The Witch and Warlock MEGAPACK ®: 25 Tales of Magic-Users

by Lawrence Watt-Evans

  Orderliness was the only imprint Death had laid upon the place. I should have known. Death and Aunt Bo had nothing in common. Instead, my spirit lifted, and my fingers tingled with longing to paint the jumbled bluffs crowded one upon another until they lay blue upon the horizon.

  The phone on the desk jingled, startling me, but it was only Darcy. Would Rowan and I come to dinner soon? And why hadn’t we been down to pick out a kitten?

  As I hung up, I realized I was trembling. Would I ever get over my dread of those threatening calls? So many different voices! How efficiently they’d cancelled out the first syllable of Peacehaven!

  Now Cariad posed a problem. Even though she had yet to take her first step, she was lightning on all fours and an incorrigible streaker. I had to make a rule that all screen doors be latched, because she had learned to push them out. I mentally checked now. Yes, they were secure. Besides, Rowan had come in and would watch over her sister.

  In the sparkling clear day I could see the faint outlines of the Blue Mounds to the southeast and the Platteville Mounds to the southwest. Looking straight down, I saw Mrs. Carrier seated on a lawn chair in front of Dana’s house, her white head bent over a rag doll she was making for Cari.

  Freya lay at her feet enjoying the morning sun—then she was up, running swiftly across the lawn in spite of the pups swelling her belly, barking frantically. I froze. A little pink form was scooting over the grass toward the edge of the bluff. Freya circled her, trying to force her back, but Cariad apparently thought the big dog was playing a game and kept right on. I plummeted down the stairs, two steps at a time, praying.

  By the time I reached her, Cari was lying on her back, shrieking, with Freya crouched by her side, one big paw over her chest. Cariad reached out to me, only to experience a second betrayal as I scooped her up and proceeded to polish her firm little bottom with as much vigor as my shaking hand could muster.

  Rowan came running. “Why did you leave the side door unlatched?” she demanded angrily.

  “I?” I was thunderstruck. “You came in last.”

  “I came in the back door,” she retorted. “Maybe I shouldn’t have left her alone with you.”

  I was too stunned to reply. No use trying to convince her that I had had to unhook the screen to get out just now. I went back in, the tears stinging my lids. Cari, bless her, vindicated me at once. As soon as I put her down inside the house, she darted on all fours for the side door again, pulled herself up by the knob and deftly slid open the bolt.

  Clearly, new measures had to be taken. After I’d secured the wailing infant in the nursery, I called Ward and requested fencing to make a safe play yard and door chains that would be too high for Cari to reach. Later I confronted Rowan.

  “I think you owe me an apology,” I told her.

  “I’m going to wash my hair,” she said coldly, heading toward the bathroom.

  “Rowan, I want an apology.”

  She whipped around. “They say if a woman doesn’t like her husband, she may resent his children.”

  Cold steel sliced through me. “Where did you hear such a thing?”

  “I—Iris,” she faltered.

  I fought for self-control. “You go there?”

  “All the kids do. It’s a neat place.”

  “And she said that about me?” My voice shook.

  “Oh no!” Her blue eyes opened wide. “She was just talking in general. I—I didn’t tell her a thing, Mother—honest!”

  But Iris had guessed something and was using it. “I don’t like you going down there, Rowan. I don’t trust her—for reasons I’d rather not discuss. Just don’t judge me by what Iris says. I love both you and Cari deeply.”

  “Oh?” The cynicism in that one word twisted the shaft, but my frustration was covered by the arrival of a delivery truck driven by a tall young man with an Afro and pointed beard. He barely acknowledged my greeting as he unloaded the lumber and set about erecting the fence in the spot I indicated. He was naked to the waist and the muscles under his skin rippled in the sunlight as he swung his sledgehammer.

  “May I get you some coffee or a cold drink?” I asked.

  “No, thank you.” His reply was curt.

  “You must be Quentin Jackson,” I ventured.

  If he was surprised, he didn’t show it. “Uncle Tom’s terrorist son, right?”

