Bewitched

by Mark Jay Harris

  The boy next to T.J. waved. “I’m Tony Howard.” Seth halfway grinned and nodded from down the table.

  “It was nice meeting you.” Andrea popped out of her seat. To Darren she said, “I have to meet with Sandy in the Commons. I’ll catch up with you later.” Andrea left, but cast a suspicious look toward Samantha on her way out. Having caught this, Mike cast a questioning glance at Darren.

  “That was great what you did,” Darren said to Samantha, “but probably not the smartest move. That guy can make your life miserable around here.”

  Samantha turned to face him. “I don’t know. I’ve done stupider things.”

  “She ought to join us at Tony’s tonight,” T.J. suggested. “That is if you’re okay with it, Tony.”

  Tony nodded. “Sure, the more the merrier. And if you’ve got any cute friends, tell them to come, too.”

  Still gazing at Darren, Samantha said, “I’d like that very much, but I won’t be able to tonight. Do you all go to Tony’s every night?”

  “Pretty much,” T.J. answered. “He’s got the party house: pool table, video games, a big screen TV, and an outdoor cabana.”

  “Don’t forget the pool,” Mike reminded him.

  “Yeah, and a pool,” T.J. confirmed. “Just makes sense to hang out at Tony’s.”

  “Tony’s dad is Trey Howard, the actor,” Darren explained. “You’ve heard of Trey Howard, haven’t you?”

  “No, I haven’t,” Samantha replied. “He’s a movie star?”

  The boys chuckled at this question.

  “You could say that,” Mike explained.

  “What has he been in?”

  “Just about every big movie in the last five years,” T.J. said. “I was at Tony’s house the other day, and Tony answered the phone. He said, ‘Sure, hang on,’ then yelled to his dad, ‘Dad, it’s George.’ After he hung up the phone, he told me, ‘George Clooney’s been trying to get a hold of my dad for several weeks,’ like it’s no big deal.”

  “It isn’t,” Tony said. “He had an idea for a project he wanted to work on with my dad.”

  “Such is the circle we run with.” Darren smiled at the green-eyed beauty, whose gaze remained on him.

  “It sounds fun. I’d love to, really, but if I don’t help my great-aunt when I get home, she’ll disown me. Rain-check?”

  “Of course,” Darren replied, realizing their constant eye contact should be uncomfortable by now, but determined she should be the first to look away.

  From across the table, Mike turned his gaze from Darren back to Samantha, then back to Darren again. He chortled at them.

  “What?” Darren and Samantha asked simultaneously.

  “Nothing.” Mike snorted. “Nothing at all.”

  ***

  It was dark in Julander’s office after school; nevertheless, he had five guests with him tonight. Four of those, from the hallway the night before, were now comfortably sitting in padded wooden chairs. The fifth one stood by a filing cabinet, smoothing his blonde hair.

  “I want that witch found!” Julander barked from behind his desk. “None of you have the slightest idea who it was?” His face was red with frustration.

  “There is the possibility it’s the new girl, sir, Spelling,” said the man in shorts.

  “She wasn’t even here when the spell was cast,” said the sole woman in the room. “She didn’t show up until the next day, you idiot!”

  “It must be her,” the man countered. “We’ve seen nothing out of the ordinary from the other students. She could have been using a blind-man’s spell.”

  “And I suppose she just showed up to throw the basketball game? Please!”

  “You’re one for denigrating, but I haven’t heard you offer any suggestion worth discussing yet.”

  “When I have one, you’ll be the first—”

  Julander cut her off with a wave of his hand. “I checked out the young lady in question today. She may be worth watching. She’s got a mouth on her, but then, they all do. The problem is we’ve been expecting the Key to show up. This is the first sign she might be here, but we’ve been expecting someone older. Assuming we are wrong about the age, we should be paying more attention to the students and less to new teachers. So, let’s not count out this Spelling girl.”

