Witch Catcher (7 page)

He cleared his throat, keeping his eyes on me as if he meant to read my mind. "Are you sure you don't know where the witch catcher is?"

I wanted to look away, but it was impossible. Even behind his glasses, Mr. Ashbourne's eyes held me tight, probing, probing, probing.

"If fen knew, I'm sure she'd tell you," Dad began, but Moura hushed him with a tap on his knee with her long red fingernail.

"I won't tell you," I whispered.

"Oh, I think you will," Mr. Ashbourne said, leaning so close I could see my reflection in his glasses. Suddenly, the lenses turned iridescent. A pattern of spinning colors held me fast, made me dizzy. My arms and legs went limp.

"Indeed," Mr. Ashbourne said softly, "I believe you'd go to your room right now and fetch the witch catcher for me. You have it hidden up there, don't you. my dear?"

I shook my head, but at the same time I felt myself getting slowly to my feet. Moura began to whisper to Dad, who was too interested in what she was saying to notice me. Although I tried to resist Mr. Ashbourne, it was useless. Whether I wanted to go or not, my feet carried me upstairs.

Just as I reached the landing, I heard a loud crash. A second later, Tink came flying down the steps and disappeared.

"What the devil was that?" Mr. Ashbourne hurried past me, with Moura and Dad close behind.

I ran ahead of them to my room. The closet door was wide open, and shards of colored glass littered the floor.

"The witch catcher," I whispered. "Tink must have broken it."

Moura rushed past me and knelt to study the bits of glass. Mr. Ashbourne leaned over her, staring at the mess.

"Is it the witch catcher?" he asked Moura.

She nodded, speechless with anger.

Without noticing Moura's rage, Dad turned to me. "You lied to me, Jen. You had the witch catcher all along. And now its broken. No one will have it."

To my surprise, Moura thrust aside my carelessly hung clothes as if she thought I might be hiding something else in the closet. She found nothing. Dropping to the floor, she looked under my bed. Nothing there, either.

Dad watched her, obviously puzzled by her behavior, but Mr. Ashbourne kept his eyes on me. "Tell me, Jen, where did you find the witch catcher?"

"In the tower," I mumbled, keeping my head down to avoid looking at those scary glasses. "Hanging in a window."

"Why did you take it?" he asked.

"It was pretty." I moved closer to Dad and pressed my face into his side, but he didn't put his arm around me or pat my head. His body was tense and unyielding. He was angry, too.

Moura grabbed my shoulder and whirled me around to face her. Her long red nails stabbed painfully into my skin. "Do you realize what you've done?" She kept her voice low. "You've destroyed—"

Mr. Ashbourne took Moura's arm. "The child meant no harm," he said. "She thought the globe was pretty, and she wanted it. I have so many witch catchers. What's one more or less?" He smiled, but the look he gave Moura burned with anger.

Dad finally put his arm around me. "I'm sure Jen is as sorry about this as I am. But remember, Moura, I haven't decided what to sell and what to keep. So the broken globe is Jen's loss. No one else's."

"Of course, Hugh." Moura managed to smile at him. "Forgive me. As a dealer in antiques, I simply can't bear to see valuable objects used as playthings by careless children."

"I wasn't playing with it," I said, stung by her implications, "and I'm not a careless child. I put the witch catcher in a safe place. It's not my fault Tink broke it."

"Perhaps we should return to the living room and finish our tea," Mr. Ashbourne suggested. "I'm still hoping you'll decide to part with those wonderful paintings, Hugh."

Mr. Ashbourne led the way downstairs. Before we reached the bottom, Moura took my arm and whispered, "If you see anything strange, tell me at once. You could be in great danger, you foolish girl."

I stopped on the landing and stared at her. "What do you mean?"

"I told you the purpose of witch catchers," she said. "When one is broken, odd things happen."

"The witch escapes?" Goose bumps sprang up on my arms, but I forced myself to laugh. "Surely you don't believe in evil spirits."

Moura looked at me, clearly not amused. "You're ignorant as well as foolish and dishonest."

With that, she swept down the steps to join Dad and Mr. Ashbourne. Her hair and skirt floated out behind her as if she were sinking into the shadows at the foot of the stairs.

"The tea's cold, Jen," Dad said. "Would you mind making a fresh pot?"

Glad to be excused, I left the three of them in the living room. After I filled the kettle and set it on the stove, I collapsed on a chair. My head ached, and my legs felt weak, as if I were coming down with the flu.

