Dating : Turbulent Waters

John Smith, eh? Not very original. I don’t trust him. That thin face. Those shifty eyes. Where have I seen him before?

He smiles. ‘I wonder if you’d be kind enough to answer a few questions?’

Depends. But I nod. ‘If you like.’ He’s shown me some kind of official ID, but I’m not sure it’s legit.

‘How many of you in this house?’ he asks.

‘Just the three of us — Grandma, Demelsa and me.’ And Francesca the tortoise. We don’t always keep cats, you know. Such a cliché.

‘Thing is,’ he says, and he rubs his nose, ‘there have been some strange goings-on since you arrived.’

You can say that again. My sister is beautiful, with striking green eyes and lots of men stare at her. But this one guy took things too far. One full-mooned night, when Demelsa was chanting around the strawberry patch, he surprised her. There was a struggle — but not for long.

Flesh can form many shapes, and in this case it became small and scaly and scuttled away.

The police are looking for a missing person. Hah. Good luck with that.

‘Strange things,’ this John Smith person says again. He glances at his notebook. ‘Like Jack Ormerod’s hip. He needed a replacement. Now he doesn’t.’

‘Good for him,’ I mutter.

‘Doctors can’t find anything wrong with it. He claims you gave him some sort of balm.’

You try to help and what do you get? Why can’t these people keep their mouths shut? ‘I have a home business; healing balms and p-’ Nearly said potions ‘…and tonics.’

‘A woman called Lizzie Boyd says her hair turned from grey to deep auburn after she drank some of your so-called tonic. How do you explain that?’

‘She dyed it.’

He looks at his notes again. ‘And a horse belonging to the Coopers was on its last legs and due to be put down. After a visit from you, it recovered completely.

I shrug. What can I say? I love animals.

He looks into my eyes. I look into his…and now I know where I’ve seen him before. Life before life before life: an ancient hill – he with his accusations, the villagers with pitchforks and torches.

Not this time. Anger burns through me, my blood hot, my hands balled into fists, my jaw set tight.

Words have power if you know the right ones.

I start the chant.

Water begins to pool around him. He jumps to his feet. ‘What the hell? Where’s this coming from?’

Within seconds, it’s knee-high.

He shakes himself into action; starts wading towards the door.

Does he really think I’ll let him go — allow him to poke and prod and make trouble for us all over again?

With a sweep of my hand I flood the room with a great torrent of turbulent waters.

He’s thrown forward. Tries to swim. Gulps. Swallows.

The words are beginning to colour his flesh. It’s turning golden. He’s shrinking. He’s losing human shape. It’s a wonder to watch.

We don’t have a goldfish-bowl, but there’s a large vase on top of the dresser. I scoop him into it then flash-dry the house with a sun-chant.

Demelsa comes traipsing in, her fingers clasped around a bouquet of marigolds. ‘Oh,’ she says, ‘do we have a new pet?’