Stitches In Time (41 page)

Her fingers were too unsteady to cope with a French braid or a braid of any other variety. Burrowing in the bureau drawer in search of a hair clip, she thought of Ruth's offer. It had been sensible and practical—a lot more sensible than the end-of-the-world scenario the rest of them had been following—but it wasn't a final solution. It
wouldn't separate her from Cheryl and Tony. The families saw a good deal of one another.

Hearing a thud and a curse from the hall, she opened her door and saw Adam trying to retrieve a book he had dropped without losing his grip on the other books and parcels he carried.

"I'll get it," she said.

"Thanks."

When she straightened she saw he was watching her like a dog that is uncertain as to whether it will be patted or scolded.

"Are you still mad at me?" he asked.

"I wasn't mad. Well, yes, I was, but only because I had been worried. I'm sorry I hit you."

"Any little demonstration of interest is gratefully received. Does that count as the third time?"

"Don't be so humble," Rachel said irritably. "You should have hit me back."

She spoke before she thought; seeing his face change, she tried to think of some way of retrieving her blunder, but there was none, and no way of apologizing. Except. . .

She had to stand on tiptoe and pull his head down in order to reach his mouth. His lips were stiff with surprise at first, but they were quick to respond and not at all humble. Swaying and off balance in every sense, Rachel caught hold of his shoulders to steady herself, and the impulsive kiss turned into something she had not intended or anticipated. Adam dropped the books and wrapped long arms around her, but when she pulled away he made no attempt to hold her.

"I'm sorry," Rachel said.

"Feel free to apologize again the same way." It took him two breaths to complete the short sentence.

"I mean, I'm sorry for—for everything. I had no right—"

"I don't mind your knowing." He knelt and began collecting the books. "The only reason I didn't tell you was because it's a pretty boring story."

"I wouldn't say that." Rachel made no move to help him, though he was clumsier than usual. After adding insult to injury, she could only think of one means of reparation. "It's not as boring as my story. You must have wondered why I was so ungracious about the Christmas gifts."

"None of my business," Adam muttered, without looking up.

"I was sulking. I've been sulking for four years, ever since my mother married again. I don't even remember my father; he walked out when I was two. Twenty years later, after she had raised me, single-handed and without a nickel's worth of help from him, my mother finally found a man she could care for, and went back to England with him. I was jealous."

"That's understandable." Adam rose, clutching his armload. His eyes were warm and sympathetic.

"Maybe. It was also selfish and small-minded." Rachel removed the topmost book from the tottering pile.

"Thank you," Adam said.

He wasn't thanking her for helping him with the books. "You're welcome," Rachel said softly, and led the way downstairs.

"Here we are," Adam announced unnecessarily. "Kara, will you please clear . . . Oh, hell!"

His uncertain grip gave way and papers, books, and arcane paraphernalia spilled across the table. Kara leaped to rescue a tottering glass, and with a look of pained resignation Adam bent over and detached Alexander from his ankle.

"I thought you said he never bit anybody more than once," he remarked, holding the vibrating, grumbling bundle out at arm's length.

"I said hardly ever. Bad boy, Alexander." She put the
dog down and started him off in a different direction while Ruth and Rachel cleared the table.

Adam began to arrange his materials into groups. Rachel had seen the purchases but the other women hadn't, and they stared in mounting disbelief.

"Black candles?" Kara said tentatively.

"Where? Oh. We don't need those now. What happened to the white ones?"

"They must have rolled off the table." Kara collected them from the floor. "Adam, what are you doing?"

"I think that's everything," Adam muttered, inspecting his arrangement. "Okay. I found six recipes for unhexing, and a couple of others that are described as cures."

"What's the difference?" Ruth asked.

"Damned if I know. Unless the first variety turns the curse back on the witch and the second just removes it. Do we care?"

He didn't seem to expect an answer; he went on without pausing for breath. "The first one . . . Wait a minute. I forgot the milk."

"It's in the fridge," Kara said. Her eyes were slightly glazed.

