Stitches In Time (34 page)

twelve

Adam was trying hard, but old ingrained habits weren't
easy to overcome. He continued to argue, with himself as much as with Rachel, as they wended their way to the workroom.

"Witchcraft. The Old Religion. Curses and spells and . . . All right, okay, I don't know as much about the subject as you and Pat do, but. .. What's that?"

"A mask," Kara said. "Put it on. And these gloves." "And," Rachel added, "don't bother pointing out that she is using modern rational methods of dealing with an irrational theory. The contamination may be purely mental— psychic, rather—but there could be a physical source. I think there is. That's why I want to have a closer look at the quilt—not the patterns but the actual physical fabric of it."

The fabric had stopped dripping, but it was still waterlogged and heavy. Rachel bent over to examine one of the corner squares. Then she took a firm grip on the edges and looked at Kara.

"I'm going to tear it," she said. "I'll pay you back."

"Ten bucks?" Kara smiled wryly. "Do what you have to do."

Rachel gave the fabric a sharp yank. Transferring her grip to other parts of the cloth, she pulled and tugged and pressed until the corner section was almost as flat as it had been before Mrs. Wilson's disastrous attempt at cleaning. Heat had shrunk not the fabric but the threads that held it together. Already weakened, they snapped instead of stretching, leaving gaps in the even lines of quilting and freeing the shaped pieces of the appliqued picture from the backing. An involuntary groan came from Kara.

"I'm sorry," Rachel murmured.

"It was ruined anyway. What are you looking for?" Kara asked, watching Rachel insert a finger under a loosened piece of fabric.

"Confirming a hypothesis." Before Kara could protest, Rachel stripped off the rubber glove. "Don't worry, I've already caught it—whatever it is—and I need bare hands for this. If what I expect to find is here, it is very small."

Turning to Adam, who was watching in open-mouthed fascination, she explained, "See the way the front columns of the little temple are raised, so that they look three dimensional, closer to the viewer than the columns in back? That's what they call trapunto—inserting cord or cotton under the fabric. Like this." Ruthlessly she ripped out the remaining threads and extracted the stuffing material. It retained its columnar shape, approximately two inches long and half an inch wide, until Rachel pulled it apart.

"Cotton," Kara said. "Raw cotton, straight from the fields. Typical of southern quilts of that period. Stained, like the quilt. What are you looking for?"

"I'm beginning to get an idea," Adam said in a stifled voice. "You won't find it in an architectural element, Rachel. Try this."

His gloved finger jabbed at the figure of the veiled rider.

Rachel turned to look at him. He had combed his hair
back from his forehead, and his eyes, wide-set under curving dark brows, looked larger, the pupils bright greenish-brown against the clear white around them. His nose was wrinkled, as if he had smelled something unpleasant.

"You're right," she said. Picking up a pair of sharp scissors, she clipped the threads that held the rider's bodice to the cloth.

The three-dimensional effect was modest and subtle; only a small amount of stuffing had been used. It was not cotton. With a cry Rachel dropped the bundle of crushed threads.

"Hair!"

"Human hair," Adam corrected. Gloved fingers clumsy, he plucked at the intertwined mass until he separated a single strand. "It's too fine to be horsehair. And it is— was—blond."

White-faced, Rachel wiped her fingers on her shirt. She had expected something of the sort, but had not anticipated it would take this precise form. Hair as brittle and dead as the bones of the woman from whose head it had come, hair that had once been sleek and shining, springing back under the strokes of the brush, clinging to the fingers .. .

She'd brush and play with it, curling the ends around her fingers, drawing it over her shoulders and then throwing it back, turning in front of the mirror so she could see it hanging down her back, clear to the waist. Fine hairs caught in the brush like a golden net, a net to bind her soul...

". . . Classic sympathetic magic," Adam said. "Hair and other body parts retain the identity, the soul imprint, of the person to whom they belonged. Strange, isn't it, that modern science has arrived at a similar conclusion? DNA—those tiny scraps of genetic material, unique to each individual, complete in each strand of hair and drop of blood ..."

"Don't get philosophical on me," Kara said sharply. "Do you mean this was her hair—the woman for whom the quilt was made?"

"I'd bet money on it," Adam said. "And I'm not a betting man. You've heard about the dolls made by magicians for the purpose of injuring the person they represented? They would put hair, fingernail clippings, any body parts they could get, into the doll in order to make the connection stronger. Stick a pin in the doll and the person feels pain in the corresponding area of his body. Burn or bury or destroy the doll . . . Well, you get the idea. She didn't make a doll. She made this."

"The woman on the horse represents the recipient?"

"In the magical sense, the pictured rider
was
the woman. Blinded and under attack." Adam's eyes shone. He had forgotten his disgust in fascination. "I've read about it, but this is the first time I've seen an actual example. Can I borrow the scissors?"

He took them from Rachel's unresisting hand. "What do you think? The bleeding hearts? Symbolic, but then the whole thing is a matter of symbols."

"They aren't raised," Rachel murmured. "Try the bluebirds' wings."

Each wing contained, amid the cotton, a tiny scrap of translucent hornlike substance. "There are your fingernail clippings," Adam breathed. "Let's see what else we've got."

Some of the raised sections held nothing, at least nothing they could identify. The cord under a depiction of a golden ring—the break in its surface so small it could only be seen with a magnifying glass—proved to be a fine strand of braided hair. The shaped trunk of a stately oak tree, around which a rose twined coyly, yielded a tiny scrap of cloth bearing a dark stain, and the dried, flaking body of some sort of insect.

"Pricked herself with a needle, maybe?" Adam inquired,
putting the scrap carefully into an envelope Kara had provided. "Can't identify the bug; I guess it was supposed to multiply and chew out the innards of the tree."

