Maya's Aura: The Charred Coven

by Smith, Skye

  "So, what would you like to happen to your books?" asked Maya. She was afraid to touch the book. The paper looked so delicate. "Like, maybe, give them all to a library where someone else will take care of them?"

  "Perhaps give most of them to a library, but certainly sell the valuable ones. I suppose the first step would be to catalogue them. You know, make a list of them and look up their value on the Internet."

  * * * * *

  Maya set up a new text file for Nana on her laptop. It was just a lot of blank spaces with commas separating it into columns. "Now, Nana. The title, author, publisher, year, and value columns are separated by the commas. That means that you cannot use commas for anything else when you are typing in the information for each book. Use a semicolon instead. Because of the commas, whoever we pass this list to can give it to one of their tech nerds and he can import it into whatever software package they use."

  "I understand. Type away replacing the blanks, but leave the commas alone and don't add any new ones." She smiled at Maya. The youngster was wearing a very long wool sweater over heavy, warm black tights. The wide belt that cinched her waist made the simple, warm outfit look quite stylish, in a medieval kind of way.

  "Correct," said Maya, putting on her ski jacket and taking a mildew-smelling life jacket from a hook behind the front door. "While you get busy with that, I'm going to take the car top skiff over to the hardware store and buy some more plastic bins for the other valuable books. Okay?"

  * * * * *

  The island was made up of two slight hills connected by a high sand bar which separated two small bays. During the high tides of full and new moon, the island almost turned into two islands. The bay in the lee of the island faced Boston and had the float dock. The other, smaller bay faced the peninsula that separated the inland waterway of Boston Bay from the ocean. It was twenty minutes by small boat across to the closest marina and village on the peninsula.

  The cottage was built on the edge of the larger hill facing south along the ridge that separated the two bays. Maya went down to the high tide mark of the smallest bay and pulled a tarp off the car top. The aluminum boat had clip-on wheels. She wheeled it down to the water and launched it and tied it to a post. She found the gas tank in the propane shed, almost full and therefore heavy. She lurched along the rickety plank dock carrying it.

  It took her a few minutes to remember how to connect everything to the outboard, and how to check the oil and stuff. She looked for the starter button, but couldn't find it, so she looked for the battery. There was none. It was a rope crank oldie like the one she had used in Goa, on her trip to India. After beating herself to death pulling on the damn rope and breaking her nails and hurting her knuckles with the recoil, all the outboard did was to smell horribly of gasoline.

  She kicked the damn thing and then sat down to think. She had grown up around beaten-up boats and beaten-up trucks in Albion. This was all too familiar. There were a couple of metal clips securing the cover of the motor and she unclipped them and looked inside. The carby thingy was all wet with gasoline. After finding a hefty stick, she used it to hit the carby thingy a couple of times. If she remembered rightly, the carby thingy had a floaty thingy in it that sometimes got stuck and let in too much gasoline at the wrong time.

  She pulled the rope again, and it coughed at her and almost broke her knuckles again. Out of pure spite she hit the carby thing again, and then pulled the rope again. The motor roared. Hallelujah!

  Twenty minutes later she nosed into the guest float of the marina. There was only one other boat on the float, one of those long sleek jobs that in Hollywood they called cigarette boats. She grabbed her bag and the bowline and hopped onto the float and tied off the car top with a clove hitch. The place looked vaguely familiar. She used to come here with Rob when she was about ten or so.

  As she was climbing the ramp that led from the float to the main dock, she heard a whistle behind her which caused her to look around. There was a well-dressed, well-groomed, middle-aged man standing beside the car-top and pointing to it. "You forgot to turn off your gas!" he yelled at her in a most accusing tone.

  At once she turned and started to return to her boat but then he yelled at her again, "I'll do it for you, this time." He was already stepping aboard the skiff, so she shrugged her shoulders, yelled, "Thanks!" and then continued on her way to the hardware store, mumbling under her breath, "Effing Captain Bligh. What did it matter for an hour or so?"

