Will North

by Water, Stone, Heart (v5)

“The hedge? Thanks, but it's all due to Jamie.”

  “Not what he tells me. Word is, you're gifted.”

  Andrew laughed. “Oh? And what else does the Boscastle grapevine have to say about me?”

  Andrew was kidding Roger, but the other man's face became serious.

  “I also hear there's some trouble between you and Anne's friend Nicki.”

  Andrew felt suddenly defensive. “Look, Roger, I don't know what you think of me, but I've done nothing that—”

  The farmer interrupted, waving his free hand. “Nay, friend; not what I meant, not at all. I'm not supposed to know anything, if you follow, but it's not about you.”

  “Yeah; Lee says Nicola's got some guy named Johnny in her life.”

  “Not anymore, she don't,” Roger replied. “He's dead.”

  “Her boyfriend died?”

  “Not her boyfriend, Andrew. Her older brother. And a nasty piece of work, is what I hear. A drug dealer. Happens he also, um, fiddled her, as a kid.”

  Andrew looked blank.

  “You know, had sex with her. Incest and all. Then got himself killed.”

  “Oh, Jesus.”

  “Look, the missus tells me Nicola's sweet on you, but scared. This dead brother, it's like he's sleeping under her bed, you know? Makes me think of those fairy tales we used to read to Lilly—the troll under the bridge and all. Way I look at it, Nicola's hiding here in Boscastle. But not from that upper-class asshole of an ex-husband of hers; I reckon she's hiding from the dead brother—and the rest of the world as well. You're the first thing she's taken notice of, besides that dog of hers, since she got here. And it's been years.”

  It all made sense, of course, but Andrew still struggled to take it in. He felt swept by waves of compassion for Nicola and fury about this dead, but not dead, brother. No wonder she was terrified when he touched her. No wonder she ran from him when he told her he cared for her. A part of him said, Let it go; you're leaving in a few days, and this isn't your battle. But that was his head talking, and he was tired of doing what his head said. His heart told him this woman mattered. It also told him this place mattered.

  Roger was still talking, and Andrew dragged himself into the present moment.

  “But you didn't hear it from me, right?”

  “What?”

  “Anne will kill me if she knows I've told you. Though, bloody hell, I don't know why.”

  Andrew looked at the man for a moment.

  “Thank you, friend,” he said finally. He put out his hand and Roger took it.

  “I was daydreaming there for a moment, Roger,” Andrew said. “Did you say something just now?”

  “I don't think so.”

  “I didn't think so, either.”

  Andrew realized he'd taken High Cliff the easy way, though by accident. When he parted from Roger at Tresparrett, he followed a series of minor roads and lanes across the coastal fields, rising gradually as he approached the Atlantic. When he reached the coast path at its highest point, the ocean was so far below he couldn't hear it. It wasn't a sheer cliff. He had more the sense that over the eons, the sea and wind and frost had gnawed away at the shale to create the long, steep scree slope that fell away from the summit, gradually, to the surf below. Still, it was a very long way down. Gulls wheeled above, the sunburned husks of sea thrift danced on the wind, spikes of orange montbretia thrust up from clefts in the rock, blankets of heather cloaked the ground, and here and there the gorse still bloomed, adding clusters of lemon yellow to the purple slopes.

  The coast path back to Boscastle was, he decided, the opposite of Newton's law. It wasn't that “what goes up must come down,” it was that “what goes down must come up again,” because every quarter mile or so, streams cut into the cliffs, creating deep, narrow gorges, and necessitating arduous descents, followed by steep, stair-step climbs up the other side. Thus, he walked down from High Cliff, then up to Rusey Cliff, and then down and up to Beeny Cliff, until, finally, he circuited Pentargon Falls (noting that neither the stranded sheep nor its bones occupied the little terrace the two of them once shared) and approached the cliffs above Boscastle. Far below was the cluster of stone buildings he'd come to knew so well. Just upstream from the mouth of the Valency, he could see the Museum of Witchcraft, and he made a decision.

