Storm Witch

by Alys West

  “When did she send them?”

  She checked the postmarks. “7th August, 30th August and 12th December.” Her gaze met his. “That’s only 10 days before she died.”

  “Grace says this is all she could find. There would have been others. They wrote often—”

  “Neither of them liked computers. Mum only used email when she absolutely had to.”

  “But she’s lost the others.”

  Jenna managed a weak smile. “I’m not surprised. In her house, it’s a miracle she found these.”

  As she spoke, her fingers moved almost of their own volition, sliding the notepaper from the first letter, opening it, smoothing it out. Her eyes automatically read the first words and it felt like a punch in the stomach as, preserved in ink, Mum’s voice returned. The first two pages were filled with chat; questions about Grace’s health; a couple of paragraphs about an unnamed herbalist client who’d responded well to borage and coltsfoot; a description of the two new hens she’d bought. Then over the page it said:

  “You know I told you I’d been having visions of a teenage girl. Well, yesterday I found her. She’s called Rachel and she’s seventeen.”

  Jenna met Winston’s dark gaze. “She’s called Rachel and she was seventeen then.”

  “Then she’s twenty-three or twenty-four now.”

  “Yes.” Quickly, she scanned the rest. There was nothing he couldn’t hear. Reading aloud she continued, “She was by the harbour in Stromness, hanging over the railings, staring down into the water as if the answer to all the questions in the world could be found there. I walked up to her and said, ‘My dear girl, whatever it is that’s making you look so sad then it’s better to face it with someone. Why don’t you come and have a cup of tea with me?’ She looked at me like I was crazy but I stared right back and said, ‘I can help, you know.’ I thought she might turn tail and run but then she kind of shrugged and said, ‘Why not?’ as if it didn’t matter to her one way or the other. I took her to The Oystercatcher Café and I bought her chocolate cake as she looked like she needed feeding up. She’s all skin and bones as if she forgot to eat during a growth spurt and then it became too much effort to catch up. It took a while to get her to talk and even then she didn’t say much but I can tell she’s got the gift. It comes off her in waves as if the energy is fighting to get out. It took a while but in the end I persuaded her to come to see me on Thursday which is her next day off. I hope she comes. If I’m right she’s got too much power to be left wandering around untrained and I do not want to have to knock on the doors of Stromness to track her down.”

  “You were right,” Winston said. “She is from Stromness.”

  “Yes, but how many Rachels do you think there are? If Mum didn’t know how to find her then we’re not going to find it any easier.”

  “You don’t know her?” He sounded surprised.

  “Contrary to what you might think, I don’t keep a file on everyone on the Mainland.”

  “I thought that’s what you had in that enormous bag you carry round all the time.”

  She nudged him with her elbow. “Shut up.”

  He nudged her back. “I will if you’ll read the next one.”

  The session had restarted inside. Music escaped from the open windows, floating out across the evening air to where they sat until it was drowned out, every now and then, by the noise of a passing car.

  The second letter was dated 15th August and the first paragraph was again an enquiry about Grace’s arthritis. Jenna read the next paragraph aloud.

  “I was expecting Rachel today. She didn’t come. It wasn’t a complete surprise. I’d had a sense of her drifting away, of the connection I’d tried to create on Saturday unravelling. But I couldn’t be sure and I hung about the house, hoping even though I was almost certain there was no point. In the end I helped Graeme in the tearooms for a few hours as he was short staffed and I needed to do something with my hands. If you can’t get into a meditative state when kneading dough then you’re not trying hard enough. Jenna rang...”

  Breaking off, she continued to read silently. Her throat clogged as the words unfurled before her eyes.

  “What did you say? When you rang?” Winston asked.

  “It was about moving into the flat with Rosie. Mum wanted to help me move and I wouldn’t let her. I didn’t know she minded. She never said. I just thought she wouldn’t want to come to Edinburgh to spend a weekend packing boxes.”

  “Is there anything else?”

