Old Magic (9 page)

He continues to avoid me all week. At least nothing else crazy happens. I cop some cheap remarks from Pecs, who reckons it was witchcraft that caused the destruction at the Icehouse, but after a few days of this most people get bored with the idea and leave me alone. So I’m surprised to see Jarrod in the Crystal Forest the following Saturday. As usual, on the weekends I help Jillian out, giving her time to do other things. Jarrod’s mother is with him. I watch quietly from my spot on the floor where I’m restocking a bottom shelf, as she lays a handful of unusually beaded and decorated skirts and jackets over the counter. There’s some jewelry too—dangly earrings, colorful matching necklaces and bracelets. Jillian examines them with genuine interest. Some of the garments are denim, some linen or silk, but all have distinctive decorative trims of beads, rhinestones, or simply colored gems and fringes. They’re not bad if you’re into country and western stuff, or just looking for something different. They’ve got style, but I don’t think they suit Jillian’s New Age line. She caters to the tourists with mostly novelty items. But she decides to give the trinkets and clothes a go, saying she will display samples on a rack near the front window.

Jarrod’s mind is elsewhere, so I watch him for a few moments before he notices me. He seems particularly fascinated by the miniature pewter wizards. His fingers linger on one when he becomes aware I’m watching from across the room. His hand goes still as his eyes lower to mine. He smiles, an innocent boyish grin, and points to the book wedged in the crook of his arm. It’s his family heritage book. I have to stop myself from looking too keen. Sure, I want to see that book, it might be able to fill in a lot of blanks about Jarrod, but it isn’t just that.

I try not to let it show how totally hung up I am on him. After all, he ignored me all week. Trying to look casual I get up and stroll across to where he’s standing. “So, you brought the book.”

With his elbow he points at the counter where his mother and Jillian are trying to work out where best exactly to hang the garments and stuff. “Yeah, and Mom.”

I look at Mrs. Thornton and try not to probe. She would be an easy subject, her face is well-worn but trusting. She has light brown hair, with a fair bit of gray she apparently doesn’t try to cover as other women her age might. She’s wearing dark blue trousers that make her legs look really skinny and a pale yellow smock top that exaggerates a small roundish belly. “You didn’t bring your little brother?”

“Nah, Dad promised he would take him fly-fishing in the creek that runs along the back of the farm.”

Their business done, Mrs. Thornton follows Jillian to where Jarrod and I are standing. Jillian introduces us as if the two of them are old friends. I smile and shake Mrs. Thornton’s hand. It’s small and cold, yet surprisingly strong. She tells me to call her Ellen, which is nice and casual and explains a lot about the woman. I like her instantly, even as she passes an uneasy glance at Jarrod. They’ve been talking about me. The thought irritates. So I have to do it. Just once, I promise myself. One brief probe.

She’s wary, a little fearful even, her senses sharply alert, which means Jarrod has told her I’m strange, or crazy, or something similar. It disappoints me, but doesn’t change my opinion of the woman. After all, her wariness is based on the advice of her son. It’s Jarrod’s opinions that suck. How am I going to get through to him when he thinks I’m a head case?

Jillian invites Ellen to a cup of tea, but she declines. “Next time perhaps,” Ellen explains. “I have to check on my husband, Ian, and our other son, Casey. I dropped them off at the river that borders the back of our farm this morning, but Ian’s leg isn’t the best. His medication sees him dozing often.”

She leaves and Jarrod follows me upstairs. We sit on the floor together with soya munchies for morning tea, the book sprawled between us. It’s thick and rich with history, beginning with the most recent families up front. Apparently Jarrod’s father, Ian Thornton, is an only child, whose father died several years ago at the age of sixty-six from a major stroke. His mother, who is still living, is in a suburban nursing home in Sydney with an older sister.

Immersed in history, our time soon disappears. We break for lunch, and go downstairs where I heat up some vegetarian sausage rolls. We finish these and talk for a while, sticking to safe subjects like teachers and homework and Jarrod’s little brother’s antics.

We take our drinks up to my room but soon forget them as we sink back into the heritage book. It turns out Jarrod’s favorite subject is history, just like mine. We laugh about this and the feeling in the room is warm and relaxed.

