Pauline’s coven is meeting to aid a young woman. The hairdresser and her partner have been trying for nearly three years and thus far pregnancy has eluded them. Pauline noticed the young woman on the riverside bench eating sandwiches and feeding scraps to the ducks. Pauline feeds the ducks after eating her own lunch too. The thin young woman appeared frequently and they had started acknowledging each other with a brief wave. One day the young woman’s posture indicated all was not well. Pauline decided a word or two would not be out of order. Brief conversations had grown to sharing fragments of their personal lives. (See map of Pauline’s property.)
Sitting on her sunny deck with her afternoon herbal tea, Pauline’s gaze moves to the pentacle permanently paved into the lawn. The feature seldom fails to gladden her heart. She so hopes tonight’s ritual will prove successful. Sarai’s words have made her apprehensive. “Just take care,” she had said. For a coven ritual the magic circle must be traced and redefined by wand or athame. Previously Pauline has used a wand, but last week she managed to buy a truly elegant athame. She had been looking forward to showing the trophy to her closest friend. Sarai would appreciate the bogwood handle decorated with the triple moon inset in silver. The crescents of the waxing and waning moon united with the full orb were beautifully crafted and reflected the gleam of the double-edged blade.
“You bought it on TradeMe!” The scathing words echo in Pauline’s mind. Sarai’s indignation lowered to righteous concern. “An athame should be either self-crafted or a gift. No good will come of this.”
Chastened, Pauline had replied, “It is a blunt athame. You know I wouldn’t work with a sharp one. Feel.”
Sarai pulled back from the proffered article. “If you must do this, do it properly, only the owner should handle an athame.”
The women had stared at each other, Pauline’s hazel eyes showing hurt, the blue eyes stony and superior. Sarai’s expression changed first. The hard lines softened. “If these things bring you pleasure, enjoy them,” she said, gathering the crestfallen Pauline into an embrace. “Just take care.”
~ ~ ~ | ~ ~ ~
Jen is taking care. Since putting her career on hold she has decided Friday dinners at home should be special. She surveys her table with satisfaction. Japanese place mats, chopsticks, and a sparse floral arrangement give an authentic air to her menu. Candles add a romantic touch, but are they a bit silly for this time of year? The bright sinking sun is turning the silver candlesticks to mirrors. Peering closely Jen can see a tiny Modigliani image of her golden hair and red lips. The wine is cooling in the ice bucket they bought in Adelaide, and black silk caresses her intimate parts. The shogayaki, Japanese ginger pork, and manju, Japanese steamed cakes, wait in the warmer. The cakes were fussy to make and Jen is so pleased with them she takes another look. Yes, they are a classy dessert. Dinner is scheduled for seven. It is five past seven according to the kitchen clock.
~ ~ ~ | ~ ~ ~
Amber checks her watch. It has been a long day of less than enjoyable sex. Not that she expects sex to be enjoyable; work is work, and it is not a bed of roses. But some days are better than this one.
Amber’s self-imposed standards bolster her belief that she is not a common working girl. She limits herself to three clients in a two-hour stint, the motel’s minimum booking, and no more than eight in a day. A session is 20 minutes but may go to 30 at her discretion.
Today she began at two with a new client who was intent on taking revenge on his cheating wife. When it came to the crunch he couldn’t perform. For a moment Kat thought he was going to cry but he resurrected anger from his hurt and left more angry than when he’d arrived. Mucky Murray and Dodgy Don didn’t usually come on the same day — thank God! — but both wanted afternoon appointments today. Friday Fred came and went as boring and un-communicative as he is every week between five and 20 past.
Arthur arrived late. The role-playing foreplay was swift and the main action half-hearted. When he rushed away she wandered around the motel unit with an urge to kick the furniture until she saw something glinting on the floor in the wardrobe alcove. It was a heavy gold ring with patterned edges, a wedding ring. She hasn’t seen a ring on Arthur’s finger. Amber makes a point of checking fingers. Does it belong to Arthur or an earlier client? Should she hand it in to the motel office? Bound to belong to one of her guests, the motel is old but carefully cleaned by its owner-operators. Whoever owns the ring can ask if they want it back. Amber zips it into a pocket in her handbag and checks her diary. The last client of the day has cancelled. She will be finishing early tonight, Ben will be the last.
