by Ann Walsh
Kelly went into the living room, returning with two extra chairs. “What is going on here?” she wondered. “A week ago these people wouldn’t even speak to each other, and now they’re behaving like long-lost friends. What is happening?”
She got back to the kitchen in time to hear Clara Overton inviting Ben and Bob to share the roast she was cooking for dinner. “There’s plenty for everyone,” she said, then, remembering Kelly and her father, she turned to them. “And for you two as well. Oh, do come. It’s been so long since I’ve cooked a meal for company.”
“Why, she’s hardly said a word in capital letters this morning,” Kelly thought. “And she’s not wearing that thick make-up today.”
Alan was declining the invitation. “I’d like to take Kelly into town for dinner, Clara. It’s sort of a tradition —at least since last Sunday. But will you have some breakfast with us?”
“All we need is David to make the pancakes,” Kelly said and, as if on cue, the doorbell rang.
“Hi. Can we come in?” David led the way, followed by his uncle George and a small, slender woman.
“Oh,” said George, surprised. “Sorry. I didn’t realize you had so many visitors already.”
“That’s no problem, George. We were just wondering if David would show up in time to make the pancakes.” Alan tossed the package of mix across the room. “Catch, David. Looks as if we’re feeding a crowd this morning.”
David stood awkwardly, holding the package of pancake mix in his hands. “Uh, sorry, we thought. . .” He stepped back to stand beside the slender woman. “This is Naomi,” he explained. “She’s a friend, from the island, Vancouver Island. She came to. . .” He seemed uneasy, unsure of what to say.
Naomi moved forward. She had grey-streaked hair that stood out around her face in a halo of frizz, looking as wiry and uncontrollable as Kelly’s own hair. She wore a large pink sweater and baggy grey sweat pants with worn spots on both knees, and her cheeks were as pink as her sweater. Setting a large, embroidered handbag on the floor, she held out her hand to Kelly. “You must be Kelly,” she said. “Yes, David was right about you. You do radiate strength; strength and emotion. I’m pleased to meet you, pleased to meet all of you,” she said, one hand clasping Kelly’s, the other gesturing broadly to include the rest of the group.
Kelly stared at her, amazed. “Radiate?” she asked. Naomi turned back to her and smiled, and Kelly saw with a shock that one of her eyes was a deep sky-blue, and the other was the dusty green of September grass.
“Of course, my dear. But then she really is your ghost, isn’t she? She came to you first, so David says.”
“David? George?” Alan looked confused. “Who is. . .”
“Oh, I’m sorry, Alan,” said George. “I thought David had explained. Naomi has come to help us with our little ghost. She’s had a lot of experience with this sort of thing.”
“Indeed!” sniffed Clara Overton, the capitals back in her voice. “And just what KIND of experience has she had?”
“Oh, my. Oh, dear.” The small woman looked at David and George sternly, and they both stared at the floor. “You two haven’t been fair, you know. Not fair at all. Now, explain me to your friends, and let’s get on with things.”
“Uncle George, you. . .” began David, but his uncle retreated to the far corner of the kitchen, leaning against a counter, shaking his head.
“No way, David. She’s your mother’s friend. You explain.”
“And do hurry up, David. I would dearly like a cup of coffee before we begin.” Naomi shook her head and sat down on the nearest unoccupied chair.
Everyone turned to look at David. “Well,” he said, “you see, I thought Naomi would know what to do...”
“Oh, David. You haven’t warned these people at all, have you?” Naomi shook her head again, frowning. “I’m sorry that I was sprung on you like this,” she said. “I thought you knew. I’ve come to help with your ghost. I’m a witch.”
Chapter 15
The kitchen was completely silent after Naomi’s announcement, awkwardly and uneasily silent. David looked at Kelly, apologetically, Bob and Ben exchanged amused glances, Alan Linden still seemed confused and Clara Overton’s mouth had dropped open, frozen in a wide, silent ‘OH’. Only Ed Crinchley didn’t appear affected by the presence of a self-proclaimed ‘witch’ among them.
