The Artisans

by Julie Reece

  “Crap, sorry.”

  He crouches near me, gaze fixed on my eyes. Edgar rubs his thigh, and Gideon runs his fingers over my cat’s dark fur. “I didn’t mean to startle you,” he says.

  “Don’t worry about it.” I glance down, scooping up the last of the crumbs before standing. “I shouldn’t be in here. We were just leaving anyway … ”

  “There’s no reason you shouldn’t be in here, Raven. It’s not my intention you starve.”

  I jump when he presses his fingers on the toe of my shoe. “Hey, what are you—”

  “Wait.” He holds a hand up, giving me that infuriating look of his—the smug one that hints he finds something I’ve done funny. “Just relax. I’m not going to hurt you.” Gideon leans on one knee before me like he’s going to pop the question. The only thing I want to pop is his inflated ego. As I peer down, he tugs my shoelaces tight and begins tying neat bows. “There, isn’t that better?”

  “I can tie my own shoelaces, thanks.”

  “Yes. I’m sure it’s just one of your many amazing talents, Raven.”

  My face heats as I bend to retrieve my cat. I can’t believe the guy just tied my shoelaces. And I let him. Cookie-less, I brush past my captor and return to my room, flustered, and embarrassed, and worst of all, surprised.

  ***

  The next morning, three peanut butter and chocolate chip cookies decorate a tiny, china plate on my nightstand. Very funny, Gideon.

  Jenny had better be the one who left them.

  I get up, dress, and head for my workroom. After my friends’ visit (and my unfortunate meeting with Gideon), I’m as creatively dry as ever. Frustration builds as I sew sections of fabric together and rip out the seams an hour later. Nothing I try works, so I decide to take a walk in the yard.

  There are eleventy-hundred doors in and out of this house, but I choose to go through the kitchen. Different in the daylight, the room is bright, cheerful. Warm sugar and vanilla scents the air. It’s an enormous space with rows of sunny, small paned windows running down the length of one side over a long, industrial sink. From this angle, the same beautiful oaks I see from my bedroom window are visible, alive and fresh, and green. White tile runs up three-quarters of the wall where they meet plaster painted a soft yellow. Silver pots hang above the island in the center of the room over a wood floor.

  I tell Jenny where I’m going so Jamis won’t get his nose out of joint. Edgar wraps himself around her legs mewing, and is rewarded for his pestering with a pat and small treat. She informs me in a lengthy speech that the Maddox property is over one hundred acres of fenced, South Carolina lowland, including waterfront access to Coosaw River, which then dumps into St. Helena Sound.

  Yippee for the Maddox empire.

  I have no intention of exploring all that today. My goal is a short walk around the garden, but I listen. Jenny means well and is nice, so I open the door to the commercial-sized fridge and grab a water bottle, stuffing my impatience.

  “Tsk,” Jenny bumps me with her hip, pulling the refrigerator door wider. “If you want something to drink, ask me. I’m more than happy to get if for you.”

  “Thank you, but I’m standing right here. You don’t have to wait on me.” I twist the cap off and down half the contents.

  She ignores me, peering at something on the second shelf. “Now how did you get in there?”

  “What?” I bend over, our heads side by side, and look with her.

  Jenny reaches for a brown bottle of ale stuck all the way in the back. “This one escaped my notice.” When she straightens, I follow, jumping clear as she swings the door closed. “Westvleteren 12, the master’s favorite beer. He ordered all the liquor out of the house before your arrival.”

  What? I almost spew the water in my mouth. “What? Why would he do that?” Other than the fact he’s underage?

  She shrugs, her expression turning thoughtful. “In truth, I worried you might have a taste for the stuff.” She smiles. “Then the master explained you’re just the opposite. That you don’t approve of drinking, and you are everything a well brought up lady ought to be. He had no wish to offend his star pupil and protégé.”

  Well brought up lady? Ha! Protégé? Is that what he’s telling people? “That was very …” Unnecessary, theatrical, condescending. “Considerate.”

