The Witch Is Dead

by Shirley Damsgaard

  I smiled. Tink could strain her neck all she wanted and she still wouldn’t be able to spot short, squat Aunt Dot over the heads of the crowd.

  Suddenly, one of the passengers jumped as if someone had goosed him. On another side, someone stepped forward quickly. Before we knew it, the whole group had parted and Aunt Dot came barreling up the center. From behind her, a balding man in his late fifties struggled to keep up. With her head down, she reminded me of a quarterback making for the goal line. For a ninety-one-year-old woman she sure could move.

  The cotton dress I was accustomed to seeing Aunt Dot wear was gone. Instead, she wore a sensible dark purple polyester pantsuit. In her right hand she held a knotted cane, its wood polished to a fine sheen by years of use. And her hair? Wow—tight curls frizzed around her head in a decidedly blue halo.

  Lifting her head, she paused for a moment as her aged eyes scanned the people waiting. Sighting us, a wide grin lit her face and she resumed her march toward us, the balding man still following her.

  Abby closed the distance between them and gathered Aunt Dot’s plump, little body in a tight hug. Next to me, I heard Tink utter a small gasp. Glancing over at her, I noticed her face had lost what little color it had and her eyes were focused on the man standing with Aunt Dot and Abby.

  Reaching out, I laid my hand on her arm. “What is it?”

  “Nothing,” she said with a slight shake of her head. “I’ll tell you later.”

  The man with Aunt Dot smiled, shook Abby’s hand, and handed her a heavy cloth bag before turning and joining a young man who seemed to be waiting for him.

  The young man’s pale blue eyes glanced my way, and I saw a spark of curiosity light his face. The man’s son? Maybe. The guy who’d helped Aunt Dot off the plane clapped him on the shoulder in greeting before they turned and joined the other passengers making their way to the baggage claim.

  I turned my attention back to Abby and Aunt Dot.

  With a smile, Abby guided Aunt Dot over to where Tink and I waited.

  Aunt Dot looked first at me, then at Tink, her face bright with expectation.

  “Aunt Dot, you remember Ophelia, don’t you?” Abby asked in a loud voice.

  “No need to shout, girl. I’m not deaf yet,” she said with a glance at Abby. Her voice sounded a lot like Abby’s, but with the cadence of Appalachia more pronounced. “Of course I remember her.” Aunt Dot stepped forward and clasped me around the middle in a quick hug.

  Only five-four myself, I still had to lean down to give her a squeeze. And it felt like I was embracing a down-filled pillow. Abby was right. The scent of cinnamon seemed to cling to her.

  “Hi, Aunt Dot,” I said, smiling over the top of her kinky curls.

  “You’ve grown, Ophelia,” she said, stepping back and studying my face. “But then again, maybe I’ve just shrunk,” she ended with a cackle.

  Releasing me, she turned to Tink. “And this must be the girl that I’ve heard so much about.”

  Suddenly shy, Tink nodded, sending her long ponytail bobbing.

  Without a word, Aunt Dot crossed to Tink and took her face in her weathered hands. Her eyes roamed over Tink, taking in the violet eyes and the smooth skin. It was almost as if she was trying to see into Tink’s mind.

  Tink squirmed under her scrutiny.

  Aunt Dot dropped her hands to Tink’s shoulders. “This one’s special,” she said in a satisfied voice. “Welcome to the family, Titania.”

  Surprise flitted across Tink’s face. “You know my real name?”

  “Yes, Abby wrote me. The name fits you, child. Titania—Queen of the Fairies. But we’ll speak more of that later,” she said, throwing an arm around Tink’s shoulders.

  I shot Abby a questioning look, but her only response was an innocent smile and a careless shrug. Hmm, as a child, I hadn’t spent much time with Aunt Dot, or Aunt Mary, but I had with my grandmother. Along with the various psychic abilities that ran through the women of our family, there was also a certain amount of caginess. And I didn’t need to use my sixth sense to know something was up. I also knew I wouldn’t pry what it was out of Abby until she was ready to tell me.

  “Come on, Aunt Dot,” Abby said, taking her arm. “Let’s find your luggage and get you home. You must be tired after your long flight.”

  She steered Aunt Dot in the direction of the escalators, with Tink and I bringing up the rear.

