We three will not be going to market today.
Bracken responds by beating his bushy tail lazily against the mossy ground.
I imagine how Mam would scold me to see me lying here instead of setting off with a basket on my arm and coins to spend like a good wife should. I roll onto my back on the warm grass. The fractured sunlight that the blackthorn allows dances on my closed lids and makes me drowsy. Here, safe, free, away from people, where nothing is expected of me, I can consider things with a steady mind. And what I must consider, while I can put my best wits to the subject, is indeed not a what but a who. Reverend Emrys Cadwaladr.
I still see clearly the expression on his face as he reveled in my humiliation at chapel. It is as if he instantly judged me, the moment he met me, judged me and found me wanting. His sermon was vague enough—I cannot say that any of it might be directed at me, and yet I feel that his disapproval, his anger, they were meant for me. I cannot explain it properly yet. I know only that I have made an enemy without even trying. I cannot believe he was able, in that brief introduction, to detect that there is something … different about me. Something that, I confess, no preacher has ever been comfortable with. What puzzles me most, however, is that I lost my singular ability to be in another place, to travel in my special way in order to escape a situation not of my liking. I have been doing it all my life, and yet at chapel I was utterly trapped. I had lost the gift for witchwalking.
I have only ever in my life known one person other than myself who could witchwalk. Dada. I remember the first time he put a name to it. I did not realize then that this was something other people could do, but thought it peculiar to me. It was spring, I recall. I was not more than four years old. We had been to Crickhowell, I forget why. Mam was not with us, but this was not unusual. Often Dada and I would set off on errands together. Errands which, more likely than not, would end up at the White Hart. Dada sat me outside on a bowed wooden bench and bid me wait for him. I quickly grew impatient, but would not think of disobeying my father. I had been told to sit and stay, and sit and stay I would. At least, in body. I remember as if it were days rather than years ago, how my eyelids grew heavy and drooped, how the rough stone of the inn wall pressed itself through the thin cotton of my dress against my back. I wished I was in Spencer Blaencwm’s hayfield, playing with his collie puppy. I wished to be there and wanted to be there and thought of being there and then, in less time than it takes for a bumble- bee to flap its wings, I was transported to that very place. The tall grasses and feathery fescues tickled my bare arms as I ran. I called the puppy, in my high, clear child’s voice, called him until he appeared. And together we skipped and jumped through the flowering meadow, two young beings enjoying the late spring sun. And then I became aware of Dada’s voice, urgent and cross, and his hands on my shoulders. I remember the confusion of that journey back to myself, how everything seemed to turn in on itself. And then I was outside the inn once more, and Dada was gripping me tight, looking at me long and hard. He said nothing more until we were away from the curious ears of his fellow drinkers. Striding home he had asked me where I had been, and I had told him.
He nodded thoughtfully, then said, “Witchwalking is a serious business, Morgana. Stray too far, stay too long, and you might never find your way back. You remember that.”
And I did remember it. I do. Even now I am aware of my limitations, of times when I have touched the fringes of danger, almost going beyond that point of no return.
My daydreams coupled with the heat make me lethargic and slothful so that I am soon asleep. When I awake, the sun has begun its descent. Groggy from our slumbers, and hot despite the shade, the dogs and I stumble from our den and walk down to the house. There is not a whisper of a breeze now, and the air has become heavier, as if thunder might not be too many days off. I hurry to the well, drawn to the shimmering water as the dragonflies that flit about the small plants which surround it. I sit on the stone wall and lower my feet into the pool. The water is blissfully cool and I begin to come to my senses properly. I am on the point of going indoors, mindful of the fact that Cai must be making his way home by now, when a coldness not caused by the water chills my body. I hear hoofbeats upon the dry road heralding the approach of a small trap or cart. At once I know it is not Cai returned, but someone else. Someone who has the ability to inspire unease in me even before I can see them. I climb from my perch and turn, shielding my eyes against the sun to try to make out who it is. I see an unremarkable grey mare harnessed to a modest but good quality gig. As if from nowhere a cloud passes in front of the sun and in its shadow I can clearly discern the solid, unfriendly form of Reverend Emrys Cadwaladr.
