Witch, page 10
‘Dogs? Is he a trader this… Tall One?’
In the shifting candlelight, he looked to my red hair, my rough hands. I was no lady, like his cousin who reached to him.
‘Peter, Eveline has suffered so very much and—’
‘I talk of those men who are dogs, for what they done.’ My throat prickled as the words fought not to be told. ‘They came to our home…’
And finally I drew them, from beneath their boots, from her bare body, still in the mud.
‘They killed my mother.’
Peter stared to me, his cup to his mouth, his hair standing on end.
‘Now tell me, Peter Merchantman with a blade above your door.’ The candles cowered to my whisper. ‘Would you seek revenge, if they killed yours?’
‘I would not rest from it.’ His gaze held mine. ‘And I am sorry that you cannot.’
Was our listener on the stair sorry too? I hoped so. I hoped the whole town was sorry.
‘Would I know these men?’ He filled our cups, filled his own.
The wine curled about my tongue. ‘Would you know a witch trial without Tall One, without its Witchfinder?’
‘The Witchfinder? Matthew Jacobs!’ Peter’s wine spilled like a wound opened. ‘By all the saints!’
‘Daddy! Daddy! Daddy!’
Down the stairs came running a little girl in her nightdress, curls gold in the light, cheeks rosy with sleep.
‘Aunty Anne!’ And she leaped to Anne’s lap, wrapped her pink arms about her. ‘Daddy, Aunty Anne is come in the night!’
Anne hugged her. ‘My Fay! My Fay!’
‘Who is this, Daddy?’
That little girl turned to me with her father’s eyes, brown as a ship under a blazing sun.
‘Her name is Eveline, my little one.’ He drained his cup. ‘But who she is, I do not know.’
More footsteps, heavier upon the stair. A woman followed, fair like Fay, handsome and pale. She held tight to a babe, wide-eyed with smiles to see us.
‘Jessica…’
Anne moved towards the woman, but she looked only to me. For she had been listening, I knew, to our tale.
‘Wine has dulled your true senses, husband. I know who she is.’ The woman moved to the table, and Peter put a hand to her. ‘She’s a witch.’ She looked me straight. ‘Aren’t you?’
All looked to me in that room of candles and wood.
And it was as if Mother looked to me too. When I shouted at her that I hated her, that I did not want her way. When I left her. These people looked to me for an answer. I would not have her a monster upon a parchment. They would know what a true witch was. I owed her that.
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘I am.’
And Fay jumped to her father and tugged her mother.
‘There’s a witch in our house!’ She pointed to me.
She laughed as I looked at them all, this family who saw me for what I was.
A witch in their gentle home.
‘May I take Henry?’
Anne reached for the babe in Jessica’s arms, his fat fingers clutching for her.
Peter poured for his wife, as she stood looking to me.
‘Are you a witch too now, Aunty?’
Anne laughed. ‘How you have grown, and just look at your strong brother!’ I watched as she breathed his smell of milk and sleep. ‘Here, sit with me, so I might whisper you secrets.’ What a good witch she was.
I looked to Peter’s hand in Jessica’s. They were close, strong, these two. Good people. A good family. And now a witch was among them. But this family had a witching way, I had seen it. For that there was more to say, so I would say it.
‘What do you know to be a witch?’ My voice stirred them from their watching.
‘I know! I know!’ Fay rocked upon Anne’s lap. ‘A witch knows magick and healing spells and speaks to animals!’
‘That is well, little one. And who told you these things?’
‘Mummy did. Didn’t you, Mummy?’
Jessica sat to the table, her husband’s hand still in hers. Did they hold each other for fear of me?
‘When Henry was born, I fell very ill, into fever and there was none that could help. Our priest—’
‘Do not talk of that man!’ Peter growled. ‘Bumbling Catholic fool. Salvation for your soul indeed. I could have boxed his ears!’ He swigged fiercely, muttering a curse.
‘But then, husband,’ her voice soothed him, ‘a woman came to our door. She had heard our trouble.’ Jessica looked me straight. ‘She was not much older than you. She worked to heal me. I could not tell you what I drank, what poultices she made day and night. But my fever passed. She healed me.’
