Witch Catcher

by Mary Downing Hahn

  Tink mewed several times, reminding me again it was time for bed. The breeze coming through the window was cool, and I was glad to snuggle under the covers with my cat close by.

  The strange night noises of my new home kept me awake—a creak here, a creak there, an odd tap, tap, tap, the rush of water in the drains. I turned this way and that—stomach, right side, left side, back, legs curled up, legs out straight. But no matter what position I took, I couldn't relax.

  Large, dark furniture, carved with vines and animal heads, crowded around me on clawed feet. It was like trying to sleep in an enchanted forest full of strange beasts. For all I knew, I'd wake in the morning and find myself far from everything I knew and loved, alone and afraid.

  Finally, I got out of bed and went looking for Dad. I needed some comforting. Tink followed me, probably hoping it was time for breakfast.

  I was halfway down the steps when I heard Dad say, "I can't wait to introduce you to Jen. She's a lovely girl, Moura, sweet and quiet, a little shy. Very bright."

  I stopped and gripped the railing. A cold breeze blew up the stairs, but I didn't move. Dad was talking on the phone, telling a stranger about me. "She still misses her mother," he said. "It was hard for her to leave our old house, but I think the change will do her good. Maybe she'll be happier here."

  He paused to give "Moura" a turn to speak and then said, "I do my best, but Jen's almost thirteen. She needs mothering, a woman to talk to her about things."

  I wanted to run down the steps and yank the phone out of Dad's hand. He had no right to tell a stranger how I felt or what I needed. It was none of her business. But, angry as I was, I didn't want Dad to know I'd been eavesdropping.

  "Come tomorrow afternoon," Dad said. "I'd love to give you a complete tour of the house and its furnishings. You're bound to find something perfect for your shop."

  Another pause, and then Dad said, "Don't worry about a thing, Moura. Jen will absolutely adore you."

  Before Dad hung up, I crept back to bed. Who was this Moura? How had my father met her? And why had he said I'd adore her? I wouldn't—I was sure of it. And I certainly wasn't going to talk to her in some mother-daughter way. Dad was the only person I needed.

  Tink snuggled closer, butting his head against me, demanding to be petted. "Moura," I whispered. "I don't even like her name."

  Tink rubbed his face against mine and purred even louder. That meant he agreed. He didn't like Moura, either.

  I fell asleep hoping I could keep Dad away from this Moura person.

  3

  AT BREAKFAST, DAD was so distracted he poured orange juice on his cereal. Under different circumstances, I would have laughed and teased him, but I was still angry about what I'd overheard him tell the mysterious Moura.

  "That was dumb," I muttered.

  Dad laughed. "To tell you the truth, I'm a little flustered," he said. "When I came to town last month to settle Uncle Thaddeus's estate, the lawyer suggested I hire an antique dealer to assess my uncle's belongings—the furniture, the art, the bric-a-brac he once feared I'd break. He recommended a woman named Moura Winters. She runs the Dark Side of the Moon, a pricey little shop in Mingo. She's coming at one to look at the place."

  I toyed with my cereal, pushing the flakes this way and that. "Were you talking to her last night?"

  "Why, yes," he began, "but how—"

  I shoved my cereal bowl aside, no longer hungry. "Why did you tell her about me? It's none of her business how I feel."

  Dad stared at me, surprised. "Were you eavesdropping, Jen?"

  "No. I was coming downstairs because I couldn't sleep, and I heard you telling some stranger that I missed my mother, that I was lonely, that I needed a woman to talk to. You made me sound absolutely pitiful, some sad girl with no one to talk to."

  Dad ran a hand through his hair. "I didn't mean to make you sound pitiful. It's just that Moura and I ... we ... she and I ... well, we—"

  "You and Moura what?" I gripped the edge of the table. "How long have you known her, anyway?"

  "The lawyer I mentioned before introduced us," he said. "Whenever I came down to work on the house, I took Moura to dinner, a movie.... She's very nice, Jen. A good businesswoman, too. She knows her antiques. You'll like her, I'm sure of it. Just give her—"

  I didn't wait for him to finish. With Tink bounding ahead, I ran upstairs to my room and slammed the door. Now I understood the many trips Dad had made to Great-Uncle Thaddeus's house before we moved. A plumber to see. An electrician, a carpenter, a lawyer. While I'd spent weekend after boring weekend with a babysitter, Dad had been spending time in Mingo with Moura.

