Witches (39 page)

Winifred’s eyes beamed at her over her shoulder as she leaned closer, rubbing her hands like an old witch before the fire. “Then I’d better get you some food and tea and let you begin your story. You know me, my curiosity will kill me if I don’t hear it all right away. I hate mysteries. Just waiting for you to arrive after that strange phone call of yours has been torture enough.”

She moved surprisingly quick for a woman of her size with a gimpy leg, and hobbled over to fetch the tea and scones arranged prettily on a wobbly old television tray. After she’d set it down between them, and Rebecca had bitten into a scone smeared with strawberry jam, Winifred, sipping a cup of tea herself, inquired, “Well, where’s this book that had you hightailing it over here like a fox running from the hounds, dear?” The Englishwoman’s accent was subtle, but very evident.

“Here.” Rebecca picked up her coat, recovered the book from its pocket, and handed it to Winifred. Then continued eating. She’d discovered she was really hungry.

“Delicious scones, Winnie,” Rebecca said with a full mouth and grinned. Winifred made everything from scratch and was an excellent cook. “Delicious. As always.”

In the meantime, Winifred had sat down in the other rocking chair and was examining the book. Leafing through the pages.

“It’s got me stumped,” Rebecca informed her. “Can’t make any sense of the thing.” Rebecca shook her head and shoved her frizzy hair back from her face. “And understanding it, I believe, could mean life or death for my missing sister,” she added, her tone ominous.

“My, my.” Winifred clucked. Reclining in her rocker, she pulled out her glasses and studied the book in her hands.

Rebecca began her story from start to finish. The cult. Amanda’s bizarre disappearance. Black Pond. Rachel. Everything that had happened since. What she thought it all meant.

“Well? What do you think?” Rebecca asked when she was done.

“I think you’re right. One-hundred percent. I also think you’re in tremendous danger. You found this under the willow at Black Pond?” She was referring to the book she still held in her hands.

“Yes. At least, Tibby did.” The mouse was sleeping, curled up on the hooked rug before the fire.

“So you believe Amanda’s back in the seventeenth century somewhere? But she could be anywhere, maybe even dead?”

Rebecca’s face was troubled. “I’m not that good a witch to be absolutely sure. I just have this feeling that Amanda isn’t dead, that’s all. I believe I’d know it if she were.” She stared into the flames, running her hands down the rocker’s curved arms nervously, her thoughts somewhere else. “I also believe that book there holds the key to saving her.”

“Well, as you thought, this,” Winifred tapped her squat fingers on the book in her lap, “does seem to be a book of spells. The darkest magic. And, yes, it’s in the Old Language of the witches. What all witches used centuries ago. I’ve rarely come across actual samples of it before, but I’ve studied it. Though, I, myself recognize what it is, I can only decode
some
of it on my own.”

Her eyes gleamed in the dim room and her forehead puckered. “I can tell you this: the witch who wrote this was very powerful. Furthermore, the witch was Rachel, I’d bet a gold coin on it. Her name is mentioned in it a few times.” Winifred caressed the dusty old book.

“What doesn’t make sense to me, Winifred, is why was the book buried there under that tree in the first place? Who put it there? Tibby told me that some voice
ordered him to dig it up. Who and why?”

“Maybe your sister discovered the book, couldn’t read it either, but suspected what it was, and hid it there for you to find someday. She might not have her powers, but she still has her wits. Perhaps Rachel herself hid it so it wouldn’t incriminate her. Who knows? The spells contained in this book are a death sentence. The American Colonial days, remember
,
especially in the New England states, were a deadly time for accused witches; they hanged and burnt them with much less incriminating evidence than this little goodie. I’ve never seen anything like this before in all my born days,” she mumbled, shaking the book in her hand. “So much evil—from what I can decipher. The easier ones.” She opened the book and turned to a certain page, showed it to Rebecca.

“I think this one spell is for maiming an enemy.” Another page. “This one for murdering one, if I’m correct. No wonder she buried this thing. Whew. Talk about condemning evidence.” Winifred shook her head and reclined against the rocker, humming to herself. It meant she was doing some deep thinking, that she was worried about something.