  She looked down, turned the page. “Yes, she must have finished it later. The second half is dated 28th August.” Clearing her throat, she read, “Rachel came today, unexpectedly turned up as I was saying goodbye to a patient. She looked like one wrong word would make her run away so I bit my lip and didn’t ask why she’d not come before. She looked like something Jet had dragged in. Late night out with her boyfriend, she said. She went even paler when I offered her a scone so I made her my hangover tea. Her face was a picture when she tasted it but it did the trick. She talked more this time, told me about her dad, about her mother who was from south and left when she was eleven and has hardly been in touch since and a bit about her boyfriend although she didn’t tell me his name (probably thinks I’ll know his parents or something equally awkward.) When she left I gave her Tamara’s book for beginners and told her to come back when she’s read the first two chapters. She looked all hopeful under that ridiculous fringe as she flipped through it and then she said, ‘This is what you meant, isn’t it? When you said you could help.’ I simply nodded but I could feel the excitement in her. It’ll be nice to have a novice to teach. I’ve missed that.”

  “Fuck.” Jenna pressed the back of her hand against her mouth to stop anything else escaping.

  “What’s wrong?” Winston’s hand was on her arm.

  Sniffing to stop the tears, she took her hand away but her voice still came out shrill. “What if it’s my fault? What if she wouldn’t have turned to this girl and wouldn’t have been killed if I’d been willing to learn? I didn’t try. Not once. I knew I’d not got her gift, that I’d never be any good. But I never thought how she felt, never realised she wanted to pass on what she knew and she kept trying, even with The Spiral Path, she thought I’d be interested. But I wasn’t. I didn’t want magic in my life. There was no point because I knew I’d always be rubbish.”

  “Hey, it’s not your fault. And if you’re going to cry I’ve a perfectly good shoulder here. Stop watering the bench.” His arms opened. For a second, she blinked at him. He gazed back, without judgement, and she leaned in until her head found his chest. His arms closed around her.

  Tears flowed and it hurt to cry. Hurt to let out all of that emotion which she’d locked down for so long. As it eased, she became aware of a song, sung in a heart-breaking minor key, coming out of The Fiddlers’ open windows. She pushed herself out of his arms. “I’m sorry. That’s twice I’ve cried on you now.”

  One shoulder twitched in a shrug. “I’m not counting.”

  Wiping her eyes, her fingers came away black streaked. Oh God, her mascara was running. She must look terrible. “Moira’s not helping. She’s singing that damned Gaelic song again. I’ve no idea what it means but it always makes me want to cry.”

  Winston tilted his head, his eyes narrowed. “The son of my king come to Scotland. Must be about Bonnie Prince Charlie. No wonder it makes you want to cry. The Forty-Five would make anyone cry.” There was a hesitation then he added slowly, “On a ship with three silver masts. Sounds a bit unlikely to me unless that’s what he did with all that French gold. Wouldn’t put it past him, the mad man.”

  Jenna stared at him. “How on earth do you know that?”

  “About The Forty-Five? Everyone knows that. Although the French gold is very likely apocryphal.”

  “No, not that. The Gaelic. Did you just translate it or have you been keeping very quiet about your knowledge of Gaelic folk songs?”

  “I’ve a smattering of Gaelic. That�
��s all.”

  “You’ve more than a smattering to pick that up from a few song lyrics. Where’d you learn?”

  His shoulder tensed as his body angled away from her. “School.”

  He didn’t want to talk about it, that was clear. The nice thing, seeing as he’d been really kind and let her cry on his leather-clad shoulder, would be to let it go. Only she wasn’t feeling nice. She was feeling raw. So, she pushed. “In Edinburgh?”

  “Well, no.” His fingers fiddled with the leather thong he wore around his wrist. “I didn’t always go to school in Edinburgh.”

  “Where then?”

  “Glenard.”

  “The commune?”

  His eyes met hers for a second before he looked down again. “I believe they prefer the word ‘community’ these days but yes.”

  “Let me get this right.” She turned her body towards his. “You lived in the Glenard Community? For how long?”

