The Winter Witch

by Paula Brackston

  “‘I … went,’ is it? No, ‘I wants,’ yes, I see it now. So, you mean ‘Isolda wants … Ffynnon Las?’” She looks at me and then back at my ugly writing. “‘Dai ded’ … yes, cariad, I know but, are you saying Isolda had something to do with his death?”

  I nod firmly.

  “But, he died on the drove. Isolda wasn’t even there.”

  Now I shake my head. Oh! To be able to form the words. To shout them! I snatch the paper from her and jab with my finger at the last word I have scrawled there. Mrs. Jones squints at it, forming the misshapen letters into a sound.

  “‘W … i sh’ … no, that’s not it. Wait a minute. ‘Witch.’ Witch.” She looks me in the eye and holds my gaze sternly now. “Be very sure about this, Morgana. You are saying that Isolda Bowen is a witch. Did she reveal herself to you?”

  This time I nod emphatically, with certainty, and with some relief that my meaning is understood. With surprising speed Mrs. Jones steps to the fire and drops the page into the flames where it is quickly consumed. She does not turn back to me until she is satisfied it is completely destroyed.

  “I have long suspected as much, mind. Ah, but she is clever. Such a face as she presents to the world, who would doubt her goodness? Who would look close enough to see that she casts the devil’s shadow? If it is as you say and she is responsible for Dai’s death then there is nothing she will not do to get what she wants. I had always thought it was your husband she desired. But now, what you tell me changes everything. If she wants Ffynnon Las it must be because of the well. And the Grimoire! Oh, cariad, I do tremble when I think what a wicked creature—a witch who cares not what is right or wrong—I shudder when I imagine what power she might gain from the enchantments that are kept in that book.” Mrs. Jones wrings her hands, twisting her apron in them as she considers what this might mean. “I have no spells to guard against such evil. My magic is for mending, not breaking. Duw, she could walk in here whenever the fancy took her and take what she wanted. But no, she won’t do that. She will want to keep her good name. Her position. It does matter to her that she is respected, that she has standing in the town. Of course it would—a witch will not find a welcome, she must take pride in fooling so many so well. She will turn them against us if need be. The reverend has never accepted you. Was that her doing?”

  I nod, signaling a rolling motion with my hand to indicate there is more. Much more.

  She looks at me now and I see her eyes are wide with fear. “And now you stand in her way. Oh cariad, I do sense such danger as I cannot protect you from…” says she, her voice near strangled with emotion.

  I hurry forward and take both her hands in mine. I squeeze them tight and hold her gaze, showing her that I am not afraid. Lightly, I touch first her heart and then mine, before turning to point at where the Grimoire of the Blue Well is hidden.

  “Yes, of course.” Her expression brightens. “We will face her together. You and me, Morgana.” She becomes quite animated now. “She may know of my limitations, but I do doubt she understands what you might be capable of.” She nods firmly. “And we have the Grimoire. ’Tis true, I wanted to take longer in your training. To give you more time to come to it. But needs must, cariad. Needs must.” Noticing my uncertainty, my lack of confidence in my own talents, she becomes brisk and businesslike, as if to give me time to come to terms with what she has just said. “But first, merched, we have to get you clean! Come along, off with those dreadful rags and into the bath with you, quick sharp now.”

  It feels strange to be in the company of a woman and inside a house, after so many weeks on the road as a drover. And as Cai’s lover. Mrs. Jones is deft and purposeful in her attentions, helping me to wash the grit and tangles out of my hair, compelling me to bathe in water of such a temperature I feel I will poach like a salmon and emerge just as pink. She finds me a clean slip and one of Catrin’s simple cotton dresses. I have lost a little weight, which does not go unnoticed, eliciting much tutting and fussing and muttering about proper meals and a good night’s sleep. But all I wish for is to feel Cai’s arms about me again. To lie with him. To share passion with him. To fall to sleep with my head on his chest, lulled by the beating of his strong, loyal heart. Will we share his bed this night, I wonder. The bed that was his and Catrin’s. I have not yet ventured upstairs, but even now, even here in the kitchen among the bright lanterns and the cheerful activity, I can sense that other presence. Can I really take up that place, enter that last stronghold of Catrin’s love—where she gave herself to him? Where she died for him. It seems that Mrs. Jones’s pronouncement that I am, at last, to read the Grimoire, to know of its secrets and mysteries, to taste its power, well, the very thought of it stirs in me such a mixture of excitement and trepidation I feel myself at sea and in need of an anchor. And that anchor, that point of safety, is Cai and the love we share.

  In the event I am spared making a decision about which room to sleep in. The hour is so late by the time Mrs. Jones has seen to it that we are both clean and fit to reside at Ffynnon Las once more that she elects to stay, sleeping in the vacant room at the end of the hall. Her presence somehow inhibits us both, so that we shyly step into our own rooms. A moment after I have closed the door, while I still stand lost in my bedroom, there is a light knock, and Cai comes in. He takes my hands in his, looking me up and down, smiling.

