by BoJenn
Cat started to get mad at such a nefarious act. No matter what, Cat thought fiercely, she would no longer innocently trust those people, or God. So, she would take every step to receive this elderly woman with every caution and protection, and expecting the worst. “I don’t believe in miracles, and I’m too old for games, so don’t try to play any,” she said, girding herself for letdown. Then, she looked up as she further evaluated so she could employ the best strategy, for a change. She just would not let herself be tricked again.
She told herself, in a message to God, “Those miracles that are supposedly coming from people who call themselves Christians, you can forget it.” Cat was closed to Christians and any likes of such. “Those people are liars and charlatans. This old woman must be another joke of theirs. The town put her up to this bad prank. How dare them! And, on a night like this! Shame on them! Shame on their games!” She scowled.
Eleanor watched that look of cynicism Cat demonstrated on her sourpuss face. “I’ve got my work cut out for me, and time is short. I’m going to need your help, Tadhg. Are you around?”, she begged her friend and guide.
“You shouldn’t give that look, dear; it’s unbecoming,” Eleanor reprimanded Cat. Cat scowled at her even more.
“I’m here, Eleanor,” Tadhg whispered to her. “Here and ready, when you are.”
Eleanor trembled from the chill in the manor.
“Let me get you a coverlet,” Cat said, handing her an afghan, tempering herself in remembering the old woman had suffered a pretty bad injury. The cashmere knit throw matched the décor with oranges and golds. “So soft, dear. Thank you.” Eleanor lifted it to her face and breathed in the fragrances. “Lilacs and lavender. Two of my favorites. Calms the soul,” Eleanor whispered.
“My mother…” Cat paused, uncertainly. “My mother used lilacs and lavender and made herbal sachet packages, and they still fill the drawers with the scent. It makes me think about her.”
“What a lovely thought of her. Is she still living?”
“No, she’s not.” Cat clammed up.
The living room was quiet except for Cat’s thoughts, as she mused about miracles and naive little girl hopes in which she once believed. The only miracles or magic Cat trusted now were the remote whispers in the night, or the little boy who peeked out at her, or the weird happenings that took place within her home. “Now, those are magic,” she pondered with a degree of delight. Unsure of how and why the boy popped in every once in a while, Cat knew his visitations had a purpose. That was magic and it was supernaturally sent by God to her, so she did believe now. “For some reason…” Cat remarked aloud, pouting again, and hushing her voice but not her vigilance in thought. “This British woman is a mistake—a coincidental accident that occurred at night in a blizzard. Why is she here? Who the hell is she?” Cat wondered and ruminated over the strange woman’s mystical appearance. She shook her head, not knowing Eleanor was watching.
Rising from the couch, Cat walked across the room to light two tall white candles in silver candlestick holders. She stared into their flames, thinking. Memories were like visions of a past she remembered, but from which she could detach. She had to. It was pure self-preservation. No one could harm her there, again, or here, now. Or, she could become part of a world of memories that no longer exists.
“Try not to worry so much dear. Not all Christians are bad people. Not all traumatic events are meant to do harm,” Eleanor said smiling, then adding, “And, if you’re wondering how I know, then know that you’re not difficult to read.” She smiled again, reassuringly, at Cat. “Sometimes, we must trust when it is impossible. A life without miracles and magic is simply a life not worth living.”
Cat looked in to Eleanor’s bright eyes. She thought she saw a blue star float from within and out of Eleanor’s eye. Cat gasped, “Huh?” Obviously, she was seeing things.
“Now, back to that bag the man said to give you…” Eleanor reminded.
“Yes; I have it,”Catherine said, sharply.
“He said you would know what to do with the herbs in there? There are herbs for a poultice and herbs for tea. There is also mugwort for sleeping and dreaming.”
“Yes, I see that there is lavender, myrrh, and a third one I don't recognize.” Catherine’s voice was deep and matter of fact.
“He said you would know mugwort, dear.” Eleanor tried to explain. “And in the last of the bigger bag—the gold bag—is gold.”