  “Careful, child,” Aunt Dot called over her shoulder after stepping carefully on the descending stairs. “I’ve heard of people getting their foot caught in these contraptions. Took their leg right off.”

  From behind her, Tink did a slow eye roll, but stepped gingerly on the first step. With a smile, I followed.

  After retrieving Aunt Dot’s battered blue suitcase, we were all finally loaded in Abby’s SUV and headed back to Summerset. The interstate miles flew by, and soon we were pulling into Abby’s winding driveway.

  As we approached her house, Abby pointed out her plots of vegetables and flowers growing in the rich Iowa soil to Aunt Dot. During this time of year—midsummer—Abby’s greenhouse shifted from selling bedding plants to fresh vegetables. And Tink found working for Abby was a great way to supplement her allowance.

  Abby slowed the SUV to a stop in front of her large farmhouse. The windows, framed by dark green shutters, gleamed as the sun sank lower on the horizon. As we exited the vehicle, I heard the hum of Abby’s bees flitting from flower to flower in the beds that grew along the wide front porch. Nasturtium, snapdragons, Shasta daisies, and foxglove bloomed with abandon, and I watched Aunt Dot and Tink pause on their way up the steps to look at them. Aunt Dot leaned forward, pointing at the blossoms, and said something to Tink in a low voice. I couldn’t make out all her words as I hoisted her heavy suitcase out of the back, but I thought I heard the word “fairy.”

  “Hey,” I whispered to Abby. “What’s the deal with Aunt Dot and fairies? She just said something about them again to Tink.”

  “Ah, well,” Abby stuttered, shouldering Aunt Dot’s cloth bag and slamming the passenger side door. “She likes them?”

  “You’re asking me?” I set the suitcase on the gravel drive.

  “Umm, maybe it’s a little more than that.” She turned and started up the sidewalk to the house.

  “What do you mean ‘a little more’?” I called after her.

  “Shh,” she said, laying a finger to her lips. “Aunt Dot will hear you.”

  I waved her concern away. “They’re already inside. Are you going to tell me what’s going on?”

  Abby sighed. “Oh, all right, I didn’t want to tell you this right away. I know how skeptical you can be. I wanted you to get more acquainted with Aunt Dot first. You haven’t seen her since you were a child, and I didn’t want you thinking she was a doddering old woman—”

  “Abby,” I said, cutting her off. “Get to the point.”

  “Okay,” she hissed. “Aunt Dot’s particular talent is that she sees fairies. There. Happy now?”

  “What?” I fisted my hand on my hip. “There’s no such thing as fairies.”

  “Humph,” Abby snorted over her shoulder. “Tell that to Aunt Dot.”

  I closed the back door of the SUV with a bang and, after picking up the suitcase, made my own way up the path to the house.

  I had a feeling this was going to be some visit.

  Two

  Before I reached the front steps, the screen door slammed and Tink came out onto the porch.

  “Do you need help?” she asked, grasping one of the large pillars and leaning to the side, swinging back and forth.

  “No,” I replied with a smile as I mounted the steps, “but thanks.” Setting the suitcase down, I took her other hand in mine. “What happened at the airport? I heard you gasp when you looked at the man who’d helped Aunt Dot off the plane.”

  Tink’s face took on a worried expression. “I don’t know—it was weird. It felt as if something was poking at me, mentally, trying to get my attentio
n.”

  “A spirit?”

  She lifted a thin shoulder. “I guess. I’ve noticed it before, when there’s been a recent death in someone’s family. It’s kinda like the spirit is still hovering around the family member and zeros in on me.”

  “Maybe this man was flying home from attending a funeral.” I paused for a moment. “Do you ever drop your guard long enough to let them contact you?”

  “No.” Her ponytail whipped back and forth as she shook her head emphatically. “I’m afraid once I let them contact me, they’ll keep bugging me until they’re ready to leave.”

  I squeezed her hand. “Don’t worry kiddo. As you get older, you’ll gain more control. When I was your age, I had a hard time shutting out the thoughts of others. I felt constantly bombarded by their feelings, but now I don’t sense things unless I want to.”

  A grin drifted across her face. “That’s what Abby says, too.”

  “There you go.” I picked up the suitcase and gave Tink’s hand a tug. “Come on, we’d better get inside.”

