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

by Lawrence Watt-Evans

  “How two lives like Calvin’s and Mather’s could produce such extremes of good and evil was the subject of my master’s thesis. Ever since then I’ve had dreams of Servetus writhing in the flames or George Burroughs dangling at the end of a rope, and I awaken with an excruciating sense of personal guilt. Does that mean I am the reincarnation of Calvin or Mather? Or both? I’ve no evidence to support that. All my dreams can be traced to what I’ve read, even the one about vaccination.”

  Cold tingles were doing a staccato on my skin. “Yet that dream’s almost a continuation of mine,” I exclaimed. “It’s uncanny—you and I knowing each other now and dreaming of past lives in the same chapter of history. Is that how reincarnation works?”

  He set down his cup. “According to theory, people who were part of an especially traumatic karma in one era tend to be reincarnated together to work out that same karma at another time. However, they may switch roles. For instance, your father in one incarnation might be your husband, brother, son, or just an acquaintance in the next.”

  “It could get rather incestuous, couldn’t it?”

  “Not at all. Reincarnation has nothing to do with blood lines. One is not necessarily reborn into the same family or even the same race. Only the spiritual part of us reincarnates. Incest is purely physical—as is one’s sex. A woman in one life may be a man in the next. Jesus said, ‘For when they shall rise from the dead, they neither marry, or are given in marriage, but are as the angels which are in heaven.’ I think he meant that the soul is universal and has no sex.”

  “Do you suppose everybody here in Peacehaven today once played a role in the Salem hysteria?” I wondered, overwhelmed by the awesomeness of the thought.

  He didn’t answer, but sat there pondering, his hands clasped around his knee, staring off into—another time?

  “You make that wall seem paper thin, Dr. Brun—as if I could reach out and put my hand right through. If that is true and there’s anything to the theory of karma, does Peacehaven really have any control over its own destiny?”

  “There’s always free will,” he reminded me.

  “True.” And at the moment I willed not to speak of how the man in the tall hat—William Stoughton—and Greg had become inextricably interwoven in my mind. That would be revealing much too much.

  “If reincarnation could be proved,” I said after a moment, “it could turn the world around.”

  “Ja,” he chuckled, “instead of looking up their ancestors, people would be charting their past lives.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  Charity and Damon arrived unexpectedly after dinner. Rowan had gone back upstairs, Dr. Brun had fallen asleep over a book, and I was trying to learn Winnebago basketry from Dana. Occasionally my glance would stray to Damon’s mother, who sat with Cari in the large wingback chair playing the old game about the church and the steeple. It was an enchanting tableau—the old lady leaning forward, her softly waving white hair shimmering beneath the table lamp, while Cari leaned unsteadily against the thin knees. With her golden ringlets, her fawn eyes, and her delicate pink skin, she might have been my bisque doll—why did I have to think of that?

  The back door slammed, shattering the moment, and Damon strode in, carrying a bottle of wine and one of brandy. “We’re going to celebrate,” he announced.

  “Celebrate what?”

  “Oh, your being here,” he replied vaguely.

  “I’ll get glasses,” I said, rising. “Come on into the kitchen and play bartender.”

  “No, don’t go, Mrs. Decorah,” Damon said to Dana, who was gathering up her weaving. “This includes you.”

  She sat down again. “Mitti, I’d prefer some cranberry juice if you have it,” she said, casting a warning glance at Mother Carrier.

  “Where’s Rowan?” Charity asked.

  “Sleeping, I hope,” I replied. “She’s been home with a cold and I want her well enough to go to school tomorrow.”

  “Oh.” She looked disappointed as she set her knitting bag on the floor and sat down near her mother-in-law.

  Out in the kitchen I arranged glasses on the tray, got the cranberry juice out of the refrigerator, poured some into a small glass for Cari, and filled two of the wine glasses.

  “Come on, Mitti, don’t tell me you’re going WCTU on me, too,” Damon protested.

  “I ought to,” I said severely. “One is for Dana and one for your mother.”

