by B G Denvil
She was sitting at her window, looking out across the pounding rain. She didn’t turn as I entered, naturally knowing I had arrived.
“My dear,” she greeted me, “I’m afraid you’ve just missed Peg.”
“I know,” I told her. “I just saw her leaving. Shame, I wanted to speak to both of you. But hopefully she’ll be back soon.”
“How can I help in the meantime?” she asked, and I began to explain about the forest.
“The Forest of Ways.” I shook my head. “Does it have a proper name? The Ways of the Forest. The Way-Bound Forest? I don’t suppose you’ve ever been there.”
“Definitely not,” Edna looked almost shocked, a rare expression for her. “Once I did go on an isolated journey, I chose a cave up in the Scottish Highlands. But I adored that cave, and it held no dangers. Nor was I trying to increase my power, since I was already high grade. But I desperately wished to understand more, and know my own capabilities. You need complete silence and utter control for that, and I found it for some years.”
“I’d love to do that,” I said, sinking down on one of her chairs. “But not for years. Weeks. Maybe months. But certainly not a whole year.”
“I think I was five years,” Edna sighed. “I miss it sometimes. Five years isn’t much when you live to well over two hundred.”
I was twenty-five. The thought of two hundred more years was a little daunting.
“And the forest?”
“It helps the weaker grades,” she said softly, “and eats the weakest, the fools and the wilfully ambitious. Not a place I’d recommend.”
“I think Harry’s going to say yes. But Fanny hates the idea now, at first it was she who felt he should increase his power. She was nervous of accepting a loving relationship where she was the strong one, and her husband was only half her grade. But now she’s terrified.” I described everything I’d heard of this forest. “But I don’t even know how to get there.”
“There isn’t a way,” Edna told me. “If you really genuinely want to go for good reasons or bad, you call and that’s it. Off you go, straight down.”
“It’s the Forest of Ways, and there isn’t a way?”
“Because the way is so important.” Edna was smiling. “Go with determination, willingness and strength, then you stand a good chance of getting what you want. But if your way is mean – or frightened – that will colour everything.”
“Delightful.” Actually, I was thinking not of Harry, but of Gorgeous. She was such a dear little witch, but hardly ever appeared. She was so shy about being only grade nineteen, that she virtually hid herself away. “Harry’s stronger than dear little Gorgeous,” I babbled on. “She’s so quiet that I hardly know her, but I’d heard she had been wedded to a human, and hadn’t even known she had magic powers. But her husband was a pig of a man, constantly drunk, so one day she retaliated and made his nose disappear. Whipped it right off without even touching him, so he had a hole in the middle of his head, and a solid looking nose on the ground at his feet. She rushed to the church, and the priest told her she must have wicked devil magic within, and she faced execution on the gallows. She ran. Poor Gorgeous. She found us and has stayed with us ever since.”
“You aren’t thinking,” asked Edna, aghast, “of sending Gorgeous with Harry to this horrible forest?”
Shaking my head vehemently, I said only, “I just wish there might be an easier way of helping wiccan folk to increase their grades.”
“Not that I know of, except a quite lifetime of study.”
“I think that’s what she does,” I sighed, “but she doesn’t ever tell me anything, so I don’t know. I just wish Whistle would come back.”
It was not Whistle who appeared, unfortunately. It was Peg who arrived back somewhat abruptly. She almost landed on my lap. She was, however, far less tousled and confused than usual after such unexpected trips. She had lost her old torn, stained and unattractive pointy hat, and instead her thin white hair actually gleamed, seemingly fashioned into curls around her small face.
“I recommend Venice,” she told us in a voice of wonder. “There’s a small disadvantage for human folk, since you can’t walk the streets. They’re all made of water. Odd. But that’s the Italians for you. They like to be different.”
Geographical idiosyncratic details were not my subject, but I had heard of Venice. The Duce was a fierce, ruthless but intelligent lord who had kept his city clear of the plague, almost as I had done but without the magic of course.
