by Ethan Proud
Artemisia had seen similar rituals and began to turn to creep back to her cabin. The man on the rock would be freed and given a similar cloak to his companions, she had seen the bundled pelt of a moose next to the slab. As she left the First People to their animism, she spied a king bolete beneath a spruce tree. She grinned and pulled out a small paring knife. Careful not to disturb the hyphae she cut the fruiting body free and placed it in her basket, then caught sight of another and another. She skipped the second mushroom and took the third, a good forager always knew to leave some behind for the next year.
As she stole back down the trail, she noted the sun’s ascent to the horizon was nearly completed. Holding up her fingers to the sky she calculated that she had roughly three hours. Plenty of time to make it back. Volker came barreling through the brush at her, a squealing shrew held in his mouth.
“You little demon,” she said as she stooped to pat his head.
Chapter Twelve
The Hanging Moose was clouded with cigar smoke, and each table was littered with glasses of all sizes. Several casks lined the walls and a mounted moose head protruded over the taps, a cigar stuck in its mouth. Here the poor and aristocratic met and mingled. In one night, a wily prostitute could make a month’s earning if she picked her client right. The barmaid smiled at Ruckstead and sidled over to him.
“The usual, Sheriff?” she asked politely, though her eyes were distrustful. Anyone caught by the law in this seedy establishment would turn a sycophantic tone toward the sheriff. Not that he never frequented the Moose, though he visited less after his marriage to Gertrude, and even less after Benjamin was born.
“I’m afraid I’m here on business, Cynthia,” Ruckstead said and she became stern.
“For gods’ sake, its four-o’clock, nothing has happened here.” Her hands were on her hips and Ruckstead snorted. He had plenty of reasons to arrest Cynthia on the spot, all small time or petty crimes. Some time behind bars would do her good.
“Not that kind of business. We had a slew of murders and no suspect. It’s almost certain it wasn’t a resident of Northgate either. I’m asking around for suspicious activity,” Ruckstead explained and Cynthia’s shoulders released their tension.
“In that case, have a beer. On the house,” she said. Ruckstead meant to protest but she was already gone. Over her shoulder she called out, “And stop bringing your gun in here, no one else does!”
He snorted, it would be a cold day in hell when he adhered to the rules of brigands.
The sheriff stared out across the bar and located the men he wanted a word with. Hugh and Swain were puffing smokes in the corner with glasses of whiskey set in front of them. Swain was still on his first, whereas it appeared that Hugh was on his third or fourth. Perhaps more if the bartender had bussed any of the dishes. Hugh was usually silent and reserved and drinking made him no different. The hate behind his eyes was more evident after each subsequent drink, however. Ruckstead saw that now.
“Mind if I take a seat?” Ruckstead asked as he pulled out the chair and sat down.
“By all means.” The elder Ramek splayed his hands in a gesture of peace. Hugh, on the other hand, loudly spat into his glass, a wad of tobacco in his cheek. He was drinking, chewing, and smoking — Ruckstead kept his revulsion to himself.
“I have a few questions I’d like to ask you. I’m sure that you’ve heard about the loss of the Hartschoffs and of the Cronley’s cattle?” Ruckstead observed their reactions. Swain was chill as a cucumber and while Hugh revealed less, he was still tense. Like a cornered dog.
“Yes, and tragedies on both counts. I can’t imagine who would do such a thing. The town of Northgate has seen some changes since we arrived and I’m afraid many are not good,” Swain said eloquently. The well-spoken usually weren’t to be trusted. They knew how to make words veil their meaning to tell only half a truth while omitting the rest.
“Your property lies between both the Cronley’s and Hartschoff’s,” Ruckstead began and noted that Hugh bristled. “Have you seen any unusual activity lately? Any lurking types, gypsies or foreigners? We believe that it may be a vagrant as we have not had another occurrence, and most serial murderers kill again.”
