Cat Dubois' Odyssey to Enchantment

by BoJenn

  “If you please, which roads, sir?” She looked at his name tag. “Mr. Morgan, is that your name? I must be on my way before it gets any worse outside,” Eleanor said. Thunder rolled and rumbled as she spoke, shaking the old hotel, once stately, now with fresh paint covering the cracks from ceiling to floor.

  The glass paperweight on the counter rattled with the threatening, rolling booms. Eleanor swallowed after hearing the vibrations, thankful that her fright was unseen by Mr. Morgan. Even she was hesitant to journey during such weather, but she wouldn’t give any townsfolk any satisfaction in knowing that she had any reluctance. Instead, she persisted with insistence, knowing that the mission was a “go”; and nothing could stop the operation—not even the Devil himself would hinder this sortie. Delayed for all those years, not even a storm of catastrophic proportion could get in her way. Determination was painted on her face, and her expression said her demands would be fulfilled.

  Eleanor rallied herself against nature’s resistance and smoothed her clothes once more. There was a large mirror off to the side of the reservation desk, and using sharp, precise movements, she straightened her hat. The curls beneath were tucked up into a bun, hidden under the small, olive-green velvet hat, the pheasant feather still adorning alongside her hair. She tried her best to ignore Mr. Morgan. She started whistling, and moved over to the main desk. Tapping her fingernails on the counter top, “Waiting, Mr. Morgan,” she said, becoming a nuisance.

  Mr. Morgan was finally drawing a map, after grabbing a piece of paper from the printer; and he slammed it on the counter, continuing to draw, snarling and grunting. He had no eye contact as she asked questions about a few places where she couldn’t make out what he’d drawn.

  “Is that a right or left here? How far?”, Eleanor prodded.

  Mr. Morgan addressed her sharply. First, he wanted no part of her insistence to drive up that mountain mid-storm—it was certainly an accident waiting to happen. Second, he hadn’t wanted to give her directions to the house of that troublesome hag, Cat Dubois. He used to throw rocks at her; and it bothered him to see Eleanor was set on seeing her. “What the hell? This woman is as crazy as that witch. Probably just like her, too,” he concluded.

  “There are many twist and turns,” he muttered. “And, there are no lights to line the narrow, two-lane road. It’s really only big enough for one car at a time, if you know what I mean, Mrs. Harding?”

  “Keep drawing. There is no time for your commentary, Mr. Morgan,” Eleanor said. For a moment, she saw him in a flashback, throwing rocks, in his younger years, at an old-fashioned manor.

  Eleanor’s eyes narrowed and she gave him a look that said, “I know what you did. You can’t hide. Don’t even try.” Her eyes peered into his, but Mr. Morgan was trying his best not to look back at her. He knew what she knew. Even though he wouldn’t look at her, he felt her thoughts as clear as day. His hands had begun to tremble. Drawing spots on the paper, Mr. Morgan almost felt sorry for the old woman, knowing that she would not be persuaded to call off her late-night winter visit through the winding icy roads to see the town witch. He sneered, inwardly, at his feeble map, but he’d done the best he could under the circumstances. His warnings had been sufficient to stop her. Her choosing to go anyway—after his advice—would be her loss. “Ignorant old woman,” Mr. Morgan thought, darkly.

  Eleanor nodded, politely. “Thank you, Mr. Morgan.” She turned to leave. “By the way, did your mother ever tell you, it’s not nice to throw stones?” She paused to watch as the concierge turned to look at himself in the large mirror.

  He ignored the comment. Then, a choking gasp came from Mr. Morgan. “What the hell?”, he yelled. His reflection, all at once, bore the image of a dirty old crone. His nose had an unsightly black mole, his eyes were sunken in and sallow skin hung low. He darted a glance at Eleanor, a sudden look of hate in his eyes as he loudly muttered, “Hag!” Then, he spat at her, as he glanced back into the mirror again, only to see his usual image. He stared for a moment, then leaned closer, examining his face.

  “Perhaps he caught a look at his real self for the first time. Truly, he is an old crone,” Eleanor quipped to herself.

  “Stop!” Tadhg’s voice registered clearly in her mind. “You know you must not tamper with these townsfolk; you will bring more attention to us and make it bad for Catherine. Stop! I’ll not remind you again!”

