Witches (3 page)

Monsters. Coming through the barrier, crossing the lines of the pentagram, into her world.

Amanda grabbed the nearest thing with which to fight them off, a broom, and started swinging at them.

She was so busy hitting and spewing out new spells to keep the shade demons from coming through that she never heard the door burst open; never felt the cool storm wind enter the cabin until something determined and furry flew by her face toward the pentagram, hissing all the way.

Then Amadeus was helping her herd the malignant spirits back from where they’d come. All claws, teeth, and unearthly glowing eyes. He snarled the word
Sutterus
at her in passing and Amanda quickly supplied it in the spell where it belonged.

The demons began to slowly dissolve in shrieks of rage.

Don’t send us away! Don’t send us back there! Let us out. Out!

Jake’s figure returned. A shadow with hanging head. Just one or two sentences and the incantation would be complete. Jake would be there, solid, before her.

Amanda hesitated. The thing in the circle looked so pitiful. So unnatural.

Before she could finish, soft, but strong paws clamped tightly around her neck and wouldn’t let go. Something howled like a banshee in her ear, as sharp teeth angrily nipped it. She couldn’t breathe.

“Amadeus! Get off!” She screamed, tumbling to the floor with the huge cat on top of her, still holding on like a leech, its yowling and screeching enough to wake the dead—instead, it woke her.

By the time she’d yanked the cat off, throwing him roughly against the opposite wall so that he yelped in pain, and she’d crawled back to the pentagram, Jake was gone. The enchantment broken.

Amanda gazed at the empty pentagram for a long time, suddenly horrified, disgusted at what she had almost done.

She’d almost crossed the line. Almost. Thank God for Amadeus.

She curled up on the floor next to the fire and sobbed, the last of her anguish finally releasing itself. The cat limped over to her and licked the tears from her face. He didn’t seem to be angry with her any longer. Just worried.

“I’m so sorry I hurt you, Amadeus, so sorry.” She pulled him into her arms, and hugged him like a baby until he began to purr. “Forgive me?”

Of course.

“Thank you for that, Amadeus. You saved me from making the biggest mistake of my life.”

He was smart enough not to answer that one. She snuggled him, rocking on the floor.

“I had no right,” she moaned into his matted fur finally.

“What was I thinking of? I have no right to bring back the dead. No matter how much I loved him. He’s gone now. I must accept it. Go on.”

In reply, the huge cat purred louder and huffed in cat language.

About time you wised up
.
About time. I was getting tired of baby-sitting. I’ve got more important things to do.

He reached up with his paws and captured her wet, tear-streaked face between them, his eyes huge, golden, so human and understanding.

It will get better, Mandy. It will. I promise.

Amanda looked at him, his fur still fluffed up from his fight, his ears twitching, as he tried to grin at her. Cats couldn’t grin. It made him look funny. Like the Cheshire Cat.

“Amadeus...I miss him so.
”

I know. It’ll pass. Give it time. I’ll help.

She knew he was right. He was wise. Nodding silently, she stared at the remnants of the pentagram, the broken lines, and the dying flames of the gutted candles. Her tears continued to fall as she held Amadeus.

The cat bequeathed her a perceptive look, his feline eyes shining. He was a huge, battle-scarred Blue Maltese. He was also a very ancient and very powerful familiar, given to her by her grandmother on the day of her birth, thirty-four years ago. She had no idea how old he was, only that since she could remember, he’d always been there to guard over and guide her. He’d pulled her out of many a tight spot. She trusted him.

His duty accomplished, he’d had enough of her coddling, and jumping from her arms, he stalked away to his favorite spot on the padded rocking chair before the fire. His expression and the stiffness of his tail let her know he was still a little miffed at her for trying it in the first place.

“You’re right to be mad at me, Amadeus,” Amanda murmured contritely.

Outside, the storm had peaked, and she could hear the soft patter of rain hitting the cabin’s roof. The snug little cabin that Jake had built for her in their first year together. Though he’d been a master potter who taught his craft for a living, he’d been a heck of a carpenter, as well. Amanda had always told him that his
magic was in his hands, and she’d been right. The cabin was the prettiest home she’d ever had.

She touched the wall next to her, memories of the two of them working on it together making her cry more. She could drive a nail and frame out a room with the best of them now. Just another thing Jake had taught her.

On her hands and knees, she scooted back to the pentagram, and with the edge of her skirt, rubbed at the chalk furiously until the star was a mess of smeared lines. A great shudder rippled through her body when she was finished. Now nothing could cross over.

Amanda got up from the floor and, like a sleepwalker, made her way to the door. Stepping outside, she ran to the huge oak tree at the back of the house, and let the October rain soak her to the skin. She felt so worn out and useless. So dirty.

Maybe, it would help wash her clean.

Even in the dark, she could see the silver-outlined clouds stampeding above like crazed animals before a forest fire. The world went on. Life went on. Jake or no Jake.

Standing silently, staring up through the branches at the night sky, she let the rain mingle with her tears, her back braced stiffly against the tree’s trunk.

She did her penance, praying for forgiveness, relieved that Amadeus had stopped her in time. Before she’d brought Jake totally back.

Witches usually didn’t fool with the dead, the calling up of the dead, or ghosts. You could never tell what you’d get in the end. Some spirits were mischief oriented, some cunningly wicked or just plain evil. It made sense. The people who’d been good in life had gone on to the next life, or to heaven. Only the troubled spirits returned.

Jake wouldn’t stay in between for long. His was a good soul.

The night was turning colder, the wind picking up again, the storm finding new energy somewhere, and the rain felt like tiny slivers of ice on her skin, making her shiver.

The house behind her, forlorn as it had become the last few months, beckoned. Safety. Warmth.

