Chasing the White Witch (8 page)

"C
laire
, I always thought you were nuts, but now I'm completely convinced you have serious psychological issues!” said Hollis as soon as the door slammed shut behind us. “You are definitely in need of major therapy! If you needed a cup of coffee that desperately, all you had to do was —”

I stood there grinning ear to ear, dangling the mug by its handle between my thumb and index finger. “For your information,” I interrupted, “this mug is going to get us everything we need. And for what it's worth, you are starting to sound like Paula-Jean …”

Hollis wouldn't have guessed it, but that last part was actually a compliment. She glared at me like she wanted to throttle me — and she may very well have, had curiosity not gotten the better of her. “And how exactly is it going to do that?” she demanded. “Is it going to start talking to us? No, wait. I know. Now you're a psychic and you're going to read our future in the coffee grinds! Or better yet, the mug is going to lead us to the White Witch like some sort of divining rod …”

I ignored her rant and entered the pizzeria next door. It was nearly lunchtime, after all, and my stomach had been growling forever. Hollis followed me, continuing her tirade. I ordered two pepperoni strombolis and two bottles of water from the kind-looking lady behind the counter. Hollis sure was costing me a lot of money. My tattoo-removal money was dwindling. I'd be stuck with my hypothetical bad ink for a few years longer than I was planning. Maybe I should just stick to temporary tattoos. Or perhaps a nice, conservative tongue-piercing.

All the while, Hollis didn't let up, blathering on and on — something about me being a pathological kleptomaniac — until we were seated in a booth, the coffee cup placed strategically in the centre of the table. She took a bite of her stromboli, apparently appeased for the moment by the hot, gooey cheese, and unwilling to talk with her dainty mouth full. I took the opportunity to get out my little green book and flip through the pages, locating exactly what I was searching for. Hollis and the clown may have stuck a wrench in my original plan, but I had another plan — a better plan. One that involved a little bit of magic.

I passed the book to Hollis just as she was taking a sip of her water. I watched her eyes scan the title, but then the spray of water exploding from her mouth forced me to shut my eyes.

“A spell?” she choked. Her already high-pitched voice reached new altitudes. “You're going to cast a
spell
on the
clown?
”

“Not just
a
spell —
this
spell,” I said casually, chewing a hunk of stromboli then dabbing at my face with my paper napkin. “And not
me
—
we
. Need I remind you that you have a vested interest in this mission?” I left the book open in front of her.

We ate the rest of our food in silence. I could tell Hollis was in the middle of some sort of inner struggle. When she was finished eating, she glowered at me defiantly, all the while rubbing her left fingertips with her right hand. She picked up the book up and read the spell out loud.

Charm Spell

1 cup whole wheat flour

1/2 cup of salt

1/3 cup of water

Place the flour in a wooden bowl. Holding the salt in one hand, allow it to slip through your fingers. Pour the water in slowly. All the while chanting:

Flour is earth, nourishment, innocence;

Salt is purity, power, protection;

Water is life, desire, emotion.

Using finger tips, mix ingredients while imagining your intended. Fashion a talisman from the dough. Let dry overnight.

Close your eyes. Clear your mind. While holding a personal belonging of the intended in one hand and the talisman in the other, chant the following lines three times:

Defences destroyed,

Walls worn,

Ramparts rendered,

Shields shorn,

Open thyself to my suggestions

Surrender thy thoughts to my will and intentions.

*Note: Of all spells, charm spells are the most challenging. They require absolute concentration. Confused minds cast confused spells.

“Lovely,” said Hollis. “Now, tell me again what you hope to achieve by this ridiculous action?”

“Simple,” I said. “I'm going to charm the clown into giving us the post office box number and any other information he has on the White Witch.”

“Simple,” she repeated. “So, er, Ms. Genius, have you given any thought as to where you're going to get the ingredients?”

“Pfft!” I scoffed, holding up the salt shaker and scanning the restaurant. “Need I remind you we're in a pizzeria?”

“Fine. And you're just going to go up to the counter and ask for a cup of whole wheat flour.”

