An Arrogant Witch Read online

  It was tantalizing, that whisper; it could have been the coin or it might have been something else altogether but that’s all it was, a hint of it on the air. I couldn’t find the source here in this dimension.

  The easiest way to go about finding the coin would be to go into Alt, I knew, for then the magic would jump out at me. But there was no chance in hell I would do that in this cellar. You see, the thing about Alt was, you had to know what you were getting into before you switched. Alt and real time were fairly close geographically, but Alt didn’t necessarily keep up with the modern geography.

  For example, last September on the day I met Hugh, I had been hanging out at the harbour down by the iron fence which lined the apron and feeling all angsty and mad at Dad. In real time, the harbour had been reclaimed and filled with rubble to enable enough space for a parking lot, the new road and the concrete harbour apron where I’d been standing.

  But because of my mental state, I’d let my guard down and before I knew it, I had flipped full on into Alt. The iron fence was gone, and so was the apron along with Harbour Drive, even the parking lots. Instead in Alt, the original beach with the long finger piers still existed, the rickety wooden wharves running directly into the harbour from the back loading doors of the merchant shops. So when I accidently flipped, I was teetering in the edge of an old timber pier and about to fall into the murky waters of the harbour full of sewage and dead rats. It was only by quick thinking I could bring myself back into real time and the safety of the concrete harbour apron.

  As I said, there was no way I was going into Alt in this ancient cellar because God alone knew where I would end up. Alt was a dangerous place. So I had to sort and sift through all of Zeta’s tacky, ash-smelling junk by hand. After a half hour, I accepted that the coin wasn’t here.

  There was a flashlight at the bottom of one of the boxes though, and I idly flicked the switch to see if the battery was still good. It was. I aimed the light further into the long narrow space, to the parts where the overhead light couldn’t penetrate, and caught a gleam of eyes which quickly scurried away out of sight. Gross, rats. And where there were rats, there was rat poo and the bugs who ate it. Zeta should have given me a mask to filter the air while down here.

  The rest of the cellar was littered with older debris and cast-off furniture, some of it from the Victorian era from what I could see under the dust. But way, way in the back, at the farthest end, a gleam of tarnished metal caught my eye, so I focused the beam on the center of the wall. But it wasn’t a wall, not all of it anyway. Through the layers of cob webs strung all around, I could barely make out that the stone foundation was interrupted by an ancient door, a rough arch made of planks with two iron hinges, a handle, and a rusted padlock.

  It looked a long ways away, that door, longer than the floor of the store above. I thought perhaps it was just a trick of the bad light down here, so I ran the beam slowly over the wooden floor boards above as I counted a rough estimate of the length of this underground room. Halfway down the space, the beams were replaced by a stone roof, arched like a medieval monastic cellar. Yeah, this room was definitely longer than the corresponding space upstairs by a good ten feet.

  It must extend underneath Duckworth Street, one of the oldest streets in the North America. Naturally, I had to explore it, I couldn’t leave this although I should have known better. I picked my careful way over everything, trying to touch as little as possible, till I reached the door. I could vaguely feel the rumble of traffic rolling over the ancient cobblestones far above my head, long since tarmacked over. The lock held true despite the rust and grime of years.

  Which left the burning question – where did that ancient door lead to? The whiff of magic was much stronger here, but the door was solidly built.

  And was it padlocked to protect something in the room, or to keep something outside from getting in?

  ‘DARA?’

  I heard Zeta’s voice as she clumped down the stairs, and quickly made my way back into the light.

  ‘Hey, Z,’ I greeted her as I nonchalantly walked out of the gloom.

  ‘God, I could hear you but couldn’t see you! What were you doing back there? Are you sure it’s safe?’

  I wondered if she’d ever looked towards the back of this long room, if she even knew about the existence of the door under the street. I don’t know why, but I held back from mentioning it.

  ‘Nothing there, just the rest of the cellar,’ I said. ‘Well, look at the time, I better get going.’