~ ~ ~ | ~ ~ ~
Sarai reads the Press while Pauline checks again that all is ready. The small table in the lounge holds 13 tall-stemmed wine glasses standing beside bottles of red wine on silver trays. The girls appreciate a drink on arrival; helps boost the mood. Porcelain cups and saucers are set out on the large table, surrounded by other supper essentials. Pauline’s blueberry muffins and Sarai’s cheese straws are covered with a cobweb-patterned throw-over. Everything is in order. Being February there is no point in starting a moonlight ritual until after nine o’clock. She pours a large sherry for Sarai and herself.
~ ~ ~ | ~ ~ ~
Ben greets his hostess with a predictably shy and formal, “Good evening, Amber.” In the bedroom his bespectacled eyes are bright with anticipation but he comes too soon and is embarrassed.
So he should be at his age, thinks Amber unkindly, but keeps her professional cool. “It’s OK, no worries mate.” Knowing he likes to talk, and since she has nothing pressing to do, she suggests they shower and have an instant coffee. She soaps him, spin-rinses him, and edges him out, taking a couple of minutes to have the barely adequate water-jet to herself.
“Do you have any hobbies?” Amber asks conversationally when they’re both dried, dressed, and sitting in armchairs.
Ben puts his cup down, reaches into his pack, and extracts an expensive-looking camera. “Photography,” he confides. “I carry a camera everywhere. Great photo opportunities are liable to present unexpectedly.” He packs it away with care, saying, “I develop my own films.”
Develops films in this age of digital cameras and phone photos? She is amazed that anyone would bother.
“Yes,” Ben admits, “you could call it old-fashioned, but to the purist real film produces inimitable quality. It’s an art form. I use digital as well,” he adds, not wanting to sound too weird.
“So you go in for art. What about porn?” asks Amber.
Ben is shocked. “I record real-life moments not contrived titillation. I would never dishonour a woman by lewd photography. However,” he flushes brilliant crimson, “there is only a thin line between art and some perceptions of pornography. I couldn’t help but notice how beautifully the light silhouetted you behind the shower curtain. It was a life moment I would love to record.”
Luckily the sun has dropped and the patterned glass of the shower window is no longer providing seductive light.
~ ~ ~ | ~ ~ ~
Wilkin drops a light kiss on Jen’s cheek. “Hi, hon. Sorry I’m late.” He sits. “A Japanese theme. That’s nice.” He manoeuvres his chopsticks distractedly, lost in his own thoughts. Even when tired he looks good, Jen thinks, as she asks after his day. His grey eyes meet her blue ones briefly. The chemistry is still there, or is it? He may as well be reciting a shopping list — recession, business stresses mounting, deadlines to meet, and … he looks at her, longer this time, silently approving her grooming, but all he says is, “... and sloppy staff.” It is not news to Jen. Wilkin is a perfectionist and his present secretary is too motherly-casual for his pernickety tastes.
After a long silence Jen asks if he is enjoying the meal. He nods and tells her she is becoming quite proficient in the kitchen. Jen contains her response to rolling her eyes when he isn’t looking. She has planned an end-of-week, relaxing evening listening to music, but Wilkin opts for watching TV. There is an item he wants to see on hopefuls for the new season’s rugby team. “I think Andy Bealey will be the choice for winger,” he observes. “He’s an excellent player and they say he’s over his depression issues.”
“He’s in great physical shape,” comments Jen.
When the programme ends Wilkin flicks channels, not settling on anything, something Jen can’t abide. It doesn’t last long. When the wine is finished he announces, “I’ve had a tiring week. I’m off to bed.”
Feeling decidedly unromantic Jen follows and makes an effort to display her new silks. His eyes hold interest but his mouth ruins it. “Mmm, very nice my dear, but you’re not quite the slender waif I married.”
You’re no six-pack-wonder yourself, Jen silently shoots back, as he heaves into his marital duty.
~ ~ ~ | ~ ~ ~
Becky, the childless young woman, drinks red wine and wonders what she is letting herself in for. Perhaps she should not have talked so openly with the woman on the river bank. “No town in New Zealand has rivers more English than Christchurch,” Pauline had said. Over the course of their meetings Becky learned that Pauline has no family. The brother she was close to died in a tragic accident. Being able to buy property with a back gate to the river is the reason she calls this downunder city home, the Pom had confided. She talked about the abundant gifts of nature and how the Avon’s manicured banks and trailing willows evoke happy memories of Cambridge. Her brother had gone to the famous university and later established a gardening centre in Cambridge. “I feed ducks and memories in unison,” Pauline had smiled. Becky feels she could tell Pauline almost anything.
