The Witch and Warlock MEGAPACK ®: 25 Tales of Magic-Users

by Lawrence Watt-Evans

  “The truth—the truth—” the branches murmured above me, “you must—face—it—” How often had my parents said that!

  And yet, what was the truth…reality? Surely not what Rowan believed. That she had retracted her accusation was little comfort. Had she done so merely to avoid conflict? Or worse, because she was afraid of me? Even Dana believed I held a secret power within me.

  I opened my eyes to erase the horror projected on the interior of my lids, but still I saw it—the hurtling car, the great, trusting, unsuspecting dog by the road, the deliberate cruelty that had made me want to destroy. To me, in that moment, it hadn’t been a boy—not even a human being—and my mind had expunged it, like an obscenity erased from a blackboard. What was worse, aware as I was now that It had been a boy and human, I couldn’t honestly feel regret. I wouldn’t wish him dead now, but neither could I wish him back again. Yet how horrible for Melvin to come with the hearse and find his own son! And Elspeth—what was she doing now? Did they know about my outburst?

  If they did, surely they didn’t believe in such medieval things as curses! Hadn’t their own ancestors been accused of laying curses, and didn’t Peacehaven repudiate such ideas? No matter what I might have cried out in the horror of the moment, it could not possibly have caused their son’s death.

  But what disturbed me most was that Rowan had linked Junior’s death with her father’s. I’d thought the wound nearly healed, but it had only closed over, an abscess poisoning her young, misunderstanding mind—and for me, recalling the memory of that night in Switzerland, that hideous night…

  I’d been lying in our bedroom, content, enjoying the child moving within me, when Owen had entered. He was drunk—or high—and I’d recoiled from the stench of sweat that pasted his red curls to his brow and dampened his shirt. His hand dug cruelly into my breast as he turned me to him, the other hand forcing itself between my legs.

  “Not tonight, Owen,” I pleaded, trying to remove his eager hands. In this state, what might he do to the baby?

  But my protest only succeeded in inflaming him. He flung himself across me, sinking his teeth into my breast. I threw my knee into his groin and caught him off balance, but he lunged at me again. In desperation, I rolled out of the bed and reached behind me, groping for something on my dressing table. My fingers closed over a tall, cut-glass perfume vial.

  “Touch me and I’ll use this!”

  My words penetrated his fogged brain. For a moment I thought he would attack again and I held the bottle ready, but something had gone out of him and he hunched out of the room. I slammed the door and slumped against the frame, listening to him prowl the living room, kicking furniture, throwing books off the shelves. A vase crashed to the floor. Then the score of Lucifer blared from the tape deck.

  I became aware of my fingers still cramped around the perfume bottle and set it down, then sank back onto the bed, clutching my gown, feeling defiled, contaminated. By my own husband! By Owen, to whom I would have given anything—no, not anything, not my self-respect. I had been handled like a beast by a beast—and all because of the silvery white powder that had hollowed out Owen’s mind and body until he was no more than a shell wherein the demon could flourish. This was what had assaulted me—not Owen—and it would wear off in a few hours. Tomorrow, if he took no more cocaine, he would be himself. This time perhaps he would listen to me, would realize this couldn’t go on.

  I had sat up—new fears gripping me. Rowan mustn’t see him like this, and he was in no state to be left alone. He might run out on the mountainside and stumble over the cliff or fall into the frigid Alpine stream that boiled down the nearby slope. Snatching up my robe, I ran into the living room, where the tape had just reeled into “Frenzy.” How I hated that melody! Its furious staccato, the throat-raking emotion and wild intensity—using the drug to perfect these had made him into the creature that had invaded my bedroom. I snapped off the recorder and was heading for the front door when sounds from Rowan’s bedroom halted me. I pushed open her door.

  “Will it hurt, Daddy?”

  Owen was crouching over Rowan, who lay with her baby doll clasped to her breast. It had belonged to my mother, a shell-tinted bisque head on a stuffed fabric body.

  “No, darling,” his voice grated. “You are my beautiful little queen—so soft and white!” His hand moved down—“Don’t push it away. Let me—let me, please! It would feel so good—throw that damn doll away!” He yanked it out of her arms and flung it on the floor. The head exploded.

  “Why did you do that, Daddy?”

  “I’ll get you another. I’ll get you all the dolls in the world—only let me…”

  “Daddy, you’re heavy—”

  I caught Owen by the hair tumbling over the nape of his neck and yanked him back, bringing his face within inches of mine. “May God strike you dead!” I screamed, thrusting him away from me so that he hit the floor. Slowly he turned over and began to crawl out of the room. Rowan was crying softly behind me. At the door, Owen grabbed the knob, pulled himself up and stood there rocking back and forth like an unstrung marionette, the fires dying out of his eyes and his jaw gone slack. I tried to push him out of the room, but he leaned back on my hands, digging in with his long legs. Summoning all my strength, I finally managed to steer him into the guest suite, where I undressed him and put him to bed.

  When I returned, Rowan was trying to fit bits of bisque together and crooning to her headless child.

  “We’ll get you another,” I consoled her.