“They can’t help the water,” I told Peg. “It’s an estuary or used to be a marsh or something like that.”
“Well, they should put in a few solid roads,” objected Peg. “Not everyone can swim after all. But it’s so pretty. Such wonderful grand buildings all over the place, and gorgeous bridges, for the ones who can’t swim, I suppose. And what grand clothes they all wear too. Quite amazing. I loved it. And the women are quite courageous.”
“Really? What were they up to?”
“Well,” said Peg, sounding almost envious, “many of them just sit at their windows looking out, even waving. I waved back, of course. But they didn’t bother wearing any clothes on their top halves. Quite uncaring.”
“Brazen?” suggested Edna.
“No, no,” Peg insisted. “They looked so pretty and friendly.”
“I think they’d all be prostitutes,” whispered Edna.
“Not at all,” Peg sniffed. “I think they all looked quite grand, like proper rich ladies who just didn’t get scared of showing themselves.”
I changed the subject and told her about the forest. I didn’t expect her to know anything about it, and was just about to leave, when she surprised me. It seemed she knew a good deal more about that forest than she did about Venice.
“Not a nice place,” she said. “I knew a young wizard who went there many, many years ago.”
Now this might be useful. “Could you wait and tell Harry and Fanny all about it too?” Naturally Peg was happy to help, and we all flitted downstairs, avoiding the freeze outside, and found them both in Harry’s rather small room. It was so full of bed that I wondered how he could be living in such cramped conditions, and told him so.
He looked up, cheered to see us all, and admitted he could never have afforded to rent two rooms since Alice had never accepted magic coinage. I thought Fanny looked as though she’d been crying. Without flying, since Harry couldn’t fly without a useful hand, we toddled back down to my rooms and spread ourselves around.
“I have the silver trio and Oswald for questions,” I pointed out, although carefully not mentioning the red thimble, “but Peg has second hand experience, which I considered far more valuable.”
“Well,” she said, fluffing out her pretty new hair style, “About a hundred and fifty years ago I knew a young wizard who wanted more power. He was a bit of a friend, but nothing close because he could be rather irritating. Even rude. He used to like telling other wiccans that his grade was about to be fixed much higher because he’d been wrongly graded at the time, and before his coming of age, he’d be re-graded. I think he was something around a twenty grade, but he never spoke of it, so I can’t be sure. I know he couldn’t fly or lots of other things. But he’d heard of the Forest of Ways, and was determined to go.”
We all stared at her, waiting for the dreadful stories. “Was it all terrible?” whispered Fanny. “Was there even a tiny bit of good?”
“A bit of both,” sighed Peg. “But this boy’s mother very kindly agreed to go with him, to help and protect. She was only a fifty-five, and she quickly wrapped up fifty-four and stuffed it in a band which she tied around her neck. Her son did the same with whatever bit he had. All secret at the time, but the mother, a friend of mine, Larra, she told me all about it when they got back.”
“And she got stronger?” I guessed.
Peg nodded. “That wasn’t what she went for. She only went to look after Buttons, her son. But she came back a full sixty-five, and very pleased wi
th herself.”
“And the boy?”
“He got pulled into a ghost castle, he was half eaten by a monster, almost drowned in the river and screamed from the minute he entered to the minute his mother found the way out and pulled him free.”
Everyone sat with anticipation, leaning forwards towards Peg. Fanny muttered, “And he went up a bit too?”
“Yes,” Peg nodded. “He went up a whole six points which made no difference at all to his low grade, and he completely lost one arm which got chewed off. He was sick and miserable for the rest of his life, and even the passing scuttle of a rat would terrify the life out of him.”
“Talking of rats – ” I began, but changed my mind and shushed up.
Peg continued. “I think it ruined his life, and those six extra points on whatever he had already never helped him at all. He was a twit, but at last he actually knew it.”
Looking over at Fanny and Harry, I raised an eyebrow.
“He’s not going,” said Fanny.
