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My head was pounding like a drum and I could feel something large and moist stuck to my burning forehead. I’d had a similar dizzy spell before - the day at the mall when the witch cast her ‘gay’ spell on me - and I couldn’t believe the latest one was just a coincidence.
I reluctantly forced my eyes open and found myself lying on the Calhouns’ sofa. Jay Calhoun was sitting on the chair I had head-butted, eating the chocolates I had given him, and looking at me with concern rather than hatred. At least the TV had been muted.
“How are you feeling?” Jay asked. “Pa reckons that cut on your forehead ought to be stitched. He’ll run you to hospital in his truck if you want.”
I reached up and tentatively touched the thing on my forehead with my fingers. It was a huge plaster.
“Ma cleaned the cut and put some antiseptic and a plaster on it,” Jay added. “You really scared me when you fell like that. I thought you were dead.”
I was surprised by the change in Jay’s attitude. He was no longer staring at me with hatred in his eyes. “Sorry,” I said, as though appearing dead had been my fault. I tried to sit up; the room span a little but it wasn’t too bad. “I’ve got one hell of a headache but I think I’ll live.”
“Thanks for bringing the chocolates. You’re the only person from school to visit me.”
“Well, as I said, I really need your help.” And what had just happened to me might have made it even more urgent.
“What do you mean?”
“I think there’s a witch living on this mountain. I also think she killed one of your ancestors, Judge Rory Calhoun. She’s kidnapped Joanna Kafkasian, and if Joanna isn’t found soon, I don’t think she’ll ever be found.” I made a judgement call not to mention that the witch had also made everyone think I was gay.
“I’d better get Pa,” said Jay, hurrying from the room.
When Jay returned, he had both parents in tow.
“What’s this nonsense about a witch?” demanded Mr Calhoun, although his demeanour was far less belligerent than when I’d encountered him outside.
“I think she killed one of your ancestors, Judge Rory Calhoun,” I said. “Every thirty years or so, one or two teenage girls go missing and are never seen again, and there’s often a report of dead animals too. Joanna Kafkasian went missing on Sunday and I think the witch has her.”
“There is a family tale about a Judge Rory Calhoun and a witch,” said Mr Calhoun, stroking his beard thoughtfully, “but I thought it was made up to keep kids alert on the mountain. I don’t believe any ancestors of mine were named Rory.”
Someone had placed my backpack next to the sofa after I fell. I reached into it and pulled out two sheets of paper. I handed them to Mr Calhoun. “A friend of mine traced your lineage from the town records,” I said.
Mrs Calhoun and Jay looked over his shoulders as he read.
“Your ancestor’s name was actually Rhuairidh but the town newspaper anglicised it to Rory,” I said. “You’re a direct descendant. You’ll also note there is no date of death given for him. He seems to have mysteriously disappeared just before he was due to preside over the witch’s trial.
“Jed, I’ll fetch your family Bible,” said Mrs Calhoun, leaving the room.
“Gee, Pa, I didn’t know your full name was Jedediah,” said Jay.
“And you don’t like people knowing your full name is Jacobian,” replied Mr Calhoun.
“Aw Pa, you didn’t have to tell him,” said Jay, indicating me.
“He already knows, son. Your name is on here too.”
“Mr Calhoun,” I interrupted, “what does the family tale say?”
“The story goes that even though the witch was supposed to be securely locked up in jail, she somehow got out and came to Judge Rory Calhoun in the dead of night. He knew then that he was going to die, but he begged for the life of his wife and child. They supposedly made a bargain: his family and their descendants would be spared provided they left the witch alone and never tried to seek her out to avenge his death.”
Mrs Calhoun returned bearing a venerable old Bible. “The boy’s right, you do have an ancestor named Rhuairidh and nobody filled in the date of his death.” She showed the entry to Mr Calhoun and Jay.
I pulled the newspaper line drawing and the CCTV photo of the witch out of my backpack. “The town newspaper printed a line drawing of the witch when they reported on her forthcoming trial, and here’s a photograph of her taken Sunday,” I said, handing them to Mr Calhoun. “Have you ever seen her on the mountain? Do you know where she lives?”
“I can’t say that I do,” replied Mr Calhoun.
“They could be the same woman,” said Mrs Calhoun, comparing the line drawing with the photograph.
“I’ve seen her a couple of times when I was collecting berries near The Stacks,” volunteered Jay.
“I told you not to go there,” said Mr Calhoun. “There’s rocks falling down those cliffs all the time.”
“I kept my distance,” insisted Jay.
“Did you see anywhere she could be living?” I asked. “Was there a cabin or a cave?”
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