Wynter's Thief, page 3
Away they creep, like dogs with tails between their legs, their thirst blazing into pain without the hope of my gift. My father comes and says something to the priest, but the priest shouts at him, calls him a fool and the father of a she-devil, and my father hangs his head and does not reply. When the priest goes, only my father and I are left, standing by the field of wheat that shrivels and suffers. Suddenly he grabs my arm and marches me off back to our wagon. As we go down the village lanes I see faces at the windows, feel the rancour in the eyes watching me. I want to shout at them that it is not my fault, but theirs, for giving up so soon. I am angry with them, but my anger is nothing compared with what blazes from my father.
Grim-faced, he says nothing until we reach the wagon. Then he shoves me inside, locks the chain about my foot then leans over me and spits out all his rage.
“Have you lost your magic?” he shouts, shaking his misshapen fist into my face. “Or are you doing this just to shame me, to lose us whatever little money that miserly lord might have paid?”
“I have lost nothing,” I say, cringing against the wall. “I divined true. It is not my fault the villagers will not dig.”
“Will not? They were digging until yester-eve! If there was water, they would have come to it. It is your fault. Everything is your fault! If you had died, and one of your sisters had lived, I’d have had a maid to marry off. I’d be free now, free to take another wife, to make my own life. Instead I have you, with your unnatural ways and bewitchments and widdendreams. No man in his right mind would marry you. You’re a millstone around my neck.”
I try to shut him out, try not to hear his words. But I do hear them, have heard them many times before, yet still they are wounds to my heart.
“You’re a freak, girl. Right from the start.” I steel myself against what will come, for it is a thing he never lets me forget. He goes on, “Even newly born, you were a freak, a little demon-fish sucking the last life from my poor Maggie, while she drowned. You killed her, Wynter, not the water. I should have buried you with her, dead or alive. I’d have been better off alone.”
He stops for breath, and I hope he has finished. But he goes on.
“And now you’ve lost your unnatural cunning, the one thing that makes you worth anything. The folks here won’t let you get away with it, you know. That priest will make you pay for deceiving them. You’ll be lucky if they don’t try you for a witch …”
He raves on, and I spread white light over myself, my only protection against his hate. Shielded behind that light, I do not hear him, but see him through a glistering redness, his face contorted with anger, the veins standing out on his neck. At last he stops and goes to a chest and takes out a leather skin of ale. He drinks deeply while I shelter behind my light, slowly mending myself.
After a long drink, he sits down on the grass pillows at the back of our wagon and falls asleep, though it is not yet noon. While he snores the redness about him recedes, and I see again the moaning grey of his pain. He misses my mother, for he loved her dearly. So many losses he has suffered in his life – first Ma, then my brothers and sisters in the fire. It is true, what he says: if I had died and my older sister had lived, he could have married her off and been a free man now. He drinks overmuch to forget his miseries and is a slave to ale. Late he came back from the manor last night, stumbling about and disturbing the orchard with his curses and ribald songs. Yet today his pain is worse, for it is overlaid with a sickness that comes on him after the ale. A greyness overshadows his belly, and I fear his illness may be fatal. For all his faults, I love him, since he is my father, and it is only weakness and sorrow that make him unkind. It grieves me that there is no love in him for me, and I do not understand why he hates me, for even though it is unnatural, my gift brings us some money. Sometimes we are paid with a whole bag of coins, if my divining proves true and a wealthy lord is grateful.
I say if my divining power proves true, but that is not the way of it. My divining is always true, but people do not always dig for a well where I say one should be dug. That fault should not be laid on me, although it is. I have been called a charlatan and a liar, and twice my father and I have been driven from villages, with stones thrown after us. Even he doubts my gift, at times. I never doubt it. Not now. Not since the Thirsting Man.
I was seven summers old when I saw him.
It was before my father chained me to the floor of the wagon, before I became known as a dowser. I had divined only once, in the summer after the rest of our family was burned. It was one of the driest in many years. My father and I had been crossing a great moorland when our water ran out. The moor’s end was lost in scorching haze, and we were tormented by thirst. Our horse suffered most; its pain was a gloomy vapour about it, and it stumbled and fell and could not get up again. My father whipped it, but I stopped him and said I would find water for ourselves and our horse. I cannot say how I knew I would find water; it was a sudden certainty deep inside, a knowing in my heart, as sure as knowing the sun will rise at the end of night. It was as if a voice had spoken, and I knew it to be true. My father said it was lunacy, but I walked away by myself, and out of that vast, parched place, the music of the water called to me, and I found a tiny spring in the ground. My father cursed me for a sorceress and said I had a demon; but he drank the water all the same, and fetched some for the horse.
His words had distressed me mightily, for I believed him.
On the other side of the moor was a village with a small stone church at its edge. We had our wagon in the graveyard, and that evening my father went to drink ale with the men. He told me to stay in the wagon lest I do something devilish again and be hanged for it. So I sat alone on the wagon step, facing the church.
