Witch Catcher

  "Why does it matter so much?" Dad asked. "You say the house is full of valuable things, from furniture to books. If the witch catcher makes Jen happy, why shouldn't she keep it? Not that I think she has it, of course."

  "Good for you, Dad," I whispered.

  Moura touched Dad's knee and leaned closer to him. "It's a very rare and unusual piece, Hugh. If it means so much to Jen, I'm sure I can find another one just as pretty, but not as valuable."

  She gazed at Dad, her lips parted, and he murmured her name. The next moment they were embracing. I drew back, too upset to watch, and tiptoed upstairs to my room. Tink was asleep on my bed, and I lay down beside him.

  "What am I going to do?" I whispered to the cat. "He's falling in love with her. Suppose he marries her?"

  Tink looked at me as if he knew the answer to everything, but instead of telling me, he began licking his paw.

  I rolled over on my back and stared at the closet door. As soon as I heard Moura leave, I'd get the witch catcher and hang it in the window. The sight of it comforted me somehow.

  I must have dozed off waiting to hear Moura's car drive away. When I woke up, Dad was leaning over me. "You fell asleep in your dress, honey," he said. "Get your pajamas on and go to bed properly."

  I sat up, feeling groggy, the taste of dinner in my mouth. "Is Moura still here?"

  Dad shook his head. "She left about ten minutes ago."

  I glanced at my clock. "It's two A.M.," I said. "What were you doing all this time?"

  Dad looked out the window and shrugged. "Talking," he said.

  "About what?"

  He turned to me then, his face shining. "Moura's agreed to marry me," he said. "I can't believe it. A woman like her, so beautiful, so intelligent, so charming. What can she possibly see in me?"

  I flung myself back on the bed and lay flat, too shocked to say anything. Certainly not congratulations. Maybe I could manage condolences.

  Dad reached down and smoothed my hair. "Be happy for me, Jen. Once you get to know her, I know you'll love her as much as I do. She's very fond of you already. In fact, she told me she's always wanted a daughter."

  I turned my head to escape Dad's hand. "I'm not fond of Moura," I muttered. "And I've never wanted to be anybody's daughter but yours."

  Dad sighed. "Jen, please. I love Moura, and I hope someday soon you'd love her, too. But no matter how you feel now, I expect you to be respectful of her, to be friendly and polite, to make an effort to accept her as my wife and your stepmother."

  "Just go away," I said. "And leave me alone. I don't want to talk about it anymore."

  Dad got to his feet. "Moura warned me you'd be jealous," he said heavily. "But I'd hoped you might prove her wrong."

  I sat up again. "I'm not jealous!" I shouted. "I just don't like her, and I don't trust her. and I think you're making a big mistake! She's mean and greedy, and she's got you completely fooled!"

  "That's enough, Jen." Dad strode across my room to the door. For a second he hesitated. "I'm very disappointed in you."

  With that, he walked out and shut the door behind him. I lay motionless and listened to his bedroom door close with a loud bang. It was the first time Dad had ever been truly angry with me. And it was all Moura's fault.

  I must have dozed off again. The next time I opened my eyes it was almost dawn and I was still wearing my dress. The summer night was warm, and I was sweaty and uncomfortable. I undressed and hurled my clothes on the floor. Never would I wear that dumb dress again. Never. I hated it.

  I put on my pajamas and lifted the witch catcher from its hiding place on the closet shelf. After I hung it in my window, I studied its delicate, swirling colors. The night was still except for the cicadas' increasingly loud buzz.

  No mauer what Moura said or did, the globe was mine, not hers. Great-Uncle Thaddeus had left all his belongings to my father. Moura had no right to anything in the house or the tower—not a cup, not a spoon, not even an ashtray. And certainly not the witch catcher.

  7

  AN HOUR LATER, I woke to a gray sky promising rain. After hiding the witch catcher safely away, I dressed and left the house without seeing Dad. Let him come and look for me if he wanted me. I doubted he'd miss me for hours.

  Tink followed me across the lawn, bounding ahead and then waiting to see if I was coming. He often acted more like a dog than a cat, but true to his nature, he couldn't be counted on. Sometimes he was in the mood for a walk. Sometimes he wasn't. Today I was gladder than usual for his company.