~ ~ ~ | ~ ~ ~
Pauline carefully chose the night after new moon, to enhance the potential for conception and growth. The night is warm and balmy. A circle of garden lights set back from the pentacle throw their own magic, low and steady, across the lawn. Twenty-four hours earlier Pauline had taken care to remove any bad karma from previous owners of the athame by asking Odin’s blessing on the male object, and placing it in the centre of the pentacle with the words, Knife, you are brought into this circle of transformation to be forever after my athame. A full day’s exposure to the sun and other elements should have completed the cleansing process but for extra safety she will smudge it with sage.
Her guests stand around the blazing brazier and watch with interest. Pauline takes fire tongs, shiny clean for the occasion, extracts an ember, and places it on a pottery paten centred on a wrought iron table. From the glowing ember she ignites a sage leaf and passes the blade through the smoke thrice, saying,
All bad be gone, all good become,
I am your owner, I am the one.
The coven members take their places around the pentacle. Pauline stands at its apex beside the altar. The well informed know the altar cloth is red for sexual potency and the pink lace doyley at its centre signifies love and romance. The round altar table is a matching pair with the table beside the brazier, as is the pottery paten. This paten is filled with halved passion fruit. On either side stand the matching chalices, one filled with wine, and the other with salted water. Pauline defines the sacred space and lays her athame on the altar.
~ ~ ~ | ~ ~ ~
Shane and his mates slouch through the shadows. The three youths wear dark hoodies, two of them carry backpacks. An approaching couple cross the street to avoid them.
“Yeah, fuck off,” Marty calls after them. Their combined swaggering gait professes ownership of the empty street. Fences are high in this part of town, gates locking each multi-storeyed residence inside its own spacious patch.
The apprentice thugs test each gate in passing. Loose from an afternoon of boozing and edgy from speed they want action. One gate moves. Dale and Marty push in unison. Hinges creak and barking shatters the air. As they wrench it shut two dogs leap at it, snapping and pawing at the barrier. The youths run but no one follows or calls after them. Nonetheless they are rattled. Shane recovers first. He pulls his hood back over his smooth skull and directs scorn at the others. “Couple of fuckin hard men you two bitches are.”
~ ~ ~ | ~ ~ ~
Sarai stands in the shadows under the trees and ponders Pauline. Religion has such potential for good yet can cause so much harm. In Pauline’s case Christianity caused life-stilting repression, but, Sarai reflects ruefully, most religions have similar dualities and Goddess liberation has no less power than the others to seduce and corrupt.
In the distance some dogs bark. Sarai adjusts her hood and pulls her earth-brown cloak closer. The sky-clad circle moves rhythmically, warmed by their dance, the newness of the moon, and the bright summer stars.
Becky clutches her best silk bathrobe. She had told partner Zac she was having a night out with the girls. Zac has no idea these ‘girls’ are closer to her grandmother’s age than hers. Pauline had explained what would be required of her during the ritual, but Pauline hadn’t realised Becky didn’t understand the term sky-clad. Becky didn’t cotton-on until they all went upstairs. What the old women intended to do is such a totally unimagined notion that chatty, disco-dancing Becky was stunned to mute acquiescence. The women trooped into the garden wearing dressing gowns. Then they took them off.
~ ~ ~ | ~ ~ ~
The hoods slouch on in silence. Shane fingers the blade in his pocket; it is all the comfort he needs. At 19 Shane is alone in the world. His sister left home at 15 and disappeared. At 16 he had almost killed his father when he walked in on him hitting his mother. A week later, when Shane was out getting pissed, his father punched his mother to death.
“Look,” nods Marty, “over there. Gate’s open.” The youths contemplate the property across the street. The front fence is surprisingly low. “More like it,” Shane displays the authority of experience. “Flower baskets, gay statue.” The others are sufficiently impressed to cross the street. “Letterbox in the shape of a cat, gotta be some cat-crazy bitch. Won’t be no dogs here.”
