Chapter Nine

Edward Ray should have paid heed to Hetty’s advice. Before scarcely any time had passed, he was a very sick boy, barely able to totter about his own house. In the Ray kitchen, his mother had him bending over a basin with a towel over his head. Into the basin she poured boiling water from the kettle, so that he could inhale the vapor. Mrs. Ray was a large, bony woman who feared nothing on this Presbyterian earth except illness. The least little sniffle in her family threw her into utter consternation.

“Oh, Edward, I pray this is just a cold and not the influenza. The influenza has never gone very well with the Rays.”

News about his hereditary weaknesses did little to perk up the patient’s spirits. The kitchen fell oddly silent. As Edward inhaled a great lungful of steam, Mrs. Ray put the kettle back on the stove to heat more water. And Edward’s sister, Clemmie, sadly wondered what she would do if her big brother didn’t get better soon. It was true that he could be mean, and he did bully her sometimes, but she didn’t want anything so bad as the influenza to happen to him.

Suddenly, the Rays’ dog, who slept behind the stove when he could, set up such a clamor that Clemmie ran to the window to see what was causing it.

“Who is it, Clemmie?” Mrs. Ray demanded, annoyed. She was trying to balance the hot kettle with one hand and keep Edward’s head over the steam with the other.

Clemmie’s eyes went round as silver dollars. “It’s the witch of Avonlea!”

Peg Bowen barely got up to the porch before the door flew open and Mrs. Ray appeared in the doorway, blocking it as effectively as would a wall. She was also doing her best to restrain the dog. Mrs. Ray believed in scary watchdogs. The one she was holding by the collar was a brindled monster who looked as though he ate up foolish intruders for mid-morning snacks. He was doing his best now to earn his keep by snarling and barking at the top of his lungs.

“Shush, shush,” Mrs. Ray hissed uselessly at the dog. “Peg Bowen, what are you doing here?”

Mrs. Ray had strands of damp hair flying loose, and her face was flushed red from filling Edward’s basin with boiling water. All this, on top of a ferocious scowl, made her uninviting indeed. But Peg spoke up, undaunted. “I heard your boy’s in a bad way. I’ve got a remedy here. It should keep the fever down.”

Peg had brought with her some well-chosen herbs tied up in a cloth bag, which she now held out before her. But Mrs. Ray reacted as though Peg were offering her a handful of poisonous snakes. In all of Avonlea, Mrs. Ray was one of the most heatedly outspoken against Peg’s freewheeling style of life.

“I don’t want your remedy, or your witchcraft. You leave this property immediately, you hear, or I’ll set the dog on you!”

The dog, as though it understood English, set up an even greater racket and struggled wildly to get free of Mrs. Ray’s grasp.

Peg regarded its bared fangs fearlessly. “You can always size a person up by the kind of dog she keeps.”

With an outraged snort, Mrs. Ray dragged the dog back into the kitchen again and slammed the door right in Peg’s face. Peg stood glowering at the knocker for a moment, for she had glimpsed Edward inside slumped weakly over the steaming basin. Even though the Ray house was now as closed against her as if it had a moat and drawbridge, Peg knew something had to be done. Shaking her head, she turned and hiked away.

When Peg was set on something, it took a lot more than a snarling dog and a slammed door to put her off. She calculated her friends in Avonlea and then headed straight over to Rose Cottage. There she found Peter Craig, brushing down Blackie out beside the barn. It was Peter whom Peg had come to see.

“That Mrs. Ray is a mean-spirited old harpy,” Peg grated out without preamble as she crunched across the gravel. “What I wouldn’t give to tell that woman what I really think of her—her and all the Sunday Christians in this town! You aren’t afraid of me, are you, lad?”

Peter had been tugging at a knot in Blackie’s mane. He wanted to please Hetty by making the mare shine like a piece of new coal. He shook his head sturdily.

And he kept on with his work to prove it. Ever since the fiasco in church, Peter had felt more than a sneaking sympathy for anyone who was the target of Avonlea’s rudeness.

Peg pushed her hat back with satisfaction.

“Didn’t think so. I’ve been watching you. You’re just like your father, Jack Craig.”

If Peg wanted Peter’s full attention, she certainly had it now. Peter let go of Blackie’s mane and turned to Peg. He wouldn’t have run away now if Peg had started firing cannons.

“Really, I am?”

Like any boy separated from his parents, Peter longed desperately to hear anything he could about his father.

