Cat Dubois' Odyssey to Enchantment

by BoJenn

  “Thank you so much, Ms. Dubois.” Grace accepted the wine and handed it through the car window to her husband; he nodded his appreciation. “We love red wine; it’s perfect,” she added.

  The church choir had gathered in the town square across from the grocery. The children’s angelic voices caught Cat’s attention. They were wearing gold cotton choir robes with orange or brown collars. The leaves of autumn were a brilliant backdrop for the picture perfect sight. The twenty best child vocalists sang with the choral director standing in front of them. Their parents gleamed smiles of pride and holiday cheer. Tourists snapped pictures and awed at the beauty of the place.

  We gather together to ask the Lord's blessing;

  he chastens and hastens his will to make known;

  the wicked oppressing now cease from distressing:

  sing praise to his Name, he forgets not his own.

  Beside us to guide us, our God with us joining,

  ordaining, maintaining his kingdom divine;

  so from the beginning the fight we were winning:

  thou, Lord, wast at our side: all glory be thine!

  We all do extol thee, thou leader triumphant,

  and pray that thou still our defender wilt be.

  Let thy congregation escape tribulation:

  thy Name be ever praised! O Lord, make us free!

  Cat watched the children sing after she loaded the Jeep with the groceries. Her memories of pasts were melded together. Cat had once sung in that choir when she had been their age. “Mama and Daddy watched me, and we were so happy then,” she reminisced. That’s all she could take. She had to leave as her tears couldn’t be held back any longer. Into the Jeep she jumped and drove as fast as she could up Downy Park Mountain road, wiping her cheeks with every turn and bump in the road.

  The haze of low clouds hung over the hills, and the weather forecast on the radio predicted the first wintry storm was coming. The town was illuminated with lights all a’twinkling, and soon Christmas decorations would be hung and Glory Town residents would model their town to match the most picturesque Christmas card marketed anywhere in the world.

  “Home is truly where our heart is,” she thought. She drove fast. Winding up the road, lined with trees, their bending boughs beckoning her home. The autumn leaves had already begun to fall. Many were still clinging to the last day before the predicted snow storm. She went through her mental checklist. The wood had been brought inside. It was dry and ready to burn. She had stacked a bundle that covered one and a half walls in the mud room. The wood stacks reached the ceiling and halfway around the small room. It should last through Christmas. She had bought long matches. The fireplace was cleaned this summer. Heat from the fireplace would keep the damp house warm on the bottom floor. She wished she had an animal to bring inside, but that would never happen again. Two days before, she had cleaned the other bedrooms in honor of her mother and father, making the beds in two rooms, and cleaned the bathrooms. She didn’t know why she cleaned them. Ritual more than likely the reason.

  Yesterday, she had also taken out the crock pot and cleaned it. Her Thanksgiving dinner would be a simple one, but it would be made. The china dishes—a four-piece place setting—had been washed, along with crystal wine goblets. A white linen table cloth that had belonged to her mother had been brought out and inspected. She had ironed the wrinkles out and then covered the oak dinning table. The working table in the kitchen was free of clutter, clean and ready for chopping after she returned from the grocery. Everything was prepared yesterday, it seemed. All is complete except the cooking.

  The Dubois Manor was the American home of Cat’s mother and father—it was the only home that she could remember, now. She would make the best of the Thanksgiving, even if it was only herself and the ghosts. The yearly event was nothing new; things would be as they always were.

  She kept telling herself, “There is always a reason for everything under God’s divine plan. There is a purpose for all mishaps and misfortunes; and, in fact, the old saying, ‘God never gives anyone more than they can handle,’ is true.” Just for good measure, she gave herself another pat phrase—”God must love you a lot if he gave you a hard road to travel.”

  “He trusts me,” she said, trying as she could to excuse all the trials of her life. Somewhere along the way, someone taught her these lame explanations as to why people suffer; but try as she did to believe them, the ineffectual bits of wisdom did her absolutely no good. “Useless, and proven untrue for me…,” she muttered, “…hogwash. How stupid and naive I must be to still be trying my faith at fairytales and bullshit.” She threw the remaining Thanksgiving items into their proper places more erratically than she ever had. She was miffed at herself. “But, not anymore. I’m not naive anymore. And, fairytales, angels, witches, miracles and maybe God, don’t exist. Well, not for me, anyway.”