  The bitterness in his tone caught me off balance. “I believe ‘black activist’ was the term,” I said, remembering Elspeth’s remark. “And that is quite something else.”

  “Not to these people here. It’s a dirty word.”

  “So is the term ‘Uncle Tom’—particularly when you apply it to your own father.”

  He set the sledgehammer against the post he’d just driven in, squinting at me in the bright sun.

  “Well—” he began, puzzled. “I thought you’d deny it—what people say, I mean. I shouldn’t have called my father an Uncle Tom.” His hands clenched about the invisible thing that was hurting him. “It’s just that—well, he’s so gentle. Does his work. No trouble, no complaints. ‘Good old Darrell,’ folks here say, ‘he’s an okay negro. Stays in his place.’”

  “It’s not a bad place—manager.”

  “Oh, the job’s good enough. Mr. Proctor’s fair, I’ll admit that. It’s my mother I’m thinking about.”

  “The only woman in town with a doctorate,” I said.

  “You knew about that?” he said in surprise.

  “Alison Proctor told me.”

  “She would—she’s not like the others,” he conceded.

  “For what it’s worth, I don’t understand the school board—unless they felt they couldn’t afford her.”

  “No way. She offered to teach for less than her degree warranted.”

  “That must have been before the Equal Opportunities Law was passed. Why doesn’t she apply now?”

  “Not a chance. She has pride.” He paused. “Dr. Carrier was chairman at that time. I think he and his wife would have kept me from going to school here if they could have. They didn’t like me chumming around with their son.”

  “You knew Mark then!”

  “He was my best friend,” he said quietly.

  “I didn’t know he’d drowned until I came back here.”

  “It’s something nobody talks about.” He picked up a post and jammed it viciously into the hole he’d dug. “What do you know of—of his death?” I asked.

  “Only the official story.” He swung his mallet at the post.

  And you don’t believe it! “Did he know Mrs. Faulkner?”

  He straightened up and I knew I’d touched a chord. “He was fascinated by her.”

  “But she was so much older. Surely they weren’t—”

  “I wouldn’t know about that.” He was on the defensive now. “I was at the University when it happened. Lucky for me.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Wouldn’t they have just loved to hang something like that on me! You can never trust a ho…” He stopped.

  “A honky?” Again the look of surprise. “You trusted Mark,” I reminded him.

  He leaned on his sledgehammer. “Mark was different—I think. If he’d lived longer, he might have disappointed me, too, like most whites.”

  Freya sidled up to Quentin, her tail wagging vigorously. He ran his sinewy fingers over her wavy coat. “Howya, ol’ girl?”

  “That’s my heroine of the moment,” I said, grateful the subject had been changed. “If it hadn’t been for her…” I couldn’t bring myself to finish.

  He lifted her muzzle. “If you want to feel like a god, just look into a dog’s eyes,” he said, ruffling her fur. “Somebody stole my big shepherd. I know who did it, but I can’t prove it.”

  “If you knew wh
o it was, why didn’t you confront him and demand your dog back?”

  “It wasn’t that simple. He didn’t have Duke anymore. Laboratories pay good prices for dogs. Or maybe someone wanted to make a fighter out of him. Dogfighters like German shepherds.”

  “Dogfighters around here?”

  “They go all over to collect dogs. Do you know these days a good fighting dog brings as much as three or four grand? Only Duke wouldn’t have made out. He was too gentle.”

  Quentin didn’t trust anyone, I thought. It was possible the dog had run off or been killed on the highway.

  “Unless they abused him into being mean,” he added. “I hope I’m wrong. I’d like to think whoever got him treated him decently.” His voice trailed off. Damon was coming across the lawn and Quentin was glaring at him with pure hatred in his eyes.

  “Excuse me, please,” I said hastily.

  Damon’s face was livid. He pointed to his mother. “H-how long has she been here?” he stammered in his fury. “Why wasn’t I told of this? I had arrangements made at the county nursing home.”

  “Your mother preferred to come here. She’s over eighteen and under senility. I really don’t know what you can do about it.”

  He drew his hand back, as if to strike me, then dropped it. “She needs constant care, competent nursing care.”

