Witch Woman Page 7

  Maggie stroked her ears and throat. "Where do I start, Muffin?" she whispered, "and what do I ask for?"

  Chapter 8

  Canal Street was just off the harbor. The small, gray-shingled house with a screened, wrap-around porch was conspicuous for no reason other than its timeless quality. In the middle of winter, geraniums and ivy bloomed in the window boxes and just inside the glass, a pair of gray, short-haired cats lay curled up together on the ledge. Maggie rang the bell.

  A woman with thick white hair and ageless skin opened the door, blocking the entrance with her ample frame. Wrapped in varying shades of purple, a lilac cardigan, plum-colored tights and a lavender skirt, she looked more like someone's maiden aunt than a witch. "Be careful when you come in," she warned. "Don't let the cats out. They're impossible to catch."

  Maggie squeezed through the door and followed her hostess into the parlor.

  Laurie Cabot gestured toward the couch and over-stuffed chairs. "Please, sit down and tell me how I can help you." She fixed her green eyes on Maggie's face. "Would you like a cup of tea? I really shouldn't drink it because of my insomnia, but I'm fairly addicted."

  Maggie relaxed. "I'd love it." A woman who offered tea was a safe bet. "If you pour a cup of boiling water over one or two fresh lemon balm leaves and steep it for ten minutes you'll have a lovely tasting tea that will put you to sleep. Just remember to sip it slowly for ten minutes before you go to bed."

  Laurie raised her eyebrows. "I heard you were interested in herbal medicine?"

  "I dabble in it."

  "A woman who owns a home remedies' shop hardly dabbles."

  Left on her own, Maggie looked around. An iron cauldron hung from a hook inside the fireplace. Banked against a far wall stood a Welsh cabinet filled with a mortar and pestle, colorful jars and stones grouped according to color, size and mineral content. Shelves groaned under the weight of candles and books, carved beads and incense. Beside a Saxony spinning wheel, nubs sat in a basket near a low stool. So, Laurie Cabot was a spinner, too, like Annie, like the woman in her dream.

  "I've added a bit of pound cake," said the high priestess when she returned. She set the tea tray on the coffee table and poured Maggie a cup, handing it to her. "You look like you could use a bit of sustenance. Why is it that you're here?"

  There was no point in hedging. "My mother lived here. She was Annie McBride. Did you know her?"

  "What did you say your name was?"

  "Maggie McBride."

  "Annie didn't have children," the woman replied flatly. "You'll have to do better than that."

  "She was my adoptive mother. She found me in the cemetery by her husband's grave. She told me just before she died."

  "Annie died?"

  "Yes. I'm sorry. Didn't you know?"

  "No," the woman said slowly, "but there's no reason I should. Once, maybe, we were friends, but after our misunderstanding we fell apart." Absently, she played with the stone at her throat. "So, you're the little girl all grown up. The last time you were here you took up a position by the stairs and played with the cats. Do you still like cats, Maggie McBride?"

  "I do."

  "They come in handy."

  "I beg your pardon?"

  "Never mind," Laurie replied. "I assume your reason for being here has something to do with finding your way back."

  Maggie frowned. "My way back to what?"

  "To who you are, of course."

  "I don't understand."

  The witch's mouth tightened. "Don't play games with me, Maggie McBride. Annie found you in a cemetery, a little girl, naked and dazed, marked by the goddess. She waited for reports of a missing child. There were none. Then her dreams began. She was confused. She came to me asking for direction. I gave it. Then the two of you disappeared."

  Heart thumping, Maggie leaned forward. "What are you saying? What kind of dreams did she have?"

  "The kind that defined her purpose."

  "I have them, too."

  Laurie smiled. "I doubt that very much."

  "It's true," Maggie insisted. "That's why I'm here." She shook her head in frustration. "I can't make sense of them. I want to know what they mean. If you helped Annie, why won't you help me?"

  "I didn't say I wouldn't help you, but you must be patient. Annie lived here all her life. I knew her from childhood. Your purpose is different. You are a mystery, Maggie McBride. Until we know what and who you are, we must be extremely careful. The slightest attempt at changing the order of the universe could have disastrous results."

