had gnawed away at the shale to create the long, steep scree slope that fell away from the summit, gradually, to the surf below. Still, it was a very long way down. Gulls wheeled above, the sunburned husks of sea thrift danced on the wind, spikes of orange montbretia thrust up from clefts in the rock, blankets of heather cloaked the ground, and here and there the gorse still bloomed, adding clusters of lemon yellow to the purple slopes.
The coast path back to Boscastle was, he decided, the opposite of Newton's law. It wasn't that “what goes up must come down,” it was that “what goes down must come up again,” because every quarter mile or so, streams cut into the cliffs, creating deep, narrow gorges, and necessitating arduous descents, followed by steep, stair-step climbs up the other side. Thus, he walked down from High Cliff, then up to Rusey Cliff, and then down and up to Beeny Cliff, until, finally, he circuited Pentargon Falls (noting that neither the stranded sheep nor its bones occupied the little terrace the two of them once shared) and approached the cliffs above Boscastle. Far below was the cluster of stone buildings he'd come to knew so well. Just upstream from the mouth of the Valency, he could see the Museum of Witchcraft, and he made a decision.
Andrew stood at a window in the upstairs library of the museum, gazing at the little river below and waiting for Colin Grant to finish a phone conversation. He'd been immensely relieved to find someone other than Nicola at the ticket desk when he asked after Colin; Saturday was the museum's busiest day of the week, but Nicola had had the morning shift.
“My good fellow, please accept my apologies,” Colin said, putting down the receiver at last. “One of my board members, a somewhat trying chap, but well intentioned, well intentioned. What can I do for you? A book, perhaps?” he added, gesturing to the shelves that lined the walls.
“A question, really,” Andrew said. Not knowing quite how to begin, he stopped there. It was a bit off-putting that the museum owner didn't look directly at you when he spoke.
“Yes?” the man prompted.
“Something the vicar suggested you might be able to help with.”
“Ah, yes, the Reverend Janet. It wouldn't be the first time. You have a matter she can't address?”
There was another uncomfortable pause, then, finally, Andrew nodded and dove in. “Let's say someone, a woman, was sexually abused as a child by an older brother. And let's say that brother died soon thereafter, but the memory of his abuse still haunts the woman in adulthood, so much so that it makes forming normal relationships with men extremely difficult.”
“An all-too-common phenomenon, I'm afraid,” Colin said, shaking his head in dismay.
“Are there practices or … I don't know what to call it … cures in witchcraft that might apply?”
“Oh yes, certainly; though perhaps nothing quite so specific.” Colin went to one of the shelf units. “You're really talking about two broad categories of concerns: visitations—you used the word ‘haunts,’ and it is apt—by an evil spirit, in this case the dead brother, but also issues associated with love in general. There is, of course, a long history of witches applying what we might call white magic to address such problems, love and abuse hardly being new concerns. On this shelf,” he said, sweeping a hand along a row of book bindings, “we have volumes associated with matters of the heart. And over there,” he added, pointing across the room, “is an entire section on dealing with quieting or banishing evil or unquiet spirits. I'd be happy to lend you however many books you'd like to examine. That's why we're here.”
“Mr. Grant…”
“Colin.”
“Colin. I was thinking more along the lines of direct intervention.”
“Ah …”
“I know there is a community of believers in and around Boscastle, though I gather it is also the case that they don't exactly advertise themselves.”
“This is true; people have peculiar and rather lurid ideas about witchcraft and witches, almost all of which are wrong.”
“Let's say you knew a witch who could act on this person's behalf; what might they do to intervene in such a matter?”
Colin was quiet for a moment, and Andrew felt himself being screened for safety, like a piece of luggage at the airport.
“We're speaking in purely theoretical terms, you understand.”
Andrew nodded.
“Right. Well, for a start, the witch might scry in a dark mirror or an old glass fishing float.”
“I'm sorry, scry?”
“Oh. Sorry.