Four cars are parked on the lawn. All are locked. “No lights on,” observes Dale, scanning the house. Shane edges into the porch. The panelled door moves to his touch. “This dumb bitch is asking to be robbed.” They slide inside and can just discern a distant noise, soft music perhaps.
“The old girl will be watching Coronation Street,” grins Shane, extracting a flat torch from his jeans. A wide, carpeted staircase rises to the light’s beam. “No point looking for electronic shit here. Maybe jewellery.” They tread warily but nothing creaks.
~ ~ ~ | ~ ~ ~
Becky studies her bare feet. Freshly-painted toenails reveal she agreed to this and did what she could to prepare. The old women are dancing and chanting. Dancing naked! What is she doing here?
This is mad, cries the voice of reason in her head.
No, it’s worth a try, says her creative side. No harm can come of it and it might work.
You intended to start a baby as soon as you got married and your third wedding anniversary is the month after next, taunts Reason.
Exactly, crushes Creative, I have to do something. Take action.
Sex isn’t as good as it was, niggles Reason.
That’s because Zac is starting to think I don’t want a baby. He thinks if I wanted a baby it would happen.
But sex is no longer making love it is about making babies.
It’s up to me to do something positive.
You have to change, it’s wrong to be uptight with Zac. Reason has the last word.
Shane nudges the partially-open door with his foot, revealing a spacious bedroom. The queen-sized bed is covered with a multicoloured quilt. On a polished dressing-table necklaces hang on a tree sort of gadget, asking to be plucked. In the top drawer brooches lie in waiting on a velvet lining. Marty scoops some polished stones from the top of a chest of drawers. From the bedside table Dale souvenirs a strange rock with sharp edges about the size of a fist. The en-suite contains nothing of interest. The wardrobe contains nothing male. Elated, the thieves move to the next room.
It is just as spacious and like its predecessor the windows are covered with thick drapes. Towels hang on a wooden free-standing towel rail. More bits of rock sit on another chest of drawers. The bed is covered with clothes, heaps of old-woman gear — skirts, pants, tops, gross underwear. Shane circles his torch round the room and pauses on the framed painting above the bed. A striking young woman in see-through top and swirling pink skirt points to a small fire where a squatting monkey puffs air from bellows. Woman, monkey and fire are enclosed in a circle of stones, but they aren’t stones, they are skulls. Smoke curling around the woman wreaths her head with flowing hair. “Nice frame,” says Shane. “Take it.”
The third room holds twin beds. These too are heaped with piles of clothes. “How many clothes does a woman need?” mutters Marty. “Why doesn’t she put them away?”
“Perhaps she has a different set for each day of the week,” whispers Dale. “Fuckin nut-job, look at the pictures.”
~ ~ ~ | ~ ~ ~
Becky takes a deep breath and looks across the lawn. It’s weird but the women look OK, one has a lovely figure and none of them are ugly. In fact, she smiles suddenly, the plump ones remind her of the Teletubbies. When they had removed their dressing gowns by the brazier her eyes had been drawn to stretch marks, surgical scars, cellulite, sagging flesh and scrawny limbs. Moving as a group they don’t look brazen, or coy, just … natural. Such casual acceptances of their bodies is impressive. When she swims with girlfriends they change discreetly, hardly ever baring all.
~ ~ ~ | ~ ~ ~
Shane’s torch finds further framed pictures over the twin beds, black and white prints this time. One is a sketch of two old women stuffing things into a fire burning in a bin. The fire has snake-like flames. Big raindrops hover in an umbrella shape above them. “The Rain Makers,” reads Dale from the caption as he unhooks it. Marty peers at the second print. Two witches on a single broomstick fly over a river in a dark valley. “Jesus,” he mutters, unhooking it. “Just fits,” he adds, wedging it into his backpack beside the first print. They turn toward the door. Something moves. Shane’s finger actions the off button on his torch. The trio freeze. Two gleaming orbs are hovering near the floor. Shane depresses on. Dale gasps.
“Just a bloody cat, see, that’s all.” Shane sweeps the beam around. It plays over a disk mounted on the door. Etched on the china is a star shape. As they move forward it appears to shimmer and rotate. Shane flicks the beam back. Steady, he tells himself, it couldn’t have moved. His torch confirms the disk is no longer moving but a picture is forming within the star. Mesmerised, each man strains to stifle rising panic. The points fill with lines suggesting horns, ears, and beard. The lines unite to form the image of a goat’s head. Shane is no substance novice; he’s had his share of bad trips. He takes a grip on his unease with a gruff order. “We’ll check downstairs. Keep clear of the lounge.”
