A Witching Well of Magic

by Constance Barker

  What kind of business was Mr. Rivers running here? The doors should be open by now, people should be signing up for tours and browsing souvenirs and taking pictures and getting interested in the history of the town and the caves. Where was he?

  She fished her keys out of her pocket and sorted through them for the one that used to unlock the doors. To her surprise, it worked.

  The reaction of the crowd was immediate, as the man behind her, the old vacationer, gave a small cheer. “We’re in!”

  The rest of the people cheered as well, with some comments drizzled throughout the crowd about how long they’d been waiting—three hours, Bailey heard someone say—and what a relief it was to get out of the heat.

  She almost hated to tell them she wasn’t opening up—she was just going to find the owner, that was all.

  But they were so excited to get in... and after all, she could always schedule the next tours for tomorrow. She had always had a way of talking to people so they understood. And maybe Mr. Rivers could handle the tours himself if he had some time to get acquainted with the place.

  She sighed as she led the crowd in. Just this once. It had to be done, after all. The lights were already on. Bailey strode to the small counter where the sign “Tour Sign-Ups” was hung, with an arrow pointing down, and fine print that read “Ten to a tour.” More than ten people and it got impossible to walk comfortably through the caves. By the time she made it behind the counter and pulled out a clipboard—and brushed the thin layer of dust off of it with some irritation—people were already lined up.

  “Alright,” she said, loud enough to be heard. “Please form an orderly line here. Tour groups are in tens, each tour is an hour long and involves a small hike down to the cliffs. No one under fifteen without parental attendance. Can I have your name, sir?” This last she spoke at a more conversational volume, to the vacationer.

  Most of them were only a little irritated at having to wait a full day to take the tour, but they were usually placated with the assurance that they had plenty of time to examine the souvenirs and info-brochures. Questions were welcomed during the tours, and after all it was helpful to have them prepared ahead of time, right?

  She kept an eye out for anyone headed her way, either grateful or angry that she’d opened the place up, and ready to take the work off of her hands. No one did, though. Maybe Mr. Rivers was down at the caves, examining his new property. Historically, the original land owners had sold the entire property to the first people to open the tour business, which Poppy’s parents had purchased and turned into what it was today. Mr. Rivers likely owned the caves now, as well.

  It was a strange thing to think about. In Bailey’s eyes, now that she’d been initiated into the coven, into magic, and into the truth about the Seven Caves—and the intelligence that inhabited them; the Genius Loci as the witches called it, a sort of spirit of the place—it seemed wrong that anyone should own the Caves themselves.

  Then again, they tended to keep their secrets regardless of who owned them, and opened them only to the rightful inheritors, namely the witches. Neither Chloe, or Aria, or Francis seemed the least concerned that anyone held the deed for the land. “The caves don’t care about pieces of paper with ink scrawled on it,” Francis had said. “They own themselves, in the end.”

  If it was good enough for her, it was good enough for Bailey, she supposed.

  The time flew by, but when she got down to the last small group—a family traveling along the west coast and actually unaware that anything so terrible as a murder had happened here—she did glance at the clock and was somewhat shocked to realize she’d been here for almost an hour and a half booking tours. The next two days were full; she had staggered the tours to make sure Mr. Rivers had plenty of time to rest between them. Hiking up and down from the Caves could get tiring after a while.

  With the last tour group booked, the place became suddenly very quiet. Or at least, the noise inside Bailey settled down—that persistent white noise that was a combination of nerves and busyness, as well as the every present background hum of chattering minds that she’d gotten much better at keeping out of the way of her own thoughts.

  There was one last person in line, she realized. Well, that wasn’t so bad. He was tallish, with a mess of blond hair that in the fluorescent light appeared to have a shock of white, just the the left of a small widow’s peak. He was blue eyed and smiling slightly, calm and patient. He didn’t look like most of the others had—he was in a simple blue pin-striped suit, with a gray vest between the jacket and a white shirt and black silk tie. She wondered if he was here to serve papers.

