Witch, page 3
“Penny! You go right back upstairs and put on a bra. Or an opaque blouse!”
“Bras are out,” said Phil, finishing the bread and reaching for a doughnut. “Penny burned hers, didn’t you, chick?”
Penny aimed a blow at him, which he ducked without halting his intake of food.
“Nobody wears bras, Mother. They are symbols of sexual repression. Your what, did you say?”
“Did you say you had a ghost?” repeated Phil, spearing a fried egg with a fork and transferring it to his plate.
Ellen caught her brother-in-law’s amused eyes.
“You all drive me crazy,” she said.
“But you love us,” said Phil, reaching for another egg.
“Use the serving fork, Phil, or I’ll break your arm,” said his father. “And try cutting that egg into fewer than two pieces. Penny, don’t talk back to your mother or I’ll break your arm. And shut up, both of you. How you can be so uncouth, after living with two such well-bred adults, I will never understand.”
“I guess you raised us wrong,” said Phil thoughtfully.
“No, we raised you right. If you’ve gone off the track it’s because you are inherently evil. Pay for your own psychiatrist. Now, Ellen, tell me about your ghost.”
Smiling, Ellen looked around the table. Three faces beamed back at her. I don’t know whether I can stand it, she thought.
“Not an ordinary ghost,” she said cheerfully. “The ghost of a witch.”
“Hey,” said Phil approvingly. “Cool.”
“Wow,” said Jack, to oblige Penny, whose mouth was full. “Go on, ignore the illiterate comments.”
“Her husband built the house,” Ellen said. Unconsciously her voice took on the old storytelling note she had used in bedtime reading to all the children in turn. “He was a farmer—German, as many of the early settlers of western Virginia were. He came south from the comparatively civilized communities of Pennsylvania into what was then a howling wilderness, the remote edge of the known world. There were hostile Indians, and bears, and wildcats, and forests so thick the sun never reached the ground under the trees.
“It was good farming land, when it was cleared. Grain and cattle did well. All Karl Baumgartner had to do was cut down about a million trees and dig out the stumps and plow the land and plant and harvest. One of you soft modern types wouldn’t have lasted a week.”
She looked severely at Phil.
“Glad I didn’t live then,” he remarked.
“There were already a few little houses clustered around the spot where two trails crossed,” Ellen went on. “People were helpful in those days; they had to be, there were so few of them. The other settlers helped Karl build a little frame house. But he wanted more. He worked like a demon, even harder than his busy neighbors. In a few years he had a good crop of wheat and a couple of wagons in which to haul it down to the populated Tidewater towns. In ten years he started building a real house.
“His neighbors were surprised and a little vexed when he left the settlement and built his house a mile away, in the middle of the woods. Two or three prosperous settlers had enlarged their homes, but Karl had fancier ideas; his house was built of brick brought all the way from England. His wagons carried bricks back when they went down to the markets. Finally they came back with something else—Karl’s bride.
“They say she was a Gypsy. They say she was Spanish, or Egyptian. Something exotic, something different from the sturdy German and Scotch-Irish girls of the region. She was slim and dark, olive-skinned, with great flashing black eyes….”
“You’re making that up,” said Penny.
Ellen grinned.
“Well, I’ve never seen a picture of her…. It will be nice to have a new audience, one that won’t question every statement I make.”
“They won’t know you as well as we do,” said Phil.
“I suppose that part of the story is purely legend,” Ellen admitted. “About her Gypsy blood, I mean. She couldn’t have been too exotic, because she had a good old English name—Mary.”
Penny groaned.
“Mary Baumgartner. That’s a terrible name for a witch. She is the witch, isn’t she?”
“Try to keep quiet for five minutes,” suggested her uncle.
“Mary was the witch,” said Ellen. “She was strange and, consequently, unpopular, from the first. She didn’t make bread and kill chickens and help with the plowing, like the husky pioneer housewives. Karl hired a girl to do that. And Mary sat in her parlor, which Karl had furnished with the best to be found in Georgetown. She sang strange little songs in a language no one knew.
