Dark Clouds
Book 1 in The Witch’s Child series
Part 1: The Mandrake Ruse
By Scott Bury
Copyright © 2011 by Scott Bury
All rights reserved
No part of this story may be used or reproduced in any manner without the prior written permission of the author, except for brief quotations in reviews.
Published by The Written Word Communications Company
Ottawa, Ontario, Canada
www.writtenword.ca
Cover image and design by Scott Bury ISBN 978-0-9869529-3-7
Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication information is available.
The Mandrake Ruse
Matt always knew when his mother arrived in town: the wind would swirl from every direction at once, sending the neighbour’s weather-vane spinning clackety-clack and the yellow and brown leaves whirling along the road like a child’s top.
“Let’s get out of here,” Matt said to his pretty, petite wife, Teri. They packed a few things into a single suitcase and drove out of Ottawa, over the bridge to Wakefield. “We might as well stay somewhere nice,” he said.
“It’s too bad it’s so expensive,” Teri replied. She looked worried, but not about the money. She was weary of her mother-in-law’s antics.
When they arrived at the hotel, Teri loved the way its rustic pretence did not mask its luxury. She lay on the bed and squirmed on the thick duvet. “This is so nice.”
Matt flopped down beside her and tried to undo a button on her blouse. “There’s lots of time for that later,” she said, gently pushing his hand away. “I want to take a walk and see the fall colours.” She smiled and kissed him lightly, then sprang off the bed and opened the door. Matt sighed and shoved his feet into his runners again, but enjoyed watching her round little butt walking ahead of him, the way her light brown hair bounced on her shoulders.
They found a path that climbed a hill through a yellow and bronze forest. A broad, flat rock seemed to push the forest away from the top of the hill, giving them a view of the river where it bent to flow south toward the city. They looked at the skyline, holding hands. “Let’s make love under the trees,” Matt said.
Teri pushed his shoulder. “Silly,” she said, but then she frowned as she looked at the sky.
Matt followed her gaze. Overhead, the sky was blue, but black clouds drew together to the south, blotting out the sun. A gust ruffled Teri’s hair. She blinked and rubbed dust from her eye.
A small black cloud detached itself from the host over Ottawa and headed toward them, fast. Matt put his arm around his wife’s shoulder and pulled her back to the path. “We have to get off this hill, now.”
Somehow, the clearing had become wider. The opening under the trees to the path, where they would be safe from the sky, receded as they ran toward it.
Matt recognized the phenomenon. His most common nightmare involved an expanding landscape that pushed his destination farther and farther away when he was racing against time to reach it. He held Teri tighter and started running.
Too slow. The black cloud flew toward them. It became a hail of grit, rocks and sticks whirling around them. Matt choked on dust. Teri cried out as the wind threw her to the rocky ground.
Then, it was gone. Dark wisps drew together over their heads, moved south again and disappeared. The air was still and quiet again, and they realized they were right at the edge of the trees, not hundreds of metres away. Somewhere, a squirrel laughed at them.
“It’s not laughing,” said Teri as she brushed dust off her pants and brushed twigs out of her hair.
“It sounds like it’s laughing,” Matt muttered, but he was still looking south. “She wasn’t after me this time. I’m not the main target. That was just a side blow.”
Teri looked at her husband, the way his whole attention was on the city under the black cloud to the south. “You have to go, don’t you?”
Matt sighed. His shoulders slumped. “I wish I didn’t have to.”
“She never gives you a choice. She’s not a mother, not one that you deserve.” Teri took her husband’s hand and led him down the path to the hotel. “Don’t worry. I’ll stay in the hotel. I’ll take a soak in the hot tub, drink some wine and read my book. I’ll help you when you need to get back.”
“I may be late.”
Teri stood on her tiptoes to kiss her husband.
“Take the time that you need. But be careful.”
At the door, she looked into her husband’s eyes. “Matt, this time, don’t hold back. Make this the last time you have to do this.”
Matt knew what she meant. He didn’t know if he could do what she asked.
