Urban Witch (Urban Witch Series - Book 1)

by R. L. Giddings

  In my hands, the Iron of Fortitude was starting to heat up.

  The cherry tree was smaller now seeming to have receded into the distance. But I stayed where I was, stiff and solemn, hoping not to alert the shuffling figures to my presence. But I needn’t have worried for, as they stirred, their dead eyes turned in only one direction: Stahl’s. The pentagram at her waist seeming to leak light as the darkness swelled.

  It was then that I saw the woman again, her head still bowed using the limb of an ash tree leaning a walking stick. Her clothing was very ornate, she wore an embroidered shawl across her shoulders and a tall crest shaped headdress worked in red and gold. Taking her weight on the ash-pole she raised her face to me. It was incredibly old and care-worn and I felt a huge rush of empathy towards her.

  There was something familiar about her, though I couldn’t think what.

  “Give it to me,” she said in a heavy Slavic tongue I struggled to understand. “I have travelled far and I must have it.”

  Her face gaped up at me, full of expectation, the pearls on her headdress glinting benignly. It took me a moment to realise what she was asking for.

  “Come,” she said, holding out a big yellow hand which looked as soft as butter. “Come, let me take it. Let me share your burden.”

  Her eyes were locked on the Iron which I was holding at waist level. She appeared transfixed by it.

  How could I deny such a simple request?

  I was on the brink of giving her what she wanted when she took another faltering step in my direction prompting me to snatch the Iron back.

  “Who are you, babcia?” I asked, using the old Slavic term for grandmother.

  The wind gusted, tugging at the ends of her shawl. The old woman looked at me with resignation, as if she were too tired to explain.

  “You know who I am.”

  And I realised that I did. I did know who she was. But that was impossible. I stood there like a mouse hypnotised by a snake. She was slowly drawing me in and it was all that I could do to take one dread step backwards… and another … and then another.

  “Do not deny it.”

  The Book of Lost Souls. She was the witch in the woodcut. The one being branded by the Iron of Fortitude. It was totally impossible and yet I’d never been so certain of anything in my life.

  This was her. The first witch to be branded. How long ago had that been? My brain simply refused to make the calculation. It was simply unfeasible. I briefly considered closing my eyes and wishing her away but I knew that that wasn’t going to happen

  It was only as she stepped forward again that I saw her for what she was. With the aid of her staff she rolled her hips around throwing her rear leg forward. It was unsettling to watch. She had been imprisoned for so long that she had forgotten what it was like simply to be human. Her movements were those of a simple mannequin capable of approximating the mechanics of life without ever fully mastering them.

  Her face split in half then and she grinned at me: revealing two rows of rotten teeth set into black gums. The same rictus grin the woman had worn in the book.

  I took a faltering step backwards, my resolve swiftly evaporating. It was becoming darker inside the circle now. Only a handful of torches remaining.

  There was no barrier to the spirits now, real or imagined. That which had contained them for so long could impede them no longer. The Iron itself was becoming almost too hot to hold.

  There was an unearthly screech from Stahl and I turned to look in her direction, to see her pressed on all sides. She had shrunk back, holding her hands up to protect herself but the spirits were not so easily dissuaded. They came at her with a kind of ecstatic glee, intent upon the glowing mark at her waist. One of the figures stepped under Stahl’s paddling arms and appeared to push first her fingers and then her whole bone-dry hand into Stahl’s side. Then, pressing her face down towards her with terrible tenderness, she leaned into Stahl and was gone.

  This only encouraged the others who scrabbled to get closer. One by one, they fought to force themselves upon her and, one by one, they succeeded, feeding themselves directly into Stahl’s flesh.

  After a while there was no resistance only dissolution. Stahl’s head twisted from side to side under the bombardment, her limbs shaking as if they were no longer properly joined together. A battle was going on inside her, a battle for the possession of Stahl’s body which Stahl herself could never hope to win. These figures, which kept on coming, had waited too long to re-enter the natural world. The sensual promise of her body was too tempting. They had glimpsed their gateway and now they meant to gain access.