“Sounds dull,” said Penny. “Was that all she did?”
“Obviously not,” said Phil, with a laugh. “Karl came home at night, didn’t he?”
“He did,” Ellen agreed; she was used to the feeble attempts of the young to be daring. “He was mad about her, and insanely jealous. They say she sewed exquisitely, but even that domestic skill failed to impress her neighbors because she didn’t make shirts for her husband or mend his socks. She did embroidery.”
“Maybe she was Spanish, then,” said Penny. “Or French. Educated in a convent, where they learned to do delicate needlework. For altar cloths and things.”
“Right,” Phil agreed, squinting through his hair. “The songs in a funny language—those poor hicks wouldn’t know French or Spanish. And if she was a Roman Catholic she wouldn’t dare admit it. The discrimination against Catholics in early Virginia—”
“We know all about that essay on religious tolerance you wrote for American history,” his father said repressively. “It’s the only respectable piece of research you’ve done in four years. Go on, Ellen.”
“I hadn’t thought of it, but I expect they’re right,” Ellen said. “Mary refused to attend the local church.”
“How did she get away with that?” Phil demanded. “People had to go to church at least once a week or they were fined and stuck in the stocks.”
He caught his father’s eye and subsided.
“This was the frontier, not a settled coastal town,” Ellen said. “And by this time Karl was a wealthy man. That didn’t prevent the townspeople from whispering, however. Stories began to circulate. People saw Mary walking in the woods at night. They said she worshiped graven images. They said she had bewitched her husband, who was a hard-working, God-fearing man in all things except his infatuation for her. They even said she had a familiar.”
“A cat?” said Penny eagerly. “A black cat!”
“No,” said Ellen. “Not a black cat; a white one. Karl brought it back from one of his trips to Georgetown. Heaven knows how it got to the wild shores of America, because the description suggests a Persian or Angora, with blue eyes. Mary adored it.”
“All sensible people adore cats,” said Penny. “Look at the way we spoil Ishtar.”
Ellen realized they were all strenuously keeping their eyes from a certain part of the kitchen. She turned. Sitting on the forbidden counter top was an elegant Siamese cat, leisurely devouring the strips of bacon Ellen had left to drain.
“Ishtar!” Ellen yelled, jumping up.
The cat gave her a disdainful look and left the counter, taking the last piece of bacon with her. Ishtar could move with the silence of a cloud, and her leaps were so effortless they gave the impression of levitation. When she was feeling surly, she clumped. Ellen never understood how one dainty eight-pound cat could walk like an elephant, but Ishtar could, and often did.
“Let us return,” said Jack, “to the cat of Mary. Do you suppose that really was her name?”
“Maria,” Penny suggested.
“Maybe.”
“I prefer to think of her that way,” Penny said.
“Think, don’t talk,” said Jack. “Go on, Ellen. The cat of Maria…”
Ellen looked down at her plate. Jack knew her too well; he sensed there was something on her mind. But she had no intention of telling any of them about the fugitive flash of white she had seen in the clearing where Mary had once lived. Jack was dubious enough about her decision to move into such a remote area.
“That’s all about the cat of Maria,” she said lightly. “If she had owned a nice fat pink pig, somebody would have found it uncanny. People talked about her, but nothing serious happened until her husband died suddenly and she was left a wealthy widow.
“They said she had murdered him. The idyll had gone sour; Karl was jealous and accused her of infidelity on several occasions. I think she was innocent of that. Most of the people in the village shunned her, and the men who might have disregarded her unholy reputation were in very practical awe of her husband. So I think Maria was faithful, in the literal physical sense. But there were quarrels—loud, violent arguments, with the lady shouting as fiercely as the gentleman. The maid overheard them, and her gossip in the village didn’t help Maria’s reputation.
