Chapter Six
Othernaturals Season 6, Episode 5
Eyeteeth Mountaintop, Missouri; June 2015
Past the purple front door of Cloda’s house, one stepped into a room of madness and wonder that barely resembled the parlor it was probably intended to be. Three chairs and three long working tables, all of quality wood and craftsmanship, somehow crowded into the tight space. These work tables were littered with abundant sticks, thick slabs of grey clay, and ragged-looking paper. Kaye noticed that the sticks were always burned at the ends rather than splintered. Paper bags of cloth scraps spilled their contents on each surface. The walls were covered with an incredible array of handmade totems, burned sticks tied together with various scraps of cloth in elaborate knots. There were several thick, scrappy books lying around.
“She made these books herself.” Drew gingerly touched the cover of the closest one. The book was a thick hunk of random paper, some white typing paper, some construction paper, some newspaper that she had obviously written or painted right over, pages held by leather cords or colored twine. The pages crawled with the same nearly illegible handwriting that had been in the Cloda’s letter to Rosemary.
Drew thumbed through it, showing those who gathered around him, giving an involuntary shiver that looked like pleasure as he did so. Kaye peered over his shoulder in keen interest. Here were illustrations of stick shapes with numbered lists beside them, scraps of material inserted for reference. Here were what seemed like recipes and sometimes black-and-white photographs pasted on the paper.
They were all so mesmerized by the book that it took them a moment to recognize that what they were doing might be intrusive. Perhaps they should ask permission first. But Cloda stood nearby, offering towels for their wet hair, seeming not to mind that they were huddled over her tables and busily searching through her grimoires.
But Drew apologized anyway. He was reverent of books. “These books are absolutely beautiful,” he said to the old woman. Kaye didn’t think they were beautiful, but they were indeed fascinating in their complexity and mystery.
Rosemary asked Cloda, “How many years have you been working on these?”
“Why I’ve kept me a diary ever since I was just a little thing. Everything I’ve worked on is in there.” Cloda gestured around, and they saw more similar books on the other tables or stacked on shelves. There had to be at least twelve of the handmade books in here. She directed their attention to one that had a central place on an altar decorated with pinecones, sticks and ribbons, and a dark green candle. A mammoth tome it was, bulging with secrets. “This is the grandest of them all, my family’s spell book, from my great grandma passed down to me. I’d ask you not bother that one if you please; it’s old and frail like me.” A mischievous smile lit her eyes. “The others, you go right ahead and look to your heart’s content.”
The old family spell book drew Kaye’s eye. Having been asked not to touch it, she immediately wanted to. She tore her attention away and focused on the elderly woman. “We need to talk about the people in Slope.”
“Later, later.” Cloda waved a hand in the air. “First let’s give you what you came for; it’s only fair. And if I show you my craft it’ll be easier for you to understand what’s gone wrong.”
“But something has gone wrong,” Rosemary stressed, as if making sure.
“Plenty wrong, yes, my dear young folk. You let Old Cloda explain what’s what, and everything will come clear as a bell.”
Okay, well, Kaye never liked waiting to find out what was ailing anybody. They were guests, though, and she supposed that keeping the old woman happy might be a good idea. The rest of the group seemed content to play it Cloda’s way - except for Sally, who was tight-lipped and disapproving.
Cloda handed a towel to Sally and scrutinized the young woman closely enough that Sally finally said something about it. “Yes, what it is?”
Cloda was not one to mince words. “You must be the girl Irving told me about. I reckon I’d tell you to watch out for Irving; he’s a wolf, and that part of him will always call to you. There ain’t much use in warning you, though. When a couple bodies decide they want to be together, ain’t nothing going to stop them.”
Holding up her chin, Sally announced, “Whatever Irving told you happened, it’s over with, and he should know it.”
Cloda shrugged a bony shrug, as if the mysteries of sex were nothing that could be argued. “Wolves mate for life, Goldilocks. It’s a fact of Mother Nature.”
Sally’s reply was sharp, quite out of character. “Mother Nature can bite me.”
