Summerwind Magick: Making Witches of Salem

by Rick Bettencourt

Jonathan Dodger bounded in. He pointed to Rebecca. “Outta here!” He looked to Carolyn. “I need a word with you…alone.”

  Rebecca rose, stared at Carolyn, and shook her head.

  Carolyn took Rebecca’s hand, got up, and turned to Jonathan. “Whatever you have to say, you can say in front of her.” She pursed her lips. “She’s my witch consultant. You’re paying her.”

  Jonathan’s eyes darted between them.

  Spite festered inside Rebecca, and jokingly she flicked her fingers at the man, hoping to scare him into thinking she imparted magic.

  He furrowed his brow. “What the hell are you doing?” He came to her and grabbed her hand. “You’re not casting spells, are you?”

  “My goodness, no,” Rebecca said. “I had a hand cramp.”

  He released her.

  “Dodger, she is a real witch,” Carolyn said. “I’d be careful if I were you.”

  Defeated, he sighed. “Fine, our conversation can wait.” He went to the door. “The crane’s ready. We’re moving Marigold’s Tree to the evening.”

  Carolyn raked a hand through her hair. “But the whole scene revolves around sunlight.”

  “I don’t care. Improvise. On the set, now!” He left and slammed the door.

  “Asshole,” Rebecca said.

  Early the following morning, Rebecca, half-asleep, received a call from Julia. A more urgent matter needed Rebecca’s attention, rather than being on the set.

  “A car will pick you up in ten minutes,” the production coordinator said. “You and the scout will be scoping out a new film location. We’d like you to get a sense of the area, a witch’s perspective.” She hung up.

  Approaching the Maine border, Rebecca sat in the passenger seat of a late-model Mercedes-Benz. Beside her, the studio’s location manager, Jay Evans, drove the expensive sedan.

  “Thanks for coming with me.” His blue eyes shot her way, followed by a devilish grin that made his attractive, unshaven face all the more alluring.

  She couldn’t possibly go for this guy—normality wasn’t her thing. His striking good looks were too suave for her. She usually dated a rougher type. Hmm. No wedding ring. “No problem. Honestly, I don’t know why Julia wants me scouting locations with you here. I’d rather be back in Salem with all the…action.”

  “Well, that’s just it. There’s too much action.”

  Rebecca turned to him. “Huh?”

  “You know. The protest.”

  “Oh, yeah.” She got it—Julia and the director’s Plan B, to shoot more remote locations. “I just don’t know what I have to do with any of this. It’s almost like they want me off the set.”

  He reached for his water and accidently hit her knee. “Excuse me.” Her stomach buzzed as he took a sip. “You’ve got that witchy sixth sense,” he said, “that us creative types are drawn to.” He winked and returned his bottle to the center console.

  Rebecca took her own bottle from a cup holder on the door.

  Jay punched the gas pedal, and the car accelerated to over one hundred. “We need to make sure any locations we shoot have the right feng shui, or whatever you people call it here on this coast.” The car slowed to ninety.

  “When in Salem, go witches,” Rebecca said, but he didn’t acknowledge her, for which she felt grateful. Why do I say stupid things?

  “Summerwind shot nicely, when we visited it last spring. It has potential, good character. It might serve as fallback for Salem scenes…if we can get there before winter.”

  “This Summerwind place…what’s it like?” Rebecca sipped water.

  “Well, for one, we’ll need a boat to get to it.”

  According to an old man with windswept hair along Bar Harbor’s docks, the Summerwind Island ferry stopped its daily runs after Labor Day. “Hitching a ride with the postal carrier or hiring one of the locals,” he muttered between a few missing teeth, “be yo’r only choice.”

  Rebecca and Jay were lucky to time the mail boat’s midweek run to the islands. The carrier, Katie, drove them to Little Cranberry Island first, where she spent all of fifteen minutes, returned, and powered up the vessel for Summerwind. “I’ll drop you off there, and pick you up in a couple of hours.” The motor’s buzz filled the air.

  Summerwind Island, a remote landmass two miles southeast of Bar Harbor, looked ominous. A gray cloud hung overhead. On a hill, shutters on a gray-stained house flapped in the wind. To the left of that structure—and equally dilapidated—sat the Summerwind Inn. Weather-beaten cedar shingles hung loose from its siding, and the wraparound porch had missing posts in haphazard locations.

