A Town Bewitched

by Suzanne de Montigny

  A Town Bewitched

  By Suzanne de Montigny

  Digital ISBNs:

  EPUB 9781772991215

  Kindle 9781772991222

  Web/PDF 9781772991239

  Print ISBN 9781772991246

  Copyright 2016 by Suzanne de Montigny

  Cover art Michelle Lee

  All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the publisher of this book.

  Dedication

  To my dad. A fine doctor and a legendary father who influenced me and many others to be the best people we could be, one person at a time. You are sorely missed by all.

  Acknowledgements

  I’d like to thank all the members of The Writer’s Studio at SFU for helping me shape this novel into the best it could be: Hiromi Goto, Kim Aippersbach, Melanie Berezan, Joanne Betzler, Alison Brewin, Sarah Brown, Deborah Patton, Isaac Torres, and Kiran Sunar. A big thank you also goes to Stuart West, Madeleine McLaughlin, Melanie Berezan, Winnie Chow, and Louise de Montigny for beta reading my manuscript. And finally, a huge thank you to Roger Mangas and Mairi Rankin for the musical inspiration behind the story. Without you two, A Town Bewitched would have never been written.

  Chapter 1

  The Arrival

  Today they’re burying my father – my father. The man who loved me and stood by me through tough times, the man who carried me on his shoulders when I was small, and the man who applauded louder than anyone else when I played my violin.

  My shoulders hunched, I drift up the aisle of the church to where Dad’s body lies in the open casket, so pale and stiff, his teasing grin gone forever.

  “He looks so peaceful – like he’s sleeping,” whispers an old lady standing next to me, her voice gentle like she’s talking to a small child instead of a fourteen-year-old. I nod politely, but a voice whispers inside my head – No! He’s stone cold dead!

  Dullness envelopes my mind as I step toward the carved wooden pews reserved for the choir where my violin awaits me. The violin that’s been a close friend to me since I was four when I began taking lessons, when Mr. Bachinsky declared me a child prodigy. Child prodigy. It sounds so glamorous, but really – it’s more of a curse than a gift when you live in a small town like Hope.

  I pick up the bow and tighten it, sliding rosin up and down the strings. Then I lift my violin and rest it on my shoulder, my fingers cradling the neck. The notes echo in the church as I tune – A-E-D-G.

  My accompanist, Monica, nods. It’s time. I turn and face the congregation and perch my bow on the strings. The sweet notes of Danny Boy fill the church as though someone else plays them. They run through me, moving, gliding, even glowing with colour though it’s just sound. The notes pierce my soul.

  Images whirl through my brain, wracking me with the grief I suffered over the past year while I watched Dad grow thinner and weaker as the cancer in his lungs killed him.

  His voice echoes in my mind. “Play me your violin, Kira. I want to hear Danny Boy,” the words he called to me while he lay on the flowered couch waiting for death to steal him from me. And every day I played it for him, biting my lip, trying to be strong, trying to survive. With the passing of each month, his voice grew weaker and weaker, and now here I am, and there he is, separated by this thing called death.

  The final notes slide to the last fermata where they fade into nothingness. I hold the bow above the D-string, and then lower my instrument and break into a sob, vowing to myself never to play Danny Boy again. Monica gently places her arm around my shoulder and leads me to the pew where I cry in gulps while she tries to console me.

  Six solemn pallbearers move forward and carry the coffin to the waiting hearse that’ll take Dad and bury him in the ground.

  I climb into the black car beside Mom and my little brother, Dylan. His face is stained from crying.

  Mom pushes her glasses back over her curly, brown hair and hugs me, saying, “Well-played, Kira. Your Danny Boy was so moving.” Always a compliment for every performance. Next to Dad, she’s always been my biggest fan.

  The trip to the cemetery is never-ending. A long line of cars crawls to the graveyard and the skies grow dark and ominous.

  Oh, please, no rain. At least wait until we’ve buried him.

