Spine Shivering Stories!

by Michelle E Lowe

  “Mother of Craft,” he said, clearing his throat loudly.

  “I’m not deaf, Tarquin Norwich,” she retorted, pulling weeds from amongst the chamomile.

  Norwich sighed, then sneezed. “Mother of Craft, please.” His tone hardened.

  She rose and examined him. Norwich’s eyes were red and glossy, like freshly spilled blood. But despite his sniffing and heavy breathing, he stood arrow straight, head high like a proud, albeit sick, lion.

  “Let’s go inside,” she said, heading for the back door, a bouquet of white chamomile in her hand. “The water will be boiling by now.”

  As she knew he would, he hurried to follow.

  Her home felt like an ancient memory, an echo of a past life. A few glass plated daguerreotypes of her and her daughter hung on the dark blue wall, along with oil paintings of forested landscapes and abstracts of cities. Twisted vines cradled glass lamps in their green fingers. Inside, living plants thrived, nurturing in the low glow of the lamps’ light.

  Norwich hung his coat and hat on a rack, then went to the kitchen and sat at his usual chair. It was the most inviting room in the small cottage. Freshly baked biscuits sat within a small wicker basket, giving it a homey aroma. Through a wide window above the counter was a view of an endless ocean.

  While she removed her sun hat and loosened the ribbon around her long coquelicot colored hair, Norwich took out a handkerchief and blew his nose.

  “Tell me, Tarquin,” Mother of Craft said, tearing flower pedals from their stems, dropping them into a small bowl, “what is it you seek?”

  “The Toymaker,” he said, his voice clear now. “Can you help me find him?”

  “Indigo Peachtree, eh? Has he gone missing?”

  “Yes,” Norwich admitted. “In truth, he escaped from me last night.”

  The iron kettle hanging over the range began to whistle sharply. It was sculpted like a short twisted tree with roots snaking its body, with a branch for a handle. It was half covered by small tesserae with tea-leaves painted on. She dumped the bowl of petals into a matching teapot, then grabbed the kettle with a cloth and poured in the steaming water. She smiled wistfully, breathing the heady aroma as she stirred the brew.

  “No,” she said, pouring the tea into a cup.

  “No?” he exclaimed, his face reddening. He slapped his hand down on the table.

  “Don’t you be hitting anything that belongs to me, Tarquin Norwich!” she admonished fiercely. Although her anger was feigned, it was enough to put him in his place.

  Norwich was deemed an important man. He was also power hungry, ambitious, cruel, and deadly. Mother of Craft helped him because he played a vital role in her plans.

  Norwich’s face softened and he looked away, not meeting her gaze. He cleared his throat as if to say something, but no words were forthcoming.

  “I don’t know where to find Indigo Peachtree,” Mother of Craft said. It was a lie, but he could not know that. She placed the teacup down before him. “But”—she hesitated, relishing the little torment it gave him—“there are those who do.”

  Norwich leaned over his cup, wafting the steam up with his hands, breathing deeply. He spoke in a casual tone, that barely masked his profound interest. “And who might they be?”

  “The Landcross brothers.”

  Norwich sat bolt upright. “Landcross,” he gasped. “How can that be?”

  “The two have crossed paths with Indigo.”

  “I see,” Norwich said, nodding solemnly. He took a sip of tea. “Do you know how to find them? Either, I don’t care which.”

  The sun vanished behind a mass of grey clouds, a warning of oncoming rain. Mother of Craft lit candles inside several yellowing glass lanterns that she placed upon the table. “Not just one, but both of them.”

  “I only need one,” he replied, taking a biscuit from the basket. “The one who will best cooperate, that is.”

  “You’ll find that both will cooperate in their own way,” she said.

  “Why do I need both?” He chewed the soft biscuit, letting its sweet taste lighten his mood.

  “The oldest knows where to find the Toymaker. However, the younger knows where to find an important item you seek.”

  She looked him in the eye, but he turned away. Her unusual violet eyes unnerved him.

  “The journal?” Norwich asked in a whisper. “He knows where it is?”

  “Indeed. As well as the masks. You’ll need those, too, Tarquin. Do not misjudge their importance.”

  Norwich could not hide his excitement. “And you can locate them?”

  “Yes, I believe I can.”

  She left the kitchen with the teacup in hand, walking over to a bookshelf in the other room. “They’re many miles distant, but not for long.” She stopped in front of a map of England painted on a burlap canvas that hung on the wall like a ragged curtain.

  “Are they together?” Norwich asked.

  “No,” she said, planting her finger on the map. “One is here.”

  He stood up and came over to her. “Bristol? It’ll take me a week to get there and back. ”

  “That’s why you’ll wait a week until he arrives here,” Mother of Craft said, sliding her finger down to the forest area of Ampfield. “On this road, at Pagan Tree Dressing Church, you’ll be able to capture him when he and his gang of highwaymen try to rob you.”

  “Which brother is it?”

  “The oldest.”

  “Right,” he huffed. “Where’s the other one?”

  She sipped her tea, then turned to face him. Just mentioning the younger brother boiled her blood. The years she’d invested in that boy! It kept her awake at nights.

  “He’s in France, on his way to Le Havre. You’ll find him in an inn by the sea.”

