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

by Lawrence Watt-Evans

  “Don’t you know that totems are sacred to the Indians?”

  His contempt was clear. “But those are heathen symbols—the primitive concepts of a savage people. Besides, there are too few Indians to hurt us financially.”

  “I’m sorry, Damon, but I intend to keep the bluff as it is—a natural preserve.”

  “I rather think you owe it to us,” Charity observed acidly. “If it hadn’t been for that Indian woman, Aunt Bo would have left this property to me.”

  I stiffened. “I can’t imagine Aunt Bo succumbing to undue influence at any age. Certainly I never tried to influence her.”

  Charity jabbed her needle into a new row, but Damon slapped my knee heartily. “Of course, Mitti, we know that! We don’t blame you. Now I’m not going to take your answer tonight as final. Think about it. I can understand that the suddenness of this has confused and dismayed you. Besides, you’re in no condition to think clearly after that shot I gave you.” Had he banked on that and lost? “I agree, it does sound bizarre—a totem pole in the back forty—but remember, the cave entrance is a good mile from the Phoenix. You’d hardly know it was there. Think what you’d be doing for Peacehaven! It would revitalize the town, create jobs, give people here a chance at a better life. You could make a real contribution—one Aunt Bo would certainly applaud!”

  He was twisting things around so that I would be a first-class heel if I refused.

  “Won’t you be doing enough, Damon, just to develop a resort area?” I asked.

  “We can’t do it without the syndicate and they insist on the cave. They say that without that we’d be just another development out in the boondocks. We have to attract people—get our name on the map.” A pleading note came into his voice. “There are some of us who think enough of Peacehaven to be willing to go into debt to bring this about. We think you should be willing to do your part.”

  I swished the brandy around in my glass. “Let’s put it this way, Damon,” I said. “Right now my answer is negative, but if you can come up with a plan that would have genuine historical and educational value, with minimal disturbance of nature, one that would really benefit people who need it—not the promoters—then and only then would I even consider your proposals. But the totem pole, the fake burial ground, and the amateur archaeology bit—they’re all out!”

  He spilled some of his brandy in his impatience. “But those things would make the place!” Then he sighed. “You’re an incurable romantic, Mitti, but I’m not going to accept a hasty ‘no.’ After all, how can a woman like you be expected to understand business of this magnitude?”

  “And you’re an incurable male chauvinist,” I shot back. “I wonder why Aunt Bo ever tolerated you. Is Ward in on this?”

  He shifted uneasily. “No, he’s no visionary—or gambler, either.” He consulted his watch. “We’d better be going. I have to be in surgery tomorrow morning and I promised I’d stop by and see Alison on the way.”

  The old tightening came back into my throat. “She’s much too thin. Is she ill, Damon?”

  “Oh, just menopausal jitters. Actually, she’s strong as a truckhorse. Her ability to heal is fantastic. I excised a mole from her back several years ago. Healed practically overnight.”

  Dr. Brun cleared his throat and seemed about to say something, but Damon strode past him and reached for the brandy to refill his glass. “One for the road,” he was saying, then stopped. “My God, what’s happened here?”

  The bottle was nearly empty. Mother Carrier’s glass thumped down on the carpet.

  “Have you disgraced us again, Mother?” he hissed at her.

  The old lady lifted her head. “Hello, son,” she slurred, flinching as he raised his hand. “I was just following doctor’s orders.”

  Damon slapped her hard on the cheek, leaving three red stripes across the white, crepe paper skin. She began to cry.

  Even Charity winced. “Don’t, Damon,” she pleaded. “After all, you did leave the brandy there.”

  Dana came swiftly into the room and pushed Damon away. She knelt and put her arms around the old woman, whispering to her and stroking her forehead.

  “I think you’d better go, Damon,” I said, when I could trust myself to speak. “Unless you apologize to your mother.”

  “I was merely using shock therapy,” he excused himself. “I’m—sorry, Mother.” He turned to Dana. “I’m disappointed, Mrs. Decorah. I really thought you were helping her. Now I see she’s worse than ever.”

