The Complete Works of L M Montgomery, page 313
“Mind ye’re home afore dark,” cautioned Judy. “Sure and ’tis Hollow Eve this blessed night and all the dead folks will be walking. Ye just do be telling Mary Ann yer story straight out and do as she bids ye.”
Jingle and Pat went down the lane where the wind blew the shadows of bare birches about and waves of dead leaves lay along under the spruce hedges. The late autumn sunshine flowed goldenly about them. The Hill of the Mist wore a faint purple scarf. Pat had on her new scarlet tam and was pleasantly conscious of it, amid all her anxieties about McGinty. Jingle strode along, his hands in his ragged pockets, and his still raggeder trousers flapping about his bare legs. Pat had never been out on the main road with him in broad daylight before. In Happiness and along the kinks of Jordan it did not matter how he was dressed. But here . . . well, she hoped none of the Binnies would be abroad, that was all.
2
Mrs. McClenahan’s little, white-washed house with its bright blue door was a good two miles from Silver Bush, along the Silverbridge road. A huge willow, from which a few forlorn, pale-yellow leaves were fluttering down on the grey roof, overshadowed it, and there was a quaint little dormer window over the door.
“Oh, Pat, look at that window,” whispered Jingle, forgetting even McGinty in his momentary ecstasy. “I never saw such a lovely window. I’ll put one like that in your house.”
The window might be all right but the paling was very ragged and the yard it enclosed was a jungle of burdocks. Pat reflected that being a witch didn’t seem like a very profitable business after all. She thought shrewdly that if she had ever signed her name in the devil’s book she would have made a better bargain than that.
Jingle knocked on the blue door. Presently steps sounded inside. A prickly sensation went over Pat. Perhaps after all it was not right to tamper with the powers of darkness. Then the door opened and Mary Ann McClenahan stood on the threshold, looking down at them out of tiny black eyes, surrounded by cushions of fat. Her untidy hair was black too, coal-black, although she must be as old as Judy. Altogether she looked much too plump and jolly for a witch and Pat’s terror passed away.
“Now who may ye be and what might ye be wanting wid me,” said Mrs. McClenahan with an accent three times as strong as Judy’s.
Pat had the Selby trick of never wasting words or breath or time.
“Hilary Gordon here has lost his dog and Judy said if we came to you perhaps you could find it for him. That is, if you really are a witch. Are you?”
Mary Ann McClenahan’s look at once grew secretive and mysterious.
“Whisht, child . . . don’t be talking av witches in the open daylight like this. Little ye know what might happen. And finding a lost cratur isn’t something to be done on a dure-step. Come inside . . . and at that ye’d better come up to the loft where I can go on wid me waving. I’m waving a tablecloth for the fairies up there. All the witches in P. E. Island promised to do one apiece for thim. The poor liddle shiftless craturs left all ther tablecloths out in the frost last Tuesday night and ’twas the ruination av thim.”
They went up the narrow stairs to a cluttered loft where Mrs. McClenahan’s loom stood by the window that had caught Jingle’s eye. On the sill a perfectly clean black cat was licking himself all over to make himself cleaner. His big, yellow, black-rimmed eyes shone rather uncannily in the gloom of the loft. In spite of his being a witch’s cat Pat liked the look of him. What she would have felt like had she known that he was her lost and deplored Sunday, given to Mary Ann McClenahan by Judy a year before I cannot tell you. Luckily Sunday had grown out of all recognition.
Mrs. McClenahan pushed a stool and a rickety chair towards the children and went back to her weaving.
“Sure and I can’t be wasting a moment. It’s the quane’s own cloth I’m waving and sour enough her Majesty’ll look if it’s not finished on time.”
Pat knew very well it was only a flannel blanket Mary Ann was weaving but she was not going to contradict a witch. Besides . . . perhaps Mary Ann did turn it into a gossamer web when she had finished it . . . one of those things of jewelled mist and loveliness you saw on the grass and on the fern beds along the woods on a summer morning.
“So ye’ve come to get me to find the b’y’s McGinty,” said Mary Ann. “Oh, I know the name . . . I’m after knowing all about it. Yer Aunt Edith’s cat was telling mine the whole story at the last dance we had. Yer Aunt Edith do be too grand for the likes av us but it’s liddle she thinks where her cat do be going be spells. It’s lucky ye come in the right time av the moon. I cudn’t have done a thing for ye nixt wake. But now there’s maybe just a chanct. Why doesn’t that fine lady mother av yours iver be coming to see ye, young Hilary Gordon?”