  The Coming of Eleanor

  Back in Glory Town, all the final preparations by shoppers and tourists were going on without Cat. Most stood waiting nearby the church for the open-air production to commence, smiling at the eager costume-clad children running here and there, readying to play their roles of pilgrims and indians. Every one smiled, as they should, and some of the tourists were talking about having a Thanksgiving day meal, together, at the hotel. And, everyone, everywhere across town, was talking about the weather; it simply couldn’t be more perfect. It was slightly cool, and the sun tried to come out during much of the day, but the clouds were moving pretty fast, and most concluded that bad weather was on its way. It was the calm before the storm.

  The men swapped their big fish stories and drank coffee, while the residents and tourists finished their shopping. Then, while they waited for the Thanksgiving play, several of the townsfolk gathered in small groups to share stories with the tourists, who marveled with envious desire to live in Glory Town. The charm of the place and the people was outstanding.

  Of course, Cat Dubois wasn’t there. She was at home up off Downy Ridge Park Road. She had noticed the clouds, and decided to shut the windows she had cracked open to let in the cool, fresh air. She even weatherproofed under the doors with towels, thinking the time of year was just about right for a storm. Then, she chopped the vegetables that she would eat alone.

  The wind started to blow gently at the manor and moved down the mountain. A few leftover leaves were falling outside and she could see them as they danced in the wind in the stand of trees that lined the road to town.

  The cardboard props of the children’s nativity set blew over with a gust. Then, a slight chill accompanied the next gusts. A little funnel of leaves began to twirl.

  The children pointed in that direction. “Look, Daddy!” There, the leaves and wind had picked up speed—so much so, in short order, that many families began packing up their belongings and putting them in their cars. The storm was near.

  A few of the old-timers lingered, drinking coffee or whiskey, leaning on the outside tables. The shop owners began shutting their awnings and closing down the open-air market booths, but the men who stood outside the one saloon in town were unbothered. After all, this was typical weather and a gust of wind or a little cold front wasn’t enough to interfere with a good drink. They were having more fun than usual, talking to each other and the tourists about Glory Town history, as they buttoned and zipped up their jackets and ordered another shot. Chattering with general excitement, as men often do after a few, they were quite unaware of much of anything else.

  The wind had begun to really blow, and the little funnel of yellow, brown, and orange leaves the children had seen had now grown to a full, circular pattern in the park outside the church where they were now mid-performance. It was a miniature whirlwind; then, in the blink of an eye, it became larger. Another gust blew yet more leaves in the colorful circular pattern, so thick that it became impossible to see through the spiraling anomaly. Late fall was sure entering voraciously.

  The vortex became so thick, and the cold in its wind sent chills to th
e bones of the people who had stayed in town, caught unprepared. As it grew bigger, an archway formed in the dark center of leaves spiralling together, closer and faster. The women began rushing about trying to get their husbands and children scurried to their cars to go home; they didn’t see a thing but the weather. But in the center of that wildly whipping windstorm of leaves was a portal—an entrance large enough for a stout woman to step through into this place called Glory Town.

  Eleanor Harding walked boldly through the twirling, swirling leaves out of this portal between time, matter, wind and the material, gravitational earth. She had already made it out, blending into the crowd of people hustling to get to their cars, once the dust and leaves had settled. No one saw her form, or step from the fall dust devil, but she did, and all in one piece, though her clothes were slightly twisted and her hair was frazzled.

  She was a stately woman in her late sixties, a bit round and dressed in a midi-length, green, turn-of-the-century velvet suit. “It’s always been good for traveling in,” she uttered to herself. She straightened her attire upon arrival, adjusting her black-leather patent pumps which sported a square emblem of a lion’s head on the buckle that adorned the toes. She fixed her hose, next, as they bagged over her knees, and with a flick of her index finger, she groomed herself for her presentation to the earthlings.

