The Crow Folk

by Mark Stay

  The sun peeked over the sea, infusing it with golden light. Faye felt Suky’s hand go limp. Her cross-stitch smile frozen for ever.

  38 VERA FIVETREES

  Faye trudged back to the village across the fields. Each step weighed more than the last and she was looking forward to a long kip, putting all this strangeness behind her and never dabbling in magic again. Others joined her, including her father, Bertie and Charlotte. No words were said, though she took her dad’s hand as they walked and he gave hers a little squeeze.

  ‘I never thanked you,’ she told Bertie as they walked.

  ‘For what?’

  ‘You waited for me,’ Faye said. ‘When I was lost in the wood. Everyone else went home, but you waited for me. I shan’t forget that, Bertie Butterworth.’

  A jumble of vowels and consonants came tumbling from Bertie’s mouth before forming a clumsy, ‘You’re welcome.’ He wiped beads of sweat from his top lip and kept smacking his lips together.

  ‘You all right, Bertie?’ Faye asked. He looked pale now, like he might pass out at any moment.

  ‘Hmm? Oh, dry mouth, that’s all. Apart from that, fine and dandy, Faye, thank you,’ he said, clenching and unclenching his fists. ‘That is… there’s something… What with today’s adventure, it made me realise that there may never be a better time to, well, ask. I’ve been putting it off for months. Years, in fact. So.’ Bertie’s chest inflated as he took a breath. ‘F-Faye, would you consider—’

  The roar of a Merlin engine split the air as a black Spitfire swooped low over the fields.

  Bertie’s courage evaporated and the moment was gone.

  ‘It doesn’t have any markings,’ Faye said, following the Spitfire as it banked over the village and curved out of sight somewhere near the cricket green.

  ‘Nazi spies?’ Terrence wondered. ‘Maybe they stole one of our planes and—’

  ‘No, no, no, it’s much worse,’ Charlotte said, lighting her pipe with all the enthusiasm of someone about to walk to the gallows. ‘It’s Vera Fivetrees.’ She clenched the pipe between her teeth and gave Faye a wicked grin as she puffed white smoke. ‘I think we’re in trouble.’

  Faye wrinkled her nose. ‘Who is this Vera woman again?’

  * * *

  The black Spitfire had landed on the Woodville village green, churning up quite a bit of turf, much to the consternation of Constable Muldoon. Still befuddled after the night’s events – and after a dressing-down from his aunt – he was doing his best to hold back the gathering crowd of villagers with little more than his truncheon and whistle.

  The Spitfire was unmarked and painted black from propeller to tail. Its curious cowl – which had a pair of bubbles instead of one – slid back, revealing two occupants. The first, a lithe young woman in an Air Transport Auxiliary flight suit and goggles, hopped out of the pilot’s seat and onto the wing. She offered a hand to her passenger. This second woman was brown-skinned and wore a yellow dress with a pattern of black birds and a black headscarf. She descended from the fighter plane with the poise of a queen and marched across the village green with her yellow leather handbag like she had stopped off to pick up her groceries. Head held high, she ignored the curious stares of the villagers who had only ever seen folk with brown skin in newsreel films or illustrations in books and magazines.

  Faye let go of her father’s hand and hurried after Charlotte to where Mrs Teach waited for them by the duck pond on the green. She wore a beaming smile that belied the panic in her eyes.

  ‘Brace yourselves,’ Mrs Teach told them through clenched teeth.

  ‘Why?’ Faye asked in a whisper loud enough for everyone to hear. ‘Who is she?’

  Mrs Teach gave Faye a Be quiet! look, then bowed low. Charlotte did the same.

  ‘I am Vera Fivetrees, young lady,’ the woman announced as she came to a stop before the three witches. Behind her, the entire village gathered, ready to enjoy the showdown. ‘High Witch of the British Empire.’

  Faye, unsure how to react, bent her knees in a clumsy curtsey. ‘How d’you do?’

  ‘Very badly, I’m thinking.’ Vera Fivetrees turned her attention to Charlotte puffing on her pipe, and Mrs Teach gripping her handbag. ‘Ladies,’ she said, and the pair of them stiffened. ‘The most magical activity on one day in this land since 1692, and what felt to me like an incursion by a demon. We’ve not had one of those since the Middle Ages. Care to explain yourselves?’

