In that moment, we emerged from the silent, uneasymaking woods.
“There’s my house,” said Magda.
I confess to being startled by the sight. Not so much by the house itself as by the sweeping expanse of lawn leading up to it. I had never seen such a wide, open lawn extending to a cottage. Not that Magda’s house struck me as being a cottage. It was, in fact, more like a Victorian mansion. Backed up against a tree-thick woods that stretched to the stream (I later learned). The house—I can’t, in conscience, describe it as a cottage—was a mix of brick and timbering, the upper floor supported by iron brackets, the roof made of red tiles, the two brick chimneys tall and ornamental. The front door entrance was obscured by an archway on each side of which were hedges shaped like baby carriages—or “prams,” as I suppose they were called back then. A dirt path led to the archway, a narrow stream of water flowing across it.
“Very nice,” I said. “Did you have it built?”
“No, no.” She smiled in amusement. “It was built in 1857. I purchased it six years ago. That is, my husband purchased it.” She paused. “He died some years ago.” Was that addendum meant for me? Probably not; I let the idea go.
* * *
There were dried leaves fastened to the door. “What are they for?” I asked. Naïvely.
“For protection,” she said, opening the door.
I knew immediately—without seeing more than the hint of a smile on her lips—that she was teasing me. “From the fay-eries?” I said, trying (and failing) to sound serious.
She laughed softly. “I thought you’d believe that,” she said.
“Not quite,” I said. “Almost.”
“Come in, my dear,” she told me in a deliberately creaking voice.
Plump and ready for the oven, I thought of replying. I didn’t say it, though. The joke had gone beyond the pale. For me, anyway.
It had for Magda, too. “Oh, do come in, Mr. White,” she said in her normal (warm) voice. “I may end up kissing you discreetly, but I won’t be roasting you for dinner.”
“Glad to hear it,” I replied. I wasn’t really mollified. (Is that the word?) Kissing me discreetly? Was that appropriate flirtation? She was old enough to be my mother. And Mother would never flirt with a teenage boy. Would she?
At any rate, regardless of my frame of mind, I entered the cottage of Magda Variel.
My first reaction was as follows: Jesus, it’s so gloomy! It was. So much so that, initially, I could not see anything. Then my vision focused and I saw—not clearly, but barely—shelves of books, crammed with dark leather volumes, several chairs, a sofa (I’m not sure what they called it back then), and a large round table.
What I did see—very visibly—was a painting, above the mantel of an oversize fireplace. I saw it so visibly because on each side of it was a glass-encased candle, burning and illuminating the painting.
It was the portrait of a young man—about my age, I guessed, delicately handsome—I can’t think of a better way to describe him. It was as though some fastidious Renaissance artist had chosen to describe an angel on Earth—innocent and beautiful. That was Edward. He was attired in (how perfect) Edwardian finery, looking very elegant, indeed. And smiling. A most pleasant smile that—predictably, I later realized—reminded me of Magda’s pleasing smile. I knew, in an instant, who it was—her son who had (as Joe had told me) died in the war.
“You’re looking at Edward,” Magda said, breaking into what had been a noticeable silence on my part.
“Yes,” I said. “He died in the war, didn’t he?” I winced at the temerity of my remark. What if I was wrong?
But I wasn’t. Magda’s questioning took on an edge. “How did you know that?” she asked. Close to demanded.
“Well”—I felt compelled to lie; I don’t know exactly why—“I was in France. And the portrait hanging there is like a…” The word eluded me.
“A shrine?” said Magda. I felt that I had truly offended her. There was only one solution: the truth. I told her that the man who repaired the roof tiles on my cottage said that there “was a woman” who had lost her son in France.
I must have said it convincingly, a gift (or a failing) I have when speaking the truth; Magda relaxed quickly—I could see as she lit an oil lamp on the table. “I’m sorry,” she said, as though she had done something objectionable. “It’s still a painful subject to me. Edward did die in France, in 1917. He was about your age. It came close to breaking my heart.”
“I’m sorry, too,” I said. “I spoke too abruptly. It was rude of me.”