“Yes, I am,” said Harry. “It sounds incredible. I’m not ambitious, but this is what I need and what I want. I’m also quite sure I’ll enjoy it.”
Twenty-One
I advised against it. In fact, I think everyone in the room advised against it, including Oswald. But Harry said they’d talk it over, and walked out with Fanny.
“By the way,” I called after them, “if you two get married, I’ll build you your own cottage like the others. No need to be so cramped anymore.”
I don’t know if they heard my attempt at bribery, but I turned back to Peg and Edna. Edna sighed. “Harry’s determined to go, isn’t he!”
“Maybe it’ll work for him.” I shrugged. “Sounds as though it worked for that nice sensible mother.”
“The wheel of fortune?” Peg shook her head, unsure. “Is there destiny, or do we make it ourselves? The boy was absurd, but Harry isn’t.”
“Sometimes,” I said, “I wonder if witches and wizards are almost as stupid as humans after all.”
“Certainly not that bad,” Edna frowned. “Don’t exaggerate.”
But I was quite fascinated by the sound of this dreadful forest, and actually I fully understood why Harry was equally fascinated with the idea. “The concept of threatening activities which could increase your power and skills, or could snatch away a physical arm and leave a witch without any magic left, was horrible indeed, but I couldn’t imagine how this worked. And I wanted to know.
It was that night, lying in bed, when my thoughts rolled relentlessly around that one subject. I had no wish to go there, nor any need. But I wanted to know how and why it worked.
Wolf, cuddled beside me on the bed as usual, picked up some scraps of my thoughts. “Big happy dog all ready and happy to go aside Lady Rosie,” he told me suddenly from the darkness, which made me jerk in surprise.
“Go where?”
“Big forest with naughty creepy things,” said Wolf cheerfully. “I’ll always protect you.”
“Thank you,” I said, “but I’m going nowhere.” I paused, thinking about it, then said, “But if it was possible, I’d love a look at the outside without going in. I just want to know how it works.”
“Clockwork,” said my hound at once. “Wheel goes around in river. River underground. Called Styx. Big dog bin there.”
I had found the whole concept of the forest unexpected, then the explanations given me by Oswald and the thimble equally as unexpected. Peg’s story had seemed the most unexpected of all, but now I was speechless.
“You’ve been there?”
“Surely have, Lady Rosie.”
“And you saw the outside? It was being made by a water mill on that river? And clockwork? That’s complicated with little wheels and big wheels, but I think I’ve only ever seen two or three clocks in my life, usually on churches. But someone has to wind them up. Is someone winding up this magical forest?”
“Oh yes, yes,” yapped Wolf with all the happiness he constantly claimed. “This happy dog done helped winding once, when he was big naughty monster. But mustn’t talk about that now. Night, night, beautiful Lady Rosie. Good sleeping.” And he rolled over and promptly went to sleep.
I went to sleep eventually, but first lay awake for a very, very long time first, thinking about the possibilities. And yes, I shouted silently in my head, come along, Whistle. Hurry home.
But there were, I decided the following morning, other matters more personal and more important. Top of my list, indeed – number one, was Alice. If she was still back as a woman, despite what the thimble had told me, then she was dangerous. I still wasn’t sure why she had been seen running to church, but I accepted the recent explanation she had been running in fear. Fair enough, until I met her. I hoped she was bug-sized again. I was definitely not afraid of a Troilus bug, tiny and with minimal capabilities. But a witch, even a lowly fifty, once she had the eye of the shadow power, was a dangerous person to have around.
Once again this reminded me of Harry’s desire for stronger powers. Or, to be more accurate, Fanny’s original wish for Harry to be stronger, which now Harry had adopted. At least I was sure he wouldn’t ever lean to the shadow side to gain that, however keen.
But although Alice was my number one, there was absolutely nothing I could do about her, woman or beetle, at the moment. Instead I decided I’d go to the village, see the priest, just in case he knew something of her visit, try and find the old woman I’d spoken to, and then visit Alid and Joan to see if those two extra cows were helping with their profits. Indeed, I could quickly add another three cows to join the first two, though they’d have to join out of the wild blue yonder.
