Witch's Jewel

by Kater Cheek

  “Do you need to borrow money, Kit?” Silvara was the only one who could ask that without making me feel like dirt.

  “No. It’s not that. It’s, well, you know a lot of people. Do you know any antique dealers?”

  “Antique dealer? Do you want to sell something, or buy something?”

  “Sell, I guess. I got an inheritance, a jewel, and I want to talk to someone who can tell me about it. I’ve already had one offer, but if I decide to sell it I don’t wanna get ripped off.”

  “What did you inherit?”

  “I’d better show you.” I fished the bindi from my pocket, along with the letter Uncle Fred had enclosed.

  Silvara wiped her hands on a towel and took the envelope. She read the letter before looking at the bindi. I had already memorized it.

  Dear Kit,

  It grieves me to think that I will not be able to see you again before I die. The doctors claim I have several years to live, but I feel very unwell these days. What use of being a witch if you can’t even see your own death?

  But that’s enough of my melancholy. I am in the process of rewriting my will. Most of my belongings were to go to Hazel, but now that she has passed, I have to make other plans. I am leaving James the title to my house. I am leaving you something even more valuable. Please do not sell it, even if you are destitute. It could cause great harm in the wrong hands. My hunch is that you will be able to make good use of it.

  Your loving uncle,

  Fred Edgerson

  “Frederick Edgerson.” Silvara’s voice changed as she mentioned his name, as though my uncle were a secret best left buried. “I haven’t heard that name in a long, long while.”

  “You knew him?”

  “I recognize the name. He was well known here, in certain circles.” She quickly folded the letter and stuffed it back in the envelope without looking at me.

  “He lived here? What circles? What was he known for?”

  “There’s an antiques dealer in the Old Town. Thorn and Bramble. Try them.”

  “Silvara …” I touched her arm.

  She closed her eyes slowly. “Kit, I can’t. Politics, you know.”

  I let go of her sleeve, confused.

  “Ask the antique dealer if he recognizes your jewel. Ask him about Frederick Edgerson.”

  “I’m asking you.”

  She sighed, rubbing her hand down her face, and I wondered how much that question had strained our friendship. “I’d get rid of this jewel, if I were you.”

  “Why? Is it cursed or something?”

  “Anyone who knew your uncle knows that jewel. He had enemies, Kit, some of them powerful.”

  “And you think they’re going to go after me?”

  The telephone rang. Silvara stared at me for a few seconds, assuring me she heard my question. “I have to get the phone. See you next week?”

  That was unlike her. I waved good-bye and walked out, then went to the library so I could look up the appraiser’s address and check my email.

  Yes, I had to go to the library to check my email. No, I didn’t have my own laptop. I didn’t even have my own cell phone. I know. Cave-dwelling troglodyte. Making trees didn’t exactly earn laptop-buying kind of money.

  ***

  The sign said Thorn and Bramble Antiques. A little brass bell tinkled as I walked into the dusky, cluttered showroom. It smelled of mildew and dust, the smell of an old house closed for too long. A forest of furniture and knickknacks quickly swallowed the wan light pouring in from the windows. An old man sat at a bombé desk, entering figures into a small leather-bound book. His skin was pale and soft, as though he had spent decades indoors. He watched me for a moment, licked his finger to turn the page in his ledger, and went back to his work.

  I studied the displays as though I could afford to buy something, though my shabby jean jacket proved otherwise. Most of the furnishings were ornate and tastefully valuable. They were certainly more expensive than my milk-crate and plywood furniture.

  An enormous carved Chinese bed stood next to a bust of one of the muses. Further in the store, past an elephant’s foot wastebasket, hung a leering African mask that reminded me of one from Uncle Fred’s house. It was two feet long and oval, carved from wood, and burnished dark. It gave me a happy, nostalgic feeling, remembering my one summer with Uncle Fred and Aunt Hazel up in Maine. You’d have to be as eccentric as Uncle Fred to want that strange bug-eyed face staring at you.

  “You like the mask?” The man had silently risen from his desk, and hovered near my shoulder like a mercantile bat. “I can take it down if you like.”