  Rebecca gave Jay back his binoculars. “This ought to be interesting. It’ll probably work well for the film.” What did she know? She wanted to sound smart.

  “God is in the details,” he said, and lifted his camera, with its heavy-looking telescopic lens. Cachesh, cachesh, cachesh. It snapped off photos. “I’ve been taking pictures all my life. I know what matters. Sometimes, the most subtle thing—to really emphasize the script—will make a huge difference to a film. What would Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil be if it’d been shot on a set instead of Savannah? Or Close Encounters without Devils Tower?”

  The entire ride up, all he’d talked about revolved around himself and the movies. Rebecca, tired of his discourse, walked away. But he does have a nice ass. I’ll have to cut him some slack. Walking backward to view his glutes, she took a seat in the rear of the boat. The wind whipped her hair, and she pointed her face into it to avoid black locks darting into her eyes.

  When the boat rounded a bend on the south end of the island, a beach came into view, where a woman, with long gray hair blowing in the breeze, walked a small dog. The lady, old, tall, and thin, wore a navy-blue sweater held at her waist by a tie.

  A flush came over Rebecca, and she stood to unzip her coat. “It’s getting warm.” She didn’t know why she spoke out loud. The boat’s engine roared so much she could barely hear Jay’s camera clicking.

  On the beach, the lady’s dog leapt, wagged its tail, and barked a silent yip. It looked like a beagle or a terrier or some thing—Rebecca lacked knowledge of dog pedigrees. The brown-and-white thing scurried near the water, and the lady fumbled in the sand after him, her arms held out for leverage on a sloping dune. She yelled out what Rebecca imagined to be the dog’s name.

  The boat hummed and drove westward.

  Playfully, the dog popped out from underneath a long set of wooden stairs that cut through a sandy embankment and led up to the ramshackle buildings.

  In the boat, Jay pivoted.

  Nice crotch, too, Rebecca thought, and watched him shoot Bar Harbor.

  Hints of blue flecked the gray sky, decorating the scene—the aged houses on the hill, the woman strolling the beach, the clouds, the dog—like the Andrew Wyeth print that hung on Rebecca’s bedroom wall. Maybe Jay knows his stuff after all.

  Running in circles, the cute dog barked. Warmth filled Rebecca, and she smiled.

  On the shore, the old lady grabbed the post to the wooden steps. The railing wobbled as she climbed. A man’s silhouette stood at the top of the stairs and slowly worked his way down. He, too, held onto the rail and lifted his free hand toward the old lady below, her hair continuing to billow.

  Following after her, the dog bounced onto the first step, barked, jumped down, and darted back to the shoreline. The woman turned and called to him, but he paid no attention and continued his run. She went after him.

  The man descended, his feet barely touching the treads.

  “They should put that rascal on a leash,” Rebecca said. The dog dove into the water, and Rebecca shook her head.

  When the woman reached a point where the sand became dark and wet, she stopped and a wave pounded down on top of the dog.

  A chill pulsed at Rebecca’s chest, and she stood. “Is he all right?” she asked, but the boat’s motor masked her question. No one paid attention. Northward, Jay shot more pictures. Cachesh, cachesh, cachesh.

/>   On the horizon, the old lady continued toward the water, and the man landed on the last step.

  Rebecca looked to the boat’s driver, in postal blue, but she held firm to the boat’s wheel and stood on tiptoes to see over an ocean-sprayed windshield. The smell of salt filled the cabin. Rebecca’s sneakers squeaked along the boat’s floor.

  Back on the beach, the man appeared next to the woman, kneeling at the lapping shore.

  She put her hands out to the dog, as it shook off water. It held a doll in its mouth.

  “A doll? How did he find a doll in the—?” Coldness throbbed through Rebecca, and she jolted.

  Along the shore, a large set of black wings—like that from an oversized bat or the grim reaper—snapped out from behind the man’s shoulders and cast a shadow over the old lady crouched below him. Leathery bits clung to bony structures protruding from his back, sounding like a flag flapping in the wind, yet Rebecca couldn’t hear its flutter. She could only sense it in her core. Something told her his face was angelic, yet the darkness about his form made it impossible to see well.