  Bailey rested her hand on the clip board, still holding the pen. “Welcome to Coven Grove,” she said. “The next available tour for the Seven Caves is this Thursday, in the afternoon, at four thirty. After that, Friday is available all day. Do you have a preference of time, and how large is your group?”

  “Just one,” the man said. His voice was a smooth baritone and slightly amused. “But if it’s at all possible, I’d really like to get a tour today.”

  Bailey smiled politely at him, sympathetic to his plight—or at least trying to look it. “Unfortunately I can’t guarantee a tour today,” she said, and scrambled for a good excuse that wouldn’t make the business look bad, “the Tour Office is in the process of changing hands, so we’re updating some of the materials and familiarizing the staff with the caves at the moment.”

  “Oh,” he said, eyebrows raising slightly. “Well, that’s certainly a good idea. Still, I don’t suppose you could take me on a bit of a private tour? No one has to know. It can be our little secret.” He had a clipped way of talking, some accent that had probably been smoothed into a northwestern fare after years away from, what, England, or maybe Ireland?

  Either way, it was almost genetically flirtatious, and Bailey’s lips curled at the corners despite her desire to keep their interaction professional. “I’m afraid that’s not quite my call, sir,” she told him. “Honestly, I don’t... technically work here.”

  “Oh, really?” He wondered. He glanced back at the door. “You were the young lady that opened the doors, aren't you?”

  Bailey’s smile faltered into a grimace. “That was a bit of an accident. I used to work here, for the previous owner.” She kept her voice low as some of the milling tourists wandered close again on their way to the small museum exhibit on the other end of the building from the souvenir displays. “For Poppy Winters.”

  “Oh, yes,” the man said. He pulled a pained face. It was still handsome. He was very handsome, actually. “I seem to recall she killed someone, didn’t she?”

  “That is the story,” Bailey said sadly. “I suppose you read it in the paper as well?”

  “I did,” he said. “Not recently, though; I saw the original. And the Seven Caves fascinated me long before that ever happened.” He looked around the shop, and at the tourists, and gave an appreciative nod. “Looks like it’s drawn quite a crowd, hasn’t it?”

  “I wish it was just for the caves themselves,” Bailey said. She shrugged, though. “That’s how it goes. Tell you what, let me speak to the owner, and see about getting you a private tour. It would be nice to show them to someone who isn’t here for the grisly stuff.”

  “I’m sure it would,” he said. “But I’d like it very much if you could take me on it. Since you worked here before. Do you think he’d be alright with that?”

  Unwilling to make a promise she couldn’t keep, Bailey bit her lip and tried to decide whether to commit. There was the possibility Mr. Rivers would hire her on; but then again there was a chance he wouldn’t, given her previous association with Poppy.

  “You don’t seem certain,” the man said sympathetically.

  Bailey sighed, and leaned toward him, her voice a whisper. “To be honest, I haven’t met him yet. The lights were all on, but I didn’t see him here. But if you want to leave a number with me, I’ll talk to him as soon as I find him and see what I can work out. But I c
an’t make any promises.”

  “Of course,” the man agreed. “After all, he could be positively horrible, eh?”

  “He couldn’t be worse than Poppy,” Bailey said. She winced even as it came out of her mouth, even though the man’s eyes crinkled in a bright smile.

  “Well, I suppose as long as he isn’t a vicious killer he’s got one up on her, doesn’t he?” The man dipped two fingers into the inside pocket of the jacket, and drew out a card. He handed it to Bailey without comment, but there was a twinkle of mischief in his eyes as he did.

  Bailey looked down at the card. Oh.

  “Aiden Rivers,” Bailey muttered, her cheeks growing hot quickly. She sighed, and put the card down and looked back up at the new owner of the Seven Caves Tour office.

  “Quite so,” Mr. Rivers said—he was younger than she’d expected, maybe that’s why she hadn’t imagined it could be him. He stuck out a hand. “A pleasure to meet you, Miss Robinson. I’m Aiden Rivers. And I’m happy for you to arrange a private tour for me.”

  Chapter 3

  Bailey gradually unclenched her jaw and tried to breathe away her embarrassment. “Mr. Rivers,” she started.

