Old Magic

by Marianne Curley

  I stop breathing in case the slightest noise gives us away. But hiding proves useless in the end, as one particularly thoughtless swine starts acting individually, and charges into our hiding tree. Both of us jump back with the impact, startled. The man’s head swivels at the sound, suddenly alert. His hunched shoulders straighten as much as they can, and the stick begins to resemble a lethal weapon.

  ‘Who’s out there?’ he calls.

  Uncertainty has us tongue-tied.

  ‘Show yourselves,’ the man draws nearer, his swine, now that they aren’t being chased, gather around their master, snorting and grunting. ‘’Tis cold and late to be out, unless ye’re a pair of lovers delighting in a moonlight tryst.’ The man glances up at the heavy bank of dark clouds totally obscuring the night sky. ‘’Twill rain, sure it is.’

  He has almost reached us at this stage. His breathing, now that he isn’t chasing his pigs, starts slowing down. I realise this means the man has his wind back, and will be in a better position to defend himself if he feels the need.

  I grab Jarrod’s hand, taking the lead. Hiding like thieves or lovers only raises this man’s suspicions. Together we step from behind the tree. ‘We’re weary travellers from afar.’ Jarrod’s head swings to mine, his face registering surprise at my fluency of the ancient language.

  The man is carrying a burning torch. He steps nearer, raising the torch to our faces. His gaze, narrow and suspicious, slides astutely over the two of us from head to foot. It has my pulse leaping wildly. Jarrod’s hand in mine is icy cold.

  ‘Where are ye headed? Surely not this village, by the looks of them fancy clothes.’

  ‘We’re looking for Thornton Keep.’

  The man’s head lifts and turns in the direction of the dual-peaked headland, his eyes practically bulging from their sockets. ‘I knew it,’ he mutters, his rough voice filled heavier with scorn. In a sudden gesture that takes us completely by surprise he grabs our joined hands, lifts and examines them closely. ‘Look at this.’

  We glance alarmingly at our hands thinking they must somehow give us away. Just how much could hands change in eight hundred years?

  Then he says, ‘Not a day’s work in either of them.’ With these words he flings back our hands as if they burned his callused fingers. ‘What is your business with the Lord?’

  Lord? This stuns us a bit. Then I remember Jillian’s warning about Jarrod’s family being wealthy and how the poorer townspeople might scorn us.

  ‘If it’s coin ye’re after, ye’d have better luck with the devil himself.’

  Jarrod’s head lifts and shifts backwards. I can’t blame him. Besides rancid breath, this pigman breathes hatred; but we need information on where we can find Jarrod’s ancestors. ‘Can you tell us where to find Lord Thornton? We’re distant relatives.’

  ‘Relatives!’ He splutters the word as if he’s just swallowed poison. It starts sprinkling, icy cold droplets. The pigs grunt and run about again. The man curses them, but I feel it’s meant more for us. I wish now I hadn’t mentioned being a relative.

  The pigman starts waving his stick about as one pig runs off, then he comes right up to Jarrod and looks him straight in the eye, even though he is well below Jarrod’s eye level. ‘Aye, ye have the look of them,’ he mutters angrily. And then he spits, a huge gulp of steaming saliva, right in Jarrod’s face.

  I am totally stunned. The pigman switches his glance to me and my reflexes have me cowering and shielding my face. I do not want this man’s spittle on me. But he doesn’t do it, he just stares, unblinking. Then he says, ‘Thorntyne Keep stands alone on the southern peak. And beware, the northern peak is not for strangers.’

  Even though he has given us the information we need, I’m seething inside, and have to squash a growing urge to thump the barbarian, except the action might put our plans at risk. I can’t wait to get away from him and his foul breath. Jarrod finishes wiping warm saliva off his face with his tunic sleeve. My stomach lurches at the sight, glad at this moment that Jarrod is holding on to his temper, even while a part of me wishes he would release it and plant this man somewhere amongst his precious pigs.