  “Tadhg, who is the elder—you or me?” Eleanor reminded him of his rank.

  “Earth is pulling on your emotions; you must trust me, Eleanor. You’re behavior is becoming like them. Now, you must follow what I tell you. Please?” Tadhg tried to cause her to remember the plan.

  Eleanor stifled a giggle, well out of hearing range of Mr. Morgan. Her eyes and mouth turned up in a moment of sarcastic embellishment. “Oh come on now, Tadhg. Relax, lighten up a bit. It was only for a glance that he saw his real self. It did good…not harm, dear friend.”

  “Come now. Time is crucial.” Tadhg pulled Eleanor gently, by the arm, from out of the hotel lobby toward the Jeep parked out front.

  “It’s time, I made a proper English visit. That is what her mother and father wanted, and the rest of the Dubois family, as well.” Eleanor smiled to herself and headed out, leaving the hotel and Mr. Morgan, and the clerk, and whomever else in that hotel who had been watching her, behind. She was on a mission.

  Focused at last, she looked at the Jeep, opened the door, and scooted inside, eagerly. “Oh, God, here we go,” she said to herself, putting the key in the ignition to turn it over. “Tadhg, are you here?”

  “Don’t worry, love,” Tadhg said, reassuringly. “I’m here. You’ll be fine, but you’ll have to listen when I tell you to shift down, got it?”

  “Yes. I got it,” she said, putting faith in her old friend, Tadhg.

  So Eleanor set off straightaway to the country home of Miss Elizabeth Catherine Dubois. It would soon be dusk and visibility would be nil if she did not hurry. The sky provoked her with the ominous rumbles of thunder and slashes of lightning across the sky, making her dread the drive.

  “God is with me and my dear companion, Tadhg,” Eleanor reminded herself, and sighed as she pressed forward—courageously so.

  “Boom! Crack! Rumble, rumble, slash!” The lightening lit the evening sky. Electricity and dark energy threatened Eleanor not to move any closer towards Catherine’s home. The clouds formed shapes of evil faces. Ominous shades of grays collided and developed into shaking fingers pointing at the Jeep that traveled onward to a dreaded destiny. Teeth, growls, fear and trepidation snarled from within the rumbles of the thunder. “We will fight,” the wicked entities echoed. “We are certain that no weapon formed against hell will prosper,” so the demons chanted from within the mansion. Outside and in, they all had knowledge that trouble was most definitely on it’s way.

  Catherine suspected nothing. She poured another brandy and sat by the cozy fire with a book. She started to read Pilgrim’s Progress. It was one of her mother’s favorites during Thanksgiving. Her mother always read aloud, so Cat imitated her.

  “Pilgrim's Progress, Chapter 1,” she read. “‘As I walked through the wilderness of this world, I lighted on a certain place where was a den, and laid me down in that place to sleep; and as I slept, I dreamed a dream. I saw a man clothed with rags, standing in a certain place, with his face from his own house, a book in his hand, and a great burden upon his back. I saw him open the book, and read therein; and as he read, he wept and trembled; and he cried out, “What shall I do?’”

  Cat sighed and closed her eyes for a quiet moment remembering her mother.

  The Long Road

  It was nearly Thanksgiving Eve and, as usual, Cat was by herself in the old creaky Dubois manor. The wind blew on the mountainside, bringing ghostly sounds inside. The whistling winds passing through the tree tops sounded like the howls of lonesome wolves. Cat wrung her hands as she went about getting the supplies she had bought to prepare her home for the incoming storm. The wind wa
s cold, but, more, it was different than times past. There seemed something odd and sinister within the front that would soon bare down.

  She began wrapping the old pipes throughout the house in yarn, and then wrapped them again with electrician’s tape, securing the yarn like blankets. She hoped the pipes wouldn’t burst from the cold. This cold was going to be devastating. Her bones felt it. She looked out the eastern front window, watching the bolts of lightening which had formed in the distance and were closing in fast.

  Suddenly the screen door facing the west towards where the barn stood started slamming open and shut. A chill went through her. Looking around she was hoping to see the boy; at least then she would have company to weather the storm. But, he was quiet.

