The Witch's Promise (4 page)

"Hello," came a somewhat sleepy voice from the other end.

"Mom, did I wake you? It's not eleven yet."

"Yes, but it's okay. I fell asleep in front of a bad movie. Have you even seen 'Sword of the Valiant?'"

"Missed that one."

"You didn't miss anything. Sean Connery's in it, so I thought it would be worthwhile. Oh well."

John hesitated for a moment, not quite sure what to say, when his mother broke in.

"So who is she?" 

He wanted to deny it, but long experience taught him the futility of the dodge. For whatever crazy reason, mother knew.

"Her name is Jillian Collins. She's about my age, fairly pretty, works as a seamstress, and is about the most interesting woman I've ever met."

"Sounds good so far. A seamstress? You don't hear that every day. Who does she work for?"

"She does contract work: mostly draperies. It's a pretty neat business, actually." Explaining Jillian's business required him to think -- for the first time, really -- about Jillian's job. As he took the time to talk it through he found himself impressed with her accomplishment. "She has a series of contacts with realtors, interior designers, a few construction companies and that sort of thing, and they give her leads. She makes decent money. Or so she tells me."

"Uh huh. And how long have you been seeing her?"

"Oh, I don't know. Just a few weeks, I guess. We met the weirdest way." John proceeded to explain the whole story of the radio and the chase in the woods, culminating in the puddle at Jillian's door. His mother enjoyed hearing of the trials of her very self-sufficient son and they both enjoyed a good laugh at his expense.

"So when do I get to meet her?"

"It's not like that, mom, we're just seeing each other."
And she's a witch, for heaven's sake!

"Now isn't that wonderful? Here this woman is getting to spend time with my son, and 'meeting me' has some kind of karmic significance, like the stroke of doom. I get left out in the cold. What about getting old mom's input before you get serious? I might know a thing or two about you -- just maybe."

"You're right," John admitted with a reluctant laugh. "But can we work it out so it doesn't seem like 'I'm taking you home to see my mother'? That would be awkward."

"From your descriptions of Jillian, it sounds like she'd do just fine. Maybe she'd like to meet me. You know, a girl can learn a lot about a man from the way he treats his mother."

"I'll try to see if I can work it out without making a big deal, okay?"

"Okay. Work it out. But Thanksgiving is coming up. I'll see her then in any event, right? There's nothing like a deadline to get something done."

"I guess I'd forgotten about that. We'll see how it goes. But it's getting late, mom, and I've got to get to work early tomorrow."

After a few more pleasantries John got off the phone and started getting ready for bed.
Another thing to worry about.

The phone rang. John glanced at his watch and wondered what in the world ....

"Hi, John, it's Jillian."

"Were your ears itching?"
Or are you really a witch?

"No. Who were you talking to about me?"

"My mom. She wanted to hear all about you."

"I hope you taped the conversation."

"Sorry. What's up?"

"First things first, John. When am I going to meet your mother?"

"Did she just call you or something?"

"We're all in league against you," she laughed. "No, of course .... Did you give her my phone number?"

"You didn't answer my question."

"I don't intend to. So, when do I get to meet her?"

"Anytime you want. She lives in southern Pennsylvania, so it's a bit of a ride, but not that bad."

"Great. Now that that's settled, I just called to kiss you goodnight."

"You're kidding."

"Wouldn't you like me to kiss you goodnight?"

"Let's not get into that subject, okay? I'm trying to relax and get to sleep."

Then, with a very soft and sexy voice, Jillian said, "Good night," made a pretty good attempt at a kissing noise, and hung up.

It was more than a half hour before John could get to sleep.

CHAPTER FOUR

That Friday morning John checked his email on his smart phone while browsing through the daily paper over a store-bought bran muffin. Jillian had promised directions for the party that evening, and there they were, between the ads for a million email addresses and the solicitations for vacation packages. The instructions were perfect, from the directions to her house to guidelines on how to dress. 

"Dockers, a dark golf shirt, and casual shoes."

He added her email to his contact list in gmail, took a last sip of coffee and headed out the door to catch the train.

*              *              *

At precisely 7:05 on Friday evening John drove down the gravel driveway to Jillian's place. He'd seen her house a few times before, but hadn't taken the time to really look at it. He spent a moment studying its lines. It looked more like a cottage than a house, and John's trained eye appreciated the cleverness of the design. It was built with modern materials, but clearly was meant to imitate an old country house. Huge beams of dark wood stood at each of the front corners. The windows were framed with wood of the same color and the vinyl siding resembled a light-colored wood. The eaves came down farther than on most houses, giving an appearance not unlike the thatched roof in a Thomas Kinkade painting. He wasn't certain with the poor light, but the roof itself looked as if it was covered with straw-colored shingles, which only added to the thatched appearance. Overall, it was quite clever, and not at all the cookie-cutter house of your typical suburban development.

