Authors: KATHY
Stitches In Time (36 page)
"Steeped leaves of the holy lotus. It brings love, peace, and understanding." Stargazer leaned forward and looked
earnestly at Adam. "I am so glad, Adam—I may call you that,
I
hope, it is a name full of spiritual meaning—I am so glad our prayers had their effect in softening your ill will."
"I wasn't hostile," Adam protested. "Just—uh—ignorant."
"And you have come to learn, to be informed. How wonderful! Deeper understanding can only lead to love and sympathy." She shook a playful finger at Adam. "But my psychic talents tell me more than you would disclose, Adam. You have another reason for coming here. You are in need of help. Confess! I will not think less of you, this world is given to us for our enjoyment, and the body is as important as the soul."
Adam started so that the cup wobbled in his hand, and Rachel was momentarily impressed. She reminded herself that it was the same method fortune-tellers and professional psychics employ—clever guesses, based on human psychology. Most people act out of self-interest, and in this case at least Adam was no exception.
Stargazer went wildly off the track with her next guess, though. "Something has disturbed the even course of your love. Do you doubt your young lady's fidelity? Does she question yours? Or is the trouble impotence?"
Rachel was afraid to look at Adam. He made a series of choking sounds before he was able to articulate clearly. "Uh—no. At least. . . No!"
Rachel decided to throw him to the wolves. He would probably prefer her suggestion to some of the alternatives. "I don't doubt him," she murmured. "Not really.
I
just want to make sure . . . There are spells to bind souls together, aren't there?"
There were indeed. Lots of spells. Their hostess, happy to have a receptive audience, might have rambled on indefinitely if the ringing of the doorbell had not reminded her of a previous engagement. She urged them to come back any time and, at Adam's request, supplied him with a
reading list. She even pressed a few of her own precious books on them.
"I hoped you're satisfied," Rachel said, as they returned to the car.
"She's a nice lady," Adam said simply. "She was trying to help us."
"You're hopeless." But Rachel's voice was gentle. "It was a waste of time."
"I'm not so sure. Turn right at the corner."
"It's the wrong way."
"I want to stop by that store she mentioned."
"The one that sells herbs and amulets? You aren't serious."
"Weren't you the one who was talking about multiple approaches? It can't do any harm to try." Adam had opened one of the books. "I did some reading last night after you guys went to bed. I didn't know—or if I did, I'd forgotten—how widespread some of these ideas are. (Left here, and then left again onto King Street.) The same elements recur over and over, from cultures widely separated in time and place—mojo bags, like the one she was wearing—Native Americans called them medicine bundles, Europeans charm bags or witches' sachets, people of African ancestry gris-gris or hands."
"I told you, magic has its own internal, consistent rules. The logic is based on false premises—"
"Oh, yeah?"
Rachel said no more.
Leesburg had a thriving tourist trade; the magic shop, as Rachel insisted on calling it, was in an area well-supplied with restaurants, boutiques, and specialty shops. The Eye of Horus appeared more prosperous than some of its neighbors, perhaps because it was the only one of its kind. The craft shops all seemed to be selling the same pottery and misshapen stuffed animals.
"Got any money?" Adam inquired. "I forgot my wallet."
"Five or ten bucks."
Adam slopped to look in the shop window. The theme that month appeared to be based on Tolkien and/or the northern mythology that had inspired his work. Mistletoe and holly, statues of wizards with long beards and longer staffs, a tree stump on which perched elves and fairies of various varieties and materials, plus the usual beads, crystals, candles, and bundles of herbs.
"I have a feeling that won't be enough," Adam said.
Rachel sighed. "I just paid my credit card bill."
"Great. I'll pay you back."
He paused to inspect the notices and advertisements pinned to the door. "Somebody is giving a workshop on Sacred Drum Making."
"I don't think Kara would stand for sacred drums," Rachel said.
"Alexander wouldn't like 'em either," Adam admitted. "How about an Intuitive Channeling Class given by an Ascended Master?"
"If you insist on doing this, let's get it over with."
Once inside Rachel left him to his own devices while she wandered around. Native American must be hot in the magic business this year; silver and turquoise jewelry filled several showcases, and artistically arranged displays of tomahawks and arrows adorned the wall. She was tempted to get Adam a tomahawk trimmed with bits of fur, or a T-shirt featuring a naked goddess.
When he requested her assistance in paying for his purchases, she saw they filled several large bags. Observing the total on the slip she signed, she said out of the corner of her mouth, "You'd better be good for this. What in heaven's name did you buy?"
"I'll show you later." Adam picked up the bags, smiled broadly at the clerk, who smiled broadly back at him, and led the way out.
"It's getting darker," Rachel said, as they walked toward the parking garage. "I hope Pat is back."
"He'll be all right." As soon as he got in the car Adam began digging around in one of the bags. He waited until she had stopped for a traffic light before looping something around her neck.
"What's that for?" Rachel looked cross-eyed at her chest. The beads were white and translucent and oddly shaped.
"Warding off evil," Adam said seriously. "They're pearls—baroque pearls, the lady said, that's why they're those funny shapes."
"Adam—"
"Well, it can't hurt, can it? Anyhow, I thought they were pretty. They look nice on you."
After a moment Rachel said, "Thank you. They are pretty."
Adam fished in the bag again. "I got lots of stuff," he said happily. "Including a few more books. This one looked interesting. She describes how to rob a graveyard."
"You're joking."
"No, no. And it's very practical, down-to-earth—excuse me—advice. You find an abandoned cemetery, like the old private cemeteries near eighteenth-century houses—plenty of them around here—and take a few friends with you to help with the digging. She recommends at least four flashlights, and pliers, and ropes to slip under the coffin once it's exposed."