What had just happened? I'd been without any will of my own—Mr. Ashbourne must have hypnotized me somehow. I'd been completely under his power, as mindless as a zombie. Those glasses—had I imagined the way they'd changed color?

The worst part was Dad—he hadn't noticed a thing out of the ordinary. Had he been bewitched, too?

I hugged myself and shivered uncontrollably, more frightened than cold.

"Jen," Dad called from the living room, "the kettle's boiling."

His voice and the loud whistle from the kettle roused me. Still shaky, I got to my feet and filled the teapot with boiling water.

Tink emerged from his hiding place and rubbed against my legs.

"I suppose you're apologizing." I said. "But it'll take a lot more than that to make up for what you've done."

Tink purred loudly and wound himself around me as if he were trying extra special hard to convince me he was truly sorry. But he didn't fool me. No cat was ever sorry for anything it did.

I stooped down and looked Tink in the eye. "Why did you jump up on that shelf? You broke the witch catcher, the most beautiful thing I've ever owned. Worse yet, now everyone knows I lied about having it. And do you know what's even more terrible?"

Tink mewed and bumped his face against mine, waiting to be told.

"Moura says something scary might happen because it's broken." I rubbed Tink under his chin, and he purred louder. "Of course, she's lying, but still—If I were you, I'd watch out. Tink. You're the one who broke it, you know. Not me."

Tink went on purring as if to say he couldn't care less about broken witch catchers.

Straightening up, I stared out the window. The glass was streaked with water, and the rain fed hard enough to blur the tower and the trees and the sky. A few crows stalked across the lawn, heads down, sodden black feathers dripping. Thunder clapped, and raggedy lines of lightning zigzagged across the sky. In the living room, Dad laughed at something Moura said, and Mr. Ashbourne joined in.

I looked down at Tink. "They don't need me, do they? I bet Dad doesn't even miss me."

Tink purred again, and I picked him up, grateful for his warm weight and soft fur. He relaxed in my arms, and I rocked him as if he were still a little kitten. "You're such a bad cat," I whispered. "Such a bad, bad cat—but I love you anyway."

He snuggled in my arms, pressing his warm body against my chest, and purred even louder.

"Jen," Dad called again. "Isn't that tea ready yet?"

I put Tink down and picked up the teapot. Feeling like Cinderella, I carried the tray carefully toward the living room and Dad's guests.

T
HE RAIN STOPPED
about the time Moura and Mr. Ashbourne got up to leave. We walked outside to say goodbye—me gladly, Dad sadly, despite Moura's quick kiss.

After the sleek little car disappeared around a curve. Dad turned to me. "It's not like you to lie or be secretive, Jen. We—"

"'We'?" I scowled at him. "
'We'
is you and Moura now, not you and me."

"Jen—"

But I was already gone, heading toward the woods with Tink at my heels.

"Come back here!" Dad called. "You heard what Moura said."

Ignoring my father, I plunged into the wet, gloomy forest. After the rain, the air smelled damper than ever. The leaves dripped, and when I got to the stream, it ran high and fast, foaming around the rocks. I sat on one of the boulders and watched Tink try to explore the underbrush without getting wet.

If Moura thought she could scare me into staying home like a good little girl, she didn't know me. Besides. I wanted to get away from Dad. He wasn't himself anymore. Moura and her witchy ways had changed him and everything else—including me. I'd never lied to my father before, never kept things from him. But that witch catcher—I'd disobeyed him to get it. And then I couldn't give it up. Not with Moura around. She would've persuaded Dad to give it to her.

Suddenly, Tink ran out of the bushes. A small, thin girl dressed in rags and tatters of filthy clothing followed him. The dense shade gave her pale skin a greenish tint. Or maybe she was just dirty. Her mouth was wide, her lips thin, her eyes oddly slanted, and her hair was a tangled mass of black curls. She was the weirdest kid I'd ever seen. Yet she was oddly familiar, like something I'd seen in a dream.

To my surprise, Tink went up to her and rubbed against her legs and purred so loudly I felt a stab of jealousy. I'd never seen him be that friendly to anyone but me.

"Hello there, boyo." The girl leaned down and rubbed her face against the cat's face. "Good kitty," she crooned.

"Tink," I called, sliding down off the boulder. "Come here."

Tink glanced at me, but he stayed where he was, contrary as ever.

