Although the war was far from over, there was a hint of optimism in the air. The Russians were demanding the surrender of the encircled 6th German Army at Stalingrad; Rommel’s forces were retreating into Libya; RAF Bomber command had carried out devastating raids on German-held cities and, in the Pacific, US Marines were well into their retaking of Guadalcanal. All this, coupled with the thousands of miles Fort York was from the actual fighting, lent less urgency to the ARP meeting on the following Saturday.
Tretheway and his staff had spent two days going over and evaluating Fort York’s first full-scale blackout. In general, it was considered a success. There had been no serious injuries or major foul-ups. The population of Fort York, influenced by the sobering thought that one day this might not be a practice, entered the exercise in the proper spirit.
On the Friday, Tretheway received a call from Police Chief Zulp.
“Tretheway.”
“Sir.” Tretheway recognized the low, gravelly voice of his superior.
“Good job. Well done.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“Hear it went well.”
“Pretty good.”
“No problems. No lights. Except that one.”
“Sir?”
“The marsh. The light on the ice.”
“Oh.”
“You looked into it?”
“Yes, we…”
“Gas.”
“Pardon?”
“Gas,” Zulp repeated. “Marsh gas. St. Elmo’s Fire. Wouldn’t make too much of it.”
“Right.” Tretheway paused. “We’re having a meeting Saturday night of the west-end Wardens. Just to sort things out.”
“Where?”
“At our place. Addie thought we could combine business with a little pleasure.”
“Good thinking. Take people’s minds off the war. Nazis. Rationing. Marsh gas. Sorry I can’t make it. Me and the Missus have tickets to something.”
Tretheway smiled.
“Give my best to Addie.”
“Yes sir.” Tretheway hung up.
Adelaide Tretheway was only slightly smaller but much prettier than her brother. She’d quit England in the early twenties to follow him across the ocean to Canada. They had settled in Fort York, a mid-sized industrial city at the western end of Lake Ontario. With a small inheritance she shared with Tretheway, Addie bought a large, rambling three-storey house in the west end close to Fort York University and turned it into a respectable boarding house. Most of her tenants were Arts or Theology students. Her star boarder, of course, was Jake. Tretheway had his own private large room and oversize bathroom facilities on the second floor.
The Tretheways’ Saturday night euchre parties had grown in popularity over the years, with good reason. This Saturday the aroma of Addie’s freshly baked bread was the first thing that attacked the senses. An applewood fire crackled in the fireplace. On its hearth, Fat Rollo, Addie’s longhair black cat, lay noisily purring beside Fred, the neighbor’s misnamed twelve-year-old female labrador. The disciplined conversation of students hummed against the background of music from “Your Hit Parade.”
As usual, Addie had made platesfiil of sandwiches to go with the pop and beer cooling in the two ice boxes. Tretheway’s special Molson’s Blue quarts were cooling on the back verandah. Jake, Addie and Beezul, with the help of Bartholomew Gum, set up the card tables and chairs around the irregularly shaped common room next to the kitchen. A large four-by-eight-foot blackboard rested on an easel beside the head table. On it, Gum had drawn, crudely but clearly, a map of the west end of Fort York and Coote’s Paradise showing all the blocks the Wardens patrolled on Wednesday evening.
Bartholomew Gum was an old friend of the Tretheways; he had grown up with Jake and shared in some of their adventures. Since the age of eight he’d stared with colourless eyes through rimless glasses and fought baldness. He lived with and supported his mother in a house not far from the Tretheways. His mother and his bad eyes were enough to keep him out of the armed forces. Gum had been a City Alderman for the last ten years and and Air Raid Warden since the beginning of hostilities. Wherever he went, he was early.
Zoë Plunkitt was even earlier, ostensibly to set up her table for taking minutes by shorthand, but Beezul thought it was out of guilt. “Probably to make up for being stuck in the snow and missing Fort York’s first blackout,” he said.
Miss Plunkitt was, as usual, plainly but tastefully dressed. Her thin, wiry frame, well suited for fashionable clothes, belied her physical strength and conditioning. She walked a lot, played some golf, sailed enthusiastically and once a week taught self-defense for ladies at the downtown YMCA. Her teeth were straight and even, her head erect. An intense look, combined with heavy eye makeup and frequent blinking, gave anyone talking to her the mistaken impression that she was listening with interest.