  ‘You don’t look like you got much done here.’ She sounded disappointed. ’All the stuff is just spread around, and you didn’t clean anything by the looks of it.’

  What, did she think the free labour extended to scrubbing the smoke off her cheap plastic shit? Get real, lady, I thought to myself.

  ‘Maybe I can come back again in a few days,’ I said aloud. ‘Do a bit more, help you out.’

  And find out what that door is hiding.

  ‘Oh would you? That would be such a relief, I’ve got the workmen up here all the time and I have to keep such a close eye on them, I don’t know when I’ll find the time to get to all this stuff down here.’

  ‘No problem,’ I told her as I followed her long cotton skirts up the stairs, ducking at the right spot so as not to hit my head on the beam.

  THAT NIGHT IN MY ROOM, I set the volume dial of Aunt Edna’s old Eighties boom box on bust with some of her Leonard Cohen CDs as I attempted to work on the Folklore paper which was due the following week. I’d chosen to write about the Lord of Misrule, that medieval tradition of electing a fool to rule for a short period of time around the Christmas season. Also known as the Abbot of Unreason, this lucky citizen presided over all the courts and games for the time period, wreaking as much havoc as he could.

  In the pre-Christian era, the mock lord would be sacrificed at the end to ensure the return of summer.

  But by medieval times, the period of unrule was a great opportunity for everyone to pay back old grudges. Our local modern-day mummers’ tradition was a direct descendant, with folk dressing up in old clothes, disguising themselves any which way with pillowcases or brin bags over their faces to make their rounds of the neighbors, demanding food and drink. It’s become very popular and sanitized and politically correct these days of course.

  But historically, mummering had been outlawed here in Newfoundland back in the 1880’s, due to the murders in Bay Roberts by persons unknown who’d disguised themselves as mummers. Authorities had thought it was part of the ongoing religious wars between Protestant and Catholic at the time, and they were probably right. Still, it’s a pretty creepy thing if you think of it, people disguising themselves and hammering on doors and demanding entrance in the middle of the night. You might not know who was behind those brin bags, or what their true intent was.

  This was all very interesting but of course my mind wandered back to that door set in the ancient cellar wall, the hinges thick with spider webs. It probably hadn’t been opened in fifty, no, seventy-five years, maybe more. Say if a person found another ancient big iron key, like the ones hanging in the pantry of my home, and tried it in the lock, how much wiggling around would it take to work open that padlock? If, just say if, a person could get it opened, what would they find?

  With the road works and modern sewer systems in St. John in the past century, the door would probably just open on to rubble and landfill. If this had been London or another truly ancient city, the door might lead onto forgotten sewage and waste water bricked tunnels, but I was pretty sure early St. John’s had never had anything that elaborate in its infrastructure.

  I’d heard rumours through the years of an ancient tunnel system linking the cellars of some very old buildings down town. These had come in handy for smuggling and other nefarious activities, but I’d never really believed that story - it was right up there in the local urban myths like the caves below Signal Hill. Of course, in Alt these things could be real.

  In a bre
ak between songs, I’d become aware of a steady moan through the walls, intermixed with irregular thumping and crying sounds, and it had probably been going on for a while before the caterwauling broke through my reverie.

  One of the things with living in the old homestead is that we inherited the ghost of Maundy along with it and she couldn’t be exorcised because she was family. I was the only one who could see her, so I guess she was just my problem.

  ‘What?’ I screamed out over the music only to hear the sobbing start up again. Maundy, my fourth, or was it fifth cousin, the ghost I shared a wall with. She was an emo kid from way back before emo kids were a thing, who died at the age of thirteen sometime before the end of Queen Victoria’s reign and had been miserable ever since.

  Of course, I’d known Maundy all my life. Edna had thought she was an imaginary playmate until the whole witch-blood thing came out into the open after Mom’s disappearance and my aunt had to open her eyes to what and who Dad really was. And that I had inherited his magic ability.