  It was with a terrible sadness that I turned away. In truth, I had lost sight of her long before, engulfed, as she was, by a tide of hungry figures.

  The lights were guttering out around me throwing the face of the old witch before me into ever darkening shadow. She hadn’t moved, there was something preventing her from doing so but I didn’t know what it was.

  I was tempted to let the Iron drop, it had grown so hot by this point that I was having to swap it from hand to hand.

  “Give it to me and you can go,” the witch said. “I have no business with you.”

  Her assertiveness was such that I took a step forward, felt compelled to offer it to her. But, when I looked into her eyes I saw that she was lying. It was the way she looked at me – like she was hungry for something. Besides, what possible use could she have for the Iron without a body to wield it?

  Her fingers unfurled like talons and then - when she grabbed for my wrist - I turned and ran.

  The cherry tree still glowed but faintly now. It would soon be gone and with it any hope that I might have of escaping from that place. I ran towards it. Stahl had told me to seek refuge there and I fully intended to follow her advice.

  The witch clawed at the earth with her ash pole as she pursued me. I was determined not to look at her knowing that the more acknowledgement I gave her the more real she seemed. It was a simple case of me not wanting to believe my own eyes so I concentrated instead on trying to hold onto the Iron which had grown so hot in the interim that it was starting to burn my fingers. I counted the remaining torches as I ran. Five left. Or was it four?

  I reached the cherry tree gasping for breath. I was close enough to touch it but, just as I was about to do so, doubt seized me. Stahl had asked me if I’d been sure that it was my tree, as if suspecting that it might somehow be a trick.

  Was I absolutely sure that it was my tree? My named tree?

  How could I be certain?

  A keening sound at my back focussed my thoughts.

  I reached one hand towards the smooth trunk, searching for affirmation. The letters were faint but they were still there right where I had carved them.

  BF.

  Bronte Fellows.

  This really was my tree.

  There was no way that the old infirm witch, the babcia, could have kept pace with me over the last thirty metres and yet suddenly there she was standing right behind me. I could hear the low rattle of her breathing at my back, thick and soupy like a fish thrown up onto the beach.

  But I refused to turn and face her, forcing myself instead to focus on the happy memory of me as a young girl, working on the tree with my penknife.

  Cutting into the living bark.

  Marking it as my own. Mine for all time.

  Only three torches remained. I transferred the Iron to my left hand. Time was running out. There was no time to hesitate.

  And that was when she grasped my shoulder. Her hand so white that it could never have seen the sun. It latched onto me with febrile desperation, impatient for me to turn and face her. It was all I could do to resist. Because I knew that if I didn’t the Iron of Fortitude wouldn’t be the only thing that I would lose.

  It was with an enormous effort then that I kissed my fingers and, holding my spiritual breath, reached for those grainy letters and pushed.

  The fingers at my shoulder tightened as if they intended o
n snapping my collar bone and, for a moment, I thought I was lost. Then, as the final torch was extinguished, the pressure eased.

  A high pitched scream of absolute fury filled my head.

  And the night swallowed me whole.

  *

  It was winter in the garden.

  The grass, over-grown, hadn’t been mown in months.

  The hawthorn hedge had been cut back and the herb garden sectioned off with string ready for the spring

  When I turned away from the cherry tree I could make out my footsteps leading back to the house although I couldn’t remember making them. I still held the pen-knife I’d used to carve my initials into the bark, my fingers still gummy from the sap. I didn’t feel guilty about what I’d done. It just felt right. My initials would be there forever, linking me back to this garden for years to come.

  A good wind was getting up, blowing in from the east, the chimes -which you never heard in the summer - jangled in the trees. I wasn’t dressed for the cold. Wasn’t even wearing a coat. It must have taken me longer than I’d intended to carve my name as the cold had started to settle into my bones, my feet were already numb.