  “Until I was twelve.”

  “And what happened then?”

  “My mum got married. We moved to North Berwick.”

  There was something about the words and the flat tone in which he said them that implied a lot more. She took a guess. “Not married to your dad?”

  He laughed, briefly and humourlessly. “No, Cam never stayed around long enough for marriage. She married my step-dad, Nick Hunter. He’s an architect.”

  “You don’t like him?”

  He hesitated, looking at his fingers as they worried at the leather around his wrist. “You want the honest truth? No, I don’t. But I’m old enough and wise enough to know I was never likely to. It’d been just me and Mum for a long time. I’d probably have hated anyone who broke that up.”

  Jenna stared at his male model profile; the angular cheekbones, straight nose, strong chin, all in that unusual mocha-coloured skin and framed by chin length black hair. She’d thought him an unfeeling, arrogant bastard when they first met. She’d called him it too, that evening at The Noust. But he was hiding all of this. She couldn’t imagine him at Glenard. She’d never been but it was famous as a spiritual community in a remote corner of the West Highlands, embracing green living and run on defiantly socialist principles. “Glenard to North Berwick must have been a bit of an adjustment.”

  “You’re not wrong there. It took me years to get used to the fact we didn’t have organic beansprouts for every meal.”

  The barriers were back. She risked one more question. “What about your dad? Do you see him?”

  He stared out across the street as he answered. “More than I did. He popped back every year or two when I was growing up and he was there when I hit puberty and really needed him. He stuck around for two years then, helped me over the ‘what the hell…’ stage of being a druid. But then he was off travelling again; an ashram here, a commune there. I thought he’d never settle but then he met Anthea. She’s from Austria and she’s the most straight-talking woman I’ve ever met. She takes no nonsense from him. They’ve been back at Glenard for about five years now.” Putting his hands on his knees, he stood. “And now I need a drink. You want one?”

  “God, yes. Something strong.”

  “Whisky, brandy, gin, rum—” A flash of that grin “—tequila?”

  “Lord, not tequila. I’d have a headache for a month. A wee dram’ll do fine.”

  “Good girl.” He nodded. “Don’t run away.”

  “I won’t.” As he headed towards the door to The Fiddlers, she called after him, “Will you tell Hal where I’ve gone?”

  “Sure. If you like.”

  Chapter 22

  When the session began again, Hal joined in but he couldn’t focus. His fingers wouldn’t keep up and after he’d played the wrong chord three times in a row he stopped, took a gulp of beer and looked around the room. Jenna wasn’t back. She must still be outside with the black-haired little git. When the tunes finished, he put his guitar down, picked his pint glass up and strolled out of the door. They were sitting on the bench by the kirkyard wall, their knees pointing inwards, making a triangle with their bodies. Jenna was reading something.

  As he watched, her face got screwed up as if she was trying not to cry. Then Winston spoke to her and she kind of collapsed into his arms. She was really crying now, sobbing her heart out. He turned away. She’d cried on him like that a few times and he’d never been able to do anything but hold her and feel her drift a little further from him. What the hell was going on? If Winston had upset her, if that was why she was crying, Hal’d hit him so hard he’d never flash that arrogant grin again.

  Inside the middle-aged lady who spoke with the soft accent of the Highlands was singing in Gaelic. He didn’t want to go back in but he didn’t want to leave either. He couldn’t go back to his gran’s to quietly watch the BBC ten o’clock news in her overheated sitting room. It was a good job he was moving into the house in Stromness on Saturday. He was lucky they’d let him have the keys so soon but once he’d told them about Cassie coming, the landlord couldn’t have been more helpful.

  Putting his beer glass on the windowsill and resting his shoulder against the wall of The Fiddlers, he took his mobile from his shirt pocket and pulled up her number. It took several seconds to connect before it rang. She answered on the second ring.

  “Hey you?” she said. “How you doing? Missing me?”