“We have not found anyone on our property that did not belong, but recently there was a band of bards and performers who crossed us on the Main Road. They were not headed into the town limits, which is strange as they would have made a pretty penny. That was more than a week ago… how long ago did we see them, Hugh?”
His son glanced at him from the corner of his eye, before swiveling his expression back to the sheriff. “It was still September. I’d warrant nearly two weeks.” Hugh didn’t blink and shot another stream of brown ichor into his empty glass.
“A merry band of travelers would not mutilate the bodies as these have,” Ruckstead said as Cynthia came bustling over and set a beer in front of him.
“A little early for our good sheriff to be enjoying a brew.” Hugh’s words dripped derision.
“It was on the house.” Ruckstead slid the beer over to Hugh with the back of his hand. “Be a shame to waste it.”
Untrustingly, the young man picked it up and took his first swig. Like a dog that had been beaten, Ruckstead surmised.
“As you were saying, they were mutilated?” Swain brought the discussion back to the subject at hand.
“Yes, and I’m afraid the details are classified, but it appears to be the work of an animal,” the sheriff said as politically as he could. After all, the hounds were right across from him.
“Mountain lions, coyotes, grizzlies, we have a plethora of predators here. I have never heard of such a beast breaking into a home,” Swain postulated and Ruckstead tensed. He had certainly never mentioned that the Hartschoffs had been murdered in their homes.
“It might not be the run of the mill creature,” the sheriff said hesitantly.
“You haven’t been dealing with that woods witch, have you?” Swain sneered.
“We have more in common than you think.” Ruckstead laughed easily at Swain’s confused expression. He continued, “Artemisia and her ilk have their uses. However, you will have to take your needs to the witch herself this time as Mission is a little tied up. I’ll be sure to inform her of your disdain.”
He smiled and rose from his chair as Hugh swore, “You son of a bitch.”
“Always a pleasure. Enjoy your evening, gentlemen.”
Chapter Thirteen
Dawn was breaking when Willem Cronley found himself on Artemisia’s doorstep, wringing his hands. He was concerned that perhaps he had come too early. He was debating heading back to town and doing some errands and returning after the sun had come up. His mule snorted encouragement behind him. With a sigh he reached for the brass knocker. At its nadir was an owl with opal eyes.
Before his fingers touched the metal Artemisia came around the corner of her cottage. She wore a velvet cloak of gray that was covered with small black leaf motifs. Willem spotted a few blossoms in the mixture. Her satin clad hands held a basket full of squash, onions, and potatoes. Strange garb for a harvest no doubt, but not a speck of dirt was on her. She curtsied when she spotted her visitor.
“Farmer Cronley, what a surprise. I hope that fate finds you well today.”
“I’m ‘fraid I haven’t come with good news. I need some help,” he said simply and ran his hand through his straw blond hair.
“We can discuss it over breakfast. Your timing is fortuitous.” She ushered him inside and began preparing the meal.
***
Artemisia set down a steaming bowl of vegetable soup in front of Cronley and sat opposite him at the table.
“This is delicious, I don’t recall ever having soup for breakfast though. I can bring you eggs and bacon,” he said in an effort to be helpful. A breakfast without meat was hardly a breakfast at all.
“I’m afraid that it would be wasted on me. My greatest desire in life is to never be eaten, so I hope fate will reward me for my abst
inence,” Artemisia said wiping her mouth on a napkin.
“I hope that works out better for you than it did my cows,” Cronley said and they both laughed at the poorly humored joke.
“Have you located the rest of your herd?” Artemisia wisely asked.
“I have, four of them. The others are either dead or two counties away by now. The poor frightened creatures won’t come back, though. I’ve asked some of my neighbors for help, but the beasts keep crying and refuse to move. I think they are too scared to come home. I can’t blame them. Me and my wife can hardly sleep anymore,” Willem explained, and the witch’s heart ached with pity.
