Hill Magick

Chapter One

The lopsided loaf of bread arched through the chilly air and landed with a thunk upon the mound of garbage protruding from the overfilled dumpster. Alerted to the presence of food, a seagull circled the dumpster and landed three feet from Rachel, eyeing her aggressively.

It was done. Mark wouldn’t have a fit of rage because she had accidentally crushed the loaf of bread she had bought at the store. Instead, he would have a fit of rage over her forgetting to buy bread in the first place, a lesser fury that would be easier for her to face. It would be a lesser fury because Mark would make a big show of forgiving her forgetfulness, which was laughable since her husband of six years couldn’t remember to pay the paperboy on time.

Seated in the car, Rachel watched the seagull rip the tan plastic off the bread and dig its sharp beak into the white mass. It devoured the loaf in huge beakfuls, darting suspicious glances upward, searching the gray afternoon sky for other seagulls who might happen along and challenge him for his meal. She watched the bird until the plastic bread wrapper was only an empty skin, which the bird took up in his beak and shook in irritation.

The hoarse, hollow hoot of a tugboat out in Yarwich Harbor brought Rachel back to reality. She was only delaying the inevitable. She started the engine and pulled slowly out of the parking lot. The bags of groceries shifted in the trunk as she turned onto the street, and she prayed the eggs would stay intact.

Yarwich Eats, the neon sign said. Yes, it certainly does, Rachel reflected as she slowed for the turn onto Moorland Drive. She’d been a waitress in that greasy-spoon restaurant for three years until Mark had come along and rescued her from that drudgery. If only she hadn’t been working that extra shift…if only Mark hadn’t decided to stop there for a quick bite on his way to Roansbury…if only she’d never been born.

Halfway home, Rachel remembered she had used the car radio earlier that day. The muscles in her scalp tight with tension, she reached forward and tuned the channel back to Mark’s favorite station. She had almost slipped up. There was already the problem of the loaf of bread, and she didn’t need to make more trouble by leaving the radio tuned to the wrong station. Pleasing Mark was the last thing she felt like doing, but their relationship was easier when she went through the motions. He didn’t seem to notice that her heart was no longer in it, or perhaps he no longer cared as long as he got his way.

Like the seagull, Rachel’s husband imagined enemies all around him, plotting to humiliate him or cheat him out of his just deserts. Some days he acted like even Rachel was his enemy, although she'd tried her hardest to convince him that he could trust her. She pitied him because living a paranoid existence was its own punishment, but she knew she couldn't stay with him much longer. Her greatest fear was that one day Mark would hit her with that clenched fist he liked to wave in the air when he discussed things with her.

Fortunately Mark didn’t notice that she hadn’t brought home any bread. After supper he retreated into the den to read one of his many computer magazines. Now, Rachel figured, would be the perfect time to do what she had to do. She took the last clean dishes out of the dishwasher, placed them in the cabinet, and went into their bedroom. Deep inside the walk-in closet was an old cedar chest filled with assorted silk flowers. Underneath the masses of red, purple, and yellow was her precious laptop computer. She had saved the money for it out of her weekly household allowance and had hidden it in a place Mark was not likely to look. Now she drew the machine from its hiding place and switched it on. The computer gurgled happily to itself, and she settled down on the bed and brought up the job listings she had downloaded from the internet yesterday while Mark was at work.

Magazine sales, no experience necessary, will train, read the first entry on the list. Good, Rachel thought because she didn’t have experience with anything except waitressing. Factory position, heavy lifting required. She made a fist, studied her skinny arm, and continued to the next entry. Trustworthy individuals with team spirit needed. Apply now for restaurant management training. Some travel required. For her, travel was out of the question. Last week when she had cautiously suggested to Mark that she get a part-time job to keep herself busy he had blown up at her and had remained angry for the rest of the day. Doing telephone sales from home was a possibility, but her high school best friend’s mother had done it for a living and she had seen that it was a very stressful job. She could become a day companion to a shut-in but the position required nurse’s aid training, which she didn’t have and couldn’t obtain without Mark finding out. The cafeteria server position sounded easy, but to her it seemed too much like waitressing.