  “Of course.” Talking to her was as easy as slipping on an old pair of slippers. Before he rang off, he said, as he’d done every time since she’d knocked him sideways by deciding to come over. “Fifteen sleeps until you get here.”

  “Fourteen for me. I’m on an overnight flight.”

  “You’ll sleep a bit, won’t you?”

  “Have you ever known me sleep on a flight?” She was hyper anxious on aeroplanes, constantly alert for some judder or jolt which might mean they were about to crash and burn.

  “Well no, but it’s a long flight—”

  “And I’ll be awake every minute.”

  “Then you can sleep when you get here. The bed’ll have been delivered by then.” He hoped it would. It’d been far more complicated than he’d anticipated to find a haulier who’d pick the bed up from the store in Inverness and bring it over.

  “Sleep’s not the first thing I had in mind.” Her sexy laugh rolled down the line to him. “But the bed will come in handy.”

  “Not fair.” He chuckled, images of her naked pulsing through his mind. “Now I want time to go even faster.”

  “Only sixteen sleeps and I’ll be waking up next to you.”

  “Who says we’re doing any sleeping on that first night?”

  Her provocative giggle didn’t help clear his thought. As they said goodbye, a hand tapped him on the shoulder. He spun round. It was Winston, scowling like he wanted to hit him.

  “Jenna asked me to tell you she’s taking a wee break.” Winston pushed past Hal as he spoke, deliberately knocking against his shoulder. “She’ll be back in a bit.”

  “Why? What have you said to her?” Pulling himself up to his full height, Hal looked down on the little wanker.

  The archaeologist’s hand fastened around the wooden talisman he wore at his throat. “Nothing that’s any business of yours.”

  “Then what’s she doing outside?”

  “You’ll have to ask her that.” Winston raised a single black eyebrow. “If she wants to tell you.”

  “I don’t know what you think you’re up to—” Hal folded his arms to try to stop the itch to put his fist through Winston’s face “—but I’m her friend and I don’t want to see her get hurt. She’s been through too much already.”

  “Get over yourself. If anyone’s going to hurt her, it’s you.”

  “Don’t be stupid. We’re friends.”

  “Yeah, right!” Turning, Winston walked inside.

  Hal didn’t stop to work out what the cocky prick meant. Grabbing his pint, he strode around the side of the building. She was staring down at something in her hands, something white which she t
urned over and over. She didn’t look up as he got closer. Should he leave her alone? Then the wind stirred her hair and, as her hand moved to smooth it, she saw him and slid whatever was in her hands under her bent legs.

  “I told Winston to let you know I’d be back in a bit.”

  “He did. But I was worried when I saw you out here with him.” He perched on the edge of the bench beside her. “Are you…are you okay?”

  “Not really.”

  “What’s wrong? Is it Winston?”

  She blinked at him as if that was the most ridiculous suggestion. “Winston? No, he’s just gone to get me a dram.”

  “So he hasn’t said anything to upset you? I thought maybe …”

  “No. He gave me these.” With a slight shift of her legs, she took out three cream envelopes addressed in black scrawling handwriting to a Grace Fenwick.

  “What are they?” As he reached for them, Jenna slid them back into their hiding place. And then he knew what they were. Knew as clearly as if she’d said the words. “They’re your mum’s? She wrote them?”

  She nodded.

  His hands tightened into fists, his jaw tensed. What the fuck was Winston playing at? Didn’t he know how hard it had been on her? How she’d got stuck since her mum died, put her life on hold because of her dad’s illness?

  “Why…” He coughed, started again. “Why did he do that?”

  Wearily, she pushed her hair away from her forehead. “Because I asked him to.”

  “Oh.” He frowned. She’d said she wanted to go back to Edinburgh. He’d thought that meant she intended to put her mum’s death behind her and get on with her life. “Why did you do that?”

  “Because I need to know what was going on for her before she died. I was so full of my own plans. The new exhibition at work, moving into the flat, playing in the band, I hardly listened to what she was doing. I…” She glanced up at him, her blue eyes wide. “I thought she’d always be there, you know.”