The Witches of Merribay (The Seaforth Chronicles) Read online

  “I have known of Izadora and Magella my whole life. It is our job, the McCallisters, to know of them. You see, Izadora is the guardian of those woods. All ten thousand acres. I own them—well, on paper, anyways—but she has guarded them for quite some time.”

  Cherry blossoms continued to fall and sweep by my face with the ever-present scent of roses. The ground was covered with blossoms, and yet the trees never seemed to go bare.

  “And…?” I urged him to continue.

  “And she has been there for a long, long time.”

  “And who does she guard the forest from?” I asked.

  “The woods can be dangerous, that's all.”

  “I don't understand.”

  “That's not important right now. Anyway, the government claims to own the land, and call it a wildlife preservation. But only for appearance’s sake—only to the public eye. My father and I are the ones who own the bloody mess. The government tells people they own it, only to keep people from coming here. It's off limits. Off limits to the rest of the world. And there are good reasons why no one should wander into those woods. Except of course for you, Miss Seaforth. You can go in,” he said as though I were privileged.

  We'd arrived at the house, and Ian shushed me. “No further questions for now. I don't want Mrs. Pumbleton to hear.”

  “One more question. Who is Drumm?”

  “A damn good kid.” That's the only answer I received.

  I would find out about Drumm on my own. There appeared to be no sense in asking Ian too many questions. Figuring out who he was and why he lived in the forest and how he had healed my leg may not be an easy task, but I would do it.

  We ate finger sandwiches and scones with our tea, in the glorious sunroom. I could barely eat, which Mrs. Pumbleton disapproved of. Then Ian dismissed me.

  “See you on Monday, Miss Seaforth. And be the bearer of good news."

  Chapter Seven

  Aunt Cora didn't like confrontation, and she didn't deal with it well. “Peace and don't bother me” was her motto. When Zinnia and Aunt Cora arrived back at the house, all had been forgotten about the morning-time argument between Zinnia and me. Zinnia may not have forgotten, given that she never forgot anything and held a grudge for weeks. She stuck her nose up in the air and ignored me. However, Aunt Cora blew it off.

  She was in a splendid mood for the fact that her doctor's appointment had gone perfectly. There had been no waiting, and Aunt Cora disliked waiting. The pain in her back had just been a sore muscle, nothing two Advil couldn't handle. The sore toe had been caused from wearing running shoes for too long, and the sniffles meant that it was time to take allergy medication.

  After going over all of this with us, like it was the greatest news ever, she finally settled down and poured herself a glass of red wine. The recorder that she carried around with her to document any illnesses sat on the kitchen counter. I knew she used it often.

  We had been in the grocery store last week. We had just walked through the door, and she pulled out germ-killer cloths to wipe the handles of our baskets. I realize that many people do that; it's a good thing. No one wants to get sickly germs on them. However, Aunt Cora takes it to the next level. She applies plastic gloves.

  We walked around, filling our baskets with steak and chicken, each going into two plastic bags of their own. When shopping for can goods, we had to take the second or third can on the shelf because the first one everyone had touched.

  When we finished up and the baskets were piled high, we got in line at the checkout. She got a sharp pain in her side and forced her basket into my free hand, spilling several things onto the floor, and she pulled out her recorder and began talking into it. “Pain in right side”—she looked at her watch—“at 2:25p.m. At the Hillford's Grocery.”

  By this time the crowd of people from other lines began to watch us. I had busied myself with picking up the groceries, spending a few extra minutes bent down on the floor so no one could see me.

  Apparently the pain had increased and we were out the door, leaving the groceries on the conveyer belt with Aunt Cora yelling back, “Sorry, Mable. Got to run to the emergency room! Could be my appendix!”

  We drove twenty-five minutes to the hospital to find out that it wasn't her appendix but gas.

  That's life with Aunt Cora.

  The only thing that kept her happy was her romance novels. She had shelves upon shelves in her bedroom filled with her books.