Jingle thought witches were rather impertinent. However, if you dealt with them . . .
“My mother lives too far away to come often,” he explained politely.
Mary Ann McClenahan shrugged her fat shoulders.
“Ye’re in the right to make excuses for her, young Hilary, but I’ve me own opinion av her and ye nadn’t get mad at me for saying so bekase a witch doesn’t have to care who gets mad. And now that I’ve got that off me chist I’ll be thinking av yer dog. It’ll take a bit av conniving.”
Mrs. McClenahan leaned over and extracted two handfuls of raisins from a paper bag on a shelf.
“Here, stow these away in yer liddle insides whilst I do a bit av thinking.”
There was silence for awhile. The children devoted themselves to the business of eating and watching Mrs. McClenahan’s shuttle fly back and forth. Pat eyed her wonderingly. Had she really signed her name in the devil’s big black book, as Joe said?
Presently Mrs. McClenahan caught her eye and nodded.
“Ye’ve got a liddle mole on yer neck. Sure and ’tis the witch’s mark. Come now, child dear, wudn’t ye like to be a witch? Think av the fun av riding on a broomstick.”
Pat had thought of it. The idea had a charm. Though she would have preferred to fly on a swallow’s back, skimming over the steeples and dark spruce woods at night. But . . .
“Must I sign my name in the devil’s book?” she whispered.
Mrs. McClenahan nodded solemnly.
“I’d pick out a rale nice shiny black divil for ye . . . though mind ye, it’s the fact that aven divils are not what they used to be.”
“I think I’m too young to be a witch, thank you,” said Pat decidedly.
Mrs. McClenahan chuckled.
“Sure and it’s the young witches that do be having the power, child dear. No sinse in waiting till ye’re grey as an owl. Think it over . . . ’tisn’t ivery one can be a witch . . . we’re that exclusive ye’d niver belave. As for this McGinty cratur. Whin ye lave here folly yer noses up the hill and turn yerselves around free times, north, south, east and west. Then go down the hill to Silverbridge. There’s a house just foreninst the bridge wid a rid door like yer Uncle Tom’s, only faded like. Turn yerselves about free times again and knock twict on the door. And if inny one comes . . . mind I’m not saying inny one will . . . cross yer fingers and ask, ‘Is McGinty here?’ Thin, if ye get McGinty . . . mind I’m not saying ye will . . . make a good use av yer legs and ask no questions. That’s all I can be doing for ye.”
“And what is your charge for the advice?” asked Jingle gravely, producing his quarter.
“Sure and we can’t charge folks wid moles innything. It’s clane aginst our rules.”
“Thank you very much, Mrs. McClenahan,” said Pat. “We’re very much obliged to you.”
“You do be a pair av mannerly children at that,” said Mrs. McClenahan. “If you hadn’t been it wudn’t be Mary Ann McClenahan that wud have hilped ye to a dog. I’m that fed up wid the sass and impidence av most av the fry around here. It was diffrunt whin I was young. Now hurry along . . . sure and wise folks will be indures afore moonrise on Hollow Eve. Don’t forget the turning round part or ye may look for yer McGinty till the eyes fall out av yer heads.”
Mrs. McClenahan stood on her doorstep and watched them out of sight. Then she said a queer thing for a witch. She said,
“God bless the liddle craturs.”
Whereat Mary Ann McClenahan waddled over to Mr. Alexander’s across the road and asked if she might use their phone to call up a frind at the bridge, plaze and thank ye.
3
The October day was burning low behind the dark hills when Pat and Jingle left Mrs. McClenahan’s. When they reached the top of the hill they turned themselves around three times and bowed gravely to north, south, east and west. When they paused before the red-doored house at Silverbridge they turned three times again. If there were no McGinty at the end of the quest it should be through no failure of theirs to perform Witch McClenahan’s ritual scrupulously.
When Jingle knocked twice the door was opened with uncanny suddenness and the doorway filled by a giant of a man in sock feet, with a bushy red head and a week’s growth of red whisker. A very strong whiff floated out, reminding Pat of something Judy took out of a black bottle now and again in winter for a cold.
