Witchcraft

by Katie M John

  Several of her neighbours came forward and offered comfort, leaving the rest of the teashop customers redundant and suddenly lacking in appetite.

  “I’ll go and call Constable Peters. See if he’ll come over,” Sara said, leaving Mrs. Paisley in capable hands.

  Fox and Will returned their attention to their table.

  “I thought it strange she wasn’t at school today!” Will offered in hushed tones. “She’s never missed school in all the years I’ve known her, and there was an important assessment.”

  “Was Jack in?” Fox asked.

  “Nope. Didn’t think much of it. He’s always been a bit of a flake.”

  “Let’s get out of here,” Fox offered.

  They wrapped their scones in paper napkins and Fox grabbed two of the paper cups from the counter before waving Sara a silent goodbye. Will led them to the car and flopped in with the clear expectation she would follow his lead. It would have made more sense at this point to say goodbye and head the short distance home, but it seemed sense wasn’t really playing her part today. Fox got in and balanced her tea precariously on the dashboard.

  “So what do you think has happened then?” Will asked.

  “I don’t know – they’ve probably decided to play Romeo and Juliet for a couple of days?”

  “Really?” Will raised an eyebrow. “The candle girl and the choir boy – sneaking off for some alone time. Hardly likely is it?”

  “I don’t know!” Fox said more snappily than she’d intended.

  “Well, haven’t you got some kind of Witch-thing that makes you privy to that kind of information?”

  Fox looked at him hard, trying to work out exactly what Will had just said to her, but he was busy tucking into his scone as if nothing weird had just gone between them.

  “What is it with you and this whole… Witch thing?” she asked.

  Will appeared surprised by Fox’s negative reaction. “What ‘Witch thing’?” he asked innocently.

  “First the jokes about my house, then the necklace and now – this!” she flustered.

  “I don’t know why you’re getting so upset. It’s not like it bothers me or anything.”

  “Bothers you! Bothers you!” she raged. “Why the hell should it bother you?”

  Will held his hands up in submission. “Calm down, Foxy. It’s no big deal. I just thought maybe you had some kind of – I don’t know – gift for that kind of thing.”

  Fox was too wired to speak; all she could do was look at Will as if he were an alien from out of space. They were silent as they finished their scones and tea. There wasn’t much for them to say. Martha would probably turn up. She wasn’t the sort to run away and join a Parisian pole-dancing troupe, but then again, maybe that made it all the more worrying.

  When Fox arrived home, she found the house empty except for their mother.

  “Where is everybody?” she asked.

  “Out doing a leaflet drop for Martha.” Her mother turned from the stove and wiped her hands on her pinny. She looked worried but she smiled and said with forced brightness, “I’m sure she’ll be home soon. You know what it’s like. She’s young and in…”

  The telephone rang, interrupting her sentence. Fox cursed in her head. She had hoped to take the opportunity to talk to her mother about the visions. She had a horrible feeling that they were connected to Martha’s disappearance but she didn’t know how.

  Her mother returned from the hall with the phone lodged under her chin. It was Sara. Fox rolled her eyes. It would only be a matter of minutes before her mother knew all about her “date” with Will. She wasn’t going to sit around and wait for the guaranteed interrogation. Their mother was pretty laid back about their freedoms but for some reason, the boy issue was one area their mother liked to play the role of the over-protective, paranoid parent. That’s why Bunny caused so much anxiety; she’d flirt with a pair of trousers hanging on the washing-line given half a chance.