Garth Dingle also arrived early. A year ago, he’d become a resident of Fort York, and, shortly after that, one of the more popular Air Raid Wardens in the west end. Garth was head professional at the Wellington Square Golf and Country Club.
Jake had played golf off and on, but not seriously, for years. In 1941, he’d treated himself to a full membership at the venerable WSGCC located just outside of Fort York. In fact, from a number of the raised tees, you could look across Wellington Square Bay and see the smoke stacks of Fort York’s industrial complex pumping black and grey clouds into the air in aid of the war effort. Jake was a mediocre but knowledgeable golfer, held no one up and adhered faithfully to the spirit of the game. On the few occasions when he attended the club’s social functions, Addie and Tretheway usually accompanied him; and sometimes, just Addie. It was here he’d met Garth Dingle.
The head pro was a big man (by Jake’s standards, not Tretheway’s) with a bigger laugh. His weathered face showed permanent smile wrinkles and his eyes squinted continuously through smoked prescription glasses as though appraising his next shot. When he wasn’t using his gnarled but sensitive hands to drive golf balls a straight and true country mile, he re-built things, like golf vehicles. Garth had reduced a 1920’s vintage electric car to chassis, steering wheel, dashboard and batteries; he’d added a leather bench seat, oversize airplane tires and a bag rack. In this contraption, nicknamed ‘Garth’s Cart’ by the members, he would hum over the course inspecting greens and bunkers, chase young aspiring, but trespassing, Byron Nelsons off the links, tactfully prod slower players along and, when he could, play a round of golf by himself in under two hours. He also rebuilt golf clubs.
This Saturday he’d delivered Jake’s refinished woods, a gift from Addie, that Jake had scruffed up over two seasons. The two were hefting and admiring the gleaming persimmon heads. Tretheway watched them. He wondered how two grown men could spend that much time discussing golf sticks, let alone the additional time it took to play the game itself when there were more sensible, manly sports to participate in such as the hammer throw. His thoughts were interrupted by the arrival of the other ARWs.
Squire Middleton and Cynthia Moon arrived at the same time, but not together. They shared a quiet knock and waited. No one came to the door.
The Squire, as he was erroneously known, (his mother had christened him Squire) looked quizzically at Cynthia. His eyes were too small and too close together, but his thick, horn-rimmed glasses made them look owlish. An Irish walking hat covered his bald pate while a heavy tweed overcoat protected his smallish frame. Slung over his shoulder, a worn, leather school bag held his ARW literature and the tools of his trade as a street car conductor.
Cynthia Moon smiled pleasantly back at him and shrugged her wide shoulders. A bulky, black-fringed shawl that could have covered a large banquet table, was wrapped several times around her matronly upper body. Beneath it was an ample batik skirt she’d made and dyed herself. Her substantial legs disappeared into comfortable ankle-high running shoes.
“Hi.” Mary Dearlove stepped up to the low verandah and politely pushed between them. “Have you knocked?”
Mary knocked loudly and opened the door. “After you.” She stepped back.
Her voice always surprised people—small, almost babylike. It didn’t go with the impeccable makeup, perfect hairdo, matching full-length mink coat, hat, overshoes, and especially the clear blue eyes, pleasant enough at first, but with a promise of flint.
“You’ve both been here before,” she clucked. “You just knock and go in. It’s that kind of place.”
The Squire and Cynthia Moon scampered in guiltily. Addie met the trio in the front hall. She greeted them and directed the hanging up of coats.
“Everybody here, Addie?” Mary Dearlove patted her hair into place and smoothed the front of her unwrinkled blouse.
“Almost,” Addie said. “Patricia Sprong called. She’ll be late. Band practice. There’s still, let’s see…Warbucks.” She smiled. “Tremaine Warbucks.”
Everybody smiled when they thought of Tremaine Warbucks. To some, who remembered his smiling eyes, his thin lips always turned up optimistically and the pithy bits of helpful information he freely offered, it was a genuine affection. To others, who took note of his gangly, stooped posture, his ill-fitting, unmatched clothes and the annoying pieces of useless information he constantly gave, the smile was less kind.
