Hexenhaus

by Nikki McWatters

  ‘Are you staying at Samantha’s place?’ I ask her, and she looks a little coy and embarrassed.

  ‘No,’ she answers. ‘I’ve booked into a hotel.’

  ‘You have a nice break, Ms McLeod.’ Ben smiles.

  ‘Please call me Kirsten,’ she says. ‘I am so happy Paisley has made such wonderful friends. I can’t thank you guys enough for helping me pull this festival back into shape.’

  Emily is staying over to keep me company and the boys have come for the afternoon and for dinner to work on the Winter Solstice Festival. We’ve been spun out by the amount of work that we have to do. Thankfully Mum has helped us and had already secured five deposits from stallholders and the backing of four businesses in Bowral.

  ‘I just need this weekend to find some peace and get refreshed.’

  I look at her and think to myself that she has never looked less peaceful or refreshed. Her clothes look like they are hanging on coat hangers and her cheekbones are sharper than usual. I swear new crow’s feet have nested in the corners of her eyes.

  ‘Come back all fired up and relaxed at the same time, hey?’ I say to Mum, getting to my feet and giving her a firm hug as she passes us. Then I watch, palm to forehead to shade the glare, as she gets into the pale blue Volkswagen Beetle, splutters the engine to life and then reverses down the driveway.

  ‘Drive safely!’ I call as she toots the horn and my friends all give her a wave.

  The sun is just folding down over the roof of the cottage to the west and the afternoon will melt into a cool autumn evening shortly. It feels as if that last late afternoon burst of heat from the sun is intentional, like a daily swansong. Late afternoons are either a quick, windless furnace blast or a storm.

  ‘Let’s shake these rugs out and go inside,’ I say. ‘I’ve made an amazing vegetable lasagne for us all.’

  Inside we sit around the kitchen table that is the heart of the house. It’s where my mother told me about the birds and the bees, where I’ve done my homework, where Mum plays with her tarot cards and fans out client’s astrology charts when she is working with people who come in to see her. It’s where Mum has cooked for a string of would-be boyfriends, spinning her love spells into the sauces all to no avail. And where my mother shared the family book with me.

  ‘Does she have a ouija board?’ Brent laughs, plopping down into a chair, chin on hands, puppy dog’s eyes looking up at me. ‘We could communicate with the spirits.’

  ‘No.’ I laugh. ‘That’s weird dark stuff. Old Victorian medium nonsense. Mum’s not into talking to dead people.’

  ‘It’s all mumbo jumbo to me. Witches, wizards and ghosts.’ Brent shrugs.

  ‘Well, I’m sorry to disappoint you all but we’re just normal people here. The wizards and goblins can wait for the festival.’

  ‘What the hell do you think the Isaiah Hooper thing was all about?’ Ben asks, randomly. ‘I don’t get it. It was some kind of breakdown but why keep repeating your mum’s name? And why run away?’

  Everyone looks at me and I turn away and go to the sink for a glass of water. I take a deep breath and decide to test out my theory. ‘I think he was under pressure at home for a while and the session with Mum brought up some painful stuff to the surface. It happens in counselling. Things come up and it can be emotional. Mum thinks he was on the verge of a breakthrough and perhaps his parents interfered and he got caught in between.’

  ‘Weird stuff.’

  ‘No, just basic really,’ I nod. ‘I’ve been reading up on stuff like what happened to Isaiah. You’ve heard of the Salem witch-hunts?’

  Everyone nods except Brent.

  ‘Maybe because Mrs Hooper is always calling mum a witch, when Isaiah had some emotional breakthrough he interpreted it as having been bewitched or entranced. Our minds are powerful and our subconscious can sometimes overrule our conscious state. And fear is contagious, even more so when it’s irrational.’

  ‘So,’ Emily looks at me, ‘mind over matter? I guess that’s like the whole thing about positive thinking and creative visualisation and stuff. I can see how that kind of thing works. Maybe in this case, in the reverse.’

  ‘Exactly, Em,’ I say, banging a hand on the table for good measure. ‘Exactly. That’s what my mother’s Wiccan thing is all about. Accentuating the positive and eliminating the negative.’