  Fox walked by the cooling fairy cakes and grabbed one, hot potato-ing it between her hands as she headed towards the stairs. It was Swan’s birthday in a couple of days, and despite Swan now being at college, mum still insisted she took in a tray of cupcakes for the class, much to Swan’s embarrassment and everybody else’s delight. Fox always had brownies and Bunny, millionaire shortbread. It had always been so. Once in her room, she flicked on some music and picked up her book. It was some American paranormal Witch story; always good for a bit of amused eye-rolling. If only it were true that you could conduct lightening out the tips of your fingers or turn people into stone. Unfortunately, her experience of witchcraft so far was all a little less Hollywood and a little bit more barefoot and flowers – or so she thought. Her thoughts returned back to the night at Coldstone House when Amber had dropped the glasses. She had even surprised herself by that little parlor trick. Prior to that, she had only ever managed to get a set of Lego to mysteriously form itself into a small car (when she had been four), and had healed a crack in one of her mother’s favourite plates – but nothing on the scale of magically healing ten crystal glasses. He saw you, you know! the internal said. That boy was watching you. You’ve got to be more careful. There’s something wrong.

  Of course there was a dark side to witchcraft. Every Witch had to make her choice between the light and the dark, but in the days of science and progress, there weren’t many who turned to the dark. With the increasing social rejection of God as a quirky superstition, so was the idea of Satan and his minions. Maybe that is why paranormal books had become so popular, she mused – a nostalgic desire for when the world had clearly defined monsters. Now the monster was the man sitting next to you on the bus, or the woman looking after your children in the nursery. Evil and darkness had become insidious; a sneak-thief, stealing lives from under the very nose of the priest.

  The Ravenheart Sisters continued (according to Wren) to play the part of the black coven, but in reality they’d been lacking any power for many generations. They were a parody of themselves, still insisting on wearing dark velvets and overly heavy eye-make up. If the three Ravenheart sisters hadn’t been so stunningly beautiful, they would certainly have become the laughing stock of the county.

  Somewhere, far back in their bloodline, there had been Italian blood and even now, many centuries after becoming considered an English coven, the Ravenheart women had that natural Mediterranean beauty. The youngest Ravenheart, Thalia, was still at college, in the same year as Fox, but the other two sisters spent their days entertaining their posh friends… and … Fox shook her head and shrugged. She couldn’t think what the two of them possibly did all day up at that crazy big house.

  They lived in a grand Tudor manor house, spooky as shit, nestled into the bottom of the burial mound, deep in Raven’s Wood. They’d never had any desire to keep a low profile; the house was called Ravenheart Hall, the woods Raven’s Wood and even the hospital they had founded had been called The Rookeries. Ego was their middle name. Wren never liked to speak of them, especially in the cottage. Although no longer powerful, the Ravenheart sisters were still cloaked in a shadow she didn’t wish to invite in.

  The Meadowsweet and Ravenheart covens had been rivals since the 1600s. They had never been destined to be friends, but then again, it was highly unusual for two covens to live in such close proximity; covens were notoriously territorial. Thalia was the nicest of the three, from the little experience Fox had of their company (mum had made a special point of never letting them spend too much time together). Thalia was slim with black wavy hair down past her shoulders, which she always wore up in one of those messy buns that looks effortless and beautiful but whenever you try to replicate it looked like you’d been attacked. She had a heavy fringe, which was an effective tool enabling her to peer at people with her huge, black lined eyes. She moved like a slinky, all hips and wiggles. Boys literally drooled when she spoke to them. It didn’t help her relationships with the other girls that as well as being beautiful, she was sporty, and also a talented
musician. She’d had the lead in every school production for the last five years. Not that Fox was particularly resentful of that being her own singing voice sounded like a seagull stuck arse-first up a fog-horn. Mind, it didn’t half piss off Bunny, who would have easily been the most attractive girl in college if it hadn’t been for Thalia.

  Are all these rambling thoughts an attempt to put off going to sleep? the internal asked.

  Fox looked at the clock. It was eight-thirty, which was ridiculously early for her, but all afternoon she’d felt the pull of bed. She needed to rest. The visions had made her feel like she’d gone a week without sleep. There was also a part of her that wanted to return to them, even though they made her entrails turn icy. She knew there was more to them – something about Martha.

  She lie down and handed herself over to the quiet. She was just drifting when her door flew open and Bunny came rushing in.

  “Have you heard about Martha?” she asked, flicking on the light switch.