  “Wasn’t it?” She pours the bottle’s contents down the drain. “I quite approve your choice. Too many young people ruin themselves on drink and what-have-you. The only alcohol left is Mr. Maddox senior’s wine collection. A whole room of old labels in the cellar, locked up, of course.” She pats her pocket, rattling what I assume are keys. “Considering Gideon’s, Mr. Maddox, I mean. Considering his past, it gives me hope to see him so—” She chokes on the next word. Her face reddens. “Well, the master is very thoughtful of late, to be sure.”

  I don’t contradict her and, as much as I’d like to press her on what Gideon’s ‘past’ means, I drop the subject. She’s clearly worried she overstepped her place sharing, or almost sharing, personal information. “I appreciate you working so hard to make me feel at home here, Jenny.” And I do. She’s very sweet, so I won’t pry. Though I still wonder what she thinks of Gideon inviting an underage girl to move in with him.

  I down the last of my water and toss the empty bottle in the trash can.

  “Don’t go near the old mill behind the greenhouse,” she warns. “It’s an ancient building, dangerous, and there’s black mud around the pond that’ll suck you down and bury you alive.” I think she’s exaggerating until she adds, “Lost a lawn care worker back there two years ago. Shame, he was only twenty-six.”

  Whoa. Millpond. Bad news. Got it. “I’ll only be gone an hour or two,” I assure her. “I need to clear my head.”

  “Then a walk’s the best thing for you, poor dear. Wait a minute …” She rushes to the double stove and back, clucking her tongue like a chicken. “Here, take these with you.” She deposits two warm sugar cookies in my hand. Without another word, she scoots me out the back, letting the screen door slam shut as though I’m a cat put out for the night. I can’t help my smile. I think the old girl likes fussing over me, and I can’t pretend I don’t enjoy the attention.

  I wander the grounds, eating my cookies and letting the soft breeze caress my skin. The air smells salty, and I know the river isn’t far off. A crow on the branch of a tree is joined by several more. A rhyme from my childhood comes to mind.

  One for sorrow

  Two for mirth

  Three for a funeral

  Four for a birth

  Five for heaven

  Six for hell

  Seven’s the devil his own self …

  That’s all I remember. I always get stuck after the seventh crow.

  Under the oak, a wooden swing hangs from a massive tree branch, and I can’t resist. When I plop my butt on the wide seat, my hands wrap the thick ropes on either side. I rear back and pump with my legs. My mom was with me the last time I did this. A lump forms in my throat.

  Her memory is worn and fading, but I can still picture her in my mind, her dark curling hair falling over her shoulder as she taught me to thread a needle, or the way she bit her lip in concentration piecing a pattern together. Mom took me with her shopping. We scoured antique stores for vintage fabrics. Thrift stores and flea markets provided the occasional treasure, as well.

  I smile remembering her frustration while at the sewing machine. She wasn’t a very good seamstress, never able to accurately produce the visions she dreamed in her mind, but she knew about quality and craftsmanship. Mom said I got my talent from my father, a tailor who worked for my mother’s parents in their shop and died in a car accident before I was born.

  Then in walks Mr. Weathersby, an apprentice her folks hired out of necessity after my dad passed away. He fell for mom instantly, never mind she carried another man’s child. Me. Ben didn’t care. A smile tugged at mother’s full mouth as she explained her
feelings for him came a bit slower. Married young, I think she must have loved my dad a whole lot, and didn’t want to let go. With her pregnancy advancing and few prospects, mom was continuously thrown in the path of their handsome new employee. Ben was more than willing to fill in as husband and father, and his patience paid off when she finally said yes.

  I never knew any father but Ben. He was kind and gentle and we were happy, until we weren’t.

  All the romantic movies in the world won’t convince me to commit to any one person. I wanted to, once, back in middle school. Then I got smart. Sure mom cared about Ben, but I don’t think he ever took the place of my dad in her heart. That had to hurt. I saw what love did to Ben after she got sick and died. I know what love did to me as I watched my stepfather slowly pickle himself to join her. The agony Dane goes through believing Maggie is too good for him, suffering through her indifference. No thanks.

  Suddenly angry, I leap from the swing and land in the soft grass with a thud. I’m marching through the trees but with no idea where I’m headed. There’s nowhere to go. A pretty jail is still a jail. I’ve been imprisoned in one form or another for a long time with no end in sight. I could let that break me. It might be easier to quit. But that’s what Ben did, so instead I let the anger fuel my resolve. I’m not giving up.