  “How is it that you can tell me exactly where those two are, but not Peachtree?” His tone conveyed more than simply suspicion; there was a threat there too.

  “The brothers were touched by the supernatural many years ago, and that allows me—and any good witch or warlock—to sense them. I have an insight into their futures.”

  What she told him was only half of the truth. Indeed, the Landcross brothers had the cloak of craft over them. Like most enchanters, she was able to look into the kaleidoscope of someone’s future and see the many different outcomes in their life. Contrary to what many believed, there was no such thing as destiny, only random acts that kept the future constantly shifting. Consequently, one’s future could not be told in a single path. The only certainty was death, the time of which was determined before birth.

  Mother of Craft was a talented witch. Like most with magical blessings, she did not need a lot of paraphernalia to use her power. It simply resided within her like a vital organ.

  And she didn’t mind the term witch. She was who she was, and she had no quarrel with that. After all, she had let herself die in order to become an enchantress. After that, other concerns seemed petty.

  “How will I know him?” Norwich asked. “The one in France.”

  “He has a scar across his throat. This is common knowledge so he will try to hide it, concealed under an old scarf. He also wears a Greek coin on a chain around his neck; a stater. When you find him, he’ll be eating soup.”

  “Eating soup?”

  She nodded.

  “Is he not in Le Havre now?” Norwich asked with a dash of impatience in his tone.

  “No, Calais. He arrived after a narrow escape from the royal guards. He will be heading south to Le Havre.” She went back to the kitchen and poured herself more tea. He followed slowly, with a last lingering look at the map.

  “These are the closest locations that the brothers will be to you. Try not to be impatient. Let them draw themselves in on their own.” She turned her eyes up to him. “Besides, do you not have business at your summer estate?”

  His look betrayed his thoughts as he frowned. “Ah, yes. I do, indeed.”

  Norwich drained his last drops of tea, and Mother of Craft p
oured more for him. “Another shipment coming in, yes?”

  He snorted. “I confide too much in you.”

  He was obviously feeling better now.

  “And for good reason,” she replied. “If you had not confided in me about what Indigo told you, I could not have explained what I knew—and the power that could be gained from what he has. You’re crossing dangerous ground, dove, and you need all the help you can get.”

  “I’ll be fine.”

  She raised her chin. “Just in case, I will give you something.”

  She headed to the spice rack, with him following closely. She could feel his strength whenever he was near, and not just his physical might. His willpower was an unbreakable force. His stony grey eyes matching his salt and pepper hair, set within his majestic warrior’s face. Physically, he was a handsome man, yet he was a hardened soul who had not even mourned the death of his lovely wife when she’d taken her own life.

  But, however strong, Tarquin Norwich was an automaton, a mindless machine for her to use.

  She took a small, pink vial from the rack. She popped the tiny cork and poured out the fine anise seeds. She moved over to the counter near the window and lifted the lid of the largest of the matryoshka nesting dolls lining the wall. From it, she brought out a round, midnight blue jar. After twisting the cap off, she poured what looked to be black oil into the vial. She pressed the cork back and placed the pink container in front of Norwich. “Use it well.”

  Norwich picked it up, studying it, his face scrunching in distaste. “What is it?”

  “Demon’s blood.”

  He laughed, thinking it was a joke. But when she didn’t join him, he fell silent.

  “Mix this into something when you give it to someone. It’ll be easier for the individual to drink it if they don’t know what it is. Afterwards you have complete control over them.”

  He nodded. “The color of the bottle makes me half believe it’s a love potion.”

  She snorted. “That doesn’t exist. Otherwise, I would have sold you some to use on your wife.”

  He grimaced and placed his cup on the counter. “I must go. It’s a long ride to Southampton.” He set a coin purse down next to his teacup and headed for the coat rack.

  “One more thing,” Mother of Craft said, paying no mind to the purse. “It would be best to send all three of your children out to find the brothers.”

  Norwich turned to her as he donned his coat. “Archie? He’s a weak imbecile. Useless on all fronts. And Clover? She’s a ten-year-old girl. Just as useless.”

  “Trust me,” she said earnestly. “You’ll need them. And if you think so poorly of them, send them after the easiest one to catch.”

  He didn’t seem convinced, yet she knew that his trust in her would outweigh his doubt.

  She saw him out and watched him ride down the lane through the sprinkling rain. As she did every time he’d come to seek guidance, she thought it was funny that he never asked if he would succeed in his plan. It wasn’t fear that kept him from inquiring. Tarquin Norwich simply had too much damn self-confidence. A flaw, for that blinding buoyancy would be his undoing.

  Vela, Mother of Craft’s daughter, emerged from the woods in time to see him leave. She carried two limp, dangling hares. The mirror image of Mother of Craft, but at only eleven, she still had a lot of growing to do. She also shared some of her father’s features, like his wild heart and slender build. Mother of Craft had to admit she missed him sometimes.

  “Was that Norwich again?” Vela asked.

  “Aye.”

  “What did he want this time?”

  “He wants many things, as most men do. None of which concern you.”

  “Yes, Mother.”

  “I will say this, child,” she added. “This may well be the last you’ll ever see of him.”

  Legacy is available at Amazon.com, Barnesandnoble.com, and Norldlandpublishing.com