The Water Witch

by Juliet Dark

  The rain lasted all that day and into the night, flinging sheets of water on the windows and pounding on the roof, a clamorous reminder of Lorelei’s rage. It was especially loud in my bedroom, where the ceiling had recently been raised to add a skylight. Brock had thought it would be good to let more light into the room.

  “People around here sometimes get depressed in the winter when they don’t get enough light,” he’d told me.

  Instead of light, though, the skylight now afforded me a view of murk-green sky the color of Lorelei’s eyes. In spite of how tired I was, I lay awake for a long time, twisting back and forth so often that my newly knit spine felt like a wrung-out dish towel, listening to the rain, hearing in its mournful sough and sigh a thousand recriminations for all my mistakes. I’d led the undines into the Borderlands and nearly gotten them killed, I had gotten Brock killed, I’d used a spell in Faerie, I’d had sex with Liam …

  Twice!

  True, women hooked up with their exes all the time, but most ex-boyfriends weren’t incubi. What had I been thinking? I’d taken one look at his sad eyes and forgiven him all the lies he’d told me, brushed my face against the rough stubble on his cheek, and shed my panties …

  As he knew I would.

  Each detail of his physical manifestation—the stubble on his cheeks, the way his arm muscles strained against the weight of the manacles I’d clamped on him, even the scars they left—all were calculated to make me feel sorry for him. How could I have forgotten that he was an incorporeal being? Those scars on his wrists weren’t real. He’d played on my sympathies just as he’d tweaked certain other attributes to play on my desires.

  At the thought of those other attributes I felt a twinge low in my belly and between my legs. I squirmed at the memory of him above me, teasing me, and then … finally entering me.

  I moaned at the memory and clamped my thighs together, but the pressure of my flesh only made me recall his flesh.

  For months I’ve done nothing but remember the exact contours of your body outside and in, he’d said.

  How long would I remember the exact contours of his body inside me?

  Uff!

  I punched my pillows and wedged one between my legs. I had to stop thinking about him.

  But I couldn’t.

  When at last I fell asleep, he was waiting for me.

  Under the willow tree, he was stretched out on the moss-covered bank, golden in the Faerie sun that was everywhere and nowhere. I lay beside him on my side, facing him. Although we were inches apart, I could feel the heat of his skin pulsing against mine.

  “See?” he asked. “I am flesh and blood. Feel for yourself.” He nudged closer until we were almost touching. I laid my hand flat on his chest to keep him from coming nearer, but even that small touch of his skin was intoxicating.

  “It’s a trick,” I said, even as I pressed myself against him. “You’re making yourself into a shape to please me …”

  “Is that so wrong, Cailleach?” he asked, turning me onto my back. “Wanting to please you?”

  His legs nudged mine apart. I felt him hard against my belly. His face was above me, haloed by amber Faerie light streaming through swaying willow branches. His eyes were the same green as the long willow leaves. Leaf shadow dappled his skin. I ran a hand along his arms, which were tensed to keep his weight off me, and then down his chest, his muscles rippling like water over stones, his sigh when I touched him like water rushing to the sea.

  That’s what he was made of—leaf shadow and mountain stream, moss and Faerie light. Once he had been flesh and blood, but over the centuries his body had filled with Aelvesgold, the substance of Faerie. I wanted to pull that thick gold light into me, to feel that rush of wild water moving through me. I looked into his leaf green eyes and asked a question I didn’t know was on my lips.

  “Will I ever see your real face?” He ducked his head down and brushed his lips against my ear, his breath the first breeze of spring, his tongue the lap of rainwater. “When you tell me that you love me,” he whispered.

  “I want to love you,” I cried, the desire to love him merging with the desire to have him inside me. I was filling up with hot gold light and the rush of the first spring thaw. Now he was the stream and I was the stone, now he was the wind and I was the wild grass rippling beneath him. I flung myself into the maelstrom until I felt my own body melt into the same elements he had become, merging with him in the golden light, on the cusp of loving him and making him real.

  But instead of being enveloped in the warm gold light, I was suddenly plunged into ice-cold water. The shock woke me. I was in my bed, alone and drenched. Had it been real? He’d come to me once as moonlight. Did he come to me now as water?

