Chapter and Curse

by Nancy Warren

  “And that’s what you were doing in her father’s garden? The day of his wake?”

  This guy had some real timing issues.

  “I didn’t intend to do it then. I wanted to pay my respects. But when she stopped me going in, I tried to tell her about the amends.”

  I remembered seeing Brenda’s face. And then that teacher barreling past me. I didn’t think it had gone well. “What did Brenda say?”

  “She wouldn’t even listen. I was trying to tell her, and she was just telling me to go away. Maybe I could have got through to her, but that old biddy of a teacher pushed her way in and started snarling at me too. So I left.”

  I was certain there was more to this story. “And did you try to talk to Brenda again?”

  He closed his eyes, and his chin dropped toward his sternum. He didn’t speak, just nodded. Two sharp jerks of his chin up and down.

  “When? When did you try to talk to her?”

  His gaze came up and met mine briefly and then dropped again as though there was something much more interesting on the floor. “That day.”

  I had no time for games. “Which day?”

  “The day she died.”

  “What time were you there?” Okay, I wasn’t a cop, but he was here and talking, and I might as well find out what I could. The Gardaí weren’t the only ones trying to figure out what had happened to Brenda O’Donnell.

  “It was about four o’clock.”

  And I had found her barely alive a little after seven.

  I wouldn’t rush to condemn him. He was here, talking to me, trying to get me on his side, but I wouldn’t make a snap judgment. That wouldn’t be fair. “Did you see her?”

  He shook his head. “It’s what I regret the most. If she was going to die that night, at least I wish she would have forgiven me.”

  “You’d better tell me what happened.”

  He looked up, half-eager. “So you believe me?”

  “Not even the slightest bit. You have to convince me. And there’s about two minutes left of your five, and I’ve watched a gentleman walk back and forth in front of the door two or three times already.”

  “I pulled up in front of the house. I was nervous, right?”

  I nodded. I could only imagine how nervous he must have been if he was telling me the truth. Trying to get forgiveness from someone whose life you nearly destroyed can’t be easy for anyone. Especially somebody who was so cocky and full of pride as I sensed this one was.

  “I’d just about worked up my nerve. I saw her come out of the house. She had boxes, and she was putting them in the back of a moving van. I opened the door of my truck. I had one foot already on the road when a snazzy sports car pulled up.”

  “A snazzy sports car? In Ballydehag?” The closest I’d seen to a sports car was Sean Higgins’s Mercedes Coupe that had to be twenty years old. Maybe it had been mildly sporty at the turn of the millennium, but it had seen better days.

  He shook his head at me. “Not a local car. City like.”

  “Go on.”

  As though he felt his time with me running out like sand through an hourglass, he spoke more quickly. “A bloke got out. All shiny and spiffy.”

  “Really? What did he look like?”

  He shrugged as though he’d already described the man to perfection. “City like. Short hair styled all fancy. A suit like a banker’s. Shiny loafers. His watch was probably worth more than everything I own.”

  At the word watch, I glanced up. I had a sneaking suspicion I knew who he was talking about.

  “And what did he do? This slick stranger in a sporty car?”

  “He walked up to Brenda. Tried to kiss her, but she was carrying a heavy box to put into the back of her van.” He shook his head. “I didn’t like him on sight, but when he didn’t even take the box out of her hands, I decided he was a right twit.”

  I had to agree. I thought the man in front of me might have many failings, but I suspected he would have hefted Brenda’s heavy moving boxes into the back of her van for her.

  “Then what happened?”

  He put his hands out, which at least stopped the jingling of change in his pockets. “They went inside.”

  That was interesting, if true. He had to be talking about the fiancé, Dylan McAuliffe, who’d told me he’d only arrived after Brenda was already on her way to the hospital. One of these two was lying. Which was it?

  “Did you try to see her again?”

  He shook his head. “I wish I had. But I thought I’d try the next morning. She wasn’t going to leave that night, that was certain.”

  There was a sheen in his eyes that, in another man, could have been the threat of tears. “And I never saw her again.” I felt his pain now, like a punch to my chest. “You always think there’ll be another chance. You never think an everyday conversation, or a few heated words in a sunny garden on the day of a wake, will be the last time you ever speak to a person you once loved. I thought there was time. I thought I’d have another chance to make it right.”

  I didn’t know whether he was telling the truth or lying or was just a consummate actor, but I knew that feeling so well. There were so many things I wished I’d said to the people I’d loved who were gone. To Greg, to my mother, even to my father, wherever he was.

  “I was able to make it right with Billy, at least.”

  “With Brenda’s father?”

  He nodded. “I heard he was poorly, and I managed to see him before he died. He was up in his bedroom reading an old history book. Didn’t look too pleased to see me, but I said my piece, how sorry I was, and we chatted a bit. He forgave me. Then I promised him I’d never hurt Brenda again and do everything I could to make amends to her.” He rubbed at his eyes. “Did a rubbish job at that, though, didn’t I?”

  His feelings were sincere, but was he sorry that he’d never made his amends to Brenda? Or was he sorry now that he’d ended her life? Possibly without meaning to, but you didn’t pick up a heavy candlestick and bash a woman over the back of the head by accident.