  ‘Well, someone eliminated Isaiah Hooper, it seems,’ Brent says, always going that one step too far when shoving his big foot into his wide mouth.

  The conversation falls into an uneasy lull.

  ‘What do you think really happened to him?’ Ben asks. ‘I am kind of worried. It’s been weeks.’

  Em and I sit at the table and tell the boys about Mrs Hooper coming into our house and slapping Mum across the cheek.

  ‘That’s harsh,’ Ben says. ‘Is your mum pursuing an assault charge for that?’

  ‘No,’ I sigh. ‘Mum didn’t want to. She told Mrs Hooper she understood that she was upset and that she hoped her son would turn up okay and soon. She forgave her, which really riled Mrs Hooper.’

  ‘So why did Isaiah go to your mother for a crystal healing thing in the first place? That’s what I don’t get,’ Brent says, pushing a limp yellow rose petal that has fallen from the vase around the tabletop.

  ‘I don’t know,’ I muse. It’s something I have chased around my head every day. ‘Maybe he’d just had enough. Maybe he went to the local wise woman because he wasn’t finding any solace or help from his own church community. Maybe he needed to tell an outsider about his troubles. Only Isaiah can tell us the truth.’

  I stand up and pull out the pre-prepared square tray of lasagne from the fridge and put it into the oven. We’re all hungry because we forgot to eat lunch.

  ‘So the charge against my mother is kind of hanging, pending,’ I say, ‘because the alleged victim is missing. Obviously he can’t make a statement if he’s missing or mute. The other complaints all fell apart with some questioning because they were all from a bunch of troublemakers. Constable Amy weeded them out real quick.’

  ‘She’s scary, that copper, Amy.’ Brent laughs. ‘When Dean and I stole some bread from out the back of the bakery, she put us in the lock-up for the whole night and we were only twelve!’

  ‘Yes, I remember you telling me that story.’ I laugh. ‘But you will remember that it was your mother’s idea. To teach you a lesson. Have you ever stolen anything since?’

  ‘Only on Grand Theft Auto.’ He grins. ‘So I guess it did the trick.’

  ‘I know you’ve probably all seen the stupid rubbish that trolls have been putting all over Facebook about me and Mum,’ I say.

  ‘I know,’ Em says. ‘I’ve seen it all but didn’t want to say anything.’

  ‘Don’t feed the trolls,’ Brent shouts like a crazy person. ‘Never feed the trolls.’

  ‘And for the record,’ Ben says more seriously, ‘Brent did make some pretty lame jokes about it back when it all first blew up. Lots of people have, but he did not dare me to ask you out. That was all my own work and had nothing to do with this witch business.’

  ‘True that.’ Brent nods and grins. ‘It was all his own work.’

  I smile at Ben and feel a sense of calm settling on me. The one thing that is true and comforting in all this mess.

  We sit around for a bit longer, sharing our theories and ideas for getting stallholders. There is so much work to do and I am grateful for the distraction.

  Em’s got the laptop open and we’re searching for every hypnotherapist, new-age shop and even hippy sort of clothes stores from Sydney all the way to Canberra as that’s a nice sweep of the area around us for an hour or two in each direction. We slice up the list and delegate various businesses to each of us that we are going to have to cold-call on Monday.

  It’s six-thirty and the sky has just drifted away from a spectacular suns
et and is settling into a cool night when we hear the revving of car tyres outside and voices.

  I ignore it and pull the steaming lasagne from the oven, inhaling the rich smell of cheese, pasta and grilled vegetables: aubergine, zucchini, sweet potato and caramelised onion. It’s my signature dish.

  There is banging at the door to the shop for the second time in weeks and it unnerves me, like a random pinch, summoning up the awful memory of Annabel Hooper and her rage. During business hours when Mum is trading, the door always opens with a gentle tinkle of bells. Visitors and customers are welcomed with that sound and people tend to talk in hushed tones in the shop as it really does feel like a place of worship.