  When Dad knocked on my door, I told him to go away. I'd stay in my room all day if I felt like it. He was a traitor, a cheat, a liar.

  "For heaven's sake," Dad protested. "Why shouldn't Moura and I—"

  "Leave me alone," I said. "I don't want to hear that name again!"

  After a while, Dad gave up and went downstairs. I waited a few minutes, maybe ten, maybe fifteen, and then tiptoed to his room. I found the key to the tower, neatly labeled, in the top drawer of his bureau. If I hadn't been so angry with him, I probably would have felt guilty about disobeying him, but I dropped the key into the pocket of my shorts with only a twinge of conscience.

  I crept downstairs and peeked into the kitchen. Dad was lying on the floor, his head under the sink, trying to repair a leaking pipe he'd discovered.

  With Tink at my heels, I slipped out the front door, circled around the house to the rear, and ran down the hill to the tower. Hidden behind the screen of overgrown bushes, I shoved the key into the padlock and turned it. It took all my strength, but at last the lock moved, and I pushed the heavy door open.

  Tink and I hesitated on the threshold. The air was hot and still and thick with dust. It smelled of mold, mouse droppings, pigeon poop, and other nose-wrinkling, indefinable things. Tink scooted up the winding wooden staircase, and I followed slowly, avoiding the bones of a bird scattered on the stairs, testing each step to see if it was rotten. The wood seemed sound to me. Dad must have exaggerated to discourage me from what I was doing now.

  At the top, the stairs opened into a big round room. Dim light shone through the ivy covering the small windows, giving the room a greenish tint, almost as if it were under water. A pair of pigeons, heads tucked under their wings, slept on the rafters. Mice scurried through stacks of paper and crooked piles of old books. I saw a chair here, a table there, busts of ancient Greeks and Romans, trunks and boxes, all coated with dirt and cobwebs.

  I opened a few of the books, hoping to find a good story, but the mildewed pages were covered with odd symbols and marks. Runes, I thought, like the ones carved on the tower's door.

  Tossing the unreadable books aside, I spied an easel standing by one of the small leaf-choked windows. A palette of dried oils sat on a table, its colors so caked with dust that it was impossible to tell what they'd once been. On the easel was a painting of a girl's face partly hidden by shadows. Her strange slanted eyes stared into mine, half afraid, half curious. Moonlight shone through the foliage and tinted her pale skin green. She was so real, I almost expected her to move or speak.

  But what she'd say, I couldn't guess. She didn't look quite human.

  While Tink explored the room, I looked through a stack of paintings leaning against the easel. The same girl's face stared out from two of them. In one especially eerie painting, she seemed to be trapped behind a glass wall, pressing her hands against it, as if she were desperate to escape. I had a feeling Great-Uncle Thaddeus had been trying to paint something very real to him but he hadn't gotten it right somehow.

  The other paintings were of strange moonlit forests, dark lakes, rushing rivers, caverns. In some, menacing figures peered from shadowy places. They were barely visible, and as inhuman as the girl.

  I let the canvases fall back, raising a cloud of dust that made me sneeze.

  Still hoping to discover a gold chalice, a ruby diadem, or, at the
very least, a pile of silver coins, I took another look around the room. That's when I saw the small glass globe. Revolving slowly in the lazy summer air, it hung at the end of a tarnished silver chain suspended from a hook high above my head. Like everything else in the tower, it was filthy, but under the dirt, I was able to make out a faint spiral pattern of colors. Cleaned up, it would look pretty hanging in my bedroom window.

  While Tink watched, I climbed on top of a table and reached for the globe. But, stretch as tall as I could, it was still beyond my grasp. I gathered an armload of the thickest books I could find, piled them on the table, and climbed on top. Just as my fingers brushed the globe, the books slid out from under me, and I almost fell. Startled by the commotion, mice scurried about madly and the pigeons flew out a broken window, their wings clapping like sheets of metal.

  Unfazed by the ruckus, Tink stared steadily at the globe, his ears pricked, his tail twitching.

