by Sarah Dreher
It hurt to remember when he was younger, when he could walk into a grocery store simply because he needed or wanted something, or because he was bored. When he didn’t have to wait for a day when he felt strong enough that he was pretty sure he wouldn’t suddenly start screaming. He remembered when he could greet people on the street, even folks he barely knew, and shoot the breeze for a while. And wouldn’t have to go home afterward to change his clothes because the ones he wore were drenched with fear-sweat. He remembered when he could eat a meal without holding each bite in his mouth for minutes while his tongue probed for tiny splinters of bamboo or glass and tasted for poison.
He hoped the day would come soon when he didn’t remember any more. Because he knew he’d never be sane again.
The docs at the VA didn’t like him to talk that way. They accused him of “defeatism,”and lectured him about “self-fulfilling prophesies”—which was the one thing that could really make him laugh, it was so ridiculous and superstitious— and claimed he was only making himself sicker with that kind of attitude. Attitude, as if it was a jacket he could put on or take off. They didn’t understand that insanity had attached itself to him and bored its way into every organ and cell and nerve in his body. Insanity steered the ribbons of blood through his veins. Insanity filtered what he heard and didn’t hear, and made up dreams for him to dream. Insanity kept him alive. He knew they meant well, but they hadn’t seen the Beast.
Where had he gone? She was certain she’d seen him, kneeling by a garden of rocks, dressed in his robes and plucking bits of fallen leaf from between the stones. Close enough so she knew it was Cutter. And now he’d disappeared. She glanced toward the woods. Maybe he’d ducked in there. But nothing was moving. When she glanced back, he was there again, kneeling among the white stones.
All right, she thought, Cutter has his ways, and laughed to herself a little hysterically. She walked up to him.
He sat back on his heels, a bit of dead grass between his fingers.
“Hi,” Stoner said.
Cutter nodded, his face unreadable. Was he angry? Glad to see her? Impatient at her interruption? Afraid she was going to criticize him?
“I... uh...wanted to ask a favor of you,” she said.
He only nodded again and waited.
“Don’t you want to stand up?” she asked. “It looks uncomfortable, kneeling on those stones.”
“I been uncomfortable before,” he said.
“Well, sure, I can imagine. But why be if you don’t have to?”
He merely shrugged. The truth was, he wanted his head to stay lower than hers, so she wouldn’t be afraid. Women were a little bit afraid of men all the time, anyway, or should be. He didn’t want to add to it by being tall.
Stoner folded her legs under her and sat beside him, on the grass. She didn’t want to make him nervous by towering over him.
Cutter’s mouth cracked in a little smile. Women were like that, too. Didn’t want anyone to feel left out or put down.
She noticed the smile but decided to ignore it, afraid that to ask him about it would make him feel he was being scrutinized. Marylou had specifically warned her against making Cutter feel scrutinized. “Whatever you do,” she’d said, “don’t scrutinize.”
They glanced at each other and looked at the ground and watched a couple of ants navigate the mountainous terrain of the rock garden.
“I have a problem,” Stoner said when she couldn’t bear the silence any more.
“Didn’t figure this was a date,” Cutter said. “Marylou’d kill me.”
She let herself laugh, which produced a tiny, visible grin from him. “I was hoping you’d be willing to help.”
“Do what I can.” He wished she’d hurry up and get to the point. His anxiety was rising like fire ants around a plundered mound.
“It’s Aunt Hermione. You know she’s not well.”
He nodded. Of course he knew. He’d warned her about the ghosts.
“And we can’t find out what’s wrong.”
He knew that, too. And nodded again.
“I think someone might be doing something to her. Putting things in her food or something.”
Or something? He knew exactly what that “something” was. Did she? Did she know about “somethings” like hungry ghosts?
“And there’s someone I’m a little suspicious of.”
Good God, woman, will you get to the point?