It was distressing Rebecca. The way she was behaving. She’d never seen Winifred this disturbed over anything. Ever.

“What’s the matter, Winifred?”

“Just speculating. After all you’ve told me, I believe, as you suspected, that if we can get this book translated properly, we can find the solution to your sister’s dilemma. There’s most likely a spell in here we can use. Be a real joke on Rachel, wouldn’t it?” A wide grin. “To use her own spell to defeat her and her Master?” A sarcastic chuckle.

“Wouldn’t it?” Rebecca admitted, stifling a yawn. The tea, pastries, and warm fire nearly had her asleep again.

“You look ready to drop, dearie,” Winifred said. “Why don’t you just retire to my spare bedroom and take a nice long nap, while I study this book a little more. Think on who I’m going to help me get to translate it.”

How appealing the idea of a soft bed was, Rebecca thought. Her brain was fuzzy from her earlier adventures, the long flight, and her body needed rest.

“I am weary. Every bone in my body aches. You’re right, sleep is what I need.”

Rebecca rose slowly from the comfortable rocking chair. At the door to the bedroom, she glanced back at Winifred in the rocking chair before the fire and smiled.

“If I haven’t said so before, thanks for helping me with this, Winifred. Thanks, more than I can say.”

The woman waved a hand nonchalantly at her guest, but her face was serious. “What are friends for?” she responded and her eyes returned to the open book, her mouth moving. “Get some sleep. We’ll talk more in the morning.”

Rebecca retreated to the tiny cubbyhole where a narrow, but soft, featherbed resided under a large window. She flopped down on the soft bed, still in her clothes, and burrowed under the warm comforter with a grateful groan. She lay there fighting sleep for a short while, listening to Winifred out in the other room, shuffling around. Before she knew it, she was asleep.

When she opened her eyes again, the birds were calling outside and the sun was shining through the window, brighter than she’d ever seen it. England did have sunny days. She rubbed her eyes, yawned, stretched, and listened. No sounds from the other room but something smelled heavenly. Eggs of some kind. Kippers. Winifred loved the smelly little things and sometimes had them for breakfast as well as lunch. Fresh sourdough bread. It reminded her how ravenous she was.

She rolled over and peeked at the clock on the night table beside the bed. Ten o’clock. She’d slept seven hours. Why had her hostess let her sleep so long?

Winifred was placing two breakfast plates on the small kitchen table as Rebecca strolled into the room, in her crumpled clothes, towards the bathroom.

“Don’t talk to me yet,” she begged Winifred on her way through as she grabbed up her traveling bag. “I need to do some quick repairs, change my filthy clothes. Be right out.” She disappeared behind the bathroom door as the older woman chuckled and finished setting the table.

When Rebecca emerged a bit later, cleaned up and in fresh black clothes, she sat down at the round table.

The old woman lowered herself with a grunt into an adjacent chair.

“You didn’t have to go to all this trouble for me, Winifred. A piece of stale toast or two would have been fine.” Her kindness touched Rebecca. The English were a generous, good people, on the whole, she’d found.

“Not for me. I need a hearty breakfast.” Winifred huffed and shoveled in another forkful of scrambled eggs. Gulped her steaming tea with a sigh of pleasure. “Looked like you did, too.”

Rebecca took a good hard look at the Englishwoman. “You’ve been up all night, haven’t you?”

Winifred leveled reddish eyes at her guest. She buttered a slab of bread and put it to her mouth. “Had a lot to do. Had some contacts to make. I got us a real expert on the Old Language and Black Magic...a real powerful warlock.”

Rebecca’s eyes lit up. “Yeah, who?” She knew quite a few warlocks.

“I’m not allowed to tell you his name. Yet.”

“You’re not allowed to?” Rebecca repeated aghast.

“No, it’s against the rules.”

