Storm Witch

by Alys West

  “See you,” Jenna said to his retreating back. He turned by the Cathedral steps and raised his hand. Face reddening, Jenna spun and hurried back inside.

  Chapter 7

  The engine noise changed as the plane started to descend. Hal Skebister glanced out of the window in time to see the north coast of Scotland pass beneath the plane’s right wing and then there was only the Pentland Firth below them. He pressed his nose to the glass determined not to miss this first glimpse. He leaned closer to the window, craning his neck to see down. There was Stroma, the abandoned island, just off the coast of Scotland.

  The stewardess removed the paper coffee cup which had provided him with a much- needed burst of caffeine on this last leg of his journey and folded the tray table back into place. Absently he thanked her and then returned to the window. It was beautifully clear, the kind of day you didn’t expect in Orkney and it felt like a blessing on his return. An omen for his future, even if it was going to be without Cassie.

  He didn’t blame her for her decision. He knew exactly what he was asking, how hard it would be for a city girl like her to uproot herself from everything she knew and settle on a group of — to a Canadian — tiny islands off the coast of Scotland. And all because this was where he needed to live. Because in the end, however much he loved her, he could only live a half-life in Toronto. When this job had come up it’d seemed like the answer to everything, a chance to come back to the place which had always felt like home and work on one of the most innovative green technology projects in the world.

  He should have talked to Cassie about it then, not waited until he’d been offered the position before he broke it to her. But he’d not wanted to upset her, not wanted to face the arguments for a possibility. It’d been a mistake, he knew that the moment he’d spoken. Whether she’d have come if he hadn’t screwed up he didn’t know. He guessed he’d never know now.

  Ahead was the island of Hoy, the mountains rising dark against the evening sun. And there now below them, getting clearer as the plane descended, was South Ronaldsay, where his dad was born and raised, where Uncle Doug now ran the family farm and where his gran, determinedly independent at eighty-six, lived in the tiny port of St Margaret’s Hope. A lump came to his throat. He was going home.

  Over the Churchill Barriers, a causeway built of huge blocks of stone that linked South Ronaldsay with the Mainland via three smaller islands. The seatbelt sign pinged on, the stewardess strapped herself into her seat at the front as the captain announced that it was a beautiful evening in Kirkwall and the temperature was a balmy 12 degrees. Even if the man’s accent hadn’t marked him out as a Scot, that line would have identified him without a doubt. He’d missed that kind of humour. He’d missed so much in his five years away.

  There was the usual flurry of activity once the plane landed. Hal strolled with the other passengers into the airport building, waited by the dinky luggage carousel for his two enormous cases to arrive and then hauled them over to the car rental desk. After he’d signed the paperwork the guy helped him out into the car park, gave a very cursory walk through of the car and then handed over the keys saying, “It’s not locked.”

  Only in Orkney, Hal thought as he opened the boot. Cases loaded, he thanked the man for his help and climbed into the driving seat. Gran was expecting him. It was only with extreme difficulty he’d persuaded her not to meet him at the airport. His parents had told him her driving had become increasingly erratic over the past few years but she simply blamed the other motorists and kept going.

  Hal switched his mobile phone out of flight mode. Before he got to Gran’s and was engulfed in questions and stories and the ridiculous amount of food she’d have got ready to welcome him, there was something he had to do. He found Jenna’s number and called it. It was Friday evening. Perhaps she’d be busy but he could leave a message. When the call went to voicemail he said, “Hi Jenna, long time no see. How you doing? I’ve got some news. Give me a ring when you’ve got a minute.” Then he hesitated for a second before adding, “It’s Hal by the way, in case you’d not guessed.”

  Then he put the unfamiliar car into gear and carefully reversed it out of the parking space. The barrier at the entrance to the car park lifted and he turned out onto the road, driving through an Orkney evening as tears blurred his vision.

