The Garden of Bewitchment

by Catherine Cavendish

  Ahead of her, a few people were out walking their dogs. This terrain proved easier to negotiate than her usual route. Above her, storm clouds promised heavy rain to come, and a sudden chill breeze made Evelyn shiver. She had only donned a light summer coat, totally unsuited to a torrential downpour and certainly not protective enough in a chilly wind. Time to go back.

  Evelyn turned and caught her breath. Standing a few yards away, a man doffed his bowler hat to her, smiled and walked away.

  * * *

  “What did he look like, Ev?”

  “Fairly tall, probably three inches taller than me, with reddish-brown hair, collar length. He wore a dark gray bowler and a tweed suit. The strangest thing, though…”

  “What?”

  “I am certain I’ve seen him before…late last night when I came downstairs because I couldn’t sleep. He was standing on the track that runs along the top, outside the back of our cottage. There’s something about him…” Evelyn shook her head. “No, you’ll think I’m crazy.”

  “Oh, you can’t stop now. What else?”

  “In profile, as he turned to go, he looked so much like your print of Branwell. Quite uncanny.”

  Claire stared. “Branwell? Here?”

  “No, obviously it couldn’t be him, but maybe some relation.”

  “There are no Brontë relations. Not around here anyway. Maybe in Ireland.”

  “Coincidence. Nothing more, nothing less. Pure coincidence. And I did only catch a glimpse of him in profile. Full face… I’m not sure I know what Branwell Brontë looks like full face.”

  “There are very few pictures of him, only the odd self-portrait, and he never did himself justice. He always seemed to parody himself.”

  A thud sounded from upstairs.

  “What on earth…?” Evelyn hitched up her skirts and took to the stairs, Claire close behind her.

  In Claire’s bedroom, the wardrobe door stood open. As they moved toward it, it slammed shut. Claire let out a cry.

  Evelyn bit her lip, took a deep breath and wrenched the door open again.

  There on the floor of the wardrobe lay the box. The Garden of Bewitchment.

  “It’s back.”

  Evelyn bent to pick it up.

  “Be careful, Ev.”

  “I have to pick it up to take it downstairs. We must burn it. Remember what Matthew said.”

  “Supposing he lied to you about it?”

  “It’s evil, Claire. Remember how one little bit of it attacked you. Remember what it took to kill that?”

  Claire touched the bandage on her right wrist. “We can’t burn it in the house.”

  “We can hardly start a fire outside. The neighbors…”

  “Oh, hang the neighbors.”

  “You go downstairs and open the door on the kitchen range, stoke up the fire. It will burn quicker with a good fire going. Make sure it’s burning stronger than the last one. I’ll follow you.”

  Claire looked as if she was about to challenge Evelyn but thought better of it. She left and hurried down the stairs.

  Evelyn looked again at the box. The thought of touching it filled her with dread. She grabbed a long scarf and wrapped it around her hands. At least she wouldn’t come into direct contact with the toy.

  Gingerly she picked it up, holding it at arm’s length. It seemed so innocent. A simple box illustrating a beautiful garden. Any child, or adult even, would be drawn to it.

  Evelyn carried it carefully downstairs, taking care not to tilt or jar the box. The heat hit her as soon as she stepped into the kitchen. The fire blazed fiercely. Claire stepped back, wiping her sweaty brow.

  Evelyn threw the box and its contents into the fire. Claire shut the door of the range.

  They couldn’t see anything, but the fire had to be consuming the thing. The sisters waited.

  “Let’s leave it for half an hour and check on it then,” Evelyn said. “It should be well and truly ashes by then.”

  “What did it want from us?”

  “We’ll probably never know. The thing was pure evil, and now it’s gone. We don’t need to worry about it anymore.”

  “Will you go out this afternoon?” Claire asked as they made their way into the drawing room.

  “Not if the rain carries on like this.” She indicated the window, where the rain beat a tattoo.

  A sharp rap at the door made them both jump.

  “You see to it, Ev. I’m going upstairs for a lie down. Seeing that…thing again has worn me out.”

  Evelyn waited until her sister had reached the top of the stairs before answering the door.

  “Matthew! Whatever has brought you out in such dreadful weather?”

  “May I come in?”

  “Of course.” Evelyn held the door open, and the dripping and disheveled man limped in. It seemed to have worsened since she had seen him up at the crags.

  “I must apologize for disturbing you and calling unannounced, but I couldn’t help feeling something was terribly wrong.”

  Evelyn struggled to keep her composure. “Wrong?”

  “Yes. Have you seen anything unusual?”

  “As a matter of fact we have. A short while ago, we heard a thump and went to investigate, only to find that hideous toy had returned. It was lying in my sister’s wardrobe.”

  “I knew it. I felt it. Don’t ask me how, but I suppose I must have a connection to it in some way. Where is it now?”

  “We burned it, as you advised.”

  “And you are sure you caught every piece?”

  “As sure as I can be. It’s in the kitchen range. Claire made sure the fire was good and high.”

  “May I see?”

  “Of course. It should be burned up by now. We were going to wait half an hour or so to be certain, but the fire was so strong I’m sure it would have burned to cinders in a few minutes.”