  Gently moving her lace collar into perfect alignment for her fleshy neck, she produced a hand mirror from her tote bag, to check her face, and used her fingers to adjust her hair and make-up. Resetting her green, velvet pillbox cap, she fastidiously adjusted the quail feather adorning its side and straightened her stance to start her mission.

  She looked toward the shops, and to where the men were still seated or standing outside the bar next to the grocery, drinks in hand and engrossed in their banter. Eleanor approached the idle men. She always tried to arrive at her destinations incognito, but, this time, her old British accent was sure to give away that she was very much out of her element. She asked her first question in a straightforward, no-nonsense manner. “Pardon me, I’m looking for a Ms. Elizabeth Catherine Dubois. Would you tell me where I might find her?” The men stared Eleanor as if she’d made a mistake. They stood there blinking their eyes, and, really, for a moment were speechless, except Jasper. Surely, this fine woman was not asking for Cat Dubois?

  “Are you talking about a local witch, the Cat woman?” Jasper loudly spoke so that everyone would hear his clever description. He was pleased with himself.

  Eleanor showed no emotion as she waited until they finished their drunken chatter. She stood there with both arms crossed and bracing her anterior chest, buxom as it was. The men laughed, thinking Jasper’s chiding slang for Cat Dubois was humorous, and the whiskey, of course, worked in favor of loosening their sarcasm. She looked away from their faces while rapidly tapping her right toe, making several tap-tap-taps on the wooden walkway. Her facial expressions would have been hint enough that she wasn’t pleased with their stupidity.

  Jasper was the one to speak first again. His two cents began with a careful description of the Tudor manor belonging to the Dubois family, now diminished to just Cat, and a made a subtle pry at Eleanor’s motive for her visit. He was the most likely person to talk in Glory Town, whether right or wrong. Jasper told the town’s stories, old and new, to everyone. He was the unofficial spokesperson, though not delegated for any television reporting, which occurred almost without fail every holiday. In fact, the town council members made sure of his deliberate disappearance should the tourist schedule include any TV news features or media documentaries about Glory Town. His grammar was so atrocious that the few times he had taken the pleasure of telling his tales on public TV, or to any other advertising source before they could arrange otherwise, the whole town cringed with embarrassment. Jasper could make Glory Town look and sound Southern-ignorant, and that was a terrible humiliation to this fine Christian community.

  But now, since this elderly woman approached him and the men, he was the perfect drunk to help, gladly promoting himself as the town’s friendly greeter. Jasper stepped up to Eleanor, stopping not too far from her face. She used her hand to fan away the smell of whiskey from his breath. “Cough, cough,” Eleanor moved her hand back and forth and turned her head with a soured face.

  Jasper began to address the older, proper-looking woman, but bent further forward, having difficulty balancing his intoxicated body. “Hello, Madam…what did you say your name was?”

  “If you would be polite enough to show me the way or give sober directions, then perhaps, you will know my name.” Eleanor was sharp and to the point. Putting up with this drunk was intolerable and disgusting. “If you are an example of the character of this town, then…” She held her tongue. Hastily she continued, “Please, just tell me the way to get there. There is no time to waste on foolishness.”

  Jasper stepped up again and pointed to the northwestern hillside towards Cat’s home. Slurring his words, speaking through the side of his mouth, all the while his eyes out of focus, Jasper said, “A fer look o'er the hills, just on the first ridge, sitting in front of the tree line, look o'er yonder, o'er there, see the smoke rising eastward? It’s the Dubois family place. A manor or cottage, as I call it. It sits on that hill.” Jasper pointed towards the direction of the Dubois home. As he spoke again, he changed his tone. His voice became harsh and threatening as he continued, “If you want to find Miss Dubois, she stays there most of the year.” He glared at the old woman with an evil eye. Then, he hesitated a moment and softened his words, “In the spring, you can see her garden, just like her mother left it.” Sweet and condescending now, he demonstrated with his hands while delivering his directives.