  ***

  The food at The Noust was adequate, if not inspired, but the beer was good and no one seemed to mind if Winston brought his laptop and worked as he drank. After pushing his empty plate away, he opened the laptop and connected to the wi-fi. One of the good things about Orkney, and there weren’t many, was that every pub, bar and café seemed to provide free internet.

  Opening The Orcadian website he typed Nina’s name into the search function. The list of results was longer than he’d anticipated. He’d not realised she’d played such an important part in the community. The top ones were about a protest against proposals for a hotel and holiday village in Stromness which Nina had been involved in organising. Beneath those was the report of her death. He clicked on that.

  It opened with a photograph of Nina, grey hair cropped short, showing off the same remarkable cheekbones Jenna had. She was smiling, her blue eyes gazing straight into the camera, radiating warmth and life. She was gone, just like Harry, Bryn, Eve and, if Jenna was right, Tamara. All murdered. But the question was why? And by whom?

  The article described the finding of Nina’s body at a place called Skipi Geo a mile or so along the coast from the beach where she regularly swam. It explained that she’d been reported as missing on the evening of Tuesday 21st December when she didn’t return from her afternoon swim at the beach at Point of Buckquoy. Winston shuddered a little at the thought of swimming in Orkney in December. Jenna had said whoever killed Nina must have known where she swam so she must have been a regular. He’d not had her down as one of those open water freaks who swim whatever the weather. He’d have to ask Jenna about it next time he saw her.

  Whenever that was. He’d been careful last night. Not pushed, not asked too many questions. And Jenna had talked, said more than she’d probably realised. Not all of it useful, not all of it what he needed but there were other ways to find that out. Hence his evening of internet research. But it’d been harder than he’d expected to listen to what she’d been through. She made the tragedy real and he’d felt the loss and grief coming off her as she talked. That was why he’d played the good guy and not argued when she’d had enough. He had to hope that was the right move, that she’d seek him out next time. There couldn’t be many people she could talk to about Nina.

  That was the trouble with their world. The downside to the power granted to spellworkers and druids was that it narrowed your life in so many other ways. He handled it by keeping relationships short and getting out before the messy, complicated questions. It’d been much harder when Finn had been missing for those six months. He’d felt lonelier then than he ever wanted to admit and he’d seen too many late nights with only the company of a whisky bottle.

  But Jenna was on her own. She’d shut Grace out who seemed to be the only person who’d tried to keep in contact with her. From what she’d said, her dad remained locked in his own grief. He had to admit he was starting to see why she was so buttoned up about everything.

  He shook his head and refocused his gaze on the laptop. He’d got work to do here. By the end of the evening he wanted to know everything about Nina’s death. Then if — no, when — he saw Jenna again, he’d know the right questions to ask.

  ***

  It was after nine when Rachel got home. The ferry was delayed at Scabster and after she’d cleared up and walked home she was shattered. She’d not recovered from the lost night’s sleep on Tuesday and every day seemed to make the exhaustion worse. She only had to drag herself through one more shift and then she could sleep all day Sunday.

  She’d had a sausage sandwich on her break but that felt like hours ago. Only she was too tired to cook. Craving something sweet,
she stuck two slices of bread in the toaster and dug the raspberry jam out of the back of the fridge. With a cup of tea, she settled down on the sofa and bit into her toast.

  She knew what she wanted to do next Saturday. The only problem was that she could only affect the weather when she wasn’t trying and she didn’t know why. She’d been able to do it when she tried before Nina died.

  There’d been a day, a couple of weeks before Nina’s death, when she’d suddenly got a bit mysterious and insisted they go for a walk to the Point of Buckquoy and then out along the coastal path to Skipi Geo. It’d been raining and Rachel had been pissed she’d worn her denim jacket instead of her waterproof. She’d been meeting Kenny later and she’d wanted to look nice, not like a drowned rat. But she’d not said anything. She never did with Nina. She’d been much too grateful for her time and her help and the books she kept lending her and questions she answered. Nina had opened a whole new world and she’d have walked through more than rain to be with her. When they’d scrambled down onto the beach in the geo, it’d been deserted. The rain had kept the tourists and walkers away and they were on their own with only the gulls and the bonxies for company.

