The Honey Witch

Chapter I

Wheresoever the blue purse grows,

there the Evangeline doth sow.





~Old World Proverb~





April, 1997

Porringer Hill is a ten-mile stretch of dense mountain woodland, which gradually dips into a shallow and lush valley. It was, and remains, an isolated area difficult to reach by foot and when the waters of the Cutler run high in early spring, nearly impossible by any other method.

Old world folklore tells that three nights beyond the new moon is the night of the Gypsy Moon. It was during such a night, the third since my arrival on Porringer, that I experienced a visionary dream I would only consider having been brought on by the exhaustion of travel. Standing at the threshold of a row of white oak trees, I watched as a milk-white figure twirled in the sliver of moonlight until it became but a twisting spiral of fog. And I felt a paralysis, of sorts, observing the newly formed mist rise to the top of the trees, only to then disappear, as would a vapor into the night.

The broken and hypnotic call of an owl fused with the fibril of dreamscapes, and I awoke to sense the expansion and contraction of all that, which breathed breath on the pristine hill. Plant, human and beast; each residing in curious harmony, centered on a point of unclear definition, sheltering that core, perhaps, from the corruption of civilization, itself: a civilization so foreign, that to merge one particle of the smaller into the greater would disassemble the entire functioning structure.

Three more days came and passed in a quiet repetition of watching and waiting among the inhabitants of the Four Corners hamlet, the only semblance of worldly influence on Porringer, and still the woman I arranged to interview refused an introduction to, “…the stranger who comes from God knows where.” There had been impatience, on my part: wanting answers to my research; wanting to piece together the mystery of my grandfather’s encounter. But in those uncertain days, I acquired some repose from the impulse to know the secrets of Porringer, which, I came to suspect, may have been her intention all along.

On the evening of the seventh day, I sat on the narrow doorstep of the rented cabin and considered my position in earnest, balancing expectation against increasing doubt of a dialogue which might never take place. The tender whip of an airy breeze brushed against the length of hair left neglected, just at the collar, from those bohemian days spent in the European countryside, and I swept aside a glossy winged mayfly landing on the sleeve of my shirt. Studying the narrow gap of exposed heavens between the towering treetops, I experienced an odd separation between my body and mind; of immediate time and space.

Under that glimmer of starlight, any resemblance to the carefree wanderer became strangely appropriate and the haunt of the dream resurfaced. I wondered what I’d say of it, if suddenly asked? I then found myself desiring to discuss the apparition with someone; discuss it as though it actually occurred and not simply a scene conjured in sleep.

I did not, however, wish to appear senseless among strangers.

The emergence of a recurrent trembling in my hands forced the quick retrieval of a prescription bottle of minor sedatives, from the travel bag hidden beneath the bed. I swallowed the chosen number of pills, aided by a single gulp from a bottle of tepid cola purchased earlier at the Four Corners mercantile.

In that moment of anticipated chemical relief, I failed to realize I was no longer alone. Aaron Westmore stood at the door.

“Dr. Broughton?”

I took another burning swallow of the warm cola, and dimly wondered if Westmore actually saw the amber container I replaced in the leather bag. With the disguised guilt of one whose secret vice rested in that nebulous realm of possible exposure, I greeted my guest with a casual smile: “Aaron.”

Aspirin, of course, I would tell him. For headaches. Chronic headaches. Aaron didn’t ask and I convinced myself he hadn’t seen.

Aaron Westmore not only prompted my interest to explore the story of Porringer Hill at the Chicago conference, but he soon became an indispensable travel guide, friend and housing assistant. In securing this simple lodging I would call home for the next several weeks, Aaron insisted that, although the two-room structure appeared as though any untoward wind might flatten its walls, the frame was of more sound construction than one would imagine. There was no plumbing to speak of in the Four Corners, but a community well just outside Pennock’s Mercantile supplied all the water one needed. After only a few days, I became quite accustomed to relying on the antiquated cistern for the pure, fresh water it gave.

