Thistle Witch, page 15
part #1 of Anaïs Blue Series
The bed Anaïs had been given was ancient; a huge, four-posted double bed. It didn’t have a canopy but, nevertheless, had some fairy-tale appeal. She felt like a princess. The quilt and blankets were piled high and swallowed her up. She felt safe with the weight of them pressing down on her. And it was warm. The time at sea had cooled her body and she was still feeling the effects. She rubbed her skin to massage more warmth into it.
As she lay in bed, the house settled and was quiet. The silence was deafening. The pressure on her eardrums reminded her of the time she had flown with Nan. It had been on their ill-fated trip to London. She recalled the pain in her ears on take-off. She had not wanted the airliner to land for fear of a repeat of the torture. Thankfully the landing proved less unpleasant.
Thoughts of Nan continued to dominate her mind. She had come to accept her death, or at least the idea that there was nothing she could do about it. It was what lay beyond that bothered her now. She wondered where Nan was. Had her caretaker been granted safe passage to another realm or was she like other shades and hanging around on a street corner somewhere? Was she waiting, just like Prince, for her witch to come along so that she could make peace with the world? Anaïs hoped that wasn’t necessary. She hoped that Nan didn’t have to make peace with anything. But she doubted that. Nan had mother issues which hadn’t been resolved. Anaïs didn’t think an exception would be made because her mother was a witch. When this was over she would try to find out more. It was her responsibility. Not only that. She was growing in confidence. The afterlife was fast becoming her speciality.
She tried to sleep but her mind continued to whir incessantly. It gave her no rest. She squirmed in the bed. Her feet were cold and she curled up in a ball, pulling her knees up to her chin. She massaged heat into her toes. Then she heard it. At first it was a faint scratching. Irregular and innocent. Then it became more insistent. Loud and regular.
She peeked out from under the covers and in the half-light she could see Prince sitting by the window. He was seated in a small, wooden rocking chair. It seemed to have been designed for a child and could barely contain him. The bedroom was under the eaves of the house and the only window went from the floor halfway up the wall. It stopped where the slope of the ceiling began. The small chair was in front of it. It appeared built for its position and perhaps not constructed specifically for a child, but scaled down in size so that any occupant could see out the window.
The scratching was coming from the window. It grew louder. The pane of glass hidden behind a roller blind sounded like it was being scored with a house nail. Prince heard it too. It was impossible to ignore. He looked at Anaïs. Their eyes met and she could see the concern in them.
The roller blind whipped up, flapping against the window frame and making them both jump. Outside, sitting on the roof next to the window and peering through it, was a small boy. He held on to the overhanging branch of a nearby tree and was using it to scratch at the glass.
A rather loud voice rang in her head and it wasn’t Prince’s. ‘Are you Anaïs Blue?’
She could barely bring herself to speak but managed a whisper. ‘Yes.’
The boy’s eyes shone in the dark. ‘I don’t want to impose, and realise you’re busy, but could you deliver a message for me?’
Anaïs attempted to subdue her beating heart. Outside the house, in the neighbouring paddock, she had seen a cemetery. It was ancient, with a small collection of tombstones jutting out of the ground at rank angles. The souls there would not have had the advantages of the city. They were quite isolated and wouldn’t get many witches in these parts. Anaïs already sensed that if she were to go outside, she would be very popular. After her experience in the streets of Amsterdam she ascertained that hanging out with a shade might be a magnet for others, and somehow they would know she was there. But she hadn’t expected one to come looking for her.
It irritated her. What was driving these shades to be so forward all of a sudden? It was rude. Didn’t they realise she was battling sleep deprivation? And it would have been more appropriate to first apologise for scaring the hell out of her before making demands.
The boy tapped the glass, ‘Miss Blue?’
This infuriated her even more. ‘Please stop calling me that. My name is Anaïs Thistle!’
The boy shrank back from the window. ‘Sorry.’
Anaïs tried to calm herself. She toyed with the idea of telling him to get lost but that would be counterproductive. His insistence clearly communicated that he wouldn’t leave without a satisfactory answer.
She pulled the covers around her head like a shawl and sighed. ‘I can try to help you.’
The boy smiled. ‘Thank you. Sorry for being such a bother. Could you tell my parents I’m fine? Tell them not to worry. It wasn’t their fault. Tell them to open their hearts to my sister. Then I will be released.’
She looked across at Prince. ‘Sheesh, he doesn’t want much does he?’
Prince was non-committal and shrugged. He didn’t want to jeopardise his own chances and thought it better to stay out of the discussion.
Getting no assistance from Prince, Anaïs turned her attention back to the boy. ‘Have you been like this for very long?’
The shade moved closer to window and knelt on the apron. ‘No, a few months, maybe a year. I’m starting to lose track of time. If you don’t help me I may never know what the message is I have to deliver.’
‘He’s right,’ said Prince. ‘That’s why I have such a problem.’
Anaïs snapped at him, ‘Oh, now you have an opinion!’
Prince regretted speaking up and decided to go with his first strategy. He bit his top lip. Anaïs rolled her eyes at him.
‘I think I understand,’ said Anaïs to the boy. ‘Who and where are your parents?’