  The man by the filing cabinet finally spoke. “It would be extremely providential for the Key to find her way to us, and perhaps she has, but we should not forget Endor. Though confined in the Appensus she is nevertheless a dangerously powerful foe. She could find ways to manipulate us. I assume she knows we’ve located the Grimoire but are powerless to obtain it. I think Endor’s sent one of her own. Her magic remains very potent. She knows better than anyone what possession of that book means. I simply refuse to believe she’s sitting on her hands while we find the Key and acquire the most powerful book of spells ever penned.”

  Julander grunted. “He’s right. There’s a covert witch or warlock traipsing around this school! Whether it’s the Key of Endor or Endor’s agent, we need to find out!” He turned his considerable attention on the student sitting behind the others. “Which brings us to you, my young friend. With a Warder allowed to wander without consequence, I don’t believe for a second he isn’t in some way connected to what is going on. What have you seen?”

  “Basketball is his life, sir.” The young man struggled to keep the quiver out of his voice. “He spends most of his time with his friends. He dotes on his grandfather, but he’s usually just checking on his health or telling him about his day. The old man’s as close to dead as he can get.”

  “All the more reason for him to tell the kid what he is before he dies!” Julander growled.

  Swallowing hard, the student continued. “From what I can tell, he hasn’t told him anything. I’m using the listening charm you gave me, and I hear everything they say inside the house. Stevens has no idea who or what he is. And there has been no sign of a Guardian or Oracle.”

  Julander considered this for a moment. “That it?”

  “His only other interest is Andrea, and she’s just a ditzy cheerleader. Besides, she was too far away, directing cheers, when the spell was cast on the basketball. It wouldn’t have been felt from that distance.”

  The man in the shorts nodded in agreement.

  “Keep on him!” Julander insisted. “Keep me informed. The rest of you, find that witch!” Julander’s hand smacked down hard on the desk, and it quivered violently from the blow. The young man whose task it was to follow Darren trembled in sympathy with the desk, as if the vibrations had traveled across the room and shook him.

  ***

  Technically Darren had a curfew on school nights. He was supposed to be home by ten. He’d left Tony’s a little early and arrived home at nine-forty. All he’d been able to think about was Samantha. She was cute. She was funny and clever the way she took care of Julander. But then there was the floating in the gym and the food fight she’d walked into just as Samuelson and his fellow food-flingers all conveniently slipped at the exact same moment. Something about her was strange and unexplainable. Yet, this pull of excitement suffused him when she was around. There was something about her...

  He wanted to go to bed so that tomorrow would come sooner and he could see Samantha again. But first, he wanted to check on Atavus.

  When he entered the room, he thought for sure the old man would be asleep, but instead he found him propped up on some pillows in a sitting position, the oxygen mask covering his mouth while he read a book. When he saw Darren, Atavus pulled the mask away from his ashen face and smiled.

  “Ah, there you are, my boy. Come in, come in. I won’t die on you tonight. I promise.” He paused and took in a slow, wheezy breath.

  “Atavus, you freaked me out last night.”

  “I know. I’m sorry. But you needn’t worry now. See?” He smiled. “No coughing.” He wheezed for a moment. “I’m better, really.”

  Darren sat down next to the bed. “Atavus, I need to talk to you about some
thing.”

  Atavus’s watery eyes locked on Darren’s. “Has anything else happened since the floating girl you told me about last night?”

  Darren’s throat went dry. “You believe me?”

  “Of course I believe you.” He took a measured breath. “I’ve seen the same thing many times.” Atavus’s track record of storytelling dampened the impact the old man’s revelation might have had. “Listen, boy, this is not a tall tale. You’re a Pessum Ire. To be more accurate, you’re a Veneficus Pessum Ire, and that’s why you can see them.” The old man closed his eyes and concentrated on breathing. He brought the oxygen mask to his face and took several long breaths.

  “I don’t understand,” Darren admitted. His grandfather’s penchant for storytelling was warring with Darren’s desire for an explanation—even if the explanation was improbable.

  “It’s Latin for Destroyer of Evil, or more precisely, Destroyer of Witches. The witches themselves simply call us Warders because of our ability to resist some of their spells.” He paused and swallowed. “I know this all sounds incredible, but tell me what you think it was, and how it happened.”

  Darren couldn’t answer. After a long pause, filled with the sound of his grandfather struggling to breathe, Darren said, “I was dehydrated.”