  The cafe at the parking lot end of the dock was open, thankfully. Nana's endless pots of morning tea had relocated, so she rushed in the door and straight to the ladies' restroom at the back. When she came out she sat at the bar and ordered a coffee from a waitress who looked vaguely familiar.

  There were two tables of men in the cafe. One with three not long out of high school, and one with four hard-hat types tucking into the heart-attack-on-a-plate breakfast specials. As the waitress poured coffee Maya asked her, "I need to buy some like, plastic storage bins, and some wine, and I don't have a car. Where would you go?"

  "The hardware store is that-a-way near the gas station," the waitress replied, pointing with the pot. "The gas station sells wine, but if you want something better than berry jack you should wait for the pub to open. It's right next door. They have a better selection."

  Maya took one smell of the coffee and knew she couldn't drink it. Nothing totally ruined coffee faster than leaving it on the heat. This cafe had the old-fashioned pots that sat on a burner charring the coffee, and she had a full body aversion to charred smells. Damn, she should have asked for decaf. A fresh pot was still pouring through the filter.

  "Something wrong with the coffee?" the waitress asked. She was over thirty and her tired smile looked as if she had been pouring coffee in this shop for about ten years too long.

  "I'm sorry," Maya apologized, "I meant to ask for decaf."

  "No problem." The woman sighed like it was, but she took the coffee away, and came back with a cup filled from the fresh pot. She slopped it a little because she was looking out over Maya's head.

  Maya turned. The groomed man from the float dock was walking by in the parking lot. "Boyfriend of yours?"

  "I wish. Groomed, gorgeous, and a gazillionaire. Don't I just wish," the waitress said softly. "He must have a wife somewhere, cause he sure doesn't give the local girls the time of day."

  "Rich asshole," hissed one of the young men in envy.

  "Watch your mouth," replied one of the hard hats. "If his plan for the new golf club goes through we will all have work despite this recession."

  "Yeah, right. Tell that to the people that sold their hobby farms to him before they knew his plans," said the young man, obviously mouthing words he had heard his father say.

  "Hey, smartass," called the hard hat, "they jumped at his offer. They thought he was a sucker buying at the top of the market. So if you want a job next year, shut your face."

  The waitress banged her fist on the counter. "You guys take it outside. I don't need loud voices and bad language when I've got women customers." She looked at Maya and said quietly, "Sorry about that, honey. The Tea Party came through here blaming the government for the recession, you know, instead of the bankers that caused the real estate bubble, and we've had these kind of arguments in here ever since."

  "Hey," said the hard hat, "you be careful how you talk about the Tea Party. Those are local business people creating local jobs, not a bunch of unemployed whiners."

  "Yeah, yeah, yeah," said the waitress as she turned to do a pickup at the food window. She lowered her voice. "Like they didn't all make a fortune out of the real estate bubble. They just don't want to pay taxes on it. The Tea Party wants to get rid of the taxes on profits for the rich, but keep taxing the money you get from working your ass off day after day. Crazy. Completely backwards." She wandered away.

  "So, you in town for a while?" one of the other young men asked Maya in a voice like honey, and with a hopeful smile.

  "Just visiti
ng for Easter," she said and then clammed up. Six months in the movie business had taught her to tell strangers only what they could figure out for themselves.

  "I know you," said the waitress. "but a much younger you. Oh my god! You're Maya. I'm Sally. Remember? I used to be Rob's girlfriend."

  Actually she didn't remember, but she pretended to. Maya had hated all of Rob's girlfriends on principal. Besides, they had all treated her like a little girl. Someone else to baby-sit.

  "How's Rob doing?" Sally asked, and her face softened and got younger. "I haven't seen him for years."

  "He's still Rob. Still good-looking. So are his wife and children," Maya enunciated with a smile. She had chosen her few words carefully and they had the desired effect. Sally went back to work.

