The Honey Witch

Chapter XII





An atmospheric blend of red and gold streamed beneath the hems of cotton curtains. In the heady fog of wakening, I realized my clothes were gone and I was covered with a sun freshened patchwork quilt. I surveyed the stillness of the room and wrapped the coverlet around my waist, stumbling out the back door to the forest edge to relieve a painfully full bladder.

Beyond the orchard, I heard the sounds of birds and to my muddled senses, it sounded more an evening song than morning. I spied a small, fenced-in cemetery on the hillside, shrouded in an unattended growth of assorted wildflowers and tall grasses. The air felt thick, damp and spent, still more an impression of evening than daybreak.

A developing sense of abstraction settled with the slippage of the dew. I stepped to the well and pumped its numbing cold water on my face.

“Well, well, well,” came a woman’s voice from the back screen door. “Don’t you look a fair sight, Mr. Boston.”

I looked up sharply to find Jolene Parker standing on the step, balancing a large pitcher of steaming water against her hip.

She smiled that crescent, knowing smile of hers and related that Ana was out attending Zeke Sutton and his complaints of rheumatism, which, to Jolene’s mind, was caused more by the man being a known sinner than any penchant for corn liquor. Poor Clara Russell was experiencing another bout of weeping and Ana would, of course, return soon. Meanwhile, in the back room, there was a barrel set with hot bath water. A change of clothing was brought from my cabin, she hoped I did not mind, and the clothes I wore yesterday remained on the line.

When I crossed the threshold, Jolene pointed to a curtained doorway.

“In there,” she instructed. Pressing the pitcher against my abdomen, she added: “Here’s another pitcher of warm water.” With scarce warning to keep hold of the quilt around my waist and grab the receptacle at the same time, I was rewarded with the infamous Jolene Parker smirk for having been successful at both.

The partition space behind the curtain was sparse and small. A single bed rested in the corner beside a small stand and mirror. Placed on the bed, was a neatly folded bundle of clothes I recognized as my own. My shaving supplies were set on the mirrored stand, along with the contents of the Five and Dime purchases the day before.

The scent of a minty soap was almost intoxicating and I poured the warm water over my head, anxious to wash away the sweat and emotion of the preceding evening. The thickening aroma of food cooking and spices brewing filled my nostrils as I dressed. I shaved methodically, surprised to see in the mirror as much bearded stubble over a single night as was grown.

I dumped the water, draped the quilt over the line and brought yesterday’s dried clothes inside. Coming into clearer focus, I realized it wasn’t morning at all. My earlier attention on bird sound and shadow was no illusion. It was, in fact, early evening.

I had slept the whole of a night and a day, in a veritable coma.

“What time is it?” I asked, setting my clothes on the now made bed. I briefly admired a half woven rug on the warp of a floor loom set next to the front window, and was reminded of a spinster aunt who once lived near the Cape.

“Nearly nine,” answered Jolene. She set an earthen mug on the table, steaming with the fragrant blend I recognized from the evening before. A tangle of wild white daisies filled a clear mason jar of water at the center of the table.

She placed a plate of potato pancakes, applesauce and fresh strawberries and cheese on the table next to the tea mug. “You need to keep up your strength, Mr. Boston,” she advised, and indicated that I sit, with a single sweep of her hand. Although hungry, I was inexplicably hesitant to partake of any food or drink in this dwelling.

Jolene sat on the bench across from me and leaned her chin lazily on her hand. “Ana will be back soon and if she sees I haven’t taken care of you, well, she wouldn’t like it.”

“So, you’ve been appointed guardian,” I commented rather acridly. I reached for the butter crock and spread a light coating over the pancake.

“Ah-huh,” she acknowledged, casually reaching over and plucking a stray lint from the sleeve of my shirt.

“What’s wrong with Clara?” I asked.

“The weeping melancholia,” Jolene replied. “Been that way since the fire.”

“Fire?” I inquired. I cut a few strawberries and placed the slices atop the potato cake. Despite my earlier battle between apprehension and hunger, I discovered I was actually feeling too unfocused to eat.

“The fire that killed Molly Lynn and Anson four years ago now,” she said.

I stared at Jolene numbly. I had not expected such a dramatic nor horrific reply.