“Sure,” he said, breaking the silence. “One of those Wicca followers, I bet. There’s a real nest of them on Vancouver Island, I hear.”
“Naomi’s a white witch, a good witch,” David said. “She’s been a friend of my mother’s for years. Actually, she’s my godmother, sort of.”
“David Stanton, you, of all people, should know better! There’s no such thing as a ‘white’ or a ‘black’ witch. It is how the power is used, the energy directed, the outcome—a fire that warms a cold house we think of as ‘good’, while a fire that destroys that same house we label ‘bad’. The energy, power, the ‘fire’ is not in itself either. . .” Naomi stopped, rubbing a hand through her hair. “Sorry,” she said. “I seem to go into that lecture automatically, and I know David’s heard it far too often.”
She smiled at Ed Crinchley. “You used the term ‘wicca’. Yes, I am a follower of the Goddess and the ‘wise craft’, and it is her power I use, letting it work through me to help others.”
“Mr. Crinchley,” asked Kelly. “How on earth did you know about ‘wicca’ being witchcraft?” Kelly had barely been listening to Naomi, her attention focused on the old man whose rough ways and language had always led her to believe that he was uneducated.
Everyone had turned to look at Ed Crinchley, and every gaze was as curious as Kelly’s. She had not been the only one to notice the incongruity of the Grinch’s comment.
“Hey!” he said. “Mind your own business, all of you.”
Naomi, too, was staring at the old man, and she nodded her head and smiled gently. “You have a hidden life,” she said. “I see a bear who is forced out of his dark cave into the light, and growls and snarls at having to leave his safe hiding place.”
Kelly gasped aloud, thinking of the uncannily accurate imitation of an irate grizzly bear that the Grinch had produced in that very kitchen only a few days ago.
The old man glared at the witch-woman as if he were going to growl at her, too, but Alan stepped in, trying to bring the conversation back to safer ground. “Naomi, this is Ed Crinchley. He’s lived in Soda Creek for many years. And. . .” he continued, “you seem to know Kelly, but perhaps the rest of us should introduce ourselves. I’m Alan Linden, Kelly’s father.” He stepped forward and offered his hand, self-consciously formal. “I’m pleased to meet you, Naomi.”
The slender woman took his offered hand, but instead of shaking it, she turned it upwards, cupping her white fingers around his work- roughened ones, turning his hand so the palm faced her. “You are a strong man, Alan. But it is time you laid your guilt to rest. It was never your burden to bear.”
Alan went pale and took a step backwards. Father and daughter looked at each other, eyes wide. The accident that had taken Kelly’s mother’s life had been caused by a tire blow-out on an icy freeway. Although he had only spoken of it to Kelly once, and never to anyone else, Alan blamed himself for his wife’s death, for not keeping her car in better repair.
“No one knows that he feels responsible for that accident,” thought Kelly. “No one but me knows that.” How did she, this small woman with the pink cheeks and strange eyes, how did she know of this secret guilt?
Ben and Bob, sensing that something unsettling was happening, took their turn at being sociable. “I’m Ben. . .”
“And I’m Bob. Hi.” They stepped forward, and Naomi took one of their hands in each of hers, again refusing to give a formal handshake, but holding their hands, turning them upwards and cupping them in hers.
“A strong blood kinship,” she said, smiling. “Not so very different, except on the surface. Both of you work with the earth, I sense, bu
t somehow in different ways.”
“That’s right,” said Ben, the surprise showing in his voice. “I’m an avid gardener, and my brother works with clay, which is ‘earth’ as well. George must have told you about us.”
Still leaning against the kitchen counter, George shook his head. “No,” he began. “I haven’t. . .” But no one was paying any attention to him.
This time it was Clara Overton’s turn to gasp aloud. “Your BROTHER?” she said. “You two are brothers?”
“Of course,” said Bob. “I thought you knew. Our last names are different, as I go by my mother’s maiden name professionally—with the pottery and the studio and everything. I thought it sounded more ‘artistic’ than our father’s last name.”
“But we thought . . . we never ... I mean. . .” Miss Overton fell silent, speechless.
Again, Alan stepped in. “No, I don’t think any of us realized that you and Ben were related.”