  “No, that’s okay.”

  He ignored me and brought it down anyway, setting it in my hands as he began to lecture about its origins. “It’s from the Ivory Coast. You can see the carving marks on the back that show its authenticity. This one is almost one hundred years old, and is an example of an animal mask. It is supposed to imbue the wearer with the spirit of the animal. You can see this mark here, which is …”

  He went on about the mask for a while, and I nodded and tried to hand it back. It probably cost a fortune, and was almost certainly fragile.

  “But if you like African masks, I have some others which are even more interesting.”

  “No, that’s okay.” I finally managed to make him take it back. “Are you Mr. Thorn or Mr. Bramble?”

  The man smiled politely. “I am Mr. Thorn. Welcome to my bramble.”

  “Ah, I get it. That’s cute.”

  “Is there something else I can help you with?” It was a ‘don’t bother me if you’re not going to buy something’ tone.

  “Yes, actually. I inherited a jewel, and I’d like you to take a look at it if you have time.”

  “A jewel?” Mr. Thorn raised his eyebrows. “I can spare a few moments.”

  I brought out the envelope from my jacket pocket and retrieved the bindi.

  Mr. Thorn put on jeweler’s glasses and picked the bindi up with tweezers from his pocket. He carried it to the light, scrutinized it from every angle and stared at it for a long time, as if expecting it to move. Then he shook his head and set it respectfully on the table.

  “Well, well, Mildred Melbourne. After all the time I spent trying to track you down, and you walk right into my shop. I’m very sorry to hear of your uncle’s passing.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “You are Mildred Melbourne, are you not? Perhaps there is a different young lady who recently inherited a small gold and red ornament?”

  “No one calls me Mildred anymore. Why were you trying to track me down?”

  “Merely a service for one of my customers, who thought she might be interested in purchasing the jewel you inherited. Surely you don’t want to keep it? One of your youth can hardly be a collector.”

  “She already contacted me. She said it once belonged to her grandmother.”

  Mr. Thorn raised his eyebrows again. “Did she now? Mrs. Spedowski told me nothing of the sort.”

  “Mrs. Spedowski?”

  “I suppose she told you her name was Madame R., the Old Town’s most exclusive tarot reader? Never one to miss an advertisement, that one. Ah yes, she was most insistent that I find this jewel’s current owner when she heard, as we all did, that Frederick Edgerson had passed on.”

  “Why didn’t she just buy it from him while he was alive?”

  “After the scandal? After all that hullabaloo? Oh, but you probably weren’t even born then; you wouldn’t have known. I imagine he wouldn’t have spoken of it.”

  “No. What scandal?”

  “With his coven. I believe it was something financial, something about misappropriating funds. The whole town was in a tizzy. For months the Seabingen Herald spoke of nothing else. Of course, I heard later that … well, all I know are rumors. I’m not one to slander the dead; he was your uncle, after all.”

  Turning his attention back to the bindi under his jeweler’s eye, he said, “Now, about this jewel. Hmm. If I didn’t know better, I�
�d say it was a little paisley applique, fallen from a dress, or part of a piece of jewelry, or perhaps that it once had a post, as an earring.

  “But I do know better, and, as you have no doubt discovered, it is a jewel designed to be worn on the forehead, over the space which is known as the third eye.”

  “A bindi.”

  “You could call it that, I suppose. You can see a small loop at the top, where it once attached to a chain so a woman could dangle it from a clip in her hair, but at some point, the chain must have fallen off. What is this on the back?” He picked gently at the wads of goo.

  “Spirit gum.”

  “Spirit gum. Oh dear. That’s not archival.” He gave me a disapproving look, as though the jewel belonged to him and I’d been getting it dirty.

  “I didn’t want it to fall off my forehead.”

  After he plucked the rest of the spirit gum off, he adjusted his jeweler’s eye and looked at it closer. “Can’t understand why it’s so dear to Madame R. Seems to be a simple bauble. Real gold, of course, but that’s not too extraordinary.”

  I would have described it as a teardrop, but he was right, it was tilted to one side at the narrow part. “What’s the significance of the paisley shape?”