  I folded the blade away and touched the letters in conformation of what I’d done. The trunk was surprisingly warm, the edge of the bark ragged where I’d cut into it. In my mind the final version had looked more symmetrical, more finished, but that didn’t matter now. What mattered was that I had done it.

  As I trudged back up to the house I looked down at my tan boots, discoloured across the toes from the wet grass. I stepped on the bloated corpse of a windfall apple, crushing it into the lawn. What was I going to say when I got inside? I had no idea. All I knew was that I wasn’t going to lie about what I’d done.

  It was too important.

  The back door to the house was locked although lights still burned inside. She never locked the back door so I worked the handle again, getting nowhere.

  At the side window, I pressed my forehead to the glass, as if preparing to ease my head through, like a tv magician. The putty around the window frame was cracked with age. She did all the maintenance herself. No one from the village would come anywhere near the house if they could help it.

  Where was she? I was going to freeze if I had to walk back home without a coat. Had she done this to punish me? Had she seen me working on the tree and decided to teach me a lesson? I doubted that. She wasn’t the sort to avoid confrontation. More likely she had forgotten about me and disappeared off on one of her walks.

  But she still wouldn’t have locked the door.

  In the end, I went around to the front of the house. She never used the front door but what other choice did I have? Before I got there I passed the large picture window.

  Propped up on the window-sill, three cold candles dribbled with wax.

  The wind gusted and I heard the chimes down in the garden.

  The Burden Conundrum.

  But that had been so long ago. So long.

  And yet here they were: three candles. A lump caught in my throat and refused to go no matter how much I swallowed. They seemed to be admonishing me. Surely it would be easier to walk home now rather than go inside and face the truth. I stood like that for some time, uncertain as to how to proceed.

  A car going past in the distance broke the spell and I went over and tried the door handle. It opened easily. That would have come as a relief if there wasn’t a ghost waiting inside.

  The hallway was just as I remembered it with its slick brown tiles and thick drape curtains. Pulling the door closed behind me I continued on, past the front room and right into the kitchen. It was all so familiar.

  The heat from the Aga hit me straight away. This room was always kept uncomfortably hot particularly in the summer when I often had to slip out into the cool of the garden to get some relief. She never liked letting the fire go out, kept it supplied with a steady supply of kindling which she prepared herself. Too much work for a woman her age. And yet it wasn’t.

  The sight of the table itself - the moss green table cloth set against the white bone china - that helped to calm me. The cups so fragile as to be almost transluscent. You had to be careful of the cups; this was her best set of china after all. Six cups with six saucers. Six plates with six side dishes. Six bowls.

  A bag of flour stood on the work surface alongside a smattering of ramekins. Looked like she’d been baking. Making preparations for a special afternoon tea.

  “I’ll be with you in a minute,” her voice echoed from the scullery, dry and gravelly.

  It came as a relief to hear her voice. It sounded so natural and prepared me for the shock of seeing her.

  She stepped out into the kitchen holding a handful of knives which she was in the process of polishing. She wore a blue crepe dress under her apron. Her cheeks were flushed giving her a healthy demeanour despite everything.

  “Is it you?” I asked.

  “Why, course it’s me,” she said. “Who was you expecting: a burglar?”

  Her laugh sounded more like a cough.

  I sat myself at the far end of the table whilst she bustled about me. She went to fetch a large quiche, which must have been cooling in the scullery, and laid it out in front of me. From the oven she produced some cheese and onion tarts which she placed on a wire grill in the centre of the table. These were accompanied by a tray of winter vegetables and a white cob loaf.

  “Don’t wait on ceremony,” she said, taking off her apron and hanging it behind the door.