Peter kissed her hand. ‘She did, and it is not God we thank.’ He raised his cup. ‘It is your kind, Eveline.’
Shame crossed my cheeks. I could not do what that young witch had done.
‘I am not like that,’ I said firm. ‘I only seek balance. To right the wrong upon my family. That is all.’
Peter leaned forward. ‘But these men you seek are dangerous. Armed. The trial will be thick with crowds…’ The wine made his words tumble together. ‘Will they not be looking for you? How will you reach them, fight them?’
‘I will find a way!’ My anger blew the candle flames. ‘As I swore it on Mother’s life as they took it! So I swear it now!’ And I reached to my bag, pulled the stone free, and brought it down hard upon the table.
Peter watched the stone roll to rest at the bowl of apples. ‘What is that now?’
‘That, Peter Merchantman, is my mother’s scrying stone…’
‘Oh, it’s so pretty!’ Fay reached for it.
‘No, Fay!’ Jessica swept the bowl from the table, dashed apples about the room.
‘Don’t worry! I will get those naughty apples!’ And the little girl ran to the shadows.
The stone sat upon the golden wood and the flames caught its grains of sparkling light. Jessica had moved so swift, without thought, a mother protecting her young.
‘Think you my mother’s stone is dark magick, Jessica Merchantman?’
‘No… No, I’m sorry. I see that you are Anne’s friend. But Fay is my child.’
She stroked that child’s head, as Fay on tiptoe pushed the bowl upon the table. Then dropped two apples that rolled round its wide rimmed mouth.
‘One, two apples…’
‘Anne, your mother,’ Peter started. ‘I remember as a boy, she had a stone like this…’
Anne nodded and smiled as Henry bit her hair.
‘And how you played with it, Peter. Telling the future. All our futures.’
He nodded, a sailor adrift on his memories.
‘Three apples, four apples, five…’
Fay’s hands felt for the bowl and sent those apples falling back and, thank you, oh, thank you, went the bowl to be so filled.
‘These witches at trial,’ I said. ‘Are they gone bad, like an apple rotted,’ I stirred the bowl, ‘that turns another, till all are bruised and bitter?’
Peter swigged. ‘There are stories, but…’
‘Tell me.’
‘That there are three girls among the accused. They were taught some magick, that they used to bewitch a man… they stole a newborn… were seen dancing by a fire, but…’
‘Who taught them?’
Peter frowned. ‘An older witch, people say, but…’
‘Six apples, seven apples…’
Fay’s hands moved quick. The apples spun about the bowl.
How like Dill she was, lost in play as she sang beneath her breath.
‘And what do you think, Peter Merchantman? Of what people say?’
‘One for Daddy, one for Mummy…’
Good apple, bad apple. Good witch, bad witch.
‘These are stories to keep us locked up at night. This war with the king has brought suspicion at every door. That my wife, like many others should be saved by a witch, but then sudden they are hunted. Why is this?’
‘One for Aunty Anne.’
She smiled, but I knew she was sad to see Fay’s father so.
‘This militia, this Jacobs is full of bloodlust. The will of God, ha! While we watch, guilty and toothless…’ He looked to his blade and gun. ‘Mark me, there is a bad apple in this town, and it will rot us all!’
Peter tipped the flagon, and found it wanting. He stood to seek another.
‘Husband…’ But Peter only stroked Jessica’s arm as he swayed.
‘And this last one for Aunty’s friend, Eveline the witch!’
Anne caught Fay for a kiss. ‘What a helpful daughter you are!’
Again I saw Dill in the little girl, her silly games, her gifts of roots and berries and leaves with stories aplenty on them. And I was so gruff with her, while she danced on.
Fay pointed to the stone again, looking to her mother.
‘See it is not bad, Mummy. I will be careful.’
‘It is Eveline’s, Fay.’ Jessica looked to me. ‘You must ask her.’
‘Eveline, please may I hold your sky stone?’