  The sobbing only increased in volume the longer I waited, so I just sighed and turned down the violins and angel choruses. Maundy was a weird ghost in that she hated rock music or anything modern. Country suited her fine, especially Hank Williams, and some nights we could even compromise on rockabilly or blues. But sometimes she just complained to get on my nerves, those days when nothing would satisfy her.

  ‘Happy now?’ I called out, but received no answer. My neighbor, having gotten her own way, was peaceful again.

  Hal the cat wandered into my room now the music was lowered, and found the nesting point behind my knees where he settled in for a snooze. This paper wasn’t getting done tonight, so I gave up even pretending to work on it and got lost in thought instead.

  Of course my mind was on the coin that was no longer among the junk in Zeta’s. I could curse myself for not grabbing it when it had literally been at my fingertips last September, but I’d had other things on my mind at the time, things like fairies and Nan Hoskins’ haunting, and I hadn’t been expecting to find something of real magical worth in the shop.

  Its magic had felt familiar, and it was only after I’d left her store that I’d realized why. It made me feel all warm and cozy and safe, like I’d felt years ago with Mom and Dad together. Back before Mom disappeared and Dad cut me out of his life except for the monthly cheques.

  That whiff of magic I’d sensed in Zeta’s cellar that afternoon – was that the coin? Yet it hadn’t been in real time. The metal had to have been in Alt, I was sure, and someone must have placed it there in that other dimension. Not Zeta, surely – she wouldn’t know Alt it if it bit her in the face. So who?

  Hal’s purrs slowly morphed to snores, and the rhythm lulled me into an unexpected nap. I drifted off and found myself in Zeta’s cellar, barely lit with that single bulb swinging from the joists yet the old wooden door at the end of the room was eerily illuminated as if from within. I could hear soft music and laughter coming from behind the oak and could feel the warmth emanating from that hidden space. It called to me and I was helpless to resist.

  As I drew closer the longing to be on the other side of that door grew ever more; it filled my head and heart, and I could see the padlock had gone. There was nothing stopping me, all I had to do was open the door and all my dreams would be fulfilled, dreams I didn’t even know I longed for.

  Yet the moment my fingertips touched the cold iron handle I was seized by dread and foreboding and knew this was wrong. That door must not be opened, yet my mind could no longer control my body and I watched in horror as my hand insistently grasped the latch and began to pull. The wooden door creaked on its hinges as I tried to tell myself to stop, but to no avail.

  Suddenly all went dark. The open door was filled with the pitch black of a moonless night and even the swaying bulb so far away snapped out and I was left alone, bereft, and unable to see yet feeling the evil all around I had unleased by my action.

  I woke up – at least my eyes snapped open but everything about me was still dark and I could not move a muscle. I was back lying on my bed and paralysed, sensing motion above my head yet unable to wrench myself away from the threat.

  3

  ‘DARA, WAKE UP.’ I heard a soft voice. ‘You’re having the old hag again.’

  And Edna broke the spell. I opened my eyes for real and could see her caring blue gaze in the soft light from the bedside lamp, her familiar presence reaching to me. Hal still snored by my side undisturbed by my nightmare.

  My aunt gave me a quick hug and told me to go to bed properly and not to go sleeping on my back, then left me to it.

  I lay there, my chest still heaving quickly as I waited for the rush of adrenaline to pass. The hag and I were old acquaintances, yet every time she visited it was like the first. Never sleep on your back, for that’s when you open yourself to her.

  As a student of folklore, you’d think I would have conquered her by now. I had studied the phenomenon extensively ever since my mid-teens when it had started to haunt my sleep, and found that almost every culture in the world had a name for her. She was commonly seen as an incubus who sat on a person’s chest, causing the paralysis, the panic and inability to breathe – almost the same symptoms everywhere in the world that people live. The old hag is actually such an ancient idea, she is the original ‘nightmare’, the ‘mare’ being the old Proto-Germanic word for demon. Well anyway, the point is it’s a common physical phenomenon, not a proper haunting, although when she’s got you in her grips logic doesn’t come into it.