“Anson was running with Molly Lynn,” Jolene continued, “tripped and the ceiling fell right through. Killed them both and Miss Clara’s not been the same.”

“So, that’s why the doll,” I mused thoughtfully.

“Yep,” Jolene confirmed. “Ana gave her the doll. It was her very own when she was a girl. Helps some. Not always, but some.”

If you’re crazy, I don’t know as Possum can help you.

“My poppy has the melancholia,” Jolene remarked. “When he was a boy, grand-daddy would call him no good. Grand-daddy had the best whiskey still this side of the Cutler in those days. Folks came from miles around for old Cletis Parker's 'shine.

“Problem was, he liked to drink it, too. Beat my poppy and his brother raw. Auntie Rose, too. Hit her so hard one-day, it befuddled her brain.”

She sighed suddenly and gazed off with a trace of what I could only describe as bemusement and then added: “One day, Granny hit him on the head with a board. Thought she’d killed him, but she didn’t. He weren’t the same, though. Ended up taking care of him for the rest of his days, which was a grand sight better than the beatings in her eyes. Granny lives with Auntie Rose down the way from us. Gettin’ pretty old now, though, she is.”

Jolene related the legacy of a grandfather’s brutality with the meditative detachment of an old story found in a dusty corner trunk, but I suspected the legacy impacted her more than even she dared comprehend.

“Ana takes the pain into her hands,” Jolene went on to say, caressing the palms of her own, “but poppy’s terminal and has to come back to get the pain out.”

“Terminal?” I asked.

“Too imprinted on the heart,” said Jolene. “Spirit got broke a long time ago. Ana says she don’t mind, though, since he gets some release from her hands and it gets him out to pick the beans. He gets a check from the government. Sam brings it from down the mountain when he picks up the mail.”

I pushed the unfinished plate of food aside. “I’m sorry about your father.”

“Ana,” Jolene explained, “opens up a hole and takes out the pain, the memory. She takes it in and spits it out if you can’t do it yourself. Some folks can’t find it to let go, though. Poppy’s one of those, says Ana. Got to take care of ‘em the best one can, then.”

“What do you mean, spit it out?” I asked, perhaps too quickly.

Jolene shrugged. “It is as I said. A soul’s just got to cleanse itself. Best to do that when a body still has good life in it. You cleanse when you’re just about dead and you don’t get so much of the benefit. You lose out. That’s sorrowful, to my way of thinkin’. Don’t you think so?”

I didn’t know what I thought beyond my own preoccupations.

She pushed the mug of tea closer. “It will bring you strength. Drink.”

I pushed the now suspect herbal blend aside.

Jolene cleared the table of excess utensils. “You need to keep your strength, Mr. Boston.”

I leaned my elbow on the table and ran my hand through my still damp hair. The wall clock chimed the quarter hour and mingled with Jolene’s quiet, methodical movements at the counter. I gazed off in thoughts of nothing in particular, feeling, even with my current inertia, a strange comfort. The feeling was womb-like and I didn’t want to let go of it.

The twilight aftermath of the setting sun darkened the room and Jolene lit the table lantern, setting off that familiar amber glow of the night before.

We sat silently, then, Jolene with a bowl of dried herbs, separating each bundle one by one, and I, in my thoughts of nothingness; aware, but impassive as each moment slid away with the ticking pendulum.

Ana returned with a small basket filled with breads and honey, appearing pleased to find her cabin still occupied. She lifted my chin in her warm hand, her expression critical as she studied my eyes. She took my hand in hers, held it there briefly and then peered into the full mug.

“Lonny’s coming to walk me home,” Jolene announced. She winked at me and said: “And your pretty guest, here, didn’t quite take to my cookin’.”

I could not help but like Jolene Parker. Sardonic one moment, incurably flirtatious the next, she would one day make a man both desirous and incredibly crazy at once.

But I didn’t trust her. I didn’t trust her anymore than I trusted Ana, regardless of Aaron Westmore’s drunken assessment of either of them, or any primordial attraction to one and reserved sense of gratitude to the other.

Ana sent home a jar of honey and a loaf of fresh bread with Jolene when the gauntly framed Lonny came stomping to the door, accompanied by a hyperactive yellow labrador.

“Ana, I need you to explain to me what happened here last night,” I said quietly, after the clatter of Jolene and her brother's chase of the dog faded beyond the clearing.