  * * * * *

  About a hundred bucks' worth of plastic, and an equal amount for wine, later, she walked past the cafe on the way back to the boat. The cafe seemed to be in the pre-lunch slump, that half-hour before noon when cafes all over America are empty and quiet, and the service is good. She decided not to stop since she would rather have Nana's company than an ex-girlfriend of Rob's.

  After loading the boat, she started the motor. Like, she even remembered to turn the gas back on. There was just a touch of sun, and the wind was fair, so this would be a pleasant crossing. The boat crept forwards until it was well clear of the dock and then she set out put-put-putting across open water towards the island.

  * * * * *

  * * * * *

  MAYA'S AURA - The Charred Coven by Skye Smith

  Chapter 4 - Trouble on the Water

  Maya pulled the damn rope and the motor coughed again and started but cut out again soon after she put it in gear. This was the tenth time this had happened. She was less than halfway to the island. She looked at the oars. It would be faster to row than to keep up the cycle of start, run, stall.

  The roar of big motors caused her to look up and over the motor. The cigarette boat was heading her way at very high speed, and pushing a huge wake. If he passed her at that speed, with that wake, and her without power, her little boat would be swamped. She stood up and started waving, every once in a while making the motion for him to slow down.

  Finally he slowed down and drifted towards her. "Engine problems?" he yelled out. "Did you remember to turn the gas back on?"

  She looked into the sun at him and shielded her eyes with her arm. "Yeah. This is something different. It starts okay but then won't keep running." The long sleek craft came alongside and she pushed it away to stop from scraping his expensive paint job.

  "Throw me your bowline. You come aboard and let me have a try." He caught the line and tied it off on a stern cleat, and then pulled the line to bring her bow alongside his transom step. She leaped onto the larger boat and caught her balance in the difference in movement.

  He was staring at her. "You look cold right through. There's a thermos of coffee over by the wheel. Pour yourself a cup and then hold it in your hands to warm them." He stepped into the skiff. "Pour me one too, please. Cream, no sugar."

  She found the thermos and the cups and creamers and packets of sugar, and poured two cups and creamed them both. Damn, he was down to his last packet of natural sugar. With the self-excuse that the sugar would help to warm her up, she used the last natural packet and two of the white packets. He was still fiddling with the engine. She ducked down to look into the low forward cabin. It was like a floating pimp palace with one huge bed.

  "Hey," he called out. "I can't see anything wrong with the motor, other than it's an old wreck. Pass me my coffee so I can warm my hands and try something else." He reached out for the proffered cup and slurped it noisily and said "Ahh." and the cupped his hands around the cup. She was doing the same thing, slurping and cupping her hands. He finished his before her and he passed his cup back.

  He went back to the motor, but this time was playing with the gas line. She sat down on the rear most bench seat and watched him. He was very well groomed, and had a perfect tan. Unusual around Boston in the spring. "I hear you run golf courses?"

  "Nope, I plan golf communities. My job is to find the locations, assemble the real estate, and get all the approvals through the local governments."

  "So, is it going ahead?"

  "Next council meeting, after the holidays, I should get the third reading of the zoning amendment to allow it."

  "Then what?" asked Maya. She was feeling a bit sleepy and it felt good to close her eyes and face the sunshine.

  "Then a golf community will be built. I think I found your problem. The gas filter in the gas line was plugged with a scrap of plastic." He threw something shiny into the bottom of the boat and then primed the gas line and started the engine on the third pull. He left it purring, put it in and out of gear. It kept running, so he turned it off and stepped back onto the larger boat.

  "Hey, you okay?" he asked looking at the sleeping young woman. "Coffee is supposed to wake you up."

  "Mmmm, the sun feels so good." Maya murmured. His voice sounded like it was coming from a long way away.