  And so when Aunt Cora asked Zinnia and I if we'd like to go into town tomorrow morning to a book sale, I tried to think fast for a reason not to.

  Zinnia beat me to it. “Can't do it, Auntie. I'm hanging out with Becky.”

  Becky was Zinnia's only friend in Maine, and she lived in town.

  When Aunt Cora looked at me, I couldn't turn her down. “Sure, I'll go.” Besides, I would see if Magella's houseboat was at the dock. If she happened to leave, then the task would be over before it started.

  “Great! They'll have tons of books there. I'll get you one,” Aunt Cora said.

  I couldn't see reading a book in my near future, as I realized that I had become messenger-slash-thief for Ian and Izadora.

  ***

  Suppertime came at 5:00 p.m., and we all sat around the table as we always did, in the same order: GG Edmund, myself, Zinnia, Gran, Aunt Cora, and Aunt Clover. Gran always had the table looking immaculate with a set of teacups, a teapot, and whatever plates matched the best. Tonight it was the pansy theme. There were even pansies in a small vase for the centerpiece. She had more teapots than a store, and I swear the store in town only supplied things just for her. Every Saturday she'd go down to Smith's Teapot Store just to see if there might be something new, and there usually was. She stocked these teapots and cups in an upstairs room meant just for them, and she locked it.

  The evening meal of chicken casserole seemed to be going just fine until Zinnia spilled a glass of water on the table, which just happened to spill all over me. She hadn't touched her chicken casserole, and opted for celery and green beans instead.

  “Thanks,” I said.

  “Oh, Ivy, it's not like I meant to,” she said when everyone looked up. Gran went for a hand towel, and when Zinnia thought nobody was looking, she stuck her tongue out at me.

  Great-Grandpa Edmund might be ninety, but he didn't miss much.

  “Do you have something on your tongue, Zinnia?” he asked.

  Surprised that she was noticed doing something childish and altogether foolish, she said, “Oh, no, of course not.”

  “Then keep it in your mouth,” Great-Grandpa said. He peered at her over the rim of his big black framed glasses. His hair which he usually combed to the side stuck up everywhere, giving him the appearance of a madman.

  Gran wiped up the mess with a hand towel, which happened to be decorated with pansies. She threw it in the sink and sat back down to eat. “You girls will spend the evening together.”

  “What?” Zinnia said a bit too loudly.

  “Lower your voice to me when you speak, child,” Gran demanded.

  “Sorry, it's just…I have plans,” Zinnia said.

  “Yes. You do have plans: to spend the evening with your sister.”

  I also did not want this. Speaking up I said, “I have to go running, Gran.”

  “I hate running,” Zinnia spat.

  “Ivy, you can go running. And when you are done, you girls will spend the rest of the evening together. I will speak no more on the matter.” Gran furrowed her brows.

  And so it would be that I would have to hang out with my sister tonight.

  Zinnia scowled at me for the rest of the meal. I had become accustomed to such treatment and gladly ignored her until it was time to clean up the dishes. Gran didn't believe in dishwashers, and so everything had to be done by hand. I washed and my sister dried.

  Great-Grandpa Edmund retired to the front porch to smoke his tobacco pipe, and Gran joined him with a cup of chamomile tea. Aunt Clover returned to the café,
and Aunt Cora went to her bedroom to read, leaving my sister and me alone.

  We both knew Gran could hear us from the porch, and we didn't say anything at all. When the last dishes were being put away, Zinnia finally spoke.

  “Meet me in my room after your run. Shower first because I'm sure you'll smell funny.”

  And with that, she turned and left.

  Rolling my eyes, I walked outside past Gran and Great-Grandpa Edmund. “See you guys in a bit.”

  “Ivy,” Great-Grandpa said, “Don't go too far. It'll be getting dark soon, and you don't need to be out after dark.”

  “And don't go in the woods!” Gran chimed in. “Or the graveyard!”

  “Sure thing,” I said, although it was a little too late for that—and I didn't even know where the graveyard was located.

