by Julia French
He gave me…a real mean look, like he would’ve kill me if he dared…Should he turn this curse back upon its creator or should he let it be? If the pale man was a genuine man of power he wouldn’t have much of a sense of humor about the return of his little gift.
On the other hand, an innocent woman had almost starved to death. A lesson in manners wouldn’t be amiss, and nothing would give True more pleasure than turning this curse right around and sending it back to its rightful owner, with interest.
True went to the back door and opened it wide. Out of one of the overfilled kitchen drawers he took out a black grease pencil, a slender stick of hazel wood, and a mirror—not the enchanted one he had shown Rachel, but another one washed in a different substance that would have made her faint with revulsion had she known. With the grease pencil he made three curly-jagged marks on a fresh sheet of tablet paper. True’s great-grandfather had died before he could teach True the meanings of the alchemical symbols, but he didn’t need to know how or why they worked. It was enough that they did.
He placed the sheet of paper on the table, centered the mirror upon it, took the egg from the bowl, and placed it on top of the mirror. One soft tap with the charmed hazel wand in his hand, and the slug-like curse inside the egg tried to flee. It rocked and rolled the egg across the mirror to the edge of the paper, but the magick barrier of the symbols held it back. Helpless to leave the mirrored surface, the egg rocked back and forth with increasing violence as the curse inside it grew frantic to escape.
His wand at the ready, True watched as the egg gave up escaping and rolled itself up onto the narrow end, teetering like a child’s top. It started to spin, wobbling uncertainly at first and then gaining balance with speed. It whirled round and round upon the silvered glass, streaks of gooey gray matter sweating out of the pores of the eggshell onto the mirror as the egg turned. Finally, bogged down in the sticky matter exuded from the shell, the egg slowed to a drunken lurch and stopped. The shell of the egg sucked in on one side, as if drawing in a breath, and then caved in altogether in a puff of yellow-black smoke.
Its safe haven destroyed, True backed away to give it room. The slug-thing formed itself into a sticky ball and rose up from the surface of the mirror, hovering in the air. It moved to the tabletop, then abruptly switched course and darted past True’s ear out the cabin door. The tiny, high-pitched meteoric whistle of its passage grew fainter and fainter until the sound was lost among the trees. True took a deep breath and let it out in a sigh of relief. His “return postage” had worked. All he had to do now was wait, and in this case no news would be good news. Some people weren’t able to learn in any other way than direct cause and effect, and with any luck, the pale man would prove to be a quick learner.
* * * *
The slices of potato tumbled about in the bacon fat, exposing their crispy brown surfaces. True cracked an egg into the pan and gave it another shake, pondering what he had done this afternoon. If Rachel kept her promise to study with him, sooner or later she would have to face some facts that he knew wouldn’t sit well with her. What would she have thought about Mrs. Bartlett and her problem? What would she have thought about his solution? He upturned the pan to empty the contents onto a plate and fetched a fork, still continuing his train of thought. Out of all the places in the world to live in, why had Rachel picked the weird city of Yarwich? The strange goings-on in that place were common knowledge. There had to be a reason inside her head or her heart to make her settle there, he reasoned, throwing a pinch of salt over the potatoes. Maybe there was a part of her that wanted to believe, and living in Yarwich was her unconscious way of helping that part along.
When someone came to his door for help, what they needed wasn’t always what they asked for. If he could give them what they needed it was well and good. If he couldn’t, he sent them to someplace or somebody that could. What did Rachel need from him? Was it poverty that troubled her? No, she’d been wearing nice clothes. He didn’t think greed was the answer either, since she wasn’t the type of woman who chased after money.