  When we arrive, the crowd pours out of freshly-washed cars and gathers round the black hole that will swallow up Dad for the rest of eternity. Father Justin begins chanting long prayers, his voice droning and echoing in the surrounding mountains.

  I turn my attention to the people who came to say good-bye to Dad: my Uncle Jack, my cousins, several businesspeople, teachers, the mayor, and lots of loggers. Even Constable Douglas and Constable Fortier are here – all faces I know well, except one.

  “Who’s she?” I ask Mom, pointing to a woman who stands alone on the edge of the crowd.

  “I don’t know,” she says, squinting.

  The woman seems out of place, wearing tall boots and a purple scarf, even though it’s only late August. Her long, red hair curls slightly as it tumbles over her shoulders. A worn skirt hides the tops of her brown, leather boots with a slight ruffle. She carries a battered case in her hands.

  “She has a violin,” I whisper.

  Mom slides her glasses to her nose, still straining her eyes. “I’ve never seen her before.”

  It’s strange because I know every kid and adult who plays in this town. There aren’t very many since Mr. Bachinsky is the only violin teacher in Hope. He comes two days a week from Chilliwack with his wife, Monica, to teach a small handful of students who dare to be different.

  Father Justin ends his prayers, and the congregation sings a very slow and mournful Amazing Grace while each person drops a single red rose that thuds on the lid of the simple pine coffin. After the casket is lowered to its final resting place, Uncle Jack grabs a handful of dirt and tosses it on the box, crossing himself. I fill my hand with the soil and drop it, turning my head so as not to see.

  “Good-bye, Daddy,” I whisper.

  The crowd drifts toward their vehicles, their heads bowed, mumbling in low voices.

  As we leave, Uncle Jack draws Dylan and me close, draping his arms over our shoulders. “Don’t worry. I promise I’ll take care of you guys from now on. I’ll be like a second dad to you.”

  I smile through a tear, grateful for his words and slip my hand around his waist. “Thanks, Uncle Jack.”

  As we drive back into the town, the clouds unleash their fury. The wipers beat their rhythm against the windshield, hypnotizing me. Swish-bump, swish-bump. The potholes in the road fill with murky water, and brown-grey mud forms along the sides of the road.

  The car pulls over close to the curb at the old church hall. I drift in and slide my violin under the head table decorated with purple flowers. My BFF, Charlotte, whom I’ve known since we both began Suzuki violin when we were four, waves to me. I motion her over.

  She’s by my side in seconds, and we fall into each other’s arms. We’re like twins, really – the same long, dark hair and bangs, and skinny – only she’s Chinese.

  “That was really sad, Kira,” she says, tears flowing freely from her warm, brown eyes.

  “I know.”

  The smell of coffee lingers in the air. I glance at the food laid out on the long tables. “I don’t feel much like eating,” I say.

  “I don’t blame you,” says Charlotte, but she eyes the peanut butter and banana rolls held together with toothpicks and glances around. Charlotte’s alw
ays hungry. “Think it’s okay to start?” Not waiting for me to answer, she loads up her plate with food.

  I watch her devour the fancy sandwiches and sweet desserts while I sip on a glass of strawberry punch and wait for the speeches to begin. The mayor grabs the microphone, taps it, and clears his throat. The crowd grows quiet.

  “Friends,” he says, “If there’s anything anyone could say about Paul Montgomery, it’s that he was a good man.” Several heads nod. “A finer doctor never existed. I think I can attest to the fact that he helped pretty much everyone in this town.” Again people nod and mumble.

  He describes my father’s life, his rise from poverty to a self-made man. Of his marriage to my mother, Pierrette, and their two beautiful children, myself and my ten-year-old brother, or should I say my ‘bother’, Dylan.

  The audience applauds heartily when his speech comes to an end. Others come to the mic and share tales of Dad. The stories, mostly funny or about good deeds, lift my spirits until the last speaker lays down the mic and walks back to her seat. I heave a sigh of relief. It’s over.