“Yes!”, Catherine interrupted like a gruff mother. “Yes, I know what to do with it.” And then, her dazzling, crystal-blue eyes apologized for her indignation.
Eleanor went about the task at hand, looking at the herbs and setting them out on the coffee table, then organizing them in row, alphabetically. She snapped the conversation to the present by pleasantly changing the topic.
“Oh, I see we have Arnica montana, too. That will be good for my headache. Wrap this oil in a warm cheesecloth, if you could? Do you have a cheesecloth?”
“No, but I have white linen cloth, and it should work,” Cat suggested. They went to the kitchen and Cat reached into a drawer with aluminum foil, plastic bags and dishcloths. She picked a couple of linen cloths and handed them to Eleanor, who opened up both squares of cloth and spread them out on the counter.
“Here is the Camphor. It will work well with the arnica. It takes away the pain,” Cat said, employing a little herbal teaching, as well.
Eleanor put some camphor in oil and mixed it with crushed peppermint leaves, putting the mixture in each of the cloths. Then the arnica was added a few drops at a time. She then folded the herbal packs and placed one into the microwave for one minute. Oh, how the room smelled so divine!
Then, she put the other pack she had prepared in a bowl of water with ice cubes and a few drops of peppermint oil. One cotton linen cloth was warm, and one was cool. She would alternate putting the two on her injury every 20 minutes.
Getting both ready by taking them out of the microwave and out of the iced water, she said of the camphor, “Yes, I know dear. Do you need one too? Does anything hurt?”
“Well, actually my head hurts. Will it work on just a plain headache?”, Cat complained mildly.
“Yes, I suspect you do have a headache. After all, my arrival has troubled you.” Eleanor offered her opinion about stress and the side effect of it. “Here, take the second pack. Of course, just leave it on ten minutes, then rotate the cold to hot, and your headache will be gone in no time.”
Catherine held the warm bag up to Eleanor’s forehead. “Then, we’ll rotate.”
“Good teamwork,” Eleanor said smiling pleasantly, as she felt they were getting somewhere in their newly established friendship. “And, the tea was lovely, too, dear. Did you make it, too, from the herbs in the pouch that the man gave me?”
Cat’s brow scrunched up. She wasn’t sure what this woman was talking about. “Man, what man?”, she thought again as she looked at the old woman with concern. Politely she replied, “No…no; it’s just a plain old favorite family tea. Nothing special or unusual about it.” And, Cat knew there simply wasn’t a man who escorted this woman to her home and gave her any bags of anything.
They returned to the living room and Cat sipped from her cup, watching and observing the English woman who sat on her antique couch in front of her fire on a such a freezing cold bizarre night. She thought about they reasons why she was always defensive when asked about teas, herbal rubs, dried herbs and other such items often associated with witches. After all, Cat’s prior knowledge about healing with herbs and the whole topic of witches and herbs were a sore spot in her subconscious mind. The townsfolk had done a fine job. Thus, Cat had rapidly forgotten, on purpose, to gain any further knowledge of herbs.
There was a moment of quietness as they both sipped of the hot tea and cognac. The wood in the fireplace cracked and popped, causing embers to fly inside the burning pit. The two women looked away from each other. Soon enough, Cat looked back at her guest. Eleanor looked down avoi
ding any gaze into her eyes. But, Eleanor was a jovial woman, so she laughed to herself and smiled nicely when she, next, did look up at Cat.
For a second, Cat thought the woman looked distantly familiar. She looked again. “No, no, I don’t know her. Who the hell is this woman?”, she wondered again. Cat closed her eyes for a moment to think. “And that large burlap tote bag she’s digging through, getting herbs from, where did it come from? I don’t think that’s the same bag she came with. It’s huge! I would have remembered it!” Catherine's mind flew through a whirlwind of questions.
Overnight company or visitors at the Dubois Manor never happened. The last people who stayed the night was the family that summer night long ago, in 1984, when Gabby and Michael stayed. This was, now, the year 1999.
