by Paula Guran
The roof finally collapsed, and just for a moment Ceren thought she saw four columns of ash and smoke rise separately from the fire to spiral away into the sky before all blended in flame and smoke as the embers rained down.
Kinan found her sitting there, on the stump, as the cottage smoldered. He looked a little pale, but he came down the path at a trot and was only a little out breath when he reached her. “We saw the smoke. Ceren, are you all right?”
She wondered if he really wanted to know. She wondered if now was the time to find out. “I should ask you the same. You shouldn’t be out of bed,” Ceren said, not looking at him. “My home burned down,” she said, finally stating the obvious. “Such things happen.”
“I’m sorry,” Kinan said. “But I’m glad you’re all right. Have you lost everything?”
She considered the question for a moment. “Once I would have thought so. Now I think I have lost very little.” She looked at him. “I’m going to need a place to stay, but where can I go? I have a goat and a sheep and my medicines . . . I have skills. I’m not ugly, and I’m not useless!” That last part came out in a bit of a rush, and Ceren blinked to keep tears at bay. She only partly succeeded.
Kinan smiled then, though he sounded puzzled. “Who ever said you were?”
Ceren considered that for a moment too. “Nobody.”
Kinan just sighed and held out his hand. “You’ll stay with us, of course. We’ll find room. Let’s go talk to Ma; we’ll come back for your animals later.”
Ceren hesitated. “A witch in your house? What will your father say?”
Kinan didn’t even blink. “My father is a wise man. He may grumble or he may not, but in the end he’ll say what Ma says, and that’s why we’re going to her first. We owe you . . . I owe you.”
Ceren decided she didn’t mind hearing those words so much. Coming from Kinan, they didn’t sound like an accusation. Besides, Ceren understood debts. They could start there; Ceren didn’t mind. Just so long as they could start somewhere. She took Kinan’s offered hand and he helped her to rise.
Kinan then carried Ceren’s medicine box as he escorted her, understanding or not, down the road in search of her heart’s desire.
Dr. Sarah Martin, Cynthia Ward’s modern physician who realizes there is power in old “superstitions,” uses a very ancient form of spellcraft: knots. The tying and untying of knots to either bind or release energy is often found in magic-making. Love spells—some dating back to the ancient Egyptians and Greeks—often involved knots. Some thought pregnancy could be prevented with the tying of magical knots; untying them restored fertility. Sailors, particularly those from Scotland and Scandinavia, believed knots could control the winds. Three magical knots in a rope (or sometime fabric) “tied up” the wind. When the wind was needed, one untied a single knot for a gentle breeze, two for stronger wind, and all three brought on gales.
The Robbery
Cynthia Ward
Sarah Martin unlocked the front door of her tract house and stood staring: the kitchen door had been broken open. She’d been burglarized. Again. A month after she’d bought this house in a “safe suburban neighborhood,” someone had broken in when she’d gone to Chicago for the weekend. They hadn’t taken anything except the coins on her nightstand, but still she had felt furious and violated.
This time Sarah had told no one she was going away except her neighbors, the Armstrongs: a friendly, nervous blond housewife named Trisha and her pompous lawyer husband, Carmichael. They’d known about her previous break-in, and they’d agreed not to tell anyone she was going away. They wouldn’t have told anyone. Except, Sarah suddenly realized, their son.
She’d never met the boy, but when she’d invited the Armstrongs to dinner, Carmichael had boasted at length about his only son, Thomas. About what a great athlete and terrific quarterback, what an over-achieving student and well-behaved Christian his son was. Because Thomas was so good, Carmichael Armstrong had bought his son a Corvette and, if Thomas didn’t get a full scholarship, he would pay his son’s way through college and law school. “I had to drive a dangerous junk car and pay for my education with lousy back-breaking labor,” Carmichael had told Sarah over dinner. “Why should my son suffer through some low-paying menial job when he doesn’t have to?” Sarah had said nothing, though she’d been angry at Carmichael’s scornful dismissal of labor—all her relatives back East worked hard jobs, lobstering, logging, driving trucks, waiting tables, and they deserved respect. Sarah had held her tongue and, remembering the brawny, sullen youth she’d seen working on the sports car in the Armstrongs’ driveway, she had thought that Thomas would benefit enormously from working like every college-bound teenager she’d ever known—including herself.