  As we exit the hall, a flash of orange catches my eye. I do a double-take. Across Main Street, the red-haired woman from the cemetery walks with long strides, her wet strands clinging to her clothes, her leather boots muddied.

  She walked all the way from the graveyard in the storm?

  She holds her head high as she moves, her eyes fierce. When she passes me, she pauses and stares at me as though she knows me. For a moment, I think I know her too. There’s something … familiar. My gaze locks for a few seconds with the iciest blue eyes I have ever seen, eyes almost inhuman – like a wild animal’s. I wrench myself away from the stare and shiver as she makes an abrupt turn and steps into our town’s only hotel.

  Chapter 2

  The Gold Violin

  The next week passes by in a haze. I stumble through the motions of everyday life, trying to survive. Mom doesn’t seem fazed at all by Dad’s death. She buries herself in her school work, leafing through stacks of music, pulling out scores, and then shoving them back into the filing cabinet after making notes about which class will play what piece. When she finishes that, she drags us to Chilliwack and dives into buying us school supplies and clothes. Then she attacks the garden as though each weed is a mortal enemy, filling the red wheelbarrow to overflowing over and over. She finishes off by painting the fence and washing all the walls in our house claiming they’re dirty.

  Dylan, on the other hand, has become four foot seven and sixty-five pounds of pure torture.

  “Freeze!” he shouts the day after Dad’s funeral, pointing his red, double-barreled Dead-Eye Dart Gun at me, his face screwed up like a GI Joe. Before I have a chance to react, dozens of orange darts litter my room and stick to my hair and clothes.

  “Mom!” I shout.

  “Mm-hm?” she mumbles from the downstairs bathroom she’s scrubbing.

  “Mom!” I yell again, but she’s not listening.

  I bolt after Dylan, snatch his plastic gun and shove it on the top shelf of my closet where his short, little arms can’t reach it. Height is one thing I still have over him.

  “Ha!” I brush my hands together in victory.

  Dylan bounces up and down like a kangaroo, his straight, brown hair flying as he tries to reach his gun. Racing to his bedroom, he returns with another one. He has eight of the darn things, some bigger and some meaner. After a couple of frustrating days, I triumphantly guard eight Dead-Eye Dart Guns in my closet, the white doors tied together with the most complicated knot I can come up with. The house is cluttered with darts, but Mom doesn’t seem to notice.

  Thank goodness Uncle Jack has kept his promise to take care of us and comes by nearly every day. He takes Dylan out and oftentimes cooks supper afterward. I love Uncle Jack and don’t know what I’d do without him. He’s my lifeline now that Dad’s gone. Ten years younger than Dad, he has a warm smile on his lips for anyone and a joke to make us laugh whenever he thinks we need one. He’s handsome too, with thick, brown hair, and dimples, but he’s not Dad.

  Sighing, I recall the pact Dad and I made last year. He had promised me a new violin and put aside a lot of money for it, saying, “Any kid who plays the violin like that deserves it. Besides, you’ll need it to do your ARCT.”

  An ARCT! Finally – that certificate from the Royal Conservatory of Toronto that says I’m as good as anyone who’s done two years of university. A real degree before I’m out of high school – if only Dad were here to see it.

  I remember the day last summer when Dad and I stopped at the luthier’s tiny shop on Fraser Street in Vancouver to try out violins just for fun. Kristoff, the tall gentleman whose greying blond hair trailed down below his ears, had taken out dozens of shiny, new violins, but each time I tried one, I shook my head.

  “You don’t like that one either?” He sighed, his Polish accent colouring the words as he placed back violin after violin on the neatly kept shelves.

  “No. I know the sound I want,” I said, determined.

  “What sort of sound?” Kristoff asked.

  “It has to be sweet,” I said, a finger to my lip. “It’s hard to describe, but I’ll know it when I hear it.”

  Kristoff turned to Dad. “I have some better ones, but they’re very expensive. They’re the type of instrument someone in the VSO would buy.”

  Dad raised his brown eyebrows at me, questioning.

  “The Vancouver Symphony Orchestra, Dad.” I giggled. He could be so out of it sometimes.

