are we going?”

  “To the publisher of the book,” I said, trying to keep my answer as brief as possible so as not to cause her to freak-out any further.

  “And where is that?”

  “Downtown.”

  “Where downtown?”

  “Queen Street.”

  “And what do you hope to do at the publisher’s? How are they supposed to de-hex me? With ink and erasers?”

  “You ask too many questions,” I said. “Just trust me. I know what I’m doing.”

  “Trust you? Trust you! Famous last words …” she scoffed.

  I’d had enough Hollis for the moment. I got up and threw myself into the row of seats opposite her. Yes, yes, yes — I still felt guilty and responsible for her frail condition, and I was going to fix that, but did I have to let her annoy me while I did so? I wished Paula-Jean were with us. Paula-Jean was even-tempered. She would be able to defuse the tension between Hollis and me.

  I pretended to look out the window, all the while keeping an eye on Hollis. Her posture wasn’t good and she was fidgeting nervously with her left fingertips. I could tell she was uncomfortable sitting there alone, but I decided to let her suffer a little while longer. Then, when a really ragged-looking guy — not much older than Jordan, I guessed — got on the bus, sat down beside her, and started harassing her, I had no choice but to spring into action.

  “Leave her alone,” I said, racing toward them.

  “Get lost,” he said.

  Hollis looked petrified.

  “Do you see this book, buddy?” I said grabbing it out of my pocket and brandishing it like a sword. “This is magic. And believe me I will not think twice about cursing your butt into the next millennium! Now move!”

  “Chill, man,” he said, waving the book out of his face. He shifted down the row a few seats. “I was only asking if she could spare some change …”

  Satisfied I’d rescued Hollis, I calmed down, tucked my book away, and looked him over. His hair looked like it hadn’t been washed in days. His fingernails were dirty and his hands looked way older than his face. So did his eyes, for that matter. He was a street kid. Clearly homeless. I felt bad for threatening to curse him. Apparently, I hadn’t learned my cursing lesson yet. I reached into my pocket and before I knew what I was doing, I’d handed him five bucks.

  “Thanks,” he muttered. Something about the way he said that made me realize it was a fortune to him.

  “Why did you do that?” hissed Hollis. “I wouldn’t have given that guy a dime!”

  I looked at Hollis’s fancy clothes and fancy shoes. Her painted nails and expensive earrings. I looked back at the guy who had no one and nothing — nothing except the five bucks I’d just given him. I suddenly found myself wondering if I wasn’t the only one who had some character-cleansing to do.

  16

  MIXED PICKLE PRESS was written in chipped gold paint on the window of a small, dingy door wedged between a Persian rug store and a pizzeria. Half of the buildings in the area consisted of modern chi-chi type cafés, furniture stores, and clothing boutiques, while the other half were remnants of darker days. I pressed my face up to the glass. A narrow staircase was visible through the greasy film. I could tell the walls hadn’t been painted — or washed, for that matter — in decades.

  “You’re joking, right?” said Hollis. “You can’t possibly expect me to follow you in there? What kind of a publisher is this, anyway?”

  I had my own concerns about ascending those stairs, but I wasn’t about to let Hollis know that. “Obviously one that isn’t doing too well.”

  She rolled her eyes. “Very funny.”

  “Come on,” I said. “I can’t do this without you.”

  “And why not?”

  “Because,” I said, reaching for the tarnished brass doorknob, “I can’t just walk in there and go demanding to see the White Witch. Do you think publishers just hand out the real names and addresses of their authors — ones that obviously use pseudonyms for privacy? My plan requires the two of us. So get yourself in here or stay cursed forever.”

  The threat seemed to do the trick. Hollis narrowed her eyes and motioned. “Après vous.”

  I swung the door open. Its hinges screamed like I was torturing them. I stepped inside, with Hollis at my heels. The stairwell smelled musty — like a hamper full of unwashed clothes. I can’t say I wasn’t a tad worried, but it was a place of business, I told myself, not some motorcycle gang’s hideout.

  I took a deep breath and crept up the stairs. Hollis was holding my arm in a death grip. At the top landing I had to turn right. The dank hallway gave way to a space not much larger than my living room. What I saw there melted my fear into a puddle of bewilderment. I scrunched my eyes and opened them. I wasn’t dreaming.

  An old floral sofa, complete with doilies on the headrests, was off to one side. There was a rickety coffee table with piles of mini books similar to my Remedies, Rituals, and Incantations scattered across the top. A few old picture frames adorned the walls — some that looked like they housed certificates or awards. In the opposite corner there were several metal filing cabinets and a huge old wooden desk with a computer that could be politely classified as antique. And sitting at the desk that was covered in piles of manila envelopes of various sizes and shapes, was a rather large, rather menacing-looking clown.

  17

  Now clowns, at the best of times, can be pretty creepy. But this clown, sitting at his desk, in his dingy office, hammering away at a keyboard as old as my grandma’s galoshes, was downright frightening. I have no idea why I didn’t do an about-face and burn rubber back down that staircase. It was like my feet had suddenly been disconnected from my brain.