I’m not sure what I’m looking for. I guess it’s a sign that proves there is a curse on the Thornton family. It turns out to be quite an informative book, giving interesting tidbits on heaps of families from way into the past. There are the usual family skeletons in the closet, some more so than others. Eventually a trend starts to take shape. Accidents, tragedies, appear more prevalent in certain families, I realize, the really large ones, where there are heaps of births. It keeps me riveted.

It turns out Jarrod’s descendants go far back into English history to the Middle Ages, long before proper records were officially kept, so the early information is stuff that’s probably been handed down from parent to child. In that respect it’s hard to decide what’s fact and what’s elaborated fiction, exaggerated for entertainment value, perhaps retold around a hungry fire on a cold winter’s night.

I try to keep this in mind, especially when reading in the back of the book about the oldest family, which is steeped in controversy. There’s a kidnapping of a newly married bride by the bridegroom’s illegitimate half-brother on their wedding night, followed by the disappearance of the newly married couple a while after. It was rumored that the young bride carried the illegitimate half-brother’s child in her womb, and that he used some form of sorcery on her, but as the young married couple was never seen again, it couldn’t be proved. Yet the controversy continued when their eldest child, a son, returned to the family home on his twenty-eighth birthday to claim his inheritance. His identity was rejected, and a bloody battle followed. I wonder how much of this is true? No matter what I read after this my mind keeps zeroing back to this memorable family.

And though it’s all fascinating, especially the mention of magic, I force myself not to dwell too long in one place. By late afternoon I recognize a definite pattern, adding credence to the story of the oldest recorded family. “It has to be it,” I announce, sitting back on my heels, folding my arms, quietly satisfied. “I think I know who the sorcerer is.”

Jarrod’s head swings up. “What did you say?”

I flick the pages back to the first family. “The illegitimate half-brother used sorcery. It must’ve been something extraordinary to have passed down through those early generations. I’m guessing—”

“Yeah, right,” Jarrod scoffs, interrupting me.

“It’s all there, Jarrod. All you have to do is look.”

“Sounds like a matter of interpretation. Didn’t you say the information in those early registers could be suspect?”

I groan. He’s impossible. Totally negative. “I admit the information’s a little scattered, and sure, some of it could be exaggerated, but you have to look at the book as a whole. There’s a definite trend of bad luck, disasters, and deaths in the larger families. This is evidence, Jarrod. It stands for itself. All these things happened mostly to families with at least seven male births. And that first family was shrouded in sorcery. Don’t you see? This is when it must have started.”

“So there’s been a lot of bad luck,” Jarrod concedes. “But sorcery? You’re kidding, right?” He still can’t see the reality, and goes on to add, “The fact that all these families are unfortunate has nothing to do with how many births are in their families, and especially doesn’t mean they’re cursed.” He’s trying to rationalize my theory. In fact, he’s trying to rationalize everything. An annoying habit.

“How can you say that?” I argue. “Every family with seven or more male births is jinxed.”

“That’s ridiculous. Besides, most people experience difficulties at some time or other. Especially, I would imagine, in those medieval days. Even more so the families with seven or more kids. Your family’s just so small you haven’t had the benefit of experience.”

I stare at him and even though it hurts, I try to ignore his last comment. My main concern is Jarrod’s lack of faith. Why can’t he just let himself believe? Why does he hold himself back from the obvious? “What would you call hard times, Jarrod? Bankruptcy? Lost limbs? Unexplained deaths? Kidnapping? Murder? It’s all there, in every family that gave birth to seven or more sons.”

Frowning, he glances across the top of my head to the window. When his eyes come back he looks uncertain. I have an inner battle to stop myself from probing his mind. Finally he shrugs and stands, apparently deciding it’s time to leave. “Look,” he begins, “it’s an interesting theory, but it has no substance with me. My only brother is Casey. I’m the first-born, not the seventh. So try explaining that.”

Of course he’s right, and suddenly I feel so stupid. All this talk of ancient evil curses and sorcery. It’s ludicrous. At least that’s how Jarrod must see it. How he must see me. I shake my head, stand, and hand him the heritage book. But I can’t meet his eyes.

“Keep the book if you like, Dad won’t miss it for a few days. But I’d better go. Mom should have been here hours ago. She must have forgotten she said she’d pick me up. I’ll start walking.”

“Jillian could drive you home,” I mumble.