“Good man.” Peg nodded. “Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise. He was never afraid to speak his mind, which ain’t easy in a town like this. Folks call you crazy if you don’t think exactly like they think. Now,” Peg got straight to the reason for her visit, “I want you to do something for me. I want you to take this package to Edward Ray’s mother. I’ve no use for her, but the boy’s deathly ill, and this will bring his fever down.”

“Deathly ill?” Peter exclaimed, first surprised and then alarmed.

Peg bobbed her head again.

“You’ve got a horse, and the boy’s in a bad way. So will you take it?”

“Well, I don’t know,” Peter mumbled, confused by the request and not at all sure how much liberty he was allowed to take with Blackie. Then, seeing the urgency on Peg’s weathered face, and thinking of Edward gravely sick, he decided to take the risk. There were just some things even a hired boy didn’t feel free to refuse.

“I’ll take it.”

“Knew you would.”

Peg handed Peter the herbs, and Peter hoisted himself up on Blackie’s back. Blackie gave a snort of surprise, for she had been almost asleep, enjoying her grooming.

“Now you tell her to put it in water, boil it up and make him drink it.”

Peter committed these instructions to memory and started Blackie off towards the gate.

“And mind you,” Peg called after him, “don’t tell her who gave it to you or she won’t take it from you, neither.”

Peter knew this well enough. He kicked Blackie into a clumsy canter towards the Ray house. When he arrived and slid down from his mount, he knocked on the door. After a long moment, Mrs. Ray, looking more frazzled than ever, opened the door.

“Yes?”

“I’m Peter Craig, the hired boy over at Rose Cottage,” Peter told her by way of hasty introduction. He didn’t want Mrs. Ray to think just anybody would gallop up and knock on her door. Mrs. Ray at once became more polite.

“Oh, yes—Peter. What can I do for you?”

“We heard Edward has a bad fever. I’ve got something that might make him better.”

Peter held out the bag of herbs which, luckily, Mrs. Ray didn’t recognize. She took it from Peter’s hand, not even able to tell it smacked of witchcraft.

“Well, that’s very kind of you, Peter.”

Peter then remembered to relay Peg’s instructions.

“You’re to put it in water, boil it up and give him some. Every half hour,” he added, hoping it would sound more professional.

Mrs. Ray absorbed the information carefully.

“Oh, well, tell Hetty I’m much obliged.”

Peter had no intention of telling Hetty any such thing. After Mrs. Ray went back inside, clutching the remedy, he got back on Blackie and hightailed it for Rose Cottage before any troublesome questions could come his way.

But if Peter thought he could escape questions, he was mistaken. At least one inhabitant of Rose Cottge missed very little and was curious about everything. Sara followed Peter to the barn and watched while he filled up a bucket at the bin full of chicken feed.

“Peter? Peter, what were you doing with Peg Bowen?”

Head down, Peter started towards the chicken pen.

“Nothin’.”

“What were you talking to her about? Aunt Hetty’s all upset.”

So, Hetty had seen Peg too. Peter groaned inwardly, not sure whether his probation stretched to cover commerce with witches. There seemed no end of observant eyes around Rose Cottage. And, as if to prove it, Hetty herself stepped through the barn door.

 

“Peter Craig, I don’t want you talking to that Bowen woman any more, do you understand? It will just encourage her to come round.”

“But she asked me to deliver something,” Peter protested, just as Felix and Felicity appeared behind their aunt. Inside of a very few minutes, quite a crowd was gathering to inquire into his affairs.

“Nor do I want you running errands for her. She’s an out-and-out lunatic. Is that clear?”

“Yes, Miss Hetty,” Peter answered, ready to say just about anything to get himself off the hook.

After Hetty left, Felix stuck his hands in his pockets and screwed up his face at Peter.

“Edward’s right. Peg Bowen’s teaching you witchcraft.”

Before Peter could reply, Felix ran off, leaving only Felicity behind. Felicity accorded Peter such a brief, dismissive glance that Peter despaired of ever being her friend.

“Sara, I thought you promised Aunt Hetty that you wouldn’t speak to Peter any more. Are you coming?”

Felicity stepped towards the door, fully expecting Sara to follow. But Felicity, having caught Sara once again breaking the rules, was looking far too self-satisfied. Sara wouldn’t pay her the least attention. Instead, she turned to Peter again, and Felicity had no choice but to leave all by herself.