  Luckily, the clown was too engrossed in cyberspace to notice the two of us peeping round the corner at him. Was he working? Twittering? Facebooking? I wasn’t going to hang around long enough to find out. Behind me, I heard a faint whimpering. Obviously, Hollis had a major clown-aversion, as well. I actually managed to lift one foot and move it slowly backward, but just as I began my careful retreat, wouldn’t you know it — Jordan’s cellphone rang.

  Dun, dun, dun, dun, daaaah … dun, dun, dun, dah, daaaaah …

  (Did I mention Jordan has this super-loud, super-annoying ringtone? It’s the Monday Night Football theme song, for crying out loud!)

  Well. That did it. Any chance of escaping the situation unscathed evaporated. The clown looked up, and while I grappled for the phone, he got out of his chair (he had to be almost seven feet tall!) and began moving toward us at a steady pace. My thoughts scattered in a million directions. Should I run? Should I stay to get what I came for? Should I answer the phone? I decided on the latter — it made the best sense. If I was going to be attacked by a deranged clown, at least there would be someone on
the other end of the phone line to witness it.

  “Hello?” I said, my voice squeakingly high.

  (The clown was smiling at me. At least I thought he was — tough to tell behind his painted-on grin …)

  “It’s me, Jordan.”

  (Hollis was pulling hard at my jacket. She nearly made me tip backwards.)

  “Figures,” I said.

  (The giant clown was waiting patiently — perhaps to welcome me, or perhaps to bludgeon me — at this point, his motives were unclear.)

  “Are you okay?” asked Jordon.

  (Hollis was pulling with all her might. Luckily — or unluckily, I suppose — she had no strength in her left arm.)

  “Define okay,” I said.

  (The clown waved at Hollis, who, not forgetting proper etiquette, stopped pulling on me long enough to wave back.)

  “I’m calling from Mac’s phone,” said Jordan, oblivious to the clownish mayhem happening on my end. “Call me back at this number, if you need anything, okay?”

  “Er, thanks,” was all I could think of to say. “I just might need to …”

  I hung up and suddenly, I realized that my world had become a whole heck of a lot more complex. My horrible brother was acting really nice. Clowns were masquerading as regular people. My sworn enemy was hanging onto me for dear life. Nothing made sense. Nothing fit its neat little compartment anymore. My head began to spin.

  “Can I help you little ladies?” asked the clown. His voice was calm and friendly — not remotely what one might expect from a deranged clown.

  “I, er … we, well,” I stammered. Hollis squeezed me, her long nails digging into my upper arms. It jolted my mouth into action. “We were looking for Mixed Pickle Press.”

  “Then you’ve come to the right place!” said the clown. “What can I do for you? Have you written a book? I have to warn you, I’m not actively seeking submissions at this point.” He motioned his head toward the staggering pile of manila envelopes polluting his desk.

  “Um, no,” I said, trying hard to imagine the clown without makeup. Was he old? Young? I couldn’t tell. “We were actually looking to gather some information on one of your authors.”

  “Oh,” he said, somewhat surprised. “I see. Hey, aren’t you supposed to be in school or something?”

  “Er, yes, but … you see …” I stammered. “School project,” I announced suddenly. It seemed to do the trick.

  Meanwhile, Hollis was still cowering behind me. The clown seemed to take notice of her and come to some sort of realization. He looked down at his ballooning orange polka dot pants and his ruffled sleeves. “Oh gosh,” he said. “You’ll have to excuse my appearance. It’s Monday, you know.”

  I smiled and nodded — the way you do at a toddler who has just said, eep oble boop. Like it’s supposed to make tons of sense. Was I missing something? Was Monday clown day in some bizarre alternate universe?

  Sensing my confusion, he began to explain. “Mondays I go to the Hospital for Sick Kids over lunch — to read stories and entertain the children.”

  Well. You could have knocked me over with a wet noodle. This staggeringly tall clown was not a menace to society — he was a benefit! Hollis let go of my arms and stepped out from behind me, a look of shock plastered across her face. Personally, I was embarrassed. I felt awful for misjudging him. Misjudging people was becoming a reoccurring theme in my life.

  “That’s pretty nice of you,” I said. “I didn’t know you could do that sort of thing.”

  “Oh, there are lots of ways to help out in your community — if you really want to,” he said. “Now, tell me, what kind of information were you looking for? Which author?”

  Wouldn’t you know it? Right then and there my tongue got all twisted up again and all that came out was, “Witch author.”

  He looked confused. “That’s what I’m asking you, which author?”

  “Witch author,” I repeated.

  “What author?”

  “Not what — witch!” I said.

  “Who?”

  “Witch! Witch!” My communication frustration was clearly mounting.

  Hollis rolled her eyes. “The White Witch,” she said calmly, pulling the book out of my pocket and holding it up for him to see.

  “Oh,” he said, taking the book and turning it over in his hands before passing it back to me. “That’s one of my favourites.”

