Sirens and Scales

by Kellie McAllen

  Devon typed like a fiend. Yum! Just me. Arcona has a red-eye 2 LA. Can’t stay.

  Annie’s reply came at lightning speed. Feeling selfish. I want our last night together to be just us. Love U Devi.

  Bye. She shut her phone off and slipped it into her pocket.

  Despite the dry, heated air on the shuttle, the tour guide was swaddled in a quilted red coat. “…Another interesting fact is the house is the oldest surviving wooden mansion in New England, and the birthplace of novelist Nathaniel Hawthorne. I’ll bet most of you read The Scarlet Letter in high school.” Her eyes gleamed as she paused to glance around the bus with a broad, comical grin. “Do we have any adulterers with us today? Let’s see a show of hands.” She laughed at her own stale joke. “We always ask on this tour! Sometimes we get a confession and we just slap a red letter on their chest, walk ’em over to the stocks and lock ’em up. I just wish I could have done that to my ex.” She made a rude sputtering noise with her lips. “Shame on you, Fred.”

  A wave of polite laughter traveled the length of the bus.

  Arcona looked at Devon and offered a weak smile. “My ex, Mario, was a cheater. I should have locked him in the stocks.” A joyless chuckle broke free. “He deserved a little public humiliation, but I’m the one who got it instead.”

  Knowing how hard the past two years had been on Arcona’s sanity and self-esteem, she couldn’t bring herself to laugh.

  A moment passed. Arcona looked concerned. “You’re bored, aren’t you?”

  “Not completely,” Devon quickly denied. “I’m happy to see you.” Any chance to see her BFF from her Amherst days was a golden opportunity. She just wished they’d spent the day doing something more fun, or catching up between themselves. They talked forever on the phone, but it wasn’t the same as splitting a bottle of wine and a big Caesar salad in some cute little café and laughing their asses off like they used to. They couldn’t freely talk during the tour and risk being rude, and she knew Arcona needed to talk. For almost a year, obligations and multiple life crises in general had prevented her from seeing Arcona face-to-face. What a drag that they’d spent their single afternoon together, where they both happened to be on the East Coast at the same time, doing this witchy fright tour.

  The place where they’d started came into view. The shuttle came to a stop, and a dozen tourists poured out at the same point they had gotten on, in front of the Salem Witch Museum.

  Devon sat on the edge of her seat and gathered her coat and belongings. She glanced at Arcona. “It was a lot for one day, but interesting. I even got to hear a little about my ancestor, Tituba. I enjoyed that.” It was true, but damn, poor Arcona looked as pale as a bowl of oatmeal, and wrecked, as if she were twenty-three hours into a twenty-four-hour flu bug. “Did you enjoy the tour? Any of it?”

  A gusty breeze blew through the shuttle’s door and left Arcona’s auburn hair fluttering around her face like a wild halo. “I’m not sure.”

  Arcona didn’t look very happy. Not good. What was that about? They rose and were the last to exit the shuttle, right behind an eccentric-looking older lady who wore a flowing purple skirt and had pentagrams tattooed on her wrists.

  The affable tour guide greeted everyone as they got off the shuttle. “Thank you for taking the tour today.” She shook hands with each disembarking customer. “My name’s Witch Melissa. I hope you had a good time and learned a little something new about the Salem witch trials of 1692. Don’t forget to give the Eye of Newt tour company a high rating on Yelp. Be forewarned that if you give us any rating below two stars, I’ll have no choice but to cast a retaliation hex.” She waited for everyone to laugh. “Just kidding. No hexes, but I might hunt you down and wither your crops.”

  Devon laughed.

  Arcona didn’t.

  As they stepped onto the curb, Arcona looked glassy-eyed. Clearly, she was struggling with something internally. Devon wished her friend, who had once been like a sister to her, would just come out and say what was bothering her. She took Arcona’s hand. “How are you holding up?”

  Arcona’s lips drew taut; she appeared miserable. “I’m fine.”

  “You don’t look fine.” Arcona looked shaken to the core. “I meant in general.”

  The Salem Witch Museum loomed tall like a gothic castle from a dark fairy tale. In the fading light of a short autumn day, the brownstone turrets lent the imposing structure an enchanting gingerbread quality.

