Better the Witch You Know

  Better the Witch You Know

  by

  Constance Barker

  Copyright 2019 Constance Barker

  All rights reserved.

  Similarities to real people, places or events are purely coincidental.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

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  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Thanks for Reading

  Catalog of Books

  Chapter 1

  Rain washed the very last of the snirt, that crusty, ugly snow-dirt mix, from the curbs outside Greenpoint Books in Amity Corners, New York. Locals called the town Calamity Corners. Some of the reason was the hamlet’s bad luck, some because the residents were frequently plagued by the supernatural. Nancy Ann Szymanski watched the late April skies open up from inside the bookstore. Despite the miserable day, her spirits were high. Beltaine was just around the corner.

  On the check-out counter, she checked off a list. Beltaine, or May Day, was a big day in the Wheel of the Year. Nann had spent a brutal Great Lakes winter planning the celebration, which would take place in the large ceremonial space below her back yard.

  “You’re coming, right Zinnia?”

  Zinnia owned the gallery one store down from Greenpoint Books in the three-story building named Amity Center. Locals, being the kind of people to call their own town Calamity Corners, called the structure Cemetery Center. And not just because it was on Cemetery Street. Zinnia also turned into an alligator on the full moon. Petit but curvy, the pint-sized Mamie Van Doran made a face. “Is there going to be naked dancing?”

  Of course there was going to be naked dancing. This was a Druid celebration. “Participation not required.”

  Vadoma Tinker, Tink, pushed through the door with a bag of sandwiches.

  “Where have you been, Tink? We thought you got buried under an avalanche,” Zinnia said.

  “People get money in their pockets, and suddenly routine maintenance becomes an emergency.” Tink ran Tinker’s auto. She was a shop goblin, like a cobbler-and-the-elves elf, but with machines.

  “So much for hating the mill,” Zinnia said. The mill in question was a papermill that was both the heart of the town and the heart of the town’s troubles. Zinnia was on the committee of employees who tried to buy the mill from Nationwide Paper. Even though that didn’t work, and in fact, the executive board got all murder-y over the decision, the mill was now stinking up the air and polluting the water two shifts a day.

  “I still hate the mill. I swear I saw orange snow in February.” She plunked the bag down. “My parts guy is stuck in Oswego. I needed a break anyway.”

  “Are you going to Nann’s party? There will be naked dancing.”

  Tink, always dressed like Rosie the Riveter, struck a pose. “You think just because I wear this coverall every day that I’m not a hottie? Fae love to dance. I’m totally there.”

  “Are you dancing naked, Nann?” Zinnia asked.

  “I’m a Druid. It’s one of our things.”

  Her head teetertottered. “Well, you are pretty sleek. Even though you buy Little Debbie cakes like you own stock in the company.”

  “Maybe it’s magic.” Tink handed out sandwiches. Hers were jelly between sweet rolls. Nann’s was turkey, Zinnia’s tuna.

  “Ah. A magic spell for not getting chubby.” Zinnia’s face turned speculative. She waved her sandwich and intoned:

  “Cakes and pies

  Stay away from my thighs

  Let no chocolate

  Widen my butt.”

  Nann scowled at her. “Is that what you think I do?”

  Zinnia bit into her sandwich and chewed. “Isn’t it?”

  NANN ARRIVED HOME, the rain streaming off Cricket, her Suzuki Jimny, as she got out in the garage. Pokey, her familiar, greeted her at the adjoining door. He oinked. Nann went to the dining room and turned on the radio.

  “What’s for dinner?” Pokey said through the speaker.

  The pig was her familiar, or vice versa from Pokey’s point of view. Nann grabbed a full basket on the counter. “I’m gonna cube some rutabagas, turnips and celery root and add a big handful of baby carrots.”

  “Sounds good. I’ll just eat the leftover fettucine alfredo.”

  “You’re funny, Pokey.”

  “I didn’t want you to fuss.”

