Inside he finds the house in darkness, no fire burning in the kitchen hearth, nor any lamp left lit to welcome him home. Bracken jumps down from the window seat and wags a gentle greeting, but Cai brushes past him, helping himself to the brandy from the top of the dresser. Such is his mood he does not even trouble to find a glass, but slumps on the settle and swigs directly from the bottle. With each mouthful his desperation increases. How has it come to this? Is he to finish up like Llewellyn Pen-yr-Rheol? What sort of wife has he saddled himself with, that has neither conversation nor any social graces? Why must he accommodate all her increasing strangeness, when she gives so little in return? On impulse he gets up and strides from the room and up the stairs. He does not go to his own bed, but crosses the landing to Morgana’s room. He turns the handle and pushes open the door. He has not taken care to be quiet, but, for once, she is sleeping deeply and has not heard him. He steps over to the bed and looks down at her. At once all his anger, all his rage, all his blame and harsh judgment of her disappear. She looks so young, so pretty, so fragile. He feels such a loathing of himself for harboring unjustly critical thoughts of his lovely, innocent wife, that his eyes fill with tears, so that her soft, sleeping form blurs. He resolves to do right by her, to make a success of their farm. He will not let her down. He will not be defeated by a bit of weather and some bad luck.
Unsteadily, he leans forward, overcome with the need to kiss her. Not a passionate kiss driven by desire and lust, but a chaste act of deep affection; the sealing of a silent promise. He bends over her and lets his lips touch her forehead.
It is at this moment that Morgana wakes up, opening her eyes to find him looming above her.
Cai sees the terror in her eyes.
“Morgana!” he says, attempting to straighten up. But he is caught off balance and falls forward. Morgana wriggles beneath him, pushing at him, determined to throw him off.
“Be still!” he tells her. “There is nothing to be afraid of. Morgana, calm down…”
But she continues to writhe and strike at him. He grabs her wrists in an effort to quieten her, to explain, to reason with her, to reassure her that he was not attempting to force himself upon her. As soon as she feels his grip tighten on her she lunges upward and sinks her teeth into his hand.
“Argh!” Cai shouts, instinctively swiping her away. The back of his free hand connects with her face, sending her down onto the bed. Cai staggers backward. Morgana has bitten deep and drawn blood. He clutches at his wounded hand, shocked by what she has done and appalled at his own behavior. Never in his life before has he struck a woman. She leaps from the bed and stands, her back to the wall, fists clenched, defiant even now. The pain in his hand has a sobering effect on Cai, so that he becomes acutely aware of how badly he has behaved, and how much damage he may have done to his delicate relationship with Morgana. He wishes he could find words that would undo what has happened, but he can only mutter apologies as he hurries from the room.
Without moving from her place against the wall, Morgana slams the door behind him.
8.
A noise wakes me and I scramble from my bed. Has he returned? Has he come back to my bed to demand his rights as a husband? I thrash about, but I am alone. It is morning. The noise that woke me is being made downstairs—a terrible crashing and smashing. It seems to be coming from the parlor. Oh! The parlor!
I hurry from my room and reach the top of the stairs in time to see Cai pull open the door below and gasp as he stands on the threshold.
“Duw, what…?”
He dashes inside and I hear his cries and shouts.
“Diawl, ydych chi! Get out! Get out!”
From the kitchen Bracken sets up a barking and scrabbling, but the door is firmly shut.
I run down the broad stairs and into the parlor to witness a scene of mayhem. The owl, it seems, has regained its senses and, finding itself trapped in an unfamiliar place, set about seeking a way out. But I had not thought to leave a window open and the poor bird is swooping and screeching, hurling itself about the place, hitting the walls, reeling backward from the grandfather clock, trying to alight on the dresser shelves, its wings flapping frantically, sending Catrin’s beautiful china smashing to the ground. Cai runs back and fore, grabbing at the bird, which only increases its terror, causing further chaos, breaking more and more of the delicate plates and cups. First a serving dish, now a milk jug, next the lovely teapot and two saucers tumble to the floor, shattering on the unyielding flagstones.