  Devon slicked her palm through her windblown head of wavy dark hair and pointed to the front door. “The museum’s still open. Shall we take one more peek before they close?”

  A cutting breeze off the harbor left Arcona shivering and clutching her lightweight trench coat closer. “Haven’t we seen enough witch persecutions for one day? Those images are already seared into my brain and sure to give me nightmares for weeks.”

  “What?” Devon’s jaw dropped. Arcona sounded like a martyr. No one had asked her to do this. Hell, the whole let’s take the witch tour was Arcona’s idea in the first place. She never would have agreed to it if she’d known it would cause resentment. “You’re not enjoying this? Why did we spend all afternoon doing the deluxe witch tour? We walked or drove past the scene of every horrific moment in New England’s history. I did this because I thought you were fascinated with witchcraft?”

  “No!” Arcona laughed uneasily. “I have a phobia of witchcraft, not a fascination. You’re the one who loves anything spooky. Not me.”

  “Holy crap!” Devon giggled. “I did the tour for you.” What the hell was this about? She took her camera from the pocket of her parka, aimed it upward, and clicked photos of the museum’s elegant window encased in gothic iron filigree and lit an ominous shade of crimson. “I would have said something but I thought the side trip to Salem was part of your historical research.”

  A troubled expression crossed Arcona’s face. “This was research….” She stalled. “Sort of. But a little goes a long way. It’s time for me to tap out.”

  At Amherst, they’d shared a dorm room. Two unmoneyed West Coast girls as out of place in the red-brick college as a pair of pink flamingos in the Arctic Circle. They’d naturally been drawn to each other. Over the past dozen years they’d always been there for each other, if only as a sympathetic voice on the other side of a phone conversation. Hell, Arcona’s divorce had felt like her own. Lately, life had been rough for both of them. Now that they lived in separate cities, the opportunity to hang out together was rare. Had they just wasted their only full day together looking at wax mannequins of witches?

  Arcona looked distressed but remained stoic.

  Something was really wrong. Why hadn’t she clued into this earlier? “Okay. I think I get it. This is like the time you bolted out of Professor Morris’s lecture on Joan of Arc after he went into lurid detail about burning a girl at the stake. I remember, you ran into the hallway and threw up.”

  “Yep.” Patting her belly, Arcona groaned. “I’m feeling the same way now.”

  “Seriously?” Devon blinked in disbelief. This was so Arcona. Suffer in silence, say nothing, and then surprise everyone by throwing up. She was a true martyr. “So, why torment yourself? We could have gone shopping.”

  “I couldn’t be this close to Salem and not steal a peek.” Shaking her head, Arcona stared at her boots. “I’d like to be free of my fear of witchcraft. It’s so irrational.” She laughed, but sounded nervous.

  Devon nodded. She had a few irrational fears too. Commitments in any form terrified her, making commitments to career direction, décor choices—hell she had never even gotten to the bottom of a perfume bottle without changing her mind about it. The same went double for men. Now that she was over thirty, a nasty little pile of needlessly broken commitments had started to mount in the back of her conscience. A few terrific men had entered her life and offered their hearts, but her own insecurities and doubts always chased them away. New relationships shot out of the gate hot and heavy, but the moment the man got serious an
d the least bit possessive, it all went to shit and she couldn’t cut him loose fast enough. Maybe being a one-man woman just wasn’t in the cards for her?

  Sliding her foot forward, Devon tapped the toe of Arcona’s boot with hers, the same way they would silently signal each other during a dull lecture.

  Arcona nudged Devon’s boot with hers, and smiled.

  In so many ways they were still sisters. It was good to know a few of their little rituals had not changed. So much had. The past year had been especially tough. Arcona had gone through a painful divorce, which simply had to be done. She’d never had the heart to tell Arcona that one night when she’d had the newly married couple over for dinner at her place, Arcona’s ex-husband, Mario, had groped her under the table. That was just who he was, a cheater with no intention of changing his ways. Saying something about the uncomfortable incident had proved unnecessary, because Mario soon got caught doing the same thing to someone else, and then another. Poor Arcona.

