Asimov's SF, October-November 2007

by Dell Magazine Authors

  Her room ... There's the oddest picture on the wall. It's a combination diagram and photo. Can't be from around here. Jagged cliffs and such. A waterfall coming right out from the middle of the rocks. A night scene. Moons galore. Or maybe the same moon at different stages. Lines go back and forth across it, with numbers and letters that don't make any sense.

  I've a good mind to ask her where her father came from, and if this picture on the wall is where. I always did wonder. He had an accent. But I won't ask yet. I don't want her thinking that I'm thinking things.

  I rummage for a sweater. Then I think maybe she wants a clean blouse and underwear, too. I'm not going to help her get any of those on or off over her cast. I'll just bring them. Enough's enough.

  Everything else in the room is perfectly ordinary—nothing fancy there at all.

  Well, not so ordinary. A normal young woman would have had some posters of movie stars or musicians on the wall, not this odd landscape. A normal girl would have maybe her own artwork. Or pictures of horses, that's the usual around here. She does have some feathers stuck on the wall with push pins. Some big brownish black ones from turkey vultures.

  Turkey vultures! It all fits together.

  On the way home I pick an apple from one of those old trees. I take a couple of bites—so sweet and juicy—better than most. Wormy of course. Tasty as it is, I toss it away. It's like her. She's a pretty girl, but a menace to all of us.

  * * * *

  But Daniel won't pay any attention to me. All he'll say is, “Let her be, for heaven's sake. She's doing the best she can."

  “How can I let her be when I'm sure? And look how dry our fields are. And she won't even ever come to church. Isn't that a sign of something? And what about those apples?"

  “What about them?"

  “Isn't it just like a witch to have the sweetest apples of all and then have them all wormy?"

  Daniel just laughs.

  I'm not going to “let her be,” but I won't tell Daniel. I have to stop her. What could stop a witch? Salt? Vinegar? Maybe you have to fight fire with fire. Maybe I can think up spells of my own to out-spell her. Maybe I could do my own moonlight dance. With her broken leg, I could get way ahead of her spellwise.

  All that blah, blah, blah, when I saw her mouth moving. That must have been spells. I should have thought of that before. Where can I find a spell of my own? Or do I have to make one up? And talking in tongues. I've heard of that. Is that from God or the devil? Boolla bomba sitty so, sat satterloopa gluey zit. I can do that without even trying.

  Saturday night seems like the right time, and the moon is almost full.

  I do it. I go out and dance. Actually, it's a nice thing to do. I didn't think it would be. It was hard getting started, but once I do, I enjoy it. You have to forget yourself and not worry about how it might look. Thank goodness Daniel is too sound a sleeper to wake up in the middle of the night and see me.

  Of course next morning I'm all worn out. I sleep till eight. Daniel brings me tea and asks me what's wrong. He says I look pale. He's milked the cow and goat for me and he's already been out in the fields for an hour. I guess I danced longer than I thought.

  I drink the tea looking out the window in my usual spot. I don't expect to see her but I do. First I see the cat. Swinging his tail in a kind of swagger. He's so self-possessed it makes me angry. But then she comes out on her mismatched canes. She gives up, drops the canes and just crawls dragging her leg behind. It's the strawberries she was after. She sits there and picks them straight into her mouth. She doesn't look much like a witch now. More like a greedy little kid. But she doesn't fool me.

  I can't ask anybody to help me. Daniel certainly won't. And, far as I know, there aren't any books about it. I'll have to find out everything by myself.

  But, once I think about it, when I saw her climbing up to fix her window, I wanted her to fall and she did. I wasn't even thinking about a spell. Now what did I do right that time that made it happen?

  Next time I see that cat I'm going to stare right back at it no matter how much it stares at me. If anything is evil around here it's that cat. Maybe he's the one in charge of this drought. Maybe he's the one I should get rid of.

  * * * *

  That afternoon I ask her right out where did her father come from. I bring her a cheese sandwich and pickled green tomatoes, and I pick up some of her own apples on the way over. She thanks me, nice as could be.