Adam got out the jug. "It's only half full. Damn, I should have bought more, we'll need four or five gallons. I better make a quick run to the store."

"I'll go," Kara said. "I think a little fresh air would do me good. Just tell me why you want it."

"Southwest magic," Adam explained. "It's for unhexing clothing, which is more specific than anything else I found. You wash the thing in milk and hang it out overnight in freezing weather."

"Why, for God's sake?"

"The rationale eludes me," Adam admitted. "Any ideas, Rachel?"

"Purity? Milk is white." If she didn't allow herself to
think about why they were doing this it became an intriguing if childish game.

"It's as good a guess as any. So we do that tonight, after we've tried the other things. Don't go yet, Kara, I may have forgotten something else. The same book also recommended burying the garment. That's a last resort, obviously. Now here ..." He indicated a group of objects. "These are voodoo preventives against conjure: silver, red pepper, salt, and nails. They're supposed to be tied up in a 'hand' or bag of red flannel. Do you have any red flannel around, Kara?"

"Red flannel is not often used for elegant vintage garments," Kara said dryly.

"Add it to the list, then. Here's another one we can try, though it's most effective when performed at midnight on a night of full moon. Light the white candle, burn cloves, pine, or sage (I've got 'em all) in an incense burner and repeat the following incantation thirteen times . . . Where's that book?"

"Never mind," Kara said. "That one sounds pretty feeble to me. What else?"

"Okay. Here's one for unhexing a house. You sprinkle powdered nettle and hex-breaking powder—"

"What?" Kara snatched the little packet from his hand and looked at the label. "It does say 'Hex-breaking powder,'" she reported, raising both eyebrows.

"They carry it in all good occult shops," Adam said seriously. "Then there are the standard religious symbols. Crucifix, cross, prayer, holy water. How did Pat do with the holy water, Ruth?"

"No luck yet," Ruth said. "Father Christopher is out of town, and he's the only priest in the area who will talk to Pat, much less listen to a wild story like this. Do you want me to try?"

"You're awfully cool about this," Kara said, almost accusingly.

"I've been here before." Ruth smiled, but her blue eyes were shadowed by memory. "And this isn't like the other time. It's not so ... Oh, I don't know what I mean. There was one thing we learned, or thought we learned—I don't know whether Pat mentioned it to you, Adam. Religious symbols aren't effective unless the—the entity against whom they are directed believed in them. I'm not expressing that very well..."

"I see what you're getting at." Adam appeared struck by the idea. "But practitioners of black magic abjure Christianity, they don't deny it; the rituals that insulted and degraded Christian symbols implicitly acknowledged the power of those symbols. This—woman—must have been raised a Christian. What are the chances of finding a Jew in the American south in the mid-nineteenth century?"

"Slight," Kara said. "What difference does it make? I'm willing to try anything. We'll douse the damned quilt with unhexing powder and draw crosses all over it and throw in a few ankh signs for good measure. What else have you got?"

"Less than I had hoped. I found a lot of spells for cursing people, only a few for removing a curse. Some of them were too ludicrous to consider. Unless Rachel is willing to stand on her head and count backward from one hundred."

He was trying to lighten the atmosphere, and to some extent he succeeded; Kara laughed and Rachel forced a smile. "I couldn't do it, but it isn't as silly as it sounds. The whole thing is a question of belief, isn't it? What you do isn't as important as whether you believe in its efficacy."

"Can you think of anything else?" Adam asked. "You're the expert."

"No, I'm not. I wasn't looking for curses as such, only for superstitions relating to sewing."

None
of this matters. None of it is going to work.

They did wait for Pat. He was the expert, and as Adam frankly admitted, he wasn't prepared to risk Pat's fury if he disobeyed a direct order. Pat wasn't gone long, and when he came slamming into the room they could tell his errand had been ineffectual.

"I told you everything was closed. Even the goddamn police—"

"Come now," Ruth said. "The police don't shut down over the holidays."

"No," Pat admitted grudgingly. "But there was hardly anyone there. They're gearing up for the usual drunken drivers and wild partying, I suppose. I asked for Tom and was told he was busy. Busy!"

