The Witches of Merribay (The Seaforth Chronicles Book 1)

by B. J. Smash

  “I, um…saw a woman in the garden,” I said.

  “Young or old?” he asked. He took a bite of steak and chewed thoughtfully.

  “Young. A young woman.” I couldn't help but wonder if he had women running all though his garden. What did he mean by young or old?

  “Ah, yes. That would be my sister. She stays in the garden, and she never comes out. Well, very rarely does she come out,” he said, swallowing and then giving me another smile. He leaned his muscular forearms on the table.

  I thought for a moment and wondered how much I should pry. I wasn't one to ask a lot of questions about people's personal matters, but this time I couldn't resist. After all, I didn't want him to think I was nosy like Mrs. Pumbleton and Mrs. Lamphry.

  “Why doesn't she come out of the garden?”

  “She doesn't like to. She sleeps under a willow tree in the far east side of the garden, out by the third pond,” Ian said.

  “Third pond? Just how big is this garden? And why does she like to sleep under a tree?”

  “The garden is merely boundless, one would think.” He winked at me. “They say sleeping under a willow enhances one’s rest—and helps one to have prophetic dreams and dreams of fairyland. Perhaps that’s why she likes to sleep under a willow. Why don't you ask her sometime?” He tried to smile despite the oversized piece of steak he'd just popped in his mouth.

  It almost made me laugh, but my mind was on his sister sleeping under a willow tree.

  “Another thing. She looked as though…” I couldn't finish my sentence, as it sounded too bizarre.

  “As though…? Yes, continue please,” he said.

  I took in a breath and spit out the words. “As though she were walking with someone, but there was no one there. She was mouthing words and—”

  “You don't say?” He glanced up at the ceiling, hiding a brief moment of some emotion, and then he went back to his food. “Well, enough of my sister's affairs. You shall not be encountering her too often.”

  I reached out and grabbed a blueberry muffin from a variety of goodies that sat atop a silver three-tiered tray. I couldn't help but wonder what they did with all of the leftovers from brunch every day. My question was soon answered.

  “Mrs. Pumbleton,” Ian yelled out.

  Five seconds later she arrived in the sunroom with a box and piled the leftover muffins and doughnuts neatly in rows, folded over the top, and taped it up.

  Ian hauled himself over to his wheelchair with ease, took the box onto his lap, and said, “Shall we be on our way?” He motioned for the French doors with the wave of the hand.

  I took one last sip of tea and hopped up, and we were on our way to the gardens.

  It couldn't be any sunnier outside, with not a cloud to be seen. The sky was a pretty robin's-egg blue, and seemed too perfect to be true, given that just this morning it had been pouring.

  Strolling along the winding paths of greenery, streams, little ponds, and every flower imaginable, I couldn't help but relax for a few moments, taking in a few deep breaths. We were just walking by a tinkling waterfall while heading to the cherry tree lane. This place, this part of the garden, was comfortable and capable of making one feel tranquilized.

  It wouldn’t last long though, given that I knew what would be to come, and what path I must take.

  Yesterday Ian had made it perfectly clear what my job would be, and typically I'm an adventurous gal, but there was a limit. The limit was walking into dark, dank woods, running errands and messages to God-knows-who. He would not tell me any more yesterday. I would force myself to do it though, for something that he said had struck a chord in me.

  Before I'd left the gardens yesterday, Ian said that he was counting on me. He wouldn't say any more and had bid me good afternoon, meaning that it had been my cue to leave. I had pushed his wheelchair back to the house, although he didn't need me to. He had said that it would be better for Mrs. Pumbleton to witness me pushing him in his chair and that he didn't want her to know otherwise—that my entering the forest would be our secret for now.

  In the past I was known for being a bit lazy with errands that I had to do for myself, but when it came to helping someone, that part of me changed, especially if they were counting on me.

  And so, I would do what he asked. But I didn't have to like it.

  “You know, Miss Seaforth, I chose you over your sister for these tasks,” Ian said.