  Another splash of water hit my face. I turned on the bedside lamp. The sheets which I’d tangled and tossed every which way in my dream passion were soaked. I looked up … and got another drop of water in my eye. I wiped it away, along with flakes of chalky white grit. I turned on my bedside light, stood on my bed for a better look, and found the source of my watery passion. Brock’s newly installed skylight was leaking. Water was bubbling beneath the plaster in long tear-shaped streaks. As I stood looking at it, a drip swelled and fell with a sullen splat on my bed. It was echoed by other drips—one in my bathroom, one down the hall … all over the house. My lovely Victorian, which Brock had tended with hammer and magic, was leaking like a sinking ship or … the metaphor leapt into my head … as if weeping for its lost caretaker, my unloved lover, and all the friends I might lose if they went back to Faerie.

  SEVEN

  It took me until the early hours of the morning to find all the leaks and place receptacles beneath them. Ralph followed me, jumping in and out of the pots and jars I set up as if playing a game. I found the last leaky spot in the extension off the kitchen where Dahlia LaMotte’s heir Matilda had lived, and when I placed a Wedgewood cachepot beneath it, the rain abruptly stopped—as if I’d plugged a hole in the clouds with my motley assortment of cooking pots and ceramic crockery. Weak gray light seeped through the windows of Matilda’s bedroom. I went into the kitchen, turned on the coffeepot, and sat at the porcelain-topped table I’d bought a few weeks ago at the Antiques Barn. I’d planned to refinish the wood base this summer because I was going to have plenty of time to fix up my house. I’d promised myself that I would spend the summer making a real home out of the great big rambling Victorian I’d bought on impulse last fall. I didn’t want to be one of those single women who don’t commit to their living spaces because they think a man is going to come along and make their lives complete. I wanted to prove that I was content living on my own and that I could take care of this monster of a house on my own. But clearly I couldn’t. The house had been cobbled together by Brock’s loving ministrations. Without him, it would fall apart …

  The smell of fresh-brewed coffee jarred me out of this bout of self-pity. How petty to be worrying about home repairs while Brock lay in a deathlike coma, his soul traveling in the fog world, and all because I’d pissed off an undine and hadn’t known better than to cast a spell in Faerie. I couldn’t afford to wallow in recrimination and self-pity. I picked up the phone and called Dory Browne for proper directions to Brock and Ike’s house. She told me that the spell circle was meeting there this morning. I should come as soon as possible.

  I hung up with a nervous flutter in my stomach at the thought of meeting the spell circle so soon. But at least I’d finally be getting some real training so I might avoid stupid mistakes. Maybe I could even learn a spell for fixing leaky roofs.

  I drove down Elm Street, past neighbors busy clearing their yards of branches that had fallen in the storm. I spotted Evangeline Sprague, eighty if she was a day, dragging an enormous tree limb out to her curb. I was about to pull over and help, but then saw Abby and Russell Goodnough, the town veterinarians and Evangeline’s neighbors, heading across their yard toward her. They had it covered. Good neighbors, Dory had called them last year after the ic
e storm, and they were. Not in the sense that they were fey. As far as I knew, the Goodnoughs and Evangeline were entirely human, and if they suspected the presence of supernatural creatures in their midst, they didn’t make too big a deal about it. They were just good people who helped one another out in a fix.

  I crossed Main and headed out of town on Trask Road, Dory’s directions on a Post-it note affixed to my dashboard. The storm had passed, leaving a freshly scoured blue sky and polished green leaves. The world looked newly made and invested with an otherworldly radiance, the thick swaths of sunshine lying on the fields and woods like a coating of honey …

  Like the Aelvesgold I’d seen in Faerie and dreamed of last night. The dream came back to me, how he’d filled me with the hot gold light, how I had felt, making love with him, as if I’d become a part of the stream and the grass, as if we were merging into the elements and into each other. I could almost feel it now as I looked into the dark forest to my left, and the purple and green grasses swaying in the fields to my right—a sense of being connected to the world in a way I’d never before experienced. A delicious melting …

  A pickup truck honked its horn at me as I strayed over the yellow line into its lane. I startled out of the erotic reverie … and realized I had no idea where I was.

