The Water Witch Cozy Mystery Boxed Set: Four Book Paranormal Cozy Mystery Anthology (Sam Short Boxed Sets 1)

by Sam Short

Mum allowed me a few more minutes to soak up the atmosphere, before removing her arm from mine. “Come on,” she said. “Aunt Eva can’t wait to see you. She was going to meet us here, but she decided to cook you a welcome meal instead. She’ll be waiting for us at her cottage.”

  The walk down the hill was nicer than any walk I’d taken at home. Rabbits hopped across the narrow path in front of us, and butterflies with vivid patterns flitted between wild flowers which grew from the lush green grass. Our surroundings were unspoiled, and I knew without asking that it would be perfectly safe to drink water from the little stream which bubbled and splashed down the slope alongside the path.

  A fat dragonfly settled on my shoulder and I placed a finger in front of it as it spread it’s wings to dry them in the breeze. It climbed onto my finger and I looked at Mum. “Aren’t you nervous?” I asked. “There’s a huge insect on my hand.”

  In the world we’d just left behind, Mum was terrified of insects, particularly insects which she considered capable of landing on any food she was about to eat. It was a serous condition, and one which had forced her to wear a bee-keepers hat when she’d visited my boat on the canal.

  “I’m not nervous here,” she said with a smile which lit up her face. “The haven has a way of making you feel calm… most of the time anyway.” The dragonfly flew from my finger and Mum watched as it zig-zagged away. “This way,” she said, leading us towards a stone bridge which spanned the stream where it widened into a river at the base of the hill.

  Mum paused halfway across the bridge and called me alongside her as she leaned over the wall to look at the sparkling water below. “Look,” she said. “You don’t see trout like that in Wickford.”

  Long fat fish swayed rhythmically in the crystal clear water, inches below the surface. A fly broke the surface tension of the water above one of the trout, and the plump fish moved quickly, taking the fly before resuming its position in the current. “They taste good too,” said Mum. “All food tastes good in the haven though.”

  I’d tasted food that Mum had brought home from the haven on many occasions in the past, and I was beginning to see why everything she brought back with her was so wholesome. It wasn’t because of magic, as I’d thought — although some of the food she’d brought home in the past had been enhanced with magic — it was because the haven was unspoiled by mankind. The haven was how the world had once been, before humans began poisoning it with chemicals and clouding the atmosphere with pollution.

  “How do you travel long distances?” I said, looking at the track we walked along. The ruts that were imprinted in the dirt surface looked like they’d been formed by the narrow wheels of a cart. “Are there cars here?”

  “There’s no cars,” Mum said, “But there’s steam trains and horses and carts. We have bikes too, and boats of course, and if you really wanted to be a little maverick, there’s enough magic in the haven to fly a broom, although hardly anybody does — a broom is far too narrow to sit on. People have been injured very intimately while trying. I’m told that when one drunk male witch attempted to fly a broomstick, he hurt himself very badly when he flew into turbulence. I don’t know who started the rumour that witches always fly around on broomsticks, but it certainly wasn’t a witch, and definitely not a male witch — it was probably the same person who started the rumour that we have wart susceptible skin.”

  The dirt track we walked on gave way to cobblestones, and Mum hooked her arm through mine. “We’re here,” she said, as cottages with thatched roofs and neat gardens appeared around the bend. “Your home from home.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  The little town was so painfully quaint it was as if Mum and I had stepped back in time, rather than through a magical portal — although for all I knew — we’d done both. My understanding of the haven had already been questioned by Mum’s off the cuff admission that people could choose the age they were in the haven — it went against everything I’d ever been told about the place, but I supposed there was lots about the dimension that I was yet to learn, and lots that Mum had yet to tell me.

  Cottages with thatched roofs lined the wider roads, and small shops were squashed tightly against one another in narrow lanes which were fragranced with the aroma of baking bread and pastries. People said hello as we made our way past the bustling town square, and I laughed as a small child in old fashioned clothing ran ahead of us with a hoop and stick. A toy I’d only ever seen in pictures.

  “Why are there children here?” I asked. “Did they get their entry spells when they were really young? Were they really that good at magic?”

