12 Stocking Stuffers

by Beverly Barton

  She’d spent a lot of time in this town, yet she didn’t remember a candle shop here. She’d been back for nearly a year, and never heard of or seen it.

  Every shelf held candles and holders and snuffers. Tapers and pillars glowed from every windowsill and stand.

  When Helen returned, she wasn’t carrying a phone but a candle, the most unusual candle Dori had ever seen. It was as if three strips of wax—silver, gold and white—had been braided together to form a single piece. “I have something for you,” she said.

  Dori looked at the candle the old woman held out. “It’s the most beautiful candle I’ve ever seen,” she said. “But I couldn’t…”

  “It’s a special candle. Waiting for just the right person to come and claim it. I think you’re that person, Dori.”

  Dori smiled, lowering her head. “I couldn’t possibly—”

  “Why not? Not celebrating the Solstice this year?”

  Dori looked at her sharply. How could she know?

  “You see, child, the silver is for the year that’s about to pass.” As she spoke, she stroked the silver parts with a long, gnarled finger. “And the gold is for the new one, the one about to begin. And the white is the bond that connects all things, every ending and every beginning, every death and every birth. It’s the perfect candle for you, especially at this time of year. Here, smell.”

  She held it closer, and Dori inhaled its scent. Hazelnuts and cedar and cinnamon. She closed her eyes.

  “Take it, child. There’s a little magic in this candle. And it’s meant for you, I’m sure of it.”

  Opening her eyes, no longer sure this wasn’t a visitation from the Goddess after all, Dori clasped the candle in her hands. How could she have doubted, turned her back on her own faith? she wondered. Surely this was proof…this was a sign…this was—

  “That’ll be five-ninety-five, with the tax.”

  Dori’s eyes popped open wider. “Huh?”

  “Now, where did I put that phone?” the woman said, turning again in a slow circle and searching blankly around the shop. “Maybe it’s in the back.”

  “I’ll just try the car again,” Dori said quickly. If she let the woman out of her sight, she’d no doubt find something else to force her to buy. Visitation from the Goddess, hell. Helen was sly and ultra-observant. Nothing more. Dori dipped a hand into her jeans pocket, even though she knew there was no money in there, and came out with a five and a one. She must have shoved some tips into her jeans and forgotten about them, she thought, and handed the cash to the woman. “Thank you, Helen.”

  “You’re welcome, Doreen. Don’t stay away so long next time.”

  Dori was out the door before she processed any of that. She’d never told the woman her name was Doreen. She’d said Dori, not Doreen. And what did that “Don’t stay away so long next time” bit mean? She looked at the candle in her hand. Its scent teased her senses, and called out to her like a lover calling her home.

  She got into the car, wondering which place on this street would be a better bet for finding a phone, and twisted the key just for kicks.

  The car started without a sputter, and ran perfectly all the way home.

  JASON RETURNED to his office, glanced at his desk and frowned. “Uh, hey, Sheila?”

  The receptionist peered in through the open door.

  “There was a folder here, just some uh…Internet research I was doing.”

  “Oh, you mean all that stuff about Doreen Stewart being a Witch?”

  He bit his lip to keep from swearing.

  “Who’d have guessed, huh?”

  “Sheila, that stuff was private.”

  Her smile faded. “It was?”

  “Where is it?”

  “I took the folder to my desk when I gathered up the others. I was just filing stuff, Jason, I didn’t mean to…” She licked her lips, lowered her head.

  “What happened to it?”

  “Some of the guys saw me reading through it.”

  “Which guys?”

  “Joey, Frank…and Mr. Kemp, he was here.”

  Jason closed his eyes.

  “I tucked it in my desk drawer. But…well, if it was supposed to be a secret, Jason, I’m afraid it’s not anymore.”

  “Kemp knows.”

  She nodded.

  “Hell, Sheila.” He lowered his head, shaking it slowly. Now what? He sighed. “Get me Kemp on the phone.”

  “I’m really sorry, Jason.”

  “Yeah. My fault. I shouldn’t have left it lying around.”

  He went to his desk when she left, waiting for the phone to ring, picked it up. “Kemp?”

  “Jason. Wanted to call you anyway, thank you for that research you did on the Stewart woman.”

  “That research was not meant to be public knowledge.”

  “No? Well, kind of late now.”

  “What did you do, rent a billboard?”

  “Tipped off the local press. Reverend Mackey, too. Figured he ought to be aware of what was brewing. Get it? Brewing? Witch?” His hearty chuckle made Jason’s stomach knot up.

  “Got it. Not smiling. This is her personal business, Kemp. What earthly good is it going to do to spread it all over town?”

  “Might show her who she’s dealing with. We’re a God-fearing town, Jason. We don’t need her kind coming in trying to corrupt the youth.”

  “Corrupt the—Jesus, Kemp, she’s a decent woman.”

  “Best brush up on your scriptures, Jason. And trust me, law or no law, there’s no way in hell she’s getting a table at our Christmas Craft Fair.”

  “Holiday Craft Fair,” Jason corrected. “Remember you changed the name for the sake of political correctness?”