Greg whipped his camera in Sally’s direction. Sally seemed not to notice; as she coldly informed Cloda, “Irving is not a wolf, and even if he thinks he’s a wolf, he sure as hell didn’t mate for life. He’s twice my age and I am not his first fling. It’s not some romantic tragedy, ma’am. He really hurt a lot of people, thanks to you and your spell.”
The room was absolutely silent for many long seconds, until finally Kaye couldn’t help herself. She raised a hand to Sally and accepted the hard smack of a high-five, Kaye murmuring, “Damn right, girlfriend.”
Cloda’s smile returned, unflappable. “Feisty Goldilocks!”
“I’m not meaning to be feisty,” Sally said, to everyone - though her friends were mostly grinning at her with admiration. “It’s just the truth.”
Quickly Kaye said, “And all these figurines. Can you explain them to us, Mrs. Baker? Oh – thank you.” She took the towel that Cloda passed to her and dutifully patted herself dry.
“My dolls,” said Cloda. She looked affectionately at the stick figures – Kaye had been doing a ten-count on them and gotten as far as 140. “I started making stick dolls when I was just a little thing. When you work in magic, you work what you can lay your hands on – some people are awful fussy about what objects they use but intention matters more – with the proper bindings and the proper thoughts and the proper intentions and the proper sacrifice, the magic will work whether you use sticks or bricks or stones. Sticks are cheap and lying about everywhere, here on the mountain.”
“They’re kind of beautiful,” mused Kaye.
“Have you ever seen The Blair Witch Project?” asked Cloda.
Kaye was not the only one who did a bit of a double-take at that. “Oh sure I’ve seen it,” she answered after a moment.
“I haven’t seen it,” said Drew.
“Our Andrew doesn’t watch movies,” explained Rosemary, to inform Cloda, and to remind their presumed audience.
Looking around the side of his camera, Greg added, “And he’s pretty proud to tell everyone about it. However, yes, the rest of us have seen it.”
Cloda said, “I like that movie very much! They use some stick figures in there, to try and be scary, but they appeared to me to be more for warding off spiders.”
“There’s a spell that can ward off spiders?” asked a hopeful Greg.
Cloda held up a finger. “Well you must be careful what you wish for. Spiders have an important place in the world.”
“They’re welcome to the world, so long as they stay out of my apartment.” Greg noted Cloda’s expression and added, “I’m not afraid of them; I just don’t like them.”
“Please, please, look around all you like.” Cloda was beaming that lovely smile again, full of wrinkles and mischief. “I’m happy to show off my work. I’m happy as pie that you’re here.”
The stickmen that covered the walls were not all man-shaped. Though dozens of them did seem to have the requisite head, arms and legs poking out so they resembled a lop-sided star, just as many of the figures were simple shapes tied off at the corners. A few were asymmetrical symbols of obscure meaning.
“The man-shaped ones are for medical purposes, aren’t they?” Kaye asked, directing her question at Cloda. “I assume it’s a simple equation. This little guy,” and she pointed to one with a bit of orange-sprigged cotton on his head, “is to cure, or maybe to cause, headaches. This little guy,”
now pointing to one with a bandaged leg, “is to heal a break, or arthritis, or a bad knee. And so on.”
“Very good, very good. It is simple.” Cloda seemed delighted that Kaye understood so quickly. “What’s the use of making things over-complicated? The square shapes, those are houses – for spells or protections on households. The triangles are for relationships. And different sizes too - size matters sometimes, doesn’t it girls?”
“Are these for sale?” asked Rosemary.
Cloda clicked her tongue. “No, no, these here are for show. When my folks come to me needing a doll, I can show them what it should look like, but you have to make your own or it won’t work. I sell them the recipe.”
Rosemary nodded. “Okay, for our viewers at home, can we walk through how a stickman spell would work?”