  “Was she getting it where she was—alone?”

  The telltale vein bulged in his forehead. “I can have that woman prosecuted for operating a nursing home without a license.”

  “Nursing home, Damon? Your mother’s paying room and board.”

  “With what?”

  “None of your money, to be sure,” I answered tartly. “But she does have social security and if Dana considers that sufficient, I think that’s her business, don’t you?”

  “The whole town will talk,” he protested.

  “The whole town is talking,” I answered, “but they’ll stop if you let on that it was your idea.”

  He knew he was defeated. “Well, if this is what she wants, I suppose I’ll have to go along with it. But if anything happens to her—I’ll see that Indian woman answer for it.” Then he managed a limp smile. “I’m sorry I blew up, Mitti, but I am concerned about my mother.”

  “Then why didn’t you take her into your home?”

  He shook his head. “You must have noticed. Charity has—problems. Can you see her and my mother getting along?”

  No, I couldn’t. I held my breath as Dana came toward us, but to my surprise, Damon greeted her amiably and made an about-face. “My mother appears to be happy here. Perhaps I can add something to the stipend she pays you.”

  She took his measure. “She’s paying me adequately.”

  “No, I insist,” he persisted. “But we’ll talk about that later. Right now I must get over to the Redds’.”

  “Esther having difficulty with her pregnancy?” Dana asked. “Her tubes should be tied.”

  “I know, I know,” he sighed. “You think I haven’t told Homer? He wants a son, and if this is another girl, he’ll try again—even if it kills Esther.” He glanced at his wristwatch. “I’d better be going. I’ve a golf date later.” He went over to his mother, spoke to her briefly, gave her white hair a hurried pat, then climbed into his auto.

  As the Lincoln headed down the hill, a smaller car came careening into the drive. Brakes and tires screeched on the loose gravel as the vehicle, its rear end obscenely elevated, spun around and headed back down the bluff road, too fast for me to see who was driving. Freya was standing on the grass just off the drive. Suddenly the car swerved toward her without braking. There was a sickening crunch and the dog’s body was catapulted through the air. The driver leaned out of the window, gave a whoop and vanished down the drive.

  Freya was struggling unsuccessfully to stand on shattered legs when we reached her. Several ribs were white against her golden coat and blood was pouring from her flanks and mouth. A red haze enveloped me. “He should burn!” I heard myself scream. “Burn! God damn you—burn!”

  As the mists began to clear, I saw Rowan running past me and Dana kneeling by the suffering animal, which looked up through her agony with trusting, loving eyes. Her mistress ran her hand tenderly over the dog’s eyes and mouth, crooning unintelligibly, drawing the hurt out of the heaving body. One paw reached out and touched Dana on the knee. Then a blade flashed and Freya lay still but for slight movements in her distended belly. Swiftly Dana slit it open, reached in and pulled a mass of pups from the cavity. With deft strokes she opened one amniotic sac after another. Eight tiny sparks of life, but only one kindled. It squirmed almost imperceptibly at first, then more vigorously as the woman massaged it and breathed into its mouth. The knife lay in the grass at her side, its long, wide blade and strangely carved black handle glistening with blood. The pup gave a faint squeal. Dana turned to me with tear-blinded eyes.

  “It is a little male,” she said. “If he lives, I will give him to you, Mitti.”

  She rose with difficulty, cradling the wet little thing in her arms. Rowan had disappeared, but Quentin was gently stuffing the dead puppies back into the dog’s body. A flash of unspoken understanding traveled between him and Dana. He picked Freya up and carried her around to the back of the old house, where he began to dig a grave under a lilac bush.

  Moving like an automaton, I was hosing away the blood when Rowan came running back up the road. She rushed at me headlong, then stopped short, a sudden scrim of fear clouding her eyes. Slowly, carefully, she began to edge around me, as though I represented some unspeakable horror.

  “What’s wrong, sweetheart?” I half-whispered.

  She shook her head, still backing away.

  “Rowan, answer me! What’s wrong?” I took hold of her arms.