I laughed and brought the stone before her. ‘Scrying stone. And, yes, you may, little apple. Perhaps it will tell you a story.’
Fay held the stone, so large in her little hands, and she closed her eyes.
‘I see something…’
Peter filled the cups again, sleepy now with drink that slopped and spilled.
‘Your father? Rich as a king?’ he slurred.
‘No, Daddy, I see a girl… she is thin and has long dark hair. She is older than me… Oh, she is… she is so sad. She is crying and—’
I snatched the stone from Fay. My hand shook.
‘Evey, what’s the matter?’ Anne was near.
‘It is nothing. I am minded of my own sister. It is nothing.’
Jessica drew Fay to her lap, brushed her curls. ‘Where is she now, your sister?’
Sweat was upon my lip. ‘I… I took Dill to my own aunt. Mother told me to take her.’
What a liar I was. Mother wanted us both there.
Jessica stopped her brushing. The candlelight still in her eyes.
‘Your sister’s name is Dill?’
And her face grew bloodless.
‘How old is she?’
‘Some nine years and more. Why, Jessica Merchantman?’
‘I think… I think that I saw her today.’
It was as if I had dropped to an ice-cold river, the water stopping my heart.
‘What?’ Making me gasp for air. ‘Where… was this?’
‘It was outside the jail,’ Jessica spoke in a rush. ‘A cart bringing more of the witches. I saw a girl, thick black hair, skin and bone. She was pushed over by a guardsman.’
Her shaking voice filled the room, and she was all I could see.
‘She fell in the mud and a strange boy came to help her. He kept crying her name. “Dill! Dill! I will help you, Dill!” He kept on. The boy was troubled, in his mind…’
I held, watching Jessica’s face, her lips moving, she spoke within my head, whispering above the beat of my blood.
‘The soldiers, they hauled them up and brought them inside the jail, and the boy kept shouting, “Don’t hurt Dill! Leave Dill alone!” And I thought how strange affected he was, and how different this girl’s name, that he kept shouting over.’
I felt faint. Sick.
‘Were there others with them? A woman with long grey hair? Did you hear any other names? Mabel? Tally?’
‘None.’ Jessica shook her head, as she rocked the sleeping Fay. ‘I am sorry, Eveline.’
Anne was by my side, the babe upon her shoulder. Peter’s eyes were sober.
The coven must have been hunted and found.
‘Where is this jail?’ I whispered.
‘You cannot go there, child!’ started Peter.
‘Tell me now!’
Peter shook his head. ‘It is too dangerous.’
‘South Street. Four streets west of here. Beyond the square.’ Jessica looked to her husband. ‘For the children, Peter. For those children.’ And he knew he could not stop me, for would he not do the same?
My hand shook as I picked up the stone. Bile rose to my throat. I must get to air. Dill was here. Dill was here.
I stepped to the door in the far wall, the high musket and blade pointing the way.
‘Evey, wait.’ Anne laid the babe in Peter’s arms.
‘No, Anne – not this time.’
‘Evey, I can help.’
‘No. This is my doing. I must go alone.’
Her eyes shone, she shook her head. My dear friend.
‘I swear to you, Greeneye, I will return, I promise—’
I stopped. I had said that word to a sister who had trusted me. And to Mother. Both I had promised. Both I had lied to.
So I said no more, feeling the cold of the latch as I lifted it. I looked one last to their faces. Then I turned, and I went into the night.
Dill. I am coming.
The night air was chill upon my cheeks, as I stood, listening.
No crowds teemed. No children ran shrieking. No horses clip-clopped. Nothing stirred, but what echoed in my mind. Dill sobbing to me, not to leave her, please. Please.
I gritted my teeth to it, and moved from doorway to doorway, the wall at my back. Laughter bellowed within. A tavern, its drunks all at sea, sailing the long night. I moved on. Shuttered lights from slumbering houses lit my path. But I could see no square.
I remembered my first hunt with Mother. I had fretted so to catch the prey, to not shame her. And she had put her head close to mine.
Evey… Breathe slow…
I did. Deep, and slow.
