“What does it say about the Iron itself?” Kinsella said his pale skin contrasting perfectly with the green silk tie at his throat.
“Not a lot. So far, it’s been mentioned only twice, once directly.”
Kinsella moved briskly round to the other side of the desk. “Can you show me?”
I brightened at that, turning back to a page I’d book-marked earlier. “This section here is recorded almost as a diary. The author, some sort of senior monk, isn’t named but seems to have a fairly fatherly attitude towards those serving under him.”
“Frankly,” Helena said, “I could care less. We just need to know about the Iron. No offence.”
“None taken,” I said a little sharply. She was starting to piss me off, just a little. “But I need to explain some of the background. Basically, these monks are out to spread the good word, though they’re a bit more pro-active than most. Most Russians of the period didn’t stray much outside their own region. Travel wasn’t encouraged by the landowners but these monks came and went as they pleased. There were still a lot of pagan beliefs doing the rounds at the time and the church targeted unbelievers.”
“Let me guess,” Helena sighed. “Witches?”
“`Particularly through the agency of woman are infernal enchantments brought to pass.’” Kinsella said
I hadn’t had him pegged as a scholar but then it was difficult to know what to expect where he was concerned. He was full of surprises.
“I’m impressed,” Helena said. “It’s been a while since I last picked up the Arcana.”
He continued, warming to his theme, “Women, particularly organised women, were seen as a threat to the male dominated society of the time.”
Kinsella was smiling but it was hard to discern any warmth in his coal black eyes. I noticed that he had a thin white scar running through his right eyebrow. On closer inspection I saw that the scar continued, pale as parchment, down along his cheek. It gave him an asymmetrical look that was slightly unsettling.
“You’re right, of course,” I said. “Though more “male” witches died during this period than females.”
“So where does the Iron come in?” excitement was starting to seep into Helena’s voice.
“Every once in a while they’d come up against what they call here…” I found the line with my finger. “A gathering of witches,”
“Real witches?”
“Normally I’d say no but these ones seem to tick an awful lot of boxes. Largely because of the number of monks who died trying to trap them. Here: “Brother Hermogenes and his men were cut off in the forest east of the settlement. During the night he and two others were murdered and their bodies hauled off.
“By the look of this it was pretty dangerous work. They’ve left the security of the monastery and continue to die despite travelling with a decent amount of weapons”
“But they defeated the witches in the end?” there was a certain resignation in her voice.
“With the help of the local land owner who: “Was a very devout soul.” Nineteen lives were lost in all and not all to traditional weapons. Look at this section here: “I write this under the most severe conditions. I am sitting with a pilgrim in the last agonies of life who was, not three days since healthy, and something … can’t read that bit.” I rubbed at my forehead, starting to appreciate the weight of anticipation within the room. I felt the stirrings of a headache.
I persevered, “Then two days later Brother Luka departed this life having choked upon his own tongue which had become blackened, swollen and ill-shapen.”
“Nasty stuff,” Kinsella was directly opposite me now. He seemed to be enjoying himself. “Clearly the work of a powerful witch.”
I carried on, “In the end they captured ten people in all: four women and two men. three girls and a boy. Seems that they used thumbscrews on the children just to get the adults …”
“Alright. You can spare us the details,” Helena brushed hair back off her face.
Kinsella bent to study the script for a moment before drawing away again, lost in some mental calculation he chose not to share with the rest of us.
“But this is the relevant part,” I continued. “They intended to hang the witches but had to wait for a senior monk to arrive from the monastery.”
“Let me guess,” Helena said. “He brought the Iron with him?”
That had been my big pay-off and I was more than a little annoyed at her for spoiling it. “Took him over two weeks to arrive. When he did they performed a cleansing mass which takes up the next three and a half pages here. In the time they’d been waiting the monks had been busy. They’d constructed their own gallows.”
“What about the Iron. How was that used?” Kinsella asked.
“You can see for yourself.”
I turned the page very carefully to reveal the woodcut. It was a simple illustration, no doubt copied from the original. A wide-eyed old woman hung from a gibbet a rictus grin stretched across her face. Standing below her was a monk beside a flaming brazier. He was holding the Iron of Fortitude out towards her. It looked like a giant candlestick with a pentagram at one end.
Helena and Kinsella studied it in silence, Kinsella’s hand covering his mouth. A knowing glance passed between them.
“And that’s it?” Helena asked the disappointment clear in her voice. I knew how she felt. It was a cruel irony that one of Witchcraft’s most holy relics had been designed with the simple intention of wiping witches off the face of the earth.
By branding these people with the Iron the Church’s intention was to mark them as unbelievers. At the moment of death, they would be denied the sanctity of confession, and with that, their souls would be consigned to a spiritual turmoil and any chance of redemption lost. A Fast Pass to eternal damnation, in other words.
“There’s nothing else as far as I can tell,” I was annoyed at her attitude. She’d clearly expected more from the text but it just wasn’t there. I’d uncovered what little there was but here she was acting as if I was the one who had raised everyone’s expectations.
I decided to try a different tack. “I could carry on looking. There might be something else later on.”
