Bewitched and Betrothed

by Juliet Blackwell

  “I’ll see you all tonight. I’m bringing the pizza,” I said.

  The coven was staying with my friend Calypso Cafaro, a botanical expert with a big old farmhouse near Bolinas, up the coast. Since Calypso had filled her home with air beds and cots for a drawn-out witchy slumber party, the least I could do was to provide the occasional dinner. Calypso’s farm was where the handfasting would be held in a mere two weeks, assuming Oscar was able to broker an agreement with the woods spirits. This could be tricky, because I had received their help once in the recent past but had neglected to properly repay the favor.

  So there was that.

  “Make sure there’s a vegetarian option?” Viv said, hanging out one of the windows of the old school bus. She was watching her cholesterol, but was very fond of cheese.

  “Got it right here,” I said, patting a pad of paper with thirteen special requests. The coven members were nothing if not opinionated. Some were vehemently anti-anchovy, others all-veggie, still others pro-pepperoni (“A meat lover’s version would be delightful!”). I wondered if I should try to fit all their requests onto half a dozen pies or save myself time and trouble, and just order thirteen individual pizzas. “I’ll bring some snacks as well.”

  “Oooh, garlicky knots?” someone called out; I couldn’t tell who.

  “Garlicky knots.” I nodded, jotting it down. “Anything else?”

  “With dipping sauce!” Rosa said.

  “Knots and dipping sauce. Got it.”

  Seeing where this conversation was going, Bronwyn intervened to bring it to an end. “Now, won’t that just be lovely! Have a wonderful tour, ladies. Tomorrow, I’ll bring the makings for margaritas! Bye-bye!”

  Wendy closed the door, threw the bus in gear, and roared off in a cloud of diesel exhaust, carefully navigating the crowded streets of the Haight. Bronwyn and I waved until the bus disappeared, then turned to each other.

  “Phew!” Bronwyn said.

  “You can say that again,” I said with a smile.

  “Phew!”

  Bronwyn was nothing if not obliging.

  A lovely, ample, fifty-something Wiccan, Bronwyn had been enjoying the opportunity to discuss the healing properties of botanical teas and tonics with Graciela’s coven—not to mention grilling them about details of my misspent youth. Still, she and I had businesses to run. Bronwyn had special-order herbal infusions to mix, and I—well, I had laundry to do.

  Every garment that came into my store first had to be inspected and cleaned. As much as I disliked doing laundry per se, I adored sifting through the new acquisitions. Finding inventory was a perennial challenge in my line of work, so I made frequent visits to estate sales and garage sales, as well as the Bay Area’s many charitable thrift stores and flea markets. Maya scoured the attics, basements, and closets of the people she met through her long-term pet project interviewing and recording the stories of elderly Bay Area residents. And sometimes the inventory came to me: As my shop gained a reputation and had become better known, I began fielding calls from those helping their elderly aunts, mothers, and grandmothers clean out their closets.

  Currently, half a dozen Hefty bags filled with Maya’s latest acquisitions awaited me in the workroom at the back of the store, which was separated from the shop floor by a thick brocade curtain. I was eager to see what new treasures she had discovered. Opening one sack, I ran my hands along a cool satin aqua-colored poodle skirt from the mid-’50s, then brought out a 1960s lace cocktail-length gown with a pinch waist. Both items went into the hand-wash pile. Very few true vintage items could be run through the jumbo-sized washing machine that crowded the back room.

  Maya joined me, a cup of steaming chai tea in her hand. Maya was in her early twenties but seemed much older and wiser than a lot of people twice her age. She wore no makeup or jewelry, but her black hair was twisted into shoulder-length locks and decorated with beads and a single streak of bright blue.

  “Lily,” Maya said, “I wanted to ask you about something. I found a . . . well, a special item.”

  “I sure hope it’s spangly, because the aunties snapped up most of our glittery goods,” I replied as she lifted one of the Hefty bags onto the workroom table, a jade green Formica dinette set from the 1960s, and began searching through the bag.

  “I wouldn’t say it’s spangly, exactly. Here it is.”