I smiled at her and stood up. I sauntered up to the counter, exchanged a few pleasantries with the kindly lady, and then returned with two paper cups — a large one containing flour, a small one filled with water.

Hollis shook her head in disbelief. I couldn't tell if she was thoroughly amazed or just plain jealous.

“Okay. So you have flour, salt and water …”

“Don't forget the clown's personal belonging,” I said, tilting my head toward the coffee cup.

“But you're supposed to let the talisman dry overnight. Have you thought about that Ms. Genius? And what about the note — the warning …”

“Details, shmeetails,” I said. “We can't worry about every little thing. We have a charm spell to cast, an address to get, and a witch to see.”

I unscrewed the salt shaker and poured the contents in my right hand. A little spilled and, being mildly superstitious, I grabbed a pinch with my left hand and tossed it over my shoulder. Luckily, there was no one seated there. I'd tossed some salt over my left shoulder once and hit Jordan right in the eye. The ensuing episode wasn't pleasant to say the least. I shuddered at the thought.

“Um, Claire,” said Hollis. “You'd better hurry. Remember he goes to the hospital over his lunch and it's almost noon.”

“Right,” I said, picking up the pace and just plopping the remaining salt into the cup, dumping the water in and stirring with one hand to create a pasty dough. All the while I mumbled: “Flour is earth, nourishment, innocence; salt is purity, power, protection; water is life, desire, emotion …”

“Eew. Disgusting,” sneered Hollis, as I lifted out my sticky, slimy hand.

I kept on mixing and chanting until I'd formed a mass of dough dense enough to sculpt into a clown.

“There. The legs, the arms, the head …” I said. “
Et voilà!
One talisman ready to go.”

“It's not dry, Claire. His arms are drooping and his head is tilting. It looks like it's going to fall off …”

She reached over, but I slapped her hand away. “It's perfect. We don't have any time left, so here.” I held the coffee cup in one hand and the talisman in the other and motioned for Hollis to place her hands on them as well. She reluctantly co-operated. “Now close your eyes and clear your mind.”

“That should be easy for you,” she muttered under her breath.

“Hilarious. Now will you focus and start chanting?”

Anyone looking on must have thought we were lunatics. I didn't really care — I was getting kind of used to it — but I'm sure Hollis was mortified. I sneaked a peek at her at one point and caught her scanning the restaurant.

“Keep your eyes shut!” I said in the middle of the third round.

“How would you know I had my eyes open unless you had yours open?”

“Stop arguing!” I said, completing the final verse on my own. “Surrender thy thoughts to my will and intentions …”

We both opened our eyes fully and sat staring at one another, still clutching the coffee cup and the drooping talisman that had lost its head during the ceremony.

“This is so not going to work,” sighed Hollis.

I raised my eyebrows and grinned. “We'll see about that.”

Y
ou're
under my power … you're under my power … you're under my …

With the coffee cup hidden behind my back, I swung open the dingy door and charged up the dark staircase, taking the steps two at a time.

My will and intentions … my will and intentions … my will and …

Hollis was right behind me, huffing and panting and dragging her left foot to keep up. She was sicker than I thought, or seriously out of shape. I hoped it was the latter.

The address of the White Witch … the address of the White Witch … the address of the …

My mind was so focused on charming the clown into giving me the post office box number that I wasn't thinking about anything else when I skittered around the corner at the top of the landing. Wouldn't you know it — the clown was heading around the corner at the exact same time! To avoid bulldozing him, I came to an absolute and abrupt standstill, as did he. Hollis, unaware of my intentions — or the clown's for that matter — continued in forward motion, plowing right into me. Now, I may have been shorter than Hollis, but what I lacked in height I gained in sturdiness. Hollis hit me like a brick wall, falling backward, arms flailing. She landed on her behind with a tumultuous thud.

“Are you okay?” asked the clown, racing to her side and helping her to her feet. In the confusion, I slipped the mug onto the coffee table that was only a few feet away and then rejoined the commotion.

“Are you hurt?” I panted. “Oh my gosh! You're bleeding!” I pointed to a scrape on Hollis's cheek — probably caused by her own long fingernails.