Helena wasn’t keen on that idea. She came over and closed the book before turning to Kinsella. “Does any of this help?”
“It’s all very interesting but I’m not sure how any of it furthers our cause. There just might be something worthy of closer scrutiny.”
“I’ll keep this somewhere safe in the meantime,” Helena said taking the book.
“But I really need to return it to the Ptolemy,” if it wasn’t back before Monday morning then Janice would realise what I’d done and all of my scheming would have been for nothing.
“I think Helena’s right,” Kinsella said. “We don’t want anyone else consulting this in the meantime.”
“But I’m personally responsible…” my voice trailed off as Helena carefully closed the book in front of me.
“Don’t worry,” Helena wrapped the book in her arms. “I’ll clear it with the Ptolemy.”
“So far you’ve been very helpful, Miss Fellows,” Kinsella’s use of my name was strangely soothing. “I wonder if you’d help us out for just a little while longer?”
I wasn’t expecting that. But before I could reply Helena chipped in. “Is that really necessary? We’ve got other translators …”
“Who will take several hours to get up to speed,” Kinsella growled. “Besides, after what happened this morning, the fewer people who know about what we’re doing, the better.”
Helena lowered her voice to a whisper. “I’m sorry, sir. But are you suggesting that I take her with me? To question Brodsky?”
“She won’t be much use to you here, will she?”
“She’s still only a trainee …”
“I’m not playing office politics, Helena. The fact that she isn’t a member of the team might actually work in our favour in this instance. She’ll accompany you, that’s all. I
f she sees something that she can help you with then so much the better.”
Helena gave a curt nod. She didn’t like it but she’d go along with it. For now.
Kinsella turned to me, “How about it then, Miss Fellows? Are you ready for a bit of work at the sharp end?”
“I’d love to.”
“Excellent,” he clapped his hands together as if we’d all arranged to go out for drinks. “I’ll leave you two to get on with it. Try and keep me informed if you would.”
When he’d gone I turned to Helena, “Are you sure you’re okay with this?”
“Looks like I’m going to have to be.”
Chapter 5
It was late summer in the year I turned fourteen. I’d been walking home alone from a friend’s house and had taken the path across the fields rather than wait for a lift. Normally, we’d have spent most of the time up in her bedroom but that day the sun was scorching hot and we’d ended up taking shelter downstairs, watching TV with her parents, marvelling at the destruction wrought by a hurricane working its way along America’s West Coast. In the end, even the heat of the living room became too much for me and I said my goodbyes and left, glad to get out under the glowering sky.
Thunderstorms had been predicted and I secretly hoped that the rains would break before I got home. I felt quite grown up in my denim shorts, the backs of my legs still red from where I’d been sitting on their leather sofa.
My route took me across open fields of rape seed, a journey I’d made hundreds of times before. A zig-zagging crack ran down the middle of the footpath which was overflowing with ants. I pictured the rains coming down , washing them back into the crevasse, drowning them in their thousands. It amused my teenage sensibilities.
At the end of the first field a gap in the fence was marked with a low stile. I was in the process of climbing it when a wind blew up from the east bringing a flurry of dust with it.
When it had died down, I paused to rub my eyes and take a moment to view my surroundings. From my vantage point I was struck by the flatness of the landscape. I occupied the highest point for several miles – which was probably not the best place to be when the storm finally broke. The rape fields on all sides undulated softly as I took in the sharp smell of wood smoke, the fulsomeness of the corn and the richness of the dark soil. But beneath all that lingered something strange. Something old.
Over on my extreme left I could make out a figure striding towards me. Still a good way off, I was able to examine it in my mind’s eye, to study the details. It wasn’t a thing of flesh, it was a patchwork creature that seemed to have formed itself from the fabric of the countryside. A collection of variegated greens, twigs and rushes, of straw and broken things. Its movements were so strained and cumbersome that it seemed improbable that it could propel itself forward at all and yet it did so, lumbering onwards, impossibly tall, leaving a trail of malevolence in its wake. Whatever it was it meant to do me harm, I sensed that immediately.
A hot iron taste flooded my mouth. It was a flavour which would stay with me into my adulthood. One that would always remind me of my teenage years: specifically those times when I had caught glimpses of that sharply rendered other world which would, all too quickly, start to impinge upon my own.
Before that day, the taste hadn’t been something that I had been aware of. Now it was starting to manifest in my consciousness foretelling, as it always did, some sort of unpleasantness. Previously, I had consoled myself with the thought that I was simply going mad.
My first response to the threat was to try and make myself disappear. To lie down, to flatten myself against the hard earth, to give in to the crushing paranoia and try and transform myself into some small, insignificant object, hoping that whatever the thing was that it would walk on past. That it would simply fail to notice me. But I knew deep down that that wasn’t the answer.
I had to get away. This thing, as fantastic as it was, was real no question of that: it had cast a shadow, pure and simple. The shock of seeing it might have robbed me of my confidence momentarily but now I had to take stock. I couldn’t afford to be fooled by the seeming tranquillity of my surroundings. The walker was coming from the east and so my path lay to the west.