  Chapter 12

  Later that night, someone banged on my door. It was strange because my cottage was just that far out of town that people didn’t really come out without an invitation. If I were back in Seattle, I would suspect Jehovah’s Witnesses or somebody wondering if my roof needed doing or my house needed painting. But that had never happened to me here. I went to the door of my cottage and opened it. It was always possible that Kathleen had come by. Or, even worse, that Pendress Kennedy had decided to pay me a visit. But when I opened the door, I saw a most surprising sight.

  There was an old woman standing on the doorstep. She was stoop-shouldered and dressed in rags. I know that sounds dramatic, but she actually was dressed in rags. Her long dress was a drab color that was neither black nor gray, but some depressing color that was neither one nor the other. The hem was dirty and ragged. Her shoes looked to be wooden. Like clogs. She wore a shawl over her thin, gray hair, and her face was old and careworn. A powerful scent of body odor and earth emanated from her. I took a step back. “Can I help you?”

  She glanced up at me with old, rheumy eyes. “Alms for the poor?” she said in a weak, querulous voice. She held out her two hands, and they were curved like claws.

  I stood there for a minute, staring. Finally, I let my disbelief out in a snort. “Are you kidding me? Alms for the poor? What do you take me for?”

  Her old eyes connected with mine, and I saw the look of deep cunning in them. Then she hastily dropped her gaze to her hands. “I’m but a poor, old woman.”

  “First, no one’s asked for alms for the poor in hundreds of years.” I was really going to have to bone up on my Irish history. I knew there’d been nothing but trouble here, from potato famines to an interminable modern conflict that they now termed “the troubles.” Poverty had dogged Ireland the way mosquitoes dogged summer camp.

  I might be American and modern, but alms for the poor? She was having me on. “What do you really wan
t?”

  That crafty look came and went again. “I’m but a poor old woman, mistress. Have pity.”

  “And I’m not your mistress. I’m pretty sure the meaning of that word has changed since you last used it.”

  I knew this woman was probably a terrible force for evil, but she looked so ridiculous on my doorstep, I couldn’t really take it seriously. “You’re Biddy O’Donnell, aren’t you?”

  She made a sound as though she was sucking her teeth. “I believe I’ve come to the wrong house. Beg your pardon.”

  And she backed away. I watched her all the way to the end of my garden. When she passed the wishing well, she glared at it as though she might spit in it, but knowing I was watching, she kept walking. She walked with a limp. It was the kind of limp I’d seen amateur actors use when playing someone crippled.

  Once she was all the way down my garden, she disappeared. I shut the door and locked it.

  Cerridwen came wandering down from upstairs as though wondering who was at the door. “You don’t even want to know,” I told her. I’d suspected Biddy O’Donnell was on the loose, but having it confirmed wasn’t great news. I would have to tell Kathleen and Pendress about my evening visitor. Kathleen would probably be supportive, but Pendress would somehow make the rising of the old witch seem like my fault.

  I didn’t have the strength to face them tonight. Tomorrow would be soon enough.

  I was thinking about a bath in the big tub upstairs, with a glass of wine and some soothing herbs, when there was another knock on my door. I had a strong suspicion it was that strange, old woman back again. What on earth did she want this time? I could have ignored the door and probably should have, but if nothing else, she had excited my curiosity.

  Still, I flipped on all the lights on my way to the front door. Then I opened it. I was halfway through my, “May I help you?” when my tongue caught in my throat. I got out something that sounded like, “May I hell…” and then I sounded like someone choking on their tongue.

  Standing in front of me was a beautiful woman. She had to be at least six feet tall. She had long, wavy, red hair, a face that ought to grace a glossy magazine cover, and a figure that ought to grace a Playboy centerfold. She wore a shimmery blue dress that I’d love to have if I was ever going to a costume party. Instead of wooden clogs, this vision wore black, patent leather, high-heeled shoes. Her ankles wobbled with the effort of holding herself up in them. At the edge of the wishing well in my front garden, I saw a shadow move. I didn’t think it was Cerridwen, because she was upstairs asleep.

  I said again, “May I help you?” managing to get the entire sentence out this time.

  “Yes,” she said in a breathy voice. “I wonder if I might use your telephone?”

  I stared at her and as I did, her neck shifted slightly and her head wobbled as though it was about to fall off her shoulders.

  “Are you all right?”

  She grabbed her head with both hands and pushed it back on top of her neck properly. “Yes, I’m fine. I’ve had an accident with my motorcar. I wonder if I might use your telephone?”

  Again, I didn’t know what else to do than laugh. “Where is your motorcar now?” I asked her. Okay, maybe it was unkind of me to toy with her, but she was seriously messing with my head.

  “Just over there.” She gestured vaguely behind her.

  I gave her my most skeptical look. She gazed back at me with limpid blue eyes, but there was a moment when the image shifted and the wicked, old hag stared at me. The rest remained the same: long red hair, the gorgeous dress, even those ridiculous heels. It was just the face. As though she was putting so much effort into keeping the illusion going that it was thin in places, so thin I’d been able to see right through it.