  “I know. Daddy said so,” she replied listlessly.

  “Oh, darling, I’m so sorry,” I exclaimed, putting my arms around her, but she pushed me away.

  “Why did you knock Daddy down?”

  “Because he was sick.” That didn’t make any sense. I could read it on her face: you don’t hit sick people.

  “He was delirious,” I lied. “He didn’t know what he was doing.” That, at least, was true. “He might have hurt you.”

  “He only wanted to love me—he said so. It was an accident.”

  I was dumbfounded—what could I say? “Of course, he loves you, sweetheart. But your Daddy is sick in a different way and sometimes you have to be rough with that kind of sickness. You know how the doctor takes a little hammer and hits you on the knee sometimes.”

  “And tickles my foot,” she giggled. I hoped I’d made her forget, but the scared, white look returned as she continued to toy with the jagged shards. “They don’t fit together,” she mourned. “My dolly’s broken and so is Daddy.”

  “Come on, sweetheart, I’ll tuck you in,” I had said, but she shrugged me off, turning an old, old face to me.

  “I don’t need you anymore,” was all she replied.

  * * * *

  Here was the beginning of her hostility. In the stress of the moment, my mind had blanked out those fatal words, “May God strike you dead!” But she had remembered, and now, as I lay here in the woods, so did I. “May God strike you dead!” And He had done so.

  But surely God hadn’t rolled that truck over Owen’s Mercedes at my bidding. God commands. He doesn’t obey. Curses are only words and they are nothing. But wrong! Prayers, too, are words.

  So this was why Rowan shunned me, why she hovered over Cariad. If I could destroy their father, mightn’t I destroy them, too?

  But now that she was older, didn’t she understand what Owen had been trying to do? Apparently she had repressed his actions just as thoroughly as I had my terrible words until this moment. Well, I’d wanted her to forget, hadn’t I? Hadn’t I fostered the notion that her Daddy could do no wrong? Shielded her from the effects of his cocaine addiction?

  I had kept Rowan’s memory of her father untarnished, no matter what it cost me. I suppose I’d hoped that as she matured she’d gradually come to understand, although to explain to her what O
wen had been trying to do to her that night was unthinkable. But after today, what hope had I?

  I longed to confide in Dr. Brun, but he’d admired Owen’s work and I wanted everyone to remember my husband for the good in him, for the pleasure he’d given them. He’d taken cocaine, not to indulge himself, but to perfect his art—like the scientist whose experiments lead him to create the monster that destroys him.

  Oh yes, these I had done: kept Owen’s image intact in Rowan’s eyes, shielded him from the world, given Cariad her name in his memory, and sought to find excuse and counterbalance for his misdeeds—but now I was faced with the truth. I had done these things more out of duty and pride than forgiveness. For Owen lay on my heart like a stone and I would never, never truly forgive him!

  Sunlight seeped through the fan vaulting of the branches overhead. Natural incenses overpowered me. I drifted back to the happy times before those terrible years—back, back—before we’d ever heard of a show named Lucifer—before there was a Rowan toddling around our sunny, plant-filled Village apartment—back to the first days of our marriage when Owen and I would take the ferry over to Staten Island and walk along the beach, stooping now and then to empty sand from our shoes—and we’d lie on the sand, listening to the wild, sweet song of the sea—and I’d reach up to touch Owen’s face as he bent over me…this was not Staten Island!—and this was not Owen!…this was the one who always came to me in this twilight world, his face a shadow beneath his broad-brimmed, high, buckled hat, his great cape wrapped around me as I nestled against his heart…then the harsh cry of a gull slashing past—oh, what did I do?—was it something I said?—why did he leave me?…come back, oh, come back!…must this dream always turn out this way—oh, dream it again and make it turn out right…

  And he was there again… I’d not let him get away this time…my hand traced the fine, firm features…

  “Mitti,” a voice said gently.

  Mitti? Who was that? My name was Mary…Mitti was on the other side of my lids…

  My lashes fluttered open. He was still there, but the hat was gone and the eyes were those of Gregory Towne.

  Chapter Seven

  “Oh, I beg your pardon—I guess I was dreaming,” I stammered, withdrawing my hand.

  “I knew it was too good to be true,” he sighed, seating himself with his back to the ash. The sun filtering through the leaves glinted on his blond hair and highlighted the rugged planes of his face. He had stuck his glasses into his shirt pocket and this was the first time I’d seen him without them. Who did he remind me of—Gareth? But Gareth had known how to laugh.

  “I was dreaming that Owen—my husband—had come back,” I explained, “and then it was someone else—someone I’ve known for a long time, but only in dreams. Haven’t you ever had a recurring dream?”

  He broke off a dried fern and drew it gently across my nose. “Strange you should mention that. For a moment, when I saw you lying there, it was as if my favorite dream had come to life.”

  Boy, what a line! And I had let myself in for it!

  “She’s always blonde, though, and your hair is dark.”

  “I’ll bet she bleaches her hair,” I teased. Was it possible he was serious?

  “Not her hair. She doesn’t belong to this century. She’s a natural wheaten blonde—not that I prefer blondes,” he amended hastily. “You know what your hair reminds me of?”