  ‘I think a lot of that might be to do with me,’ Faye said, raising a finger like a guilty child. ‘Y’see, I found my mother’s book…’ she started, aware that both Charlotte and Mrs Teach were shaking their heads. ‘It’s the only thing I have of hers – she passed away when I was little, see – and I started flicking through it and found all these drawings and spells and rituals and such, and I thought to myself, blimey, what’s this then? Was Mum a witch? Well, well, there’s a thing. And so I sneaked it out. I didn’t mention it to my old man, did I? I mean, he’s got enough on his plate with the pub and everything. And so I started, y’know, dabbling with little rituals and spells, a bit of candle magic, which I didn’t think would cause so much bother, but anyways I reckon that might be what’s caused all this kerfuffle with demons and magic and such and I am ever so sorry and I can assure you it won’t be happening again, on my honour, so I hope that’s cleared everything up.’ Faye took a breath and then stopped talking. She caught glimpses of silent gratitude from Charlotte and Mrs Teach.

  Vera Fivetrees looked at Faye out of the sides of her eyes. ‘You must be Kathryn Winter’s girl.’

  ‘That I am.’

  ‘She was trouble, too,’ Vera said. ‘She left you a book?’

  ‘Not as such. I found it.’

  ‘And it contains spells and rituals?’

  ‘And a recipe for jam roly-poly, but I reckon that was by the by.’

  ‘You realise this is forbidden for precisely this reason?’

  ‘The jam roly-poly?’

  ‘The spells, girl,’ Vera snapped. ‘Enough of your cheek.’

  ‘It has been explained to me, yes,’ Faye said, gesturing to Charlotte and Mrs Teach. ‘But I promise it will not happen again and—’

  ‘Destroy the book,’ Vera Fivetrees said.

  ‘But—’

  ‘We cannot afford any of our secrets getting into the wrong hands, young lady. Our rituals are handed down from one generation to the next in confidence, from mentor to apprentice. This is how we have kept the peace with the underworld for nearly two hundred and fifty years. They fear us because they do not have our knowledge. We have the upper hand, and we won’t be losing it on my watch. And, as you might have noticed, there is a war on and the other side have their own spells and rituals we must combat, so I could do without the additional work.’

  ‘I could hide it.’

  ‘Destroy it.’ Vera was speaking to Charlotte and Mrs Teach now. ‘Philomena, your probation is ended. Both of you see to it and make sure this girl gets all the help she needs. If she’s Kathryn Winter’s daughter, she could be very useful. This war won’t be ending soon and we need all the help we can get. Teach her everything you know.’

  ‘Yes, ma’am,’ Charlotte and Mrs Teach said and curtseyed in unison.

  ‘And you,’ Vera said to Faye. ‘No unsupervised magic. No more secrets. Understood?’

  ‘Yes, er, ma’am.’

  ‘Good.’ Vera turned to the woman on the Spitfire’s wing and gave her a wave. ‘Ginny, we’re going.’ The pilot saluted and hopped back in the cockpit, and the Spitfire’s propellers whined and turned. There was a phut-phut from the exhausts which briefly flamed before the engine growled into life, coughing smoke over the village green.

  All the onlookers turned from the witches to this magnificent machine with a collective, ‘Ooh!’ and a smattering of applause.

  Vera Fivetrees raised her arms and closed her eyes, muttering words Faye did not understand.

  ‘What’s she doing?’ asked Faye.

  �
�Obeah,’ Charlotte whispered. ‘Old magic. Very powerful.’

  ‘Shush,’ snapped Mrs Teach, watching as Vera Fivetrees opened her eyes again and strolled to the duck pond. She took from her handbag a small blue glass bottle and very carefully tapped two drops of a red liquid into the water. Immediately it began to smoke and drift across the village green, mingling with the villagers.

  Satisfied, Vera Fivetrees walked back to the three witches.

  ‘They will forget?’ Charlotte asked.

  ‘They will remember something different,’ Vera said. ‘Strangers coming to town. A travelling circus, perhaps.’

  Faye’s heart sank at the thought of more of Dad’s circus anecdotes.

  ‘They will create their own stories that will become memory. Don’t’ – Vera pointed a finger at all of them – ‘make me come here again.’