  Andrew stood at a window in the upstairs library of the museum, gazing at the little river below and waiting for Colin Grant to finish a phone conversation. He'd been immensely relieved to find someone other than Nicola at the ticket desk when he asked after Colin; Saturday was the museum's busiest day of the week, but Nicola had had the morning shift.

  “My good fellow, please accept my apologies,” Colin said, putting down the receiver at last. “One of my board members, a somewhat trying chap, but well intentioned, well intentioned. What can I do for you? A book, perhaps?” he added, gesturing to the shelves that lined the walls.

  “A question, really,” Andrew said. Not knowing quite how to begin, he stopped there. It was a bit off-putting that the museum owner didn't look directly at you when he spoke.

  “Yes?” the man prompted.

  “Something the vicar suggested you might be able to help with.”

  “Ah, yes, the Reverend Janet. It wouldn't be the first time. You have a matter she can't address?”

  There was another uncomfortable pause, then, finally, Andrew nodded and dove in. “Let's say someone, a woman, was sexually abused as a child by an older brother. And let's say that brother died soon thereafter, but the memory of his abuse still haunts the woman in adulthood, so much so that it makes forming normal relationships with men extremely difficult.”

  “An all-too-common phenomenon, I'm afraid,” Colin said, shaking his head in dismay.

  “Are there practices or … I don't know what to call it … cures in witchcraft that might apply?”

  “Oh yes, certainly; though perhaps nothing quite so specific.” Colin went to one of the shelf units. “You're really talking about two broad categories of concerns: visitations—you used the word ‘haunts,’ and it is apt—by an evil spirit, in this case the dead brother, but also issues associated with love in general. There is, of course, a long history of witches applying what we might call white magic to address such problems, love and abuse hardly being new concerns. On this shelf,” he said, sweeping a hand along a row of book bindings, “we have volumes associated with matters of the heart. And over there,” he added, pointing across the room, “is an entire section on dealing with quieting or banishing evil or unquiet spirits. I'd be happy to lend you however many books you'd like to examine. That's why we're here.”

  “Mr. Grant…”

  “Colin.”

  “Colin. I was thinking more along the lines of direct intervention.”

  “Ah …”

  “I know there is a community of believers in and around Boscastle, though I gather it is also the case that they don't exactly advertise themselves.”

  “This is true; people have peculiar and rather lurid ideas about witchcraft and witches, almost all of which are wrong.”

  “Let's say you knew a witch who could act on this person's behalf; what might they do to intervene in such a matter?”

  Colin was quiet for a moment, and Andrew felt himself being screened for safety, like a piece of luggage at the airport.

  “We're speaking in purely theoretical terms, you understand.”

  Andrew nodded.

  “Right. Well, for a start, the witch might scry in a dark mirror or an old glass fishing float.”

  “I'm sorry, scry?”

  “Oh. Sorry. An old word derived from the verb descry, which means ‘to catch sight of’ Witches sometimes use dark mirrors to see into the future, or into the world of the spirits.”

  “Like with a crystal ball?”

  “Right, except we don't use crystal balls. They're mostly used in Hollywood and the occasional traveling carnival. You're a lot more likely to have an old, dark mirror lying about than a crystal b
all.”

  “True.”

  “So she would ask the spirits, or ‘old ones,’ to give her advice, and might see visions in the mirror and use those visions to find a solution. She might even come in contact with the spirit of the dead brother.”

  Colin was gazing at the ceiling, as if a sacred text was written there and he was simply reading it off the plaster. “She would wait for a waning moon, because that's believed to be the best time for banishing terrors. Then the witch might advise the woman to tear off a bit of a photograph of her brother each night of the waning moon, then burn the pieces on the night of the dark of the moon.”

  “So the woman would have to be an active participant?”

  “That's best, but the witch might perform this herself on behalf of the woman, with or without her knowledge. Of course, she'd have to have the picture, or something once owned by the brother.”

  Andrew thought about this for a moment and remembered a photograph in Nicola's bedroom, a picture of three children at a beach. “Would a photocopy of a picture work?”