  In the house, we were greeted by the sound of sharp toenails skittering across Abby’s hardwood floors. Lady, and Tink’s rambunctious terrier puppy, T.P., came careening around the corner of the living room. Part wolf, part German shepherd, Lady’s white tail wagged in greeting, while T.P. ran straight to Tink and jumped on her. Lady, polite as always, sat at my feet and watched me with a long suffering look that said, “Kids! What are you going to do with them?”

  Laughing, I bent and scratched her ears. “Had problems keeping the youngster out of trouble, did you?” I glanced over my shoulder at Tink. “You’d better go check Abby’s bathrooms.”

  With a groan, Tink headed down the hallway, with T.P. in hot pursuit.

  Unable to think of an appropriate name for the puppy, Tink had started calling him “T.P.,” standing for “The Puppy,” until we could come up with a better name. Unfortunately, now the name also described his fondness for eating toilet paper. And he was absolutely psychic when it came to sensing a bathroom door left carelessly open. I hoped Abby had extra toilet paper.

  Setting the suitcase in the hallway, I joined Abby and Aunt Dot in Abby’s old-fashioned kitchen. Although the house was “modernized,” Abby preferred to keep her kitchen as her mother had in the mountains of Appalachia. A gleaming wood-burning cook stove sat along one wall, looking incongruous next to the electric refrigerator. A large kerosene lamp sat in the center of the table waiting to cast its warm glow throughout the room when darkness fell. A ceiling fan whirred softly overhead, sending the scent of Abby’s drying herbs drifting through the house. As always, stepping into the kitchen gave me a feeling of taking a step into the past.

  Abby bustled around the room, laying out homemade bread, pickles, and meat for sandwiches. “Aunt Dot, it’s been a long day for you. After we eat, I’ll show you to the guest room so you can rest.”

  “Ach, nonsense.” Aunt Dot waved a gnarled hand in Abby’s direction. “I’m not tired.” Glancing at the old-fashioned clock, she pointed to her canvas bag resting against a table leg. “Drag my bag to where I can reach it, Ophelia.”

  Grabbing the bag by its handles, I scooted the bag over to Aunt Dot. She bent and began to pull out bottles filled with dark ruby liquid, placing each one carefully in front of her on the table. From across the kitchen I heard Abby’s soft moan.

  “You really should get some rest, Aunt Dot,” she said in a firm voice.

  “Fiddle.” Aunt Dot unscrewed the cap from one of the bottles, and the smell of fermented juice mingled with the aroma of herbs. “I haven’t been off that mountain and away from Sister for fifteen years.” She was referring to Abby’s aunt, and my great-aunt, Mary. “I intend to enjoy myself, so I don’t have time to be tired.” She reached up and patted her frizzy curls. “Why, I even went to the beauty parlor and had my hair done while Sister was at the general store getting supplies.”

  Well, that explains the blue halo, I thought.

  “Fetch me some glasses, will you Abby?”

  Without a word, Abby placed three small glasses in front of Aunt Dot, who filled each one to the top and handed a glass to each of us. Holding her glass high, she looked first at Abby, then at me. “Salinte,” she said, and took a deep drink.

  I took a cautious sip of the deep red liquid. The rich, sweet taste slid smoothly down my throat. Yum. I fought the desire to smack my lips.

  “This is really good, Aunt Dot. What is it?” I asked, taking a larger swallow.

  “Homemade elderberry wine.” She drained her glass and poured another one. “Sister and I make it every summer for our Saturday night wine time. The recipe’s a secret.”

  I finished my glass and poured another, ignoring Abby’s raised eyebrows. It was only homemade wine, bottled by two little old ladies—how potent could it be?

  Aunt Dot topped off her glass and settled back in her chair. Looking over her shoulder, she spied Tink standing in the doorway. She grabbed the chair next to her. “Here, child, come sit next to me.” Taking a quick peek at Abby, busy making sandwiches, she said, “Put the food away for now, dear, and join us. Sister and I never eat until wine time is over.”

  Silently, Abby did as Aunt Dot requested and joined us at the old oak table.

  “Now,” Aunt Dot said, turning to Tink. “Has Abby told you about the women in our family? About your legacy?”

  “A little,” Tink replied, “but I’m not related to you by blood.”