Stoner took a deep breath. “There’s a woman in her coven named Mogwye. I think she might be behind it. I mean, I have my suspicions. I know we don’t have any proof, and it’s not fair to accuse her… well, anyway, I just have a hunch.”
Of course! A witch! Usually witches turned their backs on ghosts—the kind of ghosts that tormented him. They wanted nothing to do with things that trailed darkness, didn’t want to give them energy. There was no way you’d find a decent witch working with them, or using them. Uh-uh. The only thing he’d ever seen a real witch do with a hungry ghost was politely invite it to move along. Naturally, there were people who liked to muck around with that kind of thing—thrill-seekers, assholes, and plain old loonies. They generally learned it was a bad idea. Learned the hard way.
But witches, good or bad, had the skills. To evoke and conjure and use. And sometimes they lost control of the situation. It all got away from them and there was hell to pay. That was why the ones with half a brain thought it was better not to mess around in the first place.
If they wanted to, though, they could. He felt excitement surge within him, pushing aside his anxiety.
“Yeah,” he said, almost looking Stoner in the eye before he stopped himself. “It could be a witch. It sure could.”
“The thing is, we need someone to… well, frankly, to spy on her. At the Esbat this Sunday. And she knows all of us, and anyway we couldn’t go because it’s not open to outsiders and besides I don’t even know where they hold them.”
He started to say, “I do,” but she was rushing on.
“See, we need to know if she’s slipping something in Aunt Hermione’s food or anything like that.”
Or anything like cursing or casting spells, he added to himself.
Stoner took another deep breath. “So what I was wondering, since you’re pretty good at sneaking around and hiding...” She realized what she’d just said and blushed deeply. “I don’t mean that in a negative way, like you’re a dishonest person or anything, but you have… well, certain skills.”
“Uh-huh,” he said.
“So, will you help us out? I mean, what do you think?”
He was silent for a moment. Stoner waited, her stomach in knots. “I think,” he said at last, “it takes you a God-awful long time to get to the point.”
She lit up. “You’ll do it?”
“Yep.”
Stoner let all of her breath out at once. “Thank you. This Sunday. Around six in the evening. Can you find the place? Marylou said you might have been there… you know… out of curiosity or something.”
“Yep.”
“I owe you. Forever.”
He brushed away the idea with a flick of his wrist. “One thing. Better not let your aunt know about this. She’d give herself away, peeking around to see if she can see me. It’s human nature.”
“Okay,” Stoner said.
“Anything else?”
“No. Thanks.”
He got to his feet. His knees felt like glass where the stones had dug into them. “Meet me Sunday night. After dark. Your back yard.”
“How will I know when you’re there?” she asked.
“You’ll know.” He turned and walked away.
She was better than he expected. He’d been certain he’d know her by the way she greeted the old woman. Certain there’d be a telltale spark of energy between them that would point out that this one was the soul taker. But, even though he watched as hard as he could, he couldn’t pick her out.
At first he thought maybe she hadn’t arrived yet, but now there
were thirteen of them and they were dressing for the ceremony, slipping into their black robes with the coarse red belts of rope. Once they got busy with the doings, there wouldn’t be anything to give her away until they were finished.
Concentrating his attention to a laser beam, he swept the gathering, probing, willing his intuition to tell him something. Nothing.
They were forming the circle. Quickly, he scanned one more time. One of the women froze, shook her head slightly, and looked around, not at the other women, but at the woods just beyond the clearing.
Bingo, he thought as he sucked his energy back into himself. She had sensed him. And she didn’t seem to have located him. Now he had to stay very still and quiet.
He could feel her searching for him, tiny waves of electricity bouncing off the auras of the trees that surrounded and hid him. The leaves moving ever so slightly. Too slightly to be seen, only sensed as tiny drafts of cool charged air.
The waves passed him. Slowed. Stopped. Began to return…
“Mogwye,” one of the women said. “We’re closing the circle.”
Confirmation.