  Shocked, Rebecca froze. Her eyes stung from not blinking. She wiped one, leaving the other locked on the scene. I must be seeing things. “This isn’t—”

  The boat rocked. The eye she’d just wiped tingled from the salt on her hand.

  “Sit down!” shouted Katie. “It gets a little rough as we approach the bay.”

  “I’m not sure I want to go anymore,” Rebecca said, but obeyed the driver’s call and clambered to her seat. The man’s wings flapped slower.

  Jay continued to shoot—cachesh…cachesh—and then traipsed to a seat close to the driver.

  Next, cresting waves hid the shore.

  The boat leapt, nearly out of the water, and thumped back down. It repeated a few times, and with each landing cast a spray of water into the air. Rebecca, feeling warm again, welcomed the mist to her face. Perhaps it would slap her back to reality. For she couldn’t have seen what she thought.

  When the shoreline came back into view, the man didn’t appear. The lady stood from her crouched position and walked toward the stairs. She carried something in her hand, and the dog pranced, tail high, in front of her. Quickly, he darted up the stairs, and she followed.

  As the boat came closer to the island, Rebecca couldn’t rid the image from her mind. Black wings fluttered repeatedly. Their thud echoed in her solar plexus.

  The boat’s engine continued its buzz, and the dock came into view.

  Drinking Again

  Two weeks passed, and while little of the initial script got covered, Dodger succumbed to Carolyn’s ad-libbing—due to myriad inconsistencies and set problems. He lobbed between fits of praise and flares of frustration that confused Carolyn about her performance. But, thanks to her improvisations, the film inched along.

  Carolyn had heard that footage overnighted to Hollywood piqued the production house’s curiosity. A scene with her singing to the moon not only brought those filming to tears but had producer, Jack Cantor, on the next plane to Salem to investigate.

  After an early morning jog around Salem Common, Carolyn—in green-cotton sweatpants and an NYU sweatshirt, one she’d had since college—waited behind a houseboy in the hallway near her room. He balanced a tray on his shoulder while knocking at the room next to hers. The smell of eggs Benedict, toast, and freshly brewed coffee whetted her appetite.

  As he entered the room, Carolyn eased behind him, the hall barely wide enough for two. “Excuse me. I’m sorry.”

  “Quite all right, ma’am.” He flashed a smile and beamed eyes of ocean blue. He reminded her of the lead in a toothpaste ad she’d done the previous year.

  As she had in the commercial, she smiled back at him and entered her room. “Damn, we got to order some room service,” she said to Michael, watching the local news. “Did you check out the waitstaff? Young but cute.”

  “Blond? Blue eyes?” Michael didn’t take his eyes from the television.

  “Yeah, you’ve seen him?”

  “His name’s Alan. He’s from Iowa…here in Salem going to school.”

  As Carolyn had grown more comfortable on the set, Michael spent time befriending cast, crew, and hotel staff.

  “You just know everybody here now, don’t you?” She kicked off her sneakers and pulled down her sweatpants.

  He shut the TV off and tossed the remote onto his mattress. “I met him last night at the Tavern. That’s when I saw that location scout you have a crush on come back.”

  “I don’t have a crush on him.” She pulled off her sweatshirt and sat on the bed, clad only in black panties and a jogging bra. “Well, I’m glad they’re back from Maine. I wonder if Rebecca will be on the set today.”

  Michael shrugged. “You’re looking pretty hot there, Miss Thing. This jogging stuff is doing you well.”

  “Marigold’s thin. I need to lose another few pounds, especially as she ages throughout the story.” She pulled a hair tie out. “So, what’s eating you?”

  “Why do you assume someone…or something…is eating me?” Michael’s grin faded.

  Carolyn fussed with her bangs. She knew he would bare his emotions. He couldn’t hold anything back.

  “All right,” Michael said, “if you insist. I miss Terrence.”

  Carolyn’s shoulders dropped. “Aw, that’s so sweet. You should go home. You don’t have to stay here with me.”

  “He’s on his way to Japan on a business trip.”

  “Again? Didn’t he just go last month?”

