The Trouble With Witches (13 page)
I forced my eyelids open and found myself staring at a foreign ceiling.
The sound wasn't a lawn motor, but a boat motor.
Oh yeah, we're not in
.
I threw on an old pair of jeans, a T-shirt that said "If you don't like my attitude, quit talking to me," and slipped my feet into a pair of canvas flats. A quick five minutes devoted to face, teeth, and hair, and I was ready to face the world.
Well, maybe not face it, but at least look at it sideways. After what I'd seen last night, I wouldn't be able to look at the world head on until I had a very large dose of caffeine. Wandering out into the hallway, I went in search of coffee.
In the living room, the bank of windows immediately drew my attention.
Queenie
lay curled up on the floor in a square of morning sunshine, enjoying a snooze. And through the windows, I saw a cloudless blue sky and water that rippled and shimmered with reflected light. My gaze wandered to a spot across the lake from our cabin, to the thick stand of weeds growing along the shoreline, their feathery tops swaying in the breeze. From there, I noticed the dark green pines interspersed with silvery white birch growing a distance from the shore. Did I really see lights last night? Or had it been an overactive imagination? I closed my eyes and stroked my forehead, trying to recall exactly what I'd seen.
"Do you have a headache, dear?" Abby asked gently.
I tore my attention away from the scene outside and turned to see her standing in the kitchen, a spatula in one hand and a cup of coffee in the other.
A cup that she kindly extended toward me.
Without a word I took the cup and wrapped both hands around it. Until I felt the warmth seep through the mug in my hands, I hadn't realized they were cold. I let the heat leak through them and into my body while I slowly sipped.
Smiling, Abby turned back to the stove and poured batter into a waiting pan. "I thought pancakes would be nice for breakfast," she said with her back to me. "Sit down and drink your coffee. They'll be ready in a minute."
Everything needed for breakfast had been laid out on the table, so after crossing the room, I pulled out a chair and sat. The clock above the stove ticked away while I thought of how to bring up a subject I'd rather leave alone. But not talking about what I'd seen last night wouldn't change what happened. And I needed to know if Abby had an explanation.
"Ghost lights," Abby said, still facing the stove.
With my face creased in a puzzled look, I stared at her back. "What?"
With a slick move that spoke of years of practice, Abby flipped the pancakes. "What you saw might have been ghost lights—strange lights that bob and weave. That is what you wanted to ask me, isn't it?"
"How did you know
I
…" My voice trailed off.
Duh, Abby always knew
. "Oh, never mind," I said with a wave of my hand.
"Dumb question."
Abby looked over her shoulder and grinned before turning back to the stove.
"You think that's what I saw? Ghost lights?" I asked, gripping my coffee cup tighter.
"You sound surprised. Rick told us about strange lights over dinner."
"Yeah, but I didn't believe him," I scoffed.
After Abby flipped the pancakes onto the waiting plates, she crossed to the table and placed them on the table. Then pulling out her own chair, she joined me. We both seemed lost in our thoughts while we put creamy pats of butter between each fluffy pancake, and then poured thick maple syrup over them.
The only sound was the heavy ticking of the clock and the occasional click of silverware on the china plates.
After eating quietly for a few moments, I finally broke the silence. "You believe me when I say I saw lights, don't you?"
Abby heard the uncertainty in my voice and reached across the table to pat my hand. "Of course I believe you. You are
not
given to hysterics, nor are you susceptible to the power of suggestion. If you say you saw lights, you saw lights."
I gave her a weak smile. "Thanks for the vote of confidence. You know there could be a logical explanation. It could've been a flashlight, a reflection—" I stopped, trying to think of other reasons, other causes for what I saw.
"Marsh gas is always popular." Abby forked the last of her pancake and popped it in her mouth.
"Marsh gas?"
I asked, picking up both plates and carrying them to the sink.
"Yes.
Marsh gas, swamp gas—whatever name you choose.
It was a common explanation for any strange lights that occurred in the mountains when I was a child."
The plates clattered in the sink when I turned in surprise. "You've had experience with this?"