I hasten forward, dodging the falling crockery, stepping this way and that to avoid Cai as he blunders about, snatching at the wretched bird. Can he really believe his actions are helping? Why would the owl listen to him as he charges and thunders like an ogre? It lands on the mantle and hesitates, searching for an escape. I dart past Cai, ducking beneath his outstretched arms, and lay my hands upon the trembling bird in the second before it can spring into the air again. As soon as it feels my touch it ceases to struggle, giving itself up almost gladly to my care. I hold it close to me, stroking its silken feathers, fearful that Cai will kill it in his rage.
He looks from the bird to me and back to the bird, taking in its altered demeanor. Now he spies the nest of hay in an old crate in the corner of the room. He narrows his eyes. He looks terrible. It is clear he has slept in his clothes. His hair is wild. His skin pale. The smell of stale wine is strong on his hot breath.
“You.” His voice is hoarse. “It was you brought that … thing in here. Don’t you know never to fetch a bird into a house? Don’t you know of the ill luck that will follow? Are you an idiot girl after all? Look!” He waves his arm, fist clenched at the end of it. “Look at the … havoc you have caused!”
He takes a step toward me and I move back until I am in the corner of the room. I am not afraid of his temper. I will not let him strike me a second time. But the owl is in such a nervous state I fear its galloping heart will give out if it is subjected to anything further. I can do nothing but stay where I am and control the fire that rises in my own belly. Cai looks at me with such desperation. When he speaks he is no longer shouting. His voice is low, almost a whisper, and his words are full of dismay.
“Calamity surrounds you,” says he. “Destruction is ever at your heels. What manner of wife are you? What manner of creature have I taken into my home?”
Abruptly the front door is pushed open and Mrs. Jones breezes in.
“Good morning,” she calls out. “And a beautiful morning it … Oh! Duw, Lord in heaven, what has happened here?” She stands at the entrance to the parlor, her hands flying to her face as she takes in the scene. Catrin’s precious china in pieces. Me crouched between dresser and hearth like a cornered rabbit. Cai leaning over me, his face displaying a dreadful combination of heartbreak and disgust.
He turns to her but says nothing, merely striding from the room, pushing past her, snatching up his hat from the hall table, and leaving through the front door. We watch him go, and as he draws level with the window he pauses, his attention taken by something new. I rise slowly from my hiding place, the bird still in my hands, and move closer to the window. A bewildered Mrs. Jones instinctively follows me. Now we see what Cai has seen. Meg’s grave. Only days ago we laid the little dog’s body beneath the dark soil, and to mark the spot I planted a glowing, yellow poppy. A single yellow poppy. Now, though not a week has passed since that sad afternoon, the mound shows not an inch of soil, but is covered in a mass of flowers, fourscore at the very least, their bright petals open to the morning sun, dew glistening on their leaves.
Cai stares at the impossibility in front of him, struggling to believe the evidence of his own eyes. Sensing he is being watched he swings round to find us both at the window. Beside me, Mrs. Jones stands openmouthed, shocked to silence. The owl swivels its soft head, its eyes closed against the sunshine. I stand straight, holding my feelings tight inside me lest they escape and cause further turmoil. Cai looks at me. Looks into me, I fancy. And in this moment I kno
w that he sees me. Sees me in the way Mam used to see me. There can be no more hiding the truth. No ignoring the way things are. No more pretending I am not as I am. He holds my gaze for a long moment, his face, for once, unreadable. Without thinking about what I am doing, my action a reaction to the confusion in his expression, I step forward and raise a hand, letting my palm rest on the cool glass of the window between us. He hesitates, as if he might return to the house, but instead he turns away, heading off across the meadow. I watch the lonely figure that is my husband walk swiftly away from me, climbing the hill toward the freedom and sanctuary of the open mountain, and I wish, more than I have wished anything for a very long time, that I was walking with him.