The graveyard was afire with the day’s last light, but the long shadow of the church tower fell heavily across me, and I was sore afraid. The people under the tombstones gave me no fear, for they were deep in rest, their substance melted into grass and trees and wildflowers. It was the church, and the unsmiling God within, that struck me with terror. And though I was a child, and afraid, I decided to find out if my discovering water had been from the devil or not. I got up, crossed the graveyard and went into the church.
It was the bravest thing I have ever done in my life. I was sure the demon in me would shriek, or a great angel would appear with a flaming sword to strike me dead; but all that happened was a great silence that sang around me, calling me in. So I walked to the altar and saw above it the statue of a man fixed by nails to a wooden cross. He was very real to me, and his suffering pulsed over me in waves. A ray of light struck him from a window high above, and I saw the muscles working in his throat, and how he struggled to breathe. A terrible thirst tortured him. I went closer and saw a silver chalice on the stone altar near his feet. I went forwards and picked it up, and wished I had water to give him, for his thirst was overwhelming.
As I looked down into the cup I saw there was water in it, and I wanted to climb up somehow so I could give it to him. But while I waited there, not knowing what to do, and overcome with love and pity for him, I saw his hand reach down for the cup. I lifted it up, and he took it.
“Your water is blessed, Wynter,” he said. His voice was beautiful, brimming with a tenderness I had never heard before. Despite his suffering he smiled at me, and there was joy in him. Looking into his face, I felt as I do now when I divine, when the power is at its highest and best, and the music of the world is like an anthem all around, and heaven is but a breath away. The light about him was pure white, and warm.
“How do you know my name?” I asked.
But at that moment there was a sound in the doorway behind me, and I turned and saw a priest standing there. When I looked up at the Thirsting Man again, I saw only a statue carved of wood, with no thoughts, no breath, no pain. The chalice was back on the altar, yet I had not put it there.
“What is it you want, child?” asked the priest, coming towards me. Though he walked through deepening shadows, there was a pale blue about him, and I was not afraid.
“There is nothing I want,” I said, and he smiled.
“There are not many of us who have all we need,” he said. “You have a rare soul, child. God bless you.”
I left the church and did not go in again. And all that night, and for several days to come, I was utterly at peace and felt no hunger or thirst or need. Even my father’s temper and ill words did not touch me. Mostly he left me alone, saying I was bewitched.
But I was not bewitched, I knew. I was loved and accepted by God, and the water I gave was blessed. The certainty of that has stayed with me every moment since, and on it I have staked my life.
So this day, whilst the whole village doubts me and the priest endangers me, I know I have not failed, and am not afraid.
I doze in the afternoon heat, leaning against the canvas of the wagon, and think of my new friend.
Fox he is, by name and by nature – a thief hungry and heart-sore, with black hair and sallow cheeks and the dark shadow of a beard. He is not handsome, just tall and gaunt and brooding. There is a music in him different from my own – a wild, deep force full of pain and rage. But although we are opposite, in a curious way we are also matched, like light and dark, joy and sorrow, hope and despair. I am drawn to him without knowing why. He was not there among the villagers when I divined again today, and I felt the lack of him. But now there is a movement in the orchard, and despite my eyes being closed, I feel a tremor in the vapours of heat and in the listless leaves, and the whole orchard is awakened by a lively energy. I smile to myself, waiting.
Soon there is a footfall on the step of the wagon, and a face peers in. It is him. Fox.
“They are digging again, in the place where you told them to,” he says, grinning.
Pressing a finger to my lips, I gesture towards my father, still snoring in the back.
Fox sits on the step, and I crawl out as far as the chain allows and sit near him in the entrance. He has a vitality about him; his colours sparkle and flash.
“So faith in you wins out in the end,” he says softly.
“Or their thirst,” I say. But I cannot help smiling, for his liveliness lifts my heart.
“The whole village is out there, watching,” he tells me. “As soon as the paunchy priest disappeared into his house, they started creeping out of their cottages, back to the place you found yesterday. They’re right cheerful about it, too; the musicians are playing again and ale flows. ’Tis like a festival.” Solemn of a sudden, he adds, “At least it will be, until Father Villicus finds out.” Then he closes his lips and looks away, as if he has said too much.
“You know him, the priest?” I ask.
Fox nods but says nothing, his eyes still on the trees. He hides something from me, and I do not press him about it. It is a pleasure that he has come to see me, and I will not waste our talk on gloomful words.
“I saw you perched in your tree last night,” I say. “Were you not afraid of falling out?”
“I was safer there than in a house,” he replies.
“Safer than a cave?”
He looks at me sharply then, half-afraid. “Why talk of a cave, Wynter?”
Now it is my turn to look away, wondering if I should hide what I see, or not. In the end, I tell him. “Sometimes I am aware of people’s thoughts. You have a cave in yours.”
He shifts uneasily, gives an uncertain smile. “Is that one of those traits you mentioned yester-eve? The traits you would not tell me about?”
“Best not to talk of them. My father says they are witchery.”
“What do you say they are?”