Cat continued to ruminate over the circumstances. “Why should I let this stranger into my home? I don’t even know her name! Well, clearly, there was no choice. She’s already sitting on my couch. Sprawled out. She was injured, with that obvious bump on her head. I couldn’t send her out in this storm; and, I couldn't leave her outside in the freezing blizzard. And, I can’t call the police. They can’t make it up here in this weather. So, I can’t send her out. I’ll keep an eye on her all night, if I have to.”
These moments of quietness were getting uncomfortable for Cat, but Eleanor was as calm as she could be. The embers popped again. In the quietness, the fire danced. The room was warm and cozy. Catherine spoke after she took another sip of the tea before it cooled, “There just wasn't a man at the door.”
But silence reigned, as Cat’s mind went round and round with her conjured imaginings stemming from this older woman, who stood at her front door, on a cold winter’s night, out on the side of a hill, in Nowhere, USA. She thought the whole scenario unreal—surrealistic—crazy! “What was the likelihood of such an event? What are the ulterior motives? What, exactly, is going on?” And, no one was going to allow Cat the opportunity to conjure, manifest or speak delusions of heightened imagination that held no truth. And, Cat had stopped the woman from any further talk that had once contributed to the despicable label of witchcraft and sorcery given to her by the Glory Town valley folk. “This little woman can just forget it. I won’t have it. If I can't share my thoughts, as crazy as they may be, then she won’t either! What am I saying? I’m being rude,” she further reasoned.
Cat was frightened of further ridicule, and frightened of people, in general. She had, in her thoughts, served as judge and jury of this woman, over the same thing of which she, herself, had been accused and sentenced forever; and Cat knew she was not right to do have done that—even in her own mind—the very fact that Cat was condemned for what she was now condemning this old woman—that she’s a witch. “She must be. Oh, I can’t help that! She’s here with impossible odds for God’s sake.”
Back and forth like a paranoid, trapped animal, Cat’s thoughts danced. “It’s as if this woman can hear my thoughts. She very well might. She looks like she’s reading my mind,” Cat thought.
Eleanor opened her eyes to continue conversation with Catherine. “There most certainly was a man! He gave me that bag; he lifted me out of the Jeep before it went over the side of the cliff! He was a very nice man; and he knew you; and he wasn't afraid of you, my dear. So you DO have a friend here in this town of Unforgivables!”
“Mrs.…?” Cat faltered. “Now see here; there was no man! There was no snowplow. And, there certainly are no snowplow tracks. Come with me, I’ll show you. There are no tracks on the driveway. You must have walked here from somewhere?”
Through the window, Cat had already noticed that the ground on the drive, shining from the one light at the top of the front of the manor, was perfectly white, without tracks from any vehicle. And, the snow had stopped, so there had not been enough accumulation to have covered tire tracks. But, there was what appeared to be a set of small footsteps coming from the southeast, and from the slope going down the driveway. But, they were faint and could hardly be seen through the additional snowfall and, further from the house, in the darkness of the night.
Cat moved towards the front window of the formal living room. She invited Eleanor to come and look out the window, too. “See, there are no snow tracks, so there was no man.”
Cat was breathing like a wild stallion in frustration, believing this old woman was part of a Glory Town plot to taunt her, again. “And, by the way, what is your name?”
“Eleanor, dear. Eleanor Harding. Forgive my manners! I’m so glad you asked. I was afraid that you had forgotten to ask and I was hoping you don’t let strangers in your home without asking them their names. It’s a huge deal, dear. That could be dangerous. You know, inviting in criminals and the likes is insecure and naive, dear.” Eleanor sipped the hot tea.
“And you are Elizabeth Catherine Dubois, right, dear?”, Eleanor then asked, “It’s also improper of a British woman not to ask someone their name. It’s rude, dear, and I apologize.” Eleanor sipped her tea again as she looked down in a sign of genuine humility.
“Yes, yes I am she, and sorry, too. I forgot my manners in the wake of all that happened tonight. And, yes, you are correct. I did think you might be a criminal or something.” Softly, and shamefully Cat punished herself for forgetting her social graces. Her mother had taught her better; and she knew that the formalities of etiquette she used to practice had been long forgotten—years before the arrival of Ms. Harding. “But, rather, I think it is a pleasure to meet you, Eleanor;” adding, “you have a lovely bruise on the front of your head. How are you feeling?”