“You think nothing is as simple as it appears,” Ana shrugged. Ignoring my frown, she added: “Yet, how much is complicated by thinking so much?”

I didn’t know if I had simply slept too long or, too deeply, to grasp her statement or, if I truly did not care. I felt the sober aftermath of emotional ejection and desired only to understand what had occurred. I could not cope with riddles.

Sensing my somber contemplation, she said: “I will tell you what you need to know. If you leave here tonight, your whole body will shake by moon-set because you think too much. You will sweat to the bone and your mind will go numb by first light. By the time the sun rises over the leaves, you will reach for your bottles of poisons and they will fall from your hand to the floor.

"Like a child who has spilled his gumdrops, you will scramble for them one by one, but you will swallow too many. Because you are alone in that hour, your heart will stop beating. This is your tomorrow.”

I stared at her, astonished by what I considered quite a dramatic rendering of what she prophesied as my fate, should I refuse her aid.

Unstirred by my wordless reaction, she added: “You took too many for too long, Ethan Broughton. Like any masked ghoul, who kept your secrets well, it will try and kill you when you leave. If you allow me, I can prevent it. One more deep sleep. Perhaps two. Three more teas. Choose.”

Although I was quite aware of the perils of self-medication, I had no reason to think it out of control. Yet, I strangely believed her; a state I feared as irrational as Jilly’s offer of soup to sway her son’s morbid asthma episode. I scarcely knew this woman, Ana Lagori, didn’t trust her, and the majority of the time I would swear on oath, she was nothing less than a brilliant magician.

But I believed her. Against all rationale and despite any conflict regarding the question of her apparent abilities, I believed her. And in a complex and strangely sensual way, I found I didn’t want to fight that belief.

She raised a brow, as if surprised by my apparent inability to grasp the fundamental choice. She sat as Lady Justice, weighing death and life, falsehood and truth in her hands, blindly dispassionate as to the outcome.

Choose.

Although the choice would appear obvious, if her prediction held merit, she would have me say it, as though not speaking would serve neither as consent nor refrain.

My reply, whispered in the space between us, was subdued. “Yes...”

Ana seemed satisfied and set the water kettle on the range to boil. She lifted a cumbersome earthen bowl from the cupboard and ground the dried herbs Jolene had separated earlier, into pungent flakes with a wooden pestle.

“Why do you stay so far across the sea?” she asked, bringing down jars from the heavy cabinet shelves.

“In Prague?” I asked. Her hands, in their adept purpose, hypnotized my senses. “I work at the university. I visit my parents. It’s a magnificent city. Easy to get lost in.”

“But your people are not from that land,” she said.

“No,” I returned contemplatively.

“England, then?” she asked. “On the great ships?”

“In the beginning, yes,” I replied. “My mother and father, despite any history of family elitism, fancy themselves more the itinerant travelers. My brother was born in Montreal, my sister in Salzburg.”

“And you?” she wanted to know.

I laughed with light amusement. "Boston, actually."

She seemed to consider this for several moments and then said: “It was your grandmother, in Boston, who wanted the grandchildren home.”

“You are amazingly astute,” I remarked.

She smiled slightly. “I know the way of the grandmothers.” She poured the hot water over her leafy concoction in the tea mug.

“So,” I asked, breathing in the fragrance of steaming herbs, “tell me about your people. How did they come by these hills?”

Ana rubbed the dried herbs between her fingertips and let the nearly powdered particles sift like sand into each tinted jar.

“Where does one go, but to the hills and the forests,” she returned, “when one has nowhere else to go?”

“Do you always answer questions with questions?” I wanted to know, but I was beginning to feel the effects of the blended herbs simply from the steam. “What’s in this?” I asked numbly.

“The healing earth,” she replied simply. “Drink.”

No matter how fiercely I willed otherwise, my eyelids weighed heavily by the fourth swallow.

“That’s not quite the answer I was looking for.”

“Sleep,” she whispered. “It is the only way.”

Had I been of clear mind, I might have accused her openly of strange deliberation. As truth would have it, I was becoming quite indifferent to anything beyond the heather soft quilting of her bed and quite indifferent to anything beyond the confines of her company, come the rising sun.





~*~