The Witch's Promise

by Greg Krehbiel

  "Too bad," she said, and then a look of concern seemed to show through her makeup. "Uh ... John," she said. "I know you've read a bit about pagans, but .... Well, there are pagans and then there are pagans, you know. I mean, I run with a pretty straight crowd, but some of them ...."

  "Are you trying to tell me there might be drugs at the party? Should I call mother?"

  "Well, that too. But I mean ... Well. Wedding rings tend to come off at pagan parties, if you know what I mean. Don't be surprised if you hear some pretty forward propositions."

  "And should I be worried if you disappear for a while?" John said, trying hard to sound funny and failing miserably.

  "Consider yourself slapped," Jillian said, seriously. "Wiccans are non-judgmental. People do what they want to do, so long as they don't hurt anybody. That's not my life, but I'm not going to tell them how to run theirs."

  "So that was a non-judgmental slap, I take it."

  Jillian's eyes went slightly blank for a moment, then she said, "Come here and let me fix your make-up. You smeared it on the telephone."

  The long dirt driveway from a sleepy back road to Mishelle and Rebecca's house was lined with scores of jack-o-lanterns. More than a hundred at least.

  "Oh, I forgot," Jillian said. "We were supposed to bring a pumpkin."

  "I think they have enough," John said, watching as Darth Vader set a new one in a gap on the left-hand side.

  A hundred feet farther the driveway opened into a field full of cars. John found a spot and they worked their way toward the house, along with a hag, a goblin, a ghost and a medieval warrior, complete with chain mail and broad sword.

  The house itself was packed and rather dark, lit only by candles, oil lamps, jack-o-lanterns and two fireplaces. The brick patio had an open fire pit as well as two portable fire pits. A huge black cauldron hung from an iron rod over the open fire, and an enormous, black-robed witch was stirring it with a wooden spoon that would have suited a small man as a walking stick.

  The air was a bit below crisp but the costume, the collective body heat of the crowd and the omnipresent fires kept things comfortable. The smell of hard-wood fires filled the air, along with other mixed smells: the candles and, if John could trust his nose, incense. It looked as if every chair in the house was scattered around the yard, but bales of straw served for extra seats. There were apples, cider and freshly fried, spiced donuts in abundance. An old Jethro Tull song played on the speakers near the house. If Fall himself were to come alive and throw a party, it wouldn't be much different.

  John remembered something he'd read about the Wheel of the Year and began to think that there may be something to these cycles and rhythms of life. Some corner of his mind seemed to say "yes, this is right," as if someone had read his subconscious desires and written the script for this party.

  A knot of revelers interrupted his train of thought. In the center of about six shouting, laughing and singing drunks a man held a large wooden bowl, about the size of a couch cushion. A very flirty and clearly intoxicated woman produced a pewter mug from somewhere in the folds of her gown, filled it from the bowl and set it to John's lips. Before he had a chance to think about what he was doing a warm, sweet, frothy, spiced and slightly carbonated liquid poured down his throat and dribbled around his lips. The woman laughed and began to lap up the spills from his chin -- apparently unconcerned about his makeup. A moment later the sensation changed and he realized the woman was kissing him.

  She laughed at his surprise, kissed him again and moved along with the wassail bowl.

  "Didn't I tell you?" a voice said, and John was surprised and somewhat embarrassed to see Jillian smiling at his elbow.

  "Jillian, I ...."

  "Don't try to explain. I saw what happened. Come with me."

  She took him by the hand and led him to a quieter spot on a pile of straw near one of the free-standing fire pits. John was somewhat alarmed at the idea of sitting on straw next to a fire, but he saw a couple extinguishers sitting in strategic positions. Jillian returned a moment later with a blanket and two large mugs of wassail.

  He quickly downed a large portion of the strong beverage and found that there was always someone ready to refill his mug. The evening went by easily. A few people had brought stringed instruments and set up a performance on the edge of the patio. They were surprisingly good, and when someone retrieved a bongo and a recorder from the house, the music was either very good, or John was getting very drunk.

  Things started to go by in a blur. There were songs and dramatic readings -- or were they just long, bad jokes? -- various kinds of pumpkin cookies and bars and pies, apple cobbler, dried apples and, to John's chagrin the next morning, lots and lots of wassail.

  He soon realized that he had underestimated the stuff and wondered what he was going to do about getting home. Jillian seemed unconcerned. Later in the evening she guided him to a dark corner between two bales of hay.

  * * *

  They awoke in the morning in each other's arms, under a bedewed blanket, perilously near a well-tended fire. John's head was pounding even before he opened his eyes.

  "You passed out before we could give you the antidote, my friend," said a rather large, bearded, blue-painted Pict who leaned over him like a man searching the wounded after a battle.

  "There's an antidote for this?" John scowled.