  Cat walked carefully down the dark and dank cement steps to the basement and cracked the door so wildlife could find a way to safety from the freezing cold elements. Following a checklist her father made years ago, she started battening down the hatches.

  She remembered how, one time, she had to tend to the animals that were in the freezing barn. But not any more. Tonight, she wished she had a dog. “Dogs make us feel secure and loved. Why don’t I have a dog?”, she asked herself again. After the deliberate fire in the barn, her affections for any future pets was destroyed as she feared growing close to them would only bring pain when they were inevitably taken away. So she protected them and herself the only way she knew how. She fretted, but it was too late, as there was no dog; and she would have to make do with “Loneliness” and “Isolation” her constant companions. Unable to love without eventually losing those she loved, Cat just closed herself off from anyone and everyone.

  Perhaps the storm would do her in once and for all. But, she really didn’t want to die, she just didn’t want to continue being so lonely any more. She thought, wearily, as she viewed the electricity in the sky. The lights dashing here and there were flashing on the eastern part of Glory Town. She actually could see the buildings when the bolts hovered over that area. The storm was moving to the Northwest and soon it would be overhead. Then, the ice would come followed by snow, the weatherman had said.

  The manor soon secured, Cat retreated to her usual place. She retrieved her brandy and partially reclined on the velvet couch, clad in a long, black velour nightgown. Her sculpted, chin-length black hair and scared dark blue eyes nestled into the blankets awaiting the freezing blast of air in the night ahead.

  Once again, she thought of Daniel. She was imagining that he had come to visit. “Hello, Daniel. I’ve missed you. How are you?” She cut that conversation short, “No, that’s silly. He’s not here. You’re here alone. Face it.” Then, she tried to see him again in her mind, knowing thoughts of him would distract her from the sounds of the whipping wind. “We would dance,” Cat closed her eyes, visualizing him taking her hand. She could see him as he kissed her soft white skin and looked up at her with his warm brown eyes. The waltz began and she saw their movements flow together in such a way that said, surely, they were still soul mates.

  Whirling and whipping sounds moved all around the outside of the house, then over it and through the trees, bent to almost breaking point. Hail started hitting the roof. The front window took a few thuds from ice chunks, but the windows didn’t break or crack, which was quite amazing. The house was taking a hammering. The front, so close to being on top of her, Cat commanded her mind to drift back to her hopes and thoughts—back to the moments she and Daniel so often shared outside in the fresh spring grass on the sides of the mountains. She needed to think good thoughts—of flowers, warmth and sunshine.

  Daniel and Cat had once hiked up to a green place where dandelions and four-leaf clovers grew abundantly. They blew blades of grass with their lips, the tender blades held between their thumbs. They laughed and wondered at the little things together as they lay on the grass. They were like children looking at a globe of the world, twirling it, pretending to go wherever their index fingers landed. They played pirate and princess. Cat made a gold dress and a wildflower wreath. She smiled, remembering the fun back then. Then, from outside, “Wham!” A branch had hit the roof. It must have been heavy as she ran upstairs to see if there was water coming through the roof.

  “Maybe the boy is up there?”, she thought, hopefully. “Hey! Are you up here, boy? I’m scared down there. I could use some company. So, if you want to join me, I have the fire going. Please do, please join me. Please.”

  There was no leaking water, thank God. She looked around still hoping to see the boy. “I guess you’re scared too? Well, I’ll be downstairs alone if you want to come down.” Cat turned and went down to the den and by the fire.

  Meanwhile, Eleanor had met quite a challenging drive to the Dubois Manor on Downy Ridge Park Road. The roads hadn’t gotten too bad in Glory Town, but things changed when she made the right turn leading up the winding mountain road. Eleanor bravely drove onward despite constant weather warnings coming from the radio. Finally, as she approached Downy Ridge, there were no longer any street lights to light the edges of the shoulder. She barely made out the lone street sign in the darkness, just as Mr. Morgan had so ungraciously said.

  “Dang it. Forget what he said. He’s just like a miserable old woman. He was born to be a woman, you know. That’s why he’s hateful,” she told herself, thinking of their unpleasant interaction.