  Over the past few months, Nann had gotten pretty good at chopping vegetables. “The alfredo sauce will give you gas.”

  “I like to pretend I’m jet-powered.”

  The rain slackened while they ate. Nann put on her wellingtons and raincoat.

  “Where you going?”

  Nann pulled up the hood. It wasn’t raining, but a breeze would shower her with drops from the leaves. “I need to check out the ceremonial space. I’ve kinda been putting it off. You wanna go for a walk?”

  “Nah. Too cold to wallow.” Pokey headed into the living room and jumped on the couch. Being small, it took him three tries. “Could you put on the news for me?”

  Nann grabbed the remote. Smart as Pokey was, he couldn’t work a TV remote. He also couldn’t figure out that she’d placed a low ottoman close to the couch he could use as a step.

  The weathergirl stood in front of a map. “That’s right, Bob, it’s going to get wetter before it gets better. For the morning school bus, the overnight clearing will continue with dry skies in the morning. But you see the high pressure building up on the southern shore of Lake Ontario will give way to a low moving out of Canada. Expect to see thunderstorms by early afternoon.”

  “All right,” Nann said. “I love thunderstorms.”

  “Me, too,” Pokey said, eyes on the screen.

  Nann put the remote down. “I thought you were afraid of thunder and lightning.”

  “What?” Pokey turned to her. “Oh. Yeah. I’m scared. Terrified.”

  “You’re just using them as an excuse to sleep on the bed, aren’t you?”

  The pig blinked a few times. “At night I’m scared. They’re really scary at night.”

  “Uh-huh.” Nann walked through the dining room toward the back door.

  “Dang it,” Pokey muttered through the radio. “Busted.”

  She walked through the mud room and into the back yard. Considering how much land the house sat on, the back yard was only five or so yards wide before dropping steeply. A set of stairs led down to the most awesome garden in the world. On the side closest to the house was an outdoor kitchen with an enormous barbecue grill, a bar, even a brick pizza oven. Centered in a natural clearing of white swamp oaks was a thirty-five-foot circle of flagstones depicting the Wheel of the Year. Beyond that were two broad concrete slabs used for bonfires and a wicker man, with willows growing from the creek bank below.

  Except as she descended the steps, she saw none of this. Fading daylight and overcast skies were not the reason. She saw the yellow blooms of forsythia and weeping willow clearly enough. Everything else was shrouded in green. Common ivy and garlic mustard tented the outdoor kitchen shelter, hydrangea bushes running riot to make the are
a a tiny jungle. Rising from the sea of vines was a small forest of staghorn sumac right around where the Wheel of the Year should be. A stiff breeze blew, and tall weeds moved like the waves of a sea under its sway. Nann couldn’t even step off the stairs to the landing. Vines acted like a barricade.

  She smacked herself in the forehead. Grounds around the house were well maintained through one of her Great-Aunt Nancy’s accounts. But the ceremonial space—had it even been touched in the last ten years?

  “Oh. My. Gawdess.”

  The Beltaine celebration was just over a week away. She didn’t have time to clear this whole garden and build a wicker man. What was she going to do?

  ON HER DRIVE TO WORK, she slowed down as she passed the hardware store. When she first arrived, there were always trucks parked in the lot and guys hanging out. Well, some were hanging out, most were looking for side jobs. Now the lot stood empty, the work-seekers employed again at the mill. Ultimately, she supposed that was just fine, since the cashier who organized the labor pool was more than she seemed.

  She parked in front of the store. The first floor of Cemetery Center was shaped like a fat U facing the street. Greenpoint Books occupied the left, recessed in the middle was Tim’s tattoo parlor, Tim being her landlord, and on the right was Zinnia’s gallery. She didn’t see Zinnia, but that wasn’t unusual, the retail spaces were yuge. Tim didn’t open until one or two at the earliest. On the street, a few dozen cars passed. She waved at some of the drivers. Until recently, there was hardly any traffic on Cemetery Street. Someday, she mused, one or two of those cars would stop at the bookstore.