  “Please,” he said, “Call me Aiden. I’m not quite old enough to be called ‘Mister’ anything yet.”

  “Aiden, then,” Bailey said. “You can call me Bailey, for the same reason. I’m so, so sorry to barge in here like this, I really didn’t mean anything by it. I just saw all of those people outside and they were getting a little irritable and I thought that if I just set them up some tours for tomorrow it would give you time to prepare and I had intended to actually come and find you and let you know afterward and even brief you on the talking points or see if you had your own—” Bailey choked off the words.

  Aiden had begun to laugh, showing those supernaturally perfect white teeth of his, and he raised a hand. “Please, Bailey; you can relax. I saw the crowd and, well... I panicked a little bit and I’m ashamed to say I hid in my office. I was perhaps a little perturbed that you let yourself in, initially—”

  “So, so sorry,” Bailey said again.

  “—but you did handle the crowd with aplomb. I’m glad you were here. You saved me. Though I should say that Poppy suggested that you practically came with the place; it seems she was right.”

  “You spoke with her?” Bailey wondered.

  Aiden smiled softly. “We transacted business, mostly, but yes. She had... some things to say about you but you might be surprised to hear they weren’t all bad.” He turned briefly toward the office and pointed, turned back with a curious look on his face. “I found some boxes of souvenirs, I think, in the office. They’re nicer than the ones out here, but there’s no shipping label or inventory on them. Do you know where she got them?”

  Bailey blushed a little, and shrugged a shoulder self-consciously. “Oh, those... I made them, actually.”

  “Is that so?” Aiden remarked, genuinely impressed. “That’s quite the talent you’ve got. I imagine you’re useful in all sorts of interesting ways.”

  The way he said it make Bailey’s eyebrows quirk up.

  Aiden opened his mouth, closed it, and sighed. “Ah, you’ll forgive me. I don’t mean to be so... I haven’t spent very much time in the company of women. I promise, I’ll mend my speech.”

  It was like he’d learned to talk from reading plays, everything about him was a show. She wondered if he was some sort of actor, before this. Wouldn’t that be funny? In a grimly dark sort of way. “Well,” Bailey said carefully, “I appreciate that.” Maybe he meant he was gay. Oh, he would be just Avery’s type. She imagined they’d make an adorable couple, Aiden’s clean, sharp lines and glossy style next to Avery’s Oregon hipster chic. They were about the same height. She’d have to introduce them.

  “So, about that tour,” Aiden said, casual again.

  “Right, of course,” Bailey said. “Um, well I suppose you’re the one in charge now. I have some time.”

  “Just wonderful,” Aiden said. “Let’s go.”

  Bailey looked at the people still wandering about. “Maybe we should clear the place out first?” she suggested.

  Aiden only waved them off with a flick of long, supple fingers. “They can loot the place for all I care. I plan on renovating and restocking everything. Give the place a makeover you know?” His eyes flickered to the odd, mismatched paint job. “From the ground up.”

  “I don’t know that anyone would want to loot anything here,” she said. “You’re probably right. Well, in that case... I suppose there’s no reason why not.”

  “Just what I love to hear,” Aiden said. He winked, and came around the desk to offer her his elbow.

  She took it after a moment’s hesitation, and he led her through the back of the building to the door that took them to the trail. On second thought, maybe he wasn’t gay. She wondered how much of the tour would be his lively humor and flirtations. Not that she minded. It was nice, actually. He was so gentlemanly about it. And, he was very handsome, she had to admit that. Again.

  “So you’re a local, I take it,” Aiden asked on their way down.

  “Born and raised,” Bailey confirmed.

  “You can’t be old enough to work,” he said slyly.

  She laughed a little. “I’m twenty,” she told him. “But around here, some kids work from fifteen. It’s a small town, kids get bored, mostly.”

  “That’s shocking to me,” Aiden said. “Not that you all work from such a young age, but that you get bored. Look at this coast line. I came from Seattle; believe me, this ‘small town’ is full of adventure from my point of view.”