  “Winter weather storm advisory for the areas located in the Appalachian areas of…,” the weatherman on the radio droned on as he named all the local towns and villages affected. “If you are on the roads and haven’t an emergency, then go home NOW! The final echo of “now” echoed and reverberated on Eleanor’s biggest nerve as she crept her way to the manor.

  “Being human flesh is a target for fears to strike,” she recalled from her forays into mortality. “Fears are likened to a mass of annoyances getting on or in a vehicle. The human is the ride. Fear is an opportunistic vermin and will latch onto weakened skins and minds.” Yet, even Eleanor, as she was determined to talk herself out of it, was having difficulty deciphering real danger from fear.

  What she knew about fear is that fear is actually afraid of itself. That is the way that fears actually consume logic and reality. Through fears’ own pervasiveness, they grow bigger and bigger. When a fear reaches it’s peak—the zenith—it’s so out of control that it accomplishes its goal. It separates like a cell and becomes another, then another, and so forth, growing, dividing and creating until one fear, and then other fears, are part of every facet of thought and emotion. Fear simply must invade a vulnerable host.

  Fear can cause a heart attack, make someone paranoid and render them useless, or cause a catatonic state of being; in fact, it can paralyze an entire life. It can then replicate to take over whole families, their entire bloodlines through suicides, killing, hatefulness, madness, sadistic and controlling mental distortions, for generations. Then, after taking over bloodlines for long periods of time, fear has done it’s job, and has created more little fears to lie in wait to find new, vulnerable, related souls. Eleanor knew well how fear works its evil. She also knew, however, that fear doesn’t pat itself on the back because it knows if it loses the ride on one vehicle, there is always another mode of transportation just around the corner. It always has a home.

  The present war for which Eleanor was called to battle with this time was with fear, and Eleanor had fought fear on numerous battlefronts spanning centuries. This conflict was not with Catherine Dubois, but was in her defense. But Eleanor knew convincing Catherine of that might be the hardest task to victory.

  Victims often feel attacked when the battle begins; they are often confused as to whom the deliverer is and the role of defense they provide. The deliverer is often seen as the enemy. Fear feels, to the victim, like it belongs in them, as the host, and because fear has usually been attached to a victim for such a long time, it is difficult for the victim to recognize it as the real enemy.

  The victim is innocent and doesn’t understand that they have been used
by a parasitic negative force. Without a spirit defender, fear will not leave, rather it will hide and mask itself in other emotions such as sadness or verbal outbursts, and can even distort physical appearance for the worse.

  Fear robs eyesight, dimming the lights in the soul and spirit as it grows larger than the spirit which belongs to God. Fear crowds God’s light out of the host.

  “Now!”, the radio announcer had strongly advised anyone on the road to stop and get to shelter as soon as possible. Eleanor reasoned, to herself, “I can’t stop now, I must go on! He’s wrong. Just trying to scare me. I know what fear is trying to do: stop me.” She just turned the blasted thing off. Nothing would stop her from getting to Catherine—not the weatherman, not fear, not anything.

  The darkness and icy wind from the wintry front had moved into the valley, but Eleanor did not let the dismal conditions stop her, either. At one point, she held out her arm and moved her fingers. It was so dark she could hardly see them. There wasn’t even a shred of moonlight to light the road.

  The mission had to be completed before it was too late, but the tires surely no longer echoed the friendly flapping sounds of Glory Town’s brick streets. Finally, persisting in the journey on the treacherous mountain road, she uttered, “There! That must be the sign, so this must be the road! Eleanor turned right on to the entrance of Downey Ridge Park Road—the last of the long roads to Elizabeth Catherine Dubois.

  This road was paved with tar, rocks and two lanes that, on a good day, could be easily traveled by car in fifteen minutes or so toward the Dubois Manor. Downy Ridge Parkway Road had no pleasant sounds, but the quiet of the storm was a welcome to her as she turned right, then left, then a final right that led up the hillside. There were some hairpin, but fairly easy turns if taken slowly—at first.

  The trees looked dead and had huge branches of grey, with fall leaves slightly blowing with the wind while still in the valley, that blended into the darkness. The whole scene resembled a ghost tale. Goblins and witches must be hiding in the darkness of this forest. Eleanor made childish humor to herself. It gave her something to laugh about. She chuckled at the silliness of her being afraid of the weatherman’s warning.