  The pigman turns to leave, then swings back. ‘If ye were naught Thorntyne blood, I would invite ye to stay the night at me hearth. Ye are not welcome. Spit on all of yours.’

  With these affectionate words he starts rounding up his pigs, and this time they do almost as ordered, eventually racing round to the front of the cottage with their master.

  I tug on Jarrod’s arm. He’s gone very still. I glance up into his face. Droplets of rain start gathering across his brow but he does nothing to stop them from tumbling around his eyes and down his face. And he’s shivering. ‘Hey!’ I call. ‘You OK?’

  ‘That man,’ he says softly, ‘did you hear him?’

  ‘Of course I heard him, I’m not deaf.’

  ‘He hates my ancestors. No, he detests them.’

  ‘Oh really? What gives you that idea?’

  ‘It’s not funny, Kate.’

  ‘I know this, Jarrod. But don’t worry so much. So the guy hates the Thorntons. Who cares? At least he told us where to find them. And, we learned to add an “i” in the pronunciation of your ancestral name. Actually I’m beginning to feel quite pleased about all this. He may not have liked us, thanks to your ancestors, but our authenticity wasn’t questioned. That’s a real bonus.’

  The rain thickens. I tug on Jarrod’s arm, leading him towards the smoke-free cottage up ahead. ‘Let’s find some shelter, who knows where we’ll be sleeping tomorrow night.’

  Jarrod

  Kate makes sense. The pig herder obviously has a hate thing going on with my ancestors. It has me wondering what kind of people they are. A Lord, he said. I recall what that means. All the people in the village slave away from dawn till dusk working his fields, while he sits in a castle being waited on by servants that are probably underfed. Of course he has his part to play, overlord and protector with an army of trained knights. But only when the need arises. I guess, as my ancestors live near the Scottish border, the need might very well arise on occasion. I hope now is not one of those times.

  I did a research assignment on life in the Middle Ages only last year. I found the era fascinating, all that chivalry and court romance. But I never pictured anything as poor as this village. This is the pits. There’s no romance here, definitely no chivalry. And it stinks – of sweat and smoke and sewage.

  The fact that I’m actually here in the past, scurrying through the back of a medieval peasant village, confirms one thing for sure – the status of Kate’s grandmother. She really is a witch. The genuine article. One that can actually work magic. Still, I’ll have to be careful before admitting too much. Kate would soon be thinking I believe her theory about me having hidden powers. What does she call it: the gift. Sure, I accept Kate’s probably right about the curse, but that’s as far as I go. But a gift? Me? That’s absurd.

  I just hope we can do our job quickly and get back home all right. Once we get rid of the curse, the link that brought us here will no longer exist. In a kind of sudden mad panic I search under my vestments for Jillian’s amulet. She stressed its importance over and over – our link home. When the time comes we have to crush the two together, joining the sap of the oldest tree to that of the youngest. I feel the small crystal. Thank goodness, I didn’t lose it during our forge with the past.

  The cottage has life in it, but it’s not human. A cow, a half-dozen grunting, snorting pigs, and a few chickens are crudely barricaded off to one side. Not that the cottage is large enough to house animals and humans. It’s just one room. The only light is coming from a few candles, or so Kate calls them. I try to remember how they’re made – simple reeds dipped in animal fat I think. They have a putrid odour, but Kate says our senses will soon adjust. There is a place where a fire is usually lit, in the centre of the room. A scalded iron pot hangs over it.

  After acknowledging the animals, Kate explains that the pot is where th
e woman does her cooking, and that it must be winter, or near enough, as the cooking is normally done outside the cottage in the warmer months. She has a real interest in this period, is incredibly knowledgeable on the subject. There’s burning enthusiasm in her eyes. She’s ecstatic about being here. It gives me an eerie feeling she might like this era too much.

  The little smoke from the candles just hovers inside the cottage. There’s no raging fire like the other cottages must have. The room is miserable with damp. I’m still shivering from that cold sprinkling of rain and wish we did have a raging fire in here so I could dry off.

