The Sea Witch - Part 6
A serialized short story.
Welcome to Part 6 of “The Sea Witch.” If you’re looking for the rest of the story, you can follow these links: Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5.
Here am I, to carry on the work.
She takes a deep breath and climbs to her feet, ignoring the ache in her bad leg. The ravens watch her patiently. As she stands, she feels her fatigue fall away, washed by the rain. Her vision snaps into sharp focus. Auras glow everywhere she looks.
Maybe all you get is a story, she thinks. But sometimes a good story is all you need.
"Thank you," she says to the stones, bowing deeply. "I'll be back with more offerings once I've dealt with this fucking storm."
Gods willing, she thinks.
Thunder booms.
The ravens fly off to find better shelter as the rain falls harder. She hunches into the thin cover of her coat and turns back toward the path to the cottage, down from the cliffs, leaving the circle of stones empty and silent once again.
The wind howls through the darkness outside the cottage. Still over the sea, barely reaching the coast, the storm's power turns the cottage into a foundering ship with battened hatches—all creaking timbers and seeping wet.
Inside, the cast iron stove is stoked boiler-hot; orange radiance shines from the firebox and makes the smoky air glow.
Drowsy clucking issues from the bed nook. Swaddled in the cottage's dense heat, the pair of survivors from the chicken coop are sheltered in the finest bed they've ever enjoyed.
Next to the bed nook, on a wooden side table against the wall, flickering votives illuminate a collection of portraits. Some are old black-and-white photos, with stern faces and dark clothes. Some gaze through the washed-out hues of recent decades. At the center of the group is a Polaroid of a woman, smiling and squinting in the captured sunlight, young for eternity. Laid before the pictures are a smoldering bundle of herbs; a mug of coffee; one glass of water and one of wine; chocolate and biscuits on a chipped saucer.
An envelope with Brian's name scrawled across it rests on the kitchen table, with a letter inside:
"Dear Brian, if I've cocked this up it will look like a suicide. It was just a personal project that got out of hand. I'm sorry I didn't have a chance to get you sorted out with Whats-Her-Name. I think you'll do just fine on your own. There's money in the jar next to the radio. Help yourself to a refund. The rest should be enough for a plot in the churchyard. My baptism certificate is in the jar as well. If the sexton gives you any guff tell him that I've had all the sacraments (except Last Rites of course) and have just as much right to be buried properly as he does. Please also take my family photos from the altar by the bed. There is a spot in the hills up the cliffside trail where I'd like you to bury them (see map below.) That place is special. Do whatever you think is right but I shouldn't go running my mouth about it all over the village. Thanks for your help with my groceries. I'll see you on the other side. Cheers, Evangeline."