There was something else weighing her down, making her slender body droop and her eyes sad even when she smiled. Some other kind of trouble was upon her, something full of grief and pain. Was there trouble between her and her husband? It was odd for a married woman not to speak of her wedded spouse, but Rachel had barely mentioned him, and True had learned nothing about him except his name. As a matter of fact True knew very little about Rachel herself other than that she was beautiful, intelligent, and ignorant but willing to learn. He hoped she wouldn’t change her mind about coming. He would be patient and earn her confidence because it was the only way to help her, and he would wait for whatever piece of her troubles she could bring herself to share with him.
On the plate the mess of egg and potato sat steaming. True thought of the slug thing and his appetite vanished. He slid the meal from the plate into the trash can with one hand and slung his jacket over one shoulder with the other. After the emotionally charged events of today, another hike in the woods would do him good.
Chapter Thirteen
The pale man clapped the towel to his lips, but he was too late. A greenish river of vomit splashed onto the oriental rug at his feet. The familiar sniffed the stinking air appreciatively and rustled the thousand fly wings stuck to its ungainly body. The man aimed a kick at it, but the creature dodged the blow, planted itself at the outer edge of the foul puddle, and began to lap up the liquid. The benevolent master-eager servant relationship that he had expected between him and his clay beast had quickly turned into one of mutual need and loathing, and it was all he could do not to throttle it as it drank up the dregs of his vomit.
“Iskus! Damn you!” he cursed it, and the familiar, hearing its name, lifted its head briefly from the feast.
There was a burning knot in the pit of his stomach like a bed of glowing coals. He had been reading an amusing article on plastic surgery gone wrong, and then he had heard a faint whistling, felt suddenly dizzy, then this. What the hell was wrong with him? Had he come down with some illness? Somehow, though, this didn’t feel like a genuine illness. It felt more like—
The burning knot forced its way up his raw windpipe and he ran for the bathroom, but again he was too late and a redolent fountain sprayed onto the bathroom door. Gooey strings of vomit clung to the painted wood and dribbled to the floor. The hinges of his jaws ached and his sides were so painful he could barely breathe. Another wave came and he bent double, heaving. This batch of vomit was different from the others, for it was moving.
Stunned and sick, the man watched as a fat gray slug crawled out of the acid mush and humped along the floor, leaving a shiny trail of stomach juice in its wake. His bleary eyes went to the puddle and saw there were more of them, wiggling and squirming among the half-digested bits of food.
The waitress at the truck stop! Somehow she had managed to send his impulsive curse back upon him, and instead of that stupid bitch starving to death he was uncontrollably puking every molecule of his guts out. He never considered that an ignorant woman would know how to do a turn-back spell-or maybe she hadn’t known how. Maybe she’d found help.
The sick feeling was retreating. He rested his eyes until he heard a rustling at his feet. It was Iskus, peering up at him hopefully.
“Joss-wa. Joss-wa.” Its voice had a peculiar grating quality that he found charming, but right now he could have punted the little beast like a football.
“I told you, stupid—Mas-ter.” He pronounced the word slowly. “Not Joshua. Mas-ter.”
The familiar wrinkled its nose. “Stupid. Mass-er.”
“There’s no use standing there waiting. I’ve run out of puke. Go get me a sponge and a bucket.”
Iskus blinked its uneven ruby eyes.
“Sponge. Bucket. In the kitchen,” he corrected himself, and the creature turned and scampered off down the hallway.
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He hadn’t realized he would have to teach Iskus to speak and understand English. So far it understood only simple words and phrases, not complex sentences, but it would have to do. Soon he would begin to teach it to help him in other ways, but right now the sponge and the bucket had priority.
The truck-stop waitress wasn’t all that important, but whoever had helped her to turn back that curse was definitely on his short list. If that person turned out to be a man or woman of power, so much the better, for he loved a good fight almost as much as he loved violence and pain, more especially when the odds were stacked in his favor.
His good humor had returned. He heard the rustling and padding of his assistant as it returned with the bucket and sponge, and greeted it with a smile.