I knew the path better than anyone and, if I was quick and determined, I might just emerge from this unscathed. For something evil was tracking me. Of that I had no doubt.
With a real effort, I tried to pull my thoughts together. I needed to move and to move quickly, yet my body resisted. My limbs felt heavy, listless; my breathing shallow.
I forced myself to climb over the stile, into the next field and start moving. I was no more than a mile away from home and safety yet I felt like a stranger coming across this land for the first time. The patchwork man was endeavouring to pierce my appearance and glimpse inside my soul. I had to work to fight those feelings off and re-assert myself because all the time I was dithering he was implacably gaining on me.
I could feel his presence behind me, a great bulk which seemed to loom over me, more real than all my surroundings cumbersome yet swift, closing down the distance with its long loping gait. All natural laws seemed to be suspended for the moment making this impossibility feel very real indeed.
I tried to distract myself with more mundane thoughts: imagined myself getting home and raiding the cupboards for food: bread and cheese and marmite plus a family pack of ready salted crisps. Settling down in front of the TV with my dad for the night. The normality of it made me giddy with anticipation.
The thought of seeing my dad again spurred me on and, before I knew it, I was picking up my feet, even managing to break into a faltering run. All co-ordination had deserted me though and I was moving awkwardly, stumbling over the dips in the path. I couldn’t help myself, adrenalin had flooded my system seemingly taking control of my limbs.
I was moving quickly now, weaving from side to side, nearly tripping several times but somehow managing to always maintain my footing. All the while, the logical part of my brain was under great pressure, screaming at me to stop and think things through rationally. But something deeper than intellect, and far more primal, kept me moving. The patchwork man wasn’t a simple aberration that could easily be challenged. It wasn’t of the natural world. I didn’t know how I knew that, but I did. This was part of some new reality, a world that I would now be permanently forced to inhabit; fear and euphoria marking the rhythm of my waking hours.
When I think back now and try to visualise the creature which pursued me it all seems so absurd. I have tried to draw it on several occasions but always end up putting the pencil down: overwhelmed with a range of discordant ideas. It’s not so much the body I remember as its peripheral details. Like the way that its feet seemed to fuse with the soil wherever it trod and the fact that the matted grasses of its waistcoat were flecked with delicate white flowers. And then there were the teeth, the impossible teeth.
The stuff of nightmares: at once, both strange and achingly familiar.
As my speed picked up I lost my balance and fell, cutting my knee as I pitched into the crops. I took a moment to gather myself staring mutely at my cut. I’d been running blindly and had missed the little footbridge I normally crossed.
How had that happened?
If I carried on the way I was going my path would eventually be blocked by the stream. Yet the idea of turning back, of facing him, was totally abhorrent to me. I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t turn back.
The stream was hidden from view by a hawthorn hedge choked with brambles and bindweed which I had to pick my way through, the thorns tugging at my clothes. A few times I found myself caught fast but, each time, I was able to back up and work myself free. It was slow, bothersome work but I had no alternative.
Standing on the other side, the bank fell away to give a clear view of the stream below. It quickly became clear that the distance across to the other side was going to be too far to jump. It would be easier to clamber down and wade across, though I had no idea how deep t
he water was.
Weighing up my options, I noticed a woman standing further along the opposite bank largely obscured by a horse-blanket she was holding up. I should have been shocked by the way that she had appeared almost from nowhere, yet I wasn’t. It was as if I’d been expecting her all along. She was in her late sixties with an unruly mass of white hair. She watched me with bright green eyes.
“Who are you?” I asked.
“I’ve got several names but you can call me Ma Birch,” she wafted the blanket towards me. “Get over here, quick. He’ll be here in a minute.”
“Who?”
“The one who’s been following you,” when our eyes met she seemed to grasp my anxiety. “Don’t worry, he won’t be able to cross. He doesn’t care much for running water.”
For some reason, I was suspicious of the way she was holding the blanket, as though she were some down-at-heel magician’s assistant. Yet another part of me knew that what she said made sense. Running water. I’d heard that somewhere before. I pulled myself upright and pulled my hair back into a hasty ponytail. Only then did I start to edge my way down the bank. But, my feet lost in the swathes of weeds, I miscalculated and tumbled forward.
The water immediately came up to my chest as I struggled to find my footing. It was much deeper than I’d thought and colder too. I wondered how I was going to explain all this to my dad. Reeds and mud choked my feet but I found that I could propel myself forward using just my arms and I was quickly pulling myself up onto the far bank.
Ma Birch was kneeling over me her breath smelling of liquorice and, in that moment, the horse blanket made absolute sense.
“Don’t turn your head,” she said as she draped it over my shoulders. “He’s on the other side now. Best not to look.”
She helped me up the incline with one hand, her eyes never leaving whatever it was that she saw on the far side. Her other hand was used to steady herself on the uneven ground. With my shoes caked in mud, I allowed her to lead the way, the pair of us scrabbling to the top of the bank.
Urban Witch (Urban Witch Series - Book 1) Page 4