6.
Both dogs stand beside me, clearly agitated by the man’s presence, as am I. What can he want of me? Was it not sufficient that he see me humiliated in front of all our neighbors? He must know he will not find Cai here on market day, so why has he come? Why would he wish to see me alone?
He pulls the mare to a stop and ties the reins, casting about for signs of anyone other than myself. Quickly deciding that there is no one, he does not bother with so much as the pretense of a smile, nor with the formal pleasantries of greeting. Such behavior would be false. He and I both know it. Whatever performance he might put on for his congregation, it was plain to me upon our first meeting that he has taken against me. My sickness in the chapel was brought on by him, I am certain of it. And the nauseating smell, though fainter now we are outdoors, follows him still. I am on my guard. Bracken rushes about, barking. Meg stays close, her lip curling to reveal sharp, bright teeth as the minister draws nearer.
I stand still, steady. I will not be intimidated by this preacher. This is my home now.
“Well, merched,” says he, “it is good I find you alone. It is as I hoped. What I have to say to you would best be kept between us. Of course, how you choose to act will determine whether or not the content of our conversation remains private.” He gives me such a look of loathing as I have never received before. Truly, I must disgust him. He speaks in what is, at least for him, a low voice, though there is no one to overhear us.
“You are not welcome here. I know what you are. I know. I have sought God’s guidance on the matter. Would it be un-Christian to shun you, to denounce you, even? I have prayed. I have wrestled in my mind with the principles at stake, the case for and against. What is right, and what is against God. I have also, make no mistake, taken into consideration your husband. It is clear to me he is blinded by his obvious infatuation with you, enchanted by your youthful appeal. Bewitched, one might almost say.” At this he allows himself a slippery smile. “But then, he is a young man still, widowed, and in need of a wife. I cannot condemn him. Nor do I believe him to be aware of your true nature. Of what you are. To publicly declare the truth, what I know to be the truth, well, it would mean ruin for him. He would be finished here. Forced to leave, I shouldn’t wonder. Leave Ffynnon Las, give up the farm, everything…”
He pauses to sneer at Meg, who is still snarling at him. Bracken has come to sit nervously behind me now. Can they, too, smell the awful odor that seeps from this man’s pores? It is acrid, sour, curiously familiar. Suddenly I know where I have smelled it before. Once, when I was a small girl, I was roaming the hill on a particularly hot day, the sun making me clumsy in my movements. As I scrambled over some smooth rocks I disturbed a nest of sunbathing vipers. I recall now the exact same smell, the smell of warm reptiles. How can such a stench emanate from a human being?
The minister has resumed his sermon.
“Well, then, what to do? In the end it was the Good Book which gave me the answer I had been seeking. As is so often the case, the guidance I needed lay within those beloved bindings.” He leaves off restraining the habitual inclination of his voice to ring out loudly, so that now he booms and bellows as he delivers his verdict upon me, his face reddening. “The words it gave me left no room for doubt, no space for prevarication or misinterpretation for there I read: ‘Suffe
r not a witch to live!’”
I am openmouthed now. It is many years since anyone has applied that word to me. I realize now, that I had hoped here, at Ffynnon Las, I might have the opportunity to begin anew; to be accepted as a young woman from another place, nothing stranger than that. When I was growing up there were whispers, of course, and Dada made sure I knew as soon as I was old enough to be told that I had the magic blood in me. But the word witch was not lightly used. I do not like to think of myself this way, for the title fills others with fear, and garners, at the very least, unwanted interest. What causes him to label me so? He has no knowledge of my witchwalking, he cannot have. And in any case, Dada could witchwalk, but he was not a witch. I can harness the power of my anger sometimes, and direct it where I will, but this is not spellcraft or some ancient art. It is simply in my being to do these things—a natural part of me. And how would he know of these things? He has not seen them.
I feel my mouth dry and my stomach tighten, as I take in what he is saying. Not only is he accusing me, to my face, here and now, of being a witch, but surely he is threatening my very life with his statement.
