chapter eight: Mrs. Hazelton is appalled when Ms. Matthews delivers the Sunday sermon.
"St. Mary Magdalene Church" oil by
Mayne Island artist Frances Faminow
Is the Reverend Dead?
Chapter nine
I feed Mr. Wiggles two times a day—wet food in the morning, dry in the afternoon. He licks his bowl clean. He’s not fat, just pleasantly plump.
According to the clock on the stove, it’s time to give him his dry food. Usually, he’s wrapping his body around my ankles, frantically crying—fearful that I’ll forget to feed him.
He’s been inside all day—purring on the end of our bed, curled into a tight ball, his long tail wrapped around his paws. I walk into the bedroom but he’s not there now. Nor is he under the bed or in the closet. He’s gone.
Arthur is in the living room, reading the paper.
“Have you seen Mr. Wiggles?”
Without lowering the paper, he says, “He’ll turn up.”
“That’s what I thought, but it’s his mealtime. He never misses and he’s not here.”
I make supper; we eat supper. Mr. Wiggles doesn’t return. I pray that a raccoon hasn’t gutted him. I pray that Ms. Matthews hasn’t filleted him as a warning, as a threat.
I recite the 27th Psalm, “The Lord is my light and my salvation—whom shall I fear? The Lord is the stronghold of my life—of whom shall I be afraid?”
Despite my best intentions, I keep worrying.
As a distraction, I flick on the radio.
“You are the leader of the coven?” an interviewer asks.
Why are they talking about witches? It’s spring, not autumn.
“Yes, that’s right. I’m a Wiccan High Priestess.” Explains a youngish-sounding witch.
“Why are you gathering in the park this evening?”
“We’re celebrating Ostara—our spring-time celebration of re-birth. Everyone is invited to join us. Please contribute cut or potted flowers and help us construct a labyrinth.”
“So Ostara is a spring-time celebration similar to Easter?”
“Easter?” the witch’s cheerful tone turns sour, “Christians stole our springtime celebration.”
Stole?
I put the plate I’m washing on the dry rack.
“For them, it’s about a man dying on a cross, about a battle between good and evil. But Wiccans recognize the importance of both creation and destruction.”
“Devil worshiper!” I throw the curse at her.
Without waiting to dry my hands, I march over to the radio.
“Light and dark, female and male. One can’t exist without the other. We need both. Balance must—.”
With a flick of a switch, I silence her nonsense. How's that for magic.
I must have moved too fast. I feel lightheaded and dizzy and collapse into a chair.
Without fanfare, Mr. Wiggles prances into the room—accompanied by a sleek, midnight black cat. Her fur reflects the light. Like a gentleman, he leads her to his dish. She drinks enough water to sink the Titanic. A low, guttural cough rattles her slim body.
“A hairball? We welcome you into our home and you repay our kindness with a hairball?”
But what she expels isn’t a soggy clump of fur. It looks more like...like...raw meat. Revolting! I pull over my chair for balance and stoop to pick up… Bone? I feel bone. Slowly unfolding the paper towel, I see a knuckle and a fingerna—? Without further examination, I toss the bundle into the garbage can under the sink.
Princess Grace is unmoved. After licking her paw and smoothing her whiskers, she stretches and slinks over to the door. She sinks her claws into the door frame and tears off a layer of wood. She looks up at me with soulful eyes—seeming to say, Did I do something to offend you, mere human? She stretches a paw, claws extended. Before she can remove another layer, I open the door. She looks back at me before crossing the threshold. I grab my slicker and follow her. The night is as thick as a blanket, the rain falls in heavy sheets. How can I follow a black cat in this?
Meow, she calls. She glows in the rain—like a flashlight beam. Meow. She leads me into the forest—a foreign place that no longer resembles my island home. Meow. Leaves rustle like ghosts. Stinky spider web feels like lace on my hair, my face. Meow. She leads me over roots and rocks.
I stumble.
Meow.
Some force keeps me upright.
The rain subsides. Moonlight cuts through the dark. It shines on… The Reverend. He’s by a tree. No, he’s hanging from that tree. A rope is coiled around his neck. His hands and feet are bound.
My brain pounds with questions—why, how, who?
“Ai-i-i.”
I nearly jump out of my skin.
“Yes, Reverend Paulson, I’m h—.”
A thrill cackle takes my breath. “He nay be talking to ye, nor any man.” A figure shroud in black steps out of the shadows into the moonlight.
“Who are y—?”
“This be me lond.”
“I...followed a cat.”
“There be nay cat here.” She licks the back of her hand and rubs her cheek, like a cat cleaning its whiskers. “This be me craft.” She swings her hand back indicating the corpse. “Me powers brought him here, into the everlasting darkness.”
“The Reverend is dead?”
“Yey, any man may see.”
“I knew she did it. She had opportunity. She had motive. Ms.—.”
“Twas me craft,” she roars.
“You?”
“Yey.”
“But how? You weren’t in the church when he was murdered.”
“Eye of bat. Hair of toad. Me craft is strong.” The witch waves a doll—wrapped in a black robe, with threads of white hair clipped to its head. A needle pierces its chest.
“But why would you kill Reverend Paulson?”
“For the coven, we act as one to save all. Death to we or death to he. He thinketh he could sweep us to the edge of shadows, but we rise again. We will ne’er fall. Hear me. Mark me.” She tosses a grey palm-sized stone to me. “This gave him life, but beats ne’er more.”
I feel no breeze, but I hear… Creek, creek, creek. The Reverend swings back and forth like a pendulum in the windless night. A moonbeam shines through a hole in his chest where his heart had been.
I fall onto the rocky ground.
I wake on a kitchen chair. Henry is watching TV in the living room. Mr. Wiggles rubs against my ankle. His fur is dry.
I push myself up to stand. In the entrance room, my slicker hangs on a hook. Something is weighing down one side of the jacket. Inside the pocket, I find a…grey stone. The Reverend’s heart?
Are you following me?
