by Cari Thomas
‘No matter how they tortured her after that she remained silent. The whole town turned out for her hanging and as she dropped to her death – her feet kicking, her body writhing – Agnes did not make a sound.’
As Mrs Withering said the words, Rosie reached for her neck, fingers scrabbling – her clamped mouth shut. It took a moment for Anna to realize what was happening. They’re hanging her. They’re hanging her right here, right now!
‘Rosie!’ she cried. ‘NO! Stop! What are you doing?’ The women around her sat docile, stirring their tea and nibbling on biscuits. She looked to Rosie’s mother but she did not stir. They are all mad!
Rosie’s eyes bulged wide, her face becoming red, contorted. Anna could feel her pain as if it were her own. She raised her hands towards her and let go of her magic with a wail – Rosie fell to the floor, retching and gasping, her breathing returning in shuddering waves. Anna looked up and saw that every rose on the rose bush in the corner had opened – silent screams.
All eyes turned to look at her. Anna reached a hand into her pocket, clutching her Knotted Cord, trying to calm herself.
‘How curious,’ said Mrs Withering. ‘I felt something like magic emanate from you then, dear Anna. Not a knot in sight, either.’
I can feign confusion at least. ‘I – I didn’t know what was happening. I panicked and – and – that happened.’
‘I hardly think that counts as magical talent,’ said Mrs Dumphreys disparagingly.
‘Not talent, but some power.’ Mrs Withering eyed Anna. She turned to the room. ‘How can we be sure she will remain in control during her ceremony? That she will be ready to make the necessary sacrifice? Vivienne, I thought you said she was under control.’
‘She won’t panic,’ Aunt snapped. ‘Anna will be ready.’
Mrs Withering took a sip of tea, looking doubtful.
‘Now, are we done with this little demonstration? I think we have more urgent matters to discuss.’
‘Considering everything going on right now, Vivienne, I think there is little more urgent than teaching Anna the importance of our history,’ said Mrs Withering. ‘You see, Anna, before she was hanged, Agnes passed on the secrets of her silence to her apprentices: how she had come to see the sin of magic, how she had bound it inside of her, how all the Unbound must be bound in their turn. Only one apprentice survived but it was enough to carry on her teachings and the noose that hung around Agnes’s neck became our symbol. Our Binders’ necklace. To remind us of her pain and dedication. We have carried her secrets for centuries, binding our magic, bringing witches into our fold and trying to prevent their return. But the magical world hasn’t listened and now the storm clouds are brewing again. But don’t worry, Anna.’ Mrs Withering smiled sourly. ‘You take your time. You make your decision. It’s not like it’s important, is it?’
Anna took a moment to speak. ‘Thank you. You’ve given me a lot to think about.’
‘Well, think fast. Summer is approaching. You don’t have long.’ Mrs Withering looked at Aunt with significance. ‘Silence and secrets.’
‘Silence and secrets,’ the room replied in unison
‘Go on, Anna. Take Rosie to the kitchen,’ Aunt instructed sharply.
Anna only just made it to the kitchen table before her legs buckled beneath her. Rosie poured herself some water from the jug, smiling cheerfully as if nothing had taken place. A few minutes passed in silence before Anna spoke.
‘Are you OK?’
‘Oh yes, fine.’ Rosie was still smiling.
‘Rosie, you know what happened in there wasn’t right. It was messed up.’
‘Pain paves the way.’
Anna breathed deeply. If the girl she’d known before was in there, she was buried deep. ‘You’re a Binder now, then?’
‘I am,’ Rosie replied. ‘The lowest of ranks, of course, but we must all start somewhere.’
‘What about your magic? Do you remember when we met before and you tried to get me to cast a spell with you, but—’
‘You wouldn’t. That’s why I told my mum that they didn’t have to worry about you. You’ve always been so disciplined, you’ve always had such self-control.’
‘But surely there’s no harm in the odd spell.’
Rosie’s smiled dropped and she spoke with a lowered voice. ‘Anna, no, magic is dangerous. Life is much simpler without it. You’ll be happy, trust me. It’s not like you can’t feel things any more, you just don’t care as much. It’s like looking upon the world with a new level of maturity. I’m very happy now.’ The smile returned, her eyes steady – blank.