Before I can respond in any way he goes on, “There is no home for you here, no place for you. The people of Tregaron are Godly and devout, and would not tolerate a witch among them. Were I to expose you they would hunt you down and, if you were fortunate, drive you out. If their fury at your being here took hold, they might demand the magistrate try you. Or, and I cannot vouchsafe their restraint, they may simply choose to … deal with you in their own way.” He shakes his head slowly. “A mob is a terrifying thing. It is my calling, and my sincere belief in Our Lord’s compassion, that has compelled me to seek you out alone and present you with the opportunity to leave. Vanish. Disappear into the night. Take yourself away from Cai Jenkins, away from Ffynnon Las, away from my parish, and never return!”
At my feet Meg starts a rumbling growl. A dragonfly dips by, turns, and has the bad judgment to alight on the edge of the gig. The iridescent green and blue of its body dances in the bright sunshine. The loathsome minister reaches out his pink, plump hand and snatches it up, trapping it in his fist. He stares at me as he deliberately crushes the life from the hapless jewel of a creature, before carelessly letting its broken body fall to the ground.
“Remember, Mrs. Jenkins,” says he, mockery in his voice, “you could be as easily dispensed with, should the need arise.”
Something in his tone, or perhaps it is the very blackness of his heart, finally provokes Meg beyond endurance. With a roar far greater than her size she charges forward and seizes the reverend by the ankle, sinking her teeth deep into his abundant flesh. He gives a scream and kicks out at her, struggling to free himself from her painful grasp. Bracken barks furiously but is too timid to actually take hold. Reverend Cadwaladr grabs his hat from his head and beats at Meg with it.
He shouts at me to control her, but I will not. Why should I? I would bite him myself if I didn’t fear to do so would be to taste poison.
At last he shakes her free, his other foot catching her a vicious thump in the ribs. She yelps and retreats long enough for him to scramble into the driving seat of his conveyance. Both dogs continue to bark and leap. The minister takes up his whip and cracks it at them, catching Bracken a stinging stripe across his back, causing him to yelp and whimper. Meg is not so easily put off. With a scowl in place of farewell, the reverend picks up the reins and roughly hauls the mare about, whipping her forward. Still Meg runs after him, and then, too late, I see what he is going to do. He waits a few strides for the dog to come close to the front wheel and then wrenches on the left rein of the horse’s harness. The painful jab on the animal’s mouth causes it to swerve violently to one side.
I gasp, my hands flying to my face, as I watch Meg disappear beneath the wheels of the gig. She does not make a sound. She does not have time. As the cart moves forward she is revealed, broken and inert, on the dusty road. I dash forward, scarcely registering that the reverend has pulled the gig to a halt. It is only as I throw myself over Meg’s lifeless body that I hear more hooves upon the lane and become dimly aware that Cai and Mrs. Jones are returned.
Cai calls out a greeting to the reverend, but as he draws closer he sees me on the ground and in distress. He pulls a startled Prince to an abrupt stop, throws the reins to Mrs. Jones, and springs from the trap, running to me, taking in a scene that must make no sense to him. He cannot see his poor little dog at this point, only myself on my knees weeping and distraught, behind the wheels of the carriage. On reaching me he sees that I am unharmed and I recognize relief as it alters his expression from one of fear to one of puzzlement.
“Morgana? What is it? What has happened?” he asks gently.
Now he sees Meg, and is not quick enough to mask his own sorrow. He puts a hand gently on her head, his shoulders slump. He is lost for words, even when Mrs. Jones calls anxiously from the trap wanting to know the cause of such obvious anguish.
Reverend Cadwaladr climbs down from the gig, his manner most solicitous and pastoral.
“Oh, my dear Mr. Jenkins. What a sadness, what a wretched accident. Please, accept my apologies…”
Cai shakes his head. “’Twas not your fault, Reverend.”
“Nevertheless, I feel partly responsible for the poor creature’s fate. I came out here to offer Mrs. Jenkins my best wishes in her new home, to assure her of her place in our flock, and now … this.”