Dale and Marty want to leave. “Why are those cars on the front lawn? There must be more than one person in the lounge,” says Dale.
Shane’s fear shifts easily to anger. “If you’re scared of a bunch of old women then fuck off.”
~ ~ ~ | ~ ~ ~
Becky is disrobed by two Wiccans. Her gown is added to the pile on the garden seat. The brazier flickers lively shadows over the slim whiteness of her body. She is led to the centre of the magic circle. Overhead a sliver of crescent moon brightens. Nervous as hell, Becky picks up the resonance of good intention. Despite the surreal setting she believes the women are bound by friendship and purpose. She keeps hers eyes steadfastly glued to Pauline’s face. No one need know, she keeps telling herself, and it might work. There is nothing to lose. Pauline takes the paten in both hands, raises it to the moon and says,
Each elfin bowl offers its seeds to you,
Bless them now and what we now do.
Lowering the paten she offers it to Becky with the words, “Take and eat.” Becky picks up a piece of fruit and wonders how she is expected to eat it. But Pauline’s organisation is thorough. The Wiccan nearest the altar table steps forward and hands her a golden teaspoon. While Becky eats, the helper takes the paten from Pauline and walks round the circle. Each woman takes a piece of fruit and gazes intently at her portion cradled in both hands. Pauline chants,
Firm the seed and moist the womb
Passion blessed by the moon
Arouse latent virility
And grant the maid fertility.
“Blessed be,” respond the witches. The empty paten is offered to Becky for the spoon and fruit skin, and is returned to the altar. Two attendants arrange Becky spread-eagle on the paved star. They drape her body with a frond of jasmine, the flower of love, and begin to hum softly. The other crones join in the humming and carefully place their moon-blessed fruit in the spaces between each point of the pentacle.
~ ~ ~ | ~ ~ ~
Shane leads his mates downstairs and resolutely turns from the front door. They follow him down the hallway and turn into a little passage, passing doors labelled Toilet and Laundry leading to a back room. The door is ajar and the curtains pulled back. Shane cuts his torch. Slabs of muted light define a tall window, almost to floor-level, at the end of a bench and another window above the bench. Moonlight reveals a sink but the place doesn’t look like a kitchen. Dried flowers, herbs or something, hang from the ceiling. Shelves contain rows of small bottles, smaller than whisky miniatures. Marty unscrews one. “Rancid shit,” he whispers, and flicks the perfumed concentrate at Dale.
“You’re dead!” hisses Dale.
“Shhh,” cautions Shane. “I can hear something outside. Down!”
They drop as one and crawl to the bench. Each thief is unnerved and torn between wanting to look and wanting to hide. Curiosity conquers, heads rise cautiously, levelling eyes above the sill. They gaze transfixed …
~ ~ ~ | ~ ~ ~
Pauline raises her athame, asks a blessing on the phallic symbol then plunges it into the cup of wine symbolising the Great Rite of intercourse. Paired with the wine chalice is a second, prepared with salted water. She holds it high then dips it into the second chalice, readying the tool for casting a spell on the sacred receptacle of life.
~ ~ ~ | ~ ~ ~
The thieves watch wide-eyed, bamboozled. They have no point of reference for this spectacle. Through the open fanlights the humming sound grows louder and louder. “God, she’s got a knife!” The naked women murmur nonsensical words as the leader places the tip of a blade between the legs of a woman lying down. With the tool thus placed the tight circle of women moves outward to the full extension of their joined hands. The mad-woman then raises her knife above the heart of the victim.
~ ~ ~ | ~ ~ ~
Shane Kirby is as one possessed, driven by a more primeval urge than common thuggery. He stands, knife clenched in fist, steps back, and hurls himself at the tall window. The splintering glass cuts arm, head, shoulders, chest, and thighs. He feels no pain, his warrior cry registers only rage. He bounds across the lawn, a bellowing, wounded bull. He has no plan. His body knows he must save the young woman from satanical sacrifice. Before he can breech the obscene circle the young woman leaps to her feet and embraces her attacker. “Keep away!” she screams. “Don’t hurt her. Keep away!”