‘The Book of the Binders says that during your ceremony you must be ready to make the necessary sacrifice. What is the sacrifice?’ Anna said urgently.
‘Wind,’ Rosie replied.
‘What?’
‘During the ritual the Binders have to generate magical energy that mirrors your own and then use it to bind the magic inside of you. For sin drives out sin and magic must be bound by like magic. My language was the wind and so they used that to bind me. I remember them drawing on the wind – windows banging open, a hurricane of air around me, petals flying …’ There was a flicker of excitement in her eyes as she recalled it. ‘And then – it was Knotted. Gone. Deadly still.’
‘Did it … hurt?’
‘Pain paves the way.’ Rosie smiled. ‘If you stay in control that will help. Weakness in feeling, strength in control.’
Anna couldn’t take any more tenets. ‘But I don’t know my language, so how will they bind me?’
Rosie frowned. ‘I don’t know. Presumably there’s a way of dealing with that scenario. Are you sure you don’t know your language?’
Anna shook her head, thinking of the seven circles. Is a curse my language? ‘No. Can they bind any language?’ Can they bind a curse? What will they sacrifice?
‘Yes. Any language, I think. Maybe they won’t bind you until you know what it is.’
Anna nodded sceptically. That was not how it felt when she was surrounded by the Binders. There was a hunger in their shrivelled gazes; they wanted to bind her, and soon. They knew something she didn’t. ‘So your magic is gone now?’
‘No. It lives here.’ Rosie reached inside her jumper and pulled out a Binders’ necklace from around her neck, just like Aunt’s. Anna could see the bruises blossoming beneath from her earlier strangling. ‘Or at least this represents the magic bound within me.’
‘Can you not still access it somehow?’
‘Oh no, it would be incredibly difficult for me to practise magic. If I tried to cast now this cord would strangle me and – as you’ve seen – that’s not a pleasant experience.’ She put the cord back under her jumper and joined her hands on her lap. ‘Of course, during training it is sometimes necessary.’
Anna stood up from the table, her insides recoiling. She didn’t want to be here any more, talking to this girl with her contented expression and her glazed eyes.
She began to pack the cakes away. ‘Do you know what they’re talking about in there?’
Rosie joined her. ‘Maybe I’ll just have one,’ she said, looking towards the doorway. She bit into a cake and then leant into Anna’s ear, icing on her lips. ‘They’re talking about the latest news stories. The questionable events around the capital.’
‘Have there been more?’
‘Oh yes. They’ve been keeping track. Only last week a local eco-pagan group were accused of carrying out perverted acts in Epping Forest. It wasn’t a big story, mostly covered by the local paper, but still, people were talking. Then there was a dispute between two neighbours in Hampstead Heath, one claiming the other killed her dogs with ‘black magic’. There are a couple of articles beginning to notice the pattern of strange events too – suggesting that the Faceless Women and their deaths might somehow be behind it all.’
‘But that’s not true. The Seven protect us.’
‘Supposedly, though they seem to be failing, don’t they? Anyway, it doesn’t matter if i
t’s true or not. The Seven’s deaths drew attention to the magical world and now cowans are noticing. That’s what matters.’ A piece of icing fell from Rosie’s lips. She leant forward again and whispered, ‘I overheard Mum on the phone. Apparently the seventh, the one who escaped, has returned …’
Anna’s eyes widened. ‘Has she said what happened? Who killed them?’
‘I don’t think so. The Binders will not be the first to find out anyway; they are not in direct communication with the Seven, of course. Why would we be? The Seven are a disgrace to the world of magic, the First Sinners; their actions may yet bring terror on us all.’
After that Anna could get no more from Rosie. She made strained conversation until she could take it no longer and pretended she had to leave to do homework. Aunt would be annoyed but that was the least of her worries – she had revealed her magic in front of the Binders. The punishment would be severe.
But Aunt did not mention the incident during dinner. It was there nonetheless, their every word stepping around it delicately. They sat sewing in silence and Anna couldn’t help glancing at the rose bush, the roses sealed once more.
‘Your magic showed its face again,’ Aunt said.