  She says he was Romanian. It figures. Didn't all sorts of odd people come from Romania? Gypsies and such, and even Dracula?

  Her father came out here alone with just that baby girl. Maybe he stole her. Except you could see she was nothing but a big bother to him while he tried to farm. I wonder why he wanted her and took all that trouble to look after her. I guess she must be his real daughter.

  Then I ask her, “Where's that old dog of yours?"

  “Howie? He's around here someplace. He always is."

  “I haven't seen him."

  He's no particular kind, just a big, lumpy dog. Almost as red as the cat. There must be a reason why every creature around here is red.

  That cat and I stare at each other. I'm the one that looks away first though I vowed not to. He looked me up and down and back and forth. I never saw the like. I felt kind of shaky afterwards.

  “What did you say this cat's name is?"

  “We just call him Red."

  We? Who does she mean, we? Or did they have him back when her father was still around?

  How about I get rid of that cat first? I'll talk in tongues and make up a dance and a spell.... I won't do anything like put out poison or set a trap. I'll dance for a pleasant easy death—in the middle of a happy dream.

  * * * *

  I do it. I dance and dance. Actually I haven't had so much fun since Daniel and I went dancing when we first married. Daniel has been too busy to even think of dancing. Besides, I don't think he ever liked it. I talk a crazy language all my own. Or maybe it's Romanian or some sort of gypsy language. How would I know? But whatever it is, it comes easily.

  * * * *

  In the morning, everything's at sixes and sevens. Lunch isn't even begun and laundry not done. I don't wake up till around ten ... ten for heaven's sake! Daniel comes in to see how I am and I'm not even up yet. He thinks I'm really sick. He says, again, how pale I look and that I have circles under my eyes. He brings me toast and chamomile tea and tells me to stay in bed, which I'm happy to do. I lie there and doze and think. Ditties and sayings keep rolling around in my head. Proof of the pudding, Catch as catch can, Cat's out of the bag, Willy nilly, and such. I think I'm a natural at ... I'm not sure what, spells I guess.

  Then I remember the things I pinched off and put in my apron pocket. I get up and check on them. Crumble them. Mix them all together and boil them up. I figure, since I don't know what I'm doing anyway, might as well use them all. I could tell one was just catnip, but who knows, catnip might be magic. Besides, there's that cat.

  I taste them. Ugh. I put what's left in the icebox. Strange, but even that little sip made me feel a lot better. I was just dragging myself around. Maybe I'll keep the brew for when I need energy.

  * * * *

  So far nothing has happened to that cat. I went over there special to take a look. I brought some leftover hamburger. There she was, lying there as usual, and there was that cat. If cats can give the evil eye, that cat is doing it. I don't even try to match it stare-to-stare anymore.

  “Have you been up?"

  “I've crawled around a little."

  “Poor child. What can I do for you before I go?"

  I do want to be kind. I always like to help.

  “Would you feed the cat? And make sure he has water? Please."

  She's asking this deliberately. Is it some kind of a test? She hasn't asked me to do anything before. Not even once. For sure only a witch would ask me to do that, knowing what that cat thinks of me.

  Should I do it or not? Or should I poison him r
ight now? But with what?

  I won't do it. Neither one, neither feed nor poison.

  “I'm afraid I must be off."

  I hurry away, all shaky. What am I thinking? A spell is one thing, but poison? Yes, but that look in his eyes. As if he knows all about me.

  * * * *

  I dance that night yet again ... even though nothing seems to be happening over there. This time I sing and beat time on an old jar. I have even more fun than the other nights.

  And then I look up and see Daniel at the window staring down at me.

  I stop and just stand there, breathing hard, and here he comes, out the back door.

  “What in the world?” And, “No wonder you're tired.” He's angry. “What's got into you? The house is a mess and the cooking is lousy, and here you are enjoying yourself in the middle of the night."