Mark’s heavy footsteps sounded in the hall. Hastily she powered off the laptop. Just as the bedroom door opened she slid the machine under the bed. She could stash the laptop back in the flower chest after he left for work tomorrow morning. Other times she'd had more warning, but this time had been way too close. Was he trying to catch her at something? Did he suspect she was planning to leave?

At first their relationship had been perfect. Mark had been so loving, so caring, so strong and protective of her. She had fallen in love with the tall, chestnut-haired accountant at once and had accepted his proposal six months after they met. The abuse had started quietly, unobtrusively, with unexpected criticisms that always seemed to happen when she was vulnerable and alone, never when others were around to hear. Mark always insisted he was joking, but with each passing year the steady, slow erosion of his respect for her and his callous disregard of her feelings had grown. His hit-and-run comments about the way she dressed, spoke, acted, cooked, and cleaned the house had morphed into full-out verbal attacks against her. It didn’t seem to matter what she did or didn’t do, how carefully she did the housework, or how kindly and gently she spoke to him. Everything about her seemed to rub him the wrong way, and yet he would sometimes buy her flowers, kiss her, and tell her he loved her. At first she had taken hope from his sporadic acts of kindness, but finally she had realized Mark didn’t want to change, that he would never change. Even with all that she might have decided to stay, except his rages were becoming more unpredictable and more frequent. He had never hit her yet, but what if one day he decided to? The key to her freedom was a job that supported her, but she couldn’t have a job unless she had a car to get there. She couldn’t get her own car unless she had a job to pay for it, and she couldn’t pay for a car unless she had a job.

Tonight Mark's mind was on something else before sleep, but she didn't have to pretend very hard because this time her headache, brought on by tension and uncertainty, was real. As soon as he got over his fresh irritation and forgiven her for yet another sick headache he fell into a deep, snoring slumber. Lying uncomfortably in bed beside him, Rachel closed her aching eyes. A vision of the scavenging seagull flashed into her mind, brilliantly clear and detailed. She saw the bird swooping down toward her from the blue sky, cringed as the formidable charcoal-gray beak approach her face. With a sharp, shrieking cry, the seagull rammed its bill deep into her eyeball. She jerked, shaking the bed but fortunately not waking her husband. It was 3:00 a.m. before she fell asleep.

When she woke the next morning Mark had already left for work. He'd gotten a ride with their neighbor three doors down, as he sometimes did. The sarcastic note pinned to the refrigerator with a magnet told her that if she bothered to get up before suppertime, she needed to drop off his suits at the dry cleaner.

It was a beautiful morning. The October sky was cloudless, the air was crisp and bracing, and she had the car to herself for the second day in a row. Feeling less guilty than she knew Mark wanted her to feel, Rachel swung the armful of suits and hangers into the back seat, took a deep breath of the autumn air and let it out slowly. She closed her eyes a moment to let the healing sunshine enter her soul. A soft thump on the top of her head brought her back to reality. Patiently she located the little green frog and disentangled the sucker-feet from her hair. The tiny animal lay passively upon the palm of her hand, blinking its tiny golden eyes.

The city of Yarwich was as old as Boston, though not quite as large. Many of the older buildings had been modernized or leveled but enough of the original architecture remained to give the city its true New England flavor. Even more than the history, however, what revealed the essential soul of Yarwich were the supernatural oddities which were a part of daily life. There was no shortage of theories to explain the unusual frequency of weird occurrences. Some residents believed an ancient Indian curse was the cause. Others thought some of the buildings in downtown Yarwich had been built over an underground stream which attracted elementals and other spirits to the area. There were other theories too ridiculous to entertain seriously, but it was difficult to find a serious explanation for the statues that screamed in the park, the ghostly faceless body which dangled from a noose over the railing of the Fifth Avenue bridge every October 10th, and the huge phantom koi fishes that swam one foot above the pavement, from 2:30 and 3:15 a.m., in a four-block area of lower Baleen Street.