  I hardly let myself warm up before I was running like a horse in the wild. My legs had already begun to tingle and itch; the only remedy for it was to run as fast as I could for a few miles. It had always been this way. If ever I didn't get to run, nervous energy would consume me. For me, it was the equivalency of drinking twenty cups of coffee and then just sitting there. There wasn't any other solution.

  Everything was hunky-dory until I was on my way back to the house. I had slowed my pace to cool down and finally came to a walk. I relaxed, ignoring thoughts of the recent chain of events that had transpired in my life. I felt great.

  Walking along the dirt road, I heard nothing but birds and the wind in the trees. I loved this feeling. However, it didn't last. My thoughts took over. How did Izadora and Magella know my father to begin with? How would Magella know anything about his disappearance? Where could my father be right now? I hoped that he was being treated well. I missed him terribly.

  It had been foolish for me to drink some stranger’s blood, even if it had been just one drop. I had been desperate, and we humans do silly things sometimes when we're desperate. I would do whatever it took to get my father back. Izadora seemed like a harmless old woman who, for some reason, had to live in the trees. But even as I thought about it, I knew I had to be wrong. My gut told me that she was no harmless old woman, and I had better watch my step.

  Then there was Ian, who I believed I could trust for the fact that he and his family had been friends with the Seaforths for years. Although, what did I really know about Ian? Not much.

  Drumm I had known for less than a day, but there seemed to be something about him – something familiar. I couldn't place it, but I felt that I could trust him with my life.

  Not knowing who to trust, I would have to do my own research about the history of this town. What would I search for? McCallister woods? Government-owned properties in Maine? No. It would have to be a real person that had been around for a while. That left it up to one person: GG Edmund.

  I didn't know how I'd approach the subject. I just knew he had to have answers.

  I had about another quarter of a mile to walk when I saw an old man sitting on a log on the left side of the road. He was glancing down, and the white bowler hat that he wore tipped so that I couldn't see his eyes. He wore dark green corduroys, a brown blazer, and a black shirt. His legs were crossed, and his shoes looked well worn; he was in dire need of a new pair. He must have traveled up the road from town. Gran wouldn't like it if she knew someone was traipsing about up here.

  Walking by, I wondered if I should say something. I didn't need to, as he spoke first. “Hello there,” he said without lifting his head.

  “Hello,” I said calmly, stopping to observe him.

  He had a cane that he leaned upon as he sat there on the log. It looked similar to something a medicine man would have. Two black feathers and a little bell hung down the sides.

  I figured that I should just keep walking and get home as soon as possible. I began to leave but was brought back to him as he spoke.

  “Do you think that you know what you’re getting yourself into?” he said.

  I paused, turned around, and walked a few steps back. My adrenaline had started pumping, sweat forming under my armpits. I was prepared to run as fast as I could to get back home, to do whatever it took to get out of here. I don't know why I felt so nervous. He being an old man, what could he do? Bop me on the head with his cane? Shake his feathers at me?

  “What did you say, sir?” I said with little patience.

  When he looked up, all blood drained from my face, and my heart thudded unyieldingly against my chest. What I saw unnerved me. His eyes were silver.

  “Nothing,” he said. “But a word from the wise: just be careful who you decide to side with.” His voice broke as he spoke, and he sounded hoarse.

  “What do you mean, sir?” I asked. The air had grown so cold that I could see my breath floating in front of my face. I rubbed my arms to try and gain warmth. The sound of birds had disappeared, and the sky clouded over. I shivered profusely.

  “You know what I mean, Ivy Seaforth. You know what I mean.” He chuckled, and black wisps of smoke wafted up from his mouth. He smelled of sulfur and rotten eggs. Any bravado I might have had disappeared.

  His silver eyes creeped me out, and his smile revealed yellow-and-brown stained teeth. To top it off, he had spittle running out of his mouth and down his chin.

  I stood paralyzed with fear. My legs wouldn't move, and dizziness overwhelmed me.