“No!” His reply is too quick. He’s obviously had enough of this insanity and can’t get away fast enough. “I mean,” he mutters, “I don’t mind the walk. It’s not that far. Really. Downhill all the way.”

The phone rings downstairs. I’m so embarrassed I leave it to Jillian. We’re quiet for a minute, facing each other, neither knowing what to say. Downstairs I hear Jillian talking but I can’t quite make out her words. Finally I say, “I’ll see you out, then.”

“Nah, don’t bother.” He moves toward the door really quickly and bumps into Jillian.

“That was your father, Jarrod,” she says gently, and instantly I know something is wrong. “There’s been some sort of accident. . . .”

Both our heads shoot up, Jarrod’s hits the ceiling with a bang. He rubs it unconsciously. “What’s happened?” His voice is unsteady. “Is Dad still on the phone?”

“Sorry, no,” Jillian replies. “He was in a hurry, said for you to meet him at the hospital, where he’ll explain everything. I’ll get the car out and run you in.”

“Oh no, what now?” he groans, murmuring to himself. Then to Jillian, “How did he sound? Did he say who was hurt?” We’re already halfway down the stairs.

“I don’t want to alarm you, Jarrod, but he did sound terribly distraught.”

It takes about twenty minutes to reach the hospital. Jarrod sits in front with Jillian. There is nothing any of us can say. We don’t know enough to even speculate, except that Jarrod’s father is the one who called, so he must be all right. That leaves Ellen, Jarrod’s mother, or his nine-year-old brother, Casey.

Ashpeak Mountain Hospital looks more like a retirement village than a hospital, but it has an emergency section that remains open twenty-four hours a day. Up here we have our occasional tourist injury. A lot of backpackers do the trails in the forests; some get into difficulty not knowing the terrain well enough before starting out. And then there are the car accidents. It’s a twisting mountain road that leads up from the valley. Of course I can’t forget the locals, mostly farmers, a notorious occupation. Today there’s an obviously distressed baby with rosy cheeks being nursed by his mother while the father looks on. The man glances up as we hurry past, probably wondering why the rush on such a pleasant Saturday evening.

A nurse behind the counter leads us to a small room off to one side. Ellen is there, sitting half curled up in a ball, her fingers tightly clenching a white linen hand-kerchief in her lap. She looks incredibly small and when she glances up as we enter, I see she is an emotional mess. Her eyes are red-streaked and swollen from a lot of crying, her complexion colorless, if anything, a sullen gray. “My nightmares have come back,” she murmurs.

I glance briefly at Jillian, whose eyebrows and shoulders lift just a little. She moves to sit beside her.

Jarrod is embraced by a man who has to be his father. The resemblance is striking, except this man has stooped shoulders and uses a pair of crutches to support himself. His hair is a pale replica of Jarrod’s, thinner and sprinkled with gray. His eyes are vivid green, yet weary-looking, and he wears a face hardened by too much sun or hard knocks, making him look far older than he should.

Jarrod introduces us. “Jillian, Kate, this is my father.”

He forgets to give us a name, but I remember it from this morning when Ellen mentioned it in Jillian’s shop—Ian.

Jillian and I are invited to stay. I’m glad, because I can’t leave yet. It’s obviously Casey that’s hurt. And even though I’ve never met him, I feel as if I know him already. Jarrod mentioned him a lot today, and always with affection. Which is odd for siblings. They move around heaps, and I think this is why Jarrod gets along well with his brother. I can tell he’s protective.

“What happened?” Jarrod asks his father, flicking his mother a brief glance.

“We were fishing,” Ian begins. “Goin’ at it all day. He was having so much fun. God knows there hasn’t been much of that lately.” He stops as words choke up inside. He swallows and closes his eyes for a long moment, then continues, “Mom watched him for a bit while I had a nap in the car. Then she went home to prepare dinner, said she would come back in an hour to take us home. You know your brother, all boundless energy, can’t drag him away until the last minute.” He pauses again and his eyes glaze over.

After a moment he finds the courage to continue. “He caught sight of a whopper trout, tried to cast his fly directly over the top of it, but his hook got caught on a drifting log. I waded in a bit to help tug it free. Damn leg,” he curses. “But the log jerked forward with the current. That’s all it took.”