  “I’m getting tired of this, Biddy O’Donnell. What do you want from me?”

  She pursed up her lips as though she planned to cling to her ridiculous story. I rolled my gaze. “First, nobody has a motorcar anymore. You just say car. And yes, we use the telephone, but most people would call it the phone. And, frankly, pretty much everyone has a mobile here. That’s a phone you hold in your hand. It’s wonderful. You can take them anywhere. So it really takes away the need to knock on a complete stranger’s door and ask for help.”

  For a moment more she clung to her illusion, and then with a great huff of disgust, she let me see the real her. Frankly, it wasn’t pretty.

  Biddy O’Donnell was a short, scrawny witch. Her hair was gray and thin, and her face looked like one of those dried apple dolls. Her black eyes were darting, as though trying to catch something in a corner. Her clothes weren’t as ragged as the image she’d presented to me earlier, when she’d pretended to be a beggar, but they were old-fashioned. She wore a long—I suppose you’d call it a smock which went to the ground, and she still wore those wooden clogs. There was a cap on her head and a shawl wrapped around her shoulders. If she was a character in a period drama, she’d be a servant or a common woman out in the streets.

  “I see,” she said finally, sounding irritable. “You’re not as stupid as you look.”

  “Not nearly.”

  “And you’ve identified me correctly. I am that very Biddy O’Donnell. And you are the child of my child’s child’s child’s child’s child’s child.”

  I found this very hard to believe. No, I wanted to find this very hard to believe, but something inside me recognized our kinship. It was probably why I’d been able to see through her from the beginning.

  Probably it was a very dangerous thing to invite an ancient, evil witch into my home, but hey, she was family. I held the door open and beckoned for her to enter. She stepped past me with great dignity. She still smelled like body odor and dirt. I was about to close the door behind her when a black shape shot past me. I jumped back.

  The old woman clucked her tongue. “What are you so startled for? It’s only Pyewacket.”

  The streak of black resolved itself into a cat. And, like my many times grandmother Biddy O’Donnell, Pyewacket had seen better days. Its fur was matted and lank, one of its eyes drooped, and half of one ear was missing. As though I had not gathered this, she said, “Pyewacket’s my familiar.”

  I led the pair of them into my living room, not knowing what else to do with them, and offered them a seat. Biddy O’Donnell sat in my nicest chair, and I thought I would have to get it steam-cleaned when she left. The cat sniffed its way around the room, very much the way Cerridwen would do, but when it saw the length of colored wool that I used when I was playing with Cerridwen, flicking it around and driving her into a frenzy, the cat arched its back and let out a hideous shriek. Its head went one way and its body the other. I’d never seen anything so peculiar in my life.

  The old woman got up and went toward the cat. She took its little head and shifted it like a chiropractor making a spinal adjustment. “You must leave nothing lying around that reminds her of rope. She had a terrible experience.”

  I looked at her and looked at her cat. They both had that weird shifting head thing. I felt a bit sick. “You don’t mean?”

  I couldn’t even finish the sentence, but she finished it for me. “Oh yes. We were both convicted of witchcraft. And both of us were hanged.”

  I felt an icy shiver of creepiness go over my entire body. “They executed your cat?”

  She nodded grimly. “Hanging breaks your neck. Neither of us have ever been right since.”

  “But you’re a powerful witch. Can’t you fix it?”

  She glared at me. “You try having your neck broken and then being shoved upside-down in a grave for hundreds of years. Let’s see how you turn out.”

  She returned to her seat and looked me over. “So you’re my great-great-great-great-great-great-great-granddaughter,” she said, not sounding very impressed.

  “I’m not that great.”

  “That’s clear.”

  I remembered that she was a dark witch and there were rumors that she’d done terrible things. Once more, I said,
“What do you want?”

  “I want my house back, for a start.”

  Oh, no, not my pretty cottage that I’d grown to love. “You lived here?” She could have it if it was hers because I would not fight her for it, not with the creepy stunts she’d been pulling.

  “No. I don’t want this place.”

  That was good. I wondered if maybe I could do us both a favor and get her to scram to somewhere far away. “Most of the people around here who’ve heard the legends want you back underground.”

  Her faced pinched, and a sour look crossed it. “I blame Shakespeare,” she said.

  “What?” I don’t know what I’d expected she might say, but that was not it.

  “All that Macbeth nonsense.” And then she hunched her already humped back and put her already claw-like hands into even worse claws and scrunched her scrunchy face even more and rasped in her already raspy voice, “Double, double toil and trouble,” and then she leaned back. “That’s what gave our kind a terrible name. The man would do anything to sell seats to his terrible plays. Even make lovely, kind healers like ourselves look like evil villains.”

  It was a solid argument, and most thinking, modern people accepted that the witch trials had mostly been a sham. Mostly. I stared at her. “I don’t think Shakespeare made up the notion of the dark witch. I’ve heard some pretty awful tales about you.”

  Those black gaze shifted to the ground and then back up to meet mine. She couldn’t help herself. A smug smile tilted the corners of her wrinkled mouth. “What tales have you heard?”