Summerwind Magick: Making Witches of Salem

by Rick Bettencourt

  “Uh-huh. Go on.”

  “‘With this wax that is fallin’, insert victim’s”—she glanced over her glasses once more—“name, bring them to their…calling.’ That’s what you said to Carolyn.”

  “I’m telling you.” Rebecca took back the book, flipped the page, and read the rest, “‘On the island, they will gloat. Like an angel, the victim will float.’”

  Berniece’s chair squeaked against the floor as she reached for the book. “You sure you didn’t know ’bout this passage before we cast the spell?”

  Rebecca shook her head. “No, we didn’t even find this book of shadows till afterward. And look”—she tapped the page—“the notes in the margins say that it works only—and it’s underlined—on the island.”

  “What does?”

  “The spell!” Frustrated, Rebecca rose and went to the shop’s window. “The effects of the spell only work on Summerwind Island, Maine. Elsewhere, the victim is fucked!”

  “You sure?”

  Rebecca dashed back and placed her arms on the counter. “I had a dream the other night that the grim reaper was after Carolyn.”

  Berniece swallowed audibly. “That thing still hanging around Summerwind?”

  “I haven’t seen it but—”

  Berniece flinched.

  “I dreamt it.”

  “What it do?”

  “That’s not the important part.” Rebecca straightened and fumbled for the cigarettes in her bag.

  “Becky, you’re scaring me.”

  Rebecca, knowing Berniece’s tendency for flatulence when scared, said, with an unlit Marlboro dangling from her mouth, “You’re not going to fart, are you?”

  “I already did.”

  Rebecca moved away, lit a match, and put it to her cigarette.

  “You’re not ’posed to smoke in here.”

  Rebecca placed a hand on her hip, looked at the woman, and blew smoke in the air. “When I called Carolyn the other day, she was at a rehearsal…or something.” She paced. “She couldn’t really talk, but she called me back later that night.”

  “Uh-huh.” Berniece had stepped out from behind the counter and joined Rebecca by a clump of gemstones for sale in a box by the entrance.

  “When I’d called her—”

  “I thought she called you.”

  “No, well, she did. I mean…when I called her at that rehearsal earlier in the day, she was with a man who plays the archangel in the show Any Place I Hang My Hat.”

  “Archangel?”

  “Like a grim reaper.” Rebecca took a drag of her cigarette.

  “I got to use the bathroom.” Berniece hurried to the back of the store.

  The nineteenth-century building that housed Loni Hodge’s shop, the Crow and Limestone, sat a few buildings from the corner of Essex and Hawthorne. The shop’s black-and-gold sign hung over a purple door. The structure, painted midnight black, stood apart from the litany of brightly colored restaurants, coffeehouses, and antiques shops nearby.

  Berniece climbed the entrance’s granite two-step. “No wonder she got more business than me. Place looks like a spook house.”

  Rebecca remained on the brick sidewalk. “It’s what the tourists like. Maybe you’ll learn some marketing strategies.” She flicked her cigarette into the street, and it rolled down a sewer drain.

  Berniece reached for the brass latch on the door. “It’s locked.”

  A sign in the shape of a clock, with hands indicating a later return, hung from a pane in the bowed window.

  “They’re closed,” Rebecca said.

  Berniece peered in. “I see someone.”

  Rebecca fumbled for breath mints in her bag. “Is it her?”

  “No, some blonde.”

  The door opened. “Hello,” said the girl with a pasty face poking through the partially opened entrance. “You two! What do you want?”

  Rebecca paced the sidewalk.

  “We need to see Loni.”

  “Well, she isn’t here,” the girl said. “I thought you two joined the circus and moved to Hollywood.”

  Berniece’s fist clenched, and she turned to Rebecca.

  “Where can we find her?” Rebecca asked.

  The blonde leaned against the door, now fully opened. She wore seventeenth-century garb—a brown colonial dress, white apron, and a bonnet—similar to some of the other reenactment destinations in town. Pigtails draped her shoulders. “Not sure. It’s lunch break.”

  “Thank you.” Berniece held the side of the structure and stepped off the granite.

  The door closed with a thud.

  “Just like that,” Rebecca said, “you let her off.”