  “Well, there’s lovely. Quite the transformation Mrs. Jones has worked. I scarce recognize you without your drover’s clothes.”

  I smile back, self-conscious, but glad he has come to me. As he pulls me close I feel him flinch. His arm still troubles him, though he never complains. I trace the line of the scar through his clean wool shirt.

  “It is healing,” he tells me. “Thanks to you. ’Tis of no importance.”

  Disagreeing, I undo his buttons and carefully peel back his shirt to expose the wound. It is dry and clean, but the flesh is horribly scarred. The red welt of raised skin has fixed in a shiny, jagged line from the point of his shoulder to the bend of his elbow. He and I both know it could have been worse. Much worse. Even so, my heart aches to see him so afflicted. I lean forward and plant kisses along the scarred line, wishing I could kiss away the pain the injury yet causes him. As I do so hot tears spill from my eyes, washing over the wound. The tears of a witch. I have no incantation ready to use, only my heartfelt wish that my dear husband be healed. At first I can detect no alteration in the vivid, uneven scar, but then, very slowly, I see it start to blur, to shimmer, and, at last, to fade until, though not completely gone, it has indeed lessened considerably. I smile up at Cai, who regards first the wound and then me with something approaching awe. He pulls me close, kissing me.

  “My wild one,” he murmurs into my hair, “how fortunate I am to have you to care for me.”

  I lift my face again to look into his eyes and see such love shining there. He pulls me close, embracing me with such yearning, and I let him hold me, knowing now it matters not where we are, so long as we are together.

  Later I awake, Cai sleeping peacefully at my side. I am unsure what has pulled me from my own deep slumber, but sense that I have been disturbed. I listen, and now am certain I can hear a noise outside my bedroom door. It sounds like footfalls. Could Mrs. Jones be up at this hour? The moon shines through the unshuttered window. The silver disc is still high, the night not nearly over. I listen again and hear more faint steps. Mrs. Jones cannot, I decide, be the cause of these noises, for her own tread would be much heavier and accompanied by a deal of wheezing. I slip from under the covers and take up my woolen shawl, pulling it around my shoulders and knotting it at my waist. The door creaks a little as I open it. There is nothing to be seen but empty shadows. But then, looking deeper, I fancy there is a deeper darkness in one corner of the landing, as if those shadows are more solid somehow. Anxiety sets my scalp to prickling. I make myself step forward and experience the now-familiar coolness of the air in this small space. Catrin? Catrin, are you come to speak with me? Do you resent m
e lying with your husband, even though he is mine now? But I cannot be sure who or what it is that lingers here. At last, feeling oppressed by the presence, and too unsettled to return to my room, I go downstairs and out the back door, seeking the calming air of the night.

  The sense of unease stays with me even here. Once again I am drawn to the well. It is sufficiently cold for a frost, but the temperature is not low enough to freeze the running water from the spring, nor put ice on the deep pool. The brightness of the moon is such that it paints reflections on the water’s surface. I gaze at the faint image of myself, which gazes back at me. Of a sudden my heart misses a beat, for there, indistinct but unmistakable, another face peers over my shoulder! I spin round to find Isolda standing close enough to touch me. At first I think she is witchwalking, but now I see she is here completely, body as well as dark spirit. Now I can smell her rank, reptilian odor. She can in no way be described as beautiful this night. It is as if the moon has revealed her true nature in her features, and there is a terrifying savagery about her face.

  “It is a cold night for wandering so scantily clad, witch-girl,” says she. “You should take care not to catch a chill. Your loving husband would be brokenhearted should anything happen to you.” She steps back a little, regarding me with a critical eye. “What can he see in such a childlike body, I wonder. Clearly he is not man enough to consider himself worthy of me.”

  I know different. I know he is a fine man, a good man, far too good for this evil woman.

  “Oh, you think me evil, do you?”

  I look away, berating myself for having forgotten how at close quarters she is able to read my thoughts.

  “Do you truly know what evil means? It seems to me its definition depends on who seeks to understand it. For some it simply means ‘unGodly’—but who is to say there is only one Lord worthy of our adoration? For others it signifies merely the opposite of what is in their own interests. Which would appear to apply to you, Morgana?” She makes my name sound a loathsome thing. “I had thought to frighten you away, assuming such a little rabbit as you must surely scare easily. But I underestimated you. So I sought to turn Cai from you, to stir up ill feeling on the drove, to hang disaster about your slender neck until he could no longer tolerate the sight of you. Sadly the poor man is so infatuated he will not, it seems, be put off.” She sighs, stepping over to the well to dip her fingers in the silky water. “Which leaves me little choice as to how to proceed. For proceed I will, make no mistake about that. Ffynnon Las will be mine, at any price. A pity, then, that it will be your beloved husband who must pay that price. No, don’t look at me so. You must accept the blame at least in part, for had you heeded my warning and scuttled back to wherever it was Cai found you, there would be no necessity for me to take this course of action. What? Nothing to say? Is that, at last, fear I smell seeping out of your pores?”