‘Yes.’
‘Are you lying to me?’
Anna’s needle halted. She thought of the coven, the spells, the letter to Nana Yaganov. ‘No, Aunt, about what?’
‘About this boy you like. Peter. You aren’t together are you?’
Anna hadn’t been expecting that. She shook her head, not having to lie for once.
‘You must tell me if you are.’
‘Of course.’ Anna had no intention of telling Aunt anything of her heart. Why does Aunt care? She’d always hated love as much as magic, but why?
‘Good. I will know the man who breaks your heart.’ Aunt continued to brush her hair. ‘These are dangerous times, Anna. If you decide to become a Binder, you must be ready. You must be in control.’
But she’d never felt less in control in her life.
Anna was losing hope. No letter from Nana had arrived. She’d spent most of the holidays cooped up inside the house with Aunt who was more suspicious than ever since the Binders’ visit – forcing her into emotional control sessions almost every night. Anna wasn’t sure she could take any more and time was running out, one knot at a time. Then one morning, a few days before returning to school, her hand landed on something crumpled in her sock drawer. She pulled it out and turned it over in confusion, realizing it was an envelope with her name on it. She tore it open.
Dear Ms Everdell,
You’re lucky I saw your correspondence – I receive a lot of fanmail. I’m busy from now until next year. However, I may be able to squeeeeeze in a visit this weekend. Find me at Cutz and Clips, Brixton Station Road, Brixton. Dress smart.
Nana Yaganov (the First)
This weekend! After languishing the days away in self pity Anna suddenly had no time to waste. She went straight to Aunt and asked if she could see Effie – please, I’ve done all my work, I’ve done all my chores, I haven’t been out all holidays, just one visit before school starts. Aunt took her time to decide, all day in fact, before angrily assenting and calling Selene to arrange.
Of course they were not meant to leave Selene’s house but when Anna arrived and showed Effie the letter, they left immediately for Brixton. Attis insisted on coming too: because the letter is clearly unhinged! Brixton was mayhem: a choppy sea of commuters, criss-crossing and colliding, motor-mouthed ticket touts, a man on a microphone preaching about Jesus the Saviour and a steel drum band brightening the evening with hot metal sounds. Effie cut through it all, as if crowds merely existed to part for her.
‘That’s the one.’ Attis pointed at a shop beneath the railway arches. Its sign was an electric lime green and its windows were cluttered with posters and special offers and a list of services. ‘Weaves, bonding, ponytails, cornrows, braids, plaiting …’
‘You sure?’ said Anna, trying and failing to imagine an ancient witch in a Brixton barbers. The door was open, a man standing on the threshold smoking. There were several men inside, talking and laughing. No one seemed to be cutting hair. Music blared.
‘Well, it’s the name on her letter, which doesn’t mean to say that it is correct.’ Attis stopped outside the shop.
‘You guys wait here,’ said Anna.
‘I’m coming in too,’ he said.
‘No. I think it’ll be better if I go in alone. I’ll be fine.’
Attis frowned. ‘I’m watching from the window then.’
Anna approached the man in the doorway. ‘Is a woman called Nana Yaganov inside?’
He gave Anna a long, hard look and then stepped aside. Anna walked into the rabble of loud voices and music, feeling entirely out of place.
‘Er, does anyone know a Nana Yaganov?’ she said, but no one appeared to hear her. A dog jumped off one of the men’s laps and barked at her. Someone turned the music down.
‘Boys, this girl is trying to say something,’ he yelled. The room quietened.
‘Does anyone here know a Nana Yaganov?’ Her voice sounded small.
‘Who’s asking?’ A cracked voice came from the corner. One of the men stepped aside respectfully and revealed an old woman sitting in one of the chairs. She was so small and stooped and wearing so many ragged layers of clothing that Anna would probably not have noticed her even if she’d been in sight. She spun round to face Anna, narrowing her eyes, which cut through her face like two deep crevasses in a mountain range of wrinkles.
‘I’m Anna Everdell. I wrote you a letter …’
‘Everdell.’ Yaganov said the word as if she were biting into it. ‘Yes.’ She turned back around, facing the mirror. Anna waited, growing more uncomfortable. One of the men stepped in front of the doorway, blocking her exit. ‘Are you here by your own free will or by compulsion?’ Yaganov croaked.