They both crossed their fingers and Jingle said hoarsely,
“Is McGinty here?”
The man turned and opened a mean little door at his right. Inside, on a rickety chair, sat McGinty. The look of misery in the poor dog’s eyes changed to rapture. With one bound he was in Jingle’s arms.
“He come here one night about a wake ago,” said the man. “That cold and hungry he was . . . and we tuk him in.”
“That was real good of you,” said Pat, since Jingle was temporarily bereft of speech.
“Wasn’t it that now?” said the man with a grin.
Something about him made Pat remember Witch McClenahan’s advice to make friends of their legs.
“Thank you very much,” she said, and pulled the tranced Jingle by the arm.
The red door was shut . . . the red moon was staring at them just over a hill between two tall firs . . . and they had a dog that was nearly dying of happiness in their arms. What a walk home that was! The whole world was touched with wonder. They went straight over the fields in a cross-country cut, with their long shadows running before them. Jingle walked in a kind of dreamy rapture, hugging McGinty, but Pat had eyes for all the charm of bare, lonely stubble fields, woods where boughs darkled against a sky washed white in moonlight and of a wind that had been only a whisper when they had left home but was now wild, cold, and rustly, sweeping up from the sea. They passed through Happiness where all the little cradle hills were sound asleep and along Jordan. Then down through the silver bush on a path that wound through moonlit birches to the backyard of home, where Sid had decorated the gateposts with wonderful turnip lanterns and Judy had set her little copper candlestick, saucer-shaped with a curly handle, on the window-sill for welcome, and they had smelt her salt pork frying half way through the bush. Then the warm kitchen, full of delicious smells, and Judy’s delight and welcome, and the supper of fried salt pork and potatoes baked in their jackets. Just the three of them. Sidney and Joe were doing the barn chores. Winnie was off with a chum, mother was upstairs with Cuddles, and dad was snoozing on the dining-room lounge.
After supper Pat and Jingle went down into the big, mysterious cellar, spooky with giant shadows, for apples, and then they all sat around the stove that was as good as a fireplace, with its doors that slid so far back, and talked things over. It was lovely to sit there, so cosy and warm, with that eerie wind moaning without . . . full of the voices of ghosts, Judy said, for this was Hallow E’en. McGinty sprawled out on the black cat rug, his eyes fixed on Jingle, evidently afraid to go to sleep for fear he might waken to find this all a dream. Thursday, who had been missing for a day or two, had turned up, a fat and flourishing prodigal, and Gentleman Tom sat on the bench, thinking. Like Puck of Pook’s Hill, Gentleman Tom could have sat a century, just thinking.
“I’m so glad it’s got cold enough to have a fire in the evenings,” said Pat. “And in winter it’ll be even nicer. One can be so cosy in winter.”
Jingle said nothing. His idea of winter evenings was very different. A cold, dirty kitchen . . . a smoking coal oil lamp . . . a bed in the unfinished loft. But just now he had his dog back and he was perfectly happy. To sit here and munch apples with Pat while Judy thumped and kneaded her bread was all he asked.
“Oh, oh, she isn’t called a witch for nothing, that one,” said Judy, when she had heard the whole tale. “I used to be after knowing the McClenahans rale well years ago. Tom McClenahan was a dacent soul although he’d talk the hind-leg off a cat whin he got started. A tarrible talker, I’m tellin ye. Onct he got mad whin Mary Ann twitted him wid his good going tongue, and swore he wudn’t spake a word for a month. He kept the vow two days but he was niver the same man agin. The strain was too much for him. Mary Ann always belaved it was why he dropped dead in about a year’s time. He was a fine fiddler in his day and he had a fiddle that cud make iverybody dance.”
“Make them dance, Judy?”
“I’m telling ye. Whin folks heard it they had to dance. It was an ould fiddle his dad brought out from Ireland. Sure and he tried it on a minister onct, the spalpane.”
“Did the minister dance?”