Someone knocked at the door. Before Addie got there, Tremaine Warbucks pushed in. He affected a grey, spiky, Amish-style beard with no moustache.
“Speak of the devil,” Addie said.
“Good evening, Addie.” Warbucks handed Addie his hat, coat and cane on his way through the hall. Tretheway tapped his large ceremonial night stick against the hard edge of the card table. Everybody quietened down and found a seat. Zoë Plunkitt sat at a table beside Tretheway and Beezul, her pencil poised, her eyes blinking. Jake found a comfortable spot on the arm of Addle’s easy chair. The rest arranged themselves in the uneven arc of card chairs with their backs to the fire.
“I think we can call the meeting to order,” Tretheway announced. He had spent Thursday and Friday with Jake, Beezul and, most of that time, Zoë Plunkitt, listening to the reports of other ARW groups that covered the rest of the city. The group captains, twelve in all, had reported nothing out of the ordinary for a wartime blackout. Some lights shone where they shouldn’t have, but were quickly extinguished when the owners were told. There was a friendly spirit of unity. Everyone knew who the enemy was.
The FYPD and Militia reported similar activities in the residential pockets spotted throughout the northern industrial section. Fort York Centre, East, Delta, Mountain, West and Southwest districts were much the same. There were a few ill-prepared citizens who had gone out for the evening and left lights on in homes and stores, but Tretheway promised they would all be spoken to.
Although Bartholomew Gum was the group captain for the West, Tretheway took a personal interest in his own residential area.
“Captain.” Tretheway looked at Gum. “Do you want to start?”
Gum stood up and cleared his throat self-consciously. He opened his notebook. In his position he had to cover the whole of Westdale instead of the few specific blocks individual ARW’s were responsible for. Gum had pedalled his heavy black bicycle up and down every street trying to meet with each warden. Nothing of great importance took place. The high point of his tour occurred while he was taking a short cut through a dark back alley: he noticed a lady in a well-lit upstairs bedroom window, oblivious to the blackout regulations, disrobing for the night. Gum ran into a fencepost and fell, scattering garbage cans and cats. By the time he had regained his flashlight, helmet and composure, the offending light had been turned off. This event was not in his note book.
The ARWs followed with their oral reports, one after the other. There was a monotonous similarity in each. They were a reflection of the individual character of each warden rather than an accurate chronicle of a wartime activity.
Mary Dearlove had taken down the names of more offenders than anyone. The most minute crack of illegal light was duly noted. She complained about a group of FYU students riding their bikes with uncovered lights. When she blew her whistle, they bolted. “I mean, there was profanity. “ She missed the license numbers in the darkness. Mrs. Dearlove also let Tretheway know that her helmet didn’t fit and was so heavy it crushed her coiffure. And as the widow of a former member of parliament, she was not accustomed to tramping the streets at night.
Garth Dingle had taken down no names. According to him, there were no illegal lights showing on his block. And the only person he had met was a beat constable who, after recognizing the golf pro, had brought up the problems of his own swing. Despite his heavy coat and steel helmet, Garth willingly demonstrated several solutions by taking many harmless divots out of the snow with a five iron. It was not unusual for him to carry a golf club on an evening walk.
Squire Middleton too reported no real problems. He had reasoned with a few people about improper lights and they had complied peacefully. At one point, because his glasses had steamed up, he had mistaken the full moon shining through some overhead lacy branches for a verandah light. The Squire realized his mistake just after he had blown his whistle. This brought a sympathetic guffaw from the other ARW’s.
The only warden who thoroughly enjoyed herself was Cynthia Moon. She said it was because of the tides. “My cycle’s always high at full moon. You know, love, Diana.” But just in case, she had added a scarab amulet to her many decorative strings of beads, and had stuffed extra charms in the pockets of her baggy peasant skirt. Cynthia reported a pleasant round of confrontations on her darkened blocks. All was well, she said, except for the cats. When Tretheway questioned her, she explained that several cats had followed her during the evening. “One big black one. The leader. And three brainless. They’re the familiars, you know.” Cynthia Moon usually said something nobody understood, but that was, Tretheway thought, a small price to pay for knowing her.