  “Don’t worry.”

  They headed south, back toward Red Vanilla.

  “I think I know where she is.”

  “You do.” Rebecca stopped.

  “But we gonna need my clunker to get us there.”

  A couple of miles from Salem’s downtown, Greenlawn Cemetery offered picturesque views of ponds and gardens in its rolling hills; a variety of plants and trees filled the area, making it more park-like than a burial ground. Even in the dead of winter, with deciduous trees bare, Rebecca found it comforting. “We used to ride our bikes here in the summer.”

  “That one summer.” Berniece parked her car at the bend of a pond just past the arboretum. “The summer I went on a diet and lost ten pounds.”

  “You lost more than ten pounds.” Rebecca opened the Buick’s passenger door.

  “Did I?” Berniece’s door creaked open. “Don’t feel it.”

  “Well, you had to stick to it. How’s your blood pressure?”

  “Never mind ’bout that.”

  As they sauntered toward a group of gravestones, the Buick ticked and sighed into submission.

  “It’s just over yonder.” Berniece pointed to a set of stairs embedded into the ground. Traces of snow hugged its shaded corners.

  “The winter’s been mild?” Rebecca tucked her scarf into the pocket of her unbuttoned peacoat.

  “Ain’t helping business none.”

  “Winter’s always been slow for Salem.”

  “I’ve taken to selling things on eBay.”

  “What’s that?” Rebecca squatted in front of an eighteenth-century headstone, crooked from years of settling.

  “You never heard of eBay?” Berniece rested against an angel monument. “It’s an internet auction site. Ask Viola. I’m sure she’s heard of it.”

  Rebecca touched the stone’s carved markings. “This is of a little boy. He died when he was”—she tried to read the birth date—“when he was two. Oh.”

  “The one next to him is his little sister. Died at three.”

  Rebecca rose with a push to her quads. “So what are we doing here?”

  “Loni Hodge comes here.”

  “On her lunch break?” Rebecca tugged at Berniece’s sleeve to get going, and the two walked arm-in-arm.

  “Sometimes she come here to visit Emily.”

  “Emily? Emily Litchfield?” Rebecca stopped and faced her friend. “The lady who died at the Salem Willows?”

  “I think the two were queer for each other.”

  “Emily and Loni Hodge were lovers?”

  They meandered past more tombstones.

  “You know,” Berniece placed her hands in the pockets of her long wool coat, “when I got back from Summerwind, the ground hadn’t frozen yet.” She kicked a sneaker at a patch of wilted grass, the ground mushy in spots. “I came here and planted some crocuses for Emily. It was sort of a peace offering.”

  “Oh, that’s so sweet.” Rebecca grabbed Berniece’s arm again.

  “I had bad dreams ’bout the incident—catching her with all the blood—and hoped it might put my night terrors to rest.”

  “Oh, Berniece.” Rebecca rested her head on Berniece’s shoulder. “You still have them?”

  “At times. But they’re better.” Berniece kissed the top of Rebecca’s head. “Thank you for your concer
n. Emily’s grave is just—”

  “What?” Rebecca looked up.

  Standing under an oak next to a field of tombstones, Loni Hodge’s telltale hair—with its streak of gray through tresses of black—billowed in the breeze. She stared at the two.

  “Oh my God.” Rebecca removed her hand from clutching Berniece’s inside her friend’s coat pocket.

  The women separated with a clear to their throats.

  “Hi, Loni.” Berniece waved.

  As they neared, the self-described Official Witch of Salem pointed to the ground in front of the gravestone. “Did you do this?”

  Rebecca couldn’t quite tell what Loni referred to until they got closer: budding crocuses clutched scraps of snow and earth and held them up in the air, as if victorious in their ability to lift them from the ground.

  Berniece and Loni held each other’s gaze. “I did,” Berniece said, with an air of having been offended.

  Loni’s normally clenched jaw relaxed. The lines across her forehead vanished. Rebecca had never seen the witch without a stern look.

  Loni’s eyes glistened. “You…you planted them.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” Berniece’s tone marked righteousness.

  “You’re the one who visits.” Loni glanced at a sedan down the embankment. “Thank you.”