  Mum guided us to the left and into an alley which led between two shops and brought us out in a park with a duckpond, a bandstand, and beds of vibrantly coloured flowers everywhere I looked. “People can have children here,” said Mum. “The portal isn’t like an x-ray machine — too much of it doesn’t mess with a person’s… special bits. Some of the children came here when the portal was first created, when Maeve conjured it up to stop witches being burnt at the stake. Some of the witches that fled here had children who they were allowed to bring with them, and those children will never grow up. They’ll always be young if they don’t leave the haven, and some of them don’t want to — they remember the outside world as a cruel place which murdered people like them.”

  Two elderly men played chess on a board which was set up on the green painted bench between them, and both of them smoked long pipes. The shade of a large oak tree gave them protection from the warm sun, and they smiled as we neared them.

  “Who’s this, Maggie?” said one of them, removing his flat cap in a polite greeting. “Another one of the Weaver coven?”

  “This is my eldest daughter, Herman,” said Mum. “Her name’s Penelope. This is her first time here.”

  The other man smiled. “Come here, Penelope,” he said, peering at me through spectacles with lenses so thick they magnified his eyes to somewhere approaching the size of golf balls. “What’s that behind your ear, young lady? Let me get it for you.”

  Mum sighed. “She’s twenty-three, George, not five. She doesn’t want to know what’s behind her ear, and she’s seen plenty of magic. No trick that you can do will be anything she hasn’t seen before. You can’t impress a witch with mediocre magic.”

  I giggled, and smiled at the old man. “Of course I want to know what’s behind my ear,” I said. “Go on, what’s there? Get it for me.”

  I stood in front of George and bent at the waist as he reached for my ear. His calloused fingers brushed my face, and he laughed as the crackling sound of a spell being cast reverberated next to my head, and a glass full of black liquid with a white frothy head appeared in his hand.

  “Oh! It’s just a beer… for me,” he laughed, his wrinkles tightening around his mouth. “Want a sip?” he asked, offering me the glass.

  I pushed his hand away with a smile. “No thanks,” I said. “If it had been elderberry wine, I might have said yes, but I have to be in certain mood for beer, especially when it’s been behind my ear.”

  “You’re just like your grandmother,” said Herman, staring at me as he puffed on his pipe, the spicy pungent aroma of burning tobacco reminding me of my grandad. “You’ve got those mischievous eyes of hers. And the little smirk. Where is she anyway? I haven’t seen Gladys for weeks and weeks. I miss her, and I’m sure she misses me just as much.”

  “She’s taking a break from people like you, Herman,” said Mum. “I can assure you she doesn’t miss you.”

  George sipped his pint, and moved a chess piece on the board. “We heard she got witch dementia so she can’t get through her portal, and that she turned three grown men into singing horses,” he said. “Or donkeys. I don’t remember which. Some species of farmyard animal anyway.”

  “Chinese whispers,” said Mum, walking away. “It’s nonsense, my mother’s just staying away from the haven for a while.” She smiled at me. “Come on, Penny, Aunt Eva’s cottage is just around the next corne
r. She’ll be wondering where we are.”

  “Goats!” said George. “That was it, she turned them into talking goats! That’s what I was told!”

  I laughed. One Boris was enough, three of them would have been a nightmare. “You’ve had too many of those beers,” I said with a wink. “You’re drunk.”

  “As witty as your grandmother too,” said Herman, patting my hand. “Go on, get on your way. If your Aunt Eva’s waiting for you, you don’t want to be late. She’s worse than her sister.”

  “Worse than Granny?” I laughed, following Mum as she hurried off.

  “Maybe not worse,” shouted George. “But they’re as bad as each other, that’s for sure!”

  “Ignore those old codgers,” said Mum, as we left the park and turned right onto a long lane, the warm air fragranced by the sweet perfume of a large honeysuckle bush which grew in the small front yard of a cottage. “That’s what happens if you don’t try hard enough to get your entry spell when you’re young. Those two men spent their lives in the mortal world drinking and playing cards, they were only given their spells because Maeve thought they’d die before they earned them the traditional way. Producing glasses of beer is about the only spell that George can manage, and they’re stuck in those bodies however much they wish they were young again.”

