WATER

The witch at present was very old, although she had been older. Many lines creased her face and the palms of her hands. Over these, she saw hazy traces of other palms, with forks and stories of their own. What had she been before this iteration: a fortune teller hawking her gifts in Brighton? She’d been more than she was; she knew it.

Her finger found again her lifeline, traced the star and the break that worried her. Sure, she’d seen ninety years. Longer, the witch supposed, than she deserved. “The end is nigh,” she intoned in the dramatic keen that thrilled her clients.

The witch swung her legs out of bed, dislodging the cats. Time to get up. Time for coffee, for kibble, and to hang the OPEN sign on her door. Witches and their cats had to eat, too. That would make a good sign, to hang under her broomstick, to discourage those inclined to stiff her.

“Yes, yes, my pretties,” she told the cats, swirling around her skirts. “Yes, yes.” She rattled into their bowls their bagged kibble. Over this, she shook bits of mackerel. Her human children had long since grown and moved away, leaving the witch to mother these four-legged children who stayed.

‘Open a window and a cat walks in,’ she thought. Her cats loved her back but just as much they loved the neighbor whose garden abutted her own. He fished for his work and brought them home better than kibble. Cats loved whomever fed them, the witch reflected. Creatures of comfort, as mercenary as the worst human.

Her pets settled; she went to her Keurig cupboard. Bare. Not a single-serve cup in sight. She reached around and felt a teabag. “You’ll do,” she told it.

One cup of boiled tea and slice of toast later, the witch thought again about flipping her sign to OPEN. It was past time. She could– she should– but she didn’t want to.

Danger would walk through her door today.

Not since the manhunt for the Labour Killer had the witch felt so strongly a sense of doom. My, that must be– she counted backward– forty years ago. She’d gone to lock her door early, alert to the sirens outside and one sounding within her head. Before she reached the door, he’d popped into her shop to hide. He looked ordinary; no bloody handprint on his sleeve. His thumb, however, was clubbed: a murderer’s thumb. It looked like a hammer. That was– she saw in an instant– what he’d used on the heads of his victims. He had hammered their faces to shut them up.

The witch shivered. “That was a long time ago,” she told herself and the cat nearest her. “Long ago. And in Wales. We’re safe here.”

She dawdled, put her dishes in the sink for later, petted each cat. Although mothers didn’t admit to favorites, the tabby named Abby was hers. When the witch dressed, her morning ritual included adding caged crystals: tourmaline against her heart and an evil eye talisman outside her shirt, for all the good that might do.

Still, she steeled herself before opening the door which connected to the working half of her house. She’d died before, she knew. But it never got any easier.

Clients trickled in all morning. A few were appointments: local regulars who ignored her advice but came back for more. Others were tourists who found her sign on the boardwalk and stopped in for a lark. The witch gave them what they needed and sometimes what they asked for.

“No, your boss doesn’t appreciate you,” she told a spotty young man who steepled his fingers. He’d learned that from a business textbook, she thought, or the YouTube. “If he did, you wouldn’t ask. You’d already know. You’d know.” She pointed to his palm. “You need to find your gumption. Negotiate a raise or go. I predict you will go… and soon.”

“Brenda, it’s time, yeah?” the witch told one of her regulars, who both feared and wanted change. “Last month, you had the Hanged Man in your spread. This time, poof! The Chariot. Poof!”

“Your aura is green and pink,” a retired nurse was told as she wept. “You give and give, but find it hard to get. Wear some malachite, go hike in nature, tell yourself every morning that you are lovable. Yes, every day, until you know it’s true.”

“He’s always with you,” the witch said, gently to the next. The woman opposite her couldn’t see her late husband’s hand resting on her shoulder. The witch could. “Talk to him. You won’t hear him with your ears, but with your heart.”

It sounded like bollocks, but the witch knew too well it was true. How long since her own husband had last returned, to hide her favorite slippers some ten years after he passed? What a rascal was her Paddie, thought the witch, fondly.

No one waited on the folding chairs of the outer shop when the witch waved goodbye to the last of her morning visitors. There was often a noontime lull. Experience told the witch that she could step away to fry an egg and still hear the door. Intuition told her to stay put.

The girl who walked in was not who the witch expected. She was tall and slim, wore expensive clothes made for her. Her earrings were opals: tastefully small. She dressed old, but was young. Her aura was gold; her brown eyes were unsure. Were the witch a charlatan, she could have fleeced this client. Instead, she said, “Hello?”

“Hello. Just looking.” The girl drifted through the room, picking up a book or a precious stone. Her inspection was cursory. She was stalling, the witch knew, girding her courage.

“What’s this?” the girl asked.

“That’s a crystal ball, for scrying.”

“Oh.” She walked on, picked up a paperweight made by one of the witch’s children. “Your sign reads: White Witchery. What does that mean?”

“I give simple answers for life’s big questions, yeah? Only for the highest good, yours and others.”

“How?”