  I take a good look around. Dragging my still stunned gaze away from the restless, offensive-smelling animals, I notice the cottage has only one window. I yank on the wooden shutters and close it, lessening the chill. The walls are sooty black; the room itself has little furniture. There is a pile of straw in a corner with a couple of dirty rags on top that might be animal skins, apparently where the inhabitants sleep. There are a couple of low crude-looking stools, a table with some stale black bread on top that feels like a brick, a few wooden plates; and a box with rag-like clothes inside.

  Kate’s excitement is so real it’s spooky. She has no fear, and marvels at everything her eyes focus on, her fingers adoringly caressing even the tiniest details. Nothing escapes her passionate attention.

  Even though I liked doing the research project I don’t have Kate’s eagerness for this era. The very idea itself, of being here, not only in a stranger’s house uninvited, but in another time, for goodness’ sake!

  ‘This is unreal, Jarrod!’

  I stare at her. ‘It stinks.’

  She just laughs, shaking her head as if she’s tolerating the ravings of an idiot child.

  It begins to rain hard. As it pelts down on the roof, I worry it will fall in, it’s already dripping. My mind shifts to the sound of scurrying feet splashing around outside. People are running fast. It soon becomes apparent they’re running towards this cottage. Any second and we’ll be discovered.

  ‘Here.’ Kate grabs my hand.

  We climb over the barricade and dive through startled animals. Chickens scatter noisily as we make for the furthest, darkest corner. Squatting, hugging knees to chests, we try to slow our breathing, and will the chickens to settle down quickly. A pig comes over to give us a sniff. His face hovers close to mine. I keep my eyes averted and try to slow the pace of my pounding heart.

  Two women with five small children between them come rushing into the cottage. The children start tearing around, chasing each other, except for the baby, who is clinging to one woman’s hip. This woman is the elder of the two and has grey-brown hair poking out from beneath a sopping white scarf. ‘Is it true, Edwina?’

  The woman called Edwina looks about twenty at the most, and is rake thin. She holds her arms out to one of the children, a small boy, who eagerly hops up. ‘Every word.’

  They stand just inside the open doorway as the rain incredibly thickens outside and the ceiling drips increase. ‘He’s a cruel Lord, there’s no doubt about it, but this …’ The older woman shakes her head in a disbelieving manner, and loosens the dripping white scarf with her free hand. ‘Can he really do it? Can he turf ye out of your home, strip ye of your land?’

  Edwina fights back tears. There is sorrowful pride in her eyes. ‘A woman’s no good to her Lord with no husband, bless poor William’s soul. Who will work the land? Who will work the Lord’s stupid fields?’

  ‘There’s no kindness in that man’s soul. He should take ye in at the castle, that’s what.’

  ‘He says nay. He says he has enough lazy servants.’

  The older woman’s face contorts into a disgusted frown. ‘What will ye do?’

  ‘On the morrow we head south to the streets of London. Eventually I hope to find servant’s work there. If not, I will do all I can to survive. I have me little ones to think of, even if I have to beg.’

  The older woman peers around the single room, her eyes moist with compassion; and for a second I swear she pauses as she glances into our dark corner. My own eyes shut tight as if I can will myself to disappear. A long breathless moment later I hear feet shuffle. Taking a quick look I see her attentions are taken by an older child clinging to her leg. She pats his small red head, straightening his hair. ‘This house is too cold, Edwina. Ye have no fire tonight. And that rain dripping in will make it difficult to start. Come, stay with me. We’ll drink to your sorrows. Aye, Thomas has plenty of ale to see us through till morning. Now don’t ye worry none. Lord Baron Thorntyne’s day will come and I will be there to spit on his grave.’

  ‘Make sure ye spit on it for me too.’ They laugh together and their conversation shifts to the children as another little one seeks attention.

  Eventually the rain eases and the women, children clinging to their long skirts, leave.

  We’re finally alone but neither of us seems inclined to move. I don’t know about Kate, but I’m still ingesting the women’s conversation, beginning to get the picture now. My ancestor, Lord Thorntyne, is throwing an entire family out of their home because the man of the house died and can no longer work his fields. I cringe at the harsh and callous act.