  I checked Dory’s directions. I was supposed to follow Trask Road past Hoot’s Hollow Road and the farm stand at Butt’s Corners and then turn onto Olsen Road. But I couldn’t remember if I’d passed Hoot’s Hollow or Butt’s Corners. Trask Road looked pretty much the same wherever you were on it: dense forest to the east, farms on the west. Scanning the road for helpful signs I found one offering GOATS FOR SELL, an advertisement for HUGH-NAME-IT HANDYMAN, and another offering to grind my beaver stumps.

  Beaver stumps?

  The sign featured a cartoon of a toothy beaver-chainsaw hybrid ravishing a tree stump. It brought to mind the undines’ fear of beaver zombies. Perhaps this gruesome sign was the source of their fear. The Undine ran not far from Trask Road. Dory had said if I crossed the stream I’d gone too far …

  Water flashed to my left and I saw a narrow, stone bridge ahead of me with an old wooden sign that said, THE UNDINE—BEST FISHING IN THE CATSKILLS! above a faded painting of a gaitered fisherman pulling a speckled trout out of rushing water. I slowed and looked for a place to turn around. Just before the bridge was a driveway. I turned into it and was momentarily so blinded by the flash of sun off the water that I was forced to stop the car. I put down my sun visor and blinked into the glare. Ahead was an old, green-trimmed, white farmhouse, perched so close to the edge of the stream that it resembled a boat about to set sail—although it didn’t look like it would get very far. The old clapboards were nearly stripped of their paint and looked soft and rotten. The green shutters drooped and the porch listed to one side. The entire dilapidated structure was leaning toward the water as though yearning to cast itself into the bright rapids speeding over the rocks below.

  An abandoned fisherman’s shack, I decided, but then I noticed a thin stream of smoke coming out of the chimney. I took another glance around the property and saw a shaggy patch of tomato plants and a trellis made of string, on which morning glories and sweetpeas climbed up onto the porch, forming a green screen within which hung bits of tin and glass that swayed in the breeze, making a tinny music that threaded in and out of the gurgle of running water. The surface of the house seemed to ripple in the wavery reflections from the water, making it appear even more run-down and insubstantial—as if the whole place might vanish if I blinked—but also lending it a shabby charm. An orange cat napped on a rocking chair with peeling paint. Nearby, a fishing pole leaned against the porch railing.

  I sniffed and smelled grilled fish. Whoever lived here had caught his or her lunch and was cooking it up. But eventually they might notice a bright green Honda Fit in their driveway. They no doubt had a gun as well as a fishing pole and probably didn’t appreciate strangers staring at their house.

  I put the car into reverse and looked over my right shoulder to back up, but a flash from the stream nearly blinded me again. I squinted against it and pulled out into the road, hoping that this stretch was as deserted as it seemed. When I was back on the road, I paused for one more look at the old house. Something about it—its age and seclusion, the way it basked in the river light like a cat in the sun—had drawn me in, but when I looked back where the house should be I couldn’t see anything beyond the trees. It was as if I’d imagined it.

  I retraced my way down Trask Road and found the turnoff for Olsen Road. There was only one house on it, a large Greek Revival of the same vintage as the riverside house, but as well cared for as the other wasn’t. Its white paint gleamed like fresh buttercream icing, against which the black Italianate brackets trimming the line of the roof stood out like black ink. Baskets of red geraniums hung from the eaves. The red barn was as neat and square as the house, the only touch of whimsy a painting of a stylized hammer. Thor’s hammer, I realized, recognizing the symbol from a Norse mythology class I’d taken in college.

  I parked between a caramel-colored Volvo with a Fairwick College sticker and an ancient multicolored Volkswagen Beetle plastered with bumper stickers proclaiming MY OTHER CAR IS A BROOMSTICK, LIFE IS A WITCH AND THEN YOU FLY, and THE GODDESS LOVES YOU. THE REST OF US THINK YOU’RE A JERK.

  Great, I thought, walking up to the bright red front door, I’m going to be tutored by a bunch of New Age Wiccans.

  I was greeted at the door by a plump woman with white hair pulled back into a bun and a red-and-green apron straining across her round belly. I introduced myself but in response she only smiled and, taking me by the hand, led me into the living room.