  That made my ears perk up.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Your grandmother thought it would be good for you to be around people at the bakery. She had told me that you needed to overcome your shyness, and your sister was set to come here to be my company.”

  “Really?” I questioned.

  “Oh yes. But I know something that you don't,” he said like a schoolboy.

  “What’s that?” I couldn’t imagine why he was telling me all of this.

  “Yes, you see…your sister has already been into the forest. Quite a few times, actually. And I don’t fancy that I can trust her as I can trust you. I told your grandmother that I preferred you as my walking companion for the fact that your shyness meant that you’d be quiet. She knows what I think of chatter bugs. I like to do the talking myself. And so, here you are.” He had taken over to wheeling himself now, as we were well out of sight of the house. “And the reality of the situation is, you are a nice young lady, and you can talk if you want, but I need someone I can trust—not your sister.”

  “How do you know you can trust me? Well…you can, I think. But we had never met before. And what’s so bad about Zinnia?” Being her sister, I knew the answer to that, but how did he?

  “It's true that you and I had never met. But let's just say that I've an excellent sixth sense on these things, and leave it at that. You are the one to trust.”

  He had to be telling me these things to butter me up to do a good job for him. It was working, I had to give him that.

  And then it really hit me. I had known my sister had gone into the forest once but not that she'd been in there many times. But how did he know this? And so I pressed one more time for answers.

  “About my sister…how do you know she's been into the woods so many times?”

  “I've my ways, Miss Seaforth. I have my ways.”

  And that was that. I knew he wasn't about to tell me any more.

  We'd passed the old rowan tree and were now rounding the bend to the last stretch before the big iron gate that led into the woods. Everything here seemed dead—all the trees and bushes—with just a shell of their existence to ever prove that they had been here. It was quiet, and the birds’ chatter had ended back on the cherry tree lane. Every serene and peaceful feeling I had was replaced with feelings of uneasiness and doom.

  “Today, you shall find out how I learn some of the things that I know.” He wheeled forward with speed and spun his chair around like some Olympic star, the box of goodies almost toppling from his lap.

  Then he wheeled back some and sat by the gate.

  “Today, you shall take these to an old woman in the woods.” He held out the box. “Her name is Izadora and she is a good friend of mine.”

  “Is that who you normally give them to? The muffins and stuff, I mean. How do you give them to her if she's in the woods?”

  Many questions entered my mind, but as I feared, his answers were brief.

  “Most of the time I open the gate, setting them on the other side. Whoever takes them can have them. Whether the animals or the bogeymen take them, I don't care.” He waved his hand as if to dismiss the conversation. “Someone always takes them.” He gave me his smarty-pants half grin, tossing his shoulders up in the air, like my question was a waste of his breath to answer. “But today, I'd like to make sure Izadora receives them.”

  “You put them out for whoever takes them? Who the heck is out there? Hobos? You want me to walk around the woods where there are a bunch of hobos?” I couldn't keep my voice from squeaking.

  He belly-
laughed loudly.

  “You make me laugh, Miss Seaforth. If there are any vagabonds out there, they will not cause you any harm. Do not worry, you will be safe. For now, you are safe. I promise.” He saluted me.

  Great. For now…I'm safe.

  “How will I find Izadora?”

  “You won't. She'll find you, but I shall send you in the general direction of where she lives. Oh, and take this…” He reached into his blazer pocket and pulled out a white seashell and handed it to me.

  Reluctantly, I took it.

  “You want me to give her a seashell? I thought—”

  “It doesn't matter what you thought. Give her the seashell. That's the only message I have for now.”

  Chapter Four

  I found myself walking the forest floors with a box of muffins and doughnuts, and with a seashell in my pocket. Ian had shooed me out the gate, shutting its squeaky iron bars behind me. He even had the nerve to pick up his right hand and wave bye to me. Then he yelled, “Have a nice adventure, Miss Seaforth,” whatever that meant. I didn't care at the moment.