  Fox rolled over and groaned at the bright assault of light, “Jeez, haven’t you ever heard of knocking?”

  “Well it’s not as if you’re sleep…” Bunny stopped and looked at her intensely. “So what are you doing in bed at this time of night? Are you sick?”

  “No!”

  “Oh, sorry - personal time!”

  Fox reached for the nearest projectile that she could, which was a heavy copy of Middlemarch, and hurled it in Bunny’s general direction with the aim to miss. It caught her toe causing her to erupt into an impression of a furious foul-mouthed toad.

  “You total bitch!”

  “Get lost!” Fox replied.

  Swan’s calm voice cut through the sibling bickering. “She came to tell you about Martha.”

  “What about her?” Fox said sulkily.

  “They’ve found her dress in the well?” Bunny said, chewing at her thumb.

  Fox sat bolt upright in bed. “The well?”

  “Yes.”

  “Oh my God!” Fox’s hand flew to her mouth.

  Swan came in and took a seat on the end of the bed. “You’re in bed early.”

  Fox rolled her eyes. Who would have thought that having an early night was such a crime? “Yes, I…”

  Swan didn’t wait for her to finish. “Bunny and I were talking about how strange it was you should start having visions on the day Martha goes missing. Have you seen anything?”

  Fox thought back over the visions. They were a mish-mash of images and voices. There was nothing substantial; certainly nothing that directly linked to Martha Paisley. She was too old for dolls. Fox shook her head. “No, nothing about Martha – just the woods, the sound of the police dogs yapping, men calling and the bright flashlights.”

  “Nothing else?” Swan asked.

  Fox had hoped to keep the doll to herself. It sounded over dramatic, as if it were a prop from some cliché horror film, and yet, there was something about that doll. Swan was gazing at her and she realised she had been zoning out again. “There is a doll with a broken face.”

  “A doll? How creepy!” Bunny said.

  “Who does the doll belong to? Is it Martha’s?”

  “No.” Fox shook her head. Her answers were coming as if from somebody else. “It isn’t Martha they are searching for; it’s a child. The doll belongs to one of the children from the village.”

  “Past, present, or future?” asked Swan.

  “I don’t know.” Fox felt an overwhelming sadness wash over her and she started to cry. The unexpected, and out of character, emotion prompted Bunny into action.

  “Why are you crying? Fox, what’s happening? You never cry.”

  Fox shook her head slowly from side to side. The feeling was alien and uncomfortable. If this was what grief felt like, she hoped she’d never have to feel it close to home.

  “I’m going to get mum,” Bunny said.

  “Leave it, Bunny. Give Fox some time. Let her talk to mum in the morning.”

  “Mum should know. She’d want to know.”

  Swan left Fox a crumpled, weeping mess on the bed and walked over to Bunny. She leaned in and whispered something Fox couldn’t quite catch. They had never had secrets; well, not ones that really mattered. All at once, it felt as if their safe little world was beginning to crack. Fox could feel the darkness waiting on the outside. Biding its time. Waiting.

  “What’s happening to me, Swan?” Fox cried.

  Swan switched off the light and ushered Bunny out of the room before stopping. She whispered across the darkness, “Sssh, try and get some rest. We’ll talk in the morning. Mum will know what to do. Mum always knows what to do.”

  *

  Fox floated into sleep with the image of Martha’s dress billowing down into the dark, dank of the well. She could see every detail, down to the stitching of the cuffs. Pure white, printed with blue birds in flight. Fox remembered seeing her wear it to The Green Man back in the summer. She had looked so pretty, with her blonde hair all tousled up and decorated with pearls. She’d been up to her wellies in mud; they all had. It had been the wettest festival on record… and one of the best.

  Fox and the dress fell into the darkness. The further she fell away from the light, the colder she became. Dread swam through her veins. Wherever they were heading to, there was going to be pain. Fox was sure of it. Somewhere in the distance, out of sight, a dog barked. Fox didn’t need to see it to know it was vicious. The sound of yanking chains told her she wasn’t the only one who thought so.