‘They’re downstairs. My mother won’t understand, but my father will. He has seen things.’
Anaïs was curious. ‘What things?’
‘Oh, just things he can’t explain. I have tried to communicate with him but it didn’t work.’
‘What happened to you?’
‘I was stupid. I let it all get to me. School, a job, girls … stuff.’ He paused, playing it all back through his head. ‘I wrapped a car around a truck. The driver should also know it wasn’t his fault. My father can tell him.’
Anaïs was confused. How could such a small boy drive a car?
‘How old were you?’ she enquired.
‘Eighteen.’ The shade furrowed his brow. ‘Why, don’t I look eighteen?’
‘No, I’m afraid you look about ten years younger.’ Anaïs sat up in bed and wrapped the covers around her shoulders. ‘I’m seventeen,’ she said. ‘I don’t think it’s stupid at all. I mean the way you felt. Ending it all might have been a bit extreme, though.’ She looked down at the lump of her legs under the covers. Her toes were still cold and she wiggled them in an effort to coax more blood into them. She looked back across at the boy at the window. ‘It’s hard being this age. You’re not the only one. I’m confused and I don’t know what to do with my future. And I’m stuck with this.’ She pulled her hands out from under the covers and waved them down the length of her body. She let out a deep sigh. ‘I want to be with boys but they don’t want to be with me.’
‘I’m here,’ said the boy.
‘Me too,’ said Prince.
Anaïs gave them a half-smile. ‘Thanks, guys, but you’re both dead. It’s not quite the same.’
The room fell silent, each of them considering their individual predicaments. The shade at the window was the first to break the sombre mood.
‘Will you help me?’ he enquired cautiously.
Anaïs cleared her throat and composed herself. ‘You shades are certainly pushy. Not a lot of sympathy for my situation, I must say.’
‘Sorry,’ said the boy.
‘Stop saying that. We are way beyond apologies. Are you alone out there?’
‘As far as I know, yes. I think so.’
‘Good, ’cause I need to get some sleep and don’t want any more of you tapping at my window. We’ll deal with this in the morning. Do you think that would be possible?’
The boy brightened. ‘Yes, yes of course.’
‘It’s ok, Anaïs, I’ll make sure you’re not bothered,’ said Prince.
Anaïs glared at him. ‘You haven’t been doing such a good job of it up to now.’
‘Don’t worry, I will. Now, you get some sleep.’
‘Good!’ Anaïs pulled the blankets up over her head. ‘And goodnight!’
The two shades chimed cheerfully in unison. ‘Goodnight!’
MESSAGES
Not all messages are easy to deliver. At the very least the intended recipient needs to be open to receive it. Some people just refuse to listen. In a world full of chatter some quite important messages get lost. Everybody has something they think is worth saying. However, not everything said is worth being heard.
With this constant cacophony of information we find ourselves shutting things out. Our minds make the most noise. They keep us awake at night with incessant thoughts. Writing it down helps and is another way to get words out into the world. But even then, they get lost. Who still has the time to read?
Years ago it was much simpler. People thought more about what they had to say before they threw the words out there. In the early days of the telephone you couldn’t just pick up the receiver and make a call. You had to go via a telephonist. Somebody else had to help you make the connection. If nobody was picking up at the other end, you couldn’t leave a voicemail. There were no answering machines. And if somebody didn’t want to be contacted they could remain unreachable. They could refuse to answer the phone. Or they could let the mail pile up on their doorstep. There was more control over what was received.
For witches this was an ideal situation. They didn’t have to wade through mountains of communication. Like the telephonists of old, they could insert the cable in one line and connect it with another. Of course, there were also fewer people to deal with. There weren’t as many cables lying around on the floor and far fewer holes to slot them in to. The population of the planet has grown exponentially and this makes it difficult for wires of any description not to get crossed. Fate has become more important. And witches can’t control fate. Like everyone else they can only do the best with what they have at their disposal. They have the tools to narrow down the odds, but even then they still need a willing recipient.
Most people can’t handle being confronted with death. Especially if it’s standing right in front of them. There are people who are open to that sort of thing. However, they have a tendency to be a little too pushy in their search for the unknown. Desires are not always fulfilled. Especially those which are being forced. Putting pressure on trying to conjure up a spirit can scare it away. Shades are also picky about who they communicate with. After all, they were alive once themselves.
The only real way to make a connection is by finding something genuine to say. That is why the sender and the receiver need to have a special connection. Only truly heartfelt pleas will be heard. The message has to have a fundamental purpose. Otherwise it’s just white noise. Or perhaps pink noise in the case of someone like Anaïs. The communiqué must have substance. The listener needs to be enriched by what they hear. Even shades have difficulty with this. Sometimes what they think they have to say is not really what is required.
Whoever you are, it needs to come from deep within. It must be of some benefit to the listener. This is something a witch can’t do for you. They can only establish communication. They don’t guarantee success and can’t be expected to be your speechwriter. It’s up to you to find the right thing to say. And you had better be ready with some pretty wonderful words. The opportunities to truly say the right thing are few and far between.