Chapter Fourteen
A few days ago the raven had been waiting for her in the alley. Yesterday it had gathered the courage to follow her to the house. Today it had been emboldened to step onto the windowsill while she stood by the kitchen sink. Rachel could tell her bird from other ravens because upon one side of its beak was a slight deformity. A bit of the horny substance was curled upward like a sneer, as though at one time the bird had tried to bite through a metal rod. She didn’t know if a bird as smart as a raven would try to take a bite out of something so obviously inedible or what other kind of injury or birth defect the malformation might signify, but she took it as a sign that this was a special bird. It was astonishing how quickly they had become friends.
“Here you go.” She pushed the cracker onto the windowsill slowly, for a sudden move might frighten the bird away.
The raven took a cautious step forward and nudged the cracker with its beak. When it felt reassured that this cracker was identical to the last two crackers she had given it, the bird took the offering up in its beak and broke it to pieces against the windowsill. When it was finished devouring the cracker it shifted from foot to foot and cocked its head, eyeing her speculatively.
Taking the hint, Rachel pushed another cracker onto the sill, and the bird cawed its appreciation. The unexpected noise made her hand jerk, and the cracker fell off the sill onto the grass below the window. Startled in turn by her reaction, the raven feathered its wings and took off, seeking refuge in the tall elm tree in the next yard. Disappointed, Rachel moved away from the window and commenced loading the dishwasher. The bird would probably return for the grounded cracker later.
It was her second week writing Robert’s Ramblings, and already she was having trouble balancing her work and her household responsibilities. Yesterday she had neglected to vacuum the bedroom carpet and when Mark came home he had let her know his opinion about it, loudly. She had resolved to make an extra effort to keep up the housework not only to avoid hurtful criticism, but also to avert any suspicion on Mark’s part that there was anything else going on in her life besides taking care of her husband.
She had finished loading the dishwasher, except that there was an extra space in the plate section. Mark had taken his dessert into the living room. Should she risk irritating him by leaving the dirty dish in the living room, or should she risk irritating him by her presence so soon after their last argument? Either alternative was unpleasant, but truly it was only a matter of degree. Mark would be more angry if she left the dish out of the washer, so she decided to retrieve the plate.
Mark was dozing in front of the TV, the empty plate on the coffee table in front of him, and as Rachel picked it up she glanced at his sleeping face. The creases in his forehead had smoothed over and he looked years younger, as young as when they had first met. She had loved him so much then. Clutching the plate, she struggled with the pity and love that rose inside her. Why was she sneaking around and deceiving him? Would it really be so awful to stay?
After his nap Mark would wake up in a better mood. He would be amenable to her suggestion that they work out their problems, and then they would talk, really talk. She would tell him everything-about the Yarwich Regular Chronicle, about Robert’s Ramblings, about True. She would open up to him and he would open up to her, and she would listen with her heart instead of just her ears. She would try her best to understand why he was so angry and afraid and, with her understanding, the love that she had once felt would come rushing back and she wouldn’t have to go.
Caught up in her thoughts, Rachel didn’t notice the blot of water on the kitchen floor, and as she came up to the dishwasher her right foot slid out from under her. She fought to keep her balance, but her legs splayed painfully wide and the plate in her hand banged against the counter and broke. One shard cut into the meat of her thumb and she fumbled for a dish towel to staunch the bleeding.
Behind her there was a low, sinister chuckle. Mark was leaning in the doorway, his arms crossed, his eyes alien and cold. Or was it Mark? A stranger was looking out through his eyes. Rachel got to her feet, clenching the dish towel in her hand, driving the terrycloth deep into the wound. I’m sorry, she tried to say, but nothing came out.
“You’re doing the dishes.”
She nodded mutely.
“It’s about time. You know I don’t like a lazy wife or a dirty house.”
The back of her neck prickled with alarm. Why wasn’t he shouting at her? Why was he so calm? She nodded again, her head bobbing up and down like a bobble doll’s.
“You’re bleeding on the floor.”
“I—I’m sorry.”