Shane stops dead. The young woman is not frightened of the witch. Confused, he realises he doesn’t know what’s happening but he must disarm the witch. “Give me the fucking knife,” he shouts. Pauline holds it out, handle toward him. Tightening his grip on his own knife he grabs the other with his left hand then runs an expert finger along its edge. It’s blunt, couldn’t harm anything. Dazed he shakes his head in an effort to make sense of the scene. The victim is not harmed. She appears to be devoted to the witch. But there is blood on the ground. His blood! The women watch him silently. They are old, and naked. Why? His head spins and his vision blurs. His dead grandmother is standing in the group. His murdered mother is there, whole and beautiful. The young woman is his sister, fully grown. He rubs his eyes and staggers. Someone steps from the shadows and catches him as he faints.
~ ~ ~ | ~ ~ ~
The terror ebbs but the energy does not disappear. The scream and attack of the young man had accelerated every heart in the circle. The risen temperature is not ready to subside. Cradling the young man’s head on her lap Sarai begins to chant,
I hold you in my heart knowing you’re not to blame;
Circle of protection wipe away your pain.
She looks up at the shaken Pauline and moves her eyes to the dropped athame. The action steadies Pauline. She kisses Becky, gently releases her, and retrieves the symbol of her power. Sarai continues chanting,
I hold you in my heart knowing you’re not to blame;
Circle of protection wipe away your pain.
Pauline joins in the mantra and motions the scattered coven toward her. Hesitantly the others take up the chant. Slowly the circle reforms and morphs toward the fallen man, surrounding and covering him. Sarai wills Pauline to resume control. Her eyes move from the scattered jasmine to the chalice. Pauline understands. The polluted space must be purified. Water and salt are the vital ingredients. In the absence of a proper asperger one has to improvise. Pauline gathers the frond of jasmine, dips it in the chalice, then shakes water droplets over the blood and over the young man. She repeats the process several times, gently sweeping the jasmine over the inert body.
~ ~ ~ | ~ ~ ~
Shane peers through tear-filled eyes. The light is disturbed, he can’t separate shapes from the swirling darkness. As he blinks, twisting shadows take the form of heaving, dancing kelp. He is on the bottom of the ocean, peering through the kelp. His boat has capsized, his fishing rod lost. Panic demands he breathe. The reflex is stronger than the mind. He gulps … and breathes. The ocean swirls the kelp monster around his limbs. His gran is calling, “Shane, Shane, reach up.” A skinny arm reaches down, touches the kelp, transforming it to fragrant flowers. “My beautiful boy, my brave boy, you are safe. I love you, Shane.” Shane opens his eyes. A circle of strange women look down at him. As his grandmother’s voice fades, so does everything else. He slips back to unconsciousness.
~ ~ ~ | ~ ~ ~
Dale and Marty stand fused, catatonic with shock. The splintering glass catapulted them to grasping collision. They gaze through the jagged space, devoid of comprehension. Knives … nakedness … nonsensical actions. All they saw was Shane’s insane dash. The rest of the drama was obscured by bodies, naked bodies. Was there a dead body? More than one dead body?
“What’s happened to Shane?” quakes Marty.
“He went down.”
“What do we do?”
The seriousness of their situation dawns, the enormity of it threatens to be too much. They have always relied on Shane to call the shots. They can’t just leave him. But they can’t call for help. Not in the middle of a robbery.
“We’ve got to get rid of this gear. Empty the backpacks, fast!” In the surreal vacuum Dale assumes leadership. “We have to get out of here. We can’t get help with this stuff. Leave it on the floor. Come on. Run.”
They run, down the passage, out the door, through the gates, and don’t stop until they can round a corner. Gasping, heart pounding, Marty fumbles for his cell phone and presses 1.
“Don’t,” Dale snatches the phone from his hand. “What are you going to ask for?”
“Ambulance. Shane is bleeding — he might even be dead. Those witches might have killed him. They might want to eat him or something — should I say Police?”
“Shane might have killed one of them. We don’t know what happened. But if we dial 111, we’re implicated, whatever we ask for. Deep shit, man.”
“We have to do something. We can’t just leave him.”
“We have to find out if Shane is OK,” says Dale. “We have to go back.”
“Go back to that mad place? Never. I’d rather die.”
“Someone might be dead.”
Dale is no keener than Marty to go back inside the weird house. He kicks the curb, trying to think.