Her hand grasped mine. She was strong, I could tell. Before, her grip had been restrained. Now, it almost hurt.
I must have winced—or made a sound of distress—because, immediately, the grip of her hand relaxed. “I’m sorry, did I hurt you?” she asked in concern.
“You’re strong,” was my deflected answer.
“I was disturbed,” she told me. “It won’t happen again.”
It won’t, because I doubt I’ll be coming here again, came the immediate thought. Too many discomforting distractions (not a bad combination). She was beautiful, all right. That was one of the distractions. Kiss me discreetly? Would discreetly be enough for a healthy (healing wound aside) eighteen-year-old male whose physical experience in France had amounted to nothing other than occasional solo gratifications?
At any rate, with that (unaware of my decision), Magda gave me a conducted tour of the house. I have already indicated what I saw of the main room. In improved lamplight, I saw them all more clearly, notably the floor-to-ceiling bookshelves packed with bound leather volumes; black leather, as I said. Window-covering drapes in scarlet linen, a pair of red-upholstered antique chairs on each side of the fireplace, the sofa (or whatever it was called back then), odd-looking objects (d’art?) across the fireplace mantel. The rest was nothing special to my eye, except, of course, the portrait of Magda’s son, hanging over the fireplace mantel, framed, I could now see, in what appeared to be decorated gold. I had an instant impression (precursor to my Arthur Black conceits) perhaps that Mr. Brean’s vanishing gold had, somehow, been magically whisked to Magda’s house and converted to a picture frame. I dismissed the notion, irritated at myself. Foolish idea.
The tour was conducted on; nothing special. A voluminous kitchen; I’ll describe later. A library. I got the impression that it was, for some reason, off-limits to visitors. A bathroom with the obvious equipment: a commode plus a sink and bathtub, the tub sitting on what appeared to be four pterodactyl claws. The room smelled very sweet; again, for obvious reasons, I assumed. A far cry from the trench smell. You could slice that. A study—more floor-to-ceiling shelves of books, black leather bound, of course, a most roomy desk and antique chair.
“Nothing special,” I said? Until we reached the bedroom, Magda’s bedroom. Dimly lit; she made no move to light the candles—two of them, one hanging overhead, one on a table to the left of the bed.
The bed. That was special, reader. In the faintness of visibility, it looked, to me, like the brothel of a queen—or empress. Though I doubt queens or empresses converted their sleeping quarters into brothels. (I’m not positive.)
How to describe the bed? First of all, it had a canopy of silk plush. Next, the bedcover looked to be the same material, its surface embroidered with arcane symbols I could not make out and was hesitant to ask about. Finally—I mention it last—the bed surface was immense enough to sleep at least three hefty figures, assuming that they ever slept on such evocative acreage.
Let me add that the carpeting in the room—what I could see of it—was nineteenth-century gros point, Magda later told me; I was hardly an expert on English carpeting. In a corner of the room was a red-upholstered chair, next to it, a six-sided table. On which sat a crystal bottle half filled with some dark red liquid, several crystal glasses, and a small pile of books, bound in you know what by now. I must admit that I did not catch sight of all these things at the time. I saw them later.
“So?” said Magda.
“Yes?” was all I could think of in response.
“You like my house?” she asked.
“Yes, I do.” I managed to pretend.
“And this room?” Her tone was definitely suggestive, conclusion jumped.
I swallowed. Tried, anyway. My throat was bone dry. “Exotic,” I answered. It came out as a throat-clogged mutter.
“What did you say?” she asked.
I cleared my throat, trying—hard—to think of a better word. I couldn’t. “Exotic,” I repeated. This time audibly.
“Good,” she said. “That was Edward’s notion.”
Edward’s notion? I didn’t—or didn’t care to—understand.
“He was very artistic.” Magda explained, “He decorated much of the house. Come.” She moved to the bed and sat down, patting the mattress.
Brainless hesitation on my part. I was a standard-model teenage male. I should have jumped (or something) at the chance. I didn’t, though. Did my subconscious (or superconscious) pick up something that alerted me? No idea. But I didn’t move. I couldn’t. For some reason, I didn’t dare. I know it sounds dumb, but it’s true.
