Chapter XI - Are We Ever Really Gone?

Chapter XI 

Are We Ever Really Gone? 

by Faith McCann 

The Rag and Bottle Shop is a consignment shop. A large, old, three storied house situated on a slight rise of land overlooking the main street of the village Castlewick. The Rag and Bottle shop is a shop which provides many remedies for various maladies, primarily of the troublesome human sort. One would go to the apothecary for headache pills but people came to Catsandra for issues they felt were out of their control. Some people were even brave enough, or desperate enough to come seeking remedies for more supernatural troubles, and these she was expert in providing. 

On this day, it was a bright, warm, beautiful day, yet over the old house hung a black cloud with lightening strikes and a steady rain storm which gave the Rag and Bottle shop a gloomy, dark visage. The demarcation on the sidewalk where the dry met the straight line of wet was a wonder and people walking found themselves slowing their steps until they came right up to the line, then stopping. After looking up at the Rag and Bottle shop, a few by standers looked at one another. 

An old grizzled man, the town's blacksmith commented to no-one in particular "Looks like the Lady is in a most foul mood today. Best be giving her wide berth and move on our way." He looked at the two women and one other gentleman standing on the sidewalk, gave a decisive nod of his head, hunched his shoulders and braved the rain as he needed to pass the old house and it's singular rain storm to get back to his forge in the village center. 

After a time the others moved along, some choosing to get wet, others turning and going back the way they came. Still others came along the way, throughout the day.  But forging ahead was not such a hardship as the clear weather resumed after passing the shop. 

* * *  * * *   * * * 

Inside of the shop the atmosphere was somber. Catsandra was standing behind the sales counter in the big room placing tiny candles for simple spells in small glass containers. It was strangely silent as she normally would be singing or humming while she worked. She was not happy, in fact she was filled with grief, anger and sadness at the death of her good friend and mentor Mother Shermona. She worked quietly and her familiars were near but keeping quiet and allowing her her space. Cats and mice are excellent at understanding that there are times that one needs caring friends close by but silent at times, to process, to heal. 

The door bells jangled as the door opened and a man entered the shop. Catsandra sighed softly and took a deep breath while she straightened her shoulders and put on a slight smile as she raised her eyes to greet her latest client. She was slightly surprised to see Mr. Charles, a portly, balding, short man, whom she recognized as a local attorney.  He was shaking his coat off as he had not thought to bring a hooded cloak for poor weather. His hat was dripping from it's brim. He took that off as well. He looked around the quaint, yet elegant surroundings and finally saw her across the room. 

She smiled slightly as it occurred that everyone tries to cast a bit of their own magic to make themselves appear to others they way they wish. Some women wear make up, people of all genders wear wigs.  Mr. Charles, who walked as if he had a string pulling him just about off the ground, obviously wished to be considered taller than he was. He strode up to her sales counter looking a bit disheveled and very soggy. 

"Good day, Mr. Charles. How can I help you this day?" her greeting was soft but without it's usual lilt. 

"Ms. Catsandra. May I have a word with you? It is of some importance." It was then she saw he carried a flat, brown, leather portfolio, which he then unceremoniously plopped onto her counter and fishing a kerchief out of his pants pocket frantically wiped spots of water off of the fine leather finish. 

She remained silent as he finished and when he had, he looked up at her, and gave a slight exasperated "huff". His forehead was glistening with rain or sweat, she wasn't sure, as it was his regular look, of the many times she had seen him in the village. Always scurrying, always in a rush, like a small rabbit, hurrying to and fro. 

Catsandra smiled just oh so slightly and indicated with her arm, that he should follow her. She walked over to the part of her sales room that had the small table and chairs set up for visitors. They passed gleaming, polished antique furniture. Side tables, tea tables, embroidered foot stools, shelfs of jars and bottles filled with herbs, crystals, potions and crystal balls of varying sizes and colors all set upon gleaming carved wooden bases. 

The entire shop was cool and darkened, lit with ambient lighting from small oil lamps and candles. Even though it was daylight outside the interior always had an early evening feeling to it. The walls, what were not covered with wooden and glass display cabinets filled with a myriad of tiny, curious objects, and paintings of nature scenes, were a dusky red and the wood surround was a darker mahogany.  