Marty gazes into space. “Look, this street is a dead-end,” he says at last, “it leads to the river. That house must back on to the river. We could follow the river, find the fence and see what’s happening in the garden.”
~ ~ ~ | ~ ~ ~
Shane stirs. He can no longer trust his eyes or senses. He doesn’t want to open his eyes but knows he must. He gazes into Sarai’s face. Of course she isn’t his dead grandmother. But who the hell is she? The woman speaks.
“You are wounded. Don’t worry, it’s not serious. We will help you.”
We. Suddenly he remembers: mad, naked women. Witches! His eyes dart around. There are women but they aren’t naked. Was it a crazy dream — a really bad trip? Old women in dressing-gowns look down at him. Are they having some sort of geriatric sleepover? He tries to get up but his arm hurts when he puts weight on it, so does his leg. Both are tied with bloody rags.
“Handkerchiefs,” says Sarai, following his gaze, “to stop the bleeding. You have some long cuts. They don’t appear to be deep. Now we can get you inside and clean you up properly.”
Dumbly Shane allows the women to help him up and assist him inside.
~ ~ ~ | ~ ~ ~
Marty’s plan works. They find the garden. It takes three attempts, giving each other a leg-up to peer over fences but this has to be the right one. A dark open space stretches before them devoid of people and lights, but a fire in a brazier smoulders on a patch of paving. Did it actually happen? Both would like to think their imaginations have got the better of them but a light over the back door reaches a smashed window.
“Where are they? Where’s Shane?”
“We have to find out.”
“We’ll check the windows.”
With the garden looking so normal they daren’t let each other see how nervous they are. Various ground-floor windows glow to electric light. The youths move around the house cautiously. A protruding bay window indicates the lounge and a slit between semi-closed drapes throws a wedge of light onto the lawn. They flatten themselves into the side shadows and view the scene. Shane is sitting on a sofa drinking what looks like a cup of tea. He is stripped to boxers and sports multiple bandages and plasters.
“Holy shit!”
“A bloody tea party!”
Old women in dressing-gowns are scattered around the room drinking from cups balanced on saucers.
“Shane is OK.”
“What about the chick?”
“There she is, in that red kimono thing.”
“We can go.”
“Yeah, we’re outta here.”
A black cat watches their retreat.
~ ~ ~ | ~ ~ ~
Kat strokes the marmalade cat that wanders the bar. She is treating herself to a couple of quiet wines in a pub not far from the motel. The pub is beside a bus stop. Being such a mild night Kat decides against a taxi. Bussing is a novelty these days and she enjoys a bit of people watching. She notes a middle-aged couple exchange low words and the man move to another seat. His rigid demeanour beeps anger signals. His ring finger wears a gold band. They get off at the same stop, pointedly ignoring each other as they turn in the same direction. How complicated people’s lives become, she muses, recalling her first customer. Marriage is a danger zone.
Stepping down from the bus she checks the sky. The stars are bright and a crescent moon glides between treetops. She takes a deep breath. There is a hint of jasmine in the air. It is a beautiful city, Kat tells herself as she strolls along the footpath, shame about the crime stats. Running footsteps interrupt her thoughts. Her hand goes to the whistle in her jacket pocket. Two hooded youths are racing down the opposite footpath. She doubts they have even seen her. They are running as if their lives depend on speed, packs bounce on their backs. No one appears to be chasing them, they disappear round a corner.
~ ~ ~ | ~ ~ ~
Shane knows he should resist but feels so befuddled he can’t. The strange tea is making him drowsy. He lets the women tuck him up on the sofa with rug and pillow. Anyway, he can’t go. He doesn’t know where his clothes are.
~ ~ ~ | ~ ~ ~
Pauline kept herself together mostly because she was too stunned to think. The violent interruption of the fertility ritual was traumatic for every person present. Each witness knew it could have ended in tragedy. On reflection, Pauline realises with horror, Becky’s quick comprehension and action saved her from being … murdered! Merely thinking of it produces elevated blood pressure and a need to sit down. She wonders if having bought her athame on Trade Me contributed to the unleashing of evil. Sarai has frequently warned her witchcraft is not to be taken lightly.
Pauline realises she has not only Becky to thank but also Sarai. Sarai had remained calm and quietly encouraged her into resuming control. Pauline silently restates what she has said many times before: Sarai is an amazing woman.