  The greenhouse comes into view, and I angle toward the gabled, glass building. A white blur runs around the far side of the structure. A dog? It moves so fast I’m not sure. I hope he’s friendly. A pang of worry fills my chest for Edgar, should he wander out here. No one mentioned other pets. I file my questions away until I can ask Jenny.

  I don’t see the animal as I near the greenhouse, not when I push the door open to enter, and not when I peer through the long, glass windows to the other side. Beyond the pond out back, the mill house looms through the oaks and moss in the distance. A shudder runs over me as I think of the man that died out there. Drowning. Suffocation. What a horrible death. I rub my arms against an imaginary chill as my gaze sweeps the little hothouse.

  Three gardening tables sit here and there piled with clay pots filled with dirt. Tools are scattered around the floor, half buried in dust and dead leaves. No one appears to use the place. Sad, because it’s pretty cool, or could be. Plastic containers are bunched in one corner filled with dead plants. On closer inspection, the spiny thorns reveal they used to be roses. My favorite. I imagine the lush bushes they once were, bursting with color instead of the skeletal remains they are now. And just like that, inspiration hits. I’m picturing scads of designs, dresses, separates, and accessories based on the slick bark and black thorns. Yes!

  Frustrated, I curse myself for leaving my sketchbook in my room. I make for the door, anxious to get started. I’ll grab my book, a pencil, maybe pack a lunch, and come back here to draw. In my defense, I’ve been so empty artistically, it’s no surprise I’m unprepared. Easily fixed, but as I turn to shut the door of the greenhouse, my gaze rests on the hazy image of the mill house through the dirty panes. If a few withered rose bushes spark so many ideas, what might a gloomy old mill do?

  Ignoring the tape of Jenny’s voice warning me away from the rickety building, I pivot toward the pond. My plan is simple: check out the mill, steer clear of the black muck of death, and use my head. What can go wrong?

  I choose not to answer my own stupid question as I make my way toward the crumbling mill house steps. Clouds thicken in the sky casting long shadows over the pond. The wind ripples the water. In the center, something moves under the surface. With no desire to meet an alligator, I hope the pond water is brackish. The ground under my feet gives, and I cut a wider berth from the water’s soggy border.

  The mill is dark wood with a few holes in need of patching. A huge wheel on the side of the structure no longer turns. Lime green algae clogs the base. The slate roof is still intact, though it sags in the middle. Rafters poke through in places like broken teeth. The round handle on the front door spins, apparently unlocked, but the old door is swollen and stuck. I hit it twice with my shoulder, and it shudders open. Light pours through the opening.

  The building stands empty, aside from a few barrels, sawhorses and the mill gears themselves. Birds flutter in the rafters, at least I hope they’re birds and not bats. I hate bats. Making a slow circle, my feet brush the gritty floor as I view my surroundings. Dust motes dance like waltzing couples in shafts of sunlight. Another bird takes flight causing my heart to skip a beat. My hand involuntarily flies to my chest. “Stupid bird.” My voice echoes in the empty room.

  Then I see him.

  The boy from my room. The ghost from my nightmares. He stands next to a wooden wheel fixed between two poles, part of the machinery that ran the mill at some point. Cole, I think that’s what Jenny called him. He isn’t blue, just pale as paper. And though I know he must be dead, he looks real enough. Solid. Not all shimmery and see-through like the ghosts in a movie.

  My glance shifts to the door and back. I should probably run, but my feet are cement blocks. Fear sends prickles up the back of my neck. Adrenalin lights the veins in my arms on fire. Screaming won’t help. Even if I could unlock my jaw to do that, no one would hear me out here.

  Help me …

  He’s English, or the accent is. I didn’t notice it the first time he spoke.

  Can ghosts really kill people? Or do they just follow you around until your brain melts down, and psychiatrists put you in a rubber room with coloring books and crayons. “Are you real?” I’m an idiot. Trying to communicate with my own hallucination must mean something in the world of shrinks, right? Psychosis, a psychotic break, schizophrenia—something. I have no idea what any of those are, but I’m starting to believe it doesn’t matter because Cole raises his hand. Not in a ‘Hey, how are you doing’ sort of way, but in a ‘Hey, I know I’m freaky, don’t run’ sort of way.