The clown helped Hollis to the sofa, where she sat catching her breath and steadying herself.

“There are some bandages in a first aid kit in the blue filing cabinet,” he said to me. “You get the bandage and I'll get a cold compress for her forehead.”

I nodded, all the while thinking that her forehead may not be the exact part of her anatomy requiring a cold compress. All the same, I dashed to the back of the room, behind the desk, while the clown disappeared into the bathroom. I yanked open the blue filing cabinet and to my absolute astonishment, I discovered more than just the first aid kit.

Author Information
was scrawled on one of the plastic tabs dividing file folders. I couldn't believe my eyes. I'd done it. I'd actually done it. I'd managed to charm the clown into handing me the information I needed! Well, in a roundabout way, I guess.

I momentarily forgot about Hollis and her injury and began rifling through the files at lightning speed.
Turner, Unger, Vanderklaauw (???), White
. That was it! I pulled out the file and opened it.
White, W.
was printed across the top — the White Witch! It had to be her! I quickly memorized as much of the information I could, focusing on the post office box number: 8799 (I memorized this using hockey players — 87 was Sydney Crosby, 99 was Wayne Gretzky — a little trick Jordan taught me ages ago). The postal code was unbelievably easy: L8T 4S2 — it spelled
late for stew!

“Did you find the bandages?” asked the clown, as he exited the bathroom holding a wad of sopping paper towels.

“Um, yeah,” I said, suddenly remembering Hollis. I tucked back the file and fumbled through the first aid kit at the bottom of the cabinet.

“I feel fine,” said Hollis. She tried to stand and then sunk back down.

“Do you feel dizzy?” asked the clown, handing her the cold compress.

“Not more than usual,” said Hollis.

“She hasn't been feeling well lately,” I added. “But don't worry, she's going to be fine — just fine.” I winked at Hollis and grinned. I ripped open the bandage and slapped it onto Hollis's cheek, patting it several times to make sure it was on right.

“Ow, quit it!” she said, smacking my hand away.

“Well, that's that. All better,” I announced. “We'd best be going now…” I dragged Hollis to her feet, and with one arm around her shoulder, I pulled her toward the door.

“Hold on just a second,” said the clown.

I froze. What could he possibly want? Did he figure out I'd taken his coffee cup? Had he discovered I'd been rifling through his files? I was wincing, but he couldn't tell because I had my back to him. I slowly turned to face him, plastering the stickiest-sweet grin on my face that I could possibly muster. I was trying to look cute and innocent, but I think the combination of fear, apprehension, and my crazy huge smile made me look more maniacal than anything. I reached into my pocket to try and use the talisman to charm him again, but unfortunately it was now nothing more than an unidentifiable mass of guck oozing around and sticking to the lining. My mother was going to kill me — but I had a whole half day before I had to worry about that.

“Have you forgotten something?” asked the clown.

What could I have possibly forgotten? I did a quick brain scan. “Um. Nope. Nothing. Thanks again.” I turned to leave, but his voice hooked me and reeled me in a second time.

“Are you forgetting what you returned for? Why exactly did you come back?” he asked.

Luckily, my mouth was as fast as a jet engine. It was a shame that my brain was more like a hot-air balloon. “Well,” I said sweetly, “we came here about the hospital, of course. You know, to ask you how we could get involved and help out there, too.”

Hollis looked at me with a deadpan face. I looked back at her and shrugged. Well, why not? It was as good as excuse as any.

“That's great!” he said. “They can always use people. All you need to do is …”

“Oh, don't you worry about that,” I interrupted. “I'm going to call tomorrow and find out. I'll probably see you there sometime. But right now, I think I need to get my friend home. She's had enough excitement for one day. She's not used to it, you know — rather bland, boring life and all. Besides, Sydney Crosby and Wayne Gretzky are late for stew …”

Before he could utter any kind of response, and before Hollis could protest, I pulled her toward the hallway and down the steps. I raced along the sidewalk, certain she was only a few steps behind. When we were a safe distance from Mixed Pickle Press, I stopped to catch my breath and explain.