Naomi turned her strange eyes towards Clara Overton. “And you?” she asked. “Will you not come and shake my hand and bid me welcome?”
“No!” said the teacher, loudly and unexpectedly.
“Naomi, this is Clara Overton,” said Kelly’s father. “She teaches at the high school in Williams Lake and she. . .”
“Don’t tell her anymore about me, Alan, don’t, please!” To Kelly’s astonishment the teacher seemed near tears, and she cowered back in her chair, almost as if she were afraid of the stranger.
“Clara, I am pleased to meet you. Blessed be. I sense your trouble, but now is not the time nor place to speak of it. Perhaps, later, you will take my hand and we can talk, alone. I think I can help you put your memories to rest.”
“How can you, how can you know?” Clara Overton began to cry softly, quite unlike her tears of a week ago. Last Sunday she had cried noisily, dramatically, clutching Alan’s arm and dabbing at her thick make-up with a handkerchief which she waved wildly to add emphasis to her words. Today she sat almost silently, tears flooding her eyes but her mouth only moving slightly, emitting tiny moans, with no make-up streaking on her cheeks as the tears fell.
“I am sorry,” said Naomi. “I don’t mean to cause pain for anyone. Perhaps it would be better if I left now.”
“No,” said Miss Overton, brushing her hand across her eyes. “Please don’t go because of me. I’m so sorry. I don’t know what came over me. Please, Naomi, stay and help us with our little ghost. And . . . and perhaps I could talk to you later, maybe tomorrow? Just the two of us?”
“When you are ready, I shall be there,” answered the small woman.
“Miss O. has a secret too,” thought Kelly. A secret such as her own father’s guilt over her mother’s accident and the secret that the Grinch was hiding in that ‘cave’ of his. Somehow Naomi had sensed something about Clara Overton, something that the teacher seemed afraid she would reveal in front of the others.
“The coffee’s ready,” said Alan. “I think we could all use some, and maybe some breakfast, too.” There were murmurs of “thanks, but I’ve eaten, just coffee, please,” and Kelly’s father began burrowing in a cupboard, looking for extra mugs.
The atmosphere in the kitchen changed as Alan began to serve coffee, everyone talking, everything seeming normal once more.
“Naomi arrived late last night,” David explained to Kelly. “She saw the ghost, just for a minute, when she was getting out of her car. Naomi really is a witch, you know.”
“Well, she seems to know things that no one else does,” said Kelly. “Do you think she can help our ghost?”
“Could we all go outside, do you think?” Naomi stood, her coffee mug in her hand. “I would like to see some of the places your little ghost appears. And there are others who know her too, aren’t there? I see another of her friends, a strange person, a child, yet a child who has a strong second personality, a split, division or. . .” Again she rubbed a hand through her hair. It crackled with static electricity, standing out even further from her face. And the twins arrived.
“Boy, are there ever a lot of people here.”
“Can I try your crutches Mr. Grin . . . Mr. Crinchley?”
“Are you making pancakes again, David?”
“Ah. I understand. Twins.” Naomi smiled at the children. “Hello. We are going to see the places where the little ghost likes to visit. Would you come with us, since you are her friends too?”
“Sure. She likes it by the school bus stop.”
“I can show you our bathroom, it’s tidy today.”
Outside the sun shone and the air was warm, almost balmy, with no hint of snow. They all gathered on the plowed road in front of Kelly’s house, coffee cups in hand except for Ed Crinchley whose mug was carried by Tommy, still hoping for a chance to experiment with the crutches. Almost automatically everyone grouped themselves in a circle around Naomi, and stood waiting, silent again.
She took a deep breath, her mug cradled in her hands, the steam rising gently around her face, catching in her hair. “Someone’s coming,” she said, nodding down the empty road in the direction of the reserve. “Someone who also cares for the little ghost.” As the words left her mouth, a car that no one else had heard, turned the corner and stopped near the group. Basil and Joan got out.
“Grandpa said there was something going on down here,” said Joan. “I think he just wanted another cup of coffee.”