  A sound like a donkey braying cut short his tirade. The others stood frozen as Rowan crawled into the room, twisting her head this way and that. I had to turn away to hide a smile. She’d improved her act. It was outrageous of her, of course, but it had interrupted an awkward moment. Charity fell to her knees beside her.

  “Oh, my baby,” she moaned. “It’s happening again.”

  Rowan clutched at her aunt’s arm. “Stop them! Stop them! They’re biting me—pinching me!” She convulsed, gripping her neck and letting her tongue hang out of her mouth. Then she rolled her eyes up at Dana. “Indian woman, why do you torment me?”

  Dana went white, her face a tragic mask. I couldn’t let this go on any longer. “Okay, Rowan, you’ve had your audition,” I said. “Now get up. You’re supposed to be in bed.”

  She paid no attention, but slithered across the floor toward Dr. Brun, her tongue flicking in and out. “You! You tried to make me sign your black book, but I wouldn’t, so now you afflict me, and—” spotting Mother Carrier huddled in the chair, “there she is! She was up in my room just now in the shape of a big red rat!”

  “Rowan, stop it!” I grasped her shoulder, but she recoiled and spat at me.

  “You witch!” she snarled, then held out her arms piteously. “See where she’s bitten me!” She palmed a needle out of her pocket and pretended to extract it from her arm. “Look! She sticks needles into me!”

  She caught a glimpse of Charity’s horrified face and broke up. Giggling, she threw her arms around her aunt, who bewilderedly tried to disengage herself.

  “How did I do, Aunt Charity?” Rowan asked. “I know Greg’s play practically by heart. I want to do Anne Putnam, but mother won’t promise me the part even though she’s going to be on the casting committee. You’ll tell them, won’t you? Tell them I really can act?”

  Charity was still white and shaken. “Of course, darling,” she said. “You terrified me. You’re a great little actress.” She glared at me. “You should be happy to have such a talented daughter, Mitti—you should encourage her.”

  “I do,” I replied, exasperated, “but there’s such a thing as nepotism.”

  “If you’ll excuse us,” Dana said, her face still slightly pale, “Dr. Brun and I will take Mrs. Carrier over to the other house.”

  After they had left, I shooed Rowan back to bed and then accompanied the Carriers to their car. The rain had stopped and the ground crunched with light frost.

  “I’d like to bring Tyler Bishop up here sometime to explain the financial details to you,” Damon said, sliding into the car.

  “Don’t waste your time,” I told him.

  He slammed the door and they drove away. The gravel scraped behind me. I whirled around, but it was only Darcy.

  “Come on in,” I invited her. “You gave me a start.”

  “I can’t stay.” The back porch light made her face look more weathered than ever. “Have you seen Jupiter?”

  “No, I haven’t. Come on in and have a brandy. You look frozen.”

  She drained the snifter with one gulp, but waved away a second. “Jupiter’s been gone since last night. I’ve been looking all over for him.”

  “Don’t worry, Darcy. That tomcat’s probably out courting.”

  “It doesn’t court. I’ve looked everywhere. I just know something’s
happened to him.” She ran her hand through the stubble of her white hair as she leaned against the sink, a red plaid blazer flung over the familiar old faded jeans and pale blue shirt.

  “I have only one kitten left,” she said. “The last one—unless someone brings me another pregnant cat. I’ve had all the adult cats neutered.”

  “Your vet bill must be astronomical, Darcy.”

  “You’re right, Mitti. Well, I’ll be on my way. If you see Jupiter, call me—even if it’s in the middle of the night.” As I was climbing into bed the phone rang. Maybe Darcy had found Jupiter—

  “Hel-lo, Submit!” That same whispery voice again. “Too bad about your finger. Does it hurt? Shall we push the pin in deeper? Oh, that did hurt, didn’t it? Would you like a pin in your navel? We can make you hurt any place we want to. Move away, Submit—move away while you still have time. You witch! You pig! You sow! We hate you—”

  Chapter Sixteen

  The sun lay birth-bloodied upon the hills when Rowan sat down to breakfast the next morning.