  “Amma doesn’t speak English,” Liz Book said, patting an empty chair next to her. It was the only empty seat out of a dozen red ladder chairs arranged in a circle around a coffee table heaped with blue and white mugs and plates, nut-studded strudel, dishes of cookies, heaps of Danishes, and assorted rugelah. The scene would have resembled a suburban coffee klatch if not for Brock’s supine form on the couch.

  I took a seat and looked around the circle. Diana and Soheila smiled at me. I also recognized Joan Ryan from Fairwick’s chemistry department and Dory Browne, Realtor and brownie. Her chin-length blond hair was held back by a pink gingham headband that matched her skirt. She always reminded me of those cheery Mary Engelbreit illustrations. Next to me sat an older white-haired woman who looked familiar.

  “I’m Ann Chase,” she said in a friendly voice, but not offering to shake my hand. “We met at the Children’s House fund-raiser last month. We appreciated your generous donation.”

  “Oh yes,” I said, remembering her now. Children’s House was a home for severely handicapped children. Ann Chase, who had run it for many years, had a reputation in town akin to sainthood. Glancing down at her hands, I also recalled that she had severe arthritis, which was why she hadn’t offered to shake my hand. If she was a witch, couldn’t she have cured her arthritis? Or perhaps she was another kind of creature. I looked around at those in the circle, wondering which camp each one fell into. The large woman wearing a T-shirt that said NEVER PISS OFF A WITCH probably was a witch—and the owner of the VW. But I couldn’t begin to guess about a lean man with a prominent, beak-shaped nose, wearing a Levon Helm T-shirt and cowboy boots, or the pretty young woman in khakis and white blouse, or the young man with a goatee, Ray-Bans, and undersized porkpie hat.

  The three women sitting closest to Brock, though, were almost certainly supernatural. A faint white mist was flowing out of their mouths, rising into the air and forming a wreath around Brock. Cold seemed to be emanating from this mist.

  “Norns,” Liz whispered in my ear.

  “Aren’t the Norns the Norse equivalent of the Fates?” I asked.

  “Yes, usually they’re called in at childbirth to assure a child’s good future. The old woman on the left is Urd.” I took a surreptitious glance at the old woman sitting near Brock’s head. S
he looked much like Amma, plump, with a round, pink face and white hair, and a pile of thick wool in her lap. A sweet grandmotherly type, except that on a chain at her waist she wore a sickle-shaped silver blade, which didn’t look even remotely grandmotherly. Nor did the pointed knitting needles in her lap look benign. They were sharp as skewers. “Urd controls the past. Her sister, Verdandi, looks after the present.” Verdandi was a smart-looking blond woman in a tailored suit and hose. She was working on a piece of needlepoint, stabbing a sharp needle into the cloth as if angry with it. She, too, wore a sickle-shaped blade on a long chain from which also hung a pair of reading glasses. “And then there’s Skald.” The third of the trio was a young woman with obviously dyed black hair teased into a threatening-looking Mohawk; brow, nose, and lip piercings; and a tattoo of Thor’s hammer on her muscular bicep. She was dressed in tight leather jeans and a sleeveless white T-shirt. No knitting or needlework for Skald. She was texting on a shiny silver phone. “Skald is our future. May the gods help us.”

  “What are they doing?” I asked.

  “They’re weaving the mists of Niflheim around Brock,” Liz answered.

  I felt the chill of the Norns’ mist on my arms. I shivered, wishing I had brought a sweater. “Is that to keep him from … um … decaying?”

  “Yes, but what’s equally important, they are keeping his past, present, and future from unraveling.”

  “No need to be secretive about it,” the large woman said. “We might as well start the circle by introducing ourselves to the newcomer.” She pronounced newcomer with a note of disdain. “I’ll start. Born Wanda Moser, but I was reborn Moondance, devotee of Diana the Moon Goddess and Hecatia of the Crossroads. I have been a practicing Wiccan for thirty years and a member of this spell circle for half that. And I want to go on record as objecting to the inclusion of an untrained witch at this critical juncture. There’s no telling how her energy will disrupt our chi.”