  “Um, mine, too,” I said, untangling my tongue. It wasn’t a lie. Despite the trouble the book caused me, I still thought it was pretty cool.

  “We need to contact the White Witch,” said Hollis. “Can you give us her phone number or something?”

  I elbowed Hollis. She’d opened her big mouth and tipped our hand. I had wanted to go about things in an entirely different fashion, way more subtly, but the clown confusion ruined everything.

  “No, I can’t do that,” he said, shaking his rainbow-coloured head. “First off, I don’t have the phone number. And even if I did, I couldn’t give it to you.”

  “You don’t have your authors’ phone numbers?” said Hollis.

  “Not that particular one. Very strange, reclusive author, indeed. Just a post office box number,” he said. “That’s where I send the royalty cheques.” He must have thought we looked hopeful because he quickly added, “But I can’t give you that either. Privacy, you know. Maybe I can answer your questions?”

  “I don’t think so,” I said, thinking fast. “We need to interview her personally. So, I think we’d best be going now.”

  “But Claire,” said Hollis, at which point I gave her another elbow.

  “Gee, that’s too bad. Such a shame. Yes, we’ll be going na, na, na … NOW!” I said, sneezing the last word out as loudly and as violently as I possibly could. “Excuse me — would you happen to have a tissue?” I swiped at my nose for dramatic effect.

  “Sure,” he said. For a second I thought he was going to pull out a never-ending string of colourful tissues from his pocket, or something ridiculous like that, but instead, he did exactly what I’d hoped he’d do.

  He turned around and headed for a small door at the back of the room. I was sure it was a washroom. As he ducked inside, I made my move. I darted to his desk and grabbed the first item I could find: his coffee cup.

  “Have you lost it, Claire?” whispered Hollis. “You’re going to steal his mug?”

  “Hush!” I snapped, racing back to my original spot, hiding the mug behind my back. “I’m not stealing it! I’m borrowing it!”

  Just then, the clown reappeared with a wad of tissue. I held the mug in my left hand and took the tissue with my right, pretending to wipe my nose and then shove it into my pocket. I shook his hand and thanked him for his time. I frowned at Hollis, scrunching one eye more than the other. I hoped she understood my nonverbal attempt at communicating, “Let’s get outta here!” I backed up slowly, keeping the mug hidden, all the while grinning and nodding at the clown. Once I reached the landing, I darted around the corner and dashed back down the stairs. I could hear Hollis muttering nasty words and questions all the way down and out the door.

  18

  "Claire, I always thought you were nuts, but now I’m completely convinced you have serious psychological issues!” said Hollis as soon as the door slammed shut behind us. “You are definitely in need of major therapy! If you needed a cup of coffee that desperately, all you had to do was —”

  I stood there grinning ear to ear, dangling the mug by its handle between my thumb and index finger. “For your information,” I interrupted, “this mug is going to get us everything we need. And for what it’s worth, you are starting to sound like Paula-Jean …”

  Hollis wouldn’t have guessed it, but that last part was actually a compliment. She glared at me like she wanted to throttle me — and she may very well have, had curiosity not gotten the better of her. “And how exactly is it going to do that?” she demanded. “Is it going to start talking to us? No, wait. I know. Now you’re a psychic and you’re goi
ng to read our future in the coffee grinds! Or better yet, the mug is going to lead us to the White Witch like some sort of divining rod …”

  I ignored her rant and entered the pizzeria next door. It was nearly lunchtime, after all, and my stomach had been growling forever. Hollis followed me, continuing her tirade. I ordered two pepperoni strombolis and two bottles of water from the kind-looking lady behind the counter. Hollis sure was costing me a lot of money. My tattoo-removal money was dwindling. I’d be stuck with my hypothetical bad ink for a few years longer than I was planning. Maybe I should just stick to temporary tattoos. Or perhaps a nice, conservative tongue-piercing.

  All the while, Hollis didn’t let up, blathering on and on — something about me being a pathological kleptomaniac — until we were seated in a booth, the coffee cup placed strategically in the centre of the table. She took a bite of her stromboli, apparently appeased for the moment by the hot, gooey cheese, and unwilling to talk with her dainty mouth full. I took the opportunity to get out my little green book and flip through the pages, locating exactly what I was searching for. Hollis and the clown may have stuck a wrench in my original plan, but I had another plan — a better plan. One that involved a little bit of magic.

  I passed the book to Hollis just as she was taking a sip of her water. I watched her eyes scan the title, but then the spray of water exploding from her mouth forced me to shut my eyes.

  “A spell?” she choked. Her already high-pitched voice reached new altitudes. “You’re going to cast a spell on the clown?”

  “Not just a spell — this spell,” I said casually, chewing a hunk of stromboli then dabbing at my face with my paper napkin. “And not me — we. Need I remind you that you have a vested interest in this mission?” I left the book open in front of her.

  We ate the rest of our food in silence. I could tell Hollis was in the middle of some sort of inner struggle. When she was finished eating, she glowered at me defiantly, all the while rubbing her left fingertips with her right hand. She picked up the book up and read the spell out loud.