  "Well, such as it is. RU-21, lots of water and three aspirin. But at this point, there's nothing for it but another draught. Cheers," he said, handing John a very large mug that had, apparently, been handed around to the other victims. John couldn't help but think of the common bowl of the Vikings in The Thirteenth Warrior, but he didn't care what was in it if there was any chance it might stop the pounding in his head.

  The next order of business was the bathroom, where he discovered that the night had been more interesting than he'd remembered. He fervently wished he could remember exactly what had happened.

  * * *

  They didn't leave the party until after lunch on Saturday. John dropped Jillian off and headed straight home for a hot bath, more aspirin and a good night's sleep, and then spent Sunday relaxing. By Monday morning he was ready for a normal day at the office.

  After the beginning of the weekly staff meeting, John dove into a new and rather exciting project. It was almost a drug for him. By mid-morning, if his work was sufficiently interesting, John often attained a state of mind that a Buddhist monk might envy. The world didn't exist. He didn't exist. There was only the project as it grew and took shape before his mind's eye. He had trained himself to deal with normal interruptions in a kind of semi-consciousness, so when the phone rang his brain was only half engaged.

  "Mr. Matthews, it's doctor Jacobs' office," the female voice said on the phone.

  Doctor?, he wondered, vaguely. Then, realizing he hadn't seen a doctor in more than a decade, figured it had to be some irrelevant clerical thing and let his mind slip back into his creation.

  "This is rather embarrassing," the voice continued, "but we're calling to let you know what's happened. Our computer people say that someone hacked into our network, and that it's possible someone broke into our database, which means it's possible that someone was able to view your medical records."

  Even in his semi-conscious state John realized that he ought to try to pay attention, so he allowed the words to play over again in his head, understanding them slightly better the second time around.

  "Mr. Matthews, are you there?" the woman continued after a long pause.

  "I don't understand. Do you mean you've lost some of my records?" He was almost back now, wondering if he should be alarmed or angry.

  "No, I mean that our computers may have been hacked, and someone might have had access to your records. They might have copied them. I'm calling all Dr. Jacobs' patients as a courtesy. Nothing is missing, but the computer experts say they think someone broke in. They didn't access the financial database, just the medical records."

  "Uh, okay. Is t
here something I need to do about this?" What do I care? My records have to be pretty boring.

  "No," she said. "We just wanted to let you know."

  John paused a moment to see if there was anything else he should say.

  "Thank you very much," he said, and ended the call.

  A moment later he was descending into the world of cross beams, electrical lines, environmental control and bathroom space.

  * * *

  "Haven't seen you in the kitchen all day," Joe said as John stopped in to get a glass of water. "You're usually putting that old coffee pot through the paces."

  "I was in the zone, Joe," John said. "But the lack of caffeine is taking a toll. I've got a bit of a headache."

  "Nothing cures that like an aspirin and a glass of whisky," Joe said with a wink.

  "Yeah. Along those lines, do you have time for a drink? I've got a question for you."

  "Sure," Joe said. "I'm pretty much done for the day. Wanna get out of here?"

  Ten minutes later they were considering the rye whiskies at Maddy's Tap Room. They spent at least ten minutes talking with the bartender about the history of whiskey -- and whisky -- and the relative merits of bourbon, Tennessee, Canadian, Scotch, Rye and everything else. But as the room filled the bartender had less time for them and had to earn his keep.

  "So you had a question for me," Joe said as the conversation lagged.

  "Yeah, Joe. You probably know a lot more about morality than I do. I have a friend who's a Wiccan, and they have this thing they call the Wiccan Rede. 'An it harm none, do what you will.' It sounds good, but ... I have a feeling it's a little too simplistic. I figured you might have some thoughts about that."

  "Well, it's a perfectly fine ethical standard if you actually know whether you're causing harm. That's where it breaks down."

  "What do you mean?"

  "People justify themselves, John," Joe said. "They don't want to believe they're hurting anybody, so they make up all kinds of excuses for their actions. Just talk to somebody who steals music, or somebody who uses porn. Do you think they can really judge whether their actions are harming anyone?"

  John nodded thoughtfully.

  "That's why we need some fixed rules," Joe continue. "They're kinda like tear-stop nylon, you know. You start to justify yourself, tearing up the moral fabric of your mind, and eventually you run into one of these 'thou shalt nots' and it stops you in your tracks. It's not perfect, but it's a whole lot better than letting morally ignorant people come up with their own rules based on what they think is harmful."

  "I knew you were the man," John said appreciatively. "You think about this stuff."

  "Sometimes," Joe said. "I usually avoid that philosophy stuff, but I pick up a thing or two here and there."

  "Cool," John said. "So let's try another brand of rye. My treat."

  * * *

  In months past John found it hard to get out of Total Wine without spending a hundred dollars. The place was a veritable paradise for the beer, wine or liquor connoisseur. John had to set limits for himself. No more than one box of wine and one case of beer per month. Unless he was going to have company. Or unless he was going fishing.