  ‘No, ma’am,’ all three said in unison, with a curtsey.

  ‘Good, I have to be in Stonehenge by lunchtime. Bloody druids are on the sauce again. Good luck and stay out of trouble.’ Vera walked through the crowd, stepped up into the Spitfire and squeezed into the rear seat. The pilot increased the throttle and the plane bounced across the green, lifting into the air and turning into the bright morning sky.

  39 A BOOK BURNING

  Faye agreed to meet at Charlotte’s cottage later that morning. She took a different path through the wood, one that meandered by the stream and carried the scent of honeysuckle. She cycled past two swans on patrol and startled a fallow deer as it drank. She watched as the doe bounced away, the white spots on its coat blending with the dappled light. Bees pestered the foxgloves at the foot of a larch, and chiffchaffs, willow warblers and blackbirds competed for her attention. She slapped away a horsefly as she got off her bicycle and leaned it against a tree sticky with summer sap. Faye gripped the satchel slung over her shoulder and waded through the ferns.

  The world felt as normal as ever, but Faye knew by the time she returned home she would be changed.

  When she reached the clearing, a bonfire was already burning and Charlotte and Mrs Teach were waiting for her.

  Pine needles scrunched under Faye’s shoes as she walked like a condemned prisoner towards the cottage, watched by the two witches, a toad and a goat with no owner.

  ‘Good morning, Faye,’ Charlotte said. ‘I’m sorry it has come to this, but I hope you understand why this needs to be done.’

  Faye tightened her lips and shrugged.

  ‘You have our word,’ Mrs Teach said, ‘we will pass on to you everything we know. If you possess half your mother’s skill, you have the potential to be a great witch.’

  ‘And we thank you for taking the blame with the High Witch earlier,’ Charlotte said. ‘You didn’t have to do that.’

  ‘Truthfully, the blame lies, in a way, with all of us,’ said Mrs Teach.

  ‘But mostly with you, Mrs Teach,’ Charlotte said.

  ‘Yes, yes, mostly me.’ Mrs Teach bunched her lips.

  ‘I’m sorry, Faye, but this is the price you pay for your kindness.’ Charlotte extended her hand for the book.

  ‘I’ll do it,’ Faye said, taking the book from her satchel.

  ‘No offence, petal,’ Mrs Teach said with an insincere smile, ‘but we would like to check it’s the real thing.’

  ‘In case you try to pull another switcheroo,’ Charlotte added, raising an eyebrow.

  Faye ground her teeth together before handing over the book for inspection. Charlotte flicked through its pages.

  ‘We must learn to trust one another,’ Mrs Teach said. ‘Where would we be without trust, eh? Especially now there’s a war on. Is it real?’ she asked this last of Charlotte, who nodded and closed the book.

  ‘You still want to do this yourself?’ Charlotte asked Faye.

  Faye tried to answer, but the words got caught in her throat and she nodded instead.

  Charlotte gave her the book and stood aside, revealing the crackling bonfire.

  Faye gripped the book.

  Her mother’s book.

  Aside from a few knick-knacks at home, this was all Faye had of her mother. Every word, every sketch, every smudge on a page was a moment in her mother’s life. Faye had hoped to study the book for ever. To treasure it and try to be as wise and curious as her mother had been.

  The wood fell silent. In the trees were birds of every kind. Witnesses to an execution.

  ‘If I’m to do this,’ Faye said, ‘I want you to promise me something first.’

  Charlotte and Mrs Teach shared doubtful glances.

  ‘No more secrets,’ Faye said. ‘Not between us, at least. No more being snooty about the villagers, no more looking down on the likes of Craddock.’

  Mrs Teach harrumphed. ‘Really, young lady. He was the most beastly—’

  ‘He was one of us,’ Faye snapped. ‘One of our neighbours, a regular in our pub, a man who would get you a bit o’ rabbit if you fancied it. And yes, he was a grumpy old git, and he hated women, and I reckon he was probably a racialist, but he was a villager. And I think if we had spoken to him, or just listened to him a little more, then he might have listened to us and we might be better people and he might even still be alive. If we’re going to start this coven, or whatever it is, then we need to be trusted by the folks in the village. We can’t pretend we’re better than them, or they’ll just ignore us. We’ve got a war on our doorstep with the Nazis in France, and we’ve got trouble beneath us with demons and goblins or whatever.’