  I start to say that I'm not enjoying myself, but I realize I am. In lots of ways. I love to dance and I have this purpose ... to save us all from the drought. I'm helping people.

  “Come back to bed.” He takes my hand. He doesn't look so angry now. “I'll make you some chamomile tea. You're shaking."

  Even with the tea, it takes me a long time to calm down and go back to sleep. I lie there thinking about that cat. Spells and dancing don't seem to be working. I'm going to have to find a better way.

  * * * *

  Next day I get up at a reasonable time and make Daniel's breakfast. I decide not to go over to Iris's for a while. She's getting better and I left extra cheese and bread last time. Besides, she's got her strawberry patch. And she probably could get some of her wormy apples, too, without much trouble.

  How do you kill a clever cat? I've already done all the spells and dancing I can think of. I need a rest and a chance to think up more things to do. What's a pentacle?

  * * * *

  Next time I do go over there, she's lying on the couch again and the cat is sitting on the back of it right over her as if on guard. (Look how he looks at me. Those funny slits of cat's eyes. As bad as a goat's.)

  Somebody has left her fresh water and I see the remains of food I didn't bring. There's even apricots from my tree. I was right all along, somebody besides me is helping her. Or some kind of witching is going on. How else could she have gotten five of my apricots?

  But she's been crying. At first I think I should have come over before, but my not coming isn't the problem.

  “Howie is ... like you said ... off somewhere. I haven't seen him for days. He's so old. I was wondering if you could look for him. See if anything happened to him."

  “Me!"

  I'm so startled it comes out in a squeak.

  “If you wouldn't mind. You've done so much already I hate to ask. And he is old. He could have just crawled off to be by himself to die."

  I will. No harm in a little walk around. I might learn more about her and her place.

  “Yes! Yes, I will,” I say.

  I run around to the front of the house. That's the part I never can see from my window.

  What a mess. The front porch is obviously never used. There's the old swing. I don't dare sit on it. Its rusty chains would probably pop right out of the ceiling. There's a wasp nest up there, too. Of course what use has Iris for a porch like this, anyway? Nobody will ever sit here.

  I almost forget I'm supposed to be looking for Howie. I lean over and check under the house. As far as I can see it's empty under there, but I'm not going to crawl in. She can't expect me to do that.

  I go around to the outbuildings. I check under the honeysuckle. I go into—not very far into—the dusty old barn. I go all the way to the edge of her land where the goat shed used to be. And I find him. Dead. Did I do that with my spells? I meant to kill the cat, not this poor old mangy dog. Well, at least my spells worked on something.

  I have to go back and tell Iris. I hope she doesn't want me to bring her the body. I just can't do that. It already smells. Maybe Daniel will do it for her. I'll tell her he'll bury him under the honeysuckle if she wants that.

  * * * *

  When I come back to tell her, that cat is still sitting on the back of the couch as if on guard. He stares at me again.

  “He's dead,” I say.

  She tries to get up right on her broken leg, but then flops back down.

  “He's out by the goat shed. Daniel'll bury it if you want him to. Do you have a wheelbarrow?"

  * * * *

  Daniel does go over. I didn't go with him. I figured I'd done enough. Besides, I wanted to think. I mean if she only has that cat for company I feel sorry for her even though I still think that cat should go. What if I found her a puppy?

  * * * *

  Daniel looks shaken when he comes back. “That old dog wasn't worth much except for company. She's going to miss him. He was her father's. Thirteen years old."

  Thirteen! Everything is fitting together.

  “I'm going to get her some crutches. Why didn't we bring some right away? I know you've been helping her a lot, but she needs to be able to get around more. She wants to make a grave marker. I found her a nice piece of wood. I'll pound it in when she's got it carved."

  He shakes his head no, about five times. He's still upset. “We wrapped him in her grandmother's old handsewn quilt."

  “But that quilt must be valuable."

  “She even had me put flowers in the grave and old bones and a book that belonged to her father. She had an antique necklace, and she put it around the dog's neck. I know how she feels. Remember when little Mitzie died?"