When Rachel first moved from her hometown of Roansbury to the city she had been bewildered and upset by the strange occurrences which met her at every turn. Only after she got used to them did she realize that there were logical explanations for most, if not all, of the strange occurrences. For instance, the only spirits Rachel had seen in Yarwich were inside Roger's Liquor and Bait Supply. And there was nothing strange at all about finding a tree frog in her hair. Obviously the animal had fallen onto the roof from one of the trees in the yard, climbed onto the edge of the gutter, and had fallen off it at the exact moment she passed underneath. As Rachel got into the car a second tree frog hurtled out of nowhere past her ear and bounced onto the grass. She pretended not to see it.

She dropped off the suits at the dry cleaner’s, tucked the claim check into her purse, and emerged onto busy Washington Avenue. As she walked back to the car she counted off the shops along the street: Melody's Antiques, Harper Drugs, Wild & Free (which carried black-light posters, cheap pewter jewelry, and silk-screened T-shirts featuring marijuana leaves), Island Curl Polynesian Hairdressers, and the Plum Blossom Restaurant, from which the delicious aroma of sautéed shrimp emanated. Rachel loved to walk along this street. She enjoyed the contrast between the old soot-stained buildings with small shops on the first and second floors and the modern many-storied edifices rising behind the older ones like colored glass fingers. She continued walking down the street, reading the familiar signs that were like old friends: Tooth and Nail Pet Grooming, Spirit of Plaice, a fish store which prided itself on carrying local varieties, and wasn't that a Help Wanted sign propped up against the inside of the grimy front window of the Yarwich Regular Chronicle?

What made her think there was anything for her in the dingy office of the small local newspaper, she didn’t know. She couldn’t come to work in an office without Mark finding out, and her only newspaper experience was proofreading the Roansbury church newsletter one time when their regular proofreader had been taken ill. Nevertheless, she went inside. As the door swung open a faint buzzer sounded deep within the cavern of the office. The heavy green curtain separating the back room from the front office was pushed aside, and a heavy-set bald man stepped forward and stuck out his pudgy hand toward her. Uncertain of what to say, she took his hand. The bald man pumped it up and down vigorously, making the belly beneath his stretched white T-shirt quiver. His hand was warm, almost hot, and there was a blurry tattoo on his forearm so faded that she couldn’t tell whether it represented a badly done spider or the top of a malformed palm tree.

"Welcome, young lady! I’m the owner, editor, and publisher of the Yarwich Regular Chronicle. What can I do for you today?"

My name is Rachel Jeffries, she told him. I saw the sign in your window. I’m looking for a job.

Well, I certainly have one! How fast can you type?

So the position was for a typist. Seventy-five words per minute, Rachel replied, thinking of her semester at Roansbury Community College.

Not bad. Can you talk to people?

Can I talk -?

Are you good with people? the bald man clarified, and she nodded.

I think I am. I mean, yes, I’m good with people.

The man laughed. There's nothing like a positive attitude!

No, I really am good with people, I love people, but it’s been a while since I worked with the public, Rachel explained, embarrassed. I haven’t worked at all in six years.

Are you an axe murderer?

Excuse me?

Are you a drunk or a sociopath? Do you take illegal drugs on a regular basis?

Ummm…no. Thank you for your time. Rachel made a movement toward the door, and the bald man held up a hand to stop her.

Kidding, I'm just kidding! Usually I get a laugh with the axe murderer thing. Please don’t go. I really need a writer. Are you interested?

I don’t know how to write.

Have you ever written a grocery list or an email to a friend? Sure you have. Of course you can write, if you put your mind to it.

I used to have a friend who was a writer. She told me that writing was hard work and that you had to have a lot of courage to stick it out. I don’t feel very courageous, and I’ve never written anything that mattered.

If you’ve never written anything that mattered, how do you know that you can’t do it?

The simple logic floored her. How did she know she couldn’t write if she had never tried?

The bald man didn’t wait for an answer. How about this: you go home and write a column for this week’s RC. Friday noon is our deadline. If it’s any good, you’re hired. If not, at least you’ll know journalism isn’t for you. Do we have a deal, Ms. Jeffries?

We have a deal, Rachel answered. I’ll get you something by Friday. Please call me Rachel.

Great! The man smiled broadly, exposing his stained teeth. My name is Donald Waverly, and everyone around here calls me Don instead of Mr. Waverly because I don’t get any stinking respect!