“My third eye– and tools of the trade. Which tool is up to you. What I often find is that people already know what they’ve come to ask. It may feel muddy, but truth be told–you already know.”

“Oh.”

The witch’s stomach rumbled. That lone toast was hours ago. She would like to escape, to eat, and listen for the door chime of a real client, but mercy kept her put. Everyone who came to her needed something. This girl was no exception. Her dark eyes flashed to the windows, checking for something or someone. As she set down the paperweight, her hands shook.

This girl was afraid.

A car pulled into the neighbor’s car park, who sold tours and tackle– the same who gifted her cats their fish. At the sound of tires on gravel, the girl flinched. When she saw the driver, she sagged with relief. Someone she didn’t know, thought the witch. Ergo, someone she does know is following her.

“How do I know this isn’t just hooey?” asked the girl.

“You don’t,” said the witch. “But I suspect you know that it’s not, else you wouldn’t have come in.”

“I’m not sure… Sometimes I read my horoscopes in the papers. It’s always so vague: something for everyone or no one. People find what they want to.”

“Are you asking me or telling me that’s so?”

“Well… Isn’t it?”

The witch sighed. “Horoscopes are as precise as the traffic report. You share common qualities with one twelfth of the population, for either Greek or Chinese astrology. But not all Capricorns are the same, nor are all Dogs. That’s why general horoscopes are imprecise. Imagine that you’re driving. Around you are cars moving in the same direction, pausing at the same red lights. That’s a horoscope. You’ll share similar roadblocks, but as unique to each driver as you are.”

“How did you know I’m a Capricorn? I think I was born in the year of the Dog, too.” The girl shook her head, dazed, and turned– finally– to look fully at the witch. She had the shadowed eyes and waxy skin of someone deeply fatigued. “Do you take cash?”

The witch ushered the girl into the antechamber: soundproofed and private. A camera in the corner alerted the witch to people entering or waiting; an inconspicuous clock helped her to track time and rates.

“Now. How can I help? Let’s start with a name.”

The girl smiled faintly. “A name? Any? I’m Chloe. I’m– we’re– vacationing here.” Vacation, not on holiday. Chloe was a Yank.

“I walked past your shop before and remembered it this morning, when I was deciding what to do. I can’t sleep. I’m having nightmares. Horrible ones. They’re so real. They seem… like memories.”

They probably were. “Let’s find out. Which service would you like?” the witch asked.

Again, Chloe smiled. “All of them.”

They started with palmistry. The girl’s lifeline was long, which came as a relief to them both. “You will get married, but not for some time. You said that you are engaged?”

“I didn’t say. But I am. We’re to be married next year. Everything was easy– until we started talking about the honeymoon. He wants to sail the world. As soon as he mentioned open waters, I got hives. Then the nightmares started.”

You won’t marry next year, the witch wanted to tell her but refrained. Sometimes a client went ahead and did just what they wanted. Oppositionally defiant, the witch thought about those benighted fools. She was old enough in every sense to know that one could never outrun Fate.

“Trust your gut,” she said, instead. “Don’t marry him. Don’t go.”

“What should I tell Johnathan– my fiance?”

“Better not to say too much, especially where love and money are concerned. Is Johnathan as well off as you?”

“How did you know I was wealthy?”

Her clothes, that golden glow, the insouciance to cost. “Everything,” said the witch.

“Oh. Well, I am. He’s not. At least, not like me. Johnnie’s my family’s attorney. That’s how we met. He felt… familiar. We found we had things in common. I am a huge Taylor Swift fan and wore a concert tee one day. He said he was a fan, too.”

The witch caught the distinction: said he was, not ‘was.’ “You think he’s not?”

“I don’t know. We went to a few concerts. He liked the VIP box, all right, but didn’t know any of her songs. Said he had no favorite. A true Swiftie does. Her songs speak to you, you know?” Seeing the witch did not, Chloe went on. “He used to seem safe. Crazy as it sounds, I don’t want to be alone with him anymore.”

“Trust that feeling. Trust it. I suggest you tell your parents or”– the witch searched the air around the girl to see if anyone else was the proper protector but came up empty– “yes, your parents. Tell them how you’re feeling. Engagements can be broken. Tell me more about why you’re afraid.”

“You tell me.”

Touche, thought the witch. She laid out her Lenormand. Tarot had its limits. Lenormand painted clearer pictures. Chloe’s signifier was the Moon. Around her, the witch laid the Fox, the Mouse, the Fish, the Ship, the Man, and–

“A coffin?” Chloe put a hand to her throat.

Beside the Coffin, the witch laid the Scythe and the Garden. She smiled. “That’s better, yeah? The Mouse is in your past. Something was nibbling away at you. Worry?” The witch didn’t wait for an answer.

“The Fox is in that column, too. That’s a card of work and– I’m sorry to say– deceit. Now, central to your here and now, we have the Fish and the Ship. The Fish means money.” The witch tapped this card. Money mattered to the to hidden half of this couple. Love brought her most of her clients, but greed came second. “Do you have a prenup?”