  “Oh yes, certainly; it's the image itself, not the medium upon which it is embedded, that matters. And if there is a new relationship involved”—here he looked briefly, though indirectly, at Andrew, then returned to the ceiling—“she would use a waxing moon to bring about a good relationship.”

  “How would she do that?”

  “Oh, during the waxing moon, she might encourage the woman to take a potion every night to help her dream. She might be encouraged to visualize herself in a loving relationship with someone. The witch might secretly bind two sticks together, one gathered from the garden of the woman and one from the garden of a suitable man. This would encourage the relationship. She would probably gather the sticks on a full moon and bind the sticks with red thread.”

  Andrew listened to Colin with respect, as he might have any colleague at the university. Colin was a scholar, there was no question about that, a serious student of these arts, an expert. And yet Andrew's faith in Cartesian analysis, in dispassionate reasoning, left little breathing space for such arcane notions. Skepticism rose from him like a spiritual seasickness, but he fought it down. What choice was there, really? It did not seem there was anything in the world as he knew it—the world of logic, of philosophy, of reason—that could banish the ghost that plagued the woman he now, to his utter surprise, thought of as his beloved.

  “Colin, I know you don't do this every day, and I appreciate it immensely. The next question, I suppose, is whether you can think of anyone who might perform such a ceremony?”

  Andrew did not expect Colin to suggest anyone, but here the museum owner surprised him with an almost childlike grin. “You already know such a person, my dear fellow, and I would recommend her wholeheartedly, although I cannot promise she would do it.”

  Andrew looked at Colin, his head cocked to one side in a silent question.

  “Flora Penwellan,” Colin said.

  “Flora at the Cobweb?”

  “The very same. A gifted and gentle witch. Runs in her family. I knew her mother.”

  “Colin, I think she might help after all; this person's her friend.”

  “Well, then, I leave it to you. And welcome to our particular bit of old Cornish culture.” Colin extended his hand and Andrew took it. The two nodded, and Andrew left.

  From her studio, just across the narrow river from the museum, Nicola saw Andrew emerge and turn upriver toward the bridge. What was he doing there? Was he looking for her? At first, she thought she would call out to him, but she decided against it. What would she say? What could she do? And what did it matter, anyway? She threw herself onto the chaise by her easel and pounded the tufted upholstery in frustration.

  Then an idea bubbled up out of her confusion, and she picked up the phone.

  In places such as Boscastle, steep-sided valleys accentuate flooding by acting as huge funnels for the runoff and channel it very quickly down to the sea. Therefore, the high rainfall falling in such a short time could not be absorbed into the ground and a surge of water through the village of Boscastle estimated to have been in excess of 100 square metres per second created a 10–15 ft (3–4.5 m) high flood traveling up to 40 mph (65 km/h).

  Boscastle Flood Special Issue,

  Journal of Meteorology 29, no. 293

  thirteen

  On Sunday morning, Andrew was awakened by a peculiar, episodic crackling noise. In his dream, it was the sparking of a campfire beside which he was sleeping in a clearing in the woods near the meandering Charles River, in the gentle countryside upriver of Boston—but a Boston of a century or two ago. As he climbed up out of the dream, he understood gradually that the sound was more a rattle than a crackle. He opened his eyes, got his bearings, and saw the morning was already well advanced.

  The rattle ceased, then began again, like hail against a roof. No, like gravel against a window. His kitchen window. He pulled on a pair of jeans, stumbled to the kitchen, and peered out. Sure enough, there was Lee, sitting on the stone wall. Also Nicola. Both of them were grinning.

  He shook his head, as if doing so would make the apparition disperse, but it didn't change. They were still there, rocking their legs back and forth in unison and chucking gravel at the cottage. He sighed, put water in the kettle, turned it on, and opened the door.

  “Ladies!” he barked. “It is barely daylight!”

  “Uh-uh!” said Lee.

  “Uh-uh!” said Nicola.

  They seemed immensely pleased with themselves. He wandered back inside, desperate for tea. The girl and the woman skipped in behind him as if they belonged there.

  “We thought you were gonna sleep forever, like Sleeping Beauty!” Lee chided as she hopped up to sit on the counter by the sink.