“Basil’s right,” said Alan. “Basil, Joan, this is Naomi. She’s come to help us with our ghost. She’s a. . .”
“I’m a witch,” said Naomi cheerfully. “Blessed be.”
“You’re not a witch!” said Tommy vehemently.
“Witches are ugly, and they never wear pink stuff.”
“And it isn’t Halloween.”
The twins had missed Naomi’s introduction, and they stared at her in disbelief. But Basil raised his right arm in salute, and spoke rapidly in Shuswap.
“He says welcome,” translated Joan. “He welcomes you in the name of our people, and says that he feels the spirit of the old ones working through you.”
“I thank you, Basil,” answered Naomi. “I feel the strength of you, a great strength.”
Basil nodded at her, solemn. “It is good that you have come. The little one, she grows stronger every day. Soon she will be too strong in this world to be able to return to the spirit world.”
“Yes,” said Naomi, “I know.”
“But she says she wants to go home!” Kelly spoke up, remembering that she had not yet told anyone about the ghost’s most recent visit to her. “She came last night, to the kitchen, just like the first time I saw her, and she said, ‘Emily home’.”
“She spoke to you again, Kelly?” asked Bob.
“Yes. She said ‘home’ and. . .”
“What else, Kelly, what else did she tell you?” Naomi like everyone else, was watching Kelly.
“She said ‘please home’,” answered Kelly, not meeting the woman’s mismatched eyes. “And she said my name . . . and she let me touch her.”
“Ah. That is why you carry her presence with you so strongly.” Naomi nodded, as if she suddenly understood something that had been puzzling her.
“Please, Naomi, do something for her. She wants to go home so badly.”
The witch looked intently at Kelly. “Yet I feel that you don’t want her to go home, Kelly. Do you really wish her to leave?”
“Yes!” Kelly’s was not the only voice answering the question.
“It’s not that we don’t like her,” explained Miss Overton, her voice so low that she could scarcely be heard. “But she needs her mother.”
Once again the teacher had said something completely out of character, and once again Kelly was astonished. “How can Miss O. know that?” she wondered.
“I think you are right, Clara. You have insights where small children are concerned, insights and love,” said Naomi. “But now, show me where your ghost likes to visit, and tell me about her.”
The group with
the unlikely-looking witch made its way slowly up and down the main road of Soda Creek, stopping at Ben and Bob’s house, standing in the garden, looking through the winter-withered raspberry canes as Ben explained where the ghost most often appeared to him. They visited Bob’s studio, admiring the bowl the little ghost had watched him forming, staring at the potter’s wheel as if it might suddenly begin to rotate on its own.
Ed Crinchley made the others stay outside his house, but he allowed Naomi to enter and peer down the red stairs to the grimy basement as he relived his first visit from the ghost. Mrs. Terpen was taken aback when the twins, followed by a crowd of people, arrived at her door, asking to see the hallway near the bathroom. She somewhat nervously allowed the twins to show Naomi around, obviously puzzled by their comments that this lady wasn’t at all like the witches on T.V.
Clara Overton encouraged everyone to tour her immaculate home, and handed out muffins as the group listened to her tale of the ghost-child who had watched her so carefully as she baked.
Outside the teacher’s house, Naomi was still for a long time, then walked and stood on the snow-covered lawn, on the exact spot where Father Glenn’s bucket of holy water had landed. “She was hurt here,” the woman said, “but it was a hurt in her spirit life, not one from her life on earth. She isn’t upset about this anymore.”
David whispered to Kelly, who was avoiding his eyes. “I didn’t say a word about flying buckets. But I’ll bet Naomi could tell us how all that consecrated water ended up on Miss O.’s front lawn.”
“David Stanton, keep your mouth shut,” hissed Kelly, and Naomi’s mismatched eyes swung towards her, almost as if she had heard.
The witch-woman listened to the stories of the ghost’s appearances, nodded, and once in a while asked a question. She would stop sometimes and close her eyes, tilt her head to one side much like a grey robin, seeming to be listening to something only she could hear. For almost an hour the group led her around, almost believing that this small woman with the unruly hair could do something about the little ghost.