  “Cole?” The word echoes inside my head. Pressure builds in my ears, affecting my hearing.

  He nods, the movement slow and robotic.

  A shudder wracks my frame. You’re not real, you’re not real, you’re not—

  Help us …

  Us? When did things go from helping you to helping us? Plural ghosts … meaning more than one. Are they coming? My legs shake and the inside of my mouth floods with a metallic taste. I think I’m peeing, am I peeing? If I faint will he kill me or go away?

  I do what I always do: pretend I’m tougher than I am. My chin comes up. “What do you want?” The pressure in my head grows, as if I’m on a plane or underwater. I need my ears to pop, relieve the build. I wiggle my jaw, but nothing happens. The acting tough thing isn’t working. Uncomfortable escalates to painful. I need to keep an eye on Cole, but the dull pounding in my brain turns sharp and stabbing. The strain overwhelms me. My hands move to my ears as I double over, sink to my knees. I cry out, unable to withstand the torture in my head.

  Everything stops … the pressure, my screams. All goes quiet.

  My gaze darts to the place where Cole stood, now empty. “Where’d you go? Hey!” I snap my head around looking for him, even checking dark corners and the ceiling. Nothing. I try the direct approach. “If you’re real, and I’m not crazy, you’re freaking me out. If you want my help, stop scaring the hell out of me and say so.”

  No one answers. I really didn’t think they would, but that means I’m bat-shit crazy and for that reason alone, I wish my old buddy Cole would make an appearance. Brilliant. Either I talk to dead people or I’m certifiable. I’m going with the latter. First the loss of my mom, Ben’s addictions, the stress of moving here, the pressure to create, naturally I cracked. I heave a breath and rise. All I want is to hug my cat. I need to feel something warm, someone who needs me and loves me. I stifle a sob at how pathetic I am. Then a new thought whacks me. Oh, God! What if I have a brain tumor? A big fat hairy mass is pushing on the parts of my brain that affect my reasoning. The pain, the hallucinations, my total lack of creativity, of course! The whole thing mak
es perfect sense if I’m dying.

  A strange calm washes over me. My theory is weak, but makes more sense than a real live ghost. I’m at peace, almost numb. I snort. After all my fighting, the awesomeness that is Raven Weathersby will be taken out by a brain tumor.

  Well, I’ll be darned.

  Chapter Eight

  Snick, snick, snick.

  Soft tapping wakes me. I sit up in bed, wondering if Cole is back. The drapes are drawn leaving the room black. I forgot to open them before crawling under the covers, but I didn’t think I’d fall asleep, not that I’m afraid anymore. I understand the visions aren’t real. They belong either to a crazy girl or to a big tumorous mass in my head.

  “Cole? Is that you?” More tapping, faint scraping shushes throughout my room. Like an army of tiny mice. Ugh, I haven’t seen one yet, but I dearly hope it’s not mice or rats! My skin breaks out in gooseflesh. “Edgar, are you here, sweetheart?”

  I reach for him, feeling across the quilt. While I can’t find my cat, my fingers slide across something smooth and slick. Gross. Whatever it is, it’s wriggling. I lurch for the lamp on my bedside table and pull the chain. Light blinds me. I blink to adjust my vision, trying to focus on my covers. There’s nothing there. When I glance to the foot of my bed, there’s no Cole either. Fear chews on my nerve endings. “Edgar! Darn cat, where are you when I need you?”

  The tapping continues. I push my tangled hair off my face, still working on where the sound is coming from. A shadow moves on the wall across from me. As I squint, the dark spot glides in a wide arc over the wall. Tap, tap, tap. It’s moving fast. They’re bugs. Cockroaches. Thousands of them scurry over the far wall. My fingers clutch at my sheets until the knuckles are white. I’m not phobic. One or two bugs I can handle. It’s not like they weren’t plentiful at the shop, but not like this. These suckers are massing for full-scale Armageddon.