“Didn’t he that? It made a tarrible scandal. They had him up afore Presbytery. Tom offered to go and fiddle to the whole lot av thim to prove poor Mr. MacPhee cudn’t hilp it, but they wudn’t have him. A pity now. Think what a sight it wud av been . . . a dozen or more long-tailed ministers all dancing to Tom McClenahan’s fiddle. Oh, oh! But they let Mr. MacPhee off and hushed the whole thing up. Is it going ye are, Jingle? Well, say a prayer for all poor ghosts and have as liddle truck wid witches as ye can after this. All very well for onct in a while but not to make a habit av it.”
Jingle slipped away, meaning to spend the night in the Gordon hayloft with McGinty, and sleepy Pat went happily to bed.
“Why do you fill those children up with all that nonsense about witches, Judy?” called Long Alec, half laughing, half rebuking, from the dining room. He had been rated that day by Edith for allowing Judy Plum to stuff his children with such lies as she did and felt it was time for one of his spasmodic attempts to regulate her. Judy chuckled.
“Rest ye aisy, Alec Gardiner. They only half belave it and they do be getting a big kick out av it. I’ll warrant Mary Ann had her fun wid them.”
“What made you think of sending them to her?”
“Sure now I’d an idea she’d know where McGinty was. She’s in wid that gang at Silverbridge that stole Rob Clark’s collie and all Mrs. Taylor’s barred rocks wake afore last and thim all ready for market. Mary Ann’s be way av being an aunt be marriage to Tom Cudahy av the rid door. But she’s that kind-hearted, the cratur, and rale soft about children and I thought she might hilp. She’s got a bit av money saved up and the Cudahys pipe whin she calls the tune. So all’s well that inds well and niver be bothering if the children do be having a liddle fun thinking she’s a witch. Sure and didn’t I bring all of yes up on witches and are ye inny the worse av it? I’m asking ye.”
Chapter 13
Company Manners
1
Winter that year, at least in its early months, was a mild affair, and Pat and Jingle, or Pat and Sid, as the case might be, but seldom the three together, roamed far afield at will, exploring new haunts and re-loving old ones, running through winter birches that wore stars in their hair on early falling dusks, coming in from their frosty rambles with cheeks like “liddle rid apples,” to be fed and cossetted and sometimes scolded by Judy. At least, she scolded Sid and Pat when she thought they needed it for their souls’ good, but she never scolded Jingle. He wished she would. He thought it would be nice if some one cared enough about you to scold . . . in Judy’s way, with sly laughter lurking behind every word and apples and cinnamon buns to bind up your bruised feelings immediately afterwards. Even his aunt did not scold him . . . she merely ignored him as if he had no existence for her at all. Jingle used to go home after one of Judy’s tirades feeling very lonely and wondering what it would be like to be important to somebody.
Though snowless, it was cold enough to freeze the Pool solid. Sid taught Pat to skate and Jingle learned for himself, with a pair of old skates Judy dug out of the attic for him. Jingle skating, his long legs clad as usual in ragged trousers, his lanky body encased in an old “yallery-green” sweater whose sleeves his aunt had darned with red, his ill-cut hair sticking out from under an old cap of his uncle’s, was rather an odd object.
“Isn’t he a sight?” laughed Sid.
“He can’t help his looks,” said Pat loyally.
“Oh, oh, that b’y will be having the fine figure whin he’s filled out a bit and he’s got more brains in his liddle finger than ye have in yer whole carcase, Sid, me handsome lad,” said Judy.
And then unreasonable Pat was furious with Judy for maligning Sid.
“Sure and it’s the hard life I have among ye all,” sighed Judy. “Be times I’m thinking I’d better have taken ould Tom. Well, they tell me he’s single yet.”
Whereupon Pat dissolved in tears and begged Judy to forgive her and never, never leave them.
Although once in a while a few delicate white flakes flew against your face in the late afternoons, it was December before the first real snow came, just in time to make a white world for Christmas, much to Judy’s relief, since a green Christmas meant a fat grave-yard, she said. Pat sat curled up at her round window and watched gardens and fields and hills grow white under the mysterious veil of the falling snow, and the little empty nests in the maple by the well fill up with it. Every time she looked out the world had grown whiter.
“I love a snowstorm,” she said rapturously to Judy.
“Oh, oh, is there innything ye don’t love, me jewel?”
“It’s nice to love things, Judy.”
“If ye don’t be loving thim too hard. If ye do . . . they hurt ye too much in the ind.”