  I walked along the dirt path. Every so often a large rock would jut out from the earth, and now and then, the occasional boulder lay off to the side. The boulders had to be a foot taller than me and several feet long. There were thousands of trees, thick as weeds. Branches intertwined overhead, blocking the sun. Occasionally a break would appear and I would see the sky.

  There were many mosquitoes; however, they never bothered me when I came to Maine. They always loved Zinnia, though. She constantly had to wear bug spray or she'd be covered in red, itchy bumps. I suppose they didn't like my blood.

  The smell of moss, pine, and wet earth filled my nostrils, smelling of rain to come. It was much different than walking in the sunny garden a half hour ago. How was it possible for the weather to change so?

  I couldn't help thinking that if I were to get lost out here, I had no water—just muffins and doughnuts. It wasn't like I could drink from a stream; I'd seen survival shows where that wasn't such a good idea. There could be a dead beaver upstream or something.

  But I guess I wouldn't starve, unless the hobos—or whoever or whatever took Ian's pastries from the gate—found me and stole them away.

  I let out a big sigh. He told me to walk straight back. At some point, I'd see a tree with ribbons and scarves tied to it. It would be there that I would wait.

  What was I even doing out here? What was I thinking? I bet if Gran knew I was out here, she'd flip. What if Ian was some sort of a madman and there was no Izadora out in these woods, and he just sent me out to feed a wild beast or coyotes? I knew there were coyotes; I could hear them at night—and it wouldn’t be muffins they’d want to eat, but me! Oh God. My heart sank.

  Gran had told me and Zinnia to stay out of the woods. No good would ever come of it. Why did I go against her wishes? I could answer that myself: because of Ian. And because Zinnia had already been out here. Several times, in fact.

  Ian seemed trustworthy, but how did I know that? I'm some naive girl who lost her dad on a hunting trip; he'd just up and disappeared. Who's to say the same thing wouldn't happen to me?

  I ran into a small fallen branch that stuck up from the ground, tearing a light gash in my leg and making me say things my grandmother would have washed my mouth out for. Blood trickled down my leg, and I didn't even have anything to wipe it off with.

  I let out an even bigger sigh than before and almost sat down on a branch. Then I saw it: a short path. And beyond the path was a huge tree with many colors of ribbons.

  Traveling the short distance, I stood before the tree. It was something to be seen with all of its colorful scarves, ribbons, and ropes hanging from the branches. Some were braided and some were tattered, but all were colored.

  I could probably fit inside the big gaping hole that was set in its trunk. I knew I could and wouldn't mind trying it out some other time.

  I had meant to ask Ian why it would be decorated, but there had been no time. I had read about trees like this. The scarves were some sort of offering, but an offering to whom or what?

  I reached out and touched a silky deep purple scarf. It wasn't a cheap scarf, and I loved purple. As I was thinking of how pretty that would look wrapped around my own neck, a large black crow landed on the limb above my hand.

  It did not make a peep but just stared at me. It blinked a few times, but I never did. Slowly, I pulled my hand back. Thoughts of the big bird pecking my eyes out ran through my mind; I backed away.

  Staring into the eyes of the bird, I said, “Izadora? Is that you?”

  Laughing nervously, I stepped back even farther. Even though I had said it sarcastically, I half expected the bird to answer.

  After a while the black bird flew away, and I sat down with my back to the tree, the muffins and doughnuts in my lap. I wasn't about to touch any more of the scarfs.

  How long would I have to sit here? I looked at my watch: 11:31 a.m.

  Cool air mingled with old wood smells blew into my face. Who knew what I even sat upon? Worms probably wriggled under my buttocks for all I knew. I had probably sat atop the black crow’s lunch.

  I closed my eyes for a few moments trying to go to my happy place, which was at a lake in New Hampshire. As children, Father, Zinnia, and I used to go fishing around the lake in a tiny boat, looking for turtles and other wildlife. We would have sat there for hours if it weren't for Zinnia's complaints of it being too hot, with too many mosquitos. She also complained that the tuna fish sandwiches were too soggy, and her butt was starting to hurt from the hard seat. It never ended.