"Yes. Several times mysterious lights were reported seen around our home. I've seen them myself. Mother always said it was because of Aunt Mary and her talent that called lost souls to our home. She was unmarried and lived with us, you know. She—"
"Wait a second." I crossed to the table and looked down at her. "Back up. She called lost souls? What do you mean she 'called lost souls'?" I asked, my voice rising.
Abby shrugged a shoulder "She didn't
call
them or invite them to visit her. They seemed to seek her out."
I plopped down in the chair next to her—my knees suddenly weak.
"Why her?
Why—"
"It was her talent. It acted like a beacon, so to speak, to those who needed help crossing over."
"You lived in a house with—with—" I stumbled over my words, unable to say the one I needed to.
"Ghosts?"
Abby said, filling in the blank. "Yes. And before you ask," she added, holding up a hand, "no, I've told you I've never seen one, not even as a child, when I would've been most receptive to that kind of visitation. I'd feel odd flares of energy sometimes, or maybe a cold spot or two.
But nothing too odd.
I think it was because they never were around for very long. Aunt Mary was always able to help them."
This new twist about our shared heritage was almost too much to absorb. In all of Abby's tales about the women in our family and their various gifts, she'd never told me about this.
"You lived in kind of a clearinghouse for ghosts," I said in a shocked tone.
Abby beamed a smile at me. "What a good way to describe it. Very clever of you, my dear," she said, patting my face.
For once, her touch didn't comfort me. What if I had more in common with Great-Aunt Mary than I supposed? What if the lights appeared because of me? What if new talents were beginning to develop? What if—
"Stop it, Ophelia." Abby's voice broke through my thoughts.
I looked at her, confused.
"I know what you're thinking. Even someone who's not psychic could read your thoughts on this one. You're worried you're responsible for those lights across the lake. Listen," she
said,
her voice stern as she took both my hands in hers. "Don't forget what Rick said—the lights were here before we were. And right now, we don't know if what you saw were ghost lights. Maybe there is some logical explanation for them."
I knew what her response would be before I asked the question, but fool that I am, I asked it anyway. "And how do I find out?"
"You're going to go to the place you saw the lights and investigate. There's a boat for our use tied at the dock. It's exactly like the fishing boat your grandfather had, so you should have no problem operating it. The trolling motor for the boat and the battery are in the shed next to the dock. I walked down to the lake this morning, before you woke up, and found them." Abby stood, walked to the sink, and started rinsing plates. "You'll be fine. You have your amulet, and I presume you've brought some of your crystals. Be sure to carry some hematite, or maybe some jet, to absorb negativity."
Dang, she had this all figured out. Resigned to the inevitable, I rose and headed toward my bedroom to grab my crystals, but after taking a couple of steps, an idea struck me. She certainly seemed eager to get me out of the cabin. Suddenly suspicious, I turned and studied Abby with narrowed eyes.
"What are you going to do while I'm gone? You're not planning on cooking something up, are you?"
Abby continued to rinse the dishes and kept her back to me.
"Umm, not exactly."
"What, exactly?"
"Okay," she said, drying her hands and turning around. "With everything that's happened, I think a little protection might be in order. I'm going to smudge the cabin and put salt around the foundation."
Smudging—the ancient art of purifying a home by walking around and wafting smoke from sage leaves throughout the rooms.
And, of course, salt to represent the element of Earth, to contain and hold.
Abby's cure-all for psychic
nasties
.
It would place a shield around the cabin. But Abby preferred using sea salt, and I doubted, however well-stocked the cabin might be, that the cupboards would contain any of that particular remedy.
"Ha," I
said,
my tone sarcastic. "You don't have any of your stuff with you."
"
Oh please
," she said, arching an eyebrow. She turned and began removing things from the cupboard—an abalone shell, a bundle of leaves, and a feathered fan. Last, but not least, she removed a large round container. Turning back to me, she rattled the container and winked. "Sea salt—a good witch never leaves home without it!"
Chapter Eleven
The boat, motor, and battery were right where Abby had said they would be. And it was exactly like the boat Grandpa and I had spent many happy hours in fishing. A tug of sadness pulled at my heart.
Oh, Grandpa, what would you think of all of this?
Your beloved wife investigating missing persons and your granddaughter developing a habit of tripping over dead bodies?
You always understood about the gifts given to the women of our family, but I think this might have pushed even you over the edge.