  At this time, I heard a familiar sound in the woods behind me, on the opposite side of the dirt road of the old man. It was a growl that once before had chilled my blood, filling me full of fear, but now I welcomed it with open arms.

  Whatever the old man had overtaken me with was broken and, turning, I saw one of the hell hounds. His teeth were bared, showing two-inch fangs that I would never want to encounter. His mouth frothed like a rabid dog, and his red ears were laid back. He crouched in a threatening pose of attack, and I could feel the ground tremor from the rumble of his growl.

  Somehow I knew the dog was on my side, but if he hadn't been, I wouldn't know who to fear the most.

  A voice broke out from the woods. “Run home, Ivy! He can't go into your house. There are wards that he cannot pass.” It was Drumm. He sat in a tree, posed with his bow and arrow and looking like a hero.

  The old man laughed. He didn't seem threatened at all.

  I didn't wait for anything else to happen. I was out of there, running as fast as my legs would carry me. I arrived home and ran right past Gran and GG Edmund, who were still on the porch. “I have to use the restroom,” was my excuse for not stopping. Shaking, I ran up to my room and slammed the door behind me, leaning upon it to hold me up. Sweat dropped from my brow. Who in the godforsaken hell was that? And what had I done, agreeing to drink the blood of that old woman?

  It was a matter of minutes before my sister discovered that I was home. I still leaned against the door, shaking and breathing heavy.

  She knocked. “You ready? Let's get on with it.”

  I took a deep breath and said, “Just give me a few minutes. I haven't taken a shower yet.”

  She walked away, mumbling something that I couldn't make out.

  I got into my bathtub and turned the showerhead on, letting the hot water soothe me to the bone. The trembling subsided, but I knew deep down in my soul that I had not seen the last of that old man.

  Chapter Eight

  Picking up the phone, I called Aunt Clover to set up my sleepover for Saturday night. I hadn't had a chance to ask her at supper. The atmosphere had been so thick that you could almost walk on it.

  Aunt Clover said she didn't have any plans and seemed thrilled about the idea. “We'll watch some horror flicks,” she said, which was fine with me as long as she fell asleep at midnight. No horror movie in the world could surpass what just happened to me.

  Settling down, and normalizing my breath, I proceeded to walk to my sister’s bedroom, three doors down. Taking my time, I slowly walked along the hallway and the wooden floorboards, admiring the red-and-cream-colored Persian rug. I even took the time to s
tudy a couple of pictures on the hallway wall. The picture I had always loved was a painting of a place in Ireland. The border was a shamrock, and the picture itself, a castle. My sister and I used to fantasize about living in this castle. We'd pretend we were princesses, and in our games that we played, she would always have to be the outranking princess, of course, and I would have to carry out all of her demands.

  I wished that I could be there right now in that castle and not about to head into my sister’s room. Finally arriving at the door, I raised my hand and knocked. She had the hair dryer blowing and turned it off abruptly.

  “Come in.”

  Walking into her room was like walking into hurricane aftermath; it looked like a wind tunnel had just whirled its way through. She had tried on everything in her closets, and their final resting place was the floor. I picked clothes up as I walked, to avoid stepping on them. A few of the items had been stolen from my own closet.

  The screen from her open window was missing, as were the blinds, and the summery breeze blew through, billowing out the yellow curtains in intervals.

  Several glasses and coffee cups were sitting around in various places, along with plates and bowls scattered throughout, even on her pillows. I had to wonder if she shared the pillow with the plates or if she actually moved them out of the way.

  Fashion and makeup magazines were sprawled out everywhere, from the bed to the floor and into the connecting bathroom. It amazed me that Gran hadn't complained to her about cleaning her room. It was nothing short of a pigsty.

  “I know, it's a mess. Maybe you can help me clean it. You know I'm not good with cleaning,” were her first words to me.

  “Well, I suppose I can help you for a few minutes.” I wasn't one for uncleanliness, and this toxic mess had to go.