Witch Water

divination, stuff like that. The dried blood of virgin gypsies was big back then, oh, and in the diary Wraxall said he bought a lot of aborted fetuses.”

Fanshawe gaped.

“Warlocks and witches would burn the fetuses in a crucible and inhale the vapors, supposedly to see the image of Lucifer himself.”

“Abbie!” Baxter barked, “if you don’t stop talkin’ all of that bucket-of-blood claptrap, I’m gonna—”

“But it wasn’t the things Wraxall bought on his trip that were so important,” she talked right over her father’s objections, “it was specifically the people he went to talk to.”

“So you’ve said,” Fanshawe pointed out. “He went to see other warlocks.”

“Yes, a number of them, but there was one—above all the others…”

Fanshawe waited, tapping his fingers on the bar and knowing she enjoyed stringing him along like this. “And?”

“This guy was the Mount Everest of warlocks,” she said in a hushed tone. “His name was Wilson—I forgot his first name, but it was something unusual. There’ve been whole books about him. He was regarded as the most powerful sorcerer in England; he even turned lead into gold, and became very rich.”

“The only thing he turned lead into,” Baxter piped up, “was baloney.”

“Wraxall bought the Gazing Ball from him, but when he got it back to Haver-Towne, he told the residents it was like a wishing well. That’s the baloney, if you ask me. Why would someone like Wraxall, at the least a devotee of the occult, go all the way to Europe to consult with other occultists, then, on his last stop, visit someone as notorious as this man Wilson, just to buy some weird variation of a wishing well?”

“That explanation does sound fishy,” Fanshawe agreed but still he was nagged by the sudden distraction of Abbie’s beauty. I went all through dinner without lusting after her, but now it’s bowling me over. The calamities of last night and this morning, then the wax museum and his fears of becoming hallucinatory, and now this revelation about the looking-glass supposedly being possessed of supernatural characteristics? Everything mashed into his head like a logjam, and leading the jam, all of a sudden, was his steaming attraction to Abbie.

I need to think straight…

“There was another rumor that supposedly goes back hundreds of years,” she added, “that the Gazing Ball, instead of being a map of earth, was a map of hell—”

“Know what I think, missy?” Baxter chided. “I think it’s a map of your backside, showin’ my foot kickin’ it!”

Abbie just chuckled and shook her head.

“I couldn’t see that it was a map of anything,” Fanshawe offered. “There were some markings on the pedestal but as for the metal globe itself—”

“Right. It’s so tarnished you can’t make out anything.”

Fanshawe’s observations began to settle down. “It’s just another thing about Wraxall that’s curious.”

“Yeah,” Abbie said. “Intercontinental travel was no easy feat back then. It was dangerous. One out of every twenty ships either sunk due to poor maintenance or went down in storms. It would have to be important for Wraxall to make a trip like that.”

Baxter was beginning to enjoy his chastisement of Abbie. “And you’re gonna go on a trip to the moon if ya don’t stop all this witchcraft ballyhoo. Damn, girl, why can’t ya tell Mr. Fanshawe about the nice things we got in this area? Mount Washington, the Fire Quacker Festival, the steam-train tour?”

“There’s lots of time for that, sir,” Fanshawe informed. “I think I’ll be staying awhile.”

Both Mr. Baxter and Abbie seemed pleased by the remark and the change in subjects. Fanshawe asked for a soda water next; he didn’t want to look like a lush. But as Abbie helped her father tend to a sudden rush of customers, Fanshawe wound up recollecting his hallucinations at the museum…

Ascend, if thou dost have the heart, and—ay—partake in the bounty that ye hast earned, the mannequin of Wraxall had said.

Then the mannequin of Evanore: Go thither, if thou dost have the heart, to the bridle—

Fanshawe stroked his chin. What did she mean by that? but then he sighed at the ridiculous thought. She didn’t mean ANYTHING, you dunce, because it was an hallucination! Dummies don’t really talk!

When Abbie returned, she put her arm around him and hugged. “What are you thinking now? You seem lost in thought.”

I’m lost in thought a lot, I guess, because I might be nuts… He wanted to ask her if she’d seen anything in the diary about bounties or bridles but refused when he realized he’d be taking the mirage seriously.

That didn’t happen.

“I’m thinking about how much I like this town,” he fibbed. He turned but had no choice but to be faced by her bosom, since she was standing. He could’ve melted.

“I’ve got to turn in now, Stew,” she said, leaning against him. “Early day tomorrow. The guy who runs this joint cracks a big whip.”

“I heard that missy!” Baxter barked

But Fanshawe rushed to rise.

“Don’t leave just because I am,” Abbie said. “Hang out, have another drink—”

“I gotta turn in too,” he fibbed again. “I’ll walk you.” He bade goodnight to Mr. Baxter, then walked hand in hand with Abbie.

In the elevator, she sighed and leaned her head against Fanshawe’s shoulder. “Thanks, Stew. I had such a nice time tonight.”

“Me too.” He felt suddenly vibrant, gripped her waist tighter. He was about to turn and kiss her but the door slid open on the second floor.

“Here’s my stop,” she said, but her voice seemed edgy, nervous.

Their eyes met, and the moment stretched. Without forethought he was kissing her, and felt dropped into some scintillant esoteria of lovely scents and warmth. The kiss drew on, seemed about to get fervent, but then Abbie reluctantly pulled back.

“I really like you, Stew,” she whispered. Her face was flushed.

“I like you a lot too.”

“I so much want to ask you into my room but…”

Fanshawe smiled. “I know. It’s too soon.”

She hugged him and gave him a final, quick kiss on the lips. “Thanks for not being like most guys.”

“Go out with me again. Soon.”

“I’d love too.”

Her grin could’ve lit up the elevator when she pulled away. Their hands separated as she back-stepped out into the hall.

“Goodnight, Abbie.”

“Goodnight…”

She didn’t budge, and her soft grin remained as the doors slid shut.

Fanshawe leaned against the elevator wall, dreamy. The compartment rose to the top-floor hall; he seemed somnambulant walking out…

In his room, he felt gently giddy at the division of impressions: This has been one hell of a couple of days. I relapsed to voyeurism, I steal a looking-glass without even being aware of it, several times I hear an invisible dog barking, then I stumble on the dead body of some guy named Karswell, and later I peep on Abbie with the glass but then see the town turn hundreds of years old before my eyes and I even see Evanore Wraxall herself naked in her window, then, if that doesn’t take the cake, today two wax dummies talk to me in the museum, and after aaaaaaaaaall that…

He gazed at the wall