  Rebecca smiled as Berniece’s fist loosened.

  “How did you know she loved them?” Loni asked. “Crocuses were her favorite—a sign of spring and better things to come.”

  “I-I—”

  “Berniece has a good sense of things.” Rebecca stepped forward, but Loni paid her no attention.

  “Crocuses were her grandmother’s favorite, too.” Loni pointed a long fingernail behind them. “Mary Litchfield had a greenhouse off Walter Street.”

  Mary Litchfield. Rebecca furrowed her brow.

  “That’s where I got them,” Berniece said. “Walter Street. They still have them there.”

  “The family does.” Loni looked down. “They disowned Emily for…” Loni shrugged a shoulder. “For being different.”

  The name of Emily’s grandmother resonated with Rebecca. “Did you say Mary Litchfield?”

  “Yes.” Loni finally recognized her presence.

  Our book of shadows. Rebecca nibbled a fingernail.

  Loni bent down. “Mary was the Litch Witch.” She brushed snow off a cluster of shoots, revealing yellow and purple buds.

  “The Litch Witch?” Berniece asked. “She was Emily’s grandmother?”

  “Yes, she was a very famous witch back in the day.” Loni traced the etching of Emily’s name on the stone.

  “Yes, I know of her,” Berniece said.

  “You do?” Rebecca asked. I never have.

  Loni kissed her fingertips, touched the granite etching, and rose. “How did you know to plant them?”

  “I’m not sure…something just told me to.”

  Loni grabbed hold of Berniece and hugged her.

  Arms dangling by her sides, Berniece’s eyes widened as she looked back at Rebecca.

  Rebecca and Berniece returned to the Buick to go to the café on North Street where Loni requested they meet.

  “Mary Litchfield,” Rebecca buckled her seat belt as the car drove off, “is the name of the person inscribed in our book—the one we found at the yard sale years back, where we found all that Bewitched paraphernalia.”

  “I know. You don’t have to act like I’m some dummy or something.”

  “I’m not. And you’re not a dummy.” Rebecca tired of Berniece’s inferiority complex. “I just can’t believe you knew about the Litch Witch and didn’t know we had her book of shadows the whole entire time.”

  “Yeah, hmm.” Berniece drove the car through the cemetery’s gates. “The Litch Witch was before your time. I’d only heard about her as a child, but then my mother whisked me off to Alabama to live with my pop.”

  “Emily Litchfield was Mary Litchfield’s granddaughter.” Rebecca stared out the window. “It’s all too coincidental. We have her grandmother’s book. She dies. You discover her on a film set about witches.”

  “It is Salem. It’s a small community.”

  A few minutes later, they parked on a side street behind Loni’s car, adjacent to Leslie’s Diner. They went in and sat across from her in a booth.

  Loni wore all black, which accentuated the large purple amethyst on her index finger and the bits of gray in her hair. “Contrary to popular belief, we don’t consort with the devil.” Her bracelets clinked onto the Formica tabletop. The waitress came, took their coffee orders, and when she left, Loni continued, “Witchcraft isn’t about ugly old hags riding on broomsticks and wearing pointed hats.” A mouth of false-looking teeth smiled at the girls. “Though, I’ve never been one to win a beauty pageant.”

  “Oh, I think you’re radiant.” Rebecca hoped her earnest didn’t come across as idolatry and scratched at her finger under the table.

  “Thank you.” Loni took a menu from between a napkin holder and a set of salt and pepper shakers and a bottle of ketchup. “Witchcraft is a science. What witches do is real. Real magick…with a K.”

  “M-A-G-I-C-K. Magick.” Berniece pulled out a second menu and placed it between herself and Rebecca.

  “Magick revolves around the law of threefold,” Loni said.

  Rebecca’d heard of the law before but waited for Loni’s explanation.

  “Whatever energy you put out, be it good or bad, will be returned to you with three times the power.” She closed her menu. “What you have done, Berniece, by planting those bulbs, will come back to you…in a good way.”

  The waitress placed three mugs of coffee before them and took out her pad.

  They each ordered muffins—two banana walnut and a chocolate chip.

