The Winter Witch

by Paula Brackston

  We move up, away from the town, winding along the lane that takes us past Soar-y-Mynydd chapel and on up, up, up until we are atop the highest hill in the area; the limit of the horizon that can be seen from the mountain behind Ffynnon Las. This is not a route I am familiar with, having arrived via Llandovery. Next we ascend and descend the twisting steepness that is known hereabouts as the Devil’s Staircase, and with good reason. By the time we reach the riverbed and the ancient pass of Abergwesyn we are all showing early signs of fatigue. This is a marvelous place indeed. I can almost hear the footsteps of the thousands of travelers over hundreds of years who have trod this path. The gap between the hills is narrow, dropping down steeply to follow a slim river bordered by marshy grass and a firmer, drier track. The riverbed is stony, with many flat boulders of immense size, worn smooth over centuries, gleaming slick and cool beneath the summer sun. I see a Kingfisher dart from its perch and snatch a minnow from the fast-moving water, its wings an iridescent flash of brightness against the cloud grey of the stones.

  We work to keep the livestock out of the water, but it is too tempting for them after the climb. There are no deep bogs here, but having the cattle dawdle in the shallow water and the ponies pause to splash about slows the forward movement of the drove horribly. Cai has said that we will not pause today, but continue straight to our overnight stop. His reasoning is that it is better to have a short first day than to face the confusion of stopping and starting when the animals are as yet unaccustomed to travel, and no proper rhythm has been achieved. We are all pressed to get them going again, putting the dogs to work harder and drawing louder and more commanding cries from the men. At last we turn away from the stream, through the village itself, which comprises only a few houses and an inn, which makes us all lick our lips. We must content ourselves with swigs from the skins tied to our saddles, however, and urge our charges on farther.

  By the time we reach Llanwrtyd Wells it is clear to all of us that a rest is crucial. Sound as Cai’s planning was, the beasts have their own opinions. The heat of the day has tired them terribly, and in their fatigue they have become stubborn and quarrelsome. Cai directs us to push them into a pasture on the edge of the village.

  “We’ll give them an hour,” says he. “No more, mind. We’ve the worst climb up ahead.”

  The cattle settle meekly to grazing in the meadow, as do the ponies. The sheep make a pretense of being too scared to feed, but greed soon overcomes them and they too put their heads down. Within minutes the small field is full to bursting with stock, all, happily, too tired and hungry to bother with each other. Cai sends the women to fetch ale and pies from the nearest inn and people quickly avail themselves of shady spots. Dai calls to me as I lead Prince toward the trough by the gate.

  “Well, Mrs. Ffynnon Las, how do you like the droving life so far?”

  I smile back at him and give a little shrug. We both know it is too early to tell how successful I might prove to be at mustering the ponies. We have not yet been properly tested. No doubt the time will come.

  “Morgana.” Cai takes Prince’s reins from me. “We can tie the horses under that oak. Come, sit with me.” He hitches Angel first, leaving his rein long enough that he can nibble the grass at the base of the tree trunk. Prince flattens his ears against his head and goes to bite his new stablemate. “Now then, Prince!” Cai berates him. “Show some manners, bachgen,” says he, looping the pony’s reins over a low branch a short distance away. We loosen their girths and find our own cool patch beneath the outstretched arms of the aged tree. Cerys arrives with foaming ale and warm meat pies and we sit in companionable silence, intent on our refreshment, quietly pleased with the way the morning has progressed. It strikes me that this is the most relaxed we have been together for some time. Can it be that, away from the farm, away from the notion of being husband and wife at home, we can find a new ease together? We have a shared purpose, and that must be our focus, instead, perhaps, of the scrutiny our marriage has so far come under at Ffynnon Las, whether we are alone or in company.