A moment later Jillian greeted him at the door and let him inside.

"Make yourself at home. I've got to gather a couple things and then we can go."

John indulged in a quick glance as she walked away -- yes, quite like Susan, in many ways -- then figured as long as he was studying the house, he'd look around inside as well. He'd been in the room several times, but had never taken the time to really look at it.

The first thing he noticed was a very slight, earthy smell. He couldn't quite put his finger on the scent, but it seemed right for a small cottage in the woods. The decor reinforced the same effect, but this wasn't a peasant's cottage. The living room floor was made of two-inch strips of well polished oak, covered with an occasional throw rug. Dark, 4-by-4 beams lined the white ceiling. The beams appeared to be of the same material as the window frames. Each doorway and hallway from the main room was framed in the same material, but the dark accents didn't make a dark house. The ceiling and walls were bright white with more than adequate indirect lighting provided by low-watt brass lamps, spaced regularly throughout the main room.

The left and right walls had two exits each. He'd been in the kitchen and dining room on the right. A hallway on the left probably led to the bathroom and bedrooms.

John heard footsteps in the kitchen and the characteristic beep of a microwave while he sat on the couch and investigated the magazines on the coffee table -- a news magazine and a journal on herbs. He surveyed the room again for plants and noticed quite a few -- potted, live plants as well as small bunches of dried leaves, which he assumed were herbs of one sort or another. That seemed to account for the pleasant smell.

"Okay. All ready," Jillian said as she came back bearing a casserole dish full of some kind of layered bean dip.

He escorted her to his car, but since she was carrying the casserole dish with both hands there was no use offering her an arm. He opened the door for her and she smiled.

Well that's a good sign, anyway,
he thought. 

"John," Jillian began in that voice that says, "I have something hard to tell you and I've got to start by just blurting out something, like your name," to which John replied, according to custom, "Yes?," and then waited -- knowing that this was the worst part; the indeterminate wait after the initial syllable.

"A friend of mine named Sean is going to be at this party tonight, and I want you to meet him," she began.

An ex-?,
John wondered.
And why do I have to know this ahead of time?

"He's a friend, and has been more than a friend, and ... well, I want you two to get along."

John reached across the seat and took her hand.

"Hey. Don't worry," he said. "Why shouldn't I like the guy? Is he still interested in you or something?"

"No. Well, ... yes and no. We parted amiably. Different visions of the future, that's all. It's complicated, but the gist of it is that no matter how much we like each other, we have irreconcilable differences."

"I guess it's better to find that out before it involves a judge," John said, and then suddenly wondered if he'd assumed too much. Maybe it was an ex-husband. And he really didn't like the idea of the ex- who wasn't completely ex-.

Don't get ahead of yourself,
he warned.
You're not marrying this girl. Worry about it when it matters.

As they approached their destination, John realized he had no idea what kind of an event this was. It could be a jousting tournament or a Tupperware party for all Jillian had told him. It seemed – or at least now John realized – that the only thing that mattered was that Sean and John would both be there. Obviously this meeting meant a lot to Jillian. But why? Was his presence supposed to scare the guy off? Was the break up one-sided?

They arrived at the house. John pulled the car into the driveway and, with his hands poised to stop the engine, said, "I have to admit that I'm feeling a little weird about this."

Jillian glanced at his hands, still holding the keys, the engine still running, and then she looked nervously at the house. There was something like a calculating look to her face, John thought. But then something seemed to click in her mind and she turned back to John with an expression that seemed to teeter between betrayal, remorse and compassion.

"I'm sorry, John. I guess I hadn't considered this from your perspective, and I'm sure it's a little awkward. Relax, okay. It won't be a big deal." She leaned across the seat and kissed him on the cheek.

She turned to open her car door, then hesitated, and John could tell it wasn't just a matter of waiting for him to get out and get the door for her. She was frozen in place, stuck in the middle of a decision. John waited – he didn't know these people, after all. Eventually she said, "John, what do you think of Wicca?"

Trying to keep curiosity, surprise and suppressed laughter from showing too visibly on his face all combined to distort it into a rather hideous grin. He said, "I suppose the fairest thing to say is that I don't know enough to have a real opinion, but as a general rule I'm not keen on any religion."

That answer seemed to placate Jillian's concern, but she continued. "Do you have an open mind about it?"