She watched him from the hotel room window, all long legs, broad shoulders and untamed brown hair. He folded himself into their little rusty car and rolled out of the parking lot.
The drive to Ottawa was nightmarish, his mother’s work, he knew. It took two hours to drive 35 kilometres on a smooth highway. There were curves and sweeping highway interchanges where there had been none two hours earlier. Trucks squeezed together and blocked Matt’s way, belching sulfurous fumes.
By the time he could see the bridge over the Ottawa River, Matt knew where he mother’s target was. He groaned. He was going to have to save the prime minister he hated most.
He parked his car on a side street in Hull and walked across the jammed bridge. No traffic moved. On the northern side, drivers honked their horns and craned their head out of their windows, wondering what the problem was.
Matt walked on the left, northbound side of the road. Nothing was coming from Ottawa. Once over the bridge, he saw three cars jammed like logs across the pavement, preventing anything from moving across. Their drivers slumped, eyes open but unseeing, jaws slack. Drool wet their chins. Matt touched one’s neck and felt a pulse. He patted her purple-dyed hair and continued into city.
Idle cars crammed the approaches on and off the bridge, their motors quiet and their drivers asleep. Matt could see that humans and machines had not crashed, just stopped where they were. He paid no more attention. He had seen it before.
He looked at his watch: midafternoon, but the light was a dim as evening. The clouds overhead were almost completely black. He did not look up at the swirling patterns. He knew how his consciousness could become lost in them.
He knew where his mother and her followers would be. Say it, he thought. Use the right word. You’re always telling other people to do that. Use the right word.
Coven. My mother and her coven are at the Prime Minister’s residence.
He wove along Sussex Drive, between limousines and armoured SUVs. Drivers and guards slumped on the seats or lay on the pavement, where they had collapsed. Matt paused and straightened one man’s leg. “He’s going to have a terrible cramp when he wakes up if I don’t,” he muttered.
Matt knew the squeaking of the gate to 24 Sussex as it opened, and the fat raindrops that began falling at that moment were two of his mother’s favourite touches.
A man and a woman in RCMP uniforms lay on the floor in the little guardhouse just inside the gate. The woman’s eyes were open and she seemed to be looking in awe toward the swirling black clouds.
Matt stepped past. There were unconscious bodies strewn on the lawn, on the steps; one man had been dragged away from the door and left with his head hanging off the top step.
A dull reddish light spilled from the gaping front doors. Matt could hear women’s laughter and jazz music inside. He shook his head. “Oh, mother.” He took a deep breath and stepped over the threshold.
Inside, the air was hot, dry and smoky. He could barely see in front of him, but he followed the sound of laughter. Yes, that was definitely his mother’s cartoonish cackle,
but there was another laugh, too, shrill, gleeful and evil. Matt shuddered. There was something familiar about that sound.
Open double doors led to a large meeting room. The only illumination came from a dull red glow hanging over the centre of a long board table. Patio doors looking out to a flower garden let in no light from the roiling sky.
Men and women sat around the table, unmoving. Their eyes were unfocused and their mouths hung open. In the dim light, Matt thought he recognized some of them: politicians and diplomats from other countries. He had read something about the Prime Minister holding a conference to prepare for a diplomatic initiative he had cooked up. Matt could just make out dozens of other bodies lying still on the floor or crumpled on top of each other against the walls.
And at the head of the table, in the biggest chair, Matt’s mother, Helen sat on the Prime Minister’s lap. She was stroking his chin, and he was looking toward her, but his eyes were unfocused and his jaw was slack.
Behind Helen was a group of women of different ages, sizes and races. They laughed and pointed at the people at the table, and at Matt as well, shrieking with their own amusement. Matt could not understand anything they said.
Helen spoke without looking at Matt. “You took your sweet time getting here. I hope that I wasn’t too rough on little Teri, was I?”
“Teri’s fine. You know you can’t hurt her.”
Helen looked at him and messed up the Prime Minister’s hair. It was strange—it was the first time that Matt had ever seen a hair out of place on the