  “I liked them,” I said, watching a red squirrel bounding through the branches of the beech tree which spread its thick limbs across the road, offering us shade from the hot sun. “They reminded me of grandad.”

  Mum crossed the cobbled lane, and pointed at a beautifully maintained white cottage which was set back from the road and surrounded by colourful flowering bushes and leafy trees. “That’s your Aunt Eva’s home,” she said. “She’ll be thrilled to see you.”

  The crooked gate creaked as Mum pushed it open, and a fat bumblebee buzzed past my ear on its way to the apple tree which stood in the centre of the small lawn, heavy with bright red apples which begged to be picked.

  The cottage door swung open, and Aunt Eva stood in the doorway, her apron covered in a light dusting of flour, and her smile as happy as her voice. “Penny!” she said, rushing down the path to meet me, pushing Mum aside without so much as a smile. “I’ve missed you! How you’ve grown — you were no higher than my waist when I last saw you!”

  “Hi, Aunt Eva,” I said, melting into her embrace. “You haven’t changed a bit!”

  Aunt Eva looked just as I remembered. No taller than Granny, but wider at the hips, and without the blue rinse perm. She was the older of the two sisters, but the reddish tint to the light in the haven took the age from her wrinkles. The folds of skin looked as soft as a peach.

  “I made myself look this way just for you, darling,” she said. “You don’t want to see me as an nineteen year old just yet, it would be too much for you to take in.” She released me from her hug, but kept her hands on my shoulders as she took a step backwards and looked me up and down. “You look just like Gladys did when she was your age,” she said. “The resemblance is uncanny. You have her eyes.”

  I didn’t know whether to take that as a compliment or an insult. In all the pictures I’d seen of Granny as a young woman, she’d always had the same glint in her eye — a glint which hovered midway between mischievous and evil. I was sure I didn’t have the glint, but I was aware that when I was angry, people seemed to cower internally when I stared at them. Maybe I’d not fallen far from the tree where Granny was concerned. I smiled at Aunt Eva. “Thank you,” I said, accepting it as a compliment.

  Aunt Eva’s mouth curled into a wide grin. “Come on, there’s people waiting to meet you. I hope you’re hungry. I do like baking, you see, and I got a little carried away with myself today. They’ll be plenty of cakes for you to take home with you.”

  Aunt Eva’s cottage smelt like the French patisserie which had recently opened in Wickford. The scents of cinnamon and vanilla vied with each other for my attention, and I licked my lips as I followed Mum and Aunt Eva into the large kitchen, where a long table was hidden beneath plates of cakes, scones, and breads.

  “Wow,” I said. “You baked all this today?”

  Aunt Eva wiggled her fingers. “With a little help,” she smiled. “I have a few spells which speed the process up. If you think the microwaves you have back in the other world are fast, you should see my pronto-pastry spell!” She picked up a tray laden with sandwiches, and passed it to me. “Would you be so kind as to carry this into the back garden please, Penelope? We’re eating in the sun today.”

  Bright sunlight spilled through the kitchen window, and another realisation dawned on me. “It was evening when we left Wickford,” I said, taking the tray from Aunt Eva. “Why is it still daytime here?”

  Mum picked up a plate of scones and two pots, one brimming with cream and another full of jam. She balanced the pots on the edge of the plate and led the way out of the kitchen. “It’s dark somewhere in the haven,” she said. “We have time zones here too, they don’t match perfectly with our world back home though. You get used to it the more you visit.”

  Aunt Eva pushed past us, carrying a large cake on a stand. “I can’t wait to introduce you to my friends,” she said. She lowered her voice as she pushed the back door open with a flick of her thigh. “Take whatever Hilda tells you with a pinch of salt, dear.”

  “Who’s Hilda?” I said, following Mum and Aunt Eva into the sunlight.

  “She’s a seer,” said Mum. “But she’s very old. She came to the haven a long time ago, when Maeve first conjured it up. She was old when she got here, and she’d lost a few of her marbles already. Do as Eva says, and take what she says with a big pinch of salt.”