“No. He doesn’t want one.”

Of course he doesn’t, thought the witch. “These cards read left to right. The Man’s also in your past. Interesting. The Ship”–

“It’s the yacht. It has to be. Not Johnathan’s, he’s borrowing it from his ex. Their friendship never bothered me,” Chloe added. “But our honeymoon does. Her yacht does. Am I crazy?”

“I don’t think so.”

“I feel crazy. I don’t want to go. I’m afraid.” Panic choked Chloe’s voice. “Ever since he brought up this trip, I dream of water. I can’t surface. I can see the sun and sky but I can’t get out. I see weeds, but it’s not weeds holding me down. It’s hands. I’m drowning, but not by accident.”

Premonition or memory? The witch wondered. She reached for Chloe’s hand– a long healthy lifeline, two marriages, and travel– the map of the girl’s current life. The witch unfocused her eyes to glimpse another. As she had seen her own lifetimes blurred and half-remembered, she saw this girl’s distant past. Chloe had married a man before who wanted her for her money– and not just any man. She had married the same man, in another lifetime, who wanted her money.

He had gotten it.

“What do you see?” breathed Chloe. “I can tell it’s bad. What is it?”

“I see your fiancé. Centuries ago. You were wealthy then, too. Very wealthy. This man– Johnathan– he was there, too, in that lifetime. I think it was in Egypt. It was hot. He killed you, in a wide river, in the rushes by the bank.”

“He killed me. He killed me in water.” Chloe sat back, dazed. “I knew it. I remembered. It can’t be proven true. But I feel that it is. It happened.”

The witch nodded. A death on the Nile, a millennium or more ago, imprinted onto the soul of this girl. In this lifetime, she would escape the drowning planned for her. The witch also sat back, resigned. This was only the first act, she knew, of a fated two-act play. A murderer must murder someone.

For several minutes, neither spoke. The witch finally said, “I’d give away those opal earrings, too, but not to someone you like. They’re unlucky.”

Chloe laughed. Her weight had lifted. “Thank you. A thousand thank yous! I won’t marry Johnathan. And– if I don’t– this past life won’t repeat! I’ll go on to do everything you saw in my palm, I promise! I’ll send you postcards and photos. And I’ll visit you, every year on this day.”

You won’t, the witch could have said. Chloe wasn’t lying, but the witch knew they would not cross paths again. It served no purpose, however, to say so. It also amused the witch to see in this polished girl the entitlement of the very young: the idea that the witch’s happiness also hinged on her own, that the witch would wait breathlessly for a letter. “I’d like that. Until next year, then.”

The afternoon crept on. Between clients, the witch’s thoughts returned to Chloe. Perhaps her happiness did hinge– just a little– on this girl’s actions. Her last hours certainly did. What must Chloe be doing now? Ending things with her partner? Explaining to her parents?

The witch did not fool herself into believing that her own part might be left out. She lit sage to cleanse the room, filled the kitchen sink for her few dishes, and shooed the cats outside into the garden. “Not listening,” she told them when they complained. “Little whingers. It’s for your own good.”

Such a relief now that the cats loved her neighbor. He would feed them when she was gone, give them tasty bits from his trawling. Love was the answer, the witch knew. We can’t take with us riches or cats. Best for the ones we love most to have others who love them, too.

She shuffled around her house side, listening to the business half for signs of life. The mug which read “#1 Mum” was pulled forward from the back of the cupboard, where the witch had kept it for years, lest it break. She wanted her children to find it.

Just when the witch wondered if her foresight had been wrong, he came. As with the last time a killer came to call, the witch was fractionally too slow to lock the door. He locked it behind him, then followed her through the shop and into her kitchen. Perhaps she wouldn’t have been in time, no matter when she closed up. No one could outrun Fate. She did run, but he was faster.

Johnathan had the murderer’s thumb, too, she saw before his hands went around her throat. “Don’t even try to scream,” he whispered. “If anyone comes, I’ll kill them, too, and it will be your fault. All of this is your fault. You ruined everything, you dirty bitch.”

One letter off, she thought, amused despite the pain. It hurt, those thumbs pressed between chin and chest. It hurt worse once he forced her head into the sink, filled with hot water and dish soap that stung her eyes. She fought the urge to fight; it would only extend the pain, but not her life by much.

Remembering an old practice, almost forgotten, the witch rested. It would all be over soon. She would be released from this emptied vessel, reconcile with the mysteries, until she was ready to try again. It was happening: the white horizon rushing toward her. A roar of wind or water sounded in her ears; her life was rushing out. She replayed it as footage: of her Romani grandmum, living in the camper van with her man, of Brighton’s pebbled beaches, of reading to her children and talking to her cats. Her penultimate thought was that next time, she might try getting a dog.

With her last thought, she wished that maybe Abby would be it.