I am silent, watching the vibrant red that sparkles about his breast, telling of his impulsiveness, his boldness; but today there is yellow, too, and I know he is open and interested, and not fearful. He will not judge me wrong.
“I think it is all a kind of divining,” I say. “I can also sometimes see what is in a person’s memories, or things they have dreamed of not long past.”
“You see those things, like pictures painted on a church wall?”
“No. Not with these eyes. It is an inward thing. A knowing in my blood.”
“Like a farmer reading the weather, or a fisherman reading the sea,” he says.
“Aye, like that. You grasp my meaning well, Fox. I wish my father had half your understanding.”
As if he hears, my father grunts and mutters in his sleep. In a heartbeat Fox is on his feet, ready to flee. But my father settles down again, and Fox relaxes.
I smile, whispering, “And like someone knowing they will be in mortal strife, if caught in my company.”
Still skittish, Fox grins and crouches down near the step. “Why would he be angry, Wynter? Why does he not want you to have friends?”
“He is afraid I’ll say something that will condemn me for a witch. Besides, we never stay long enough in one place for me to make a friend.”
“You’ve stayed long enough to make me your friend. And told me enough to make me marvel.”
“What do you mean?”
“’Tis not witchery, what you do, Wynter. ’Tis …”
In the dimness at the back of the wagon, my father grunts and mutters again. Glancing behind me, I see him sit up, rubbing his mouth with the back of his hand. When I look towards the step again, I glimpse Fox already vanishing between the trees. An emptiness gapes in the space where he was, and I mourn for it. I wonder if I shall see him again. For all my dwimmer-craftiness, I cannot always see the things I wish to know.
My father gets up and stumbles to the front of the wagon, and I pull back to give him room. Stomping down the steps, he drinks from the bucket of water near one of the wheels, then washes his face and neck. He sits on the step where Fox was, his back to me. His rim of hair sticks straight up, from the washing, and his bald patch is burned pink from the sun. A grey vapour comes from him, and I am filled with pity.
“The ale makes you ill, Papa,” I say.
“It is all I have, to make me forget.” He turns and gives me a baleful look. “As if I haven’t enough worries, that bloody priest is asking questions. The lord told me last night, at table in the manor. He warned me to begone as soon as you’ve found water.”
The coldness creeps over me again. “Then we should leave now,” I say, “for I have already found it.”
“I’ll go and see if any agree with that,” he grumbles, heaving himself upright. “I hope they’ve believed you, girl, and are digging where you told them to yesterday. Truth to tell, I couldn’t stand another night at the manor table, with all that rich food and drink. Gives me the crapulence.” Belching, he tramps off between the trees, towards the village.
I shiver, despite the heat. Ever since I first divined and my father called me a sorceress and said I had a demon, a small fear has haunted me that one day I would be called a witch. Always before I have conquered the fear, swept it away behind the blessing from the Thirsting Man; but today the fear will not be wiped out. I wrap my arms about my head and rock with the torment of it, and try in vain to pray. Lost in my distress, I do not know Fox has returned, until he speaks.
“Ho there, again, fair maid!” he says, brimming with good cheer. Then he sees my face and asks, “What ails you, Wynter?”
“The priest,” I say. “Papa said he’s been asking questions about me.”
Fox sighs deeply and sits on the step, his hands linked between his knees. He bends his head, and I know again that he is hiding something from me. At last he looks up, his face grave. “I’ve been watching them dig,” he says. “The priest has gone out to them, and stands there watching with a staff with the Holy Cross on it, and says nothing. He doesn’t need to speak; his face tells all. The musicians have stopped playing their jolly tunes and are playing hymns again, and people are singing even better than they do in church. It is like yesterday when he was there; they fear him, but still they dig.”
“That is brave of them,” I say.
“Desperate, more like. I overheard some of the women talking. A babe died in the village last night, and four people are sick. They say ’tis a fever from the muddy water in the well. Someone hauled a dead dog out of it yesterday, yet they still drink from it. It’s the only water in the village.”
“Not so, Fox,” I remind him. “There’s an underground spring beneath the place they dig, if they will only go deep enough.”
“Well, they are not stopping, even with Father Villicus’s menacing eye on them. Doubtless they think their hymns and chanted prayers will appease him somewhat.”
“And will he be appeased, think you?”
Again his gaze slips away, across the orchard. He thinks long before he replies. Heaving a deep sigh and looking at me again, his eyes troubled, he says, “Once Father Villicus gets an idea in his skull, he’s hard to stop. I’ve been in this village but two months, and already I’ve …” He stops, looking away again.
I say, “Tell on, Fox.”
So he looks at me straight and tells me. “Last week he hanged a woman for heresy.”
“What had she said?”
“It’s what she did.”
“Tell me, Fox. She wasn’t divining for water, was she?”
“No – not that! The village lord would never have let you do your work, otherwise. No, she made an ointment for her child. Her son had boils all over his body, even on his eyelids and mouth. He cried day and night.”
“Mothers always make ointments for their families. It is not heresy.”