“I’m fine, dear,” Eleanor replied, but for a second, she looked pale, literally ghost-like.
“You are not doing well. I must call emergency 911 for help,” Catherine said, decisively. She picked up the old rotary dial phone that she rarely used except in an emergency, and began to dial.
“NO! I do not need emergency help. I'm just tired right now. You make the herbal tea and a poultice, and I will be fine, just as the man said,” Eleanor said in a calm direct voice. Then, she took a breath. “Now, don’t make a big deal over this, okay, Catherine?” Eleanor took the phone from her hand and then slowly put it down to end the call.
“If you insist?”, Cat said, raising an eyebrow at the suspicious gesture of her taking the phone from her.
“Thank you. No need for dramatics. I hate to make a scene.” Eleanor shook her head, “No, no, no.”
“No drama, dear,” Tadhg whispered to Eleanor. “Yes, right? You don’t like to make scenes? Oh, come now, we both know you love grand entrances.”
“Not now, Tadhg,” Eleanor scolded him in their mental discourse.
Cat gave her a funny look. She had seen her make a facial grimace as if she was talking to someone. “Okay. I won’t call the emergency team right now, but…if something happens to you, and you…you…you die, then I have a problem here in Glory Town for not calling EMS, don’t I?”
“Back to the story, and stop worrying about me dying. I’ve died a thousand times or more.” Eleanor paused to take a breath, “You must understand, there WAS a man,” she repeated. “He lifted me from the Jeep I was renting—a mile or so down the road at a bridge. I could not have walked here in this weather. I didn't know where you lived, but he did. He gave me that sack of herbs. He knows you well. Oh, it's not important now.” She fretted and got off that subject quickly, interrupting her own conversational direction. “What is important is where my room is. I’m tired, my dear. I will take the mugwort to put under my pillow. Would you like some, dear?” She needed to make herself at home. She was here to stay for a while; and Miss Dubois would just have to get used to her being there.
Eleanor took the mugwort wrapped in a pouch. “My room, is it down this way?” She arose taking the pouch, “Now, if you will show me my room, please.”
“Certainly.” Cat got up from the plush velvet couch. “This way; oh, but first…” She moved to the kitchen taking the wrapped Arnica montana, the tea tree oil, and an Asper
cream balm. Eleanor followed her. Cat began creating a moist dressing with the items. In it she added honey and yogurt.
Then, Eleanor took a small vile that she had taken from her burlap tote bag and put 3 drops of a mystery oil. Cat watched as she put the contents of her vile into the salve.
“There we go. Wonderful, indeed. This should do it.” Eleanor grinned, pleased by Catherine’s herb suggestions and poultice base. The yogurt would calm the wound from inflammation, the tea tree oil would be an antiseptic prevention from human infections, and the Aspercream, according to Catherine would take away pain without ingesting something harmful which could cause internal bleeding.
“What were the three drops you instilled?”, Cat asked inquisitively.
“A drop of tea, one drop of colloidal silver and a single drop of kiss oil.” Eleanor knew she would stump her on the “kiss oil”, so she snickered.
And, Cat wouldn’t ask about the “kiss oil” as she didn’t want to appear ignorant when at one time she was wise about such medicinal treatments. “Oh, kiss oil, I see, Now, let me layer that poultice salve on your forehead.” Cat leaned toward her to apply the poultice. The two women were just about the same height. “There. That should do it.”
“Now, dear, if you will show me my bed. I’m quite tired.”
“Yes, certainly; follow me. I have a room ready. In fact, I made the bed with fresh sheets in the lavender room today,” Catherine said. That is odd, she added to herself, thinking back to her preparation of that room. “It really is odd, isn’t it? Why would I clean that room and put sheets on the bed? I haven't had company in years? That’s just weird…” she continued to mutter to herself as she escorted Eleanor to the lavender bedroom.