  “So how come I got gravel instead of a magic kiss?” Andrew grumped.

  “We couldn't find any handsome princes,” Nicola said, clamping her hand over her mouth, her shoulders bouncing with suppressed laughter, in which Lee, naturally, joined, though she didn't understand the joke.

  “Why aren't you getting ready for church?” Andrew asked the girl.

  “Nicki and me are going to a different church, a really old one!”

  “Older than St. Symphorian's or Minster?”

  “Uh-huh,” Lee said, casting a quick glance at Nicola for support. Nicola nodded.

  “What's your mother think of this arrangement?” he asked. The kettle clicked off and he poured the steaming water into a teapot.

  “Mum's poorly,” Lee said. “Says she has a summer cold or something. She said it was fine.”

  “And you two needed to inform me of your devotional plans”—he glanced at the clock—“at this ungodly hour because …?”

  “’Cause you're meant to come with us! Right, Nicki?”

  “If you'd like,” Nicola said looking at him, her eyes soft, her voice signaling a kind of apology.

  “I need some breakfast,” Andrew groused, now playing up the role of the put-upon victim.

  Nicola came over to the counter, used her hip to push him gently aside, cut a thick hunk of crusty bread from the loaf Andrew kept under a kitchen towel, slathered it with butter, and then drizzled it with honey from the crock on the windowsill.

  “Petit déjeuner, monsieur,” she said, handing it to him on a paper napkin, privately admiring the thicket of curly, graying hairs that furred Andrew's chest. “Come on, you'll like it,” she added, her French failing her.

  Andrew slumped his shoulders in resignation and shuffled off to the bedroom to look for a shirt. Then he came back out and asked, “What's the appropriate dress for this church?”

  “Oh, it's quite casual,” Nicola said lightly, flashing a quick wink at Lee. “And it's a bit of a hike to get there.”

  Lee was wearing her usual faded khaki shorts, T-shirt, and wellies. Nicola had on hiking sandals with lugged soles, a flatteringly snug pair of black capri pants, a tailored white cotton broadcloth shirt with the collar turned up in the bac
k, and a black-and-white-striped silk scarf tied around her forehead, Indian style, its tails trailing down to her left shoulder. Once again, he marveled at how lovely she was with so little artifice. He retreated to his room again and put on a faded blue chambray shirt, socks, and his boots. In the kitchen, he grabbed his honeyed bread, filled a lidded traveler's mug with milky tea, and followed the ladies out to Nicola's car, which turned out to be a farm vehicle: a rugged old olive-green four-wheel Land Rover Defender. Lee climbed in the back, joining a delighted Randi, who hammered the rear wheel well with his wagging tail like a maniacal conga drummer. Andrew took the passenger seat, and the moment he clicked his seat belt, Nicola rocketed up the farm track and turned right onto the main road south toward Tintagel. They were driving along the shoulder of the coastal ridge, which swept down across a broad shelf that once had been a beach at a prehistoric ocean's edge. Farther west, the shelf dropped down to the roiling sea, now far below.

  At a hairpin curve in a narrow, lushly forested valley about three miles from Boscastle, Nicola pulled the car to the left shoulder, brought it to an abrupt stop, and yanked up the parking brake lever. She looked at Lee through the rearview mirror and said, “Long way or short?”

  “Long way!” Lee said, bouncing in her seat as if she was attached to an elastic band.

  “Good call; Randi needs the exercise,” Nicola said as she climbed down from the car. Randi and Lee exited through her door and Andrew stepped out of his, by which time the others had already walked several paces back in the direction from which they'd come. He hesitated.

  “Come on, then,” Nicola called over her shoulder. “It won't kill you to walk a bit.”

  He slugged back the last of his tea and followed them up the hill to a cluster of stone cottages called Trethevey, at which point they turned right and followed a farm track uphill past an ancient well and then up to high grazing meadows. The girls chattered away and Randi raced ahead, coming back every few minutes like a child checking in with his mother. After perhaps half a mile, the lane plunged into a leafy hollow, and Andrew could hear the low rumble of falling water.