  All too soon our respite is at an end. We push the lethargic cattle through the gate first, and there is a certain amount of fuss and bother with both ponies and sheep before they are organized into their rightful places once again. The road is rougher here and the ponies slow their pace, picking their way over the sharper stones. The most noticeable change, though, is the steepness of the incline. Whereas the trek out of Tregaron was uphill, we climbed it over some distance, making the task less arduous than this unforgiving pitch. Now the cattle move laboriously, effort obvious in each step. The landscape falls away from us in far-reaching vistas to the north, but we have our backs to such glory and are intent only on the summit, so that the area around every one of us shrinks to the patch of track ahead that can be reached in one pace or two at most. Even the sheep have ceased their bleating to conserve energy. As the animals toil in the afternoon sun they give off a malodorous stench of sweaty skin, hot urine, warm feces, and belching breath. The Procession starts to stretch, so that Cai must keep halting the front-running bullocks, and the ewes at the rear must be pushed on firmly to keep up. The slower the drove moves, the more apt beasts are to break off on their own, so that we are all engaged in the tiring business of coaxing wanderers back to the body of the herd. Through it all I spy the women plodding ever onward, still knitting, as if the needles work entirely on reflex alone. I notice, though, that Spitting Sara has no breath left for singing.

  Shortly before six o’clock, a shout from Cai indicates we have reached our destination. The ground has flattened now, as we arrive on the wide plateau of the Epynt mountain. There are no farmhouses here, but a single, lonely building, with only a handful of Scots pines for company. A wooden sign, its paint paled by many winters, declares it to be the Drover’s Arms, and for all its shabbiness it is to us the most wonderful inn we have ever beheld in our lives, for never was a group of travelers so sore in need of rest and refreshment.

  Spurred on by our own desire for the day’s work to be done, and that of the animals to be left in peace to graze and doze, the herds are quickly penned in the holding enclosures behind the inn. I remove Prince’s tack and take him over to the water pump to fetch a pail of water. He stands patiently while I pour it over his body. Steam rises, and the little horse gives a sigh of contentment before shaking vigorously, sprinkling me with sweaty droplets. I catch sight of Cai laughing at me quietly. As soon as I slip the halter from Prince he kneels in the dust and rolls with enthusiasm, ridding himself of itches and loose hair. By the time he scrambles to his feet he is covered in dry mud and looks a sight. He tolerates having his ears rubbed and then trots off to graze.

  The women fetch pots from the rear of Dai’s wagon and set about putting some cawl to boil over the already glowing camp- fire. The men move swiftly into the inn in search of ale.

  Cai comes to stand beside me. For a moment we simply watch the herd grazing, sharing the satisfaction of seeing work completed for the day and our charges brought safely to their enclosure.

  “A good day, Morgana,” says he. “I couldn’t ask for better for the start of the drove. No mishaps, and we’ve made good time.” He waves his arm at the cattle. “They are tired, mind, but they’ll rest well here tonight. The walking will come easier to them as we go on, see?” He smiles at me. “You did well, cariad. For a beginner.”

  I am too pleased by his public use of such an expression of endearment to mind the implied criticism.

  Cai bids me follow him inside. The interior of the building is blissfully cool, its thick stone walls keeping out the summer heat. I follow him up a twisting stone stairway to a low-ceilinged bedroom. There is a sagging bed and a washstand with jug and bowl.

  “This is for you,” says he. “I won’t leave the herd on the first night. With the breeze in the right direction they’re still close enough to smell home. They might take it into their heads to return, see? I’ll camp out with them tonight.” He shuffles back to the door,
a little hesitant. Is he waiting for me to protest? I wonder. “There will be supper downstairs when you’re ready,” he tells me, and then disappears. I am reminded of our wedding night, and another lonely bedroom, in another lonely Drover’s Arms. As I ease my aching feet out of my boots I am aware my weariness is not entirely due to the physical demands of the day. I take advantage of the washstand. It is heavenly to feel the cool water against my skin. I rinse my blouse and hang it out of the window to dry, before slipping into my second one. I might not always have the opportunity of such comforts, so I had best make the most of them where I find them.