  Lately it had been for Bailey, too. She could do with less of it, but didn’t say so. “Well, I hope Coven Grove had been friendly.”

  “So far,” he said with a smile and a wink her direction, “it has been exceedingly welcoming.”

  “You have a bit of an accent,” she mused. “Are you from Seattle originally?”

  “Good ear,” Aiden said. “I’m not. My father was British, and my step mother was as well. I grew up in the States, but their mark is forever upon my voice.”

  “They’re back in Seattle?” Bailey asked.

  Aiden was quiet for a heartbeat. “Unfortunately they’ve passed. Some years ago, now.”

  “Oh,” Bailey breathed. “I’m so sorry I brought it up.”

  “It’s no bother,” Aiden assured her. “You couldn’t have known. And it’s an old hurt now. Never quite goes away, I suppose, but it’s not as bad as it once was. That’s the way of it, I imagine.”

  She didn’t have to imagine; she understood perfectly. “Well, my condolences.” She said. She knew from experience there wasn’t much else a person could say. The best thing anyone could do was treat you normally.

  “Thank you,” Aiden said softly. They were closing on the entrance of the caves. “So, here they are.” He had a tone of wonder in his voice that made Bailey glow with both pride and excitement. Poppy had never cared for the caves, not really—not for anything more than what money they could make her and it was never enough.

  “Here they are,” Bailey said. She pursed her lips. “So... do you want me to just give you my standard tour, or do you want to lead the way and ask questions...?”

  Aiden stared at the entrance to the first cave for a long moment, quietly reflective. They’d dropped their linked elbows, and now he stood with his hands clasped casually behind his back as he stared, she thought, not so much at the caves as through them. She waited; it seemed rude to interrupt whatever he was thinking or feeling.

  Still, it went on for quite a long time.

  Aiden’s gaze dropped, as though he’d had to pull it away. “I apologize,” he said. “The real weight of what I’ve taken on only just truly occurred to me. It’s a great responsibility. I hope that I’m up to the task of safeguarding the integrity of this place.”

  Bailey beamed at him, but quashed it quickly. “Let me give you the usual tour,” she decided. “But f
eel free to ask questions.”

  She took him in, and it turned out Aiden was not at all shy about asking questions. And he had some rather interesting ones to ask.

  She started in on the general local history of the caves—facts and figures, how big they were, how old, the dates of some of the earliest writings and the fact that they spanned almost five hundred years from oldest to youngest. “No one is quite sure,” she said, “there hasn’t been a great deal of archaeological research on the caves—but it is generally believed that the originators were collectors of some kind, perhaps interpreting letters and images from other cultures as art or decoration.”

  “The text itself doesn’t say anything?” Aiden wondered. He pointed to a gracefully curling thread of Arabic. “This, for instance; it doesn’t translate?”

  Bailey shook her head. “Not directly, no.”

  “And, what do you think?” He asked her, smiling slightly.

  She bit her lip, and gave a small shrug. “Well... I’m no expert,” she lied—they were in the first cave, and she knew exactly what it said. “But I’ve always wondered if whoever painted the cave walls was... I don’t know, writing in code?”

  “Ah,” Aiden said, holding up a finger, “you know, I was thinking just that thing. No one’s cracked it though, have they?”

  “It’s just speculation,” Bailey said.

  “And what do you know of the native cultures that once lived in this region?” he asked. “As they relate to the cave, I mean.”

  Now that was a question she hadn’t gotten on a tour before. She dug through her mental library for the details. It had been one of her own earliest lines in inquiry, though it hadn’t really delivered. She knew why, now. Parsing out precisely what was purely theoretical and what overlapped with the true nature of the cave was a challenge. Giving too much away would be unwise. “We’re at a sort of intersection between several tribes here,” she said. “Or we were, back then. The Chinook, Tillamook, Clatskanie-though they were a little further inland—and the Siletz. Some of the art is reminiscent of all of their traditional motifs, but historically the Caves aren’t confirmed as being sacred to any particular tribe, and there haven’t been any artifacts found here that tie any of the tribes to the area.”