Witch Water

Fanshawe chuckled, amazed. You sure don’t see this everyday. He was impressed, yes, but also…

Very disappointed.

“You really walk it like you talk it, Lett. Thanks for your time. And keep the check.” He turned and began to head down the sidewalk.

“Hey!” she called out.

He turned to see her fuming.

She pointed a finger right at him. “You asked, so don’t blame me! It’s black!” and then she ran across the street, check in hand, to the bank.

(II)

Black, he thought.

Black aura. Black heart.

Go thither, if thou dost have the heart, to the bridle—

A heart so black as to be stygian, sir, a black blacker, too, than the very abyss…

Fanshawe’s reaction to Letitia’s parting words was nothing like what he’d expect. He felt neutral about it, not confused, not scared or foreboded. A psychic just told me I have a black heart—that’s not much of an endorsement, is it? The color black brought negative connotations: corruption, dishonesty, greed…

Evil.

He scoffed as he moved leisurely down the sun-lit sidewalk, then he laughed aloud to himself. I’m not any of those things, and I’m certainly not EVIL. However, as he thought more on it, the more irresistibly he found himself reflecting back on the entire meeting. She’d mentioned something revelatory, hadn’t she?

There’d certainly been revelations in her parlor.

The Gazing Ball was also called a bridle, something akin to a magic circle. It evolved from the times of the Druids, a very occult bunch. Last night he’d found a second and more secure diary of Wraxall’s, while today he’d seen a corroborating diary: Callister Rood’s. Rood himself had committed suicide, by hanging, while Fanshawe had seen the man’s image hanging by the neck last night. And Wraxall probably hadn’t been executed after all. He’d been butchered by Rood, his own apprentice.

Now, all that he’d learned began to swirl about consciousness, and when his elbow brushed his jacket pocket, he felt the tubular bulk of the looking-glass. The glass worked last night—I KNOW it did…

And if that were the case, everything else was real too, not superstitious invention.

It was real.

The acknowledgment of that brought the drone back to his head. I’m NOT crazy, so that can only mean…

But how could this be?

“Well, ’ow’d your session go at the palmist’s, sir?” greeted the enthused, elderly voice.

Fanshawe had been too wound up over his thoughts to even see that he’d just passed Mrs. Anstruther’s information kiosk. It took a moment for him to snap out of the daze.

“Ah, Mrs. Anstruther—yes, it was very entertaining. I appreciate your suggestion.”

The high sunlight filled the creases in her face so sharply with shadow-lines she looked like a grinning sketch. “Cheery news on your horizon, I hope, sir.”

Well, I’m told my riches will increase a thousandfold and I’ve got a black heart… “I think you could say that, yes.”

“And what might your estimation be of Ms. Letitia Rhodes? Hope ya don’t got the notion I steered you improper.”

The tiny drone remained in his head even as he engaged in the talk, as though his current concerns were being intruded upon. “Not at all. She seems very genuine, maybe even a bit too genuine, if you know what I mean.”

The old woman laughed. “Aye, but I do, sir. Just like I said to ya!”

Fanshawe’s mood darkened; he lowered his voice. “Yes, but I felt awful at one point. I saw the picture of her baby on the wall and made the mistake of asking about it.”

Mrs. Anstruther’s eyes turned instantly regretful. “Oh, dear me, yes! What a ’orrible, ’orrible thing to happen, I must say. The poor little tot, he caught hisself a fever so’s Miss Letitia, she rush him to the hospital but”—she crossed herself—“he die in her arms ’fore she got him there, not two months ago it was. Certain I am, though, sir, certain as I’m certain the day’s long, the Lord’ll bless ’is little soul. The tot was buried in the town churchyard, sir, and the entire town show up to show their respects,” and then she crossed herself again. “We all pitch in some to pay for the tot’s embalming and coffin and all, on account Miss Letitia ’erself were sufferin’ from empty pockets at the time.”

Died from a fever… The added information only made Fanshawe feel worse. My God, what a terrible thing to happen… “I can’t imagine what a blow it must’ve been to Letitia.”

“I don’t imagine none of us can. A dreadful thing like that? And not no one there to help her through it.”

“Yeah, she told me the child’s father abandoned her,” Fanshawe recalled. He didn’t want to be rude, but he couldn’t wait to leave and be back with his own thoughts.

“Ah, but did she tell ya any more about that scoundrel of a chiseler who walk off on her?”

“No, nothing else—”

“Well there’s more to that story, there is, a good bit more.”

She’s probably working me again, but— His irritation at being here collapsed. “What do you mean?”

“Well, sir, I ain’t one to leave a gentleman twistin’ in the wind, so’s to speak”—but just then her own attention was highjacked. A smiling middle-aged couple approached the kiosk; the look on their faces said they had several questions for the elderly woman. “Pardon me a jot while I tend to these folks’ needs, and I’ll tell you all about it, sir.”

“Okay. I’ll go grab a coffee and come back when you’re done. Can I get you a cup?”

“What I fancy most is a cop’a tea, sir, if you please—the Earl Grey type, what they’s got—and I’m much obliged to ya, sir, much obliged.”

Fanshawe parted for the coffee shop. When he’d arrived he realized he’d walked right by the Travelodge and felt no temptation whatsoever to steal a glance at the windows or the pool. This perked up his mood. While he waited for his order at the cafe, he thought to check his cellphone and saw that he’d turned it off. Oh, a message, he realized, then listened to the voice mail.

“Hello, Mr. Fanshawe,” the passionless voice sounded. “This is Dr. Tilton. I thought I’d give you a call to see how everything is progressing since we last talked, and am hoping that you’ve set into motion what I suggested. I’d very much like to hear from you, so please call back at your convenience.” Fanshawe’s thumb hovered over the dial-back button, but then he hesitated. This was a call he didn’t really want to make; he was too intrigued by other considerations. And what would I tell her anyway?

Hi, doctor. I’m pretty much convinced that I’m NOT actually hallucinating. What do I mean by that? Well, see, that looking-glass I stole WORKS…

He still had to think about that determination, he knew, but didn’t want to bother with talking to her now. And when he thought to call in to his main office, his phone rang.

“Artie, I was just thinking about you,” he said.