“If you give me a few minutes to clean up the kitchen, I can come at once. If you wouldn’t mind saddling Newt for me, we can get an earlier start,” Artemisia said as she cleared the table.
“Of course,” Willem said and headed for the stable.
True to her word, it didn’t take long for Artemisia to wash the dishes and gather the supplies she would need. In fact, she was ready before her horse had been saddled. She would have offered to take over for Willem, but she knew the old-fashioned man would decline and find the very idea of it offensive.
Newt easily could have outpaced the mule, since it came close to rivaling him in size and stride length. They made good time to the Cronley Farm.
“They are this way, not too far,” Willem said as he led Artemisia towards the broken end of the paddock. It had since been repaired, though one set of rails had been set aside, patiently waiting for the return of the livestock.
“Lead the way.” Artemisia reined in Newt so that Willem and his mount could cross the boundary first. Beyond the pasture a stand of cottonwoods grew near a humble stream that served to irrigate the pasture. Right now, a head-gate operated by a weir was in the off position as the coming snow would cover the field in mere weeks.
The dying leaves of the trees were dropping like flies, fluttering to the ground where they crunched underfoot. The cottonwoods still boasted more leaves on their limbs than on the ground, though Northgate winters came hard and fast.
The horse and hybrid crossed the stream noisily. The polished stones beneath gleamed from below a mere foot of water. Soon the flow would halt completely for the winter before the runoff spilt over the edges and created a springtime marsh. Equisetum was evidence of the changing microclimate beneath the boughs along the river.
As they traveled further, evergreen pines took dominance as well as scrub oak. Any understory forb had already begun to brittle and wither away as their roots lay dormant. Artemisia could identify most of the botanical skeletons based on their colors, location, or the remnants of their seed capsules. Asters were easiest with their duff littering the ground and floating through the air.
True to Willem’s word, the cattle were not far. They were bunched together underneath a lone ponderosa at the end of a gully lined with rocks resembling stairs carved by some ancient beings. Their eyes rolled madly within their sockets and they began lowing as soon as the humans approached.
“Poor creatures,” Artemisia murmured, as she rummaged through the pouch at her hip. She withdrew anise seeds, lavender, and sage. Last, she found a crystal of quartzite streaked with blood red venation. She swung a leg over the saddle and easily dismounted. She made a nest with the sage and placed it beneath the pine tree after scraping away the dead needles to reveal bare earth. She did not want to start a forest fire. Next, she lay the seeds in a meticulous circle around the sage and sprinkled the rest on the gray-green leaves. The lavender she arranged like the rays of the sun. She placed the quartzite at the center. She held her hands over the plant material and whispered a few words before it burst into flames.
“How’d you do that?” Willem exclaimed, as his mule shied back two steps.
“I communed with the spirits and showed them my intentions,” was the witch’s hushed response.
Willem Cronley didn’t say more. He had absolute faith in Artemisia, though he assumed that she lied often to maintain the mystery around her craft.
The witch’s herbs burned faster than expected and soon all that was left was a burnt spot on the ground and the crystal. The cattle had stopped crying, but their legs were stock still, an ode to their reluctance.
Artemisia plucked the rock from the ground and held it aloft to the sun. A strange peace came over the draw, but the cattle still did not move. The witch walked over to the farmer and handed him the warm stone.
“Place this in their pasture and they will return tonight.” She walked to Newt and climbed gracefully into the saddle.
“Thank you, milady.”
“I am more than happy to help.”
“I hope that you will help the sheriff stop the monsters responsible for this. He is a good man and he won’t be able to do it by himself. There aren’t enough like him in Northgate,” Willem said awkwardly. He had heard enough rumors of the bad blood between the sheriff and witch to know that his comment might not be received well.
“As a matter of fact, I am going to visit him right now. And my imprisoned cousin.” She smiled devilishly. “Let me know if you need further assistance.”
