Beatrice Shall Come to the Mango

by Olga Godim

appears
in this issue.

conclusion

The brandy sizzled for a few moments and then stabilized into a picture of a Ford pickup speeding towards the mountains. She didn’t see the people inside the cabin, but the largest spark of her magic had landed on the roof of the trunk, pulsing like Beatrice’s living heart.

“They’re driving out of Vancouver,” Darya murmured. “I think they’re heading to Hope.” She traced the foggy outline of the mountains in the background. Jumping on her feet, she splashed the brandy into the sink, picked up the bowl, the bottle of brandy, and her car keys, and headed for the garage, lugging the strange suitcase after her. In the last moment, she turned. The DVD clock showed eight fourteen.

Darya heaved the suitcase into her Honda, threw the brandy and the bowl on the front seat, and started the engine. When she left the city proper, she stopped for a moment to pour brandy into the bowl and scry again. The Ford continued on its way east.

Darya left the bowl with brandy on her knees like an iPod, holding it steady with one hand while driving with another. Every few minutes she glanced down to check on the Ford. If any policeman stopped her, she would have a hard time explaining what she was doing with a bowl of brandy on her knees and a half-empty bottle on the next seat, but she was beyond caring. Where was this Fanny woman driving to? Darya’s car clock showed nine, but the Ford continued rolling.

Finally, the road sign in the bowl caught Darya’s eye. Harrison Hot Springs. She was about forty minutes behind the Ford. She shouldn’t have gone grocery shopping. She should’ve checked the bag at the airport. She should’ve done so many things differently. On the deserted road in the growing dusk, she felt so lonely she wanted to weep. Witches don’t weep, she reminded herself, bit her lower lip, and kept driving.

By the time she arrived in Harrison Hot Springs, the Ford had stopped. She cruised the small town for a few minutes before she located the pickup in front of a spacious, two-storey house. The magic was no longer in the Ford. It was in the house, on the second floor.

Parking across the street from the Ford, Darya climbed out. It was already almost eleven and fully dark, although the street lights and the windows provided dim, diffused illumination. She didn’t see anyone, and none of the cars passing the mouth of the alley turned in her direction.

What now? Was she going to knock on the front door? No. The people in that house might get suspicious. They might even suggest making the exchange tomorrow, with some authorities from the airport present. She couldn’t risk that, couldn’t risk them discovering Beatrice or her wand.

She sensed her magic inside the house, calling to her, intact, reverberating like a tuned guitar string. Nobody had tampered with her spell yet; otherwise it would’ve felt like a dissonance. Nobody had opened the bag. Darya’s illusion had prevented these people from being too interested. They might even postpone opening it till tomorrow, but she had to get Beatrice now. She had only two hours, maybe less. She would have to break in.

Skeptically, she inspected herself. The moon playing tag with the clouds beamed on the same clothes she wore on the plane: her blue jeans and a gray sweatshirt with a picture of Amsterdam imprinted on the front. Not exactly a burglar’s attire but it would have to do.

Her next glance was directed towards her shining celadon Honda. If afterwards someone remembered a car speeding away, it should be... a burgundy BMW. She painted the illusion over the real thing, using her magic like a brush. She should also have a different license number. Circling the car, she blew magic dust at the license plate, watching in satisfaction as the black digits blurred for a moment before resolving in a new pattern. She left the key in the car and grabbed the bag belonging to Fanny Walport.

The alley on both sides of her disguised Honda dozed so quietly, she could hear a gull screaming at the lake. She could hear her heart pounding. Never in her life could Darya imagine breaking into a stranger’s house to steal her own bag. With a smuggled squirrel. She giggled but sobered up quickly. The time was ticking.

She crept towards the house. Clouds had at last caught the moon in their clutches, making the night black. In the darkness, the white house, highlighted along the foundation, glowed; its uneven walls with protruding bays and turrets seemed to have been built of white Lego bricks. Leaving the suitcase on the front step, Darya plodded along a stone path around the house. Nobody noticed. Nobody rang an alarm. No dog barked. So far so good.

A balcony hung over a sliding patio door in the back. The door was open, allowing fresh air into the house. Thank you, trusting Fanny Walport, Darya thought gratefully, slipping inside the dark anteroom.