“Winifred! What are you talking about?” When she saw that the Briton still wasn’t going to ease her curiosity, she reached over and touched her wrinkled hand. “If you don’t tell me, then you’re as good as saying that you don’t trust me.” There was hurt in Rebecca’s startling blue eyes. Confusion. “After all, I trusted you enough to confide in you. Brought you the book.”

Winifred stared at her friend sharply. “All right. What I’m about to tell you is in strictest confidence. You must not let on to anyone that you know. Have you ever heard of the secret organization called the Guardians?”

Rebecca was stunned. “Now wait a minute.” She almost stuttered. “Isn’t that a myth? I mean, yes, I’ve heard of them, but I thought it was just a story. Super witches
who watched over all of us and stepped in only when one of us had crossed the line, or when something catastrophic was about to happen to mankind? Everyone knows of the folklore, but no one—none of the witches or warlocks I’ve known—has ever met one or even believed that they truly existed.”

“Well, dearie, believe me, they
do
exist. Although, they very, very rarely show themselves—except when a white witch desperately needs their aid. Like when Satan is involved. Is the adversary. Like now. They consider that cause enough to make contact.”

Rebecca was flabbergasted. “You know them?”

“Yes. I’m one of their lookouts, which is the easiest way to put it. They asked me to keep an eye on you. I have. I’ve also become your friend.”

“Me?” Another shock. “Why?”

Winifred shook her head and gave Rebecca a mysterious smile. “I’m not at liberty to disclose that yet. Later. After Amanda is back, safe, I can explain everything. Not now. Now you have important work to do.”

“Are the Guardians going to help me?” Awe tinged Rebecca’s face. She must be in a real load of shit.

“Here.” Winifred handed Rebecca a piece of paper with an address on it. “This is where you have to go to meet with the warlock I told you about. It’s a
hole-in-the-wall, rare bookstore on Charing Cross Road called Fletcher’s. He’s expecting you, but don’t let on you know he’s a Guardian. He’d have my hide for telling you. Take the book to him, let him look at it. Pretend he’s just another warlock, one who has a knack for translating the ancient language. Listen to everything he says. Do what he says. That’s all I’m going to tell you.”

Rebecca eyed Winifred strangely, yet her gaze was full of newfound respect. “I’ll do exactly as you say, Winifred. I promise.”

“Good,” the other woman replied, starting to clear off the table. She stopped a moment to look at the witch. “Trust me, Rebecca. Everything’s going to be fine. Just fine.”

Rebecca nodded, got up, and helped her friend clear the table.

“I can’t thank you enough for your help,” she told her.

Winifred patted Rebecca’s hand. “Don’t have to thank me. You know I’d do anything for you, Rebecca. Now, go see that warlock, then go and save that sister of yours. Just be careful. I don’t want to lose my best client.”

Rebecca called a cab from Winifred’s phone.

“Good-bye, Winifred,” she said when the cab pulled up before the cottage and honked its horn. “After all this is over we’re going to celebrate. I’ll send you an airplane ticket and you’ll come, won’t you? To Canaan, or Boston, or wherever we are when Amanda comes home?” Rebecca asked.

“Wild pigs couldn’t keep me away.” Winifred grinned. Then she waved in the doorway as the cab took Rebecca away into the day’s sunshine.

Inside the cab, Rebecca told the driver the address of the shop and closed her eyes, letting the motion of the cab soothe her. Inside, her heart was beating so loud she could hear it. She kept going over that last conversation with Winifred about the Guardians. The knowledge that they truly existed and were watching over her had taken a great weight off her shoulders. So much so that she almost felt like laughing out loud. She wasn’t alone in this. Though she was baffled at all the cloak and dagger mystery surrounding where she was going and who she was meeting. It was all so crazy. So clandestine. So...exciting. The game was afoot.

She smiled.
Then, you always did like excitement, Rebecca, didn’t you?

Maybe too much.

Tibby popped his head out of her coat pocket and scrambled up to stare out the window as the cab wound its way through the London streets. They were coming to a large intersection. The driver was obviously going to make a right.

Witch, tell him to go left. Now!
Tibby squeaked, his tail whipping back and forth through the air violently. His face pressed to the glass.
There’s danger!