Feel the wind…
And like her breath upon my cheek, I felt the wind pluck straw pieces from the ground, dancing them along as little old men, tumbling under her fingers.
So I followed those swirling straw men down the street, to where it curved, and grew wider still, showing shop fronts. The wind dropped, the straw men stopped. The square was silent. Waiting.
‘Thank you, Mother.’ I crept on.
The market was bartered to bed. Stalls and boxes lay like boats upon an empty shore. But as I moved, I spied the flicker of a lantern.
I crouched to a stall, listening, feeling the wood rough beneath my fingers. No sound.
I passed a water trough, breathed its smell of cow and dung. Something moved in the light. I reached a stack of boxes, and around one edge I peered. My breath held.
Beside a glowing lantern stood a great frame, nailed tall and strong, a long bench beneath. There, one aside the other, swayed seven ropes. And at their ends, like seven mouths, hungry for the day, hung seven nooses.
My fingers dug to the box, splinters biting.
The gallows.
Under my shaking grip, the box tottered. I watched it slide, too angry to care.
It fell with a crash.
‘W… wuuh! Who…?’
From beneath the gallows stage rolled a pile of rags.
A beggar turned and saw me.
‘Lady?’
‘The jail,’ I hissed. ‘Which way? Tell me!’
With a trembling finger, he pointed across the gallows to a narrow alley in the darkness.
‘There,’ he whispered, unblinking. ‘Follow there.’
Nearer I stepped. ‘How will I know it?’
‘Beacons…’ He grasped for words. ‘About the door!’
Then he fled, rolling, scampering, skidding through the stalls, and was gone.
I had not meant to scare him, but I could not help it. It was the sight of the gallows under lantern light, left for all to see and be afraid.
The wind came whipping down the alley. I lifted my nose, like Mother taught me.
Can you catch her scent, Evey?
I breathed in. Dust. Straw. Muck from the market. And there, I smelled smoke.
I ran. The clouds drew back from a slender moon, curled upon her bed of stars, and beneath her naked light, I reached a crossroads. Which way?
Whichwoo!
An owl, a beautiful white queen, perched high on the houses. Her eyes glinted, as she steeled to hunt. Her beak nipped the air.
‘Would you lead me, your majesty?’ I whispered to her across that silent street.
This way, this way!
She rose, the feathers of her wings brushing the moon.
‘For I am lost!’ I cared not who heard me. ‘I seek my sister!’
Follow, then! Follow, follow!
As her grateful subject, I flew in her wake, and together we crossed streets, and turned corners, till finally we landed with a flutter. She hooted soft, talons tapping stone, and I turned to follow her bold gaze. Yellow light was beyond the closest corner.
Slow I edged round, and I felt the heat before I saw them. Four beacons blazed upon a corner house, with bars across its shutters. The jail.
I looked back to cry the owl thanks. But she flapped and took flight.
Danger! Danger!
And then I heard what startled her. Marching boots, coming closer. I drew into a doorway.
‘Hold up now! Hold up!’
The patrol was back, dogs padding for home.
‘At ease, all of you.’
A door clattered open. I held so still.
‘Up to quarters now. Till my order at four bells.’
I flattened my back, my heart knocked to the wall.
Men muttered, shoved and shuffled.
‘Not you, lad, you’re on watch.’
A deep growl of a voice.
Boots on stairs, yawns and coughs.
‘I’ve been on my feet all night, Captain!’
‘Stow that bellyache, Caldwell. Rest when you’re dead, boy!’
My fingers scratched the wall. Caldwell. His musket had smashed her skull. The jail door slammed. Their voices murmured. A laugh on the stairs. I closed my eyes to think of Mother tumbling over and over.
And I fought not to shout for her, as all grew quiet.
The jail was closed, its flickering beacons hissing guards of flame.
Caldwell was within. His captain, that rumble of a voice. Meakin. I was sure of it.
They were here. And Dill was here.
Know your mark, Evey.
Mother and I had watched the deer drinking, breathed their musk across the water.
Choose one, then wait.
I came for my sister. Yet I swore revenge for Mother.