The only warden Tretheway could have criticized was Tremaine Warbucks. His habit of button-holing people and plying them with sometimes interesting but usually irrelevant information took time. Warbucks would offer tips on things like the practical use of small penlights or how to calculate the energy it would take to boil Wellington Square Bay dry. Although he had the smallest block, he never finished his rounds. However, his report, up to a point, was clear and concise: there had been no infractions. But toward the end, Warbucks began to wander. He launched into his well-thought-out theory of how to win the war by starting the invasion of Europe with thousands of camouflaged hot air balloons. Tretheway was about to interrupt when Patricia Sprong came in.
“Sorry I’m late, all.” Miss Sprong strode in humming her favourite hymn, “The Devil and Me”. She wore her navy blue, red-trimmed Salvation Army uniform. “Great band practice.” She stood, her sturdy but shapely legs apart, in front of the fire, warming her backside. Her lantern jaw jutted forward and her clear blue eyes appeared even more luminous against the deep windburn of her face. She walked daily in Coote’s Paradise, rain or shine.
“Evening, Patricia,” Tretheway said. “Why don’t you give us your report now.”
“Okay.” She looked around the room. “Is it my turn?”
“Yes,” Tretheway said. “Tremaine’s just finished.”
Tremaine sat down.
“Well, it was all very orderly,” Patricia Sprong began. “A few violations. Most were forgivable. But I have some names here to report.” She went on to describe an efficient patrol. As a professional major in the Sally Ann, Sprong tended to be harder or easier on offenders in direct relation to their wealth. All the names she handed in were well-to-do folk. The poor and meek she forgave. And Tretheway couldn’t help but notice that, unlike Mary Dearlove, Major Sprong was no stranger to unlit streets or dark alleys.
“That’s about it, then?” Tretheway looked around the room.
Everybody looked around the room.
“That’s fine.” Addie stood up and flicked some crumbs from her apron. “Perhaps some sandwiches would be in order.”
“Good idea,” Jake said.
“What about the lecture on sand bags?” Gum asked.
“And some beer,” Addie finished.
“We’ll do the sand bags later.” Tretheway stood up.
For the next thirty minutes, everyone socialized. They made short work of the tasty, substantial sandwiches (most of the men washed theirs down with ale) and helped themselves generously to the apple tarts Addie had made after saving up food coupons for weeks. Her home-made dandelion wine moved slowly. Fat Rollo stole a tart, but Fred was blamed for it. Finally, everyone wandered back to their seats and waited for the meeting to continue.
“I thought we’d go right into, ‘How to Fill an Efficient Sandbag’”, Tretheway began. “Then perhaps a little euchre.”
Agreeable murmurs were heard, except from Mary Dearlove. She had no objection to playing euchre; something else was bothering her.
“Just a moment,” she said to Tretheway. “What about your report? I mean, we’ve heard a lot of rumours.”
“About what?” Tretheway asked.
“The light,” Miss Dearlove persisted. “The light on the marsh.”
“Come clean, Tretheway,” the Squire chided. “Who was signalling the Luftwaffe?”
“I heard it was marsh gas,” Patricia Sprang offered.
“Corpse’s candles?” Cynthia Moon said.
“A form of phosphorescence,” Tremaine Warbucks stated. “Ignis Fatuus.”
Gum giggled and Garth Dingle guffawed loudly.
“All right.” Tretheway held his large hands up, palms out partly in defeat and partly to control the meeting. “Settle down.”
He had told Zoë and Beezul about the light. Jake had been there. Gum knew about it. And then there were the people who had phoned in. So it was no secret.
“We saw this light,” Tretheway said. “Just where it was reported. Definite blackout violation. Coming from Hickory Island. So we investigated.”
“You mean you went out there?” Addie asked. “Across the ice?”
“That’s right.” Tretheway had their attention. “Not that far. Made it without incident.” He looked sideways at Jake. “We ascertained that someone had built a fire. Never found anyone. A bowl of wax had overflowed and flared up. That was the light we saw earlier.”
“Wax in a bowl?” the Squire asked.