But they seemed to do things differently in the Midwest. Especially when the kid was the star quarterback of the high school football team.
She’d lived here a year now, and Sarah still couldn’t believe how big football was in the Midwest. God, the high school teams played in stadiums of NFL dimensions! Some schools in eastern Maine couldn’t even afford football. The boys played soccer, and often the spectators didn’t have a bench to sit on.
Sarah Martin realized she was still standing in her doorway, staring into space. Shaking off her stunned reverie, she reached down and picked up the rope that had lain alongside the inner sill of her front door. The rope was slightly longer than the doorsill, and tied along its length in four complex knots. Sarah stepped into the house, closed the door, and untied every knot in the rope. She went to each window, removing the ropes from their sills and undoing their knots. Then she went to the half-open kitchen door that opened into her tiny back yard. The doorjamb had been splintered by blows to the latch and deadbolt. Hammered open by someone strong, just like last time. Sarah looked down. The knotted rope had been slightly disturbed. She picked up the rope but did not touch the four knots.
The utility drawer was open and in disarray, but nothing appeared to be missing. Sarah dropped the lengths of rope in the drawer. Had it worked?
She called the police.
While moving through the house she’d noticed that she hadn’t lost any big-ticket items; she still had the stereo, the TV and VCR, the CDs and videocassettes, the computer and printer. When she hung up the phone, she checked her medicine cabinet and her yanked-open closets and drawers. The thief had gone through her jewelry box but taken nothing—had busted open her strongbox but ignored her stock certificate for the private medical clinic where she worked; however, he had taken the silver dollar her father had given to her before he’d died.
Sarah’s fists clenched with rage.
He’d gone through her underwear drawer. He hadn’t done anything except search for money, but she still couldn’t bear the knowledge that he’d fingered her panties and bras. She emptied the drawer in the laundry basket.
Two officers and one detective arrived in response to her call. The uniforms dusted for fingerprints. The plainclothesman asked questions and Sarah answered.
Then she said, “Detective Adams, can I tell you something in private?”
“Pete,” he said. “Sure.”
She stepped into her home office and Pete Adams followed. She closed the door and spoke softly: “I’ve only been gone two nights. And I’m a doctor, so I keep weird hours. Someone who knows my movements did this. It was a neighborhood kid.”
“Definitely,” Adams said. “This has all the earmarks of a juvenile perpetrator. Ninety percent of these crude B-and-Es are committed by kids looking for money.”
“I’ll bet,” Sarah said. “Pete, I know my neighbors’ son broke in here.”
“He’s under eighteen?” Adams asked. Sarah nodded. “A juvenile. If he has a record, we can bring him in.”
“What?” Sarah cried. “Under those conditions, no juvenile thief could get a record!”
“I’m sorry, I was unclear. If we lift fingerprints that match a convicted juvenile’s prints, we can make an arrest. But we can’t go and
fingerprint a juvenile without a record purely on your say-so. We’ll question your neighbors—if someone else witnessed the crime and recognized the perpetrator, or gives a description matching your neighbor’s kid, then we can bring him in. But a hunch isn’t enough, Dr. Martin.”
“Christ,” Sarah said. “I know it’s the son of my neighbors across the street. I asked them to keep an eye on my place and not to tell anyone I was gone. I know their son did it. I know he did both break-ins here. The thief is Thomas Armstrong.”
“Thomas Armstrong!” Adams exclaimed. “The star quarterback of the Lincolnville Eagles. Ma’am, no one will believe the biggest celebrity in town broke into your place.”
Sarah’s eyes narrowed and her mouth opened.