  Mum and I followed Aunt Eva past the flower beds and bushes which teemed with bees and insects, and along the short pathway which snaked through a tiny orchard which was planted with two plum trees and three apple trees, all laden with fruit bigger and brighter than any I’d seen in a supermarket at home.

  The scene beyond the orchard where wild grasses and flowers prevailed and a small fountain trickled water into the pond that surrounded it, reminded me of the Mafia films I’d enjoyed watching with Granny when she’d baby sat me as a young child. Mum had not been impressed at Granny’s choice of entertainment for a five year old, but I had lovely memories of snuggling up to Granny on her sofa while one crime family slaughtered another on the television. Aunt Eva’s guests looked like they’d be perfectly at home in the countryside of Sicily, and I smiled at the small group of people as Aunt Eva began her introductions.

  Three people sat at the long wooden table, the legs protruding from grass and flowers, and the top already laid with plates, cutlery, and big wooden bowls of salad next to jugs of iced water. The whole scene screamed rustic Italian, and I placed the tray I was carrying on the table as I said my hellos.

  At the head of the table, wearing a black knitted shawl which seemed overkill for such a lovely day, sat an elderly woman who peered at me with one eye. The other eye was covered with a bejewelled eyepatch which glinted in the light as she tilted her head to study me.

  Next to her sat a muscular young man wearing a white shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, and the top three buttons undone. His blond hair glowed in the sun, and dimples gave a mischievous element to his smile as he greeted me. “Hello,” he said, his voice as soft as the butter which was melting on a little plate in front of him. “I’m Gideon. Gideon Sax.”

  He stood to shake my hand and I gazed up at his handsome face, knowing right away that Willow would be infatuated with him. “Hi,” I said. “I’m Penelope.”

  He chuckled. “We know who you are,” he said, releasing my hand. He indicated the elderly woman at the head of the table with a nod. “This is Hilda Truckle,” he said, “and the old rogue opposite me is Alfred Stern.”

  I said my hellos and sat down to the right of Gideon in the chair he politely pulled out for me.

  Hilda remained quiet, studying me with one eye, as Aunt Eva and Mum took
a seat each. Mum sat to my right and Aunt Eva sat next to Alfred who poured me a glass of water and passed it across the table. “Gideon calls me an old rogue,” smiled Alfred, his old eyes still managing to sparkle with young joy. “But would you believe me if I told you he was two-hundred years older than me?”

  “One-hundred-and-ninety-three to be precise,” said Gideon, nudging me playfully with an elbow. “That’s how many years I came to the haven before you did. And you are rogue, Alfred. You were a highway robber in the other world, before you got too old to ride a horse. There’s nothing more roguish than a highway robber. Especially one who used magic to commit his crimes.”

  “A rogue I may be,” said Alfred, offering me a conspiratorial wink, “but I never hurt anyone, and I was better at highway robbery than you were at piracy.”

  “You were a pirate?” I said, glancing at Gideon. “A real pirate?”

  “Aye,” said Gideon. “That I was. I was caught though, when I was twenty-four. They were going to hang me, and I hadn’t developed enough magic skills to stop them. The walk to the gallows is a long one, let me tell you.”

  “How did you escape the hangman?” I said.

  Gideon laughed. “I’d done no real evil as a pirate, I enjoyed the women and rum, and the loot of course, but like Alfred, I’d never hurt anyone — so Maeve granted me my entry spell — a little late for my liking, but I like to think I left that world in style.”

  “How did you leave that world?” I said.

  Gideon gave a sly grin, and closed his eyes for a moment. “As they were placing the hood over my head and preparing the noose, Maeve granted me my spell. The only doorway I could use was the trapdoor they were about to drop me through. It was still open after the unfortunate soul before me had passed through it — on the end of a rope — to whatever place waited for him. I cast my spell and a portal opened. I took a single step forward and shouted ‘farewell cruel world’ as I dropped. It was quite the show, I’m sure — it must have been — although I was very disappointed to be told I never made it into your history books.”