that he was making a joke, his smile faded. “Actually, it probably hit the tree in their cemetery,” he said. “There used to be a legend that every time that tree was struck by lightning, it meant someone in town was practicing witchcraft.”
Myra’s eyes widened. “Surely no one believes such a thing!”
“I don’t, and I suspect no one else does either. In fact, you’d better hope no one does.”
“Me?” Myra asked. “What are you talking about?”
“You remember the storm that hit on Saturday morning?” he asked. “The day your family arrived?”
“We were just starting to unload the truck,” Myra said, shuddering at the memory. “It could have ruined everything we own.”
“Well, at least one bolt of lightning hit the tree in the cemetery across the street. And with you moving into the old place out at the Crossing…” He let his words trail off, shrugging.
“What are you talking about?” Myra asked.
“I’m sure it’s nothing,” the priest said. “Just all the old stories.” The look of incomprehension in Myra’s eyes made him cock his head slightly. “Didn’t your sister tell you about the stories?”
Myra frowned. “She told me about the last people that lived there,” she said.
Father Mike’s brows lifted a fraction of an inch. “There are legends that the two women who were accused of being witches here in Roundtree were burned under that tree, and from what I’m told, at least three people swore they saw the tree being struck by lightning at the same time that the women were casting spells.”
Myra’s expression darkened. “I don’t believe in witchcraft.”
“Nor do I,” the priest agreed. “And I doubt there’s a single person in town who does. But four hundred years ago they believed it enough to burn two women.”
“Surely it’s only a story,” Myra breathed.
“If it is, it’s pretty well documented — at least the burning part.” When Myra still looked doubtful, he led her toward the front door of the church, opening it just wide enough so they could peer at the storm raging outside. “It’s that tree over there,” he said, pointing to the barely visible form of an enormous tree that stood in the far reaches of the cemetery behind the Congregational church. “See the little stone building near the tree? That’s the original church. In fact, the women who were burned as witches were apparently relatives of the minister. His brother’s wife and daughter, I believe, or maybe his uncle’s. At any rate, the story is that they dragged them in from—”
He stopped abruptly, and Myra could tell by the look on his face that there was something he’d been about to say that he changed his mind about. “From where, Father?” she asked.
Father Mike Mulroney hesitated a moment, then decided there was no point in not finishing the story. It was, after all, just a story; whatever crimes the two women may have committed four centuries earlier, they certainly had nothing to do with witchcraft, no matter what people at the time might have thought. “Actually, they lived in your house,” he said. Seeing the shock in Myra’s eyes, he suddenly wished he hadn’t said anything at all.
Then, as Myra turned to gaze at the tree once more, a brilliant flash of light crossed the sky, and a jagged bolt of lightning, crackling and making the air smell of ozone, lashed down from the thunderheads above, struck the topmost branches of the great tree in the cemetery, and vanished in a thunderclap that shook the building.
“Saints preserve us,” Myra breathed.
Father Mike nodded absently, but his eyes stayed on the tree.
Just like last week, the lightning had struck the middle of the tree, and he assumed it must have passed all the way down through its trunk to reach the ground.
Last week, after the storm had passed, he had walked across the street to have a look at the tree.
And he’d seen nothing. The tree showed no signs of damage at all.
No burns on its bark.
No broken limbs.
Nothing.
Later this afternoon, he decided, when this storm had also blown on through, he would go across the street again, just to make sure. But even from here he could see that once again the tree had been struck by lightning and nothing had happened to it.
Nothing at all.
Chapter 29
NGEL AND SETH HAD NO IDEA HOW LONG THEY SAT cross-legged on the floor staring at the fire that burned steadily under the kettle hanging from the pothook. After the first two bolts of lightning faded away and their accompanying thunderclaps rolled into silence, the steady beat of rain outside and the flickering flames on the hearth had taken on an oddly hypnotic quality, so that when the rain suddenly stopped and the fire flickered abruptly out, neither of them was quite certain what had happened. For a moment they didn’t move.
Was it possible that the fire had gone out at the exact moment the rain stopped?
Finally, Seth unfolded his legs, realized how sore they were as he stood up, and looked at his watch. His eyes widened and he glanced at Angel. “How long do you think we’ve been sitting here?”
Angel cocked her head, frowning. “I don’t know — ten or fifteen minutes, I guess.”
“Try an hour and a half,” he said.
Now Angel scrambled to her feet, and the stiffness in her legs was enough to tell her that Seth was right. “What time is it?” she breathed.
“Five-thirty,” Seth replied. He went to the fireplace and knelt down. The fire under the kettle was completely out — not even the red glow of smoldering embers showed beneath the gray ash that was the only sign the fire had been there at all.
When he held his hand out, he felt no warmth. “It’s like it’s been out for days,” he said, his voice faintly hollow.
He reached out and touched the kettle.
It, at least, was still warm, but not so hot that his reflexes jerked his hand away. Gingerly, he reached for the rod from which the pot hung.
It wasn’t even warm. He pulled on the rod, swinging the kettle out of the fireplace.
Now Angel was next to him, and for a long moment they gazed into the kettle. All that was left of its contents was an inch of fluid at the bottom of the huge soup pot. “But it was almost half full,” Angel said. “How could that much of it have boiled away?”
Both of them swung around to look at the stone sink from which Angel had filled the kettle, but there was no longer any way of telling how much water she’d taken from it, for the basin was filled to the brim and a steady stream of water was flowing in through the wooden trough mounted high in the wall. The overflow was running out through the second trough below. As they watched, the inflow quickly slowed to a trickle, and then the trickle turned into the same rhythmic drip as when they first discovered the cabin.
Except they hadn’t discovered the cabin — Houdini had led them to it.
“I don’t get it,” Seth said. “If that much water boiled away, how come the fireplace isn’t even hot anymore, and the kettle’s cool enough so you can touch it?”
Instead of answering Seth’s question, Angel asked one of her own. “What are we supposed to do with it?” she asked, her eyes fixed on the small pool of liquid that covered the bottom of the kettle.
“I guess you’re supposed to drink it,” Seth said. When Angel paled, he added, “Well, what else would you do?”
“Would you drink it?” Angel challenged.
The words hung in the air as Seth too gazed into the depths of the kettle. When he finally answered her, his words sounded far braver than the tone of his voice. “Sure! I mean, why not? Practically all that’s in it is water, and I already drank the water from the sink.”