  “She won’t enjoy being treated like a child.”

  “But she’s very fond of cranberry juice and—isn’t it better for her? I mean—” I paused, embarrassed. “Forgive me, she does have a problem, doesn’t she?”

  “Did Dana tell you that?” He emptied one of the glasses into the sink and proceeded to fill it with wine. “So Dana’s been telling tales, has she? Mother staggers at times because of her arthritis. There’s no record of alcoholism in our family. Drinkers, yes, but they could handle it. So can Mother a glass of wine.”

  He picked up the tray and brushed past me, leaving me with tears stinging my eyes. As I stood there wiping them, I realized I’d forgotten to carry out the garbage. I picked it up and started for the back door. Voices drifting in from the living room made me pause.

  “What is this, son?” I heard Mother Carrier ask.

  “Something the doctor ordered,” he replied.

  “Wine? Oh no, I don’t think I’d better, Damon.”

  “A glass won’t hurt, Mother.”

  I was seething as I deposited the garbage outside, and I gave the back door a vicious swing. Wood closed on wood over the middle finger of my right hand. I reeled into the kitchen, sick with pain. As the others circled about me, Dr. Brun bandaged my finger and Damon gave me a shot for pain. I refused to lie down.

  “I’ll be all right,” I assured them. “Dana, would you put Cari to bed?”

  “I hope it isn’t serious, Mitti,” Mother Carrier said as Dana lifted Cariad off her lap. There was a slight slur in her speech and wine had dribbled on her blue dress. I kissed Cari and gave her a hug.

  “Donwanna go to bed,” she began to wail.

  “It’s past bedtime,” I said. “Dana will tell you a story.”

  I sat down giddily on the sofa. The pain-killer was beginning to take effect. Damon brought me a snifter of brandy.

  “Here, take this, Mitti,” he told me. “It’ll be better for you than wine.”

  I sipped it slowly, feeling the warmth steal through my limbs. He seated himself beside me. “We came up here on business tonight, Mitti,” he said, “but if you don’t feel up to it, we could postpone it until tomorrow.”

  Charity looked up from her knitting. “It can’t wait too long.”

  “She’s right,” he said. “We need to know your answer soon.”

  A warning bell pinged. What was Damon trying to do? He knew liquor and pain-killers didn’t mix. I swirled the brandy in the glass, sniffing it, but left the rest untasted.

  “Damon, h-have you s-seen our old home l-lately,” his mother remarked irrelevantly, almost hidden in the wingback chair.

  “Yes, Mother.” His voice was wearily patient. “The front porch is already under water. It won’t be standing long.”

  “I loved that old house. It’s l-like me—s-sinking.”

  I’d never heard her talk like that.

  “It was a l-lovely house,” she continued. “Wasn’t it, son?”

  “Yes, Mother,” through his teeth. He turned back to us. “She’s right. It was one of the fine old places here.”

  “Remember the clubhouse you built in the maple tree?” she persisted.

  “Yes, Mother!” He knocked his pipe impatiently against the ashtray on the end table. “My grandfather was the richest man in town at one time and then the river washed his holdings away. I grew up hat
ing the river, and I mean to prove someday that the Carrier name can’t be dragged down by a blind, mindless aberration.”

  “And I’ve always loved it,” I replied, surprised at his vehemence, “even though it took Gareth. But that wasn’t the river’s fault.”

  “You still blame Iris for that, don’t you?” Charity’s tone was as sharp as her knitting needles.