Willem nodded in answer as his mouth dried at the thought of what kind of trouble the witch was about to stir up. Nonetheless, he returned to his home and followed the instructions given to him.
***
Deputy James Kerfield jumped as Artemisia entered the jail for the second time in a week. Ruckstead looked up from his coffee while Mission stared at his feet. The youth behind the bars knew that his cousin was not coming to barter for his release.
“Good morning, Artemisia.” The sheriff set his mug down on the table and straightened in his seat.
“I trust that Mission isn’t causing too much trouble?” she said sweetly, but the glare she turned Mission’s way was nothing but.
“If only all of my wards behaved so well,” Ruckstead assured her.
“Good. I am planning for our next full moon. Visit me two days prior. I have many preparations to attend to and do not want to be disturbed by anyone until then,” Artemisia said authoritatively.
Kerfield nearly fell from his chair. What had taken place in the past two weeks? The sheriff would have never stood for this kind of talk from a woman engaged with witchcraft…
“Your wish is my command,” Ruckstead said and faked a bow from his seated position. The deputy spat his coffee on the floor at that. Both the sheriff and witch chuckled under their breath.
“Don’t be making any house calls between now and then, either. Too much meddling and you will blow our cover,” Artemisia warned.
Now it was Ruckstead’s turn to pause. He did so with a mouth full of coffee, though he had more self-control than his protégé. After a moment of hesitation, he swallowed.
“Duly noted. You are mysterious as always. If you spy on me again, I will have to schedule an appointment for you and your cousin. Speaking of the delinquent, how much longer should I keep him?” Ruckstead asked.
“I did not spy on you. This town is full of gossipers and loose tongues. I am watching out for you, at least until our joint venture is completed.” She turned and looked at her cousin. “Keep him in there until our business is finished. Or he finds out how to get himself out.”
***
The next morning Cronley rose and stretched before donning his stockings and overalls. He ate a meager breakfast of oatmeal and bacon and found himself thinking of the witch’s soup. Soup for breakfast! He would have to have it more often.
He pulled on his boots and stepped out into the crisp morning air. It had to be below freezing, judging by how his nostrils stuck together and his breath fogged. He wasn’t sure why he woke so early any more. The gardens were near ready to harvest, and there were no cattle to tend to.
He looked up in surprise and saw four highland cattle contentedly munching on the last of the season’s green grasses. His heart leapt into his throat and he turned to look at the fence post he set the quartzite on.
It wasn’t there anymore.
With a life in his step that hadn’t been there since the loss of his livestock, he ran back into the house to wake his wife and children.
Chapter Fourteen
The stillness of the morning was broken by a chorus of coyotes, yet Artemisia’s concentration was not interrupted. She was hunched over her kitchen table, extracting the essence of aconite, dogbane, and amaranth. She combined the oils and macerated tissues in a small vial. An owlet moth fluttered by the lantern near her hands. Next to the weak flame were mugs, vases, and bowls of dirt containing the botanical skeletons of her selected plants. It had been difficult to trick the plants into blooming one more time, so she could make her werewolf banishing tincture. But by altering the length of days and amending the soils with fish oil, mushrooms, and apples, she was able to produce several weak blossoms. The flower contained the fertile energy of the plant and as such was the most potent part, the roots coming in a close second. Once she was satisfied that she had enough extract, she would harvest the roots. Long ago in warmer climates, the witch had learned that plants would bloom as many times a season as you would let them. Biennial and annual species would sometimes sneak in an extra flowering stage during the dog days of summer. Around her neck she wore an amulet of obsidian, each link of the necklace augmented with jade.
Two stones of agate were set next to the glass vials and plant material. Once she was finished with the plants, she would grind the mineral into powder and mix it with the plant material, cure it and add it to gunpowder. Placing the bullets in the wolves would be up to Ruckstead, but luring them out and effectively destroying them was Artemisia’s job. Outside the witch’s window the waxing gibbous moon hung as the Goddess Mond watched her work.