  “Paisley, hmm, the name comes from a town in Scotland, but it was first an East Indian motif. This particular one symbolizes, among other things, a ripe mango, which in turn symbolizes femininity.” He peered closer, adjusting the lens.

  “The other symbols, as you have no doubt noticed, are a lotus flower and a circle. The lotus flower usually means purity, but sometimes enlightenment. The circle represents wholeness. All of these give some clues as to who is meant to use this item, and what its purpose is. It is presumably to be worn by a woman, but whether for enlightenment or, ahem, purity, I do not know. It will take a great deal of research to find out the details.”

  “Do you have the address of the woman who wanted to buy it?”

  “Yes. Just a moment.”

  There was a box of thin gold rings on the counter, the kind usually paired with engagement rings. While he shuffled off to find the information, I amused myself by trying them on, though I’m not really a jewelry person. Rings get in the way if you have to punch someone.

  Mr. Thorn used an old-fashioned quill pen and dipped it into a glass jar of ink to write Madame R.’s address on a card. “Remind her that I did indeed find you, and she owes me the fee we agreed upon, whether you sell it to her or not. And if you choose not, I would be happy to find another buyer for you, for a most reasonable commission.” He handed me the card with an unctuous smile.

  “How much do you think it’s worth?” The ring I’d tried on was stuck. I tried not to tug too obviously.

  “Oh that depends upon the buyer, upon the auction,” he said, tilting his hand back and forth. “I’d have to make some phone calls to find out for sure.”

  The ring finally slid off and went back in the velvet box with the other ones. “Do you charge for that?”

  “There’s no need to worry about that, Miss Melbourne. These days I have enough leisure to research whatever strikes my fancy, and I must say, my curiosity has been rather piqued. I remember the fuss over this innocuous little jewel when Frederick Edgerson took it back from the museum. No doubt there are those who would consider it quite valuable. Do come see me if Madame R.’s offer is unacceptable.”

  “I’m still not sure if I want to sell it at all, but thanks for your time, Mr. Thorn.”

  “My pleasure, Miss Melbourne.”

  I put the bindi back in its envelope and left the shop. Something to do with misappropriating funds? A scandal? There was more to Uncle Fred than either James or I had ever known.

  Chapter Three

  Kishimoto’s dojo was just like a samurai movie Shaolin temple, except for the cheap commercial-grade carpet, flickering fluorescent lights, and dented off-white drywall instead of sliding paper screens and tatami mats. The only Asian decor was the free woodblock-print calendar from an insurance company. Otherwise, it was exactly the same.

  It was the perfect dojo for me, and felt more like home than the place where I slept. Kishimoto-sensei was a great instructor, and here, at least, I could afford the tuition, although some months it was difficult.

  The best part of working out here was that I got to see my best friends again, Rob and Fenwick. I had almost gotten used to knowing one of them wasn’t human.

  He still looked like Alan Fenwick: tall, muscular geek, with honey-colored hair in a ponytail. He was a good fighter, and always gave his all in the ring. His white cotton gi was drenched in sweat, and the fabric was stiff enough to snap loudly when he landed a punch on Rob’s chest.

  Rob blocked, too late, grin flashing from beneath his headgear. He was perfect, trim and muscular, handsome, with just the right amount of bad-boy spice. That face and body had a starring role in all my fantasies. Rob followed up with a punch-wheel kick combination. Fenwick blocked easily, except suddenly it wasn’t his arm I saw, it was the paw of a bear.

  No one else saw it. It was a code, shorthand the bindi gave me for “not quite right.” It was like flashing lights on James’ old printer: some kind of message, but only the missing manual could tell us. I saw that animal flicker again, a bear’s muzzle peeking out from under Fenwick’s red foam headgear. Flashing image of bear superimposed on my friend’s body meant … what? What did it mean? The bindi hadn’t come with a user’s manual.

  Rob punched towards Fenwick’s face, though the eight-inch height difference made Rob’s punch fall short. Fenwick backed up, slowly, defensively, as he always did, while Rob chased him around the ring. Watching Rob was always enjoyable. Even slicked with sweat he was gorgeous. And that smile? I’d walk on hot coals for that smile.