A skinny, mournful-looking teenager emerged from the back room, the white stick of a lollipop slouching against his lower lip.

You called, boss?

Not really. Go sweep something, will you?

Without a word, the white stick working in his mouth, the teenager retreated behind the curtain.

My nephew, Don explained. It’s this or military school. Can’t say this alternative is helping either of us, but my sister insists I try it.

Rachel made a sound of commiseration, then brought the subject back to her new job. How much does this position pay?

Three hundred fifty dollars per week to start. If you're any good it'll go up; we’ll negotiate that later. If three hundred fifty sounds like a lot for a column, remember you’re putting in research and travel time in addition to writing. If you own a computer you can work from home and email the article to me by Friday noon. I’d like to have a face-to-face once a month to touch bases, otherwise you can come and go as you please as long as the work gets done. I’d also like you to write a couple extra columns in case you get sick, go on vacation, or quit.

That sounds fair. Somehow she kept her heart from leaping out of her chest. What kind of things would you like me to write about?

Don hitched his belt up over the T-shirted expanse of his belly. We’re a small paper, but we have a core of loyal readers. One of the things they like best is Robert’s Ramblings. You’ll be Robert.

I’ll be Robert?

The column has been written by three different Roberts. The last one was named Frank. You’re the fourth Robert, if you’re good enough, that is.

Rachel nodded her understanding. Why did the last Robert leave?

He took up with a Louisiana girl and moved to New Orleans. He called me from there to give me his retroactive notice. If you ever decide to quit I hope you’ll give me more than five seconds to find someone else. Don swept up an armful of yellowed newspapers from the counter and thrust them at her. Here you go, read these to get an idea of what I’m looking for. Well, of course you haven’t read the RC before, he explained as she stood with her arms full of newspapers. We have one-fiftieth the circulation of the Yarwich Times-Herald. You were looking for a job, you saw the sign in the window, and I’m okay with that.

Rachel decided she liked her new boss. Tell me about Robert’s Ramblings.

It covers interesting people and places, but with a homespun touch, like the lady down the street who collects antique kerosene lanterns or the retired fisherman who sells rowboats he builds with his own hands. That’s the local flavor our readership prefers. Our e-mail address is yrc@jetstream.com. Type 'RR Sample' in the subject line so I’ll know it isn’t spam.

Before she could express her thanks Rachel found herself on the street again, clutching a blank W2 form in her right hand and balancing the stack of Regular Chronicles in the crook of her left arm. Dazed at the sudden way good fortune had come to her, she looked around to see whether the world had ended.

It hadn't. The sun still shone above her head and the sky was still dazzlingly blue. The late morning traffic was rushing along Washington Avenue as it always did. An elderly woman emerged from Lee’s Medicinal Massage and held the door open for another woman to enter. A street performer squatted behind a gaudy souvenir-sized sombrero on the sidewalk in front of Paige’s Pages bookstore and puffed unskillfully but hopefully on a harmonica. Everything was normal, as normal as Yarwich could be, anyway, she reflected as she reached her car. As she got inside, a giant purple tumbleweed rolled past her window, swept around a city bus and came to rest against another parked car. As the driver emerged from his car to shoo the tumbleweed away, it dissolved into a puff of yellow smoke. You can’t believe everything you see, Rachel reminded herself. Some prankster had doubtless spray-painted a tumbleweed and let it loose downtown. Very funny, ha ha.

On the way home, second thoughts about her impromptu interview began to crowd her brain. Rachel, what makes you think you can do this, she thought, glancing at the pile of newspapers on the seat beside her. You never finished college. This great opportunity has been handed to you and you’re going to blow it. Why are you wasting your time? When you get home, call Don and say you’ve changed your mind.

I will not blow it! Go to hell, she said out loud, not sure whom she was addressing. Could she write a column? A good one? Every week? Don was right. The only way to find out was to try.

On the kitchen table she spread out the issues of the Yarwich Regular Chronicle and chose one at random. Elevated Mercury Levels Found in Yarwich Harbor, she read. "President Vetoes Aid Bill for Sumatra. Local