Catsandra preferred the cool, elegant feel to the shop. It was fitting an homage to the grand history of the old house and what it had once been. She knew at one time this building housed a wealthy old family, wealthy and popular. Many a tale still circulated about the parties, both inside holiday parties and summer garden parties that had once been held here. Back when times were more prosperous for all, and the house didn't hold a business. 

. . . "Mother Shermona wanted you to have it". 

Catsandra started at the name of her dear, departed friend and looked in suspicion at the little, greasy man. She had allowed her thoughts to wander, a habit she had developed of late which kept her from falling into the abyss of sadness and loss. But this man, was speaking of Shermona? 

"Excuse me, sir. I'm afraid I didn't hear you. Could you please repeat that?" Catsandra shifted in her small, dainty, embroidered chair and leaned a bit forward now completely focused on the solicitor. 

Mr. Charles, with an obvious look of exasperation, as he really didn't much care for these kinds of unusual places, glanced nervously around him, then cleared his thought loudly. 

"I HAVE COME HERE TO INFORM YOU . . . " his raised voice stopped mid sentence when her hand went up, palm facing him. 

"Mr. Charles, there is no need to raise your voice. I am not hard of hearing. I simply . . .  wasn't listening to you." When his mouth fell agape at her unabashed honesty she continued " I am ready now. Please continue, you . . . mentioned . . .  Mother Shermona?" She tried, very hard to keep a waver out of her voice, 

" I have come here to inform you that Mother Shermona left her business, in the event of her death . . . " he paused for a moment as she grew pale but as she braced herself, lifted her chin and remained silent as he went on " for me to handle." He removed some papers from his portfolio and looked at them then carefully laid them down on the small table in front of her. "I am here to dispatch my duties on behalf of Mother Shermona." 

Catsandra let the papers lie where they had been placed. 

"You Ms. Catsandra, are to receive her cottage and all within."  He then grew a shade paler himself as he peeked into his portfolio, and gingerly with two fingers as if he wanted to touch it as little as possible, withdrew a wooden wand. About a forearms length, as a wand was typically measured from the point of the elbow of the witch who wielded it to the end of her ring finger. It was a handsome wand, made from the wood of the elm tree. It still had a grip of natural bark and the rest had been removed revealing the reddish brown wood of the branch. He dropped it onto the table top as if it burned his fingers and as she glanced from him to the beautiful wand she thought it probably had! Wands knew the heart of the one touching them. 

           Mother Shermona's Magic Wand left to Catsandra 

"Ahem .  .  . this is the key?" he said questioning. He had been instructed as such, by his client, and he looked at Catsandra for elaboration. She picked it up and held it lovingly and she could hear a slight voice whisper in her ear, " The Woods" " Go to the woods". She knew no one else could hear. 

"Of course, it is. The key." Suddenly she could abide his presence no longer. HIs mind and heart were so closed and tight it made her feel as if she couldn't breath. She preferred to stay away from such beings as he and his nefarious practices, though sadly some, like the recording of last wishes and ownership of property required such a profession. As unsavory as it could be. She rose "Thank you Mr. Charles. Will that be all?" 

He looked decidedly disappointed that she wasn't planning on elaborating about the wand, and opened his portfolio again and took out a small pottery jar. She knew, just knew absolutely it contained Mother Shermona's remains. This was the first she knew that she had been cremated. It may be convenient for some, but others had different ideas about how to honor the remains after a loved one has passed. She would deal with this properly. She looked at him directly and with a raise of her eyebrow, he packed up his portfolio and got up. 

He put on his coat, raised the collar and grasping his hat, looked out a window. It was still raining buckets, but was only until he reached the bottom of the slight hill and the sidewalk met the street. If he didn't slip he could get there in 20 paces, maybe less. 

"Don't slip. Thank you, for your service." Her parting words were quiet but he quickly spun his head around to look at her in surprise when she told him not to slip. 'These types', he thought. 'Humph I will be better off far from here.' 