  I wasn’t going to get into the old argument. “As you say, Damon,” I continued, ignoring the interruption, “it’s a blind, mindless thing, but human error enters in, too. Forgive me, I must be honest. It seems to me you’ve done very well. You have the only medical practice in town, a beautiful home; you belong to the country club; you’re respected in the community—”

  “That’s not enough,” he retorted, his pipe dangling between his teeth. “The Carriers were leaders in Peacehaven. My grandfather and great-grandfather wanted to build a Utopia here. They were dreamers, but they were practical men, too—honest, hardworking. They chose the low land because it was richer and there was a brisk river traffic. Boats from as far away as New Orleans used to dock at Carrier’s landing. Then, bit by bit, it all crumbled away. Was it drink or laziness that wrecked their dreams? No, it was a goddam freak of nature. Yes, I have all those things you mention, Mitti, but I’m still on mortgage hill. My income barely exceeds my expenses. I want latitude to do some really meaningful things, to make the name Carrier a household word again, to develop Peacehaven into the metropolis my grandfather dreamed of.”

  His voice trembled and his eyes flashed with the fire of a zealot. “For years I’ve struggled to come up with a workable idea and at last I have it. You, Martin,” he turned to Dr. Brun, “with your knowledge of archaeology and your worldwide connections, can be of inestimable help when the time comes. But you hold the key to the entire venture, Mitti.”

  “I? But I’m so new here. I really don’t know what I could do.”

  “Before I go any further, let me say that our committee is prepared to incorporate and issue stock whenever final arrangements are made. In addition to Tyler Bishop, the bank president, and myself, the group includes Caleb Toothaker, Melvin Osburn, Sheriff Good, and others. Naturally, we’ll need outside financing and Tyler has arranged for that, too. He’s been in touch with a large Chicago syndicate and they’re practically committed. I have two alternate proposals to make to you, Mitti—or a possible third. Under any circumstances, you would stand to profit considerably.”

  “But I have nothing to invest,” I said, puzzled. “Aunt Bo left me property, but not a tremendous amount of money. Next year when things are settled, I intend to look for a job.”

  He laid a sweaty hand on mine. “You don’t have to invest a thing, Mitti—not in cash anyway. You’ll merely have to sit back and clip coupons.”

  I laughed uneasily. Where was the catch? Now Damon was on his feet, pacing. “This isn’t just a hastily conceived idea. We’ve been quietly picking up options on a number of properties around here, principally the Hobbs farm.

  “We plan to build a combination of resort and residential condominiums on these lands—an entire new city, with homes and schools, a shopping mall and recreation areas, including a country club and a golf course. Where did I put that brandy? Oh, here!” He reached around the wingback chair and picked up the bottle from the lamp table.

  “I’ll get you a brandy glass,” I offered.

  “Never mind, this’ll do,” he said, pouring the liquor into his empty wine glass. Charity’s needles, which had stopped, resumed their clicking.

  “You know that low part of the Hobbs farm? We’ll dredge that out to create an artificial lake. Someday we plan to dig a canal to the river to divert some of that water and reclaim part of the old Peacehaven, but that would be far in the future.”

  “How are you going to attract people out here?” I wanted to know. “Madison’s the closest city of any size and it’s beyond convenient commuting distance.”

  “Are Vail and Aspen dependent on a neighboring metropolis?” he countered. “Condominiums are a fabulous investment.”

  “But those are ski resorts,” I reminded him.

  “Granted. We have to have something to attract people out here—something unique—several things in fact. One feature would be the pageant. Some I’m not at liberty to discuss at the moment, but one involves you, Mitti. Therefore, we are offering you the chance to become a major stockholder.”

  “But I told you, I’ve no money to invest.”

  “You have something far more valuable—the cave at the rear of your property. The local legend of a treasure cave is Peacehaven’s chief claim to fame at the moment, did you know that? Even more so than our Salem history, although the pageant may change that. Seems some journalist got wind of the cave and included it in a book about lost treasures, like the Lost Dutchman mine and the fabled treasure of Oak Island, so it’s not altogether unknown. Now I happen to think it’s no more than a myth—what about it, Martin? Aren’t you beginning to agree?”

  Dr. Brun shook his head wearily. “So far I’ve found nothing, but I haven’t given up. I warn you, however, there’s no evidence of Indian burials in Mitti’s cave.”

  “Did you explore it completely?”