"That's okay," Adam said. "You tried."

"I'll get back on it Monday morning. We could always go out to the site and chain ourselves to the backhoe."

From the look on Adam's face Rachel knew the idea had already occurred to him. He'd do it, too, she thought.

Pat didn't see the look; he was examining Adam's collection with interest. "Not bad. You did learn something from me after all. What's the white candle for?"

Adam explained. Pat grinned. "That's Wicca, isn't it? Well, it won't hurt to try,
I
suppose."

"Can you think of anything I've forgotten?"

"Of course."

"Of course," Adam repeated. "For example?"

"Expulsion of demons, subcategories one through three," Pat said promptly. "West Africa, India, and Eastern Europe. Beating drums, yelling and screaming, slashing the air with knives and whips. Subcategory four, Southeast Asia. Take a pig on the roof and kill it—"

"Pat," his wife protested.

"Then there's the ever-popular use of a scapegoat," Pat went on. "Drive the demon into an animal and kill it. We could use Alexander."

"That's not funny," Kara said coldly.

"No." Pat sobered. "Don't quiz me, Adam, I've forgotten more things about witchcraft and cursing than you ever knew. Let's get started."

Rachel hung back, allowing Kara to remove the mutilated quilt from its wrapping and stretch it out on the table. Masked and gloved, the others gathered around, and the air of tension, the intent concentration on the faces bent over the table, reminded Rachel of a team of surgeons preparing to operate. How do I know this is a waste of time, she asked herself. I do know.

But when Pat's deep voice began to speak her hands twisted tightly together. He was speaking Latin. She only understood a few words:
Pater Noster, Deus,
in
nomine tuo. . .
From where she stood she could see his hands moving, as if he were sprinkling the surface of the fabric. Adam's unhexing powder?

He finished the prayer and raised his now empty hands. They shaped a symbol Rachel knew, and an involuntary shiver ran through her.

"Nothing," Pat said, in his normal tones.

"What did you expect, smoke and flames?" Adam demanded.

"Damned if I know. Let's try the herbs. St. John's wort is a popular specific against witches."

He went about the process as methodically as if he were carrying out a series of scientific experiments, accompanying each action with speeches in a variety of languages. Once he paused to remark, "Nothing like a good Catholic boyhood," before breaking again into sonorous Latin.

Rachel withdrew a little at a time until she was standing several feet away. Something made her feel, not threatened or apprehensive, just mildly uncomfortable. Was it the words he recited? Words had power, they were an essential part of any spell. Pat had said that. Or was it she who
had told the others? She understood some of what he was reciting. They weren't all prayers. Names she had read and half remembered—Hecate, Astarte, Cybele, Isis—female deities, protectors and guardians of women.
A
clever idea, but it isn't going to work either.

None of them had noticed her retreat except Adam, who kept glancing anxiously at her. She gave him a reassuring smile and sat down in the rocking chair.

If they had asked her she would have told them it was a waste of time. She knew why they had not, why they were content to have her stay at a distance. Rocking and watching, she realized that Adam wasn't the only one who was awaiting—fearing, perhaps—a reaction from her. Pat was facing her, on the opposite side of the long table. He didn't have to turn his head to see her.

She was, as he must know, the most likely means of testing his procedures—the canary in the coal mine, the dog whose keener hearing could detect sounds inaudible to the human ear. He was too sophisticated and skeptical to expect a cheap display of demonic pyrotechnics, like the ones in horror films. The only way he could judge the effectiveness of what he was doing was by her reaction. She saw that he was perspiring heavily and once, when she shifted position, he looked up sharply. She smiled at him and shook her head. She could feel the words like rain touching her bare skin, some so light as to be barely perceptible, a few stinging a little, like small pellets of hail; none strong enough to hurt.

Pat had not overestimated the extent of his knowledge or his thoroughness. His voice had grown hoarse and strained when he finally stopped and stepped back from the table.

"Let's take a break. I'm getting claustrophobic."

"Shall I wrap it up again?" Kara asked.