  She sat down opposite me and we both tucked in. The quiche had its own rich taste though I found the strips of bacon a little too chewy for my liking. The cheese and onion tarts were so delicious that I burnt my mouth on the first one. That didn’t stop me eating two more of them. I took a serving of the gritty vegetables because I felt obliged to but it was the bread which made the meal for me, slathered in home churned butter.

  The kettle started to whistle on the hob.

  “Nothing wrong with your appetite,” she said as she pushed herself up from the table.

  “I’ll get it,” I said, turning to the kettle which sat just behind me.

  “Don’t be daft. This is your special tea. You stay where you are.”

  She had that no-nonsense tone to her voice which told me that I wasn’t in a position to argue so, instead, I helped myself to more bread.

  She transferred an angular brown teapot to the table and poured in the water. She had to go back out into the scullery to get the milk having never felt the need to invest in a refrigerator. After clearing away our plates, she gave the teapot a stir and poured us both a cup.

  Only then did she sit down. “Once we’ve let that lot go down, I’ll get you some cake.”

  I held up a hand to show her I was in no hurry. I couldn’t help smiling when I looked at her.

  “That was lovely,” I said. “I don’t recall you making those tarts before.”

  “They’re a bit of a fuss to make but I thought: it’s a special occasion. Why not push the boat out?”

  I made a face. “I don’t get it. What’s so special?”

  “The Conundrum,” she blew out her lips. “It’s traditional to invite the young Novice inside once it’s completed. Give her a bit of a feed. Got to celebrate your success.”

  I felt my jaw wobble and struggled to control myself.

  “The test, though… I never passed it.”

  Ma Birch leaned forward and raised her cup as if in a toast.

  “That’s what I had to tell you. Fair broke my heart to lie to you like that.”

  I froze, the wind roared in the chimney.

  “Lie to me?” I pronounced each word carefully. “Does that mean…”

  “You know full well what that means,” she sipped her tea, unable to hold my gaze. “I had to lie.”

  I stood up, my hips brushing the table. I felt light-headed. I would have liked to have stepped outside, just to clear my head.

  Ma Birch placed her cup back in its sa
ucer. It rattled slightly as she did so.

  I said, “You lied to me? But how? I failed the test, pure and simple.”

  She was shaking her head. “You excelled at the test. Fortunately, no one else witnessed it or I wouldn’t be the only spirit sitting at this here table.”

  “I’ve never spoken about the test with anyone else. Not even girlfriends. I was always too ashamed.”

  “And that’s what I was banking on. I didn’t mean to humble you like that but I couldn’t risk you talking about it. Not with anyone. I just had to clip your wings.”

  “But I thought that I wasn’t good enough.”

  “Which is what saved you in the end. See, because of your mother being who she is, everyone had their eye on you right from the start. They were all terrified you’d end up as powerful as her. You’d pose too much of a threat and they couldn’t let that happen.”

  “But the candles!” I indicated the front room. “I didn’t have the control. I blew them all out!”

  “And wasn’t it wonderful! Most mature witches struggle to blow out two. One’s all you need to pass. They haven’t got your power. And there you are – nothing more than a slip of a girl – you could have extinguished thirty candles - a hundred! But then the others would have seen what you were capable of. And then you would have been the one being snuffed out.”

  It was a clumsy image yet it made the point eloquently.

  “But why send me to Newton knowing that Melissa Stahl was going to be there?”

  “Hide in plain sight! She must have been delighted to discover that the daughter of her main rival couldn’t pass even the most basic test. She’d have breathed a huge sigh of relief – as would many others.”

  I considered sitting down again but I was too angry. “But what about me? For years I thought I was a failure. I felt humiliated.”

  Ma Birch placed her hands levelly on the table. “I’m sorry for that, Bronte. I truly am. But I couldn’t take the risk. If she had even suspected the truth… No. Melissa Stahl had to be certain that you had failed: that you posed no threat to her. Your greatest defence was your ignorance. If she couldn’t search your thoughts she’d have had others around her what could.”