  Later, after a tasty supper shared with the other drovers, I retire to my room once more and take to my bed. It feels even more comfortable than I could have anticipated, and I imagine I will be asleep within moments. But though my body is weary my mind and my spirit are restless. It does not feel right to be in here, separated from the ponies. Separated from my husband. I want to go outside, take my blanket and put it on the ground beside him, so that we may sleep side by side, listening to the rhythmic munching of the little horses as they crop the grass, but I cannot. To do so would seem so … forward, somehow. I know this to be ridiculous, and yet I do not know how to go about changing the situation. Now my mattress has become rocky as a riverbed. I turn this way and that, but can no longer find comfort. At last I decide that I will not rest unless I gain some air. I slip my coat around my shoulders, pad on silent bare feet down the stairs and, unseen, out of the back door.

  Outside, it is a perfect night. There are no clouds, so that the stars glow like sparks from God’s own campfire, flaring and fading as they are apt to do. The air is close and full of the scents of evening; the pulsing bodies of the beasts, the smoke from the dwindling fire, the spent tobacco in the still-warm bowls of clay pipes, the fragrant needles of the pine trees. The night is so still tiny sounds are able to make themselves heard. I notice not only the hooting of a solitary owl but the rustling of its wing feathers as it swoops from a high branch. I make my way to the ponies and move among them. As always, they are comfortable in my presence. They consider me friend. There is great solace to be found in the company of creatures when they are at rest. Their acceptance of me makes me feel at ease with myself.

  I see Cai sleeping beneath the tree nearest the boundary wall. He has his head against his saddle and a rough blanket draped over him. His hat might have started the night tipped to shade his face but has fallen to the ground. He looks so very … gentle, in repose, and wears the cares of life lightly on his sleeping features. I step closer, drawn to him, wishing I could lie with him, snug against his back, so that we were both lulled to sleep by the muted noises of the night.

  A sudden coldness makes me start. I turn and find Angel has come to stand behind me. He is neither grazing nor dozing, but looking at me, and I know he sees me in a way that is different from the other horses and ponies. He is Isolda’s favored mount, after all. I should not be surprised that there is something of her about him; a fraction of her own presence, even. A shadow moves out from beside him, a darkness not created by the blocking of the bright moonbeams falling this night. The shadow shifts, takes shape, and emerges. Isolda!

  “You should not be so shocked to see me, Morgana,” says she, her voice a low, hissing, whisper, such as a snake might use to transfix its prey. “Did you really believe I would allow you two to travel together without me? I told you, by the time this drove is at an end Cai will want rid of you. You will no longer be welcome in Tregaron, nor at Ffynnon Las.”

  I fight to keep my mind empty. I will not have this woman violate my thoughts. I confess I am astounded at the distance she is able to witchwalk. Will we never be beyond her reach?

  “No, Morgana, you cannot step beyond the limit of my powers.” She smiles as she speaks and it is as chilling and frightening a smile as any I have witnessed. She leaves off making a fuss of her horse and steps closer to Cai. I fear for him and hurry to put myself between them. She laughs mirthlessly. “Your willingness to place yourself in the way of danger to protect him is touching. Touching, and stupid. Do you think there is anything you could do to stop me if I chose to turn my strength against him? You may be a witch, but you have little control over your abilities. Scant expertise in the way of directing them. Why, you have spent your entire life denying you are what you are, even to yourself, it seems.”

  I put my hands on my hips, feet firmly planted. Let her bluster and goad. I will not be scared away by her threats. It may be that she is right, that I am useless against her. But I will make a stand.

  “How feverishly that callow mind of yours works, Morgana. There is no need for you to trouble yourself to make sense of what you cannot possibly understand. You have led a simple life; you see things in simple terms. What can you know of me and my kind?” She walks past me, and I know there is nothing I can do to stop her. She bends over Cai, gazing down at him. I want to drag her away, to claw at her, to pick up a stout stick and beat her with it. But it is only her phantom stands before me. How can I do anything to influence it? A pain grips my heart as I watch her plant a kiss on my husband’s brow. He murmurs in his sleep but does not wake.

  Isolda considers me, her head on one side, eyebrows raised.

  “I almost pity you,” she tells me. “I suppose you are not to blame for the position in which you find yourself. However, it is still your choice to stay. My patience is nearing an end, witch-girl. If you do not leave of your own accord, I will have rid of you, by any means necessary.”