I feel a gentle hand on my arm.
“Cariad?” Mrs. Jones’s voice pulls me back into the room. “I think we’d best put your little friend outside.” She nods at the bird. “Don’t you agree?”
Together we pick our way through the debris which litters the room. At the front door I kiss the owl briefly before holding it high. It stands on my hand for a moment, stretching its wings, blinking in the brilliance of the daylight. It rotates its head, as owls are given to doing, almost completely, scanning the area for possible dangers. Finding none, it makes a low, purring hoot before leaping upward, wings wide, and flies swiftly toward the trees at the far side of the pond meadow.
We have no sooner retreated inside and closed the door than Bracken tears into the hall, having finally managed to push his way out of the kitchen. He scrabbles frantically at the front door, leaping and whining, desperate to follow his master. I lift the latch and allow him to go, watching his foxy shape, nose down for the scent, tail up for balance, as he charges up the slope in pursuit of Cai.
“He’ll be all right now,” Mrs. Jones assures me. “Come inside, merched. I’ll wager a pound to a penny you’ve had no breakfast. Duw, duw, what are we to do with the pair of you?” she mutters, shaking her head as she leads me into the kitchen. “Nothing do feel so bad after hot tea and some of my Welsh cakes, you’ll see.”
I sit beside the unlit range. I am numb. It is as if when Cai stormed from the house in such a passion he took all my feelings with him. How could I have brought about such destruction? Catrin’s beautiful china … it is as precious to Cai as it was to her. I watch Mrs. Jones bustle about taking a spill to the kindling in the grate and working the bellows to encourage flames.
“Now, don’t you fret, merched,” says she without pausing in her work. “Cai Jenkins is a good man. He has it in him to forgive. A walk will calm him down.”
But what if it does not, I wonder. What if by my thoughtlessness I have broken whatever fragile connection there might have been between us, just as surely as I have broken Catrin’s china? Smashed. Beyond repair. And how will he treat me now that he can no longer ignore my … strangeness? What manner of wife are you? he asked me. What answer will he find up there on the mountain?
Mrs. Jones swings the kettle over the burgeoning fire. Water slops from the spout causing a deal of hissing steam. She continues to chatter on, words of reassurance and consolation, all the while fetching teapot and cups, and a basket of her flat, sugary cakes from the pantry. I do not have the will to rise from my chair and help her. Seeing my deepening despair she at last pauses in front of me. Hands on hips she smiles, kindly but determined.
“Mrs. Jenkins,” says she, her stout legs firmly planted, her head nodding slowly, “I think the time has come for you and me to have a talk.”
I frown, trying to understand what she can mean by this. She has been talking nonstop for the past twenty minutes. She knows I cannot contribute to the conversation. What can she expect of me? I put my head on one side, questioning. Her answer is to turn and pad across the flagstones to the old dresser.
This is a very different piece of furniture from the grand, gleaming one that, until now, safely housed Catrin’s china collection in the adjoining room. This is a workaday construction, its wood darkened by smoke from the fire, its size and age causing it to sag somewhat in the middle. With difficulty, Mrs. Jones bends to her knees and pulls open the lower left-hand cupboard. From this she removes pots and pans and boards and platters until she has the thing quite empty. Next, to my amazement, she all but crawls inside. Indeed only her own expansive girth prevents her from disappearing altogether, so that her aproned rump and broad feet remain in a most unflattering pose. When she calls to me her voice is muffled and her burrowing causes the entire dresser to rock, so that I fear it might topple.
“I do need your assistance, cariad. Seems I can’t … quite … reach.” With a gasp of exasperation she wriggles backward, turning to sit, flushed, with her plump legs outstretched in front of her. She takes a moment to dab at her brow with her apron and right her skewed mop cap.