  Her feet were now on solid ground, stood in mud filled craters chipped out of hard-pressed ground. She was surrounded by fields, and in the distance, the tree line that bordered woodland. The place felt familiar to her, although she couldn’t recall where it was or what it was called. She knew before turning that to her left was a dilapidated hay barn. Golden light shone from between the broken planks. There was the sound of many feet moving, then the muffled cry of a girl. Then the screaming began and Fox couldn’t decide whether to throw up or to run. Her heart gagged her mouth. The screams were like a terrible song and they belonged to Martha Paisley.

  *

  “Noooo!” Fox’s screams brought her sisters and mother running. When they arrived, they found Fox standing in the middle of the room, her hands tearing through her hair, and a wild look in her eye. When she saw the concerned faces of her kin she turned to them and uttered, “She’s gone. They’ve killed her!”

  Swan’s hand flew to her mouth as she surged towards Fox. “No! No! Tell me it isn’t true.”

  Wren turned to Bunny and issued her instructions to go and put the kettle on. They would need sweet tea. They would need to talk. Bunny began to protest, “But… what does she mean? Who are ‘they’?”

  Wren ushered Bunny towards the stairs. “We’ll meet you downstairs. Swan, please help your sister with the tea. I’ll bring Fox down in a minute.”

  Swan squeezed Fox’s hand before following after a slightly petulant Bunny. Wren stepped into the room and closed the door behind her. They rarely shut doors. They rarely had secrets. Times were different.

  “You saw?”

  Fox nodded.

  “When did the visions start?”

  “This morning.”

  “And you didn’t think to tell me?”

  Fox shook her head. “I thought they would pass. I thought it was just my imagination.”

  “And now?”

  “Mum, help me. I don’t want to be a Saw. I don’t want these things in my head.” Fox started to sob once more.

  “Ssh, darling. You have to accept the gifts that Mother Nature has bestowed on you, and you are gifted, Fox. I always knew in my heart you would be special.”

  “Why not Swan? She’s so much more…” Fox couldn’t find the exact word, but Swan had always been so intuitive, so… otherworldly, not like Fox, who had always prided herself on being the most grounded, and sane, of the Meadowsweets.

  Wren came close to her and held Fox in a way she hadn’t done for years.
Fox had always been the one least into public displays of affection. She’d squirmed in her mother’s arms since the day she had been born - always desperate to escape the constraints of a cuddle in order to get out and do something. Tonight, she understood why being held was so important. Sometimes, a hug was the only thing physically holding you together, and she was certain that if her mother were to let her go, she might just unravel all over the floor.

  “Sweetheart, I know it’s hard but I need to ask you what you saw.” Wren stroked her daughter’s hair affectionately. It felt nice. It felt safe. “Do you think you can tell me?”

  Fox began to shake her head. She didn’t want to revisit the vision, not that she had seen much. It was the feeling. A feeling she wasn’t sure she’d be able to put into words. How do you convey the feeling of death, the feeling of violence, the sound of a scream?

  “I didn’t see anything,” she said truthfully. “Just fields and trees and a barn.” She shook the thought of the barn away. “There was a dog,” she said, desperate to please her mother with details when in truth, everything was insubstantial.

  “That’s good, you’re doing good. What kind of dog?”

  “I don’t know. I didn’t see it, I only heard it.”

  “And when you heard it, what did your imagination conjure up?”

  “A big black dog. Eyes flashing green. Impossibly big. The size of a… no,” Fox stopped and let out a sigh of frustration. “My imagination is running wild; it’s clouding the visions.”

  “Say what came to mind, even if you don’t think it can be true.”

  Fox closed her eyes tight, tried to enter back into the moment she heard the dog bark. She began to tremble. She didn’t want to hear the sound of Martha’s screams again. Each one had been a blade in her stomach.

  “It was as big as a… as a lion!” She opened her eyes and looked apologetically at her mother. “See, I told you, my imagination is all over the place.”

  “Never mind. Was there anything else?”