  Poor her. Her mother, Annie, had to be nursed through a seriously dicey breast cancer scare. As an only child, she faced it alone. Dating and commitment to others had taken a back seat. Now was the time to reconnect with the world and get her life on track. “I’m flattered you picked me to join you for today’s weird little adventure. Who else would ask me to help them face their fears?”

  “There’s no one I would rather spend the day with.”

  “But that could change!” Devon laughed. “Hopefully our love lives will be revived, and soon we’ll both have something spicy to brag about.”

  Arcona shivered so hard, she was almost dancing in place. She squeezed Devon’s hand. “Promise you’ll visit me in Los Angeles. I have a guest bed.”

  “Or you could visit me in the Bay Area. Fair warning. I have an apartment the size of most people’s entryways, but I’ve got a comfortable couch. I can’t believe we both live in the same state but have to visit Massachusetts to see each other.”

  Devon steered Arcona toward a large wooden sign. “Let’s get a picture of us in front of the museum and celebrate the day. The past months have been challenging, but we’re both going to be okay.”

  Arcona paused to stare at a gray, featureless sky. “Do we have time to get an early dinner or a glass of wine?”

  Devon glanced at her phone. “I promised my mother I’d have dinner with her. Join us if you like.” She wished her mom would return to the Bay Area. It was so hard commuting between coasts. But she was racking up plenty of frequent flyer miles.

  Arcona appeared hopeful. “How about a glass of wine?”

  “Why not?”

  She squeezed Arcona’s hand. “I love our long phone calls but we need to get together in person more often.”

  They turned the corner and walked along a row of shops geared toward tourists. They stopped in front of an engaging storefront with a large sign that read Silver Moon Scrying Shoppe, painted in purple letters.

  Arcona pointed to an ornate tableau in the shop window and shuddered. “Uh, look at that.”

  Someone had meticulously carved and painted a horrific miniature scene of a woman standing on a ladder with a noose around her neck. Blindfolded, the mannequin’s hands were bound in chains, and her flowing petticoats secured around her ankles. She was about to be pushed by a somber man in a black frock coat.

  “This shit really bothers me,” Arcona mumbled. “I know it was all in the past but those poor women. It’s so ugly.”

  Something colorful caught Devon’s attention. She gestured toward a stunning African mask of what appeared to be a dragon. Every millimeter of the mask’s surface was covered in thousands of tiny rainbow-hued beads and iron nails, each carefully placed. “Wow, look at that! I love it. If I could afford it, I’d buy it in a second and mount it above my bed.”

  Arcona ignored her comment and peered at the window display through cupped hands. “Witches being dunked, witches in the stocks…. This place is a house of horrors.”

  “Oh look.” Devon pointed out an authentic-looking blade with a bronze hilt. “Something for you. Isn’t that big dagger the sort of thing you identify and catalogue every day?”

  “Yep.” Arcona’s gazed fixed on the blade. “That’s not a dagger. It’s a gladius hispaniensis, or Spanish short sword, the kind the Roman legions carried and gladiators fought with in the arena. Easy to wield at close quarters, the steel blade was lethal and dependable. Unlike barbarian iron or bronze, Roman steel didn’t shatter in battle. That simple weapon was the deciding factor between who conquered an empire and who bled into the earth. I can’t tell behind glass, but that looks genuine, or else it’s a fabulous reproduction.”

  “It’s genuine.” A middle-aged lady with wavy silver hair and brilliant blue eyes poked her head outside the shop door. “I was closing shop for the day, but you’re welcome to come inside.”

  “No, thank you.” Arcona shook her head. “We were just looking.”

  The woman persisted. “Pardon me, but I overheard a stray thread of your conversation. You seem knowledgeable about ancient world antiquities.”

  Arcona nodded. “I practice forensic archaeology at UCLA’s historical research department. Mostly authenticating and cataloging items.”

  “How enthralling!” With clipped New England tones, the woman’ s speech rushed. “I must hear more about it. Come inside. No arguments. It will only take a minute.”

  Looking wary, Arcona glanced at Devon. “What will only take a minute?”

  The lady’s eyes twinkled. “To cast a fortune for you and show you something special I have in my storeroom. I would relish your opinion.”