“Oh, I believe you, Dr. Martin,” Adams said. “Thomas is a spoiled, swell-headed brat. I think he’s broken into some other houses on this street. But you keep your suspicion to yourself. Telling anyone else won’t do anything but make you enemies. Anyway, it is possible Thomas didn’t break into your house this time. Yesterday he woke up in such terrible pain he could hardly move. His parents took him to the hospital. He’s developed such a bad case of arthritis the doctors can’t believe it. They can’t do anything except give him tests and pills and a wheelchair. They can’t even figure out how it developed so fast.”
“My God,” Sarah said. “I’ve never heard of such a thing!”
“No? And you’re a GP. Jesus!”
When the police left, Sarah went across the street. Carmichael Armstrong was at the law office where he was a junior partner, but his wife, Trisha, was home, taking care of their son. Sarah told Trisha how sorry she was to hear about Thomas’s illness, and asked if she could speak to him; she was a general practitioner, maybe she could think of something that might help. It was a long shot, but surely worth trying. . . .
“Of course!” Trisha said, nodding several times. She looked more nervous than ever, and seemed brittle; Sarah guessed another blow would shatter her. Sarah suppressed a sigh. She liked Trisha. “Please, Sarah, come in—this way.”
The Armstrongs’ house was laid out exactly like Sarah’s. Sarah hated suburban housing, but she couldn’t afford anything old enough to possess individuality.
“His room . . . ” Trisha pointed to an open door. One of the two bedrooms, Sarah knew from her own tract house.
“I think it would be best if I spoke to Thomas alone.”
“Oh, of course.” Trisha drifted away.
Sarah closed the door and turned around to see a riot of color; the bedroom walls were covered with glossy posters of NFL stars. Sarah didn’t know their names, but she recognized the logos of the Chicago Bears, the Denver Broncos, the San Francisco 49ers.
Thomas wore a Minnesota Vikings jersey. He sat rigidly in a wheelchair. His face was even more sullen than Sarah remembered.
“What do you want?” he demanded. “Did you come to pity me? You can’t help me, Dr. Martin. The experts said nobody can help me.” His voice rose, harsh with rage. “You doctors are all useless bastards!”
“I understand your frustration,” Sarah said, glancing over the powerfully built, utterly motionless body. “But sometimes a clear conscience can work wonders, Thomas.” She kept her voice calm. “While I was away, you broke into my house. If you apologize and return the silver dollar you stole, I will forgive you and you may feel better.”
“You lying bitch!” Thomas’s tone was furious, but his voice was soft. “I didn’t break into your house!” His voice rose: “Get out!”
Sarah stepped out of his bedroom and softly closed the door. She saw Trisha rushing toward her. She apologized for disturbing Thomas, and said, “If there’s anything I can do, Trisha, please don’t hesitate to ask.”
“You’re so kind, Sarah,” Trisha said.
Back in her house, Sarah took the knotted rope out of the utility drawer. She’d learned how to tie a knot practically in infancy; her father and grandfather had been fishermen, in the days when fishermen made their own nets. But the foreign trawlers stripped New England’s ocean waters, and most of Maine’s fishermen were driven ashore, or turned, like her father and grandfather, to lobstering. Sarah heard tales of the old days on Dad’s or Grampa’s knee, and she heard that there was power in the knots a fisherman tied: power to summon the fish, to summon a wind fair or foul, to summon trouble for a troublemaker. When she grew older, Sarah realized no amount of knots could regenerate the schools of fish captured in miles-long nets; she realized her father and grandfather were superstitious old men embroidering tales of past glory.
She studied science, she was going to be a doctor; she knew better.
But when someone broke into her new house, Dr. Martin found herself feeling vulnerable. Unable to afford installation of an alarm system on top of her mortgage and medical school loan payments, she thought about buying a dog. But she worked such long, odd hours, it would be cruel neglect. So she found herself thinking about what her father and grandfather had told her. Dad and Grampa were dead. She called her grandmother, said she was just curious about it—couldn’t quite remember what she’d heard when she was a kid, you know how that goes, Gram . . .
“Oh, ayuh, there’s power in knots,” Grandma said in her age-weakened voice, “if someone’s troubling you, granddaughter.”
