Threadneedle

by Cari Thomas

  Attis smiled courteously. ‘The plants have a say in this?’

  ‘It would be impolite to imply otherwise when you’re standing in their space.’

  Attis looked around the garden and then back at Bertie as if she were mad. ‘But surely you already know which plants can combat bindweed, on a chemical level.’

  ‘Do I look like a chemist?’ said Bertie, standing squarely in her odd slippers, hands covered in mud.

  ‘Well, no.’

  ‘I don’t deal in chemicals, boy. I work with the doctrine of signatures.’

  ‘The belief that a plant looks like what it can cure? Like a walnut looks like a brain so it’s good for the brain?’

  ‘Walnuts are good for the brain, even the scientists have proved that now. But don’t fall asleep beneath a walnut tree or you might get a headache. They also look like intestines and are excellent at restoring bowel health.’

  ‘Seems all a bit medieval to me.’

  Bertie laughed heartily. ‘Men are always so quick to slap a label on things. I attribute most of the problems of the world to that. They think they’re being clever, carving everything up, but all true wisdom is lost that way.’

  Attis formed a propitiatory smile. ‘How does it work then, this doctrine of signatures?’

  Bertie stopped and ran her hands through a tall plant, its leaves a soft green-blue, the colour just beneath the ocean’s surface. ‘The doctrine of signatures is not just a plant’s shape or colour, it’s how it smells, how it feels, its environment, its soil. It’s unearthing its story. It’s using all your senses at once and then going deeper, saying hello to the very essence of the plant itself.’

  Attis stared at the plant, unconvinced.

  ‘Think of when you interpret a poem at school. You have to take into account its context, intonation, punctuation, rhyme scheme, the words and lines and the blank space around it. They all contribute to its meaning, which is not one meaning at all but a world of different meanings. It’s poetry. Like the leaves of a book, you have to read a plant between the lines.’

  The correspondences – but alive and beautiful. Anna thought Attis might laugh at the ambiguity of Bertie’s words, but he simply said: ‘Show me.’

  ‘This is mugwort. The mother herb, Una, unlocker of dreams and the wayfinder. Feel her. She’s comforting but firm, like a mother’s hands. She belongs to the moon and will guide Anna back and let her remember.’ Bertie laughed suddenly. ‘She’s telling me to be less wafty, that she packs a punch too.’ She moved on.

  ‘Aren’t you going to pick some then?’ said Attis.

  ‘I can’t just go and pick it.’

  ‘I can see I have a lot to learn …’

  ‘Plants liked to be picked at the right time and in the right way – if they let you pick them at all. For mugwort that’s under the waxing moon, just before sunrise, and only with silver scissors. Now, we need something with a little more bite.’ She led them deeper into the garden, to where the trees were thicker, forming canopies of tangled light overhead.

  ‘There’s the badger.’ Bertie pointed at a patch of stinging nettles. ‘The thunderstorm plant. Nature’s needle. A wild hag and a man of fire and iron both. I think you need some of that.’ Bertie gave Anna a wink. ‘As he drives away the evil, she will help you grow resilient, for there’s no plant more resilient than this one.’

  ‘Aren’t they just weeds? Good for nothing except stinging bare knees?’ said Manda.

  ‘And who decided weeds were weeds?’ Bertie retorted, sharp as a nettle sting. ‘As for being good for nothing, nothing could be further from the truth. There’s nothing a nettle can’t do.’

  ‘Formic acid, histamine and acetylcholine – the chemicals that form the sting, right?’ said Attis.

  ‘Sharp as a spindle this one, isn’t he?’ Bertie’s eyes sparkled with gentle amusement. ‘The acid will certainly help to negate the effects of the bindweed, but the nettle will go far beyond that. It’ll weave a shroud for the bindweed and suffocate it, fiercely and softly. You’ll need courage, mind.’ She reached her hand into a clump of nettles and pulled out several strands. ‘And courage requires a little pain.’

  If the nettles had stung Bertie she didn’t show it.

  ‘Hang on, don’t you have to pick it, you know, during the full moon, while barefoot, standing on your right leg and chanting Latin at it?’ Attis lifted himself onto one foot.