  Was the woman insane? "I have no idea what you're talking about."

  Once again Laurie's hand settled on the delicate teapot. "More tea?"

  "No, thank you."

  "I'm no longer young," she announced.

  Maggie waited.

  "Susannah Davies is the woman you want. She's experienced and quite capable, I believe, of taking on your case. You'll find that you have a great deal in common."

  Carefully, Maggie set her cup on the table. It was bone china, a thin, delicate floral pattern, the kind someone's grandmother would have. "I don't understand what you mean by changing the order of the universe. I'm haunted by unusual dreams. I want relief. That's why I'm here. What does that have to do with the order of the universe?"

  Laurie Cabot leaned forward. "Why did you come here, Maggie McBride?"

  "I just told you."

  "Why did you come to Salem?"

  "Annie left me her house. She told me to come back."

  "You could have sold it and stayed where you were. What is your true purpose for being here?"

  Maggie thought a minute. "I suppose I wanted to start over, to belong somewhere. I've never really been comfortable before. I want to know who I am."

  "Aha!" Laurie clapped her hands. "Exactly as I thought. You seek direction. I'm giving it to you. Do as you're told. Contact Susannah Davies. You won't be disappointed." And then, as if she feared she'd been too dismissive, she reached across the table and covered Maggie's hand with her own. "I'd help you if I could, child, but I no longer have the energy you'll need. Susannah is the one you want."

  * * *

  Later that afternoon, Maggie stepped back off the sidewalk to compare the numbers on the curb to the address on the index card she carried in her gloved hand. The house was unremarkable, on the harbor side of Salem, small and wooden in the Federalist style, with yellow siding, white trim, dark shutters, a pocket-sized brick porch and a red door. A rose bush climbed gracefully over a low picket fence and a well-kept, green lawn rolled down to meet the sidewalk. Who were these women who grew summer gardens in February?

  Unwinding the muffler from around her throat, Maggie climbed the steps, lifted the knocker and rapped twice. The door opened. A small-boned woman, attractive and very slender with wide dark eyes, stood before her. Her hair had faded to that rusty shade common to all copper-haired women who eschew chemical dyes. The denim slacks and flannel shirt she wore suited her, comfortable, unpretentious, honest. A current of well-being flooded Maggie's chest. Please let this be Susannah Davies, she thought.

  "Hello," Maggie said tentatively. "I have an appointment with Susannah Davies. I'm Maggie McBride."

  Without speaking the woman stared at her for a long minute, her eyes moving over Maggie's face, focusing on every feature, first separately and then all together, all the while saying nothing.

  Maggie waited. "Is this a bad time?" she asked when she felt she couldn't endure the silent inspection for another minute.

  The woman stepped back. A slight flush stained her cheeks. "I'm Susannah Davies. I've been waiting for you. Please, come in."

  Maggie followed her past the entry into a large sunlit room that served as living and dining room. Again, sensations of warmth and light flooded through her. Oak floors gleamed beneath a rag rug. Spindle chairs, a rectangular table and bookshelves fashioned from the same oak were arranged around a deep, russet-colored sofa. Beside a small stool, near the fireplace, was a spinning wh
eel, the weasel beside it thick with white thread. Green and copper accents, plants, sea glass, vases and hand-blown bottles peeked out from spaces, spilled over counters and forgotten niches, brightening the dreary December day in a way that blasts of California sunshine never could.

  Maggie sank into the couch, grateful that it was low enough to support both her feet and back and looked at the woman she'd come to see. So, she thought, this is what a witch looks like.

  As if she knew her thoughts, Susannah smiled and sat beside her. "How can I help you?"

  Suddenly, in this light-filled room with windows facing the ocean and sky, the woman, sympathetic and lovely, her smile more than welcoming, it seemed ridiculous, this foray into the supernatural. "I'm not sure you can," she began.

  Susannah crossed her denim clad legs. Maggie noticed she wore thick woolen socks without shoes. "Maybe not," she admitted. "Why don't you begin at the beginning and I'll tell you if I can. If not, all you've lost is time."