“Oh, Alex, please,” she said. She sounded genuinely hurt. “You’re still afraid? I’m old enough to be your mother. I’m not about to ravish you. Or hurt you in any way. I just want you to see how comfortable the mattress is.”
“I’m sorry,” I said. Not sure what I was sorry for.
“Well, never mind.” She stood. “You’ll want to go.”
Oh, God, I thought. I’ve really offended her this time. “I’m sorry,” I said again. Uncertain, it came out flat as a board.
She took my right arm with a gentle grasp. (A workable combination? No.) “I’ll take you to the door.”
By then, I felt really stricken with guilt. She’d been so cordial. Who was I—?
The thought evaporated with her next words; they made me feel even worse. “I was going to offer you some tea and cakes,” she said, “but I know you’d prefer to leave.”
Words tangled in my brain. My apology, Magda, I’ve been thoughtless. Please forgive me. Even worst of all—I’d love to try the mattress! Thank God the jumble of abject apologies stifled that one. I still felt lousy but remained mute (blessedly so) as she led me to the front door and released my arm. “It’s been lovely meeting you,” she said. It sounded less. “Come again when you feel safe about it,” she finished. She kissed me lightly on the cheek. “There—was that discreet enough?” she said. With that, she closed the door on me.
I trudged back to the main path, immersed in gloom. What had I done? I kept remonstrating myself. Stupid idiot. Just because she patted the damn bed? I knew it was more than that but ignored the more. I knew something had prevented me from staying but had no idea what that something was. I felt uncomfortable moving through the silent woods. Go ahead, I thought irrationally. Rustle all you want, who cares?
Reaching the main path, I turned toward my cottage. If my way had been blocked by a quartet of leering wee folk, I’d have angrily booted them in the ass and told them to get lost. Fortunately, nothing blocked my way and I walked, unimpeded, to my cottage.
Chapter Ten
As if my anger and depression were not sufficient, I received an additional jolt upon arriving at the cottage. I was about to open the door when, startling me, it opened by itself, or seemed to. I jumped back with a hollow cry as a figure appeared from the shadowy interior. Before I could stop my heart from pounding, I saw that it was Joe. “Whoa!” he said, surprised to see me. He smiled involuntarily. “It’s you,” he went on. “You startled me.”
I blew out heated breath. What the hell are you doing here? my brain demanded. The roof is done. Looking for more work?
“I brought you some food,” Joe said. “Thought you might be out. Got you bread and cheese, a bottle of milk, some ham.”
It didn’t help my frame of mind to add a measure of guilt to it. The man had done something nice for me, and here I was mentally lambasting him. “Thank you,” I muttered. It came out totally unconvincing.
He changed the subject after saying, “Welcome,” and gestured toward the path. “Been out walking again?” he said. I sensed that he was merely being polite.
I nodded; barely. “Yes.”
“Didn’t go into the woods, I hope,” he said.
“No.” I shook my head, barely. Then—perversity be my name—I decided, on impulse, to tell him all. “I did go into the woods. To Magda Variel’s house.” There, I thought. Make of that what you will.
What he made of it came as a total shock. “Magda Variel’s house,” he said.
“Yes,” I said, mentally daring him to criticize.
“Not a good idea,” he said.
I couldn’t hold in my resentment. “Why?” I believe I ordered.
“Because she’s a witch,” said Joe.
For several moments—an eternity, it seemed—I stood frozen, staring at him. Then blank reaction deepened to fierce rancor, to fury, to absolute wrath. “Oh, that’s too much,” I told him in a clotted voice.
“You don’t believe me,” he observed. It wasn’t difficult to see.
“I do not,” I responded, using, without realizing, one of Father’s oft-repeated phrases.
“You should,” he said.
Ire mounted in me. First, little people in the woods. Now, a witch? What next? A dragon in downtown Gatford?
“Young man, listen to me,” Joe began.