She scurried to her place and the priestess began the ceremonies. By the time the circle was closed and protected, he couldn’t have gotten in no matter how hard he tried. But he wouldn’t have tried, anyway. This was private stuff. Religious stuff. He wasn’t about to mess with religious stuff.
He didn’t mind. He could have a nap now. Even the subtlest change in the atmosphere would waken him. It was a skill that had saved his life more than once in ’Nam. Trouble was, even after years—decades, really—back in the States, those sensors were always on. He wondered if he had ever slept through an entire night.
Cutter stretched out on his tree limb and stared up into the darkening twilight. From below he could hear the murmur of women’s voices. He knew the rituals by heart. Not the exact words, he figured it could be hazardous to his health to hear the exact words, but the rise and fall of tempo and feeling told him what was happening. It comforted and lulled him.
He didn’t know if he’d been dreaming. If he had, it wasn’t one of those screamers he usually had. It wouldn’t have mattered, anyway. They wouldn’t have heard him. Nobody ever heard him when he screamed.
But something had wakened him, and wakened him with his adrenaline already flowing, his heart pounding, his muscles clenched. The ceremony was still going on. The voices hadn’t changed. They were about half way through now. They’d flattered the Goddess and placated all the nature Gods, and had reached the wishing and singing part. It all sounded okay.
Beneath all that praising and rejoicing and glorifying, without speaking aloud, someone was placing a curse. And he knew exactly who it was and what they were saying.
He wondered what he should do. His orders had been to observe and identify, that was all. Besides, he didn’t know what he could do. Witches’ curses were way outside his area of expertise. Leave that to someone who knew more. Hermione, for instance. She’d know what to do if she knew what was happening. But maybe he should intervene, anyway, stop it before...
Suddenly he found himself back in the jungle in ’Nam, with the night sounds all around that were maybe only animals but maybe Cong or even friendlies. The lieutenant was dead, and that left him in charge. His orders had been to “observe, and if necessary engage.” Observe, when he couldn’t see anything through the darkness. Listen, when it was impossible to tell one sound from another. Sit tight and they might pass you by, or mow you down like ducks in the three-for-a-dollar shooting booth at the county fair. Move and they might...
Cutter pinched his leg hard to get rid of the memory. This wasn’t Southeast Asia, and those weren’t the enemy down there. It was just the indecision, the damned indecision. Every time it came on him, the memories flooded back. And it always ended the same way, with the screams and the blood and the heavy, acrid smell of gunpowder. And then the silence. The hours and hours of silence.
The way it really had.
They were opening the circle now. Cutter lowered his eyelids briefly with relief, glad the hypnotic chanting was over, and that unspoken chanting underneath. Now they’d eat and drink and laugh and gossip, and he could watch to see if Mogwye put anything—anything real, anything solid, anything with form and substance—into Hermione’s food or wine.
Mogwye was startled when Hermione entered the Esbat. She’d expected her to be at least as pale and weak and dotty as the last time she’d seen her. But she looked better. Not as good as she had before this started, but clearly improved, healthier, with more color in her face and spring in her step.
What had gone wrong? Was she losing her power? Had Hermione found someone whose strength of will was even greater than Mogwye’s own? Was it possible? And what should she do about it?
The answer came to her during the ceremony. She needed something concrete, something that belonged to Hermione, that only Hermione would touch. It would help her to focus her energies, keep the channels clear. Somewhere along the line she had let herself get sloppy, had let her intention weaken, and static had crept in.
They were slipping out of their robes now, relieved to be rid of the heavy cloth in the June evening heat. The torches were lit, the wine and food passed. Someone had brought along an article an idiot reporter had written for the Greenfield Recorder, explaining the significance of the Summer Solstice. It was a miracle he’d gotten the date right. They passed it around and read it and laughed. It gave Mogwye an idea.