  Maya held up a man’s long-sleeved blue chambray shirt. It was faded and old, and not at all attractive. Definitely no sparkles.

  But that’s not what bothered me. Even from across the workroom I felt its vibrations: a low, malevolent hum. My eyes fell on a series of numbers stamped in black ink over the chest pocket: 258.

  That was one nasty shirt.

  Chapter 3

  “What is that?” I asked her.

  “I think it’s a genuine piece of history,” said Maya, restrained excitement showing in her dark eyes. “I already talked to Carlos’s cousin Elena, who works on Alcatraz as a National Park Service ranger. We think it might be part of an inmate’s uniform from the old prison.”

  Carlos Romero was a San Francisco homicide inspector who had become a good friend over the course of several police investigations. I had met his cousin Elena a few months ago, at Carlos’s birthday party. When she heard I’d never been to Alcatraz, she’d encouraged me to come for a visit and promised me a personal tour. I had demurred; I had no desire to visit a penitentiary bound to be full of angry ghosts and mournful spirits. Not to mention bad vibrations.

  “A . . . real inmate’s uniform?” I asked. “Are you sure?”

  Along with selling gaudy sweatshirts, the city’s sidewalk vendors peddled a vast array of Alcatraz-themed items, such as T-shirts emblazoned with Alcatraz Swim Team or gangster Al Capone’s mug shot. Black-and-white-striped infant onesies seemed a bit macabre to me, but then I’ve never had my finger on the pulse of popular culture.

  “I’m not certain, but I think it might be,” said Maya.

  “Didn’t the prisoners wear black-and-white stripes, like in the movies?” asked Bronwyn, who had taken a break from straightening the racks and putting away the garments the coven had tried on and rejected.

  “That’s what I thought, too!” said Maya. “But apparently not, they wore jeans and blue chambray shirts like this one.”

  “Jeans? How stylish,” Bronwyn said.

  “You’d think so, but not really,” Maya said. “Before the rebellious youth of the 1950s made them cool, jeans were considered working-class clothing: sturdy and inexpensive, worn by farmers, construction workers, miners panning for gold . . .”

  “And prisoners?” I asked.

  “Yep. I did a little research online last night. If the shirt is real, then the number over the pocket means it belonged to a prisoner who escaped from Alcatraz in 1937.”

  “I didn’t realize anyone actually escaped from the Rock,” Bronwyn said. “I thought that was the point of putting a federal penitentiary on an island in the middle of the bay—it was considered escape-proof.”

  “I can see how being stuck on an island would slow an escaped prisoner down, since you can’t just walk away,” I said. “But Alcatraz Island is only, what, a mile offshore? Isn’t there an annual swim contest from there—called ‘Escape from Alcatraz,’ as a matter of fact?”

  “Yes, but those are highly trained athletes competing in a triathlon,” Maya said. “Keep in mind that not everyone knows how to swim, especially not in the past, when swimming pools were few and far between. Plus, the currents in San Francisco Bay are very dangerous—even good swimmers can get caught and swept out to sea.”

  Once again, the memory of last night’s nightmare washed over me. Currents tugging at my legs, pulling me toward the Golden Gate.

  “But you’re suggesting someone did escape?” I asked.

  “Apparently that’s still up for debate.” Maya consulted her note
book. “Let’s see: A total of thirty-six prisoners were involved in escape attempts. Most were foiled while still on the island, six inmates were shot and killed in the attempts, and five prisoners made it into the water but were never seen again. Since their bodies were never found, the authorities concluded they were swept out to sea and drowned; but because there’s no proof of that, either, it’s possible some actually made it to land. Over the years, there have been supposed sightings of the escaped prisoners reported in South America.

  “The number 258 on the pocket was Ray Perry’s inmate identification number,” continued Maya. “In 1937 he slipped into the water, never to be seen again.”

  “Where did you find this shirt?” I asked Maya. I hadn’t gone near the thing, repelled by its vibrations. But now I stroked my medicine bag to center myself and held out my hands for the shirt.