“Oh, do me, do me!” Kaye cried. Her enthusiasm seemed to surprise everybody else – why on earth did they always assume she would be the tight-assed doubter? She loved things like this and she was prepared. “All right. Let’s pretend that I have a problem with a co-worker. She’s always bad-mouthing me, trying to get me into trouble, always going behind my back to undermine me with the doctors and admin. She wants my position as floor supervisor and thinks that if she can stir up enough trouble, they’ll ask me to take early retirement and give her the job.”
“Is that true?” asked a frowning Stefan.
Kaye favored him with a gentle look for his concern. “No. Like I said, just pretending. Anyway, Miss Cloda, what would you do if I asked for a spell to stop her?”
“Easy as pie,” said Cloda. She dragged a stepstool from the corner, refusing when four different men offered to help her. She climbed rather lithely up to the top step and reached for a figure hung near the ceiling, man-shaped, with a bit of slippery white cloth around its stick-face, which Kaye would have taken for a scarf before she realized it was meant to be a gag.
Cloda delivered the figure into Kaye’s hands. “We’d just put together a hush-up recipe for you. If this was for real, I’d write this down careful-like, and you would follow the instructions exactly as I say, because the order matters. You’d have to gather your own sticks – at three in the morning, if you please, that is hush-time – and make yourself a little stick doll just like this one. Remember you must never break a stick, only burn them away to the right length. Tie her mouth shut with a piece of white silk. Tell her what you want: Make that ninny mind her own business and never speak ill of me again! You’ll need some clay to make a stand for her, like these – “ she gestured to the various clay plates on the table “and on the clay you must write words with a stick – ‘Never again speak ill of me,’ and paint them white.”
“Is white significant?” asked Kaye.
“White is the hush-color,” Cloda Baker said, as if this was perfectly obvious. “Before you mount Miss Hush in the clay to stand, though, you must put her between your teeth, like so.” The stickman was slender and Mrs. Baker easily clamped it between her gapped teeth like a dog with a bone. She demonstrated to Kaye, then removed the stick again. “And you must hold her there, until the pain stops.”
Kaye’s eyes widened. “What pain?”
“The pain is your payment. It will start when you take her in your teeth, and it will stop when she thinks you’ve paid enough. It will hurt plenty, mind you. It will hurt as much as it needs to hurt, to prove that you mean what you say.”
“Oh. That sounds dreadful.”
Greg suddenly said, “Remember what Irving Howell said, about having to stick his hand through the burned hole in his figurine’s stomach?”
In order to unleash a hunger demon on Lutilla Heston’s home in Colorado, Irving Howell bought a spell from this very witch, and he had recounted to them the price he paid to make the spell work. It was the worst pain he’d ever suffered, if Irving was to be believed.
Cloda patted Kaye’s hand, making Kaye jump a little. “I don’t think your Miss Hush would hurt you all that badly. Badly enough to make you think twice, though, and make sure you mean what you say. People get pretty honest when they have to pay in pain, and that’s a truth I learnt long ago.”
Kaye resumed her questions. “So, I’ve constructed the stickman in my home, I’ve held her in my teeth, and then put her in the clay. Followed all the instructions. What could I expect?”
“That ninny would shut her mouth that very day,” said Cloda. “Just about you - she wouldn’t be struck mute or nothin’ so dramatic. You’d have to pay a lot higher price for that.”
Kaye could only imagine. “What if it didn’t work?”
“My dolls always work, if you make them the way I tell you,” said Mrs. Cloda Baker, her head held high – or, as high as she could hold it, with the curvature in her spine.
“Can we do one for me now?” asked an eager Rosemary. So Cloda walked Rosemary, then Stefan, then Greg, and finally Drew, through the makings of stick figures and rituals that would, if Cloda could be believed, improve the thickness of hair, relieve writer’s block, clear an apartment permanently of spiders, and improve business in the bookstore. Judge and Sally hung back, as Judge was easily tired, and Sally was reticent about dealing with Cloda at all.
“We should have ourselves some lunch now,” said Cloda when the last spell recipe had been discussed. “I’m a might peckish.”
“We brought plenty of food with us,” said Rosemary.
“But you should see what I have!” Cloda led them into her miniature kitchen and showed cabinets crammed with items of the type that came in gift baskets, a hundred little packages of gourmet delicacies. “Let’s open these up – pick whatever you like!”