  ‘Your relative is a complete monster.’

  ‘He certainly wouldn’t win any popularity awards.’ We help each other stand, our limbs stiff, and are careful to keep our clothes away from the animal dung that litters this end of the room. As the woman and her young family are not returning tonight, it seems safe to climb over the animal barricade. It’s cleaner in the other part of the room, although impossible to find relief from the stench of wet animals and their droppings.

  Kate adeptly makes a bed out of the straw. ‘It’s kind of Edwina to leave us her cottage for the night.’

  I follow Kate down. ‘Just wonderful.’ I burrow beneath the foul-smelling rugs and wonder what insects I’m sharing the night with. The temperature drops with the lifting of rain. It’s soon completely dark as the candles burn away to nothing. Even the animals settle into sleep. Other than the stench, there’s nothing but silence – deep and empty.

  Though exhausted, I can’t sleep. I start thinking of the enormous task ahead. ‘How on earth are we going to find the person responsible for this curse?’ I ask Kate. ‘Do you still think it’s the illegitimate half-brother?’

  She answers with a sleepy slur, ‘We’ll know him when we meet him, Jarrod. I’m pretty sure he’ll stand out.’

  ‘What about the people here in the village? They hate the Thornton name so much maybe they did the curse. We’ve only been here a few hours and already have three suspects.’

  ‘Hmm? What are you going on about? These poor peasants don’t have the skills to procure a curse.’

  I feel her shiver and snuggle in close, seeking physical warmth. It takes all my effort to remember what I’m talking about. I shrug; Kate tugging right in under my arm is doing strange things to my senses – all of them. She burrows down so that her damp head lies on my chest, one arm wrapping snugly around my waist. In seconds she is sleeping. I can tell by her slow steady breathing.

  Positioned like this, Kate lying asleep in my arms, so close, even the stink from the animals fades. I thread my fingers into Kate’s hair. Though still plaited, the coils have come apart. It feels like silk, just as I thought it would.

  Sleep nears; I feel its drug-like pull, yet I fight it for as long as possible, enjoying the feel of Kate’s warm body next to mine. But it’s no good, the day with all its unbelievable events, has drained my energy.

  I let myself fall into the mental peace sleep offers. Dawn, and all the challenges it brings with it, will arrive soon enough.

  At least, for this moment, we’re safe.

  Kate

  Something wakes me. Outside, someone is moving about. It’s not quite dawn yet, though the sky is beginning to change. I stir and feel Jarrod’s warm body beside me. I move, instantly waking him, though he remains groggy for a minute. It gives me time to cra
wl out. God, how did we end up in that position, entangled arms and legs? My hair between his fingers?

  Sitting up, I adjust my clothes. They’re a mess, just like the rest of me. I need a drink to clear the cotton in my mouth. I also need to relieve myself, but that I guess will have to wait until we’re on the road. I miss not having a mirror, comb and especially a toothbrush and have to rub my finger over my teeth.

  Instinctively we both know we have to get out of the cottage before the entire village wakes and starts doing whatever it usually does at this time of morning. We learned from the man with the pigs last night where the Thorntyne family lives – on the southern peak of the headland we saw yesterday. About a morning’s walk and we should be there.

  Without saying a word, in case we’re heard in the still, early dawn silence, Jarrod and I creep silently outside, round the back of the cottage, avoiding the early risers and skirting the village much in the way we came in last night. With the dawn the weather changes, giving us all the cover we need. Fog, thick and moist, rolls in from the ocean. It’s quite eerie watching it, a vaporised white sheet concealing everything it touches.

  Luckily the road appears straightforward, heading in one direction, the twin peaks on the ocean edge. Still, the further we travel the thicker the surrounding woodland becomes, so we’re careful not to deviate from it, and risk getting lost. The road itself proves hard on our feet, cold as if the earth froze overnight, and slick with patches of icy mud. Our boots are not enough protection, the soles too soft. I miss my springy joggers.