  "I have to ask what you'll charge. I'm at a crossroads in my life and don't have an income yet."

  "Charge?" For an instant Susannah Davies looked confused. Then she recovered. "Of course. Consultations are complimentary. Once you tell me what we're dealing with I can give you a figure."

  Maggie drew a deep breath. "You're going to think this is ridiculous," she began.

  Susannah smiled. "I doubt it." Leaning forward, she opened a drawer in the table and pulled out a tablet and pen. She handed them to Maggie. "Sometimes it helps to organize your thoughts. I don't need a novel. In fact, I won't even look at it. You'll be the one referring to whatever it is you've written. It's just a tool. Meanwhile, I'll grind some coffee beans and make us a fresh pot of Columbia's finest."

  Maggie watched her leave the room. Then she settled the pen between her thumb and forefinger, one of those fat, expensive ones that people who prefer the act of manually composing letters on paper rather than succumbing to a keyboard use, and began to write. It was simple, really. She wanted a conduit that would lead her to the connection between her life with Annie McBride, the unsettling dreams that flitted in and out of her dreams and her second sight. She wanted to know who she was, where she came from, who her people were, where she belonged. Her pen flew across the paper, the ideas coming faster than her hand could form the script.

  Too soon, Susannah appeared in the room carrying two mugs of freshly brewed coffee. "How are you coming along?" she asked, handing Maggie the fragrantly spiced beverage.

  Without looking at the words she'd written, Maggie set down the pen and tablet, accepted the mug and began to speak. "I found out I was adopted a few months ago. Annie McBride, a woman living here in Salem, found me in The Old Burying Point Cemetery sometime between my second and third birthdays. The circumstances were odd. I was naked and completely alone. There was no clue as to my identity. No one reported a missing child. Annie was a practicing Wiccan. She kept the fact that I wasn't really her child a secret by not settling anywhere. We were never in the same place very long." Maggie swallowed, close to succumbing to the bevy of emotions filling her head. Words, somehow, didn't seem enough for the lifetime of subterfuge she'd experienced with Annie.

  Susannah's dark eyes were warm with sympathy. "Do you resent her for not trying to find your parents?"

  "She did her best."

  "That's no answer."

  Maggie shrugged. "It's the only one I have right now."

  "Fair enough. Please, continue."

  "She told me about a woman who promised to come back for me but never did. The woman had my eyes, one dark the other light."

  "Heterochromia iridium," murmured Susannah.

  Maggie stared at her. "Most people have never heard of it, and yet you can pronounce it correctly."

  "Your case is extreme," replied the older woman. "Usually one eye is lighter than the other, amber and dark brown or green and blue. I've only seen your particular version of the condition once before. Your eyes are incredibly striking. I imagine you've always had a lot of explaining to do."

  Maggie shook her head. "I've never been comfortable with attention. Until very recently I wore contact lenses."

  "A pity." Susannah sipped her coffee. "So, you're looking for your parents. Is that it, or is there more?"

  Maggie's cheeks burned. "I'm a clairvoyant. I see things others can't. Until a few months ago I worked for law enforcement, profiling criminals. I'm finished with that. It isn't for me. When Annie died, I used my retirement and the house she left me to start a business. It's a health food and herbal supplement shop." She set her mug on the table and leaned forward, hands on her knees. "I've been dreaming about the oddest things. I can't quite make them out but, clearly, what I'm seeing has no place in present-day Salem. The clothing and language are different. The place is familiar and yet it isn't." She turned the full force of her blue-brown gaze on Susannah. "I think it's a door but I don't have the key. I need your help."

  "To interpret your dreams?"

  Maggie nodded. "I believe that understanding the dreams would be a starting point."

  "I can help you with the dreams," Susannah began slowly, "but I think there's something much more important here than you realize."

  "What do you mean?"

  "You have an exceptional gift into which you've only briefly tapped. Second Sight is something we who have chosen to follow the earth religions all wish we had. Few are so blessed. Fewer can actually manage it and then only after years of concentrated practice. What I'm hearing is that you not only have the gift, but you've resisted it. The Sight, once it's released, can be difficult to live with. Only the very strong can do that and maintain the semblance of normalcy. Are you prepared, Maggie McBride?"