“Let me help you with that.” He? It? took a step forward into the kitchen. She took one step back, matching his advance, and the heel of her shoe crunched on splintered china. He took another step, and she realized he was cutting off her only exit. There was no way out of the kitchen except through him.
The doorbell rang, and the weird light faded from his eyes.
“Who the hell is that?” he demanded, glaring at her, and Rachel clutched the towel and breathed a prayer of thanks that the old, angry Mark had returned.
“It’s the paperboy. He comes every Thursday.” Early in their marriage, she had discovered that reminders of everyday things didn’t infuriate Mark, because he required them.
“That damn kid! Why does he always come right before payday? Why doesn’t he come when I have money?”
The doorbell rang again, and to her imagination it sounded shriller than the first time. Mark extracted his wallet and sorted through the contents, muttering.
“I’ll pay the little shit…every time I turn around…not made of money…Rachel, there’s a cut on your hand.”
“I broke a plate.”
“You’d better bandage it. Then you might consider wiping up that mess on the floor, if Your Highness is up to it. I’m sick and tired of nagging you. When are you going to learn to clean up after yourself?”
Rachel bowed her head to show him that she’d heard his order. To think she had been about to tell him everything! It would have been the worst mistake of her life.
Chapter Fifteen
This lesson was turning into a battle of wills. All afternoon she had been trying to get True to stick to herbal medicine, but he had insisted upon giving her weird and obscure bits of “knowledge” that sounded to her ears like the fortune-telling ads on the back pages of a cheap magazine.
When the stars and planets line up exactly, turn around three times, knock on the floor and hop on one leg, and your wish will come true…call this number for details…twenty-five dollars per minute.
“That’s just folklore,” she answered for the dozenth time. “How could it matter what the moon is doing when you’re picking the leaves off some plant?”
“When the moon is full, you’ll get the most goodness from any plant,” True repeated stubbornly. “The moon moves water everywhere, inside people and animals, and inside plants too. If you pick a plant when the moon is full the tide draws more juices into the leaves and you get the most healing power then.”
“That
’s nonsense.”
“Yarwich Harbor has a tide, doesn’t it?”
“Of course.”
“What makes the water go back and forth every day?”
“The moon, but—”
“There you go!” he told her triumphantly.
She wasn’t impressed. “The moon’s gravity causes tides, but that doesn’t mean the moon moves any other kind of water.”
“I can prove it to you. You can see for yourself.”
True got up and opened the back door, and Rachel followed him outside into the garden. It was now early November and the air was full of the rich, spicy smell of fallen leaves. She walked with him between the rows of frosted tomato vines and wilted lettuce and tried not to think about the feeling of coming home.
She had been born and raised in the town of Roansbury, where the country was never far away, but her entire adult life she had lived, worked, and made love surrounded by acres of cement and asphalt and the oily, sulfurous aromas of car exhaust and factory exhalation. She quickly became accustomed to the rhythm of urban life, and along with the other city dwellers she washed pigeon dung off her car in the summer and shoveled the snow off her sidewalk in winter. Every Tuesday she awoke to the banging of garbage trucks in the alley, and for too many times to count the out-of-tune medley of police and fire sirens had jerked her awake in the middle of the night. The fresh country air and the hills and trees that were True’s natural environment had touched a chord inside her that had been buried so deeply she had forgotten it existed, but far from welcoming that feeling, Rachel wished it away. Her future lay in Yarwich, not in the backwoods of Massachusetts.
To distract herself she concentrated upon True’s broad back as he led the way between the cultivated rows, but when she caught sight of his lean, handsome face silhouetted against the gray November sky she looked away. A plump gray mourning dove was perched on one of the branches of a nearby tree. She focused on the bird, noting the way its feathers were fluffed up against the chill. Be safe and warm, she would have told it had she spoken bird language. Eat plenty of seeds and find a cozy place to nest, because you never know what’s going to happen tomorrow.