  “Name or no name, it’s the Christmas Craft Fair and everyone in this town knows it. That’s the way it’s always been, and that’s the way it will continue to be. Period.” The decisive click told him when Kemp had hung up.

  Jason sighed, unable to argue with dead air. Now he’d messed things up thoroughly. Dori was going to be furious. This was the last thing she wanted. He hit the flash button, got a dial tone, and reached to the keypad to punch in her number—but then he thought better of it.

  This kind of news ought to be delivered in person.

  Or maybe it was just that he wanted to see her again. God, he wanted to see her again. When he’d touched her today in the diner, held her hands, it had been like…like taking his first breath after too long under water. He hadn’t breathed like that in ten years. She was his air. He needed her. But now…now he’d probably blown any chance he’d ever had.

  DORI WALKED into Uncle Gerald’s cabin and shucked her winter clothes. Then she took the candle from the little bag in which the mysterious old woman had packed it. A year ago, she wouldn’t even have questioned the significance of the encounter. A year ago, everything in her life had made sense. Everything mundane had spiritual implications and everything spiritual affected the mundane. Her life had been integrated, or she thought it had been.

  But she’d changed her mind about all of that. Decided she’d been deluded. There was no such thing as magic, or if there was, it had abandoned her. Just as the Goddess had.

  So why was she questioning this now? Why was some doubting voice in her mind telling her it had all been more than just a coincidence? The detour, the car breaking down, the woman looking the way she did, the shop that had never been there before, the candle.

  Had she really stopped believing in magic? Or had she only told herself she had?

  Sighing, she went into the living room, to the mantel. The glass-enclosed candle holder there resembled a lantern and had always been her favorite because she could use it indoors or out. But a long time had gone by since she’d done either. It held a long since burned-out stump. She swallowed, feeling guilty.

  She lifted off the glass chimney and plucked the old stump free. Then she carefully placed the new candle in its place and lowered the glass over it again. She spent a moment, staring a
t it, reviewing the feelings that had rushed over her when the old woman had first appeared in front of her. She hadn’t felt that way in a long time—that surge of certainty that she was in the presence of the Divine. Not really. And now that she really thought about it, her spirituality seemed to have been flagging long before she lost her job and all her money.

  She went to the wastebasket and looked down at the Goddess sculpture that lay, face up, atop a banana peel and some coffee grounds.

  Someone knocked. She lifted her head and went to the door. Why did her heart jump just a little when she saw that it was Jason? Okay, so she was attracted to him. What woman wouldn’t be? But did she have to react like a teenager with her first crush?

  Yes. Because she felt like a teenager with her first crush. Hell, he had been her first crush.

  “You came back,” she said, and in spite of her best efforts, her voice sounded breathless.

  “You didn’t think I would?” He was doing that thing with his eyes, again. Looking at her in that way he had. He focused on her toes first and then her face.

  She shrugged. “No, I really didn’t.”

  Jason sighed. “I’m afraid you’re not gonna be glad I did. And you can’t believe how sorry I am to say so.” He stomped the snow off his boots and walked inside. He was avoiding her eyes.

  She pursed her lips. “So this isn’t a social call?”

  “Not really.” He was in the process of prying off his boots as he said it, but he stopped and looked up quickly, as if to gauge her reaction to that. “Did you want it to be?”

  She shrugged, and avoided his searching look. She wasn’t surprised. His learning the truth about her might have cooled any notion he might have had about starting things up again with her. He might be open-minded, but being open-minded and dating a Witch were pretty different things.

  “I owe you an apology, Dori.”

  “Don’t be stupid, Jason. I’m the one who walked away. You don’t owe me a thing.”

  He licked his lips, shrugged out of his coat and draped it on a hook inside the door, next to Uncle Gerald’s old hurricane lamp. Then he stepped away from the snowy entry rug, leaving his boots behind. “I’m not talking about what happened ten years ago, honey. I’m talking about what I did today.”

  Dori frowned at him. His tone was so gentle it frightened her.

  “I mean, not that I don’t want to talk about our past—I do. I’d love it, it’s just—”

  “What did you do today that requires an apology?”

  He lowered his head, walked across the kitchen to the stove and turned on a burner. Picking up the teakettle, he gave it a shake, heard enough splashing to satisfy him and set it on the burner. He glanced over his shoulder at her. She was standing in the doorway between the little kitchen and little living room, leaning against one side, watching him, arms crossed over her chest.

  “You have cocoa?”

  “It’s in the second canister.”

  He nodded and took out a couple of packets of hot cocoa mix, snatched two mugs from the wooden mug tree on the counter and emptied the packets into them.

  “Spoons?” he asked.

  “Middle drawer. What is it you came to apologize for, Jason?”

  He located the spoons, removed two of them. Then he wadded up the empty cocoa packets and spotted the wastebasket. He went to toss them in, but paused as a deep frown etched itself between his eyebrows. “What’s this?”

  “It’s nothing. Jason, don’t—”

  Too late. He bent and snatched the sculpture out, rising with it and brushing coffee grounds off it. He held it up, staring at the nude female form standing atop the crescent moon.

  “Looks old,” he said.

  “The figure is a reproduction.”

  “Of?”