Not forgetting my desire for Whistle to come home. Even as a squirrel he would have so much more understanding than I would, and would surely be the greatest help I could ask for.
The church first. Father George was a kindly priest, and I was quite pleased to see him. He was standing at his small stone pulpit, carefully polishing a candle holder. I clonked up the aisle, and he seemed to think I’d come for confession, and he moved to that little half open room of his. But I laughed and said that should I ever wish to make my confession, he’d need to sit there for a week. But he didn’t seem to find this funny.
“No,” I said quickly, “I wanted to ask about my mother. She’s not one of your regular parishioners, but someone saw her run in here a few days ago. I haven’t – umm – seen her for some time, so I was worried. Did you see her? Alice Scaramouch? A bit bedraggled, with dark hair and a rather large chin with small squeezed up eyes.”
“Certainly not. And I will remind you a priest is bound to silence, and whatever I saw will remain mine alone.” He frowned and shook his head. I was sure he would have seen her, so was disappointed.
“Very well,” I said, silently going through numbers one and two. “I was recently speaking to a woman I don’t know, but she was awfully helpful. I wonder if you could tell me where to find her. She’s rather wide and about my height, and has about eight chins and nice bright eyes. I should have asked her name, but it was such a brief chat, so I didn’t. She wore a huge reddish brownish blackish blueish sort of cape which covered her except for the friendly face and the grey hair. I think she was quite elderly.”
The priest was looking bored, but he pretended to help. “Very few of our elderly Piddleton folk are quite as large as you describe, mistress,” he said, tapping his sandaled toes on the tiles. “We are not a wealthy village, as you might know. But perhaps you do not live here. I notice you are ready to insult and criticise my parishioners, yet you make no donations towards their own problems.”
I had intended to leave a good donation when I left, especially if he’d been able to help. Now I wasn’t so sure. “I live nearby,” I said firmly. “I actually run The Rookery, but I take a great deal of interest in Little Piddleton, and help people when I can. I’m not being snooty, Father. I’m worried about my – um – mother, and this woman I met on the road told me some things which co
uld help. I should have asked her name.”
“I know virtually every resident here in Little Piddleton,” said the priest, “and there is no one of that description. Indeed, we’ve only recently been open to folk from other villages to come visiting, so I presume you saw one of those.” His eyes almost stabbed. “I have been the parish priest here for many years, and being both loyal and devoted to my people, I know those who attend this church with love, and attention. The woman you unkindly describe as wide, does not live in Little Piddleton.”
“But she saw my mother running into your church. She knew me, and she knew that was my mother and – oh, well, perhaps it’s not important.”
I left him to it. If he couldn’t help, then he couldn’t help, and I didn’t want to start disliking the man for such a silly reason. I crossed over the main square and walked on towards Alid’s farm. I carried a sense of foolishness with me. What was I missing? I even wondered if that had not been the real priest I’d talked with. But I could hardly be sure, and he had certainly first assumed I’d come for confession. Yet something was wrong. And maybe it was me who was wrong.
Arriving at the farm, I was immediately welcomed into a considerably more amicable atmosphere than the church. That was definitely the opposite situation to those of the more distant past, and I was still puzzled, but received the usual cup of light ale and sat to discuss the recent changes.
“Your new cows are giving milk alright?” I asked. “Does it help? There’s been no one to claim them back?”
“Yes and no, no one has come for them, and I’m certainly glad of that,” said Alid, “for I’d hate to give them up now. I only have to look at those animals, and they almost throw their milk into my buckets. Beautiful beasts, they are. I’ve named them Bell and Boss.”
“But,” said Joan, so excited she was jigging up and down on her chair, which wobbled on its stick legs while her expectant stomach jogged even more jubilantly onto her lap, “there’s more.”
“Three more,” grinned Alid.