  ‘Well, that would be ridiculous,’ said Bertie. ‘Although by earth and fallow, thistle and thicket, I will say thank you to the Green-Fingered Goddess for letting me take from her loins.’

  ‘Mum! Please don’t say loins.’

  ‘Sorry, Sorbus. Right, the next plant can only be picked by a virgin. I’m going to presume you don’t qualify.’ Bertie made eyes at Attis. ‘I guess I’ll have to borrow you again then, Rowan.’

  ‘MUM!’

  They went on that way, Bertie introducing them to the plants that would go into Anna’s antidote. Anna had never heard plants being talked about in such a way – their meanings unfolded, their chemistry invaded by legend and lore. The garden, stirred by the wind, seemed to inhale and exhale around them, releasing their stories into the air.

  Attis seemed to have overcome his initial reservations too and had been growing more animated as Bertie took them around – asking questions, studying the plants, somehow getting soil on his nose. Anna was so used to seeing him in school, bored or half-asleep during lessons, but here he was so different: interested, attentive, alive – a childlike shine in his eyes that was curiously contagious. Anna found herself watching him as much as the plants. Who was he? This boy who appeared to care about nothing – and yet could be so absolutely absorbed by the world, who seduced and mocked and made a game of everything – and yet remained utterly dedicated to Effie. I’m not a witch, he’d said after taking the berry, and it had been playing on her mind more than she wanted it too. What did it even mean? He was clearly magical, so what else could he be? Some other magical entity? A devil? An angel? Someone exceptionally talented at hiding who he really was …

  They had that in common, at least.

  Her concentration was broken by the hollers of two girls who came running out to greet them. ‘What’s for dinner?’ ‘Who are these people?’ ‘Are you doing magic?’

  ‘My sisters, aka spawn of Satan one and spawn of Satan two. They never stop talking,’ said Rowan.

  ‘It’s getting late. Let’s go back inside. Who’s staying for dinner?’ said Bertie.

  Anna looked at her watch and felt her stomach plummet. It was almost seven. Aunt would kill her. ‘I’m going to have to go,’ she said, the urgency in her voice impossible to hide.

  ‘I’m happy to ring your – aunt, is it? And explain?’

  ‘No, no, it’s fine. Thank you so much. Your house is lovely.’ Anna headed towards the back door. ‘I’ll see you guys tomorrow!’

  ‘Escape the madhouse!’ Rowan yelled after her.

  Anna started to run and, even in the midst of her panic, knew she would give anything to live in a house just like that one. Anna had thought nothing could be more wonderful than the vintage shop, but Rowan’s house had been so much more, completely magical but in a way that felt completely, comfortingly ordinary.

  When she got home Aunt was waiting for her. ‘Where have you been?’ The hallway was as dark and cold as her voice.

  ‘Got caught up at the study session.’ Anna noticed the soil under her fingernails; she curled her hands into balls.

  ‘Your dinner’s cold.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Aunt, I just—’ Aunt made a motion in the air with her fingers and Anna’s mouth snapped shut; she bit her tongue and tasted blood.

  ‘I don’t want to hear it.’ Anna tried to open her jaw, but couldn’t; it was only when Aunt turned away and walked into the kitchen that it loosened. Anna took a deep breath and followed. The table was bare. ‘I had to throw away your dinner. How was the study session?’

  Anna tried to s
crape the dirt from her nails behind her back. She had to keep calm. Aunt could always detect any tremors of agitation.

  ‘Good.’

  ‘What did you study?’

  ‘Genetic engineering. Biology.’

  ‘What did you learn?’

  Anna racked her brain. ‘About plasmids, the vectors that carry the DNA molecule into the gene.’

  ‘Which teacher was there?’

  ‘Dr Pinkett.’

  ‘Hmmm,’ Aunt replied, smiling at Anna curiously. Anna realized just how much she loathed Aunt’s measured smile. It never gave without taking. How could you do it to me? How could you? Her anger came welling up fast and hard through the fissure of her Aunt’s betrayal and yet Anna showed not a flicker of it on her face.

  ‘I hope you’re not lying. If we don’t have trust, we don’t have anything.’