“Was the bowl bronze, by any chance?” said Cynthia Moon.
“Could be.”
“And only wax in it?”
“I think so.”
“Where is it now? Could I see it?”
“All right.” Tretheway nodded at Jake.
“I’ll get it.” Jake left the room.
“And there were some diagrams in the snow. Circles,” Tretheway continued.
“What size?”
“One very large one around the fire. Then some smaller ones. And stars.”
“Stars?”
“Pentacles, perhaps?” Warbucks asked.
“They were half-trampled out. As though someone tried to get rid of them. And some numbers.”
“What numbers?” Cynthia Moon asked.
“One, six, nine, two.”
“Don’t understand that,” Cynthia said.
Jake came back carrying a bowl and an envelope. He put the bowl on the table. Everyone crowded around. Cynthia scratched at its hardened wax contents, releasing an unpleasant aroma.
“Smells like sulphur,” Beezul said.
“Brimstone,” Cynthia corrected. “There,” she said finally.
“What?” Tretheway peered into the bowl.
“A pin,” she said. “And I’ll bet there are more. Deeper down.”
“What do you make of that?” Gum asked.
Cynthia Moon didn’t answer. “Was there anything else?” she asked. “Anything?”
Jake glanced at Tretheway, who nodded. He emptied the envelope onto the table beside the bowl.
The knotted cord looked untidy, unclean. And the nine feathers tied into its multi-coloured length were misshapen or broken. On Hickory Island it was just a piece of string swinging from a leafless tree. Here, in Addie’s comfortable common room, in the warm light of the fire, it appeared alien, almost evil.
Cynthia Moon gasped. “A Witch’s Ladder!” She grasped the largest amulet hanging amongst her beads and turned away from the table. Her eyes suddenly went glassy and as round as coasters. She pointed to the back of the room. Then she screamed; a primeval echoing. At that moment, Fat Rollo struggled to his feet and bolted with surprising speed under the shaky card tables in the direction of Cynthia’s accusing finger. On his dash, he bumped into, or at least brushed against, several pairs of legs. Zoë Plunkitt and Mary Dearlove screamed. Fred’s hackles rose and she started to bark. Addie squeezed the breath out of Jake. Twenty-six pounds of charging cat rammed the French doors that separated the room from Tretheway’s back yard. Cynthia Moon fainted.
Garth Dingle recovered first. “It was a cat,” he shouted. “Looking in the window. Just a dumb cat.”
Patricia Sprong confirmed Garth’s sighting. “That’s right. A striped cat. It ran away.”
In the next five minutes things calmed down considerably. Beezul helped Cynthia Moon to the couch. Addie brought some brandy in from the kitchen.
“I’m sorry,” Cynthia said finally. “But everything happened at once. Hearing about all those things. And seeing the bowl. And a cat looking in the window. At night. A death sign…”
“That’s all right,” Addie comforted. “Just take a sip.”
Tretheway noticed that Cynthia Moon was clutching her amulet again. He had always thought of her, despite her eccentricities, as a solid, both-feet-on-the-ground person. She painted unusual, abstract canvases; her clothes were different; she told fortunes with tea leaves or tarot cards for amusement only and dabbled in mysterious sciences almost as a lark, a harmless hobby. Perhaps, he thought, Cynthia Moon’s knowledge of the occult was not as shallow as he’d first surmised.
“If you know anything about these things,” Tretheway said kindly, “Maybe you’d like to talk about it.”
Cynthia Moon nodded. Everyone waited.
“Well.” She took another sip of brandy. “There are a number of things. They may sound silly alone. But all together…” She looked at Tretheway.
“Go ahead,” he encouraged.
“The blackout was on the thirteenth, for a start. A full moon. Close to midnight. The witching hour. What you saw on the island sounds like an altar. A witch’s or devil’s altar. A place prepared for evil. For casting spells.” Cynthia looked around the room. No one said anything for seconds, but it seemed longer. Then everybody tried to speak at once.
“Rubbish,” Patricia Sprong said.
“Oh dear,” Addie said quietly.
“You’re not suggesting some sort of witchcraft?” Mary Dearlove asked.” In 1943?”