  He grabbed her cup. It was empty. He checked his watch and then cleaned up the empty sugar and creamer packets and took the cups downstairs and put them in the tiny sink. Five more minutes he thought. That would be enough. Young women were so careful about accepting drinks from strangers, but they always took sugar in their coffee and they always used the last natural sugar packet.

  "So predictable," he said under his breath as he climbed back outside. "So delicious." He looked at the girl's head bobbing against the seat cushion. This new hypnotic drug worked quickly and lasted two hours. It was nothing to carefully open a sugar packet and spike it and then re-close it. They always used the last natural packet, so he knew they were getting just one single dose.

  Last year in Florida, before he had learned to only put out one natural packet, one stupid bitch had used four live packets in one coffee. He had dropped her at an emergency ward so they could deal with her. With this new trick of only showing one packet, it was child's play. They were all child's play, all the girls he had bonked in the last year.

  The hardest thing for the last two months had been staying away from the local daughters. Until this deal went through, local skirt was a no-no. He didn't need sex enough to ruin a multimillion dollar deal. Once the zoning was changed, and the rest of the land accumulated, he would flip the land package to one of the big hotel development chains and double his money.

  However, this young beauty was not a local daughter, so she was his for the next two hours, and boy, was he ready. Two months ready. He had read everything he could and had sent away for all the seduction and hypnosis courses advertised on the web porn sites. He knew exactly how to play it so she had no comeback against him afterwards. Play on.

  He had spoken to her in the pub in front of witnesses while she was buying wine. That meant it didn't matter how young she really was, he could claim that he had just cause to believe that she was of age. He had put a ball of plastic wrap in her gas filter to give her motor problems in the middle of the straight. He had been the Good Samaritan and had come to her rescue.

  This new drug was more or less untraceable. They had shared the thermos of coffee. No comeback. He looked at her again and knew that she was now in the first stages. Sleepy, as if she had had one too many tequila shooters. Now he would start the sequence of hypnotic arguments that would eventually have her believing that sex is normal in these circumstance, and that it would feel so good.

  Step one was to convince her that he was her trusted friend. "Hey honey, why don't I take you to where you are going? We'll tow your toy boat. What do you think?"

  "Huh?" she replied, barely opening her eyes to look at him.

  He repeated the offer using a soft calm voice. A friendly voice. Repetition of small thoughts was the key to suggestibility. Repeat some obvious truths a few times so they start accepting your judgment. Ten years ago he had made his original seed money by creating TV adver
tising. They had used the same technique.

  He repeated the offer. This time she agreed.

  "So, no need for you to get back in that little boat in this cold weather. That's a good thing." She just looked at him, so he repeated it and she nodded.

  "I have a big warm bed downstairs. A nice warm bed. I have turned the heater on down there. Wouldn't it feel good to get warm and put your head down for a nap?"

  Once you had their confidence from the little truths, you controlled where each new tiny suggestion was taking the sucker. With lots of repetition. Inch by inch. Little by little. Even if it took a half an hour of suggestions, it would still leave an hour and a half of her cooperating with his every desire.

  She told him that it would feel good to get warm and put her head down and stood up slowly and started to move towards the short cabin door.

  "Before you go down, point out where you want to be dropped off," He used the question as an opportunity to hold her in his arms and turn her to look out over the water. He held her like a brother would hold a sister. Very non sexual.

  She pointed to a small island straight ahead and whispered, "The little bay on that island."

  He continued to hold her steady in the warmth of his arms, and walked her over to the wheel and set the course on the auto pilot while she watched. "There, all done. You can go down and get warm in bed, and the boat will take you home. We'll have to go real slow because we are towing your little boat."

  She looked back at her little boat. It was bobbing in the waves. She was so glad she wasn't in it. "Yes, very slow," she said. She didn't mind him holding her. Even the larger boat was rocking in the waves because it was going so slow. He was so kind to help her down the steps, and to help her out of her life jacket, and then out of her ski jacket like a gentleman, holding it for her so she didn't have to struggle.