  She sighed. “The Goddess. It’s one of the older images of her, known as the Nile Goddess, I believe. The modern artist added the moon and the starry backdrop.”

  He lifted his eyes to hers. “So what’s she doing in the garbage?”

  “I don’t know.” She lowered her head. “I don’t know anything anymore.” That tears sprang into her eyes angered her, but she managed to keep them hidden. She heard water running, and when she looked up again, he was rinsing the sculpture clean, holding it almost reverently, his hands sliding over her to brush the coffee grounds away. Dori brought him a towel from the rack. He took it from her and patted the figure dry.

  “What happened, Dori? You decide to stop believing in magic?”

  She pursed her lips. “I decided to. I tried to. But I don’t think it took.”

  He smiled. “Let’s hang her back up, hmm?”

  “Not yet. I should do a cleansing first.”

  He frowned, a little furrow in his brow that made her want to smooth it away with her finger—or maybe her lips.

  “I…thought that’s what I just did,” he said.

  She smiled. “A ritual cleansing. It’s a little different.”

  “Will you show me?”

  “Oh, come on, Jason. You aren’t really interested in seeing—”

  “I really am.”

  He sounded so sincere. The teakettle whistled. Dori found herself conceding. “All right. If you’re sure.” He nodded. “You make the cocoa, then,” she said. “And bring a bowl of snow from outside. And I’ll get the room ready.”

  Chapter Five

  The minuscule amount of reading Jason had done since learning the truth about Dori didn’t prepare him at all.

  She had surrounded the room with candles, and converted her coffee table into an altar by draping a white cloth over it. It held ordinary items. A wineglass with some of the snow in it, rapidly melting. A bowl with something in it that appeared to be sugar or salt. A stick of incense. A small candle. An old iron cauldron in the center.

  When he entered the room, he found her kneeling in front of the coffee table, holding her hands over each item, whispering words too softly for him to hear. He stood in rapt silence, watching as she lit the incense, the candle. She sprinkled some of the white stuff into the water and lifted the glass high, bowing her head. Finally, she set the glass down and rose to her feet.

  “I used to have the prettiest tools,” she said. “My athame—that’s a ritual dagger—had a sterling blade and a hand-carved onyx handle. My wand was tipped in the biggest quartz crystal you ever saw. My cauldron was a replica of the Gundestrup artifact.”

  “I don’t know what that is,” he admitted.

  “Oh, it was a beautiful piece. Found in a peat bog in Denmark. It dates back to around one hundred BCE. It was Celtic, maybe used by the Druids in their rites, and has images of more than a dozen gods and goddesses engraved on its sides.”

  “Sounds like something special.”

  “It was.”

  “What happened to all those…tools?” he asked.

  She looked at him and he thought her eyes were sad. “Had to sell them. Even the crystal ball.”

  “When you were first learning all of this, did you have fancy gadgets then?”

  She shook her head. “No.”

  “But you managed fine without them, huh?”

  She met his eyes. “Yeah. I did. I used to tell my students, ‘It’s not about the tools. It’s about you.’ Come here.”

  He came closer. She reached to the table and picked up the wineglass. “The cup is the female. The womb of life. And the dagger is the male. The phallus. To bring our rituals to life, we lower the dagger into the cup. The combination of male and female—force and form—creates the spark of life. The source of all things, and magic.”

  “That’s kind of sacred and sexy at the same time.”

  “Sex is sacred in the craft. We call this ritual the Symbolic Great Rite.”

  He was liking this side of her. Deep and intimate. Mystical and wonderful. “That would imply there’s a…nonsymbolic version?”

  She smiled mysteriously at him. “I don’t have my dagger anymore. Will you help me?”


  He nodded, all but holding his breath wondering what she was going to do next. She scooped some of her water into her palms and held them cupped loosely. “My hands can be the womb.”

  “I get it.” He lifted his own hand. “Mine can be the phallus.” He slid his fingers between her hands, over her skin, sinking them into the water in her palms. She closed her eyes and he thought she shivered. For melted snow, the water she cupped seemed awfully warm. Her hands felt downright hot. And he was burning up.

  He withdrew his fingers slowly. She opened her eyes, and they glistened. Then she held her palms over the wineglass to release the water back into it. “You’re a natural,” she told him.

  It had felt natural, he thought. About as natural as pulling her into his arms and kissing her senseless would feel.

  But he didn’t do that. Instead, he stood quietly watching as she walked around the room. She moved in a circle, carrying the water with her. Then she did it again, carrying the smoking incense and wafting it around the room. The third time, she lifted the candle. When she finished, she moved back to the altar and picked up the Goddess sculpture. She held it over the smoking censer, so the spirals of smoke wafted around it.

  “I cleanse and consecrate you by the powers of Air, emblem of the Goddess.”

  She moved the sculpture over the flame of the candle. “By the powers of Fire, I burn away all negativity.”

  Then she dipped her fingers into the water and sprinkled the sculpture. “All malignancy I wash away by the powers of Water.”

  She picked up the salt—he was sure it was salt now that he’d tasted it on his fingers—and dusted the sculpture with it. “By the powers of Earth, be you cleansed, purified.”