“You mean that Tretheway and Jake almost caught a witch?” Gum said.
“Can’t remember the last one we caught,” Garth smiled.
“Seventeen twenty-seven,” Warbucks stated. “In Scotland. Janet…ah Home, I think. They say she turned her daughter into a flying horse. Laughed when they threw her onto the fire.”
“Oh dear,” Addie said again, louder.
Tretheway glared at Warbucks. “Let Cynthia finish.”
“Make fun if you like.” Cynthia reached for the brandy again, then thought better of it. “But when I think of witchcraft, I think of a religion. The craft of the wise. Wicca. It began before Christianity and will be with us forever. Now, I know there’s a certain occultism involved. A spirit world. An intangible, primitive dimension that no one in this room can explain.” Cynthia looked around for an answer before she went on. “But it’s a harmless, nondestructive form of witchcraft. In ancient tales, white witches have shrunk goitres, banished melancholy, staunched bleeding and even aided lovers in their quests. They’ve raised cones of power that have changed the paths of history.” Cynthia stopped. This time, she had a good swallow of brandy. She rearranged her strings of beads. Everyone waited. “However, what we have here is no old-time religion. This smacks of sorcery. Black magic. Devil worship. Everything points to evil. The demon’s circle. The pentacles. The perverted rosary with its nine feathers. A bronze bowl. Fire. The wax and the pins that I’m sure were stuck into an effigy before it melted. Image magic. Brimstone.”
She stood up. Her eyes, glowing with enthusiasm and brandy, transfixed Tretheway.
“There was something out there. A witch. A wizard. A warlock. An impish presence. Bent on malevolent mischief.” Her voice rose. “Perhaps to raise a storm. To spoil a crop. To poison a well. To make a pact with the devil.” Cynthia’s eyes dilated. Her body twitched slightly. Exhausted, she sat down heavily on the couch.
The fire crackled. Fat Rollo stretched out again. Fred whimpered softly in mid-dream. The quiet conversation of two student boarders was muffled behind the kitchen door.
“On the other hand,” Tretheway cleared his throat, “It could have been some FYU students.”
“Having a lark?” the Squire suggested.
“Possibly some secret fraternity ritual,” Beezul said.
“Maybe divinity students on a research project,” Mary Dearlove suggested.
“Or raising a little hell,” Garth said. “Nothing wrong with that.”
Everyone nodded except Cynthia Moon.
“Couldn’t it have been something like that?” Addie asked her.
Cynthia stared into Addie’s hopeful eyes. She realized everyone was waiting for her answer.
“Of course it could.” Cynthia smiled. “I didn’t mean to alarm anyone.”
“I mean,” Addie went on, “nothing happened really. No one was hurt, or anything.”
“You’re right, Addie,” Jake said. “Let’s have some sandwiches.”
Addie brightened. A hum of conversation began.
“All right.” Tretheway tapped his night stick on the table again. “We’ll do the sandbag thing another night. I think we’ve covered everything.”
“Except for the bat,” Garth Dingle said, almost under his breath.
All talk stopped again. Cynthia’s smile disappeared. Zoë blinked furiously. The worried look returned to Addie’s face.
“The what?” Tretheway said.
“The bat,” Garth repeated. He stood by the fireplace innocently kicking ashes across the hearth. Jake recognized his tone as the same one he used when he baited members of the WSGCC about an obscure rules infraction on the course. “The giant sliding bat that moved toward the light.” He continued to stare at his feet. No one breathed.
Tretheway looked daggers at Jake. Jake stared straight ahead, his neck reddening.
“Jake?” Tretheway said quietly. Jake straightened up uncomfortably on the arm of Addie’s chair. “Perhaps you’d like to answer this one?”
Jake stood up, glanced sheepishly at his boss and put his hands in and out of his pockets before he stammered his way into the explanation. By the time Tretheway had once again taken off across the marsh, most were smiling, some snickering. And when the great bat fell, everyone laughed. Even Tretheway had to smile.
The relief of laughter continued longer and louder than the story warranted. Tretheway noticed Zoë Plunkitt, handkerchief in hand, dabbing, trying to save her eye makeup from the running, hysterical tears. At the time, he put it down to the simple relief of tension.