The girl straightened up and turned to me. "Where's the old man gone?" Her voice was low and hoarse, raspy but not harsh.

"The old man?" I echoed, a little scared of her odd appearance but too curious to run back to the house and Dad.

"Him who lives up yonder in the castle. Him who built the tower."

"Great-Uncle Thaddeus? Mr. Mostyn? Is that who you mean?"

"Mostyn, yes. Him. Where is he?"

"He died a couple of years ago," I told her. "He left his house to my father, so we're living there now."

"Mostyn died?" Her face turned pale under the dirt. "Are ye sure?"

"He was very old, you know. Ancient. Almost a hundred."

"A hundred years ... Fancy thinking that's old." She sighed and shook her head. "Well, he were a right dafty fellow, but at least he kept me safe. Now I reckon it's up to ye."

"You want
me
to keep you safe?" I stared at her. "Safe from what?"

"From the lady, of course." The girl looked around uneasily as if she expected to see someone lurking in the woods. "
Her
who's been here three times now, swishing around, seeking and prying and sniffing for me."

A little shiver raced up and down my spine. "Are you talking about Moura Winters?"

"Hush," the girl said. "That be
her,
but be careful how ye speak. Names have power, ye know."

She peered into the woods again, her body tense, poised to run. "They be a bad pair,
her
and the collector.
Him
with the magic spectacles. They be witches, brimful of evil and wickedness."

I drew in my breath. Hadn't I known from the moment I saw Moura that she was dangerous? And Mr. Ashbourne—those scary glasses, the way he'd made me lead him upstairs just as if he'd cast a spell on me.

But how could they be witches? Confused, I looked around at the familiar world. A gray sky like thousands I'd seen before hid the sun. Trees swayed in the breeze as they always did. Rainwater dripped from the leaves with a familiar
pit-a-pat.
Two squirrels chased each other around a tree trunk. Deeper in the woods, a bird called. Everything was just as it should be, just as it had always been. Ordinary. Safe.

Yet just a few feet away stood an odd, raggedy girl. Nothing about
her
was ordinary. Not the tattered clothes she wore, not the things she said, not the odd words she used. With a shock, I realized she looked like the girl in Uncle Thaddeus's painting—half wild, not quite human.

I took a step backward, suddenly uneasy. Maybe a little afraid. Except for Tink, I was alone, deep in the woods, far from the house. No one knew where I was, not even Dad.

I was tempted to grab Tink and run, but something about the girl held me there. She didn't seem dangerous, just strange. Mysterious. Puzzling.

"Who are you?" I whispered. "Where did you come from? How do you know Great-Uncle Thaddeus and Moura? Why—"

"Them that asks too many questions must wait for answers." With the grace of a cat, the girl reached for a low branch and swung herself up into an oak tree. Perched above my head, thin legs dangling, she peered down at me.

"Yer first question be the easiest one," she said. "I'm called Kieryn. And ye be Jen."

"How do you know my name?"

A sly little grin tweaked the corners of her wide mouth. "I been in yer bedroom, ye great ninny, listening to ye babble away to yer cat. He knowed I were there, crying and begging to be let out, but ye mistook me for a bug. A dimbob cicada. An uglier creature I never seen—red eyes it's got."

When Kieryn paused to take a breath, I asked, "What are you talking about?"

"Ye great booby, ain't ye figured it out yet?" Kieryn laughed down at me, revealing a mouthful of small white teeth. "I were in that skitzy witch trap ye took from the tower and hung in yer window, the one Tink busted. Smarter than ye he is."

Tink climbed up the tree and stretched out on the limb beside Kieryn. I reached for him. "Come here."

He glanced at me and twitched his tail, but he stayed where he was.

Kieryn looked down at me. "Ye don't believe me, do ye?"

I shook my head. "You're almost as big as I am. How could you possibly have been inside that little globe?"

Kieryn's small, dirty feet swung back and forth. Every now and then she glanced around, as if she expected to see someone sneaking toward us through the trees. "Mostyn showed me them pretty colors all spinning and shining, and in I went through the spout—
poof,
from the size I be now to something no bigger than a nandy caterpillar."

"I don't believe you." That's what I said, but it wasn't entirely true. More and more I
wanted
to believe her. After all, we had an enemy in common. "For one thing," I went on, "if you'd really been trapped in that globe, you'd be a witch—or an evil spirit."