“Yet there wasn’t much they could do about their suspicions. There were no doctors in that remote place and even if there had been, medical knowledge was primitive. Karl had no relatives to contest the simple will he left—‘every thing to my wife Mary’—and no handwriting experts to question the signature.
“Instead of selling his farm, or promptly remarrying, as a decent woman was supposed to do, Mary ran the business herself. She came out of her pretty parlor and rode the wagons and walked the fields like a man. She was the toughest master in the whole county and the most ruthless about collecting rents, and money due her. She could not be softened, not even by curly-headed kiddies begging her to give daddy a little more time. She hated children. She had only one soft spot, and that was for animals. Over the years she ran what must have been the first unofficial animal shelter in Virginia. Any sick, abandoned, or hurt animal found a home with her. She doctored them herself, with herbs and plants she gathered in the woods. And the wild animals repaid her. Hated as she was, she was safe from molestation while she harbored wolves and foxes and a lame wildcat she had nursed back to health.”
“Mo-other!” protested Penny.
“That’s what the story says,” Ellen said blandly. “Of course Maria’s skill with animals only strengthened her neighbors’ belief that she was in league with the Devil. So did her increasing prosperity. Everything she touched turned to gold, while her enemies had incredibly bad luck. Their cows went dry, their children sickened, their houses burned down.”
“How could she get farmhands?” Phil asked. “I remember we learned that there weren’t many slaves in the western parts of the state at that time, so she had to depend on hired labor. If they all hated her so much—”
“The operative word is ‘fear,’” said his father. “You kids are so damned lucky. You’ve never known poverty; you don’t understand how tyranny can intimidate and enslave. She had power because of her wealth, and her reputed supernatural gifts would give her an even stronger weapon. Pioneers lived on the ragged edge. Blighted crops and sterile animals could mean the difference between survival and starvation. If your children are hungry you’ll work for Satan himself—and lick his boots if he threatens to fire you.”
He glanced at Ellen and smiled faintly.
“Sorry, dear. I didn’t mean to turn your ghost story into a lecture.”
“I’m beginning not to like Maria,” said Penny. “If she was like that—”
“You can’t blame her,” Jack said. “What else could she do, a woman and an alien? She had to fight or go under.”
“You’re making her too real,” Ellen said.
“Wasn’t she real?”
“Oh, yes. At least her name is mentioned in property and tax records of the early eighteenth century. But the rest of it is only local legend.”
“Some legend,” said Penny appreciatively. “Come on, Mom, let’s hear the rest of it. My car pool will be here in a minute.”
Ellen tried to recapture her storytelling mood. She had been speaking literally when she accused Jack of making her main character too real. It was easier to be witty about a legend than a living human being, with human weaknesses and worries.
“Well,” she said slowly, “there came a time when Maria’s animal hospital was almost empty. She had done her work of healing too well; her patients had returned to the woods. One morning Maria failed to appear in the fields, where she was accustomed to supervise the workers. No one complained about her absence. They were happy to be left alone.
“Almost a week went by before some public-spirited busybodies decided they ought to investigate. Maria had no house servants; she had sent them packing when her husband died, and she lived, it was said, in a horrible state of squalor. When the committee approached the house they stopped short, appalled at what they saw.
“The house was surrounded by animals. Wolves, foxes, skunks, rats, even snakes—they sat and lay and sprawled in ranks about the silent house. On the front steps, like a general reviewing troops, sat the white cat.
“The intruders turned to go—to flee, as fast as they could. Behind them, blocking their retreat, was a big black bear.
“So they went to the house, with the animals crowding in behind them. They were witless with terror, but they had enough wits to know death when they saw it. Mary had been dead for almost a week. When the men came out, sick and horrified, the clearing was empty. There was not an animal in sight, not even a cat.”
Silence fell. Ellen’s audience exchanged glances. After a moment Jack got up from the table, reached for his hat, put it on, and then solemnly took it off.
“That’s even better than the one you used to tell about the vampire on Fourteenth Street,” said Phil appreciatively.
“How much of it did you make up?” asked Penny.