"That's sick," Rachel said in disgust. "How old is that book?"
"Published in 1970."
"That's even sicker."
"She needed coffin nails for a spell. That's another of the recurring ingredients in hex magic." He turned a page. "Brandy."
"What?"
"Take along a flask of brandy. Yes, I suppose an occasional nip might be cheering under those circumstances . . . Wear jeans and a sweatband .. . She's right, digging is hard work. But you don't have to pull the coffin clear out, just raise it enough to get at the nails. That's where the pliers come in."
Rachel glanced at him in alarm. "Adam, you aren't seriously considering—"
"Well, no. We don't want to cast a death spell, we want to take one off." He skimmed the remaining pages. "She doesn't say anything about removing curses. This wasn't one of the books Stargazer recommended. I can see why. Her crowd doesn't approve of black magic."
"Neither do
I
."
"It's dangerous," Adam said. He sounded perfectly serious. "If you don't know what you're doing, or if your intended victim is properly protected, the curse can rebound onto you."
"Put that awful book away."
"There's Pat's truck," Adam said. "I can hardly wait to hear what he has to say about this."
thirteen
Pat had plenty to say, most of it profane, but the majority of his curses were directed at himself.
"I'm getting senile. Outthought by a chit of a girl, and in my own field! I don't know why the idea didn't occur to me. Yes, I do. I committed the same sin for which I have blasted innumerable quailing colleagues—forming a hypothesis without adequate evidence and then getting so stuck on my own theory I couldn't see anything else." He groaned dramatically, "'I am old, I am old; I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled
"Now that you've got that out of your system maybe we can proceed," Adam said unsympathetically. "Have you seen the quilt?"
Pat shook his head. He had been making himself a sandwich when they arrived; cartons, jars, bottles, and baggies littered the counter. "Don't put the pickles away," he ordered as Adam started to clear away the mess. "Hand 'em over. Thanks. No, I haven't. Kara had just finished telling me about your discoveries when a couple of customers arrived and she wouldn't give me the key to the workroom. As if I didn't have sense enough to be left in there alone!"
He bit savagely into his sandwich. Pickles crunched like dried bones.
"I'm with Kara," Adam said. "The damned thing is dangerous, Pat, and you do tend to rush in where angels fear to tread." Cheeks bulging, Pat glared at him, but he went on imperturbably. "We need to give this careful thought before we proceed. You want a sandwich, Rachel?"
"Yes. No. I don't care."
"I need something to take the taste of lotus leaves out of my mouth," Adam said. "Let's eat, and discuss the situation, and then we'll have show and tell."
Pat swallowed. "Might I inquire why you have been breakfasting on lotus leaves?"
Adam's account of how they had spent the morning produced another string of curses, directed this time at Adam. "You wasted your time, boy. And your money. What's all this junk?"
He reached for one of the bags. His face reddening, Adam snatched the bag away from him. "Never mind. Look, Pat, we're in no position to throw stones at anybody or discard any possible approach. Stop yelling and make like the expert you claim to be."
"Touche," Pat said mildly. He dusted the crumbs off his fingers. "If you guys are right, this case is not a parallel to the one in which I was involved some years ago. Mind you, I'm not saying you
are
right, but I am willing to admit that your hypothesis is worthy of consideration."
"I figured your humility and open-mindedness were only temporary," Adam jeered. "Rachel has a stronger case than you. The evidence supports her theory."
Pat leaned back in his chair and fixed his eyes on Rachel. She knew what he was trying to do—stare her down, get her to start talking, defend her theory. She also knew what he was thinking. She hadn't proved her case. Not all the evidence supported it.
She pressed her lips firmly together and stared silently back at Pat.
Tacitly acknowledging defeat, Pat transferred his hard stare to Adam. "I said it was worth considering. What we would have, then, is a classic example of ill-wishing, employing the standard ingredients of black magic. Theoretically the curse can be broken by employing the conventional counterspells."
"That's what I thought," Adam said, with a betraying glance at the bags of magical apparatus. "Such as?"
Pat's lecturer's pose wilted. "That's the trouble," he said querulously. "There are a lot of possibilities, some of them mutually contradictory."
"I might have known you'd start waffling as soon as we got down to practical advice." Adam's normally even temper appeared to be cracking. "What about burning the damned thing? Wouldn't that cancel the spell?"
"It might." Pat glanced at Rachel. He hadn't missed her involuntary movement of protest. "Or it might be the worst thing we could do. Burning one of the poppets—the magical dolls—killed the person it represented."
"This person is already dead," Adam said sourly.
"So, one may reasonably assume, is the individual who made the quilt."
"What does that have to do with it?" Adam demanded.
"Well." Pat shrugged. "In some cases the destruction of the ensorceled object—witches' ladder, hex bag, whatever—turns the curse back on the perpetrator."
"That would be fine with me," Adam said. "But what you seem to be saying, if I understand that welter of contradictions, is that burning the ensorceled object (what a pompous phrase!) could have one effect or its exact opposite—and you don't know which."
"Magic is not an exact science," Pat said, visibly amused.
"How about burying it?" Adam persisted.
"You're being too simplistic. The physical actions are only one part of a magical performance. The spoken spell, the words, are equally important. The third element is perhaps the most vital—the powerful emotion felt by the magician—passion and desire in the case of love magic, bitter hatred in cursing. The emotion must be intense, focused—hurled, like a spear, at the intended victim. According to some theories, this last is not only necessary but sufficient; the other elements, words and actions, only assist in concentrating the magician's mental powers." He was silent for a moment and then he said soberly, "Mind over matter. There's some truth in that; we are just beginning to learn how much. If a man can wish himself to death, or control certain functions of his body by positive thinking, what else may he be able to do?"