  I open the deadlock and pull the door, half expecting Mrs Hooper again, but it is Liam Chandling from school. The beast of the playground. I open my mouth like a goldfish and blink hard. The air around me suddenly becomes thin. Behind him in the haze of the orange streetlight I can see four or five other kids, some with casks of wine swinging from their hands, and Liam’s breath hits me hard, whisky or bourbon, a sweet smell made more bitter by his words.

  ‘Hey, you sexy little sorceress,’ he slurs, clearly very drunk. ‘Where’s the party at? We heard you’re home alone and might need some fun and some company. We all like a bit of fun, don’t we? Party at the witch house, where every day is Halloween!’

  He turns and yelps like a werewolf at the crew behind him who all cheer and hoot drunkenly. I feel numb and my feet are rooted to the ground. I freeze, unable to move.

  Terrified, I watch as Liam pushes past me into the shop and the others follow. A moment later I come to life, infused with anger, a wounded bull, a poked hornet.

  ‘Get out of here,’ I scream at the vile sludge of Moss Vale kids forcing their way into the shop, laughing menacingly, touching things, pocketing stuff.

  ‘Emily!’ I scream. ‘Em! Call the police. Call Amy.’

  Ben and Brent appear in the room behind the shop as Liam busts his way into my mother’s healing room, where there is a massage table and candles and a tray of various crystals.

  I see Liam climb onto the massage table and call out to me.

  ‘Come on, little witch,’ he laughs maniacally, ‘Liam needs some of your mama’s healing.’

  Two of the girls who’ve spilled in behind him are snapping photos of him, giggling, and he takes a selfie while lying there. I cannot believe this is happening.

  Ben and Brent are shouting something and Liam is getting up, tripping, and stumbling through to us. More people, maybe another four or five, are walking around inside the shop.

  Someone throws a punch and I scream. I can hear things breaking. Smashing. Someone is smoking a cigarette and the smell hits my nose. It is a sacrilege in such an aromatic and protective haven.

  As fast as I can I push through the crush of scantily dressed bodies and get through the door to my kitchen where I see Emily on the phone looking frantic. I slam the door and jam the bolt into the socket, locking it, and then I run to the back door to lock it as well. Emily is talking in a high squeaky voice and then nods to no one and hangs up.

  ‘They’re on the way,’ she says in a rush. ‘I rang triple zero. Cops are coming from Moss Vale and Constable Amy is in the car. Where are Ben and Brent?’

  I take in a sharp breath. Oh no. I’ve locked them out in the shop with the gatecrashers.

  ‘I’ll go around the front and wait for the cops and see what I can do to help the boys, but don’t let anyone through the doors, okay? It’s one thing to trash Mum’s shop but I’m not letting them in here to dump all over our home.’

  Em nods and I slip out the back into the night and run barefoot around the corner to the front of the shop and the main street. Ben is wiping his bloodied nose and Constable Amy is already screeching to a halt in her police car, blue lights dancing from the rooftop. She runs across the street, still dressed in her jeans and blue jumper. She looks at me as she holds up a black truncheon. This is surreal. People going for early evening walks have stopped to watch the spectacle and another car full of teenagers does a screaming U-turn and burns back north out of town, the stink of rubber belching up from the asphalt.

  ‘The Moss Vale guys will get them,’ Constable Amy mutters. ‘You okay, Paisley? Ben. You’re bleeding.’

  ‘It’s nothing,’ he mumbles. ‘I’ve got a sensitive nose that bleeds like a tap. He barely touched me.’

  ‘They’re trashing the shop,’ I say, tears spilling. ‘It’s Liam Chandling, he’s the main one, and there are maybe six or seven others in there. Where’s Brent?’ I ask Ben.

  He shrugs and the three of us press through the darkened threshold into the shop where we see Liam and Brent wrestling on the ground, throwing wayward punches that largely miss their mark.

  ‘Hold it right there!’ Constable Amy shouts. ‘Police. Stop and put your hands where I can see them.’

  Brent rolls away from Liam and crouches, panting and holding up his hands.

  ‘He’s with us. Brent,’ I whisper at Constable Amy. ‘He’s okay.’

  She is all business. She is not the sleepy town, friendly copper Amy – right now she is American cop-show Amy and she is not messing around. I look at her gun in its holster at her side and wonder if she would use it if pressed.