  Determined to get the globe, I grabbed a rickety old chair and hefted it onto the table. After making sure it was strong enough to hold me, I stood on the seat and tried again to reach the globe. Grabbing it at last, I climbed down carefully and wiped the glass with the bottom of my T-shirt. I turned the globe this way and that, admiring its spiraling pattern of green, blue, purple, and gold. Where all the colors con verged, I discovered a little spout, tightly stoppered with a cork. The glassblower must have put it there for some reason, but I had no idea why.

  Tink rose on his hind legs and sniffed the globe. Dropping down on all four paws, he shivered and clicked his teeth as if he saw a mouse. But his eyes were on the globe.

  "What's so interesting?" I asked him.

  He mewed and reared up to reach for the globe.

  "Don't," I said. "You'll break it."

  I hid the globe under my shirt and hurried down the narrow steps. It was later than I thought, and I was worried Dad would call me for lunch. Shoving the tower door shut, I tried to relock the padlock, but as I fumbled with it, the rusty old thing fell apart in my fingers. Not knowing what else to do, I left the padlock on the ground and sneaked out of the bushes. With Tink bounding ahead, I ran across the lawn, hoping with every step that Dad wouldn't look out the window and see me.

  In a few seconds, I was safe on the terrace behind the house, peering through the screen door. Dad was still working under the sink. He didn't see Tink or me sneak past him and tiptoe upstairs.

  Leaving Tink in the hall, I locked the bathroom door and scrubbed the globe till it sparkled. When I held it up to the window, the sun shone through its rainbow of colors, casting a reflection on the floor—pale green, blue, gold, and violet shadows as delicate as moonlight.

  Later I'd tell Dad I found the globe in one of the empty rooms. Or up in the attic. Or down in the basement. But for now I decided to keep it a secret.

  Tink was waiting when I opened the bathroom door. Eyes fixed on the globe, he followed me to my room and watched me hide it behind a stack of games on a shelf in my closet.

  "You stay away from this," I whispered to the cat. "It's not a toy for you to bat around the floor."

  Tink clicked his teeth again and lashed his tail.

  I shut the closet door just as Dad called, "Jen, how about giving me a hand with lunch?"

  Not long after we finished our grilled-cheese sandwiches, the doorbell rang. Dad got to his feet quickly, his face flushed. "That must be Moura," he said. "Please be polite, Jen. She's our guest."

  I followed him to the door, more curious than I cared to admit. A tall, slender woman stood on the porch, her narrow face paler than the moon on a December night. Her long hair was black, parted in the middle, and touched here and there with strands of silver. The frames of her tinted glasses slanted up at the ends, cat's-eye style. She wore a silky white blouse under a crimson vest, a long, swirly black skirt, and high-heeled sandals. Around her neck was a deep red stone pendant on a delicate silver chain. Matching earrings swayed when she moved her head. Her long nails were polished scarlet, and her lipstick was scarlet, too. Her fingers sparkled with rings.

  I stared at Moura, fascinated by her stylish clothes and sophistication. I had to admit she was beautiful, but there was something indefinably scary about her. Moving closer to Dad, I reached for his hand and held it tight.

  Moura had parked close to the house. Her car was black and low slung, as sleek as a racer. In the passenger seat was a slim black dog, just as elegant as his mistress. Expensive, I thought. And possibly dangerous. Most likely an enemy of cats.

  "Hello, Hugh," Moura said, smiling at Dad. "I hope I'm not too early, but business was slow today." Her voice was low and husky, tinged with an accent of some sort—not exactly British, not exactly Irish or Scottish, but a little like all three.

  "We've just finished lunch. Please come in." Dad stood back to let her enter. I'd never seen him so happy to see someone.

  Moura's skirt rustled as she followed Dad into the living room and settled herself in an armchair. I expected her to remove her glasses, but she kept them on.

  Dad took a seat on the sofa opposite her and beckoned to me. "Moura, I'd like you to meet my daughter, Jen," he said.

  Remembering my manners, I crossed the room and shook hands with the woman. "Pleased to meet you, Miss Winters." I forced a smile to show her I was definitely not in need of mothering—especially from her.