A WINTER’S MORNING
The early morning snowfall had been heavy. Prince watched from the back seat of the Morris Minor as Anaïs ploughed through it to get to the barn. The farmer had fired up the tractor and it was spewing a plume of black smoke. The smell of diesel hung heavily in the air. He stopped gunning the engine when he saw her approaching.
He climbed down from the cabin and landed with both feet in deep snow. He extracted himself and went to help her over a ditch. He seemed surprised to see her. Prince saw him speak, enquiring if he could help. She beckoned him to come down to her level. He knelt beside her. She pulled him in close by the lapel of his overcoat. Prince watched her yell in his ear to make herself heard over the noise of the tractor. Its low chug thumped the ground and reverberated off the surrounding hills. The farmer straightened, leant back slightly and cracked his spine. He climbed up on the tractor, reached into cabin and cut the engine. Its noise was immediately swallowed up by the deep drifts of snow.
The farmer clambered down from the vehicle and trudged back through the snow. He knelt down beside Anaïs and pulled her in close, wrapping an arm around her shoulders. She shivered from the cold. For a big man, the farmer’s movements were very delicate. His body language exuded kindness. He gently picked the little witch up. Holding her tightly in his arms he carried her across to the tractor. He set her down and they huddled together next to it, basking in the ambient warmth of the motor. Anaïs spoke softly to him. The farmer cocked his head, listened intently and studied the expressions on her face.
Prince trained his ears on the conversation but could only catch snippets.
‘Son … ok … sorry … forgive,’ she said.
She stopped talking, stepped back from the farmer and, with a wave of her hand, indicated something out in the paddock. Prince followed the line of her arm. The landscape was painted entirely white. Fresh snow covered every mound, bush and tree. It was a blank canvas. In the adjoining paddock, amongst a collection of snow-capped tombstones, a solitary black shadow interrupted the white expanse.
The boy stood alone in the centre of the cemetery. Except he wasn’t a boy anymore. Miraculously he had taken on his eighteen-year-old form. He was clearly dressed in his funeral attire, an ill-fitting, double-breasted suit. It struck Prince that perhaps the boy was wearing his father’s wedding suit. On his head was a tattered baseball cap.
The farmer spotted him. Aghast, he slowly got to his feet. He stood with both arms hanging limply by his side. The initial shock melted from his face. A serenity came over him. Anaïs hovered next to the farmer. She reached across and clasped one of his hands with both of hers. He was oblivious to her presence, his eyes fixed intently on his son. Then their eyes met. Out in the field the boy smiled at his father. The farmer reciprocated. A beatific smile split his face.
The connection was enough. An enormous stag emerged from the treeline at the far end of the paddock and bounded across the snow. It headed straight for the middle of the cemetery. It sprung high over the tombstones and flew at the boy. He held his ground, spreading his arms and clenching his fists. The stag hit the ground behind the boy and the two collided. In an instant the boy became transparent and then disappeared altogether. A wisp of heat haze in the form of the boy hung where he once had been. It too then dissipated.
The stag continued on as if nothing had happened, launching itself over the tombstones and out of the cemetery. It landed on all fours in knee-deep snow and stopped. It turned its great head to face the farm and shook its antlers at the onlookers. It then spun around and darted away, bounding effortlessly through the snow before vanishing into another group of trees.
Tears streamed down the farmer’s face. He sniffed and wiped them away with the sleeve of his coat. Prince watched as he mouthed the words ‘thank you’ at Anaïs. She gave him a sympathetic and reassuring smile, squeezed his hand and nodded.
She left him standing there, staring out into the field, and fought her way through the snow and over to the car. The librarian stood by the driver’s door. She was decked out in a mink coat and fur-lined boots. Anaïs looked her up and down.
‘My god,’ she said. ‘Where are these clothes coming from?’
The librarian shrugged.
Anaïs shook her head in bemusement. ‘What’s up with you, anyway? Do you think we’re going to the opera?’
Immi scowled at her.
Great! thought Prince. This is going to be a fun ride.
RUN
‘So what does it say?’
Anaïs looked first at Immaculate Phlox and then back down at her promptuary.
The librarian continued to push for an answer. ‘Well?’
Anaïs was irritated by her tone. She hissed through her teeth. ‘It’s a bit hard to tell. For some reason I now have two signals. One of them seems to be moving.’
The librarian let out a puff of exasperation. ‘Fine, it’s moving. That should be a good thing. It means that whatever we are looking for is alive.’
‘You may be right, but what troubles me is that it is moving towards us,’ said Anaïs.
The librarian smiled, folded her arms and looked straight through the windscreen. ‘Excellent, then we don’t have to go anywhere. I’m fine with that, especially in this weather.’ It had started to snow and a few flakes drifted across the glass and collected on the windscreen wipers. ‘It will save us a lot of trouble. Let’s just wait for whatever it is to come to us.’
‘Can I have a word?’
Anaïs turned to face Prince who sat in the middle of the back seat. He grabbed the two front seats and pulled himself forward.
Immaculate Phlox shuffled in her seat. She tried to move away from the shade but was restricted by her oversized mink coat. ‘Don’t get so close to me!’