  Ignoring the dark clouds, I followed a narrow path that twisted downhill into the woods behind the tower. The shade was dense, the light greenish. Grapevines dangled here and there, poison ivy flourished, and the ground was cool and mossy under my bare feet. The air smelled of old leaves, wet earth, and damp, growing things. Crows squabbled and blue-jays shrieked. Now and then a songbird warbled.

  After a half-hour's walk, Tink and I heard the sound of water. Soon we came to a stream of dark, deep water, running fast over stones. On the bank sat seven boulders, lined up as if someone had placed them there. I climbed to the top of the biggest and looked around—nothing but trees as far as I could see. It was easy to imagine Tink and I had wandered into a magical forest, unknown to anyone but the two of us.

  I looked down at my cat, who was investigating a dense growth of ferns. "We're in an enchanted place," I told him. "A unicorn could crash out of the bushes any second. We might see a dragon on the hill or find a fairy hiding under a toadstool."

  Tink twitched his tail, ready to face anything I might dream up.

  I went on talking to him, a habit I'd had for years, partly because he always seemed to listen. "This must be where Great-Uncle Thaddeus came to paint. These rocks are in one of his pictures, and so are those trees." I pointed to three stiver birches, the biggest I'd ever seen.

  Tink looked at the trees, his amber eyes wide, as if he saw things I could only imagine.

  "I dreamed about this forest." I looked over my shoulder, suddenly fearful. What if Moura should come walking down the path, just as she had in my dream?

  "Moura found me here," I whispered to Tink. "She wanted the witch catcher. Do you know what she did when I wouldn't give it to her? She changed into a long black snake."

  I shivered and peered into the bushes, half expecting to see a snake slithering toward me. At the same moment, the woods darkened, and a cool breeze ruffled the trees, flipping the birch leaves silver side up. Thunder rumbled. From the trees, crows cawed and hurled themselves into the air, streaming away as if they knew a storm was coming.

  Sure enough, well before I was halfway home, rain began pattering on the leaves. At first I thought the dense trees would shelter Tink and me, but the wind increased and the rain poured down. The steep hillside was soon awash with water. With Tink scrambling ahead, I slipped and slid my way to the top. By the time I burst out of the woods, I was soaked, and so was my cat.

  Dad stood on the porch with Moura and Ciril Ashbourne. Dad saw me first. "Jen," he called, "where have you been?"

  I ran up the steps and tried to dash into the house without speaking to any of them, but Dad took my arm and stopped me.

  "Slow down a minute, Jen. I want you to meet our guest, Mr. Ashbourne." Turning to Moura's friend, he said, "This is my daughter, Jen."

  Ciril Ashbourne's mouth twitched as if he were trying hard to smile at me. Like Moura, he was wearing tinted glasses despite the gray sky and falling rain. "It seems the storm caught you by surprise, my dear."

  Moura's attempt at a smile was no better than Mr. Ashbourne's. "Have you been walking in the woods, Jen?"

  When I didn't answer, she said to Dad, "The woods around here are dangerous, Hugh. Snakes, poison ivy, boggy spots. The river's treacherous, too. The current's strong, even in shallow places. Worse yet, strangers pass through now and then—tramps, I suppose. I wouldn't permit Jen to play there alone. It's simply not safe."

  Dad turned from Moura to me, his face full of worry.
"Maybe the woods aren't a good place to play, Jen," he said. "And from now on, please tell me where you're going when you leave the house. It worries me not to know where you are. Especially when the weather turns bad."

  Dad opened the door and ushered me inside. "You'd better change your clothes. You're soaked."

  Eager to escape Moura and Mr. Ashbourne, I ran upstairs with Tink. After I rubbed his fur dry, I went to the closet and grabbed my denim shirt from a hanger. The rain had cooled things off, and I was glad for a long-sleeved shirt and a pair of jeans. Leaving Tink behind, I tiptoed down to the landing and peered over the railing. Dad, Moura, and Mr. Ashbourne were now sitting in the living room drinking tea. Someone had spread Great-Uncle Thaddeus's paintings on the floor, and they seemed to be studying them.

  "When you're willing to sell, I'll give you a good price for the lot," Mr. Ashbourne was saying to Dad. "As Moura surely told you, I have an interest in the realm of fairy."