  “It doesn’t matter.” Aunt Dot fixed her bright blue eyes on Tink’s face. “You share our spirit, and fate made you a member of this family. You’ll carry on our heritage. A heritage that goes back over one hundred years.”

  With a timid smile, Tink lowered her head. “Margaret Mary, Ophelia’s mom, didn’t inherit the gift, did she?”

  “No,” I piped in. “Mother’s talents lie in other areas.”

  Like being able to control all she surveys, I thought, but didn’t voice my opinion out loud.

  Tink looked up and cocked her head. “So what are some of the different talents?”

  “Ahh,” Aunt Dot said, pouring another glass of wine and passing me the bottle.

  I filled my glass, too.

  Aunt Dot continued. “Sister is a medium, like you. And you know Ophelia and Abby are both psychics, but their talents are a little different. Abby is good at sensing the future, and Ophelia seems to have a knack for finding things.”

  “Things?” I said. If the past two years were any indication, those “things” usually turned out to be dead people.

  Aunt Dot motioned in Abby’s direction. “Abby’s mother, my sister, Annie, was a healer. By laying hands on a sick neighbor, she could see the disease in her mind. If the illness was one she could help, she’d treat it using herbs and crystals.”

  “Weren’t there any doctors?” Tink asked.

  “Back then there weren’t many. And it took days to reach one. Some of our neighbors had no choice but to seek one out. Their illness was beyond Annie’s skills.” Aunt Dot stared off into space as if images from the past flickered through her mind. “Annie was also a midwife, and many women of the mountain had an easier time giving birth, thanks to her talent for easing the pain.” Aunt Dot’s eyes traveled to me. “Annie also used runes, like Ophelia here.”

  “But I’m not as good as Annie was,” I said.

  “Don’t fret about it. You haven’t had anyone to help you. Our grandfather, Jens, taught Annie.”

  “I thought Annie was taught by your mother?”

  “Mette Marie? No, our mother’s talents laying in sensing the weather, as did my grandmother’s, Flora Chisholm Swensen. At times, Mother could even call the rain.”

  “Really?” I asked, surprise ringing in my voice. “I’d always assumed the runes came from Mette Marie.”

  “No, from Jens. He was Danish, a descendant of the Vikings, and he had his own kind of magick.” Aunt Dot chortled. “It was fun as a child to visit my grandparents—a Scottish we
ather witch and a Vitki.”

  “That’s a Viking shaman, right?” I broke in.

  “Yes. We never knew what to expect.”

  All this family history was confusing me. “But I thought your heritage was strictly Scottish.”

  “No, my mother was half Danish, and the maternal side was Scottish—the Clan Chisholm—so Mother’s background was fine with my father, Walter Cameron. The Chisholms had fought on the right side with the Clan Cameron at the Battle of Culloden.”

  “When was your father born?” I asked, even more confused.

  “Hmm, let’s see…1896, I believe.”

  I was shocked. The Battle of Culloden had occurred in the mid-1700s.

  “But that battle happened over a century before Walter was even born!” I exclaimed. “Why would what side your ancestors fought on matter?”

  Aunt Dot shook her head. “People in the mountains have long memories. Especially when it comes to the clans. It was one of the reasons my father was so against Annie marrying—”

  “I really think we should eat now,” Abby said, popping out of her chair.

  “Oh, sit back down.” Aunt Dot flapped her hand at Abby as she refilled her glass of wine—and mine. “After Annie laid eyes on Robert Campbell, she’d have no other, much to my father’s disgust.”

  “I don’t mean to sound stupid, Aunt Dot, but what’s wrong with the Campbells?”

  “They were on the wrong side. They fought with ‘Butcher’ Cumberland—”

  “‘Butcher’ Cumberland?”

  “The Duke of Cumberland—he led the British forces at Culloden, and even after the battle, continued to slaughter the clans, and the Campbells were with him.” Aunt Dot shook her head sadly and downed the rest of her wine. “My father always said ‘never could trust a Campbell.’ He—”

  “Tink, dear, aren’t you hungry?” Abby said, cutting off Aunt Dot and smiling brightly at Tink.

  “Gosh, I guess.”

  “See, we need—”

  I held up my hand, stopping her. “Wait a second.”