  Sometimes she stayed at home or went out with her friend, and I had peace. Father and I would sit in the boat for hours, going from one shore to the next.

  I could have almost fallen asleep—almost. If I had been anywhere else, maybe…but then I heard something that made my blood chill. I had a sense of foreboding fall over me like a stack of bricks. I wanted to get up and run, but paralyzed with fear, I couldn't move my legs. I hugged the box of muffins and doughnuts close to my chest.

  And there it was again. A cross between a growl, howl, and bark. What in the heck was that?

  So, it was true; Ian had sent me forth into the woods to be eaten by the wolves, coyotes, bears, and who knows what else. Some beast just sounded out in the woods, and I had to force myself to move.

  Perhaps I could crawl into the gap in the tree, or even climb the tree. As I sat thinking of a way to escape, I just got up and ran, tossing the box aside. I ran down the path instead of back to Ian's house. For all I knew, he wouldn't let me back through the gate. Could I find Gran's house from here?

  I didn't know, but as all these thoughts ran through my mind, I heard the beastly growl behind me, then raucous barking. Not looking back, I ran like my shorts were on fire.

  However, it wasn't fast enough, and before I could take my next breath, I felt huge paws slam into my back, knocking me on the ground face-first. And then they were gone.

  “Milo, Hansgard, shame on you,” someone said.

  After a few seconds, and when I was sure they weren't going to kill me, I turned to see a boy about my age with shoulder-length blond hair and the eyes of a superstar, standing by two huge—and I mean huge—pure white dogs. I thought I saw blood upon their ears, but no; as I sat up I could see that it was the color of their ears.

  “I'm sorry for their behavior. They did not mean to harm you. That's just the way of it. They are rough but they play,” said the boy. He had an accent, but I couldn't tell where it was from.

  I couldn't speak, and I still had dirt on my face and in my mouth. I looked him up and down. He had on green-gray colored shorts and a brown tank top. And he was barefoot. I think I had just met my first hobo.

  He extended his hand, and I took it; he pulled me up.

  Releasing his hand, I said, “Thanks, I think.” I wiped the dirt from my face and spit on the ground.

  He was much taller than me, and I had to look up t
o meet his eyes.

  “What the heck are those dog things? They are monsters.” I suddenly felt bad for saying that since they appeared to obey him and sat still, watching me with innocent eyes.

  “Monsters, no. ‘Hell hounds’ would be their proper name. But they are good, and loyal to their owner until their last breath.”

  “And that would be you, I take it?”

  “No. Izadora.”

  “Izadora? You know her?” I asked.

  “Come now, let me rinse the cut on your leg.”

  I had forgotten about my leg and the small gash from the branch.

  He studied me for a few moments, looking at me disapprovingly. What was his problem?

  He pulled out a silver canteen from a bag on his left shoulder which also contained arrows. On his other shoulder, there was a silver bow with green scrolls of ivy. The bow was about the length of my arm.

  “Do a lot of hunting, do you?” I asked.

  He followed my gaze to the bow and said, “Always.”

  “What do you hunt? Fox? Deer?”

  “Not animals, usually.”

  This boggled my mind. If he didn’t hunt for animals…what did he hunt for?

  “Are you one of those hobos that Ian was talking about?”

  “Hobos?” He snickered.

  “Yes, do you wander the forest?”

  “Always,” he replied. “But I'm not a hobo.”

  “Okay. So, you know Izadora, than you must know Ian? And these are her dogs, you said?”

  “I know them both. And yes, they are.”

  I couldn't wrap my head around it all. What was this boy, who was around my own age, wandering in the forest for?

  “Who are you? And what are you doing out here with these beastly dogs—I mean, hell hounds?”

  He poured water on my wound and wiped it with a cloth. Then he took out some sort of salve in a tiny little can and applied it to my calf. He then put some sort of leaf over the cut and held his hand there.