Free Blackwork by Monica Ferris Page A

with vertical stitches that made Betsy think of a weedy lawn or garden in late autumn. In the center was a big leafless tree—the knobby, crooked limbs proclaimed it an oak—and stuck rakishly on an upright limb was . . . Betsy bent closer over the design.
    A witch’s hat. From a lower branch, lifted into a curve as if in a stiff breeze, hung the skeleton of a fish, and among the lifted roots of the tree was a half-buried but very realistic human skull.
    The design looked simple at first, though a second look showed an alarming number of color changes in the trunk and limbs of the tree—and in the grass and weeds, too. It was a striking design, but an eerie one. Betsy had a number of Halloween designs in her shop. Next to Christmas, it was the most popular seasonal design theme. But only rarely were the Halloween patterns seriously spooky, and none as disturbing as this.
    “I call it ‘The Witch’s Tree,’” said Irene.
    “It’s very striking—” Betsy began.
    “I’ve already turned it into a pattern,” Irene went on, talking over her and reaching into her bag and producing three sheets of stapled paper. “I think it should sell really well, particularly in this area, don’t you?”
    Betsy felt a stir of anger. “What do you mean, ‘particularly in this area,’ Irene?”
    “I mean, after what’s been going on in Excelsior, the falling fish and mysterious death and our very own witch living right in the midst of us.”
    Betsy had to take two deep breaths before she could control her impulse to shout, so it was in a deadly calm voice that she asked, “Irene, did you call Leona Cunningham and accuse her of murder?”
    “Oh, no, of course not! I would never do such a thing! How can you think I would do such a thing? I would never accuse her of anything! What if I was wrong? What if she recognized my voice? She might . . . cast a . . . do something . . .” Betsy was relieved to see Irene at last pick up the signals Betsy was sending. Her words stumbled and ran down into silence.
    “Do you believe in witchcraft, Betsy?” she asked in a falsely cheerful voice.
    “No, I do not. Do you?”
    “Well, not really. I mean, there’s good witchcraft, right? Blessings and herbals and, and, and— beer ! That sort of thing is real. But not curses and hexes and other black magic, that can’t be real. It’s just make-believe. That’s why we like Halloween nowadays, right? It’s just make-believe wickedness, like ghosties and ghoulies and long-leggedy beasties and things that go bump in the night, good Lord deliver us.” Irene gave a brief, high-pitched giggle. “Does this mean you aren’t going to sell my design in your sweet little shop?”
    “Irene, this is a wonderful, powerful design,” Betsy said, hedging a bit. Not that it wasn’t true. “How did you find that perfect fabric?”
    “I found it at Stitchers’ Heaven, that shop in Dinkytown that went out of business. Fifteen yards of white congress cloth at fifty cents a yard, would you believe it? Then I bought some pink dye, orange dye, and dark purple dye and played with the colors. I found that if you do small, concentrated batches, then thin it without stirring, you can take a paintbrush and kind of swoop it over the fabric and create these great effects. Like this sky. I did the pink first with just a tinge of orange, then the purple at the top. I was going to try for a sunset—do a little more gold with the pink and orange coming up from the bottom—but I liked this so much I stopped here. It looks like an angry sky, don’t you think? And all swirly, as if the wind is blowing a gale.”
    Betsy nodded. “Yes, a very interesting effect.”
    “And at first I just thought about a late-fall storm, but then all this business with Leona and Ryan happened, and I looked at my pattern and it simply inspired me!”
    “To do the tree?”
    “Oh, I was always going to do a tree, they are so interesting, don’t you think? Especially without their