‘I don’t entirely know,’ said Anna. ‘Are you Nana?’
Anna could hear Attis trying to get through the door.
‘Nana Yaganov. The oldest witch in Europe and a curse expert, having cast numerous in my own lifetime and plenty in other lifetimes too. Come and brush my hair.’
Anna walked up to the old woman, the men’s eyes following.
‘Go on, don’t be shy.’
Anna picked up a brush, reflecting on whether this was the most absurd moment of her life so far. The old woman lifted herself up in the chair and Anna ran the brush through her hair – or what was left of it. It was grey and long and sparse, a purpled scalp peeping through. After she’d pulled the brush through carefully it tangled again almost immediately. She could see Effie peering through the glass window with a what-the-hell-are-you-doing look on her face.
Nana cackled wickedly. ‘One strand of my hair can break a man’s neck, do you know that? What pretty hair you have – maybe you can lend me yours?’
Anna looked at herself in the mirror, but now she was the one sitting in the chair and Nana was brushing her hair; with each stroke it was falling out – golden-red strands clogging the brush, dusting the floor, her own scalp beginning to show …
Anna screamed and Nana laughed silently. Anna looked away from the mirror and realized that she was still the one brushing and her hair was still intact on her head.
‘Oh, you’re making heavy weather of it,’ said Nana, pulling the brush from Anna’s hand, ‘and I’m hungry. I’ve been starving since 1978. I need a good feeding before I tell you what you want to know.’
‘What do I want to know?’
‘Oh everything, everything. The dark side of the moon. Come on.’
With great difficulty, Nana stood up from the chair. Anna put a hand out to help but was batted away. Nana walked bundle-like through the room of men and out into the night.
Attis grabbed Anna. ‘You screamed.’
‘I thought I saw something – it was nothing—’
‘Where shall we go for breakfast?’ Nana interrupted.
> Attis looked down at Nana; he must have been twice as tall as her. ‘You must be—’
‘No introductions. I know who you all are, knight in shining armour. Did you steal my trolley?’ She looked around, her eyes passing over Effie as if she wasn’t there. Effie frowned. ‘Oh, there.’ She dawdled over to the alleyway by the side of the barbers and pulled a large trolley from it. It was piled high with what were either her possessions or garbage; a fishing rod stuck out of the top.
‘This way, this way,’ she said impatiently, as if they hadn’t been waiting for her. She pushed the trolley down the street and stopped outside a murky café which on its sign claimed to provide ‘Genuine British Food’. Inside, it smelt of grease, the windows were dirty, walls wooden and bare, the tables utilitarian – their only decoration bottles of ketchup and mustard.
‘They serve the best shepherd’s pie since Ailis McConville’s in West Kerry, 1843.’ Nana descended into a seat. She was small and shrivelled but not frail; there was flesh on her bones and, despite her slow movements, there was a robustness to her. The waitress came over.
Nana scowled. ‘I’ll have a bowl of Cheerios and tea, black as a nun’s habit.’
The waitress smiled, looking unsurprised by the breakfast order at nine o’clock at night. The rest of them ordered drinks.
‘We’ve heard a lot about you, Nana,’ said Effie.
‘Well, I’ve heard nothing about you.’
Attis laughed.
‘Don’t know what you’re laughing at, pretty boy. You’ve got nothing to be cheerful about.’
He stopped. It was hard to do anything when Nana turned her eyes on you. They were dark caves, deep wells, black as a crow. Her face was shifting sands, one moment all chin and nose, mouth tucked up in gummy laughter, the next it had latched onto you, shrew-like and scornful, scissored with wrinkles. Anna had no idea how old she was – ancient, perhaps.
‘Nana,’ said Anna gently. ‘I take it you read my letter and you know that I’m here to find out more about my mother, Marie Everdell … and her death.’
‘The past is dead. Hurrah.’ The waitress placed a bowl of Cheerios in front of her. ‘Now this is life, look at them.’ She held a small Cheerio up to her eye. ‘Each a little germ of being.’ She put it in her mouth and sucked.