  “Are you sure you feel well enough for school?” I asked.

  “Yeah,” in a low tone. “I won’t be coming home early. I’m going to the Patch—oh darn, I forgot! Iris isn’t coming in today. Edna will be there, so the gang won’t.”

  Edna Bradbury, the postmaster’s wife and town gossip, could preach love and slander her neighbor in one sentence. Still, this morning I could have blessed her.

  Rowan stuffed some granola into her mouth, snatched up her books and ran. As I watched the school bus swallow her and vanish down the hill, I ached for the parting kiss and hug she used to give me. Now I’d settle for a smile. I sat holding my coffee cup awkwardly in my left hand, the other nearly immobilized by pain. Macduff padded into the kitchen and began to chase his tail, his way of telling me he needed to go out. As I opened the door, Dana stepped in.

  “How’s Mother Carrier this morning?” I asked.

  “Still sleeping.” Her face was grim. “I do not understand your cousin’s husband.”

  “I could have cried when he struck her. Of course, she took the brandy herself.” I was trying to be fair.

  “Yes, after he put the bottle so conveniently by her side. He wants to prove me incompetent to care for her.” She reached in her pocket and took out her knife, slipping it out of its battered sheath. “Your finger’s swollen. Let me see it.”

  I winced as she slit the bandage. “This should have been taken off hours ago—it’s grown too tight.” She pressed the nail gently, almost sending me to the floor. “I thought so. It continues to bleed under the nail and is building up pressure.” She went to the stove, picked up the hot teakettle, and poured some water into a cup. Then she laid the blade of her knife across the red hot grates.

  “What are you going to do?” I asked apprehensively as I saw the metal grow rosy in the blue flame.

  “Don’t worry. This isn’t going to hurt as much as your finger does right now. Come over here and stand beside me. I want this blade to stay as hot as possible.”

  I obeyed hesitantly.

  “Hold steady!”

  I thought of the Indian’s reputation for enduring pain. Biting my lower lip, I held still as the metal burned through the nail and then was withdrawn. Dark blood shot out of a tiny triangular hole, bringing unbelievable relief. I hadn’t needed to be brave at all.

  “This was my English grandmother’s,” she explained. Her hand trembled as she slipped the knife back into her pocket. “She gave it to me when she died. I almost always carry it.”

  As I stood over the sink, watching the dark blood ooze from the nail, I saw a shriveled, twisted thing staining the water in the cup dark brown.

  “That’s Indian medicine,” she said, “a root I dug out of a swamp. It will help prevent infection and prepare the bed for a new nail to grow underneath. It will also deaden the pain.”

  “It’s almost gone now.”

  “That’s just because it feels so much better than it did a moment ago.”

  Dr. Brun arrived as she finished bandaging.

  “You’re just in time,” I said. “Dana’s making waffles.”

  “I came to see how the finger is doing.”

  “Then you’re too late. Surgery is completed and the patient is in the recovery room.” With the pain gone I was ready for anything.

  “All right,” I said after Dr. Brun had cleared his throat several times. “What’s up? Suppose somebody starts talking.”

  He turned to Dana, but she remained silent.

  “Then I tell you—it’s about Mrs. Proctor,” he said. “I’ve been observing her for some time now. Her deterioration has been rapid. I know it is not my business, but I’m wondering if there was a pathology report on that mole Dr. Carrier excised.”

  “You suspect—cancer?” I faltered, the syrup turning bitter in my mouth.

  “I merely raise the question. Surely Dr. Carrier had the specimen analyzed, although,” he sighed, “it is a sad fact that too many physicians neglect this. In view of the tremendous weight loss she has suffered this last year—well, Mr. Proctor is your cousin. You might ask him about it.”

  Syrup cascaded over Dana’s waffle and plate and onto the table as she sat transfixed. I took the pitcher from her. She seemed unaware of what was going on.