  He walked the familiar path through the center aisles back to where they kept his five liter boxes of Franzia Merlot, but along the way he saw an unescorted child sitting right in front of the Cabernets.

  There was more wrong to this picture than a child by himself in the middle of a liquor store. The child was dirty, and dressed in odd clothes. His hair was a muddy jumble, festooned with sticks and straw. His feet were so dirty they were almost black, and they looked hard and leathery.

  Then he noticed the tattoos. Pentagrams and runes were roughly scrawled into the child's arms, and some sort of crescent moon was painted in blue in the middle of his forehead. His indignation boiled over. Who in their right mind would tattoo a five year old child? He looked around for a parent and noticed one of the store clerks.

  "Frank," he said with some relief, recognizing him from the Saturday wine tastings. "What is going on here?"

  He turned and pointed to where the child had been, but there was no sign of him.

  "Can I help you?" Frank asked, stepping up next to John and looking for something out of place.

  John shook his head, bewildered, and couldn't speak for a solid minute.

  "No, Frank," he finally said. "Everything's fine."

  * * *

  "Good choice," Sean said as they found a table at the Duclaw restaurant in Arundel Mills mall. Sean stood for an embarrassing minute, right in the middle of the restaurant, and slowly took the place in, noting every poster, and smiling at anyone who looked his way. He eventually noticed John's discomfort and took a seat.

  "Sorry," Sean said quietly. "Sometimes I forget my manners."

  "Sean," John said, somewhat tentatively. "I had a weird experience the other day."

  Sean looked at him with an "I told you so" expression.

  "Yeah," John said, reading the look. "I had a vision, or a waking dream, or a hallucination, or ... something."

  "Tell me about it," Sean encouraged.

  "Actually, I'd rather not, if you don't mind. But I'm curious if you've ever had something like that before."

  Sean shook his head.

  "No. The Goddess speaks to me in other ways, which, quite frankly, would be hard to explain." He pulled his cards out of his pocket. "Until you've spent a couple hundred hours studying these things, and trying to read them, .... Well. It's like you wouldn't have the vocabulary for it."

  John nodded. He still didn't believe in tarot cards or spiritual readings or any of that, but after weeks of vivid dreams, and after seeing that kid in the liquor store, he thought he was beginning to understand. When you immerse your mind in something, your mind adapts. It's almost as if you retrain your brain to express things in a new language.

  "Shall I?" Sean said after a moment.

  John nodded.

  "This is going to take me a few minutes, so if the waiter shows up go ahead and order for the both of us. Whatever you pick will be fine."

  With that he went into a kind of waking trance, shutting out the sights and sounds of the restaurant.

  John ordered club sandwiches and the Bad Moon Porter, and waited patiently as Sean very slowly organized his cards on the table. When the waiter arrived with the food, John insisted that he leave the table clear and put everything on a tray to the side. The waiter was intrigued by the cards. Sean makes a bit of a sight himself, with his large frame, unkempt beard and bright gray eyes, but when you add a deck of genuine Tarot cards, he's a bit of a sensation. The waiter clearly wanted to stay and watch, but John politely told him to clear out.

  Despite his trance-like state, Sean managed to drain two glasses of porter while John patiently waited, sitting at his beer and taking his time with his sandwich.

  "I think we're ready," Sean finally said.

  He started turning over cards, interpreting them in keeping with what they both knew about John's recent life. He talked about Jillian, John's skepticism, his growing connection with spiritual realities, and then he went into a long monologue that John didn't understand at all. The words were all English, but John couldn't put them together. It wasn't quite gibberish, but it just didn't add up.

  Then Sean suddenly stopped. He picked up one card and looked at it intently for a long time, then he shook his head and the trance-like look immediately left him.

  "I'm going to have to disappoint you, John. There's something I see here, but I can't speak of it. It would betray a confidence. I realize that sounds like a lame excuse, but ... there's nothing I can do."

  "You can't just talk around it?" John asked, not sure if he was disappointed or amused. His inner skeptic was taking a victory lap.

  "That's not the way it works with me," Sean said. "I read the cards until I see a single, organizing principle, and then all the other cards start to fall in place around that theme. I can't say any more."
<
br />   They both fell silent, and it took the rest of their sandwiches and another Bad Moon Porter before they were able to resume anything like a normal conversation.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  The seasonal transition to early darkness always took some getting used to, and John was -- as he always was in the Fall -- ever-so-slightly surprised that the world outside Jillian's kitchen window was completely dark at 7:30. Several odd thoughts played at the edges of his mind. Normally he would simply have moved on to the next thought, but for a moment he tried to let the undifferentiated confusion tease at the corners of his consciousness. Slowly, and perhaps reluctantly, his rational faculties started to step aside and he felt something else assert itself.