  “Don’t you touch me!” Her scream broke into a sob as she struggled to break my grasp, red blotches mottling her white face and neck.

  “Tell me, Rowan,” I pleaded. “I’m your mother.”

  “That’s just it,” she responded through chattering teeth. “You’re my mother! Did you have to be? You wished him dead—I heard you—and he hit a tree and the car exploded and he burned down there at the bottom of the bluff.”

  “What are you talking about? Who burned?”

  “Junior Osburn. Didn’t you hear the crash? He didn’t make the turn. Mr. Osburn came with the hearse and he didn’t even know it was his own son until they told him.”

  “I—I didn’t hear,” I breathed, releasing her. “Rowan, I couldn’t make that happen. I don’t have any such power.”

  Her hands went to her face. “Daddy?” she whispered through her fingers. “Daddy, too?”

  “Oh, my darling, you must never believe such—”

  I was protesting to thin air. She had run into the house.

  I stood there shocked into immobility until Dana took my arm to lead me inside. “My God, Mitti!” she said in a low voice as we walked, “you are one of us. You have the power. You don’t know it, but you have the power. God help you—it could destroy you, too.”

  Rowan was just hanging up the telephone when I returned to the house.

  “I’m going over to Aunt Charity’s,” she announced.

  “I’ll take you,” I said.

  “You don’t need to.” She seemed calmer now. “You might not get through. The road was blocked when I was down there. It’s not far and I’d like the walk—I really would.” Dark red-brown lashes opened wide with apparent candor, but I felt she was holding something back.

  “Rowan—” I started, undecided whether to reopen the subject.

  She made my decision for me. “I know. I was upset, that’s all. You couldn’t have that kind of power.”

  I breathed more easily. “And the same with your daddy, Rowan. You know I had nothing t
o do with that.”

  Her eyes averted. “Just forget it, Mother—I won’t tell Aunt Charity anything.”

  That’s my girl, I thought gratefully. Rowan had always been very close about family matters—too close, I thought. Even I was excluded. But in the relief of the moment I let her go, even though something warned me not to.

  Afterwards, I dressed Cari and went with her over to Dana’s, where she at once went into squeals of delight over the puppy. “You look exhausted. Leave the baby with me and go somewhere alone,” Dana said, scanning my face.

  “You surely don’t believe I had anything to do with—with Junior’s death,” I protested.

  She bent over the pup, which was lapping warm milk from the tip of her finger. “I felt the force of it,” she said in a low tone. “It was a normal reaction, Mitti, but some people have powers that could blow this world apart if they’re not controlled, especially the Old Souls.”

  None of this made sense to me—nor did I care to unravel it just then. “You’re sure Cari won’t be too much trouble?” I asked.

  “Not in the least. She might as well get to know her new playmate.”

  “You should keep him, Dana. You just lost Freya.”

  She shook her head. “He’ll be safer with you.”

  That didn’t make any better sense, but I obeyed orders and plunged into the woods behind the house, guided subconsciously by an old memory. Prickly ash and hawthorn lashed out at my bare legs as I went, but they were more than compensated for by the lush fronds of ferns, wild geranium, spikenard and countless other plants I couldn’t name. Wild grapes, five-leaf ivy, columbine and nightshade made liaison with the lower vegetation and the trees. Here—whether in the tough, gnarled tree trunks or the slenderest flower stem—surged the lifeblood of the earth mother.

  This had been my secret sanctuary when I was a child. A wind fugue echoed through the grove and somewhere a cardinal burst forth in glorious antiphony. I moved along a narrow aisle slick with pine needles until I came to a circular Lady chapel carpeted with a fine, soft, supple grass and bordered by the darker green moss at the base of the trees. A tall, stalwart ash and graceful, frilly maple, their limbs intertwined, were sacristans here—Philemon and Baucis I used to call them, but now they were father and mother to me, and I embraced them in turn, pressing my cheek to their cool, rough trunks, striving to draw their strength into my body. Did I detect a beating within? No, only my own heart pounding against the bark. I sank down into the grass and lay with my head pillowed on the moss.