“’Tis no good,” she puffs. “My arms have grown too short or the hole has grown deeper, one or the other.” She points into the darkness of the empty cupboard. “You will have to fetch it from there.” She waves me into the uninviting space. “Crawl to the back, cariad. Feel for the gap in the wood.”
I scramble inside, marveling that Mrs. Jones did not find herself stuck fast, so tight is the space. There is indeed a piece cut from the wooden back of the dresser, so that I can feel the cold stonework of the wall behind. Mrs. Jones’s efforts have already in part dislodged a smooth, square stone.
“Do you have it? You must pull the block out fully,” says she, “and then reach your arm right inside, far as you can go.”
I do as instructed, firmly banishing from my mind all possibility of disturbing a nest of rats. However at ease I am with countryside creatures, I still have a childish loathing of rats.
“Can you reach it? Have you found it?” Her voice has an edge of excitement to it now.
Had I words at my disposal I would mention that it is easier to tell if you have found something when you know what it is you are looking for. As it is I am left to grope about the gritty space. And, yes, my fingers have found something. Something that cannot be wood or stone, as it yields a little as I probe. It feels almost padded. Wrapped, perhaps. I fumble and scratch at it until my fingers hook the string with which the object is bound, and I am able to pull it free.
As soon as Mrs. Jones sets eyes upon the package she snatches it from me and holds it to her breast, her eyes closed, as if it were the most precious treasure returned to her. When she recovers her senses she smiles at me, holding out a hand.
“Well then, help an old woman to her feet. Not doing my poor bones any good sitting on these cold flags.”
With some effort I set her up on her legs and we take to chairs either side of the fire. The flames have caught the larger chunks of wood and are beginning to claim the coal now. The kettle is making faint but promising noises. Mrs. Jones tugs gently at the string, her plump fingers surprisingly nimble as they undo the bows and knots securing the parcel. With great care she removes the wrapping, setting it down on the floor beside her chair. In her lap there now sits a large book, its leather cover worn and showing signs of age, the gilding on its page edges rubbed bare in places. She strokes, no, caresses the book tenderly, and her face as she does so appears to lose some of its sags and lines, almost to regain a trace of her lost youth, so that her complexion glows with a secret joy. What can be written on these pages to bring about such a transformation? I lean forward in my chair to better examine the book and notice Mrs. Jones instinctively tighten her hold upon it. It is clear she will not give it over to me just yet.
“Now, cariad, where to begin? Ah, the poppies. Yes, I think we should start with the poppies.”
At this I cast my eyes downward, feigning interest in a loose thread on my nightgown.
“Oh, there is no call to be wary. Not with me, not now. You see, I do understand you, Morgana.”
Even though we have grown easy in each other’s company since my arrival at Ffynnon Las, it feels strange to hear her address me thus.
“When your parents named yo
u, did they know, right when you were born, what talents you held? I wonder if they were recalling another who lived long ago, who was one of the most powerful and gifted witches that ever did live?”
The use of the word witches startles me into meeting her gaze. My father chose my name. And yes, Dada knew of its origins, for he often told me tales of the magic wonders performed by my mythical namesake. I have always imagined my sensible, earthbound mother would have fought against the choice, but Dada could be stubborn when it suited him.
“But, to return to the poppies,” Mrs. Jones goes on. “I do know you planted a single bloom but a few days ago. And now we can all see the cheerful abundance of flowers on poor Meg’s grave. I do believe you were almost as astonished as poor Mr. Jenkins at first sight of them, weren’t you, cariad? Think back, child. Might you have wept upon that flower as you planted it? Duw, there’s some strong magic in the tears of a witch. No, stay, don’t jump from your chair like a hare from a gunshot. ’Tis only a word.” She sighs softly, looking at me with great fondness, so that I find I am not afraid. I find instead that I am reminded of the way my own mother would look at me. “I knew what you were, what you could be, the first time you touched me, merched. Do not be frightened. No other living person will hear your secret from me, I do promise you this. For how could I denounce one as is the same as me?”
The Winter Witch Page 13