  He didn’t belong to this century either—a swain, not a swinger, I decided.

  “Brown satin,” he answered himself. “Like an evening gown my mother had. She was beautiful in it. Your hair has that sheen and,” he lifted one of my long locks with his fern, “where the sunlight strikes it, it has all the colors of the rainbow.” He paused and I waited, both expectant and wary, but he only said, “Forgive me—I hope you don’t think I was being too personal.”

  “This is the only nice thing that’s happened all day.”

  “I could have guessed,” he replied. “Dana told me you’d had a severe shock.”

  “No worse than she. Oh, Greg, did she tell you about Freya? And—and the accident?” I was close to losing control again. His hands took firm hold of my shoulders.

  “I covered the story,” he said. “Junior asked for what he got. I’m sorry for his parents, but in a way it was their fault, too.”

  “They may think it was mine.”

  “Yours!”

  “I—I cursed him when I saw him intentionally run the dog down,” I confessed, feeling both relieved and foolish in the telling of it.

  “I heard. I would have done the same.”

  I stared at him. “Who told you?”

  “I overheard Mrs. Carrier tell Irv Good—the sheriff—when he came up to question witnesses.”

  “Then it’ll be all over town,” I groaned.

  “Unfortunately, yes. But you still had nothing to do with Junior’s missing that turn.”

  “I hope Elspeth and Melvin realize that.”

  “That may be a problem,” he frowned. “Elspeth’s naturally morbid. Melvin was a fool to let her see the body.” He stopped at the sight of my stricken face.

  Leaf shadows pressed in on me and I shuddered. “I wish I could do something to help them.”

  “Lucian was with them when I left. He’ll comfort them.”

  I dug in the moss absently, heedless of the dirt collecting under my fingernails. “Are you sure? There’s something about him that—that disturbs me. I haven’t been to church yet for that reason…”

  Cowbells in the distance tolled an angelus. We sat there in silence until a wren somewhere in the wood put an end to our reverie.

  “How’s the puppy doing?” I asked.

  “Dana thinks he’s going to make it. She’s rigged up an incubator out of a box and a light bulb. What’ll you name him?”

  I hadn’t thought about that, but it was nice to feel life could resume with a certain amount of normalcy.

  “Any ideas?”

  “How about ‘Caesar’?”

  “No, sounds too much like a Great Dane, but if you mean the manner of his birth, why not ‘Macduff’?”

  “Who ‘was from his mother’s womb untimely ripped’? Not bad! He looks like a shaggy Scot.”

  A wave of guilt washed over me again. I leaned against the tree, fighting for equilibrium in the dizzy whirl of images around me—the boy’s cruelty, the cruelty within me responding, Freya lying there, suffering, Rowan’s accusation and the fear underlying it—and that last night with Owen. I bit my lip to hold back the tears.

  “I came to talk to you about the pageant.” Greg’s change of subject was deliberate, commanding, steadying. “—to remind you that you promised to help with the art work.”

  “I haven’t forgotten,” I said, brushing some teardrops from my cheeks. “But I’ll need material on Salem’s history.”

  “There’s an excellent Salem collection up in your tower and I’ll help you.” He rolled over on his stomach and looked up at me quizzically. “You can start with my script. I just happen to have a copy here.” He pulled a bulky manuscript out of a small briefcase he had with him. Our hands touched as I took it, sending a chain reaction through every cell in my body. Yet it was not a purely physical sensation. It was more a feeling of recognition, of having known the touch of this hand before. There was both pleasure and distaste m it.

  “You know so much more about the theater than I,” he was saying. “I’m almost embarrassed to show this to you. I’d appreciate any suggestions you might have.”

  A footnote on the first page caught my eye. “What does this mean—The War of the Covens?”

  “That’s the title of my doctoral dissertation. It’s my theory that New England, in colonial times, was divided into any number of covens practicing witchcraft under a distinct caste s
ystem. In other words, not only were there covens among artisans and farmers, but among the upper class, who employed popular superstition to their own advantage. It wouldn’t have been new. According to Margaret Murray, the Plantagenets were practicing witches.”

  “But strict Puritans? Brought up to abhor witchcraft?”

  “Only when the other guy did it. The Puritans didn’t hesitate to use fire to fight fire. They relied on ‘wise women’ or ‘white witches’ like a certain Mrs. Carver, whose ‘shining spirits’ convinced Cotton Mather that another storm of witchcraft was about to descend on Massachusetts. And Mather himself practiced exorcism. According to his Memorable Providences, he drove demons out of the Goodwin children in Boston, especially the girl Martha.”

  “Yes, Dr. Brun mentioned that after—after Rowan had that strange seizure. I was surprised to find he knew so much about our New England history.”

  “Dr. Brun is an amazing man.”

  “He seemed to think Rowan’s symptoms were much like Martha Goodwin’s. Were they really?”

  “So much so I didn’t know if I should mention it. Your little girl never had access to Mather’s book, did she?”

  I shook my head, my face flaming. “Are you intimating that Rowan was faking?”