“I was hoping to find you home,” said Aaron, pushing back the white Fedora hat covering his crop of dark, unruly hair. “Are you settling in well?”

I leaned lazily against the frame of the doorway. “I am, thanks.” I was, in fact, surprisingly at ease with the simplicity of quilted bed, table, chair and kerosene lamp. The rustic outhouse in back, however, would require that settling into, as would the shades of suspect arachnids hovering in darkened corners.

Aaron, apparently satisfied as to my general comfort, inhaled a deep breath of breezy air.

“Rain.”

I stepped out on the cool evening ground and surveyed the nearby trees illumined against the lantern glow inside the cabin. Indeed, a trace scent of moisture descended from a slowly forming cloud cover overhead.

“She has agreed to see you,” said Aaron.

I felt my pulse quicken. "When?"

“Anytime you choose,” Aaron replied. “I was out in the woods with some of the children, studying mushrooms, this morning when we saw her. ‘Tell the Yankee Wort Doctor, I will see him,’ were her words."

“Wort Doctor?” I inquired with some humor.

“I told her you are a plant biologist,” said Aaron, “and I’m not real certain she understands what it is you do.” He reached in his shirt pocket for a red pack of Marlboro cigarettes. “Don’t expect too much at first,” he added. “She’s not quite as…well, receiving, shall I say? as others here have been.”

“So it would seem,” I replied, absently watching Aaron tap a single cigarette against the back of his hand and again reach in his pocket for a butane lighter. The sudden flash of the gas flame projected into the trees and captured a reflective glow in the eyes of a familiar stranger.

Agitated, I impulsively grasped the lighter, preventing Aaron from extinguishing the light.

“There! Up in that tree!”

Aaron looked up. “Possum.”

I forced Aaron’s hand and held the flaming light higher.

“I’ve seen it before.”

“They’re all around here,” said Aaron, with a troubled glance at my quivering hands. He looked toward the furtive wild thing on the leafy branch and though he acknowledged the creature did, indeed, appear to be watching us in particular, he made note of its instinct to calculate any possible threat.

I concentrated on the animal for several moments and abruptly snapped the lighter shut in Aaron’s hand.

“It’s just a possum,” Aaron frowned. “And harmless. You ok?”

Still distracted, I nodded, “It startled me, I think.”

I had seen the damn thing before and each time it appeared to follow my steps, and watch me exclusively. After the unusual dream that third night, I found myself considering the most unlikely things and, one by one, rejected them all. That an animal could take on a deliberate calculation, beyond basic survival instinct, was an inventive mania.

I rubbed my brow in an effort to shake off any peculiar imaginings I feared even privately harboring. The tremor in my hands had not entirely abated and I was grateful Aaron refrained from comment.

“Do you think you might go up there tomorrow?” Aaron asked.

“What?” I replied inattentively.

“Ana,” said Aaron. “Ana Lagori. Are you going up there to see her tomorrow?”

“Yes,” I replied, somewhat guardedly. “I think I will.”

“Well, then, all’s well that ends well,” Aaron grinned, blowing out a waft of smoke between his teeth. “You’ll have to let me know how it goes. Just play up some of that New England charm and hopefully you’ll find what you’re looking for.”

I remained at the threshold of the door, long after Aaron had departed, and watched the first beaded droplets of moisture turn eventually into a steady rainfall. Assumptions seemed to vanish beneath the heady and primal scent of dampening earth. I glanced up at the tree branches and the opossum had apparently gone on its way.

Again, the lucent impression of the dream came to mind and tugged against some insistent spirit of inquiry that rose beyond the fanciful; insisting it was possible...that what I had dreamt was possible.

Or, more troubling, had actually happened.

I closed the cabin door and opened my field notebook to write under kerosene light: The woman, Ana Lagori, has finally agreed that we should meet. Observed the wretched tree rat again.





~*~