Behind a partial wall, the family was having dinner. In the dining nook lit by a bright chandelier, the voices — two adults and two teenagers — intermingled with the chiming of silver, china, and crystal.

“Mom, pass the meatloaf.”

“Fanny, how was the trip?”

With the smell of parsley and basil teasing her nostrils, Darya dropped on her knees and scuttled from the dark anteroom to the dark corridor beyond. As she skirted the lit corner of the kitchen, her heart tolled like the cathedral bells, somewhere in the vicinity of her stomach. Fortunately, the family engaged in their ‘Welcome home’ dinner were deaf to the bells.

In the far end of the corridor, out of the line of sight from the kitchen, she straightened and tiptoed up the curving stairs to the second floor, her steps muffled in the deep carpet. Her magic was so prominent inside the house she didn’t even have to look for it. It reeled her in like a fisherman reels in his fish: past a large living room warmed by a crackling electric hearth, past a closed door with a sign ‘Please knock’, towards the master bedroom. Unopened, her suitcase stood at the foot of the bed, the illusion of shabbiness still shimmering around it.

Gotcha! Darya grabbed the suitcase. Puffing from its weight, she lumbered towards the stairs. She would escape through the front door which was only a few short steps from the bottom of the stairs. A couple more minutes, and she would be gone from this house.

Midway down the unlit staircase, she almost collided with a teenage girl. Both jumped back at the last moment, staring at each other. Darya gulped in air in short, painful gasps. Her heart fluttered wildly.

“Who are you?” The girl’s eyes were glued to the picture of Amsterdam on Darya’s chest.

Hindered by the heavy suitcase, Darya tramped down past the girl as fast as she could. She didn’t care about the noise anymore.

“Dad!” the girl screamed.

Darya darted out the door. Tossing her magic into the lock, she said, “Jam!” With an audible snap, the tongue twisted inside the lock. Darya turned sharply and stubbed her toe on the other suitcase that she had left on the steps. “Stupid witch,” she hissed, hobbling towards the car.

Throwing the back door open, she pushed the suitcase onto the back seat, slammed the door shut, and climbed into the car. Without taking another second to fasten the seatbelt, she turned the key and floored the accelerator. The Honda sprang forward, and the bowl with her scrying brandy tumbled down, soaking the seat and the car floor in alcohol. Behind her, the enraged yells of the house inhabitants mingled with the loud hammering on the jammed door.

By the time Darya’s labored breathing returned to normal, she was outside of town. She turned into a narrow lane, drove around the first bend, which made the car invisible from the main road, and stopped. Only the car’s headlights illuminated the beaten-earth track and the trees on both sides of the lane.

Crawling to the back seat, she banished the spell on the bag with a twist of her fingers and tugged the zipper open. Her pink fleece robe lay on top the way she had packed it in Amsterdam. Underneath, Beatrice nestled safely inside her bed of clothes, like a posh blue fur boa, deep in trance. Letting out her breath, Darya pulled the wand in its bubble-wrap from the side pocket. Then she clambered out of the car.

The burgundy BMW illusion rose obediently from the surface of her Honda, dissolving into the night like a wisp of smog. She changed the license number back to normal, and stripped off her Amsterdam sweatshirt. The girl from the house might remember it. Dropping the gray garment on the grass, she gathered her magic to the topaz and pointed the wand at the shirt. “Burn!” she sang, tingling with the need for release. Something had to pay for her fright. White flames licked the shirt, flared high, and died swiftly, leaving cold gray ashes behind.

Laughter gurgled in Darya’s throat before erupting like fizzling champagne. Awash with moonlight, she spun around in her jeans and bra, arms extended, playing with her wand, painting sparkling butterflies in the air. She had done it!

Witch? A familiar mind-voice said gruffly. Are we in Vancouver? Why is this place reeking of spirit? The silvery-blue streak dashed out of the car, settling on the hood. Are you drunk?

Darya couldn’t stop laughing. “Oh, Beatrice! I just had a twelve-hour transatlantic flight, smuggled a squirrel into Canada, engaged in a car chase, broke into a house, stole my suitcase, and vandalized their lock. I’m so wicked!”

Beatrice’s blue hide glimmered in the moonlight. She clacked in disapproval. You are drunk! I’m hungry. Where is my mango?