  Nina had asked her to do a series of tasks. It soon become clear they were all to do with focusing and controlling air and water. And she could do them; the rain had got worse because she’d told it to. She’d whipped up the wind and then lulled it to a gentle breeze. She remembered the thrill of it and Nina’s growing excitement like it was yesterday. When they’d got back to Nina’s house there’d been hot chocolate to warm them up and she’d told Rachel the story of the storm witch of Westray. She hadn’t taken it all in. She’d been pretty tired by then but she remembered feeling she understood what Janet, the girl they called a storm witch, had been going through.

  The power she’d found that day must still be in her somewhere. Only it was so hard to focus on her own. Her thoughts got in the way and she couldn’t concentrate. It’d never been like that with Nina beside her. Somehow Nina had always calmed her and, if she wanted to pull this off next Saturday, she had to find a way to get that back.

  After licking raspberry jam from her fingers, she bent to sort through a pile of books and papers on the floor. Discarding Spellcrafting given her by Nina; some pages she’d printed out from the Crystal Goddess site and A Practical Guide to Magick and Spells that she’d got second hand off eBay, she found the black A4 folder and picked it up.

  Rachel’s finger brushed the mane of the unicorn on the front cover. She’d almost worn the silver sparkles away. Only a few remained now, rough to her touch. Opening it, she looked at the familiar messy handwriting and sent out a wish to the universe that Nina would provide the answers she was looking for.

  Chapter 8

  It’d bugged Jenna all day that she’d not asked Winston to explain his theory about the deaths of The Order. It was the most important thing he’d said and she’d been too busy spilling her guts to ask him what he’d meant. She’d only realised on the walk home, when she’d abruptly stopped, sworn and then pulled her phone from her pocket. Seeing it was close to quarter to twelve, she’d shoved it back. There was only one kind of call Winston would expect at that time of night and it certainly wasn’t one of those. Jenna could all too easily imagine the kinds of comments she’d get.

  The unsettled feeling persisted. At work she’d tried to shove it to the back of her brain with limited success. It’d been easier this evening with the knitting group. The combination of the chatter of her friends, concentrating on the complex pattern of the blanket she was knitting for a colleague’s baby and two large glasses of wine had kept the unwelcome thoughts away. But now she was alone, walking home through the simmerdim when even at ten thirty it was only a reduced facsimile of daylight and she was frustrated with herself. She should have rung him last night, faced the ridicule and got it over with.

  Stopping by the harbour, she leaned on the balustrade and looked out over the water. Fishing boats bobbed contentedly close by, with the bigger boats and the inter-island ferry moored on the other side of the harbour wall. Her mobile chimed to tell her she’d got a message. Taking it from her bag she saw an email from her dad and a missed call and voicemail from Hal.

  Why on earth was Hal ringing? He was in Toronto. They emailed occasionally but he’d not rung since his grandpa died. His message didn’t enlighten her much. He had news? What news? Then her thoughts swung to Cassie, his beautiful, skinny Canadian girlfriend. The last time she’d seen him they’d been inseparable. Was the news that they were engaged? It could be. They’d been together a few years, she’d come over with him for his grandpa’s funeral eighteen months ago. Everyone but her would think it was about time they tied the knot.

  If that was his news, it could wait. Wait as long as possible as far as she was concerned.

  She glanced along the road. She should go home. That was the sensible option. But doing what was sensible had got her here; alone on a Friday night trying to convince herself she wasn’t upset by Hal’s news. Perhaps it was time to do the un-sensible thing for a change. If nothing else Winston was a distraction. And it wasn’t as if she didn’t have a reason to call.

  He answered after the second ring. “Jenna, what a surprise.”

