Page:Weird Tales v34n04 (1939-10).djvu/14

in the midst of this chore, so important to cats; and meanwhile Jael Bettiss yelled, “Speak!”

Gib crouched and blinked, feeling sick. His tongue came out and steadied his lips. Finally he said: “I want something to eat.”

His voice was small and high, like a little child’s, but entirely understandable. Jael Bettiss was so delighted that she laughed and clapped her bony knees with her hands, in self-applause.

“It worked!” she cried. “No more humbug about me, you understand? I’m a real witch at last, and not a fraud!”

Gib found himself able to understand all this, more clearly than he had ever understood human affairs before. “I want something to eat,” he said again, more definitely than before. “I didn’t have any supper, and it's nearly—”

“Oh, stow your gab!” snapped his mistress. “This book, crammed with knowledge and strength, that made me able to do it. I’ll never be without it again, and it’ll teach me all the things I’ve only guessed at and mumbled about. I’m a real witch now, I say. And if you don’t think I’ll make those ignorant sheep of villagers realize it—”

Once more she went off into gales of wild, cracked mirth, and threw a dish at Gib. He darted away into a corner just in time, and the missile crashed into blue-and-white china fragments against the wall. But Jael Bettiss read aloud from her book an impressive gibberish, and the dish reformed itself on the floor; the bits crept together and joined and the cracks disappeared, as trickling drops of water form into a pool. And finally, when the witch’s twig-like forefinger beckoned, the dish floated upward like a leaf in a breeze and set itself gently back on the table. Gib watched warily.

“That’s small to what I shall do here-after,” swore Jael Bettiss.

WHEN next the mail was distributed at the general store, a dazzling stranger appeared.

She wore a cloak, an old-fashioned black coat, but its drapery did not conceal the tall perfection of her form. As for her face, it would have stirred interest and admiration in larger and more sophisticated gatherings than the knot of letter-seeking villagers. Its beauty was scornful but inviting, classic but warm, with something in it of Grecian sculpture and Oriental allure. If the nose was cruel, it was straight; if the lips were sullen, they were full; if the forehead was a suspicion low, it was white and smooth. Thick, thunder-black hair swept up from that forehead, and backward to a knot at the neck. The eyes glowed with strange, hot lights, and wherever they turned they pierced and captivated.

People moved away to let her have a clear, sweeping pathway forward to the counter. Until this stranger had entered, Ivy Hill was the loveliest person present; now she looked only modest and fresh and blond in her starched gingham, and worried to boot. As a matter of fact. Ivy Hill’s insides felt cold and topsy-turvy, because she saw how fascinated was the sudden attention of John Frey.

“Is there,” asked the newcomer in a deep, creamy voice, “any mail for me?”

“Wh-what name, ma’am?” asked John Frey, his brown young cheeks turning full crimson.

“Bettiss. Jael Bettiss.”

He began to fumble through the sheaf of envelopes, with hands that shook. “Are you,” he asked, “any relation to the old lady of that name, the one who lives in the hollow?”

“Yes, of a sort.” She smiled a slow, conquering smile. “She’s my—aunt. Yes. Perhaps you see the family resemblance?” Wider and wider grew the smile with which she assaulted John Frey. “If there