~ ~ ~ | ~ ~ ~
It is only after the intruder’s wounds have been dressed and the women are having supper that Becky fully comprehends what she did and the impetuous foolishness of her action. What if he had kept coming?
Sarai is alerted by a soft clattering and sees Becky’s cup trembling in its saucer. She takes cup and saucer from her hand, places them on the sideboard and leads Becky to the study. Becky sinks into the sofa, buries her head in her hands and sobs. Sarai puts a matronly arm around the slim, heaving shoulders.
“What if he had stabbed me? I could be dead. Even if I had only been wounded, how could I explain it to Zac?”
Sarai gives a gentle squeeze and remains silent.
“We so badly want a baby. I’ve done everything I can think of. I’ve even been to a doctor and he said I was fine. He said I could go to a fertility clinic but it costs so much. I do what it says: I watch my weight. I don’t smoke. We drink, but only a bit, I never get wasted, not now we’re married. I keep charts, take my temperature, and insist he does it at the right time. It spoils it really. What more can I do? I’m a failure!”
Sarai waits until the shoulders still and offers tissues from the box by Pauline’s computer. “Why are you taking all the blame? It takes two to make a baby.”
Becky blows her nose emphatically and Sarai passes the rubbish basket. “Do you know the story of Rebekah and Isaac in the Bible?” Becky shakes her head. Sarai continues. “The Bible Rebekah thought she was unable to have children. The Bible makes frequent mention of barren women. Understandable in those times, when knowledge was so limited. But Bible men knew about farming and had their reproduction theories. As they saw it, males had the seed and females provided the soil. Seed was always good but soil could be of poor quality — what they called barren. Rebekah and Isaac loved each other and Rebekah was barren. What was surprising for the time is Isaac accepted some responsibility for the situation. He took action, the only action a concerned male of those times could take: he prayed to his God. And the Lord granted his prayer, bountifully: they were blessed with twins.”
“Are you saying witchcraft is wrong and I should pray to God?”
“Not, at all,” responds Sarai. “We live in a pluralistic society — there are no limits on goodness. Witchcraft has its place along with all well-intentioned practices, prayer included. The point I am making with Isaac is that he wanted to help his wife and he did something practical, all he knew to do at the time. Has your Zac done all he can? Has he taken the tests, had a sperm count, worked at diet, exercise, and healthy lifestyle?”
Becky’s look is of frank surprise. “We just thought it had to be me!”
~ ~ ~ | ~ ~ ~
The Wiccans go upstairs to dress. Pauline locks the lounge door and sags against the jamb. “What now?” she says, turning as she has often done in the past, but never in such diabolical circumstances, to Sarai. As usual Sarai has an answer.
“First priority is the man’s clothes: they must be washed and dried. Put your machine on the fast cycle?”
After bidding goodnight to the last guest, Pauline and Sarai return the almost-stolen goods to their rightful places. They can’t do anything about securing the broken window but luckily all of Pauline’s interior doors are equipped with locks.
Sarai is tired and only wants to sleep in her own bed but Pauline can’t be left alone in the house with a potential murderer. Over liberal sherries in the kitchen they sift through possible scenarios. Involving the police was rejected as too complicated hours ago but the fact remains there is a thief and thug in the house. The sleeping draught added to his tea won’t keep him out for ever.
Pauline retrieves the clothes from the drier. They fold them and top the pile with contents taken from the pockets. The only omission, the knife, is safely locked in the potions cabinet. “Maybe,” says Sarai, “we can encourage him to leave without being involved ourselves. Your lounge windows open perfectly well don’t they?”
Swift as cat burglars, Pauline unlocks the lounge door, Sarai slides the sleeper’s belongings through the gap and Pauline relocks the door.
When Sarai stays over she sleeps in the second bedroom, but it would be inhumane to make Pauline sleep alone tonight. She cradles her sleeping friend and reckons how many years it has been since they last fell asleep in each others arms — too many? No, the right decision was made. There is too much at stake for the frivolity of lovers. A tremor spasms through her ageing frame as the enormity of the task engulfs her. The crone’s sleep is fitful and dream-ridden and bears no link to the intruder or the coven. “Time, time,” Sarai mutters, “time is running out.”
~ ~ ~ | ~ ~ ~