  “Is it?” Damn it! Could she sound any less sure of herself? This was a bad idea. She blinked, turned away from the boats and stared at the brown stone façade of The Viking Hotel instead.

  “Aye, it is. But a pleasant one at that.”

  “Well, that’s alright then. There’s something I wanted to ask—” She broke off as raucous laughter echoed down the line. “Where are you?”

  “The Noust. A hen party’s just arrived. It’s getting a bit lively.”

  “It sounds like it. Never mind then. I don’t want to drag you away from the attentions of a group of hens.” Wincing at how bitchy she sounded, she added, “I’ll ring you tomorrow.”

  “Hold on a minute.” For a moment all she could hear were the sounds of other far more exciting Friday nights then a door slammed and he said, “That’s better.”

  “Where are you now?”

  “What passes for a beer garden although there’s little sign of any actual garden.”

  She could picture it exactly, a small paved space with a few picnic benches in it, frequented only by smokers at this time of night. Distraction, that’s what she needed. She hesitated for a second before she said, “I’m only around the corner. Mind if I join you?”

  “Not at all.” He sounded surprised but not unhappy about the suggestion.

  Jenna pushed her weight off the balustrade. “I’ll be there in two minutes.”

  Crossing Harbour Street, she walked up Bridge Street and turned into the narrow close down to The Noust. The noise hit her as soon as she opened the door. She wove through the drinkers crowding the bar and down the passage to the back of the building. A man coming in held the back door open for her and she ducked under his outstretched arm. Leather jacket-clad as usual, Winston sat at the table in the furthest corner, one leg on each side of the bench, a closed laptop on the table in front of him.

  “What brings you out in Kirkwall this evening?” he said, as she perched awkwardly on the seat opposite him. There was no way she was swinging her legs over the bench seat while he was watching.

  “I’ve been to a friend’s house.” Jenna glanced at her bag and shoved her knitting needles deeper inside. Knitting might be a lot less uncool these days but she didn’t want him knowing what passed for a big night out for her involved wool, wine and cake. “I was just walking home.”

  He pushed his hair back from his face. “I can’t get used to how small this town is. How you can ring me, know where I am and then pop by. It’s weird.”

  Seeing the way he wrapped his arms across his chest, she took a guess. “Claustrophobic?” It was the usual complaint of ferry-loupers.

  “Too right! Not that it’s not good to see you but how do you live like this all the time?”
r />   Jenna shrugged. “You get used to it.”

  “You might.” He stood and as he moved his jacket swung open revealing a faded Guns ‘n’ Roses t-shirt. “I never would. Do you want a drink?”

  “Alright. White wine.” She shouldn’t, she really shouldn’t. She’d already had two glasses this evening. “Small one.”

  While he was away she performed the ungainly manoeuvre necessary to sit facing him across the picnic bench. He returned with a whisky for himself and her wine, which he placed carefully on the uneven surface of the table.

  “I should have bought these,” Jenna said, picking up her glass. “It’s definitely my round.”

  “Next time,” he said. She nodded, his confidence not bothering her as much as it usually did.

  “I wanted to ask you about what you said last night, about the break-in at Mum’s meaning it couldn’t be some kind of omnipotent, magical killer who murdered The Order.”

  “That was before I knew what’d happened to Nina. I’m even more convinced that’s the case now. I read the newspaper reports on her death this evening. The police clearly suspected it wasn’t an accident and the Fatal Accident Inquiry thought there were too many questions for an accidental death verdict.”

  Jenna swallowed, pushing down the toxic mixture of panic and loss that talking about it always rekindled. “I didn’t know you were going to do that,” she said, swirling her wine around its glass.

  “I want to know what happened. It seemed the obvious place to start.”

  She wished she’d gone home. There would have been no difficult questions. Just her cat, Mansie, rubbing his head against her legs and a valerian tea before bed. Safe. Normal. Boring. She blinked as the last word popped into her head. Her life wasn’t boring. It wasn’t.