  “Let’s hope so.”

  Evelyn led the way. The kitchen felt unusually cold. “That’s strange.”

  She picked up the cloth and was struck by the lack of warmth as she turned the lever to open the fire.

  “What the…?” Evelyn stared in disbelief. The fire had gone out, as if it hadn’t been lit for a day or more. Stone cold. Ashes lay at the bottom and there, neatly lying in pristine condition, the box. “But this isn’t possible. I put it in there myself. The fire was raging.”

  “I don’t doubt you, Evelyn. I am quite sure everything was exactly as you say.”

  “But what do we do now? Light another fire?”

  “Certainly not here, and we do have to get this thing out of here now. Do you have a bag I can put it in?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “We’d better tie it up with string first so it doesn’t fall open.”

  Evelyn fetched the big roll of sturdy twine, some scissors and a strong, large brown paper shopping bag with string handles.

  Matthew tied up the box firmly. “We’ll need matches and a little kindling to get the fire started.”

  “Matthew, we can’t start a fire outside in this weather. It won’t burn.”

  “There are some small caves up on the moors. The rain never gets in there.”

  “You seem to have discovered more of this area than I have,” Evelyn said, and hoped he didn’t get the catch in her voice.

  Matthew gave her a slight smile and shoved the box into the bag. “Our main problem is how to keep this bag from disintegrating in the rain. Do you have something else?”

  “I have a small suitcase.”

  “Excellent.”

  Evelyn went into the drawing room, opened the door of the tall cupboard and reached the little case down from the top shelf. She handed it to Matthew.

  “Perfect.” He unlatched it and slid the bag and its contents inside. The box fitted snu
gly, and Matthew closed the suitcase.

  “I can do this alone. You don’t have to come with me.”

  “No, it’s very kind of you, but I would rather see the end of this thing for myself.”

  “Do you want to get your sister?”

  “No, let’s leave her sleeping. This has been a terrible ordeal for her. Especially as this thing manifested itself yet again in her room rather than mine. She naturally feels as if she is its real target.”

  Matthew nodded, and, suitably dressed against the elements, the two began their journey up to the crags.

  * * *

  Larger than the rock she had taken refuge under, the cave, while still small, was enclosed on three sides and big enough to provide dry shelter for them both. Matthew set about laying a small fire while Evelyn waited to hand him the matches. After placing the toy on top of the little pyre, Matthew struck a match and lit some screwed-up newspaper, which he then set under the kindling. The fire spluttered at first, then took hold.

  He stood back and watched as the flames licked at the box. Soon they were surrounding it.

  “I don’t understand,” Matthew said. “It should be burning now. It’s cardboard and flimsy balsa wood.”

  Evelyn watched in mounting disbelief as the flames burned the kindling but left the box clean. Presently they died down. In a couple of minutes, the fire had extinguished.

  “I’m glad you were with me, Evelyn. If this had happened and I had told you about it, you wouldn’t have believed me.”

  “Yes, I would. The kitchen range, remember? This is the same thing all over again.”

  “I have my petrol lighter with me,” Matthew said. “I filled it yesterday. I could empty it over the box directly and set fire to it.”

  “It’s worth trying.”

  Matthew picked the box off the ashes and laid it on the hard, dry earth. He emptied the contents of the small lighter over the box. Barely more than a few drops of the highly flammable substance dripped out. “I only hope it’s enough,” he said.

  “How much petrol do you need to burn a box?”

  “I don’t know. I’ve never tried.” Matthew struck a match and set it to the petrol.

  “Careful. You’ll burn yourself.”

  “I shall be fine. I—”

  The flames shot into the air, catching Matthew’s wrist and hand. He staggered backward. Evelyn stripped off her coat and smothered his arm with it. The smell of burning flesh filled the air.

  “My God, Matthew. How did that happen? There was barely any petrol in it.”

  Matthew managed to speak through teeth gritted against the pain. “Look…look at the…box.”

  Evelyn looked. “There’s not a mark on it. Not one. How is it possible? Matthew? Matthew!”

  He lay slumped against the back wall of the cave. Passed out.

  A few seconds later, he stirred.

  “Let me see your arm,” Evelyn said, gently unwrapping it from the coat. The affected area had turned red and had already slightly swollen up. It looked painful. Fortunately not nearly as bad as she had feared, given the ferocity of the flame that had attacked him. “We need to get you back so I can clean this. We have some aloe vera ointment at home. It is very good for burns. I don’t think you’ll need to consult a doctor, but if you wish I can send Claire round to the apothecary when we return.”

  “No. No. It’s not too bad.”

  “You’re clearly in pain, Matthew. Come on, let’s get you back.”

  “The box…”

  “We’ll have to leave it here. At least it’s out of the house.” Silently she prayed it wouldn’t find its way back either.