  ‘Now!’ she shouts at two girls who try to skirt past her. ‘Where’s your mother? Paisley, where’s your mother?’

  ‘Not here. Away until Monday. She’s going to be so freaked out. How did they know I was home alone?’ I ask, turning to look at Ben. ‘How did they know?’

  He just shrugs.

  I look back to the shabby mess of teenagers in the shop, standing there half drunk, hands over their heads, and with girls tottering on designer high heels, the boys glowering with testosterone. Brent scrambles over to us and I see that the leggiest of the girls is Liam’s girlfriend, Ben’s ex, Lara. I glare at her and she glares back at me with glazed eyes framed by sleek bird-in-flight eyebrows. I grab Ben’s hand and make sure she sees it.

  ‘All of you,’ Constable Amy shouts, ‘outside.’

  I hear the sirens in the distance, and I stand back to let the intruders file out. I look into each and every one of their eyes, boring into them, and when they are all standing in a straight line outside I grab a wand from a shelf. It is a handcrafted birch wand with a round blue crystal on top. I smile at them, point the wand and mutter something under my breath. Liam Chandling stares at me and gives a hyena-like laugh but the others, particularly the girls, look spooked. I leave them with that thought as I go back in to survey the damage, deciding not to call Mum and ruin her mini-break. I’ll ring my father instead.

  While the others are cleaning up I call Dad’s home but his answering machine is on. I try his mobile. My mother answers it.

  VERONICA

  BAMBERG, FRANCONIA, 1629

  After what felt like months of relentless physical tortures, between long healing weeks when the monsters let me recover just enough to withstand more pain, I felt utterly wrecked but not quite torn to pieces. I had stopped talking when they began asking after my brother. What possible reason could they have to need a small boy in the Hexenhaus? As the son of the wealthy Junius he might pose a threat to the Hexenbischof’s claim on my parents’ estate but the house of evil did not have a rack small enough to break his little bones.

  Every few weeks the portly, ruddy man with the swamp-green eyes came to me and twisted the thumbscrews, delighting in my tears of pain. I think he enjoyed hurting me more than the others and then I found out why. One day after my toes had been doused and set alight, he pulled something from his coat. I felt the blood drain from my face. It was my father’s letter.

  ‘Who delivered this to you? Your father’s flying devils? I will have a name.’

  I should have destroyed the letter, not taken it with us when we first left Bamberg in our little cart back i
n autumn. But it was the last communication I had with my father and despite the awful contents of the letter, I had treasured it. I took the torture that day and thought of my father’s bravery. I did not give away the Jesuit’s name despite the blinding pain.

  ‘The Junius heir, the boy, your brother, where is he?’ the Hexenbischof demanded. He would slap a cane across my bare back or dunk my head into cold vats of water, alternating these with plunging my legs to the knees into boiling water laced with lime. A film of perspiration would shimmer on his enormous forehead and upper lips, beading on the bristles of his moustache.

  ‘My poor brother died of exposure in the woods,’ I told the man at first, but he did not believe me.

  ‘You were in good condition when we picked you up,’ he would exclaim. ‘Soft and clean and well-fed. How is it that the boy fared so poorly?’ He insisted that my brother was being housed by a supporter, someone sympathising with my family.

  Eventually my words dried up and I had no more to give him. I would let him flay me of all my skin and drown me in the tub before I would reveal anything of the woods, Frau Berchta or my dear brother. My own name had come too easily from my lips but Hans was safe from any tortures they inflicted on me because I loved him more, far more, than my own life.

  I had begun to refuse the scraps brought to us from the pauper house. I would sooner let myself waste to dust than be burned.

  I had nothing to live for, knowing well that I would never be released from my tortures except through death and the one thing that kept me tethered to life was my obsessive need to resist being broken down. I wanted the name Junius to be remembered, even by these devils who delighted in hurting women, children and men with some wealth or land that could be sucked up by the Hexenbischof. I wanted to die on my feet with my name intact. I was no witch and I would not have them force me to say that I was. The only reward for a confession was a swifter death.