  The only way Greenpoint books still breathed in the Age of Amazon was by operating several on-line stores. The store had long been known as the go-to shop for occult books. Luckily, Nann kept the mailman busy. After printing labels, wrapping books in green kraft paper, and stuffing them in envelopes, she turned her attention to finding gardeners.

  Except her personal e-mail started dinging at her. She saw two from Bessie Niedermeyer and one from Willamina Root. She opened Bessie’s.

  Nann; Is there some event going on in Port Argent around Beltaine? We’ve tried to book hotels rooms, but they are all occupied. Please advise. BN.

  Weird. Nann sat back and thought about it. Beltaine fell on Mayday, May first. There was not a big Russian population here.

  Zinnia came in and put a bunch of mail on top of Nann’s outgoing stack. “The mailman only comes in if he has bills for me.” She shrugged.

  “Do you know if there’s anything happening around here the first of next month? A convention, a street fair, anything like that?”

  Zinnia pooched out her lower lip in thought. “Nope. Trout season opened a couple weeks ago. Other than that last little blizzard, there’s no snow to play in. The lake’s still half-frozen. It’s usually pretty dead around here until the tourists come in the summer.”

  That was Nann’s thinking as well. She told Zinnia about her gardening nightmare. Zinnia shook her head.

  “I live in an apartment. When I lived in my dad’s house, we only had a lawn to mow. Did you look online?”

  Nann opened her browser. She found a lot of gardeners and landscapers, but none locally. They were all out of Oswego, NY. “They’ll probably charge me for the travel time,” Nann said.

  Zinnia agreed.

  “I’m on a budget. I’ve put away a lot for the Beltaine celebration. I really can’t afford to dip into that too much.”

  Pulling out her phone, Zinnia fiddled around. “Let me call Tink. She’s into nature. She’ll know someone.”

  While Nann felt that loving nature and knowing gardeners was a dubious link at best, after a moment, Zinnia beeped off. Shouldering Nann out of the way, she typed in the browser search area.

  Nann took a look. She saw a bunch of short, dark guys with machetes, a tall dark guy brandishing a weed-whacker. Seed and Root Landscape Experts, Port Argent, Amity Corners, Hannibal, Fair Haven. There was a number at the bottom of the screen. That was it.

  “Well, they certainly aren’t spending money on internet advertising,” Nann said.

  “Seed and Root. I like the name.” Zinnia raised her brows. “And they’re local.”

  Nann fished her cell phone out of her conjure bag. And available, she thought. The phone was picked up on the first ring. She gave a guy named Manuel her address and set up an appointment for tomorrow morning before work.

  “There you go, getting stuff done, kicking butt.”

  “Until I get an estimate. It’s a jungle below my house. I’m really neglecting the place. I should have a garden planted, at least flowers in the boxes.”

  Zinnia was sympathetic. “Well, you work more than full time. There were those murder-y things, then winter. Maybe if we get nice weather, you can start after your big party.”

  “I hope so. Hard to call myself a practicing Druid if I don’t even have house plants.”

  She spent the rest of the day updating he online stores, and in the process, found three cheap copies of the Sidereal Almanack on an eBay listing. Unlike most of the occult books worth real money, this one was not bound in crumbling brown calf with a ridged spine, gold tooling and metal corner collars. They were simple quarter-bound books with green boards, a hundred examples of which adorned her used bookshelves. Perhaps their ordinary appearance fooled the seller into thinking they weren’t worth much. Most occult collectors didn’t know the volumes existed. Those steeped in magic knew their value, as the Almanack cited certain distant stars’ use in ceremonial magic. She didn’t even need to photograph and re-list the books. She had the names of buyers who had sought out the book for years. Keeping wish lists like this was part of keeping the brick-and-mortar store afloat in a sea of internet shopping.