  Yet... That cellar door. Physical reaction or not, I couldn’t help but feel the dream was warning me against further exploration of Zeta’s basement, which was a shame because my curiosity had been sparked and I was too nosy to let things lie.

  STEPPING OUT OF THE SHOWER the next morning, I heard a car pull up the driveway and the sound of our back door opening and closing. Edna had gone out, so she’d probably forgotten to lock the door again. Her boyfriend Mark was a cop and he was always getting on her case about that, but as she pointed out, there really wasn’t anything worth stealing in the house, for all the valuable stuff had been sold years ago when we’d needed a new roof. When I wrapped a towel around me and rubbed a circle of steam off the glass, to my delight I saw the Batmobile down below me.

  No, it wasn’t really the superhero’s car, just a black low-slung sports car of European origin and far out of the price reach of most people, but I knew who drove it.

  Hugh! What was he doing in town again so soon?

  I couldn’t wipe the grin off my face as I hastily scrubbed myself dry and combed my damp hair. Hugh was one of my most favorite people in the world.

  Like I said, we’d met two months ago in September. He’d recognized my magic blood straight away and told me he too was a half-blood witch, as if it wasn’t anything to be ashamed of despite the prejudices still rampant in the ranks of the Witch Kin. Hugh was the one who convinced Dad to send me away to Scotland next year to amend my badly needed education in witch craft.

  Hugh believed in me, and was the first to recognize that I was a powerful witch despite having a Normal for a mother with no supernatural blood in her at all. Yeah, I sort of had a crush on the handsome Scotsman. Who wouldn’t, under the circumstances?

  So he was just a few years older than me, but I knew he was way out of my league. He was confident and powerful, and internationally respected among the Witch Kin despite the circumstances of his birth. Where he came from, nobody cared about that sort of thing, and besides, the northern Scottish islands were the first seat of organized Witch Kin and no one would ever dare argue with them, no matter their prejudices. Another thing, although no one had really come out and said it, I had the feeling Hugh was being groomed to marry my half-sister Sasha, Dad’s legitimate daughter.

  The Witch Kin of Newfoundland were still an old-fashioned, traditional group. Strongly patriarchal, they clung to the old ways which included arranged marriages in order to further
political alliances and keep the blood lines pure. Despite his half-blood status, even Cate would accept Hugh into her family for with his heritage it would be a coup for her Kin.

  So he was totally off-limits for the likes of me, out of my league. But I could still count him as a friend and as I ran down the back staircase pulling my sweater over my head, I yelled out to him.

  He caught me as I jumped down the last three steps and whirled me around, surprised at the vehemence of my greeting.

  ‘What are you doing in town, Hugh?’

  He’d already helped himself to Edna’s coffee, so I poured myself a mug and sat across from him at the kitchen table. He hadn’t changed at all. Still wearing the black leather jacket and jeans, his tousled dark hair naturally falling away from his face like a rugged James Dean, the gold flecks in his green eyes shone when he looked at me.

  ‘Business,’ he replied, then laughed. ‘I was at a loose end with work and thought I’d come back to give you a bit of a crash course in the basics of magic. The foundations, so to speak. It’s bad enough that you’ll be starting with the young ones, I don’t want you to have to sit in the kindergarten class with the babies.’

  He was teasing me, I knew, but I didn’t mind, I was just so frigging happy to see him. And the fact that he’d said he’d come across the water specifically to see me, well, that made me puff up a bit.

  ‘I have a new job,’ I said, eager to pass on my news. He was aware I was no longer baby-sitting, and why. ‘Just for a week. I’ll be a roustabout with the Craft Council craft fair, the big one they have every year. But I’ll make enough in that week to do me till I go away.’