  Maggie heard the question, but she didn't answer immediately. She was distracted by the odd cadence of the woman's speech. Again, she felt that it was familiar and yet where would she have heard it before?

  "Maggie?"

  "I don't know, I want to try, but I'm not sure that I understand."

  "Have you a medium?"

  "What's that?"

  "A specter. A way of calling up, moving into these visions that you see?

  "No."

  Susannah poured more coffee, picked up the mug and turned her gaze toward the fire, her eyes unseeing, her mind full, her lips moving with an ancient prophecy. So strong and yet so oblivious. How had she managed for all this time? Maggie McBride was one of the chosen, born into life through the breech position at the exact moment when earth's shadow slides across a full moon, changing its color, a woman destined to walk alone, removed from the fellowship of a communal species, to see truth behind words, in the blink of an eye, in the twitch of a muscle, in the whisper of a sigh, forever marked by a startling genetic mutation, one brown eye, the other blue. Frighteningly powerful, dangerously resistant.

  Absently Susannah began stroking the smooth ceramic surface of the mug with her forefinger. "Is there something you do that calls up the visions you have, something consistent?"

  "Other than falling asleep?"

  Susannah laughed. "Other than that."

  "Not that I can think of."

  "Is there a time when the dreams are more vivid?"

  Maggie hesitated. "There is, but I can't pinpoint when."

  "Never mind. We'll figure it out." Susannah turned her slanted dark eyes on Maggie. "You'll need to become familiar with the earth religions, our stones, incantations and rituals. That doesn't mean you must give up your own faith, if you practice one. We're not exclusionary. As for myself, I pray to whichever deity fits the occasion. Whether you choose to join us will be your choice. However, your purpose will be accomplished more easily if you submit. You may be strong enough on your own. Time will tell. First, I'll need to visit your home, look around a bit. We'll start there. Is that all right with you?"

  Maggie hesitated.

  Susannah spoke gently. "You must tell me what's on your mind, Maggie, or we can't work together."

  "It's the
witchcraft thing," Maggie admitted. "I've always associated it with evil."

  "You're not alone. The misconception goes back a long way."

  "Why is that?"

  "Religion has always been an excuse for atrocities. Our founding fathers didn't leave England because they couldn't practice their own religion, they left because they disapproved of anyone who practiced a religion other than theirs. Jews, Catholics, Lutherans, Quakers, no one was welcome, but they specifically focused their hatred on the pagan or earth religions. Ours is a spiritual faith celebrating oneness with the earth. Well before Christianity became all-encompassing, women who had an affinity with herbs were healers. Some attributed special powers to them. Some, because of their bond with nature and the elements, had unusual abilities. We call them psychics or clairvoyants, but they aren't evil."

  "I have those abilities," Maggie whispered.

  "I know. In you it's quite strong."

  "People are terrified when they find out," she said bitterly. "They want nothing to do with me."

  Susannah looked down at her hands. "It must be difficult for you."

  "Know one here knows. It's been a relief."

  "I imagine it would be."

  "When can you come?" Maggie asked.

  "Tomorrow. I'll come after your day is finished, around seven in the evening."

  Maggie smiled and stood. "Thank you. I feel better already."

  Susannah rose from her chair. "I'll walk out with you. I have a cat that should be coming home for her dinner." Arms folded protectively against the cold, she stood on the porch and watched as Maggie threw her handbag into the back seat and climbed into the car. Just before she found her keys, Susannah rounded her lips and blew. The sharp, piercing whistle sliced through the wind blowing in from the Atlantic, swallowing the cawing of crows, the slap of waves against the hulls of fishing boats, drowning out the clanging of church bells at Immaculate Conception Catholic Church.

  The sound immobilized Maggie, stunning her nerves. She clenched her hands around the steering wheel. She knew that sound, but from where? Heart pounding, she turned back to the woman on the steps, meeting the steady gaze of the slight figure outlined against the red door. Across the distance between them, Susannah Davies' eyes met hers in a long, enigmatic, silent communion. Then she looked away.