“That’s just it, Gram,” Sarah had said, dropping the pretense of idle curiosity. She’d listened carefully to everything her grandmother had told her.
Sarah looked at the rope in her hand, the rope that had caught the unwelcome intruder without his noticing; she looked at the four knots, one for each of the intruder’s limbs. If she untied the knots, she would unbind the intruder’s arms and legs, free him from crippling agony.
Her grandmother had told her the best thing to do would be to tie a slipknot. Make a noose. But Sarah was a doctor. She worked to save lives, not end them. All she wanted to do was stop the thief from breaking in.
The idea of causing such pain was disturbing enough. But this pain could be stopped. Death could not be reversed.
But if the crippling pain were stopped, it was clear Sarah would be right back where she started.
Sarah sealed the knotted rope in a Ziploc bag. She took her trowel out of the utility drawer and went through the broken door into her back yard. She struck the earth of her tiny flower bed with angry blows of the trowel. She buried the rope.
She would give the boy one more chance. Perhaps another week of pain like ground glass in his joints and he would confess, return the coin, and allow her to heal him.
If not?
She had sworn an oath: she was a member of society with special obligations to all her fellow human beings. Thomas was like a disease that, if not stopped, would worsen and adversely affect—no, infect the lives of many more.
Sarah returned to the kitchen and rinsed her trowel off in the sink. She dried it and replaced it in the drawer, hoping she would soon need it again.
But if Thomas did not wish to be cured, the rope would remain buried, the bag would corrode, the hemp would rot, the knots dissolve without unbinding. Thomas Armstrong would remain crippled for as long as he lived.
Demeter Alcmedi is a modern witch—but she’s not young and sexy. Her granddaughter, Persephone, is the sexy younger one. At the start of Linda Robertson’s Circle series, Demeter—Nana—has just begun sharing her granddaughter’s home. Our story is a “prequel” and explains, for the first time, how Nana gets booted out of the retirement center before moving in with Seph.
The Alcmedis, although their witchcraft is fictional, follow the same code as many modern practitioners of the Wiccan religion, the Rede, which states: “An it harm none, do what ye will.” Since the Rede (the word means “advice” or “counsel” and is related to the German Rat and Swedish råd) is open to interpretation, individuals must decide what it means in their own lives and specific situations. It gives one the freedom to act, as long as one minimizes harm to oneself and others and takes responsibilit
y for the outcome. You’ll have to decide for yourself if Demeter adheres to the Rede in this tale.
Marlboros and Magic
Linda Robertson
“You know why I’m here.” Persephone Alcmedi fixed her grandmother with a hard stare.
Demeter Alcmedi—Seph called her Nana—dug a cigarette case from the pocket of her white Capri pants. “Yep.” She put a Marlboro to her lips, flicked the lighter.
Seph leaned against the brick wall of the Woodhaven Retirement Community’s patio assessing the woman who had raised her. Under her scrutiny, Nana molded her wrinkled face into a stern expression that dared Seph to admonish her. She tapped the toe of her untied size-four tennis shoe—untied because her feet were swollen—in an intentional display of impatience.
Nana’s silvery bee-hive hairdo surmounted her head in mound closer to a football helmet than a crown. As she crossed her thick upper arms under her breasts her tummy rounded even more. Nana’s hips swelled in a generous third curve, producing an undeniable snowman shape. The plus-size tunic with big red cabbage roses did nothing to disguise it.
Seph knew Nana was a resourceful, fierce, polar bear of an old woman. Her grandmother’s icy practicality and arctic wit were also dominant traits. The heat from the chain-smoked cigarettes must be the only thing preventing the elderly woman from freezing solid.
Those little tubes of tobacco were also the reason Seph was here visiting Nana at the Woodhaven Retirement Community on this late-September Friday. “Do you need me to buy you some of those smoking cessation patches?”
“No.”
“Nicotine gum?”
Nana repeated belligerently, “No.”
Seph paused then threw in another option. “Should I hire a hypnotist?”
Nana’s arms dropped to her sides in exasperation. “Now shit, Persephone.”