  “It was in Mrs. Archer’s attic, along with these other items,” Maya said, gesturing to the contents of the Hefty bag and passing the shirt to me.

  “What do you think, Lily?” Bronwyn asked, sounding intrigued but concerned. “Does it feel like it could belong to an escaped prisoner?”

  “It’s . . .” I held the chambray shirt close. The cotton fabric was soft with age, but its vibrations were pure malice. I sensed despair, rage, a bleak nothingness. “I’m pretty sure it’s . . . genuine.”

  I held it out, away from my core, and the three of us stared at it.

  “Did Mrs. Archer say anything about it?” I asked.

  Maya shook her head, the beads in her braided locks making a pleasant clacking sound. “She said it was there when she moved in, thirty years ago, in a bunch of boxes left behind by the previous homeowner. There were old photographs and that sort of thing up there, too.”

  “What was this Ray Perry in prison for?” asked Bronwyn.

  “Kidnapping and bank robbery,” Maya said.

  At least it wasn’t murder, I thought, then reflected on how bizarre my life had become that I was afraid the spirit of a murderer might be lurking in the vintage items that passed through my hands.

  “What do you think, Lily? Pretty interesting, isn’t it?” Maya asked.

  “It’s fascinating, Maya, I agree. But we can’t sell this. It could be dangerous to whoever wore it.”

  “Dangerous how?” Bronwyn asked.

  “The vibrations are . . . off.”

  “I guess that would make sense,” Maya said. Unlike Bronwyn and me, Maya wasn’t sure what to make of magic, and had a natural tendency toward skepticism. But she’d been around me enough to know that I was tapped into something she didn’t understand, and she respected it. “Perry was a federal prisoner, after all, and if this really was his shirt, it’s possible he survived a desperate swim in the cold waters of the bay. I imagine that experience would leave behind some bad juju.”

  “Some very bad juju,” I said, retrieving a copper Sri Yantra talisman from my collection in the shop’s glass display case. “Wear this for a few days, please, Maya, just in case. You’ve been handling the shirt, and it’s better to be safe than sorry.”

  “Be glad to. I’ve been admiring this necklace for days,” murmured Maya, studying the charm. “What is it supposed to do?”

  “It’s for good luck and protection,” I explained. “The nine interlocking triangles form a total of forty-three smaller triangles. I’m . . . feeling triangles lately.” Recently, triangles and the number three had been coming to mind. In a way, that was no surprise: Three is a sacred number in many faiths and belief systems. But the moment I spoke, I realized something: Either I was intuiting more than ever before, or I was paying more attention to my insights. Maybe all that witchy training was finally paying off.

  “Cool,” said Maya, slipping the amulet over her head and patting the copper sphere against her chest.

  “What about you, Lily?” Bronwyn said, looking worried. “Shouldn’t you wear one, too?”

  “I’ve got my medicine bag and guiding spirits, and my witch’s intuition and what-all. I’ll be fine.”

  “Okay, so what do we do now?” Maya asked, nodding at the shirt.

  “I think . . . maybe I should burn it. I’ll have to give that some thought.”

  “What? You can’t burn it, Lily,” Maya protested. “It’s a piece of history.”

  “It’s horrifying.”

  “Horrifying, but historic.”

  I wasn’t convinced.

  “Besides,” continued Maya, “I wasn’t suggesting selling it. I’ve already spoken with Elena Romero about it, remember? She’s coming by the shop in an hour. She wants the shirt for the park service’s museum—assuming it’s genuine, that is.”

  Oh, it’s genuine, I thought.

  “That might be a problem, Maya,” Bronwyn said. “Lily thinks the shirt is dangerous.”

  “Well, we can’t just burn it,” Maya said. “What would I tell Elena?”

  “Could you cleanse it of its evil vibrations, Lily? Or bind them, perhaps?” suggested Bronwyn.

  I blew out a breath. “All right, let me think. . . . I suppose if I restrained the vibrations with a binding spell, and Elena immediately put it under glass in the museum, it would be safe enough. It’s not as though she’s going to wear it, after all. Right? I’ll talk to her about it.”