It was late. Aunt Hermione had come home two hours ago, and had gone straight to bed. She wasn’t even going to read tonight, she said. The evening had worn her out. And she looked worn out, more so than she’d looked in days.
Stoner wanted to question her. What had she eaten? Who brought it? Was she careful? Were the wine bottles open or closed before the ritual started? How about after? Did anyone act in a suspicious...?
Her aunt brushed her questions aside with a gesture of irritation. She was tired, that was all there was to it. It’d been a long day and an active ceremony, to say nothing of the time spent planning for the upcoming Solstice, one of the year’s High Holy Days. She was seventy-five years old and hadn’t found the fountain of youth, so could she please be excused and allowed to get a little rest?
Stoner apologized and kissed Aunt Hermione’s dry, parchment-like cheek. “Good night,” she said, her heart clenching. “I’ll see you in the morning.”
Aunt Hermione merely nodded and trudged up the stairs.
Now where was Cutter? Where the hell was Cutter?
Marylou and Gwen came in from the movies down in Greenfield. They asked if there was any news, got one whiff of Stoner’s mood, and decided Aunt Hermione had the right idea about retiring for the night.
Alone downstairs in the silent house, Stoner tried to interest herself in a book, a magazine, a game of solitaire. Nothing worked. An occasional snap or rustle from outside made her look up and listen, but it wasn’t Cutter. She toured the downstairs, from the front door to the back to the front, then started over again. Once she even unlocked the basement door and whispered into the darkness, “Cutter?” There was no answer.
Another hour passed. The clock on the mantel got on her nerves. She went into the kitchen and browsed through the refrigerator, but nothing appealed to her. Three times she decided he wasn’t coming, and started up the stairs to bed. Three times she decided to wait just a few more minutes, in case.
She threw herself down on the couch and counted the ticks of the clock, which made as much sense as anything. She drifted off to sleep.
“Don’t be afraid. It’s me.”
It could have been a dream. She opened her eyes.
Cutter stood in the entrance to the living room.
“You could have told me you were going to sneak in like this,” she said angrily.
“Sorry,” he said. “I’m accustomed to getting around that way.”
“And where’ve you been? I’d about given up.”
“They weren’t asleep.”
“What difference would that make?”
“You didn’t say to tell them.”
Of course. He wanted to do exactly as he was told. Literally. Like an anxious little boy. It must be horrible to be so insecure. “You’re right,” she said. “Sit down.”
“I’d rather stand this time,” he said.
“Okay.” She waited. He didn’t say anything. “So. Did you see her?”
“Yep.”
“Find out anything?”
“Yep. She’s puttin’ a curse on your aunt.”
“A curse? Like—”
“Like a curse,” Cutter said. “Black magic. Voodoo.”
“Her food?” Stoner began.
“Nothin’ in her food. A curse.”
Stoner found herself speechless.
“Your aunt doesn’t know?”
She shook her head. “I don’t think so.”
“Better tell her.”
“Maybe you should. You know the details.”
“Tried to tell her before. She won’t listen to me. Probably thinks I’m crazy.” He grinned awkwardly. “I am, kinda. But not that way.”
“What do you think we should do?”
Cutter shrugged. “Your aunt ought to know. She’s the witch.”
“I don’t think anyone’s ever put a curse on her before.”
“Well, if she figures out how to get it off, tell her to get the one off me, too. Gotta go.”
And he went.
Cutter must have made a mistake, Hermione thought. She gazed out over the tops of the lilacs toward the hills behind the house. Mogwye couldn’t do this. She doesn’t have the power. Enough for some minor mischief, maybe, or even to conjure a poltergeist. But not this.
She rested her head against the back of the sofa. Her body felt as heavy as wet clay. Her mind floated, thoughts sliding away before she could even note them. Her uneaten breakfast lay on the table in front of her. She wasn’t hungry, and it was tasteless. Tasteless. Leftover cherry pie, her favorite breakfast, was tasteless.