“No,” I interrupted vehemently. “You listen to me.” (Another of the Captain’s incessant phrases.) “I just spent close to an hour in Magda Variel’s house, and a nicer woman I haven’t known since my mother. And she’s old enough to be my mother! She showed me her house and was charming—absolutely charming. She was going to give me tea and cakes, then I said something that hurt her feelings and she sent me home—” I grimaced. “—to my cottage, I mean.”
“Young man,” Joe started again.
I broke in on him once more. “You might be interested to know that she said the same thing about faeries that you did. I’m still not sure about them. But listen, Joe. She’s a lovely woman with a lovely personality. Don’t tell me she’s a witch! That’s ridiculous!”
“All right,” he said in a quiet voice. “Find out for yourself.”
His confidence unhinged me, I admit. “Why do you say this?” I asked.
“Listen,” he said. That it sounded neither angry nor flustered bothered me. I admit again. “She wasn’t always this way. She and her husband and their little boy were much liked in the village. They had people to their house for dinner. They visited other people. She was a substitute teacher at the children’s school.”
He paused. The silence wracked me. It was so silent.
“Then her husband died. An accident. The horse he was riding fell, its neck was broken. Her husband lingered for a week. Then he died.”
Another silence, heavy and discomforting.
“She lived in seclusion [God, he did know words] with her son. Then, on his eighteenth birthday, he enlisted in the army. His mother tried to talk him out of it, but he was adamant. [Another unexpected word from a simple farmer.] He left Gatford, went to France. In a month, he was killed. Mrs. Variel fell apart. She stayed alone in her house. And became a witch.”
Now he lost me again. “Became a witch?” I contested, “How does one become a witch?”
“Maybe she’ll tell you,” he said. Now his voice was edged with resistance. I’d injured Magda’s feelings. Now I’d injured Joe’s. Perfect day. I watched him walk away.
I still didn’t believe it, though. In memory, I retraced each step of my afternoon with Magda from the moment I met her at the path to her house until the moment she’d put me out. Had she said or done anything … well, witchlike? I simply could not visualize her wearing a coned black hat, riding a broom, and conversing with an indigo cat. She was lovely. I was an idiot not to sit on that mattress beside her. Who
knows what fervid moments might have ensued? But a witch? It was—to quote myself—ridiculous!
* * *
The resentful disbelief of later afternoon led to the bizarre event of the evening. Still feeling cranky and charged with righteous anger, I walked to the Golden Coach, taking into no consideration the fact that I would have to find my way home (Home—ha!) in the dark. I wanted—needed—a drink to wash away my guilt and aggravation. I was mad. And madness in a young man—this one, anyway—can be prodigious. And detrimental.
So there was I, in company with barkeep Tom and several other Gatford worthies, when the trio of louts came in. I call them louts, but that is probably unjust. I would have estimated any three young men as louts because of my stretched-thin temperament that evening. It was, therefore, with the best of intention, I’m sure, that one of the three approached and said (politely—I’m also sure), “We hear that you participated in The Great War.”
I confess that laid me low. “Great—War?” I murmured. Instantly prepared to hurl him through the window. At least.
“My chums and I are planning to enlist,” he told me.
“You are” was all I could say. Great War? Jesus!
“We want to help put the filthy Boche in their place.”
Yes, I thought. The filthy Boche. In their place. I considered tossing my ale in his smiling face. Punching out his sparkling lights (eyes).
But he was so polite, so GD polite. Also, he was twice my size, a bulky, overmuscled farm lad. And he did say “help” put the filthy Boche in their place. At least he wasn’t planning to put them in their place all by himself. Or with his two companions. Generous of them.
So I chose to speak with them. Not kindly or sincerely. Speak, however, when the young “lad” (as Joe would, doubtless, have called him) asked for information re their intention to “confront the bloody Triple Alliance.” Not quite so colorful as “filthy Boche,” but a deal more accurate.
“Let’s see, now,” I began. “First of all, it seems to rain a lot. I’ve heard it said that the explosions do something to the clouds. Maybe, maybe not. It does rain a lot, though. The trenches get muddy. Not so nice. The food is pretty awful, too. Slumgullion is the worst. You’ll find out. And the explosions? Caused by mortar shells or hand grenades. They can do some harm.”