  “Good,” said Maya. “I know it’s creepy, but it’s also fascinating. Like Alcatraz itself. You really should go visit it one day, Lily.”

  The frigid bay waters, closing over my head.

  * * *

  • • •

  I took the shirt upstairs to my apartment over the store, and performed a hasty binding spell over it, using a small vial of saltwater from the bay to cleanse it. I was familiar with those waters; they had once cleansed me.

  But cleansing required harnessing the salts of the bay and concentrating them within a serenity spell. In last night’s dream, the bay waters weren’t cleansing as much as threatening.

  Once again, I shivered at the memory. My nightmare and today’s appearance of the inmate’s shirt from Alcatraz could be a simple coincidence. Except that I had learned the hard way that events in my life were rarely coincidental and almost never simple.

  I shook it off. This was no time to allow my mind to wander. Spellcasting was all about focusing one’s intent.

  From the living room bookshelf I retrieved a smooth stone I had found in the Ruby River in Montana, and extracted a rusty, square-headed nail from my medicine bag. I had picked up the nail in an old silver mining ghost town in New Mexico, the site of a terrible mining tragedy that killed twenty-two men.

  I cast a quick salt circle, then set the nail upon the stone and struck it thrice with an iron hammer while intoning a spell in Latin. Finally, I scored the stone three times with the point of the rusty nail and returned the nail to my medicine bag.

  Later I would cast the stone into the bay, completing the circle, but for now I braided and knotted yard-lengths of orange, blue, and black yarn, focusing my intent while chanting:

  By knot of one, my spell’s begun.

  By knot of two, the wish comes true.

  By knot of three, so mote it be.

  By knot of four, this charm is a door.

  By knot of five, my intent comes alive.

  By knot of six, the enchantment I fix.

  By knot of seven, the strength of eleven.

  By knot of eight, I cast this fate.

  By knot of nine, what’s dreamt is mine.

  I wrapped the prisoner’s shirt in brown paper and tied the whole thing with the braided strings. The shirt’s vibrations were still bleak, but that was to be expected. It was no longer dangerous—as long as no one put it on. It was too easy to forget the effect clothing can have upon a person; to change into a new set of clothes can, indeed, change the wearer, if only very subtly. Everyone is different, of course, an
d some need a touch of darkness in their clothes to highlight the sunshine in their lives.

  But not this shirt. Not #258. This shirt was too much of a burden for even the strongest among us to bear.

  Chapter 4

  Satisfied the evil had been contained, I carried the wrapped shirt downstairs and left it atop the washer in the workroom. Out on the shop floor, I found Elena Romero and a man, both of them wearing National Park Service uniforms, chatting with Maya and Bronwyn.

  Elena was a plump, attractive woman in her late twenties. She shared Carlos’s dramatic features, but her eyes revealed a free-spirited openness that Carlos, a hardened homicide inspector, almost never displayed.

  “Lily!” she said, giving me a hug. “It’s been too long.”

  “Indeed it has,” I said. “I’m so glad you came by.”

  “Allow me to introduce my friend and colleague, Forrest Caruthers,” Elena said.

  Forrest appeared to be in his forties; tall and lanky, he was a crusty cowboy type. “Nice to meet you. And before you say it, yes, it is ironic that a park ranger is named Forrest. My mother must have been prophetic. On the other hand, she wanted me to be a doctor, so there you go.”

  I smiled. “It’s nice to meet you. You both look so official in your uniforms!”

  “It’s pretty spiffy, isn’t it?” Elena said, pirouetting. The National Park Service uniform consisted of army-green pants, a gray button-up short-sleeved shirt, a green wool jacket, and a broad straw hat with a brown leather band stamped USNPS and embellished with a metallic gold acorn.

  “There’s only one problem.” Elena took off her hat, revealing an indentation encircling her thick, dark locks. “Hat hair!”

  Forrest doffed his own, but his sandy hair was sparse. “I don’t know what she’s talking about. I don’t have that problem, personally.”