  “What’s wrong, Dana?” Dr. Brun asked.

  “The wart on her finger,” she said slowly. “I never thought.”

  He shook his head. “I doubt that that was related. Besides, it was Dr. Carrier who excised it. You merely made it atrophy.”

  “But I should have warned her first, because I remember she once said something about his having removed a mole. I suppose I just assumed that a pathology was done.”

  “And it probably was,” he soothed her.

  “You’re worried about melanoma, aren’t you?”

  “You know about that?” He turned to me, surprised.

  “Clergymen’s daughters learn a lot of things,” I replied, and then the impact of it hit me. “Oh, dear God!”

  He touched my hand. “We don’t know anything of the sort. Surely Dr. Carrier took the precaution.”

  Dana sat stirring her coffee, her gaze drawn inward. “No, he didn’t. I’ve been seeing it in her face all along and I didn’t recognize it. I’m as guilty as he is.”

  “No, Dana,” he admonished her, “we must not bury her yet.”

  “I won’t be here to bury her,” she said from a distance.

  I didn’t know what she meant, but I didn’t like it, and there was no asking once she had shut the door. I shivered.

  “Now, you have something to tell us?” Dr. Brun said to her.

  She started, as though out of a dream. “Oh—yes.” Her eyes darted to one side. “You’re going to be very angry with me, Doctor. I have made much work and trouble for you. We Indians regard certain things as sacred and we do everything in our power to protect them. I had to be sure about you, Mitti. I’ve been watching you, analyzing you ever since you came here—”

  “I know,” I grinned.

  “Forgive me. I have been, perhaps, rude. Last night, as I was coming down the stairs I overheard you and Dr. Carrier talking about the cave. Now I know what’s in your heart and I can speak. Your aunt worried about what Charity and Damon would do with this land if they were to inherit it But if she left it to Ward, or even to them jointly, there would always be hatred between brother and sister. So when your husband was killed, she knew what she would do.

  “Ward didn’t need this property, but the Carriers did. They’ve always lived beyond their means. I’m sure Tyler Bishop and the bank virtually own them. You’re going to need help, Mitti. Dr. Carrier is determined and desperate, and his wife is equally strong-willed. They’ll erode you, bit by bit—like the ri
ver he hates—until they get what they want.”

  She paused and for a moment there was no sound in the kitchen except for the intrusive humming of the electric clock.

  “Why do you apologize, my friend?” Dr. Brun asked Dana. “These problems are no fault of yours.”

  “I’m only coming to my confession,” she said. “I haven’t been fair with you. I’ve let you search one cave after another, while all the time I’ve known—if you will be patient with me, I will tell you…

  * * * *

  Within the hour the three of us were splashing our way through heaps of fallen leaves toward the cave. Above, the trees were resplendent with golds and reds and russets. But this was a fickle and fleeting beauty—one last glorious burst of fireworks and the trees would stand denuded and trembling.

  Dr. Brun came prepared to climb the Matterhorn. He had changed into high laced boots, knickerbocker Hosen, windbreaker and heavy gloves. An Alpenhut decorated with a red feather and an edelweiss pin perched jauntily on top of his white hair. A camera and rucksack and a coil of rope were slung over his shoulders, a lantern and survival kit hung from his belt, and he carried pitons and a pickaxe in his arms. Every now and then I had to scrape off the leaves that stuck to his spiked boots. Dana backpacked the lunch and carried an armload of tools as well. Because of my finger they had been reluctant to let me accompany them, but a broken arm couldn’t have kept me away after Dana told her story:

  Her father, Maheenuk, or Two-Knives in English, had taken the amulet from my cave, but from a lower level, where he had found the remains of an unknown people. His maternal grandfather had later identified some of the artifacts as being typical of his tribe, but much older.

  “Then these Indians were Nuada,” I said, “not Mandan.”

  “We call ourselves Nuada,” she replied. “The white man named us Mandan.”