  I guess we don’t have anything then.

  ANGER

  Eleven Years Old

  Aunt positioned her hand over the candle flame.

  ‘Your mother was stupid.’

  The flame quivered.

  ‘She trusted love. Who do we trust, Anna?’

  ‘Only each other.’

  ‘She was a whore. Do you know what a whore is?’

  ‘No. Maybe.’ She’d heard the girls at school say it. She wished Aunt would stop. She hated the Knotted Cord and yet she found she was holding on to it like a lifeline.

  ‘A whore is a woman who gives herself up to a man, gives her body to him to do with it as he likes. It was that stupidity which got her killed.’

  The anger flared inside Anna and the flame leapt up from the candle towards Aunt’s hand. Aunt cried out.

  ‘Anna, you must control your anger. You’re hurting me.’ Aunt’s eyes seized tight with pain.

  Anna tried to put her anger into the knot beneath her fingers, but it would not fit.

  ‘If you make yourself vulnerable, you’ll become vulnerable. She deserved to die.’

  The flame shot up into Aunt’s hand again. She roared in pain.

  ‘Please stop!’

  But Aunt continued to berate her mother and Anna grew angrier – at Aunt, at her mother, at herself. She tried to tie it away but to try and control it was only a kind of flapping which seemed to fan its flames.

  ‘I’m glad he strangled her. I’m glad and you should be too,’ Aunt continued.

  The flame seared into Aunt’s skin until she had to move the candle away. She showed Anna the burn mark on her hand, already blistering. ‘This is what anger does. It hurts others more than it hurts you.’

  Anna lowered her eyes. ‘Why must these tests be so painful?’

  Aunt opened her blouse and showed Anna the bruises beneath her Binders’ necklace. ‘You know nothing of pain. Not yet.’

  FEATHER

  In preparation for their Knotting, the Unbound should bathe, dress and ensure their mind and heart are cleansed. The circle must be entered in silence and with control – all thoughts bent upon salvation.

  The Knotting, Binders’ Rituals, The Book of the Binders

  Anna sat down at the piano in the school music room. Her fingers sat upright on the keys like two little roofs, instantly at home.

  She began to play. An old tune she’d learnt for her grade four exam. She’d hated it when she’d first been given it – she’d wrestled with its thrumming minor key and tricky timing for weeks but it had grown on her slowly, note by note, until one day she realized she was in love. The irregularities of its rhythm were now flaws her fingers loved to find.

  As her mind let go the song metamorphosed into a tune of her own making, fingers roaming, images running through her mind: Aunt searching her eyes for lies; a silver spoon blackened with bindweed; Effie’s implacable smile; Attis’s eyes studying her own; her mother’s burning face in the fire; the symbol of the Eye descending to its dark centre – unravelling her emotions until she could not separate the images from the sounds, the sounds from the feelings, each note a different shadow of emotion: anger, fear, despair …

  She’d been taking her tisane from Bertie for a couple of weeks. ‘A teaspoon steeped in boiling water, twice a day. You can keep drinking your aunt’s milk, this will counteract its effects,’ Rowan had instructed, handing her the paper bag full of dried leaves and the potent, wild scents of Bertie’s garden. Nothing had happened yet. So much fuss had gone into proving the existence of bindweed, creating an antidote – what if she ended up being more of a disappointment than she already was? What if there’s still no magic inside me? The thought was quietly devastating. She’d come so close. She’d given herself space to hope. What else did she have now? The only person she loved in her life had betrayed her.

  From the outside, life with Aunt continued as normal – Aunt had taught her well to hide her emotions – but Anna could feel her anger and resentment simmering just beneath the surface, churning more than ever before. Aunt’s control had formed the threads that had kept the embroidery of their life together, but since the bindweed the pattern no longer made sense; every thread had been severed through. Now it was full of loose ends that Anna couldn’t stop thinking about – like her parents’ death. Was it really as simple as Aunt made out? Why does Aunt hate magic so much? Where does her fear come from? The room on the third floor – is it as innocuous as Aunt claims or another lie waiting to be uncovered?