  The sound of the words is still hanging in the air but her shape has vanished. Angel goes back to his grazing. Somewhere a dog fox barks. From behind the wall comes the purring of Dai the Forge’s snore. Isolda has gone, and it is as if she has never been, save for the dread she has placed deep inside me.

  12.

  Cai opens his eyes to a glorious dawn breaking over the distant Beacons at Brecon. The sky is hill-fire orange with slashes of scarlet fading to the yellow of candle flame at its uppermost reaches. Skylarks trill and whirr. A family of crows add their raucous argument to the sweeter sounds of marsh tits and robins. He lies still for a moment, letting the sky and the birdsong bring him slowly to his senses. He does not recall a dream, only a sense that his night was disturbed somehow. Whether by memories or something outside himself he cannot be sure. He looks for the familiar ache of loneliness within but, strangely, does not find it. He acknowledges a change in himself, a significant shift in what moves him. Time was, for a long time, his waking moments were filled with longing for Catrin, and his arms ached to hold her once more. Slowly that grief melded with loneliness into a dull pain of emptiness, a yearning for someone to make him complete again. Now such vague wishes have altered to be highly specific. Now it is Morgana he longs for, Morgana for whom his arms ache, Morgana’s name on his lips when he wakes, troubled and full of desire in the slow, hot hours of the night.

  He sits up, rolling his stiff shoulders in an attempt to shrug them into suppleness. The mountain ground is a hard bed, and already he is aware of pains and discomforts that will only be added to in the weeks to come. Standing up he brushes down his clothes and puts on his hat. There will not be the luxury of a wash today. He thinks of Morgana in her cool, quiet room and pictures her, for a vivid moment, standing before the washbowl, pouring water over her slender body. He feels shameful at such a thought, and then, at once, cross. She is his wife, after all. As if he has summoned her up he finds her standing in front of him, though he never heard her footsteps. Bracken wakes up to greet her, too, wagging his tail and snuffling at her feet.

  “Ah. Good morning, Morgana. Did you sleep well?”

  She gives a gesture which suggests she did not.

  “Well, a strange bed … perhaps you would have preferred the lullaby of the foxes and owls out here.” He says it as a joke but, seeing her face, realizes that, of course she would rather have been outside. When has he known her ever to choose to be indoors? He shakes his head at his own
shortsightedness, silently cursing himself for missing the opportunity to share the night with her, however publicly. However hard the bed.

  It takes far longer than it ought for the livestock to be mustered and the drovers and followers to be assembled. Cai is irritated by how slow everyone is, and how disorganized. Even Bracken is bad tempered and gets into a scrap with one of Watson’s collies, leaving him with a bleeding ear.

  Cai knows they cannot spend their mornings like this, in such disarray. He must make certain of an earlier start tomorrow, he decides. And then he remembers tomorrow is to be a rest day. It is early in the journey to call a temporary halt, and he knows to do so will raise some eyebrows. He is resolved to stick to his reasoning—the stock are unused to travel, he will say, let them have a day to recover from hauling themselves over the mountains. Better to keep the condition on them than to rush. It is flimsy logic, and he knows it, but it will be worth it. They will camp for an extra day and night outside Crickhowell so that Morgana might visit her mother and spend time with her. He has promised her this, and he will be true to his word. He knows how much it will mean to her.

  Having scaled the Epynt the previous day, the journey to Brecon is comparatively easy. The general downhill gradient helps the animals overcome their reluctance to press their aching limbs into action. In Brecon they pass the Drover’s Arms where Cai and Morgana spent their wedding night. It shocks Cai to realize how many nights have passed since and still he has not taken Morgana to his bed. Suddenly he feels stupidly slow, like some tongue-tied teenager. And now they are on the drove, and he knows the opportunity to do anything to cross the distance that remains between him and his wife may not present itself for weeks. He twists in his saddle, seeking her out among the moving mass behind him. The wide street of the town narrows over the bridge to cross the Usk and he can pick her out, urging Prince between the mares and the sheep, nudging them along to keep up with the cattle. She appears so at ease on the little horse; completely confident, her signals to her mount barely perceptible to the onlooker. The pony goes well for her. Cai is saddened at the thought that he must be sold when they reach London. Morgana will take the parting hard.