  My heart leapt when Dad nodded, and Kristoff returned to the back room, trying to hide a grin of excitement.

  He came back holding the most exquisite instrument I had ever seen. A dark brown, it smelled of fresh wood and varnish and shimmered in the light. I picked it up, thrilled at the lightness of it. Kristoff rosined the new bow and handed it to me. Raising the violin to my shoulder, I tested the wolf note that drove me nuts on my violin. A crystal clear F rang out in the tiny shop, deep and warm and sweet. Excited, I played another and another. Then I broke into Dad’s favourite – Danny Boy.

  “This is it, Dad,” I said, smiling. “This is what I’ve been looking for – the very sound.”

  Dad turned to Kristoff. “How much?”

  Looking a little unsure, the luthier mumbled the price.

  Dad nearly choked.

  “Please, Dad?” I begged.

  “Let’s wait until next summer. I doubt it’s going anywhere,” he said.

  “Aw, Dad.” I clapped my hands together, but still he shook his head.

  “You don’t need it just yet, but I promise you’ll have it to do your ARCT.”

  “Honest?” I asked.

  “Have I ever broken a promise before?”

  “No.” I dropped my hands, defeated, but I was okay. Dad never went back on his word. He always came through. I could handle the old violin for a while longer.

  We carefully laid the precious instrument in its box lined with gold velvet. And that’s when I named it – the Gold Violin. Kristoff looked a little disappointed, but the pact had been made.

  Two weeks later we got the news – Dad had cancer.

  I sigh at the memory, and then glance at Mom. She’s washing the dishes in the kitchen. It’s now or never, I think as I take tentative steps toward her.

  “So when are we going to Vancouver to get my new violin?” I crack my knuckles over and over, a bad habit I have when I’m nervous.

  Mom flinches as though she’s forgotten something important, but instead of saying, “Oh yeah, I forgot,” like I thought she would, she dries her hands, places one on my shoulder, and leads me to the living room.

  I know something bad is about to happen by the serious look in her eyes. She motions me to sit down in the armchair while she settles into the matching couch opposite. I stare down at the patterns on the light blue rug and wait for her to drop the bomb.

  “You’re going to have to wait for the new violin, Kira. I’m afraid we just can�
��t afford it right now,” she blurts out.

  “What?” I cry. “But you bought Dylan’s!”

  “Yeah, but his isn’t anywhere near as expensive as yours,” she says as though she thinks I’m too young to understand. “This is more like … an investment. It’s a lot of money. And besides, we got Dylan’s before Dad died.”

  My chin drops. “What difference does it make if Dad’s gone or not?” I say, a lump welling up in my throat. “He put the money aside for it. He promised me.”

  Mom sighs. “Honey, Dad and I didn’t prepare for his death the way we should have. The lawyer explained it to me yesterday. You see, we didn’t have joint accounts, and Dad didn’t even have a proper will. So now we have to wait until everything goes through the courts before I inherit his money. We’ll need that cash to live on.”

  “But Mom. How am I going to do my ARCT?” My voice trembles, and I can feel hot tears forming in my eyes.

  “You can still do your ARCT. You’ll just have to use your old violin until the money comes through,” she says in her Mom-knows-best voice.

  My eyelids blink fast, uncontrolled. “But it’ll sound awful.”

  “No, it won’t.”

  The lump in my throat threatens to burst. “But I’ve waited a whole year for this.”

  “Kira.” Mom rises from the couch and digs her hands into her hips, “Be reasonable. We simply can’t afford it right now.”

  “Mom, I can’t play that violin anymore. It’s got a really bad wolf tone on it that sounds like a yowling cat. It’s a block of wood with nails and strings attached.” My voice breaks. “And besides …” I throw the final punch, “I used it to play at Dad’s funeral!”

  The last words are choked as the lump in my throat erupts and I burst into tears, running up to my room, taking two steps at a time. Mom calls after me, but I ignore her and throw myself on my bed, sobbing.