  "The pleasure is mine." Moura bared perfect teeth in a perfect smile. Her voice was soft and low, but the hand holding mine was as cold as her name. Releasing me, she added, "I've heard so much about you, Jen."

  I blushed, knowing exactly what she'd heard. "Oh. you can't believe everything Dad says," I told her.

  "I hope you'll visit me in my shop," Moura went on. "The Dark Side of the Moon, it's called. I have a fine collection of antique dolls. But perhaps you're too old for such things." She sighed and glanced at Dad. "Girls grow up so fast these days."

  Did Moura think I was too grown-up? Tall, skinny me in my T-shirt and shorts? Most people thought I was younger than twelve. Ten, maybe. Coming from someone else, I might have felt complimented by her words, but Moura spoke as if growing up too fast was one of the evils of modern times. So I shrugged and toyed with my ponytail.

  "Is that your dog in the car?" I asked.

  Moura smiled. "His name is Cadoc. Do you know what that means?"

  I shook my head. "It has an interesting sound," I ventured, but scary was more like it.

  "In the Welsh language it means warrior. And that's what Cadoc is. My warrior, my protector."

  "Warrior," I echoed, smiling stiffly. But I couldn't help wondering why Moura needed a warrior to protect her. She certainly didn't appear to be a helpless woman.

  "Do you know the Welsh legends?" Dad asked her.

  "Oh, yes," Moura purred. "I've read every version of The Mabinogion I can find. The stories are laden with romance and magic and mystery. Ancient, yet modern. Full of meaning."

  "I love The Mabinogion myself," Dad said. "It isn't often I meet someone who's even heard of it." He looked as pleased as if she'd given him a present. "The longer I know you, the more you surprise me. It's amazing how much we have in common."

  If I hadn't been there, I was sure he would have kissed her. Instead, he contented himself by gazing at her like a teenager in love.

  In the silence, Moura's eyes roamed the room, taking in Great-Uncle Thaddeus's possessions, assessing them, assessing Dad, assessing me.

  "Would you like to examine my great-uncle's things now?" Dad asked, apparently not noticing Moura already had.

  "Yes, of course," she murmured, "if it's convenient, Hugh."

  I followed them from room to room, watching them pore over paintings, old books, furniture, glassware, china, and silver. How she saw anything through those dark glasses was a mystery worthy of The Mabinogion—whatever that was.

  Finally, bored beyond belief, I went to my room to read. Tink opened one sleepy eye when I flopped down beside him on the bed.

  I ope
ned The Woman in White, an old-fashioned mystery I'd found in Great-Uncle Thaddeus's library, but I couldn't concentrate on the story. Not with Moura downstairs with my father. I kept thinking of the expression on his face when the doorbell rang, the way he'd leapt up to let her in, his flushed face, the look in his eyes.

  He couldn't ready be in love with her, not Dad. Unlike some of my friends' divorced fathers, he'd never shown the least interest in finding a girlfriend. He was a nice-looking man, tall and lanky, with a full brown beard, but his hair was thinning and he had no style. Today he was wearing an old navy polo shirt so faded it was almost gray. His jeans were white at the knees, the seams frayed, and they hung loosely on him.

  Even if Dad were in love with Moura, why would she love him? Moura, owner of Cadoc, the warrior dog; Moura, with her perfect black hair and her beautiful clothes; Moura, with her sleek black sporty car; Moura, with her chilling eyes and smile. Moura, who made me feel uncomfortable, ugly, and dull.

  Yet with all her glamour, she seemed to return Dad's interest. Did she think my father was rich? Was she after the house and its contents? Who knew what Moura wanted? Great-Uncle Thaddeus's antiques? Dad's heart? Maybe both.

  I shouldn't have left my father alone with her. Tossing my book aside, I ran downstairs, fearful of what Moura might have said or done in my absence.

  4

  I FOUND THEM IN the kitchen having tea and talking softly.

  "How did you ever end up in a boring little town in the mountains of West Virginia?" Dad was asking Moura.

  She smiled. "It's a long story, Hugh."

  Dad reached for her hand. "I love long stories."

  When I cleared my throat loudly, Moura looked at me. She'd finally removed her glasses. They lay on the table beside her cup, casting colored shadows on the tablecloth. Her eyes were large and a light greenish gray, the pupils ringed with yellow.