She made a dash for the door, slipping into the house. The door slammed behind her, and she leaned weakly against it in the dark; listening to the storm beat wildly at the outside, wanting so badly to get in.

Though she loved storms, it was good to have shelter. She heard limbs tear from the trees, and crash into the roof. She heard the trees’ agony. All witches could. Trees hurt just like people. It was true.

Only a witch would think things like that, because they, too, were as much a part of the earth as the trees, the sky, and the wind. She covered her ears until it stopped, refused to feel their pain. She had enough of her own.

She peered out the window into the rain, caressing the cool glass with quivering fingers as the water dripped from her clothes onto the floor.

Jake had loved a good storm.

Touching her way across the tiny kitchen, she opened a cabinet door. She kept extra candles just for such nights. She could have turned on the lights, but she preferred candlelight.

As with other modern conveniences, electricity, telephone, and television, she could have as easily lived without them. Like her ancient ancestors had. In the old ways. She chopped her own wood, sometimes cooked her food outside over an open wood fire as Jake had shown her, when the weather permitted.

In the last ten years, she’d learned to live off the small game and fish she caught, what grew in her garden, and what she gleaned from the forest, as her great-grandmother, Jessie, had. Ways that she’d nearly forgotten years ago during her city life and cringed now to admit that she had ever forsaken them in the first place. For a woman who could snap her fingers and have almost anything in the world, it felt good to know she could do it the human way, too.

She was a modern witch who’d come back to the old ways in the last twelve years and was now glad of it, stronger for it. She could make it, she knew she could. Even without Jake. She used her magic sparingly. Little comforts mostly that no one could hold against her.

She lit the candle with a touch of her fingers, another witch’s trick.

The gentle light fluttered, throwing elusive shadows behind her on the wall, driving the ghosts away.

Drying off, she put on different clothes. She dressed as if she lived a hundred years ago, favoring long dark-colored dresses with full skirts, and shawls. It’s what she felt most comfortable in. Out in the woods of Connecticut, it could get really cold in the winters and besides, Jake had said that she wore the archaic clothes well.

She prepared her supper. A large chunk of sourdough bread she’d baked the day before, chilled butter, and cheese. She witched up a bottle of sweet red wine. Then another.

She called softly for Amadeus; searched the unlit corners, his usual hiding places. Contrary thing. Suddenly, she couldn’t find him anywhere; he was probably still peeved at her. Just when she needed a friend.

“All right, you little devil, go hungry, then,” she groused, and ate alone as the candle’s velvet light flickered across her closed face. It was a pretty face, usually, especially when she smiled. She possessed large eyes the color of new grass, strong cheekbones, pouting lips, and fair skin framed by long curling brown hair, with a tint of red, that fell to her waist. Not beautiful, but appealing.

Amanda finished her supper, her appetite better than it’d been in months. Everything tasted delicious. She drank too much wine, and soon she was smiling tipsily at some old poignant memories of herself and Jake. He would forever be a part of her heart, her memories. She would always love him.

Someday she’d see him again. In another life. She glanced down and there was Amadeus purring, circling her long skirts just like his old self.

“So you’ve come out finally, have you? Not angry with me anymore, my friend?” She scooped him up into her arms to hug him. He allowed her to do it, actually continued to purr. She laughed, glad to have things back the way they used to be between them. It was as if a great burden had lifted from her. Amadeus knew it, too. He meowed and licked her fingers. No back talk. He was behaving like a real cat, which meant he was pleased.

She took Amadeus and sat in the living room in the rocker before the dying fire. Amadeus was content in her lap as she petted and rocked him back and forth soothingly. The wine had made her light-headed, carefree.

The storm’s winding down. Tomorrow morning there’ll be a mess outside for me to clear away.

When she went to bed, it was to sleep soundly. There were no horrible dreams any longer, no dreams at all. When she woke up in the morning, there was a sleepy-eyed, yawning Amadeus curled in the space between her arms, and a bright autumn sun greeted her cheerfully through her bedroom window.

There was that vibrant mustardy tang to the air she loved so much in the fall. It filled her with energy. It made her want to get up, and do something—anything—just to prove that she was alive.

For the first time, she thought of her dead husband and was amazed to find that the memories warmed her heart, made her smile. She would always have him. A memory away.

She was finally healing.

Humming, she got out of bed, belted a fleecy, blue robe around her waist, and with a pesky Amadeus treading on her heels, fixed them a large breakfast of bacon, eggs, and blueberry muffins. Amadeus ate food like a person, and she’d need strength to clean up the storm’s debris.

Some of the muffins she saved for her friend, Mabel, an eighty-three-year-old widow who lived past Black Pond on the edge of town, in a tiny trailer. Mabel’s arthritis had become so bad, she wasn’t able to bake the way she used to and Amanda often took her home-baked gifts. She’d been Jake’s friend first, her friend now. Amanda didn’t have many friends, so she felt especially guilty for having neglected Mabel as much as she had during the last months. There was no excuse for it.

Today she needed to see her.

She set aside a muffin or two for Ernie Hawkins, the mailman, for when he came by later on his rounds. Another friend of Jake’s she’d inherited.

Jake had always invited Ernie in for a cup of coffee, something to eat, and the latest gossip. Ernie liked to talk almost as much as Jake had. She’d awake many a morning to hear Jake and Ernie chattering in the kitchen about politics or the state of the economy. They’d had a running chess game going on. She could still see them hunched over the board, dropping muffin crumbs and slurping down coffee. Another memory that made her smile now.

She watched Ernie trudge past her mailbox every day. A short man with a friendly face, intelligent dark eyes, and long hair streaked with gray. A country storyteller. He knew something about almost everything and everyone. He’d smile and wave at her. Ernie hadn’t stopped in for coffee in a long time, though.