  “You were dehydrated.” Atavus scoffed. “And dehydration makes you feel iciness down your spine and a peculiar dizziness when you look at your hallucinations?”

  It was Darren’s turn to feel like he couldn’t breathe. “That happened,” he managed to whisper.

  “It doesn’t matter where we go. It doesn’t matter how many we kill; they find us.” The old man shook his head and brought his thin-skinned hand to his face. “It has been so long.”

  “What has been so long?” Darren asked.

  “Oh, there’s so much to tell you,” the old man groaned. “I’d thought perhaps this line could die out, but circumstances are forcing my hand to make sure it continues.”

  “Tell me, Atavus, what’s going on?” Darren’s voice was a whisper.

  The old man licked his lips. “To begin with, I’m not your grandfather.”

  Shocked, Darren blinked, and his mouth fell open.

  “Oh, we’re related, not to worry.” Atavus reached out and patted his hand. “I’m your great-great-great-great grandfather. I was born in 1742.” He put the oxygen to his face again and breathed while his great-great-great-great-grandson spluttered in an attempt to respond.

  Darren found all he could do was stare at the old man, this sudden stranger. His mouth opened slightly, and his eyes darted from side to side as he weighed the preposterous claim. He wanted to believe it, but right now it sounded more outrageous than floating ghosts and witches, or whatever.

  “Matt believes I’m his father because when his father and mother, your grandfather and grandmother, were killed, he was very young, not quite two years old, and I took him in and raised him.” He paused before quietly continuing. “It was my fault they died.” Atavus took a break and lay back against his pillow, drawing oxygen in through the mask.

  Darren finally asked, “How can you possibly be 267 years old?”

  Atavus nodded from behind the mask. He lifted it. “That will take a lot of explaining.”

  “Dad thinks you’ve got Alzheimer’s. Atavus, you know what this sounds like, don’t you?”

  More nodding from Atavus. “I assume you’ve figured out the floating witch and what it was?”

  Darren bolted up from his chair. “It was a hallucination! It wasn’t a witch! I was dehydrated. I was seeing things.” Darren paced to the end of the bed and, with his back to his grandfather, grabbed the bedpost for support.

  “Okay.” Atavus wheezed. “You were seeing things, and your grandfather has dementia. That does make more sense than my being 267 and you having seen the flash and a witch.”

  “It does make more sense. I mean, come on.” Darren turned and faced his grandfather. “200 years old? Almost 300?” He started to say something more but stopped abruptly and stared hard at the old man. “The flash? I didn’t mention that.”

  “You didn’t?” Atavus gave him a wry smile. “You must have. How else would I know about the bright flash just before the witch appeared?”

  Darren reached for the bed as his legs turned to water. “Atavus,” he pleaded. “You can’t be over 200 years old.” He staggered back to the chair beside the bed.

  “It’s okay, boy. I’ve been trying to tell you this your whole life, trying to prepare you for this day. But I always let you believe they were just stories. I’m sorry. It didn’t really prepare you at all.” Atavus’s last word was choked off by a long hacking cough.

  Darren stood to help him, but Atavus waved him away with his hand and drew in long, labored breaths of air.

  “Your father has always thought he had a very old father.” Atavas’ voice sounded strained. “He either doesn’t notice I’ve never appeared to age, or his mind simply won’t let him believe it.”

  “Why doesn’t Dad know? You’ve never told him this?”

  “No need. I’ve seen no sign of witches for almost twenty years. Besides, your father isn’t a Pessum Ire. It skips a generation.”

  “Wait, if I’m one of these Pessum Ire things, what about Ethan? Was he one?”

  “Yes, I was training him up until he left for Peru. He was progressing very well. He was very insightful, your older brother.”

  “Did he believe all this? Did he believe you were over 200 years old? Did he believe in witches and that it was his duty to kill them?”

  Atavus grunted a laugh. “Yes, but as I said, he was very insightful. I think he might have suspected some of this before I revealed to him what he was.”