"That's enough," Kara said. She looked sick.

"Enough," Adam agreed, adding the other specimens to the collection in the envelope. "Rachel's proved her point."

"Not quite." Rachel hadn't spoken for so long her voice sounded strange to her. "One thing more. Help me turn it over."

The remains of what had been a unique piece of art flopped limply as they turned it, helpless and dead as a once-living body. The rips and stains were like wounds, and even though she knew it had to be done, even though the quilt was already beyond repair, Rachel had to force herself to insert the sharp tip of the tool into the homespun weave of the backing. The tool was one Cheryl used for ripping out stitches; it slid through the fabric with a faint tearing sound. Rachel cut another slit at right angles to the first and folded the fabric back.

"That's not the back of the front," Kara said with a puzzled frown. "I mean, it's not—"

"I know what you mean," Rachel said.

"I don't," Adam said.

"There are usually three layers in a quilt," Rachel explained. "The front, with its appliqued or pieced pattern, the filling or batting, and the backing. In quilts like these, where the aim was beauty instead of utility, they sometimes omitted the filler. An additional layer would have made the fabric too thick for the tiny, even stitches that were demanded. But this quilt seems to have a layer of filler. What we're looking at is the back of that inner layer."

With even greater care she cut a section out of the inner layer. Underneath was what appeared to be a fourth layer of cloth—coarse, brownish-black instead of white.

"That's where the gray dust came from," Rachel said. "There are two inner layers, not one, with this between them. She sprinkled it on the fabric before she quilted the pieces together—wet it and let it dry, perhaps, so it would harden. They used a horizontal frame for the actual quilting, so the—the stuff stayed in place."

"What is it?" Kara asked.

A
moonless night as the teaching said, only starlight to guide her through the maze of tree trunks, through the gate, into the enclosure dark with
shadows
and something worse. Stumbling over fallen stones, crouching to tear away the matted grass and weeds, the gritty soil settling deep under her nails...

Rachel swallowed. "Graveyard dirt."

Adam had made coffee, but he was the only one drinking it. Rachel had refused and Kara had gone straight to the liquor cabinet.

"I know I drink too much," she muttered. "It's an occupational hazard in Washington. But tonight I deserve it."

"How do you know?" Adam looked at Rachel.

Darkness, faint sounds in the night that might have been the wind or a muffled voice from deep underground.
..

The image came and went in a measureless interval of time, so quickly that not even Rachel was conscious of delay before she answered.

"It fits the pattern. Fingernail clippings and hair from the intended victim, dirt from a grave to cast a death spell. Magic is a pseudo-science; it has its own distorted logic, its rules and methodology. Pat wasn't the first scholar to point that out, but he discussed it at length in his last book."

"And in his notorious lectures on magic, science, and religion," Adam said. "It used to be one of the most popular courses on campus. He did demonstrations. In costume."

Diverted, Rachel demanded further details. "Surely he didn't mash toads or drain the blood of a white cockerel?"

"Good heavens, Rachel!" Kara exclaimed.

"Those are popular ingredients," Rachel said. "I haven't mentioned the most disgusting."

"He used a rubber chicken," Adam said reminiscently. "And tomato juice. He chanted, too. Some of the parents complained to the dean."

"I should think so," Kara murmured. "I hate to think what he'll do when he finds out about this. I suppose if there are standard formulae for cursing there are also formulae for removing a curse? I can't believe I'm saying this," she added morosely.

"That's right," Adam said eagerly. "Rachel is absolutely right. I've been reading up on it—"

"So why don't you let her talk?" Kara inquired. "You said she's the expert."

"Oh. Sorry."

"There are ... ways," Rachel said slowly. "Different ways. Magic isn't a science, of course. There aren't any scientific formulae."

"What ways?" Adam demanded.

"Well. . . prayer."

"Prayer," Adam repeated. Rachel had never seen that look on his face, or heard such bitter cynicism in his voice.

"Counterspells, if you prefer. Appeals to the powers of light for protection."

"I do prefer," Adam said shortly. "But not by much. The quilt and the garbage we found in it are physical objects. There must be a physical response. What would happen if we destroyed the damned thing? Buried it, burned it—"

"I don't know!" Rachel shouted.

The others stared at her in surprise. She knew, or thought she knew, why Adam's suggestion had induced such a violent reaction, but she couldn't tell them. Not yet.

Moderating her voice, she explained, "We can't risk doing anything until we're sure. Destroying it might have precisely the wrong effect."

"Okay, okay," Adam said quickly. "You're right again. Our relationship may founder on that shoal, you know. It's very annoying to live with someone who is always right."

His attempt to lighten the atmosphere didn't succeed. Kara, nursing her drink, scowled at him, and Rachel snapped, "I'm just trying to be logical. Rushing into action could be a fatal mistake. We've got several more days, there's no sense in taking chances. Pat may come up with something useful."

"I thought you said he was wasting his time."

"I didn't say that, I said it wasn't the only way of going at this. There are ..."

Her voice faded, and Adam watching her with concern, finished, "Other ways. Yeah, right. Speaking of Pat, did anyone check the answering machine? He said he'd call tonight."

Pat hadn't called, but there were several other messages, one of which almost succeeded in taking Rachel's mind off her more imminent problem. Phil was at his most pompous and precise. "I hope you've come to your senses and are ready to apologize for that outrageous business the other night. I've moved back into the house in College Park; the others are still away, and I saw no sense in paying good money for a motel. You can call me here. If you choose not to, you'll have to live with your decision. I won't call you again."

It wasn't the final message, but Adam pressed the stop switch and looked relieved. "That's good news. We've heard the last of him."

"Maybe not," Kara said slowly. "I don't like the sound of that. It could be an implicit threat."