And so their late lunch was a buffet of both travel-packed junk food and exotic tidbits from all over the world. Kaye herself had hard Italian biscotti and a good-sized wedge of bread spread with an English chutney. From the cabinets came an endless parade of jars of jelly and packets of crackers, cheese, cookies, and sardines (given freely to Vladimir), hard candy and dried fruits and dates and a shunned fruitcake. Fine chocolates were passed around: “Get these heavenly things away from me,” Andrew begged. The room was so crowded no one could sit down, so they just exchanged places in the room, from cabinet to counter to trashcan, arms up in the air to keep from tipping paper plates. Greg filmed them with delight as he popped dried apricots from Cloda’s repository into his mouth.
When at last everyone was in danger of gastrointestinal distress – Kaye imagined she’d hear plenty of complaints later – Cloda’s energy waned. Small wonder; the vastly aged woman had been on her feet for hours.
“I need rest my bones, if you please.”
They followed Cloda to what was obviously her favorite armchair by her bedroom window; she invited the women to sit on her bed, and the men to make due with standing on their own two feet. As was the entire house, Cloda’s bedroom was small, yet neatly-kept and full of interesting things. She had a beautiful patchwork quilt on her bed, handmaid and worn with years of use. On her dresser, however, was not the expected scattering of dusty unused toiletries that elderly women seem to invariably keep next to their dozens of pill bottles, but a flat-screen television set with two different DVD players attached to it.
Instead of stick figures, her bedroom walls were stacked with shelves and a good portion of those shelves were occupied by an impressive DVD collection. She had some rather recent releases on the shelf which Greg asked about.
She informed him with pride, “A good number of my visitors pay me in movies.”
“You barter spells for films?” asked Kaye, highly amused by this idea. She wondered what an appendectomy at the hospital would cost in DVDs.
Cloda explained, “Money ain’t much use to me. I like pretty clothes, fancy candy and fancy food, and movies. People know what to bring me.” Her face shone a little, hinting expectantly.
“Speaking of,” said Rosemary, getting the clue quickly. So as Greg set up two cameras on tripods to continue capturing the interview, Rosemary threw
a towel over her head and retrieved a gift-box from the Mercedes.
Once Greg gave the go-ahead that he was ready to capture the fun, Cloda opened her present eagerly. From his box she withdrew two expensive chocolate bars and a warm woolen cap of cheerful red, trimmed in dark brown faux fur. She seemed delighted more by the chocolate than the cap, but then she saw the red silk beneath the next layer of tissue paper.
Rosemary explained, “We have a clothing sponsor for our show, Scarlet & Black. They make almost everything we’re wearing right now – those white hiking boots Sally has on – not so white anymore, I guess, as we didn’t know it was going to be such a downpour on the mountain – those are a custom job they did because her favorite color is white. Anyway, I asked them to make something for you.”
Cloda lifted the material and the silk shawl swept down like a delicate stage curtain, shocking red and elaborately detailed with fringe and embroidery. It resembled something a particularly exotic gypsy dancer would tie around her waist before she began to shimmy. Cloda shrieked with delight.
“It’s so pretty!” she exclaimed. “It’s huge! It’s big enough to wear as a dress!”
Rosemary had confided to Kaye and Sally the price tag on the handmade shawl. It was formidably overpriced. Their sponsor hoped that the shawl’s appearance on the show in the hands of an exotic mountain witch would stoke buyer interest. For herself, Kaye was glad that Scarlet & Black clothes were a free perk; she’d never spend such silly amounts of money on clothes. She’d lived most of her adult life in scrubs. The shawl was exquisite, though. The gold threading, as thin as spider’s silk, hid patterns of Scarlet & Black’s little roses and skulls.
Cloda spotted them right away, nevertheless. There was nothing wrong with the old woman’s eyes. “Look at them little devils in there! Ain’t they the sweetest little things! You’re a sweet girl. Thank you for my present.”
Witches Page 12