  Dad took another sip of tea. I wished I could see his face, but all I had was a view of the top of his head, where his hair was thinnest.

  "What I really want, however, is the witch catcher your uncle owned," Mr. Ashbourne went on. "Moura tells me it's gone missing. Has it turned up yet? I've amassed a large collection of globes, but there's always room for another. Especially if it's as fine a specimen as Moura claims it to be."

  Moura smoothed her hair, held back today with silver combs, and suddenly turned to look directly at me. "Why, Jen, are you planning to join us or sit on the steps all day?"

  Dad frowned, no doubt annoyed to catch me eavesdropping again. "Come and have a cup of tea, Jen," he said.

  There was nothing to do but trudge down the steps and take a seat close to Dad. While Moura poured my tea, I turned to Mr. Ashbourne. "What's so special about that witch catcher?"

  Mr. Ashbourne scowled at me over the rim of his cup. "I'm not accustomed to the bad manners of American children," he said to Dad. "Where I come from, children don't ask questions. They answer them."

  Dad glanced at Moura, who gave him a smile and a pat on his knee. Turning to Mr. Ashbourne, she said, "Really, you're dreadfully out of touch, Ciril. This is the twenty-first century, you know. Customs change."

  "Thank you for reminding me, Moura," Mr. Ashbourne said sarcastically. "But no matter what the century, manners are manners, after all."

  "I assure you Jen didn't intend to be rude," Dad put in. To me he said, "Please apologize to Mr. Ashbourne."

  "I was just asking him a question," I said, genuinely puzzled. "Why is that rude?"

  "Never mind. It's not important." Mr. Ashbourne went back to studying me. "I shall answer your question with one of my own, young lady."

  He cleared his throat, keeping his eyes on me as if he meant to read my mind. "Are you sure you don't know where the witch catcher is?"

  I wanted to look away, but it was impossible. Even behind his glasses, Mr. Ashbourne's eyes held me tight, probing, probing, probing.

  "If fen knew, I'm sure she'd tell you," Dad began, but Moura hushed him with a tap on his knee with her long red fingernail.

  "I won't tell you," I whispered.

  "Oh, I think you will," Mr. Ashbourne said, leaning so close I could see my reflection in his glasses. Suddenly, the lenses turned iridescent. A pattern of spinning colors held me fast, made me dizzy. My arms and legs went limp.

  "Indeed," Mr. Ashbourne said softly, "I believe you'd go to your room right now and fetch the witch catcher for me. You have it hidden up there, don't you. my dear?"

  I shook my head, but at the same time I felt myself getting slowly to my feet. Moura began to whisper to Dad, who was too interested in what she was saying to notice me. Although I tried to resist Mr. Ashbourne, it was useless. Whether I wanted to go or not, my feet carried me upstairs.

  Just as I reached the landing, I heard a loud crash. A second later, Tink came flying down the steps and disappeared.

  "What the devil was that?" Mr. Ashbourne hurried past me, with Moura and Dad close behind.

  I ran ahead of them to my room. The closet door was wide open, and shards of colored glass littered the floor.

  "The witch catcher," I whispered. "Tink must have broken it."

  Moura rushed past me and knelt to study the bits of glass. Mr. Ashbourne leaned over her, staring at the mess.

  "Is it the witch catcher?" he asked Moura.

  She nodded, speechless with anger.

  Without noticing Moura's rage, Dad turned to me. "You lied to me, Jen. You had the witch catcher all along. And now its broken. No one will have it."

  To my surprise, Moura thrust aside my carelessly hung clothes as if she thought I might be hiding something else in the closet. She found nothing. Dropping to the floor, she looked under my bed. Nothing there, either.

  Dad watched her, obviously puzzled by her behavior, but Mr. Ashbourne kept his eyes on me. "Tell me, Jen, where did you find the witch catcher?"

  "In the tower," I mumbled, keeping my head down to avoid looking at those scary glasses. "Hanging in a window."

  "Why did you take it?" he asked.

  "It was pretty." I moved closer to Dad and pressed my face into his side, but he didn't put his arm around me or pat my head. His body was tense and unyielding. He was angry, too.