  Michael waved a hand. “Some big business venture…again. I’m so tired of it. And he is, too.”

  Carolyn got up and smacked the bottoms of his shoes—a pair of penny loafers she’d bought him at Nordstrom a few years back. “Well, I see you’re dressed and ready. The car will be here in a few. Let’s go make a movie.”

  An hour later, in the hotel’s lobby, Carolyn admired a fresh bouquet of flowers while Michael poured coffee from an urn left out for guests. She caressed a velvety petal.

  “So what does Rebecca do for you?” asked Michael. He took a sip from a china cup.

  Carolyn sniffed a rose. “What does she do for me? That’s an odd question. Why do you ask?” Then, it hit her. “Are you jealous?”

  “No.” He set his coffee on the table beside the floral display. “Okay, well, maybe a little.”

  She moved to him. “You are? Oh, Michael.”

  “You spend so much time with her.”

  “Michael, she’s been assigned to me as my personal consultant. She doesn’t replace you.”

  Michael looked down.

  “I’m sorry.” She reached out and cupped his chin, lifting it. “You and I have a long, long history together. You’re my best friend.” She kissed him on the tip of the nose. “Nothing’ll change that.” She took her hand back. “Don’t be jealous over her.”

  A waiter whisked by with a tray of covered dishes. They bled scents of sausage and bacon. A bellhop rolled a cart of stacked luggage, and his bassoon twang warned the server to heed the way.

  “Rebecca is intuitive, is all,” Carolyn said. “I find it intriguing. She thinks spirits…some anyway… communicate with us.”

  The bellhop adjusted a teetering Samsonite.

  “Like Seth Stevenson’s ghost?” Michael asked.

  Carolyn snapped her head his way. “I was talking about my father, Michael! Not Seth.” The teenage bully was a sore subject. “God.”

  “Sorry.” Michael peered out the vestibule, searching for their limo. A bus’s air brakes released with a hiss, and the coach departed.

  “Rebecca says sometimes spirits have to work things out in order for them to cross over. I don’t know.” Carolyn waved a hand. “Remember how I used to tell you that I’d ask for him, my dad, to appear in my dreams?”

  “Uh huh.”

  “Well, she said that some spirits need help connecting.”

  “Oh. And she’s the perfect medium to help them through.” He folded
his arms across his chest. “What a coincidence. I hope she didn’t charge you.”

  “No, she didn’t charge me,” Carolyn mocked.

  The car arrived to drive them to Time for Donuts on Bridge Street, the location chosen for Marigold to place a hex on a dozen bagels.

  In the back of the Lincoln, looking through a draft of the screenplay’s rewrites, Carolyn flipped through the pages. “Now this plot is becoming anti-Semitic. No wonder the town is protesting. I can’t make heads or tails out of this friggin’ story.” She sighed. “I’ll just improvise again. Jonathan will love that.” She threw the script in her bag.

  Michael looked out the window. “Does Rebecca really think she connects with the dead?”

  Carolyn peered over the brim of her reading glasses. “Let’s drop the spooky stuff. I know where you’re going, and I don’t want to go there.” Their childhood fear of a haunting from Seth hung in the air like a palpable ghost.

  “You’re the one who brought it up.”

  “I did not!” She placed her glasses on top of her head and sighed. “All I did was tell Rebecca about my father and that he died when I was young. She said, if I asked, he might…oh I don’t know, Michael. It’s all ludicrous.”

  The donut shop approached.

  “Perhaps we can’t hear them—the spirits I mean—reaching out to us.” The car stopped, and Carolyn gathered her belongings.

  The chauffeur came around and opened the back door.

  “Seth Stevenson is not trying to reach us, if that’s what you’re implying.”

  The chauffeur helped her out.

  That evening, during dinner in the hotel’s tavern, Jay Evans sat next to Michael, both across from Carolyn. The trio kibitzed about that day’s fouled-up plans. After only a few takes of the bagel-hex scene, protesters got wind of the film’s schedule change, and the day’s shoot halted. Production moved to a room in the hotel’s basement.

  The waitress cleared the table, and the conversation moved to Jay’s photography.

  Michael put his linen on the table. “Carolyn, you didn’t tell me Jay had so many talents. You just said he—”