“Very little, believe it or not. My skeptical friend Ed doesn’t believe in ghosts, but he tells a good story. Of course he thinks the people who have reported manifestations are hysterical fools—”
“What sort of manifestations?” Jack interrupted. He was frowning.
“Nothing alarming. Apparently Maria is a rather lazy ghost.”
“What does she do? Rattle chains, howl in the night?”
“She doesn’t do anything. People have heard noises, that’s all. Laughter. Creaking floorboards. The conventional sounds from all the familiar ghost stories. Ed’s aunt, who lived there for fifty years, never heard anything.”
“Oh, come on.” Phil stared hopefully at her through a shaggy brown fringe. “Somebody must have heard something. Or seen something.”
“They see her cat,” Ellen admitted.
“The ghost of a cat?” Phil was disappointed. “That’s nothing to be scared of.”
“Not very convincing, either.” Jack relaxed, smiling. “You would think local scaremongers could come up with something more imaginative. There are too many stray cats.”
“What a rip-off,” Phil muttered. “I’ve always wanted to see a ghost.”
“You can console yourself, if you like, by searching for her grave,” Ellen said. She knew Jack was watching her closely, and her voice was deliberately light and casual. “She’s buried somewhere in the yard. They just dug a hole and dropped her in. She wouldn’t qualify for sanctified ground, I guess.”
“Hey,” said Phil, brightening.
His father kicked him.
“Forget it, you ghoul. There can’t be much left of the poor woman after all this time anyhow.”
“Aunt Ellen, you are wasted in your present life,” said Phil. “You ought to write for the Late Late Horror Movie.”
“Come on, Phil,” Jack said brusquely. “I know you’re doing your best to miss the school bus, but—”
“We haven’t heard the end,” Phil protested. “How did she die, Aunt Ellen? Not a natural death. That would be a rip-off.”
The sound of a horn outside announced the arrival of Penny’s car pool.
“She was murdered, of course,” Penny said, scooping up an armful of books. “Good-bye, everybody. See you later.”
She was gone before Ellen could get her wits together. Phil grinned.
“She’s got that crazy red shirt,” he said tolerantly. “She’ll put it on in the car, Aunt Ellen.”
“I didn’t see any shirt.”
“It was wadded up in her bookbag. You know how kids that age are, Aunt Ellen; they have to rebel.”
“It’s a wonder Penny hasn’t murdered you for those half-baked condescending cracks of yours,” his father said resignedly. “Get in the car, Phil. You’ve missed the bus but you aren’t going to miss any classes. I’ll drop you off on my way to work.”
Phil winked at his aunt and wandered out, hands in his pockets.
Ellen got up to clear the table. But the door had barely closed before it opened again. Jack poked his head in.
“How did she die?” he asked, in a whisper.
“You’re as bad as the kids. She committed suicide, as a matter of fact. Hanged herself. Or is it hung?”
“Damned if I know. Thanks. I couldn’t have done a thing today, wondering about it.”
Ellen stood at the door watching the car back down the driveway. The house was in one of Washington’s older suburban developments; lots of an acre or more in size and ten-year-old trees gave the area a charm the newer subdivisions lacked, despite the greater ostentation of the houses. Jack’s blue Buick paused at the end of the drive to let another car pass before it joined the trickle of work-bound commuters.
It would have been easy to stand in the doorway and enjoy a good, sentimental cry; but Ellen had promised herself not to indulge in this any oftener than she could help. With a grimace she turned to face a kitchen in the usual post-breakfast shambles—and a Siamese cat sitting on one of the abandoned chairs, forepaws primly planted on the table as she polished off the rest of Penny’s bacon.
“Bad cat,” said Ellen unenthusiastically.
Ishtar raised a seal-brown mask and stared at her with innocent blue eyes. After a cool appraisal, the cat decided that Ellen wasn’t going to go beyond insults; she returned to the bacon, and Ellen stood leaning against the door-frame, thinking.