  “No, but I followed each passage until it narrowed so I could go no farther. Since the rock formations predated the period of Indian occupation in this region, I made no attempt to open them up.”

  “Frankly, I hope there is no Indian burial cave, because we can capitalize on it when we develop Mitti’s cave.”

  “When you do what?” I straightened up. Charity dropped a stitch.

  “Depending on what sort of a deal we make with you, of course, Mitti,” Damon said, sucking on his pipe. “What we envision is the construction of a gigantic totem pole over the entrance, and a rustic bridge over the crevice that would lead into the two large rooms behind. We’d blast out the stalagmites and stalactites, except a few for atmosphere, and install a lighting system and showcases so we could house a collection of American Indian artifacts. Then, farther back in the cave we could plant skeletons and pottery and Indian jewelry to make it look like the treasure cave. If we can ream out the deepest passages, we might let our customers be amateur archaeologists and dig for treasure themselves—for a fee, of course. We’d salt the passages with arrowheads and beads and broken pottery so the lucky ones would get a reward for their labors—good PR, you know. I’ve read there’s a place down south where you can dig for gems at so much an hour. And your Prince Madog story, Martin, would be fabulous publicity—Welsh Indians dug up in Wisconsin!”

  “Excuse me,” he said, “I am ignorant of such things—would tourist attractions induce people to buy homes here?”

  Damon knocked ashes from his pipe into the fireplace. “Not by themselves, no. But the tourist trade would bring in commerce, shops and offices, and the area set aside for light industry would necessitate the construction of homes for workers. In the meantime, the resort area would be developed at one end of the lake with, perhaps, a Playboy-type club. Eventually we’d have the Lake Geneva of western Wisconsin. Then would come the condominiums.”

  “Now wait a minute, Damon,” I objected. “Those are imposing ideas, I’ll admit, but they seem terribly ‘iffy’ to me. Why here? Because of a cave that wouldn’t even be authentic?”

  “I hardly think a Chicago syndicate would be interested if the project weren’t feasible,” he said condescendingly.

  “But if I were to consent,” I ignored the rebuff, “how would you give people access? Would you extend my driveway to the back of the bluff? No, thank you, that’s out!”

  “That wouldn’t be practical,” he said. “We’d come in from the other direction where it isn’t so precipitous. We’ve been buying up options on right-of-way acquisitions on properties between the Hobbs farm and the state highway.” He stopped pa
cing and resumed his seat beside me, one hand on my knee. “Now, our plan is to make you one of the principal stockholders or partners in the scheme. You wouldn’t have to invest one cent—just your land. Also, we’d like to take an option on Mrs. Decorah’s property—that old house is historic and fits in with the pageant. In your case, if you prefer, you could make an outright sale of the land to us and we’d be prepared to take out an option right now. Or you might lease us the land.”

  “I’d have to give up the Phoenix?”

  “Oh no! The land would be divided. If Charity had inherited the property, then we would have devoted the entire parcel to this enterprise, but you can hardly be expected to give up your home. Naturally, Mitti, you needn’t make a decision tonight. This is too big a thing to be dealt with lightly.” He leaned back and eyed me through the pipe smoke. “Now,” dismissing the subject, “how about a game of bridge? Do you play, Dr. Brun?”

  “Yes, but wouldn’t Monopoly be more appropriate?” he countered quietly.

  “I can’t play,” I said.

  “You can’t?” Charity’s shock was profound. How could anyone get anywhere in Peacehaven if they didn’t belong to a bridge club?

  “I’m not talking about bridge,” I said. “There’s no reason to delay my decision. The answer is no—an unqualified no. Go ahead and build your Utopia if you wish, but leave my cave out of it. An ancient Indian burial ground with a fake totem pole over it? That’s the sort of thing that makes Indians scalping mad. It’s insulting.”

  My vehemence bewildered him. “Insult! What do you mean? I should think it would flatter the Indians and give them employment, too. We could hire some squaws and braves to stand at the door in costume and sell souvenir totem poles and they could stage their dances.”