  “It's not the same. Mitzie was a big help to you."

  “She sure could move cows."

  Too bad about that quilt. All that handwork gone for a dog. I don't say it, though. Daniel looks as if he thinks it's perfectly all right. I suppose that's just like a man.

  * * * *

  Daniel is so bothered he doesn't eat much supper and drinks too much coffee. And I never saw a person shake their head “no,” so much. I don't think I'll be able to dance this night. He won't be sleeping well. And all because of a no-good lumpy dog that didn't even belong to us.

  I do sleep well though Daniel doesn't. I hear him get up. I see him standing, looking out the window towards Iris's house. It's a moonless night so there can't be anything to see. I feel a yearning to be out dancing and chanting but I'll just have to wait for Daniel to stop his worrying. And I'll have to stop dancing so close to the house. Maybe it would be better if I did it nearer to Iris's place. That old orchard in the moonlight! With all those half-dead broken down trees....

  * * * *

  Daniel is way ahead of me. He finds a puppy in town. A stray that ended up at the feed store. Nobody knows what kind it is or how big it'll get. He brings it here first and asks me how I think she'll like it. It's been mistreated and needs a good home.

  “Look,” he says. “Somebody hit him on the head and ruined his eye. See the scar? And his ear is torn."

  None of that makes him very nice to look at, but I don't say so.

  He bought a big bag of dog food and a bowl that says DOG on it. And he also got her some crutches.

  “How much did all this cost?"

  “It's maybe too soon for a new dog, but he needs somebody and it'll be good for her to take him in."

  Then he looks at me in a odd way as if maybe it would be even better if I took him in. I certainly don't want it—not even for an hour.

  “Take it over now. It'll cry all night and I'm not taking it to bed with us. Beside, she'll want the company."

  * * * *

  Next day I go over with fresh hot cornbread and there's the pup snuggled up beside her. Looks like even the cat has accepted him. He's walking back and forth across the back of the couch swinging his tail as if in charge of everything.

  She's been up and around. There's some wash hanging on a new little line over the sink. I wonder if Daniel put that line up. And there's that new dog bowl.

  I bring her fresh water and fuss around as if I'm doing somethin
g though it seems Daniel has already done everything that's needed. More than what's needed. For Heaven's sake, he turned down her bed and put a candy bar on her pillow. For that skinny girl?

  I go home feeling really bad. I go into the barn but the cow and goat are out to pasture now. There's nothing warm to lean against.

  Could she have given him some sort of love potion? What could he see in such a wispy little person who always has her hair falling in front of her eyes? And she hardly has any breasts at all.

  * * * *

  I don't know how I did it, but I do it. I kill that cat. Cats don't fall. Or if they do they don't hurt themselves—not from just two stories up, which is all we have around here.

  It was hard to do. I danced half the night, not in my yard, but way out in the back of that old orchard.

  Iris comes hobbling all the way over here on her new crutches, the puppy running circles around her lickety-split. Even from my kitchen window I can see she's crying. Daniel is out in the fields so it's just me.

  I walk out to meet her and get a skirt full of puppy paw prints. If that dog was mine, first thing I'd teach him is not to jump on people. When he gets bigger it's going to be a lot worse.

  Right away she says, “Why does everything happen all at once? I know they were both old but why right now, one after the other? Everything is dying."

  And I know I did it, finally. I feel such a sense of power.

  “Will you help me bury him?"

  * * * *

  So we do that. We put him right next to where Howie is. With flowers and half that chocolate bar Daniel left. She wraps him in an old shawl. A flowery one with fringe. Some sort of heirloom I suppose. I don't think she should do that, but I don't say a word. I'm not one to criticize.

  Afterwards she thanks me and says I should go on home, she's going to sit there for a while.

  At first that pup tries to follow me but it soon gives up and goes back to Iris.

  We're all in trouble if it gets to be the size of Howie and keeps on jumping on people. I'd be doing everybody a favor, yet again, if I got rid of it before it gets up to that size.

  * * * *