  I still remember the moment I realized I was in love with him.

  It was a fight, but in a bar, not in the dojo. The TV was on, and we’d been watching the Boars in one of their rare victories against the Canadians. Fenwick and I had gone to the toilets at the same time, otherwise we might have been able to stop the fight before punches flew.

  Rob was a sweet guy, really, but he didn’t know how to blow off comments from strangers. Fenwick had a Zen-like pacifism that let him ignore anyone foolish enough to antagonize a six-and-a-half-foot man, and almost no one picked fights with girls, but Rob was too proud to back down when he thought he was right. He didn’t care if the guy was bigger or not, he just started punching. When drunk, he forgot karate and swung like a brawler.

  Later, it turned out it had started when the guy said McCormick (who in Rob’s opinion was the best goalie the Boars ever had) sucked. For Rob, this was reason enough to get physical.

  Fenwick had stepped in, grabbing the debater’s arm and Rob’s arm, forcibly pulling them apart. Drinking with Rob had given Fenwick enough experience breaking up fights that he had been offered a job as bouncer on more than one occasion. My part was to clear a path to the door, and drive Rob home before he hurt himself. I wasn’t stupid enough to get in the way of a punch. Usually, anyway.

  It would have been fine if the guy’s girlfriend hadn’t tried to hit Rob over the head with a bottle. I kicked a stool in her path and yanked Rob out of the way of her descending arm. We fell down together, me in his arms. I had just saved him from a concussion, or worse.

  “Thanks.” He smiled at me, that irresistible lopsided grin, and for a split second, he really saw me. Not just a drinking buddy, not just some chick from the dojo, but me. I knew then I’d do just about anything to see that smile again.

  “Mister Fenwick! Blocks, not grabs!” Kishimoto-sensei ordered, loud enough to break me out of my reverie.

  Rob kicked again, high enough that his toes scraped along Fenwick’s cheek. Fenwick barely managed to pull away in time to avoid getting kicked in the head.

  “Good kick, Mister Rob!” Kishimoto-sensei said.

  I smiled at Rob, but he didn’t look my way. Not that my face was worth looking at now. My h
air was disheveled from my own match, and my already-imperfect features were covered in sweat. No one would ever accuse me of being beautiful, as Dad always said. He always said my half-sister Abby was built like a gazelle, and I was built like a mule.

  Back in high school, I’d been a mediocre student, too shy to be popular, and had no musical talent at all. I’d tried out for track, and made it, but mom didn’t approve of girls’ athletics and wouldn’t pay the fee.

  So, I got a job, and found something that would piss her off even more than track: karate.

  As it turned out, being built like a mule is an asset in the martial arts. Cause I can kick like a mule. I’d trained hard, and put on so much muscle that I weighed as much as some of the leaner guys (though I always lied and said I weighed 120). I’d never be petite—my hips required jeans four sizes larger than Rob’s girlfriend would ever be caught dead in—but a karate gi fit me just perfectly. The dojo fit me just perfectly.

  “Break!” Kishimoto-sensei ended the match. “Mister Rob, your blocks have become sloppy.”

  Rob nodded. God he was sexy. Ah, that familiar ache of unrequited love. Who was always willing to listen to his stories? Who was always there, watching his six when he got too drunk to go home safely? When was he going to notice that I was a woman instead of just one of the guys?

  “Mister Fenwick, too much right leg. Don’t forget your left.”

  Fenwick nodded.

  “No more fighting today. Return to your places.”

  We shuffled back into our original lines, waiting for Kishimoto-sensei to dismiss us. He didn’t. He folded his arms and stared at us disapprovingly.

  “Chinese Thinker. Now.”

  We all got down on the floor, groaning inwardly. The Chinese Thinker position resembled a pushup but with the forearms resting on the ground instead of the palms. It was difficult at the beginning of practice. After a hard workout and several rounds of sparring, it was excruciating.

  Kishimoto-sensei paced back and forth in front of the class. “I heard some of you have been fighting in bars again.”