"Don't take this wrong -- I'm not trying to be smart or sarcastic -- but doesn't 'I don't know enough about it' sorta cover that?"

The lines of care seemed to fade from her face. Without giving any answer she collected her things and opened her car door. The two of them walked to the house in silence, but Jillian took his hand as they walked, and whether or not it is possible to communicate emotion through a touch, John felt that deposits had been made into the emotional bank account.

*              *              *

A large, cheery, brightly dressed woman wearing a child's party hat answered the door.

"Merry meet," she said, and welcomed them inside with a kiss on the cheek.

"So where's little Bethy?" Jillian asked, simultaneously handing the woman her bean dip and producing from the depths of her purse a small package wrapped in Barney paper.

"Oh this looks marvelous. Is it getting cold outside? Let's close the door. She adores Barney. Bean dip? Perfect. She's in the family room with her friends, making a mess. The candles are on the dry sink. You know where it is." As John's brain tried to sort out the tangle of breathless sentences, the hostess turned to face him and extended a hand. "I'm Anne."

"John Matthews. Pleased to meet you," he said, shaking her hand, but thinking that a handshake was a bit odd after she'd already kissed him.

Anne smiled pleasantly, but he could tell he'd disappointed her somehow.

I think I was supposed to use the code word or something. 'Merry meet to you too'?

On her way to the family room Jillian stopped in the foyer to light two candles beneath a pair of statues: the god and the goddess, John assumed. Several were already lit, and they gave the room a subdued, golden light that seemed very pleasant and relaxing. John remembered a similar effect around a shrine in a cathedral he'd toured while studying in school. The smell of the candles and the gentle flicker of the light tugged at something in his heart, or his subconscious, and he paused for just a moment to recollect.

The statue of the male deity looked like something he'd seen in a history book a long time ago -- horned, wild, unkempt, fit and muscular, and almost goatish -- but as he recalled from the same book, the female deities from the same era were usually very fat by modern standards. This one had a much more modern body -- shapely and well endowed.

The moment's reflection took him back to comparative religion classes, and he recalled his wonder that anyone, no matter how primitive, could take such a thing seriously. But as he stood here in a modern house, apparently in the presence of modern pagans, he realized that in school he'd assumed that the pagans worshipped the statues as if they -- the wood or the stone itself -- were somehow sacred. That had never made any sense to John because the worshipper had probably just carved the silly thing out of a block of wood. But seeing these figures in the home of reasonably sensibly people, he saw it all in a different light. This statue represented the deity the way a garden Madonna might represent the Virgin.

It's still crazy,
he thought, and then followed the women into the family room. A gaggle of children were playing with party hats, throwing confetti at each other and mummy-wrapping some small victim from among their fellows with paper streamers and toilet paper. The victim didn't seem to be throwing a fit so John assumed the air supply was secure -- for the time being.

A few parents were huddled in corners, trying to make the best of bug juice and kid-friendly snacks. A red-bearded, slightly beer-bellied fellow with a tangle of thick blonde hair rose from a padded chair in the corner and approached John. His weather-worn tunic of orange with brown trim looked as if it had been fitted to a younger and thinner version. The sleeves stopped at the middle of the forearm, and the v-neck had a leather thong tie, which dangled loose. His baggy pants looked like sweats, but they were clearly homemade. Odd leather sandals -- just a thick sole with straps that wrapped around his feet and partway up his calf -- completed the outfit and made him every bit the Celtic villager from a National Geographic magazine. Aside from the fillings in his teeth.

Everyone else in the room was dressed normally.

The man seemed to size John up as he crossed the family room, but he extended a large hand with a friendly smile, almost as if he expected to see him.

"Sean Kerrigan," the Celt said.

"John Matthews. Pleased to meet you."

"Merry meet," Sean said. "Did you find the altar?"

John's confused expression spoke volumes to Sean's keen eye.

"Oh. Sorry. Since you came with Jillian I just assumed. Can I get you a beer?" John nodded and they slipped onto the porch to retrieve two bottles from a small cooler. Another Celtic warrior arrived a few minutes later and John learned that the two of them were part of the entertainment for the birthday party. Sean -- who went by the name Aethelred -- and Andrew -- a.k.a. Wolfgang -- staged a rather impressive mock battle for the children on the flood-lit patio.

Wolfgang sported a full suit of chain armor, complete with coif, gloves and metal-plated leather greaves. He wielded a two-handed sword and kept a tremendously large battle axe on a clip at his belt. Sean opted for mobility in this fight, wearing only an iron and leather cap and carrying a small wooden shield, painted with various insignia and runes that John couldn't read. He plied his war hammer like a Viking, and John often flinched as blows were exchanged.