  Loni poured cream into her coffee. “You see, magick isn’t about what goes into an experience. Magick is your reaction to it.”

  Berniece’s lips parted, and Rebecca realized her mouth had dropped open, too.

  “So,” Loni’s spoon clinked along the inside of her mug, “how long have you two been together?”

  Berniece’s mouth flapped shut, and she leaned back. “Um, actually—”

  “It’s nice to see interracial relationships.”

  “Ah…” Berniece looked to Rebecca.

  Rebecca cleared her throat. “Three years.” She pinched Berniece’s thigh, fearing that if Loni suspected their relationship merely platonic, it might ruin what they needed to get from the expert. “She’s a peach.” Rebecca leaned her head on Berniece’s shoulder as the woman sighed.

  “Lovely.” Loni slurped coffee.

  Rebecca straightened. “You know Carolyn Sohier, right?”

  Loni reached an arm over her seat’s back. “Yes, of course. The witch” —she chuckled—“from the movie.”

  “Well,” Rebecca eyed Berniece, “we cursed her.”

  Loni’s brow hitched. “Hmm.”

  “You see,” Rebecca wrapped her hands around her mug for warmth, “we found this book in Maine, where filming continued when we got kicked out of Salem. In it was a passage—”

  “What kind of book?” Loni’s bangles chinked against the pole of a coatrack jutting from the booth.

  “A book of shadows.” Rebecca reached for her purse by her feet.

  “There are a lot of books of shadows in the world. People thinking they’re witches, jotting down notes about their—” She stopped when Rebecca placed the book on the table.

  Berniece set her mug down. “It’s from an island off the coast of Bar Harbor.”

  Loni’s lower lip bulged out, pressing her tongue to it.

  “Would you like to see it?” Rebecca slid it forward.

  The witch leaned back. “Tell me more about this spell. And why do you think it’s a curse?”

  It took a long time for Rebecca to explain her reasoning. More than an hour passed sitting in the booth when Rebecca had to pee. “All this coffee…”

  “I should
get back to the shop.” Loni snapped a finger for the check. “My treat.”

  “Oh,” Berniece said, “you don’t have to do that.”

  “Nonsense. You girls have your hands full with breaking that curse from Ms. Sohier.”

  “Becky, I told you we shouldn’t have fooled—”

  Rebecca glowered at her friend. The idea to “spell” Carolyn had originally been Berniece’s in the first place; however, their book of shadows had the remedy. “Luckily, I think we have the antidote.”

  Berniece’s eyebrow rose.

  Loni fumbled through her change purse and made small talk with the waitress.

  Back in the car, with Loni having already pulled her Cadillac out onto North Street, and Rebecca and Berniece stuck at a stop sign, Berniece revved the engine. “C’mon, don’t stall now, Betsy.”

  “It’s almost three.” Rebecca looked at her watch. “Derek and Viola are going to be at Red Vanilla, and I don’t want her waiting out in the cold.”

  The car backfired, and Berniece tore out onto the main road. “Don’t worry. Betsy’ll get us there.”

  “I can stall them.” Rebecca’s choice of words amused her, and she chuckled. “I mean, hold Derek and Viola off…entertain them or something while we get our copy of the Book of Shadows. Do you keep it at the shop or at the apartment? The spell in there will—”

  “Umm.” Berniece stopped at a red light.

  A bad feeling came over Rebecca, and she slowly turned her head toward Berniece. “What do you mean ‘umm’?”

  “I…I”—the light changed; the car stuttered, and she floored it—“remember that eBay thing I told you about at the cemetery?”

  Rebecca grabbed the strap above the door as the car whisked down a ramp by the train station. “Bernie! What about eBay?”

  “I got a hundred fifty dollars for our Litchfield book of shadows.”

  The Lobster Pot

  Somewhere near Newburyport, Derek steered the truck down I-95. From the radio, a country song mixed with static and irritated Rebecca. Viola hummed the tune.

  “California,” Rebecca muttered, staring out the window. Tall rock crops, blasted to make way for the highway, bordered the interstate. Water seeped through cracks in the granite and dripped off frozen parts; trees and shrubs grew from the mass’s confines. “I can’t believe she sold it to someone in—”