The bells rang when the door opened and a gust of wind blew rain, leaves and a flurry of mist into the shop, then a louder jangle as he slammed the door and ran out into the storm. If he could carefully, but quickly make the road, he wouldn't have to change into dry clothes before going back to the office . . . 

His thoughts were cut short as a gust of water blew straight into his face and his legs went up from under him and he landed in a puddle with far more mud in it than was reasonable!!! SPLASH! 

Ummph! His portfolio went gracefully arcing into the air and seemed to hang suspended for a split second before it came tumbling down to earth and proceeded to smack him in the face as he looked up at it and then it landed with a corner speared deep into the muddy, wet ground before slowly laying over and as he reached, it was just past his fingertips, he could . .  almost . . . reach . . . it . . . "ugggh!" it finally came to rest in the puddle and then sank! He saw the bubbles rise to the top and shook his head like a dog and realized that his portfolio was ruined. He lay there for a moment on his back, feeling the cold mud and water seeping into his clothes. Shaking his head ruefully he tried to retrieve his leather portfolio. 

He fished it out of the puddle, rolled over, and crawled up onto his knees and when he regained his footing he was a muddy mess. He looked up at the Rag and Bottle Shop and took no pleasure when he saw that SHE had seen every muddy move he had made. He scurried along, pushing his hat back onto his head and vowed to not look back! Only bad things come from looking back!!

*** *** *** 

Catsandra was looking out of the window but she didn't notice the funny little attorney, nor was he even in her thoughts any longer. No, she held onto the wand and let happy thoughts of her friend float through her mind. 

"I had hoped you wouldn't forget me!" Catsandra heard a soft, familiar voice behind her. She took a moment, breathed in deeply, felt such gratitude fill her and with the biggest smile on her face turned to see Mother Shermona or rather her ghost floating in the air near the table Catsandra entertained clients and guests. 

" Oh, Mona. dear Mother Mona, I could never, would never forget you. I'm happy to see you."

Catsandra went to the table and sat down on one of the embroidered upholstered chairs. She lit a thick, white candle, and asked " Is this comfortable for you?" 

"Yes, my dear. I am glad you will get the cottage and all of my magical books, and items" 

"Thank you, I will care for them carefully. I'm sorry you were cremated. I will tend to your remains properly, in the woods." 

"Thank you dear one. It's interesting, on this side, it seems to matter very little. I care more that you are comforted by what happens to me now. I am very fine and will remain so. Do not be sad, my friend. I feel I may be able to stick around for a bit, maybe longer." 

"Shermona, what happened? I spoke to Avi earlier and he still doesn't knw who did this to you. Do you? I mean, you were there." She bit her lip slightly at the image and grimaced in sorrow. 

"Well, I don't know right now, but I feel if you go to my cottage, we all may find answers to what happened and what may still happen." then she seemed to shimmer on the air and disappeared. 

Catsandra didn't feel sad, she knew she would see her friend again, even if in spirit form. And suddenly she knew, she had to go to Mona's cottage right away. 

"Come Pip,  we have an errand to run. Balthazar, Abramelin, please watch the shop. Thank you" 

As she and Sir Pip left the shop the sun had come out and was shining bright and the rain had dried up. Except for a large mud puddle alongside her walk, which looked as if it had been rutted around in by a drove of pigs, everything looked beautiful. The days were getting much longer and the air warmer. Yes, indeed, it will be a perfect day to take a walk in the woods. 

After Catsandra and Sir Pip departed, the two fuzzy cats, Balthazar started licking his paws and Abramelin promptly laid out on his side on the sales counter and took his third nap of the day. 

* * * * * * * * * 

To be Continued. . . 

What Secrets will the Witches Cottage Reveal?

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From the Author:  I hope you are enjoying the story of the Rag and Bottle Shop. If so, please follow my page! I am enjoying sharing the adventures of Catsandra and her familiars and the community of Castlewick with you. Please feel free to share this blog link to other fans of magical, fantasy fiction. 

I write my stories using the inspiration of the incomparable Charles Dickens who wrote and published his work during the 1800's in Great Britain in installments. Mr. Dickens was a strong social critic of industrialization and capitalism, as well as bringing to the public attention the need for social reform. Thank You for reading my work, Faith M. McCann