Cai masters his emotions and thanks the minister, seeing in my distress only grief and upset for Meg, not having any way of telling what else could possibly lie behind my agitation.
“Well, if there is nothing to be done, I’ll take myself off,” says Reverend Cadwaladr. “Leave you to attend to matters.”
Cai nods, muttering a response. Mrs. Jones has stepped down from the trap to join us. She lays a steadying hand on my arm and, though I cannot be certain, I fancy her look seems to me to reveal a broader understanding of the situation. We watch in silence as the skinny mare pulls the gig unevenly up the lane and away from us.
Cai takes off his hat and runs his hand through his hair. Mrs. Jones sniffs loudly. Bracken comes to sit beside his sister, tips back his head, points his nose skyward and begins a high, mournful howling. Cai gently scoops Meg up in his arms and carries her toward the garden, the rest of us forming a woeful procession behind him.
* * *
Cai grunts with the effort of swinging the axe. The morning is horribly humid, the air thick, but there are no clouds and the sky offers no promise of rain any time soon. He has stripped to the waist to let what air there is cool his skin, but sweat continues to trickle down his back until his body is glistening with it. He can taste salt on his lips. With every fall of the iron axe head into the blocks of wood he asks himself, What happened? He has been splitting the dry oak rounds for over an hour and still he has no answers. There was something about Meg’s death, about Reverend Cadwaladr’s presence at the farm when he must have known Cai would not be there, something about Morgana’s distress that does not quite fit. He does not understand why, but he finds this mystery unsettling. Troubling.
He pauses in his work, straightening up, stretching his tired muscles before leaning on the axe handle for a moment. He looks up at the cloudless sky. The weather is set fair for now, but must surely break in the next few days, and no doubt when it does so it will do it suddenly and with some drama. This is not what is needed. After such a long dry spell the ground will be baked hard, and heavy rain will wash over it, running in rivers down the mountain, moving too quickly to soak in and be of any use. The result will be a thin layer of slippery mud without much benefit to the parched soil and plants. And if the rain were to be prolonged, the weight of the cattle would poach the ground to soup or sucking clay bog, depending where they trod. Best to get them off the hill ahead of time, he decides. Herding the beasts down the steep slopes in such conditions would be a perilous task, posing danger to the legs of cattle and horse alike. He
had hoped to gain a week or two more from the high grazing, but it is not worth the risk. Better safe than sorry—it is far too near to the date of the drove to risk losing any stock. With the perilous state of the finances of Ffynnon Las, each head of cattle counts, and none can be wasted. He leans his axe against the woodpile, pulls on his cotton, collarless shirt, and goes in search of Morgana.
He finds her kneeling at Meg’s grave. Together they chose a sunny position in the garden to the front of the house. Morgana is busy planting a Welsh poppy in the freshly turned soil. Cai approves of her choice of flower—its golden yellow petals so perfectly echoing the sunny brightness of the dog’s coat.
Morgana hears him approach. She turns to look at him, but does not rise.
“Just right.” Cai nods at the spindly plant. “Good growers, those poppies. There’ll be lots more there come next summer, see?” He steps closer. He can tell how upset she is and he is swamped by a desire to crouch beside her, take her in his arms, and comfort her. Assure her the pain of her loss will ease in time. Hold her close. But he hesitates and the moment is lost. Morgana turns away from him, back to the grave. She presses the earth around the stem of the flower, and as she does so Cai notices a single tear dash down her cheek and drop onto the brown earth. The teardrop sits for an instant upon the fine, dry soil, and then melts into it, watering in the tender plant.
Cai clears his throat.
“I’ve decided we should gather the cattle. Today. Now.” When Morgana does not move he realizes he has not explained himself sufficiently and goes on. “I’ll need your help, Morgana.”
At the mention of her name she starts and gets up, her head a little on one side, questioning.
Cai shuffles his feet. He does not want to put things baldly, but there is no avoiding the facts. “I’ve only one dog now. Bracken will need a bit of assistance.”
The Winter Witch Page 10