  Moura grabbed my shoulder and whirled me around to face her. Her long red nails stabbed painfully into my skin. "Do you realize what you've done?" She kept her voice low. "You've destroyed—"

  Mr. Ashbourne took Moura's arm. "The child meant no harm," he said. "She thought the globe was pretty, and she wanted it. I have so many witch catchers. What's one more or less?" He smiled, but the look he gave Moura burned with anger.

  Dad finally put his arm around me. "I'm sure Jen is as sorry about this as I am. But remember, Moura, I haven't decided what to sell and what to keep. So the broken globe is Jen's loss. No one else's."

  "Of course, Hugh." Moura managed to smile at him. "Forgive me. As a dealer in antiques, I simply can't bear to see valuable objects used as playthings by careless children."

  "I wasn't playing with it," I said, stung by her implications, "and I'm not a careless child. I put the witch catcher in a safe place. It's not my fault Tink broke it."

  "Perhaps we should return to the living room and finish our tea," Mr. Ashbourne suggested. "I'm still hoping you'll decide to part with those wonderful paintings, Hugh."

  Mr. Ashbourne led the way downstairs. Before we reached the bottom, Moura took my arm and whispered, "If you see anything strange, tell me at once. You could be in great danger, you foolish girl."

  I stopped on the landing and stared at her. "What do you mean?"

  "I told you the purpose of witch catchers," she said. "When one is broken, odd things happen."

  "The witch escapes?" Goose bumps sprang up on my arms, but I forced myself to laugh. "Surely you don't believe in evil spirits."

  Moura looked at me, clearly not amused. "You're ignorant as well as foolish and dishonest."

  With that, she swept down the steps to join Dad and Mr. Ashbourne. Her hair and skirt floated out behind her as if she were sinking into the shadows at the foot of the stairs.

  "The tea's cold, Jen," Dad said. "Would you mind making a fresh pot?"

  Glad to be excused, I left the three of them in the living room. After I filled the kettle and set it on the stove, I collapsed on a chair. My head ached, and my legs felt weak, as if I were coming down with the flu.

  What had just happened? I'd been without any will of my own—Mr. Ashbourne must have hypnotized me somehow. I'd been completely under his power, as mindless as a zombie. Those glasses—had I imagined the way they'd changed color?

  The worst part was Dad—he hadn't noticed a thing out of the ordinary. Had he been bewitched, too?

  I hugged myself and shivered uncontrollably, more frightened than cold.

  "Jen," Dad called from the living room, "the kettle's boiling."

  His voice and the loud whistle from the kettle r
oused me. Still shaky, I got to my feet and filled the teapot with boiling water.

  Tink emerged from his hiding place and rubbed against my legs.

  "I suppose you're apologizing." I said. "But it'll take a lot more than that to make up for what you've done."

  Tink purred loudly and wound himself around me as if he were trying extra special hard to convince me he was truly sorry. But he didn't fool me. No cat was ever sorry for anything it did.

  I stooped down and looked Tink in the eye. "Why did you jump up on that shelf? You broke the witch catcher, the most beautiful thing I've ever owned. Worse yet, now everyone knows I lied about having it. And do you know what's even more terrible?"

  Tink mewed and bumped his face against mine, waiting to be told.

  "Moura says something scary might happen because it's broken." I rubbed Tink under his chin, and he purred louder. "Of course, she's lying, but still—If I were you, I'd watch out. Tink. You're the one who broke it, you know. Not me."

  Tink went on purring as if to say he couldn't care less about broken witch catchers.

  Straightening up, I stared out the window. The glass was streaked with water, and the rain fed hard enough to blur the tower and the trees and the sky. A few crows stalked across the lawn, heads down, sodden black feathers dripping. Thunder clapped, and raggedy lines of lightning zigzagged across the sky. In the living room, Dad laughed at something Moura said, and Mr. Ashbourne joined in.

  I looked down at Tink. "They don't need me, do they? I bet Dad doesn't even miss me."

  Tink purred again, and I picked him up, grateful for his warm weight and soft fur. He relaxed in my arms, and I rocked him as if he were still a little kitten. "You're such a bad cat," I whispered. "Such a bad, bad cat—but I love you anyway."

  He snuggled in my arms, pressing his warm body against my chest, and purred even louder.

  "Jen," Dad called again. "Isn't that tea ready yet?"

  I put Tink down and picked up the teapot. Feeling like Cinderella, I carried the tray carefully toward the living room and Dad's guests.