  ‘There aren’t any goblins,’ Charlotte corrected.

  ‘We start from scratch.’ Faye puffed out her cheeks. ‘Today. We put aside our differences and we work together. Clean sweep, new broom and all that, yes?’

  Mrs Teach and Charlotte shared a look. ‘Yes,’ they replied in unison.

  ‘Good,’ Faye said and tossed the book on the flames.

  A simple act. A slight movement of her arm and the book spun through the air and landed with a whumph on the fire. She couldn’t bring herself to look at it, knowing it would break her heart to do so.

  ‘Righto, good. That’s that, then,’ she said, her voice a whisper. ‘I’ll see you both tomorrow.’

  40 THE HOLLOW TREE

  Faye did not go straight home. Instead, she returned to where she had left her bicycle leaning against the tree sticky with sap. She cycled to the hollow oak in the depths of the wood and sat alone among its roots for a while, allowing herself a few tears. She sniffed them away before taking a folded slip of paper from her pocket.

  It was a page torn from her mother’s book.

  On one side was a recipe for jam roly-poly.

  On the other side was something quite different.

  Faye read aloud from the scrap of paper. ‘A ritual for contacting loved ones who have passed to the other side.’

  It was magic.

  She wasn’t allowed to do any unsupervised magic. She had just made a promise to the High Witch of the British Empire. Faye put the torn page down.

  Then picked it up again. And continued reading. There was nothing wrong with reading. She was just looking at words on a page and she was definitely not doing magic. ‘Gather personal items of the loved one you wish to contact and lay them out before you.’

  Faye took a breath and flipped open her satchel. She took out a hairbrush with an ivory handle, a few cheap necklaces and earrings and a cracked gramophone record of ‘Graveyard Dream Blues’ by Bessie Smith. She fanned them out on the leafy ground before her. This wasn’t magic. She was just looking. And reading.

  ‘Next, you will require a green candle and olive oil.’ Faye reached into the satchel, taking out an ordinary wax candle and a small bottle of cooking oil. ‘Close enough,’ she reassured herself, adjusting her spectacles as she squinted back at the book. ‘Find a place of solitude where you can be alone with your thoughts. Yes, done that. Carve this rune into the candle.’

  The rune sketched on the page was simple enough, looking like an upside-down seven with a coup
le of lines bisecting it.

  Faye couldn’t do it. She had promised. She would not do magic. She might accidentally summon another demon or who knows what.

  Faye read the rest of the instructions in her head. She did not carve any runes, she did not show the candle to the north, south, east or west. But she lit the candle and placed it in the tree’s hollow. What harm could it do? It was gloomy here, anyway. She needed the light.

  Faye came to the last instruction. ‘Take your mirror and hold it in such a way as to reflect the candle’s light.’ It took Faye a few moments to find the small hand mirror in her satchel. It had scratched glass and an ivory handle to match her mother’s hairbrush. She angled it to catch the flame of the candle in the hollow, then tilted her head to read from the book. ‘And, finally, allow yourself to fall into a relaxed state, breathing deeply. Your arms may feel heavy, your head may feel light, the glass in the mirror may become clouded, but you will soon see your lost loved one in the reflection and you will be able to speak with them.’

  Faye took a few deep breaths and looked into the mirror, her eyes desperate to catch any sign of movement, but there was none. Of course there wasn’t. She wasn’t doing magic.

  There was no sound other than the breeze gently whispering through the leaves.

  The days caught up with Faye. Her heart felt heavy, her shoulders drooped and her eyes welled with tears. It was time to go home.

  It began to rain and Faye packed her mother’s things away.

  All she wanted was to tell her mother that she wasn’t angry any more. That whenever she thought of her now, she felt a warm glow of love. She wanted to tell her mum that she was going to be all right. She had a purpose now. She could be useful.

  Faye reached for the mirror, her eye caught by the twitching head of a sparrow reflected in its glass.

  It was joined by a blue tit. Then a robin.

  Faye felt a tingle between her shoulder blades. She lowered the mirror and turned slowly to find the old oak dripping with birds. From the lowest branches to the highest twigs, a crowded line-up of swifts, willow warblers, finches, nuthatches, goldcrests, jackdaws and treecreepers, all staring at her.