  Matthew looked in too much pain to protest. Evelyn helped him to his feet. The sooner she could get Matthew back to her cottage and get those burns dressed, the better. Evelyn had seen an infected burn years earlier when Ivy, the kitchen maid, had an accident with a frying pan. Nancy had cleaned the wound and wrapped a bandage around it, but a few days later the poor girl was still in agony, requiring the ministrations not only of the cook but also of Violet, the parlor maid. Ivy’s screams echoed through the entire house, and Evelyn had been left unsupervised. Her curiosity took hold and she sneaked down the servants’ stairs, into the kitchen. Unnoticed, she witnessed the distraught girl, little more than a child herself, as Nancy tried to change the three-day-old bandage, peeling it off skin to which it had become adhered. Violet did her best to restrain the terrified girl who thrashed around, pleading for an end to her torment.

  Evelyn had been fascinated by the sight of blood and bright yellow pus, mingling together in a foulness that set the parlor maid reeling, her hand to her nose.

  Then the cook noticed Evelyn. She shouted to Violet, “Get Miss Evelyn back upstairs immediately. This is not for her eyes.”

  She had been bundled up the stairs, where she sought out Claire, regaling the story of the unfortunate kitchen maid’s woes to her in graphic detail until her sister had pleaded with her to stop. Of course, Evelyn had elaborated a little. It made for a far better story if she described the girl’s hand swollen up like a carcass left to rot on the road.

  She never saw the kitchen maid again, nor did she know what had happened to her. A week later, a new girl arrived and nothing more was ever said of young Ivy.

  There was no sign of Claire when they returned. Perhaps she was still upstairs, or maybe she was out on one of her secret jaunts. Evelyn hadn’t time to concern herself. She had more important work to do.

  In the kitchen, Evelyn mixed hot water from the large copper kettle on the range with cold from the water pump. The tepid water seemed to bring some relief after the initial sting of contact. Matthew’s pinched expression relaxed a little as Evelyn carefully bathed the burns.

  Next she applied aloe vera ointment. “This should help the healing process,” she said. “I think you’ve been lucky. The burns are clearly superficial, although they must hurt a great deal.”

  “I have known worse,” Matthew said. “But I wouldn’t recommend it.”

  “I’ll put a dressing on and then bandage you up. The most important thing is to keep the area clean and also make sure the dressing doesn’t stick to the wound.” Again the image of poor, screaming Ivy flashed into her mind.

  With Matthew suitably bandaged and nursing a strong cup of tea in her drawing room, Evelyn still couldn’t make her mind up about him. He seemed genuinely pleasant and grateful for her attention. If only that locked box didn’t keep bothering her…

  “We will have to destroy that toy, Evelyn.”

  “I know. The question is, how? It seems to resist all attempts to burn it. Perhaps if we bury it?”

  “It might work. Bury it deep enough and place a rock on top of it. Left on the moors like that should be sufficient to ensure no one accidentally digs it up.”

  “After all, who buries anything on the moors?” Evelyn asked, a smile on her face. Did he react? If he did, the moment passed in an instant. “I mean, it’s not as if anyone digging for peat would go there.”

  “No, they would go further onto the moor itself.”

  “The problem is…”

  He held up his bandaged hand.

  “I can dig,” Evelyn said. “I used to tend a patch of our garden at home. I planted all manner of flowers and herbs.”

  “This might require more strenuous digging.”

  “Don’t worry, Matthew. I’m not as weak and feeble as you might think.” She had kept her tone light.

  “I’m sorry, Evelyn. I didn’t mean to imply that.”

  Evelyn smiled again. “It’s quite all right. Shall we return there tomorrow morning? If you feel up to it.”

  “Tomorrow morning will be fine.” Matthew stood. “And now, it is time for me to go home. Thank you for your kindness, Evelyn.”

  “Not at all.” Evelyn opened the door fo
r him.

  After he had gone, she went in search of her sister.

  She was nowhere to be found.

  Chapter Eight

  Dear Diary, Ev thinks I am helpless without her, but she’s wrong. I can do far more for myself than she could possibly imagine, and one thing I am determined to do is find out whether Matthew is who he claims to be.

  Claire took the left-hand path, walking along past the cottage and deeper onto the moor itself, grateful that the rain had stopped at last. As she strode out, the land became softer, greener. Behind her, bleak rocks and heather-strewn marsh. In front of her, the bright yellow gorse gave way to lush grass, cowslips and tall daisies. A small copse of trees looked as if they might provide welcome cool shade from the sun, which had begun to burn down on Claire’s neck. She should have worn the wide-brimmed hat she always wore in bright sunlight, but the weather had been gloomy when she set out and she had selected a summery hat offering no protection from the powerful rays.

  As she approached the copse, it became clear the trees merely served as a screen for something much more interesting. All thoughts of Matthew forgotten and her curiosity thoroughly aroused, Claire pressed on.

  The tall trees smelled of sap and pine, and up ahead, the bluest bird Claire had ever seen hopped from branch to branch, its beady eyes watching her. Butterflies she had never seen before fluttered their various scarlet, golden, purple and green wings. The air filled with the sweetest birdsong.

  How amazing. I must tell Ev…

  But why shouldn’t she have her own secrets?

  The copse gave way to a clearing, with all manner of brilliantly colored flowers and shrubs, planted in beds. Cobbled pathways wended their way around them. Somehow or other Claire had stumbled into a garden.