  Relish? Who used words like that? This lady was like something from another century. But who cared? Devon’s heart leaped at the mention of fortunes. She loved that sort of thing. Fortune telling, psychic readings, astrology magazines—she loved them all. And was there any harm in hearing some encouraging news? But knowing Arcona, she’d brush this woman off ASAP.

  As predicted, Arcona made a vague shrugging gesture and glanced toward Devon. “I’m sorry, we’d love to, but she has to catch a train.”

  What? They had a few minutes to spare. Her mouth dropped.

  The silver-haired lady held the door wide. “Nonsense! There’s always another train. Just wait long enough and everything comes full circle again. Don’t just stand there. It’s getting chilly. We have a fireplace and hot cider.”

  The offer sounded inviting. Devon hoped Arcona would loosen up a little. “What sort of fortunes do you cast?”

  The woman’s eyes narrowed, lending her the look of a contented cat. “Highly accurate ones tailored especially for you. For instance, you’re dying to know what the future holds for your personal life, aren’t you? I can tell you right now you’re headed for a double serving of love.”

  Oh thank God! With a squeal of joy, she grabbed hold of Arcona’s hand. “I gotta know more! Let’s do it.”

  Bringing her lips to Devon’s ear, Arcona whispered, “This is a tourist trap. She probably says the same damn thing to everybody.”

  “Who cares?” It would be fun. Sometimes you have to cool it with the judgment and go with the flow. She turned toward the woman. “How much does it cost?”

  Brushing a pale strand of hair from her brow, the woman tucked it neatly behind her ear. “Only your time and your effort to follow through on my advice.”

  Arcona bit her lip. “You won’t need a credit card?”

  “Certainly not. I work pro bono.” The lady extended her delicate hand, embellished with a large moonstone ring. “Let’s discuss this in private. By the way, my name is Dame Bishop. No matter what others might claim, I am the true preeminent witch of Salem.”

  Devon’s heart pounded with excitement. This was great! She couldn’t wait to hear her fortune.

  For once, Arcona went along with the fun. They stepped through the front door with Arcona leading the way. “Here we go.”

  Once inside the eccentric shop, warmth from the stove floo
ded her face. She looked around. The place was everything she’d hoped for and more. The fragrance of cinnamon and herbs mingled with deeper notes of what reminded her of church incense and old books. Everywhere she looked there was something interesting to see. Even the ceiling was decorated with dangling broomsticks, African masks, and two colorful paper dragons that appeared to be gliding around the room.

  Arcona’s boot crunched a tiny pebble of something soft and crushed it. Her foot had landed on a lump of chalk and turned it to powder.

  Devon glanced down. Just inside the entryway on the floor, someone had sketched a large circle in chalk with a pentagram inside it, along with many other intricate details.

  Lifting her boot, Arcona stepped back. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to ruin it.”

  A sneaky smile curled Dame Bishop’s lips. “You didn’t. This circle of fate was cast expressly for you. You’ve always been meant to cross the threshold of my shop and break the circle. It’s preordained.”

  Devon stilled. Oh boy. She wished Dame Bishop hadn’t said that. Spooky-wooky comments were sure to squelch the fun and send Arcona running for cover.

  “Always?” Arcona balked. “Wouldn’t anyone who walked through the door break the circle?”

  Standing at attention, Dame Bishop appeared ready for duty. “Not just anyone can pass through that doorway. You’re an exception.”

  “What do you mean?” Arcona looked peeved. “People can’t just walk into your shop? That’s got to be hard on business. And why would you draw a chalk circle for me? I didn’t even know I was coming into your shop until a minute ago.”

  “True. But the potential of you coming into my shop and stepping into the circle has existed for years. Earlier this afternoon, the likelihood became so strong I decided to wait for you by the window.”

  Devon could tell Arcona was fighting the impulse to roll her eyes. Enjoying the warmth of the room, she rubbed her hands together and crowded past Arcona, all the while careful not to step on any chalked lines. “I’m loving this place and I want to stand closer to that stove.” She hooked her arm through Arcona’s and drew her deeper into the shop, wishing she would relax. “Come on. Have fun with it.”