  Jasper spit as he talked and Eleanor couldn’t help but hope that his tobacco chew spit wouldn’t hit her in the face. She stopped the tobacco flying at her with a twitch of her index finger. “Repulsive,” she thought as her lip curled. “Silence, you spit when you talk!”

  Jasper said, “Excuse me, ma’am. My apologize.” The other men chuckled, finding Jasper’s terrible lack of elocution and tobacco spitting hysterical, and began laughing and bullying him like naughty schoolboys. The weather added to their immature friskiness.

  Jasper Jones continued speaking improper English and still spitting as he slurred. He said, “You won’t see ‘er in the winter, ‘less she comes to town. The roads up n’ down the ridge become all dangerful, so she stocks supplies on the good days." He hesitated a minute, conjuring up his evil eyes again, trying to tell the old woman not to go up there if she knew what was good for her.

  Eleanor listened with an eyebrow raised in dismay. “Really, Mister…what do you call yourself? Never mind. Your name is unimportant. Continue.”

  Her gold eyes seen only by Jasper, hypnotically spiraled and caught his, which bugged out, on the spot, like he’d just seen a ghost. “This old woman is weird,” Jasper said to himself as he knew it now, and he wanted to know her intentions—not for Ms. Dubois—but for the sake of Glory Town. “Maybe this old woman is another witch?”, he thought, determined that it was his duty to find out anything he could.

  The other men listened like sharks on blood. They had something to gossip about now, and any hints from this old women might add to their Cat Dubois stories.

  Jasper continued, warily, to describe the reclusive Ms Dubois, hoping for some hint as to what was wanted with her. “Winter's are five long months, sometimes even six down here, but the rest of the seasons make up for it. May I ask, ma'am, what you want with Ms Dubois? She ain't too friendly with the town folk, and I doubt she'd be friendly to a stranger.” He looked at her with a question mark almost plastered on his face.

  Eleanor listened to the old disorderly man, looking slightly down her nose at his poorly constructed investigative questions. She said, “Thank you for your assistance. I appreciate the warning.” She sighed in exasperation at this creature. “Now, tell me about the roads? Are they drivable?”

  Jasper paused. “It
depends. How well do you drive, ma’am, and does she know you’re a-comin?”

  Eleanor rolled her eyes at the intrusive, busybody question, rather liking playing the game. “Yes, please go on, Mr…?” She trailed off, meaningfully trying to unravel his dramatic attempts of warning her about Catherine Dubois.

  “Jasper Jones, ma’am,” Jasper replied. “Like I said a’fore, Miss Dubois don't like many folk, and she don't like strangers neither. She keeps ‘ter herself the whole winter." Once again, Jasper pointed in the direction of her home and glared at Eleanor, the warning in his eyes paralleling his next comment. “She's odd, strange and unfriendly. You be careful, ma’am, folks say she's a witch.”

  Eleanor held his gaze, staring back. If looks could kill, this moron would choke right there and right then. Her eyes looked like cat’s eye marbles. Glass, hard, and mystic.

  Old Jasper suddenly felt quiet and woozy. Eleanor mumbled to herself, “It’s not anyone’s business as to why I am here, and Mr. Busybody is far too curious for his own good.”

  “A witch!”, she exclaimed. “Well, you don’t say! How delightful! Now, I can’t wait to meet her! Grand, grand grand! Thank you again, you've been most helpful. I hope you have a good day.”

  She nodded goodbye and adjusted her windblown hat as she walked away. Eleanor left the men, snickering delightfully to herself at their ignorance. She had fun with them and would love to play with their minds in a grander way, but there was no time to spare; she had to be on her way. “Perhaps one day I might return just for the fun of toying with their minds, but—oh, never mind. They’re not worth the time or energy.”

  Eleanor shook her head in dismay, approached the general store where Jasper had told her there was a rental car desk. The rental agent looked up. “Name, please?”

  “Eleanor. Eleanor Harding.” Eleanor used a common name and title which no one would find too unusual.

  “Well, Mrs. Harding, I don’t see a reservation for you. When did you make it?” The clerk looked at her, expressionless, to match his “I don’t give a damn” attitude.