  Shop closed, she drove back to Port Argent. Curiosity got the better of her, and she steered Cricket up Main Street. There were two B&Bs on Main, as well as a couple chain hotels at the north end of the street. She went all the way up, flipped a U-ey, and went all the way down. Hardly any cars occupied the hotel lots. So why couldn’t her party guests find a room in town?

  Chapter 2

  Way too early but none too bright, Nann showered and dressed, throwing on her raincoat and boots. The weather girl lied. Buckets of rain saturated the woods around the house. Gutters roared, windows blurred, but she caught sight of a giant pickup splashing up the driveway.

  A man in foul weather gear hopped out, and Nann met him on the porch.

  “Nann with two N’s?”

  She liked him already. “Manuel?”

  He shook her hand. Glancing around the yard, he gave her a quizzical look. “Your landscape doesn’t seem in too bad a shape.”

  “Oh, this isn’t the issue.” Nann’s Great-Aunt Nancy had set up rollover accounts at the start of her retirement. One of them included yard maintenance around the main house. Apparently, the ceremonial space should’ve been cared for by Nann. She led Manuel through the house, out the back door, and down the wooden staircase. They paused at the foot of the stairs. Manuel stared for a moment.

  To her surprise, he took a machete from beneath his raincoat and hacked down the barricading vines. “Garlic mustard is an invasive species,” he said between swings. “You should probably get rid of it.”

  Nann gave him a muddy tour. Manuel eyed the tent of burgeoning vines and trees around the outdoor kitchen, the field of weeds, the sumac, the weed willows. Crouching, he pulled weeds from around the flagstones of the Wheel of the Year. Swiping mud from the surface, his head angled in thought. “I know this. It’s a glyph.”

  “You know about glyphs?”

  “My mother is a root worker. This one means light, right?”

  Nann looked. The symbol looked like the top half of a pentagram with dots in the two side points. “That’s right, it represents the bright half of the year.”

  Manuel walked the circumference of the flagstone circle. Root worker, Nann thought. Hoodoo was the better-known name. He wandered into th
e semi-circle of the swamp white oak. He pointed with the machete. “That one’s got a parasite. Looks like Arceuthobium. You want us to take care of that?”

  ‘Nope. I got that.” Arceuthobium was the genus of twenty-six species of dwarf mistletoe. As part of the Beltaine celebration, Nann would harvest it with a little silver sickle. Traditionally, the harvest would precede the sacrifice of two white bulls. Nann had no white bulls. Instead, she was throwing a barbecue.

  “What’s at the end of this path?” Manuel kicked some sod away from a flagstone, a barely cleared line leading into dense brush.

  “Oh, the tool shed, I think.”

  After a good twenty minutes of chopping, they reached a sturdy building of stone and stout beams. Nann gave a hard tug, and the double doors swung open. Like any garden shed, there was a lawnmower, a chainsaw and tools both powered and manual, plus a plethora of wound extension cords hanging from nails.

  “You have power down here?” Manuel eyed the sockets.

  There was a big circuit breaker switch near the electric box. Nann gave it a shove. Bulbs flickered on inside. A metal frame glittered, part of a portable stage. A thicket of standing lights and kerosene heaters stood in a corner.

  “Well, this is a good sign. Most of my estimate was going into guys carrying heavy equipment down those stairs. We can get away with a lot less hauling.” He turned, facing the ceremonial space from the doorway. After a moment, he nodded. “Okay, I kinda get it now. Whoever designed this knew what they were doing. I have a degree in landscape architecture, and the way this is laid out, it should be a breeze to take care of. Well, once all the overgrowth is gone. How long has it sat like this?”

  “Ten years,” Nann said.

  “Still, even after a decade of neglect, you can still see the purpose.” He folded his arms and pouted in admiration. “Quite the party space.”

  “If it helps the estimate, I’m going to need most of the sticks and vines for a little project, and a bonfire.”

  Manuel smiled. “If we don’t have to carry heavy stuff down or up, it’ll half the cost, and we should be able to get it done in a day, maybe two.”