  Darren added things together in his head. “If it skips a generation, and you’re a Pessum Ire, and Ethan and I are Pessum Ire too, doesn’t that mean there should still be a whole lot of other Pessum Ire living? Or are you the only one who lives forever?”

  Atavus sighed. “No, the Pessum Ire have lengthened days, but we don’t live forever. We can be killed, and we do eventually die. As you can see, I am not going to last much longer. My original grandson, Thomas Radford Stevens died fighting witches in Europe almost 150 years ago. He was only in his eighties.”

  A skeptical frown stole across Darren’s face. Atavus began laughing at him but ended up coughing. “He appeared to be barely thirty. We age slower, although somewhat quicker since the last millennium.” Atavus gazed at Darren and at the incredulity on his face. “Go to the closet, Darren. In the back is an old duffle bag. In the bottom of the bag are a couple of wooden boxes. Bring me the box on top.”

  Darren did as he was told. He fished through the bag and found a wooden box about one foot by one foot and six inches deep. He brought it back to Atavus, who immediately fumbled with an old rusty padlock dial. “I haven’t opened this thing in decades. Let me think. Oh yes, Juliette’s birthday.” He swung the dial about, then tugged at the locking bar. The hasp slipped out of its slot with a scraping sound.

  Inside the box, which when opened gave off the aroma of cloves, was an ancient looking book, badly worn and rotting at the edges. It was several inches thick. The paper, though gray and brown with age, looked to be in remarkable shape, considering how old it was. Darren had heard once that cotton-based paper could hold up for centuries as opposed to wood-pulp pages used today.

  “Here,” Atavus said, handing Darren the book open near the beginning. “This is the Grimp. It’s my own historical legacy. It reaches back, way before my time. It’s a collection of histories, legends, prophecies, myths, religious rites, and ceremonial spells, even some old potions, I think.” He turned to a page. “Here’s the generational chart followed by some histories that date back before my time. It’s all here.”

  “Dad’s never seen this?”

  “Your father?” Atavus asked. “Oh, he might have, but he disregards it as an old man’s crazy way at keeping genealogy. He’s never shown a profo
und interest, and if he did, I doubt he would ever believe its contents.”

  As Darren viewed the black and white pictures and graphs drawn by hand, his grandfather continued with his story.

  “Thomas Radford Stevens had two sons. Radford, the younger of the two, stayed in Europe. The older son, Jacob, returned to America, where he settled in Ohio and had a family in 1832. He married a Mormon woman and joined the church back then. His two sons were born in Ohio and moved to Utah in the 1840’s. I followed them out later. Only one of the sons survived, and that was Davis Lorenzo Stevens. He was a Pessum Ire. I taught him about our history and our role as a balance to witches. He found it very difficult to believe I was almost 120. I probably appeared to be in my forties to him. At that time, I wasn’t trying to pass myself off as one of the family. I believe I told him I was a lost uncle or something. I’d let most people think I’d died back in Europe. Davis, however, eventually accepted who I was and, consequently, who he was.”

  Atavus paused and lay back against his pillow. He closed his eyes, a slight sheen of sweat on his brow. The old man breathed quietly for several minutes. Darren watched him, thinking he’d drifted off to sleep. Just as he was about to leave the room, the old man began speaking.

  “There was a hot-bed of witches in Eastern Europe, and Davis felt compelled to return there to help drive them out. There is a network of Pessum Ire, and we’d been contacted about the trouble there. All sorts of stories surfaced from that area: stories of witches, but also vampires and werewolves. It was a dark time. Everyone’s imagination had caught fire and run away with them. We travelled together and searched them out. We were in Europe during the Civil War. Later, I was told many witches had migrated to the New World during the previous decade and their influence on the Civil War had been devastating to both sides. There were no Pessum Ire in the United States at that time. We’d all travelled abroad. The witches were unchecked and wreaked untold havoc to the North and the South.

  “Of course, they never revealed themselves because they knew they could be captured and killed. But by 1850, no one believed in witches anymore. There were no more hangings or burning of witches. There weren’t even any accusations. Witches quickly became nothing more than quaint folklore. That’s why they raised up in great numbers during that period. Witches struggle around the profoundly religious.”