  Anna could not show even a hint of her curiosity – Aunt had been watching her more closely since her trip to Rowan’s house and now Effie was on at her about going to a house party at the weekend. Anna had tried to explain it was impossible but Effie had not been understanding and Anna couldn’t help feeling guilty. Effie had gone to the trouble of bringing them together, starting a coven, and all she ever did was say no.

  She didn’t want to say no any more.

  Anna took out her frustration on the keys until there was none left. The melody that followed was caught between hope and despair, the notes full of pain – bruised, tender, alone and afraid; soft as falling feathers …

  She heard the voice behind her. Her fingers froze over the keys, the song dying instantly. Attis was in the doorway.

  ‘What the—’ said Anna and, finding her voice too quiet, upped the volume to a more appropriate level: ‘—HELL ARE YOU DOING HERE?’ The words reverberated around the small room. She turned back to the piano, burning with embarrassment at what he might have seen, what he might have heard.

  ‘Sorry.’ He put his hands up in a conciliatory gesture. It wasn’t enough. It had been a painfully personal moment, so much of herself exposed, raw to the touch. Anna found herself automatically reaching for her Knotted Cord in her pocket, tucking away what she’d released.

  ‘I was passing and I heard the playing.’

  Of all the people! He had a little piece of her soul now and she would see it in every single smirk of his. She turned back to face the piano.

  ‘Please carry on,’ he requested.

  ‘No.’

  ‘I was enjoying it.’

  ‘I’m not going to carry on with you watching me from the shadows like, like some kind of – some kind of piano pervert.’

  Attis snorted loudly. ‘Well, that’s one I’ve not been called before. Nothing gets me going like a girl in a dark room playing sad songs on the piano. Oh baby!’

  He was so ridiculous that Anna almost smiled but then remembered how angry she was. ‘If you’re not going to leave, I will.’ She stood up.

  ‘You’re going to leave the piano pervert ALONE with a piano? Who knows what might happen.’ He ducked as she threw a hymn book at him. He walked further into the room, the door closing behind him. ‘What was the song anyway? It was … sad.’

  ‘It was nothing.’

  ‘You don’t have any sheet music. Did you write it?’ His eyes were on hers – persuading, questioning. She held them defiantly. He lifted up the top of the piano, peering inside.

  ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘I’d like to see how it
works when you play it.’

  ‘You’re very odd,’ she said sincerely.

  He bent his head into the piano’s insides and made a gesture for her to start playing.

  ‘I told you. I’m done.’

  He looked so disappointed she felt a pang of guilt. No! He has a way of getting what he wants. This is what he does.

  ‘I’ve got to go.’ She picked up her bag and moved towards the door. It was only the sound of the note that stopped her. She turned around, but Attis was standing a foot away from the piano. Another note played, the piano key pressing down without being touched – and then slowly, tentatively the tune of chopsticks filled the air.

  She rolled her eyes at him but the magic held her in place. She asked the question she’d longed to ask her aunt. ‘How are you doing that?’

  Attis gave her a sly smile. ‘I can teach you, if you’ll play for me.’

  ‘No,’ she replied and he played a dramatic chord in response. He sat down at the piano, spreading his hands over the keys. His fingers were long and strong. He would make a good piano-player. ‘My dad had a piano in the house. I never learnt properly but he was an excellent pianist.’

  Anna had never heard him talk about his father before. His admission felt strangely intimate in the dark quiet of the room. She wanted to ask more but wasn’t sure how.

  ‘How are you feeling anyway, about the bindweed?’ He looked up at her.

  The question took her by surprise too, as did the concern in his eyes. They weren’t eyes you could easily hide from – their attention so absolute when it was on you. ‘Fine,’ she replied abruptly. ‘It is what it is.’

  ‘Anna, your aunt poisoned you for nine years. That’s not fine.’ He stood up and the room felt smaller. She moved to the other side of the piano, placing it between them. He’d already heard her music, she couldn’t tell him the truth about this – how her aunt had torn her heart, how alone she felt, how afraid she was. Why would he care anyway?

  ‘I never thanked you,’ she said. ‘For, you know, uncovering the whole thing. At least now I can see if magic is a possibility for me. Not that it’s looking promising,’ she mumbled, as if it didn’t mean the world to her.