  I will not stay a second longer in her company. I turn and make to stride for the house but she springs to stand in front of me, her movement unnaturally quick and noiseless.

  “Why, Mrs. Jenkins, do you not know it is the height of rudeness to walk away whilst a person is in conversation with you?”

  I try to push past her but she seizes my arm, her grip painful, her touch poisonous, causing my skin to burn beneath it.

  “Hear this! Cai Jenkins will never know good health more! His strength will wane, his blood thin, his mind loosen, until he is but a husk of a man. You will watch him, helpless, as he fades and suffers. And when at last he draws his final breath I will be there to sing triumphant! And I will see to it that you are driven from this place, and Ffynnon Las becomes mine.”

  I wrench my wrist from her clutches and run for the house, but her words follow me.

  “I curse Cai Jenkins! Curse him with a slow and torturous death, and your part in it will be to witness his suffering and know you could have prevented it, had you loved him enough to give him up!”

  I slam the heavy oak door behind me, my heart thudding fit to burst from my chest, and race back up the stairs and into my room. I struggle to still my ragged breath. Cai lies sleeping still, peaceful, safe, and well. But for how long, I wonder. For how long?

  17.

  We are to use the Grimoire! Now that the moment has arrived I do not know which I fear most—the book’s possible power, or my possible failure. Through elaborate mime and the laborious scratching of a few words I was able to convey to Mrs. Jones the encounter I had with Isolda at the well, and the curse she has placed upon Cai. I find myself watching him obsessively now, searching for signs of suffering or sickness. Thus far, two days from the curse being placed, there is little to see, save for a marked tiredness and a dwindling of his appetite. How long will it take before he is gravely ill? Before he is beyond saving, even? The thought is too terrible to hold in my head for more than a fleeting instant. I was all for running straight to the book, wrenching it from its hiding place, and scouring the pages for some counterspell, some way of lifting the curse. I have to believe such a thing exists, for I surely believe Isolda has the power to do what she threatens. But, Mrs. Jones stayed my hand. We must work in secret, and I understand this. She has explained to me that the forces we may unleash by using the Grimoire cannot be easily masked or contained. Beyond these vague assertions I can get no more from her. What is clear is that Cai must be some distance from the house before we can settle to our task. Mrs. Jones is adamant it will do no good at this stage to tell him what dark cloud hangs over him. Indeed, she believes his knowing about the curse might even increase its effect. We cannot be sure, but while he is not suffering, she deems it better we keep the truth of his affliction from him.

  And today we have an opportunity. The weather has been achingly cold, and Cai has decided to gather the ewes from the hill and move them to the pastures above the house instead, so that it will be easier to take fodder to them when necessary. He purchased the small flock on our return from the drove. He continued to mutter about sheep being more trouble than they are worth even whilst he was buying them, but he has calculated that they might turn a reasonably swift profit, so that we will be able to increase the herd of cattle further next year. I watched him urging Honey up toward the hill just after breakfast, Bracken nipping at the lazy mare’s heels. He plans to check the boundary hedge while he is out, so we can be confident he will not return until after midday.

  I retrieve the book from its nest and sit beside Mrs. Jones at the kitchen table. The two of us are silent now, the book in front of us, unwrapped, waiting. Waiting for us to have the courage to open it. I can hear the ticktocking of the grandfather clock in the parlor. I can hear Mrs. Jones’s breath wheezing as she draws it, a little rapidly. Her cheeks are flushed and she licks her lips as she places her hand upon the Grimoire. Her obvious apprehension heightens my own anxiety. But I must not be timid. My future here at Ffynnon Las, Cai’s very life, everything I have left in the world and hold dear, all depend upon me. Upon the step I am about to take. I feel myself on the threshold of a new existence. I know that, once I have crossed that border, there can be no going back. Knowledge cannot be unknown. Experience cannot be unlived.

  “I have been permitted to look inside this book but once in my life,” says Mrs. Jones quietly. “I was eighteen, and my mother deemed me fit to see, if not to use, what lies within. She herself never used the book, mind. She explained to me, the wisdom, the power, the strong magic of the Grimoire is not for hedge witches. Such witchcraft as it contains, see, well, ’tis not for the everyday and the commonplace. And in the wrong hands…” She turns to face me. “I do have to tell you, cariad, those who seek to harness the forces of this book become not only a danger to others, but a danger to themselves. This is a perilous path, and one we do not set foot upon lightly. Do you understand?”

  I do. And she sees that, however dangerous, however hazardous, this is a journey I must make. I will make. For Cai.

  Mrs. Jones nods. “Very well, then. Very well.” Carefully, slowly, and with
trepidation, she lifts the cover of the book and opens it. The page revealed contains a statement, which she reads aloud.

  “‘Let all who wish to consult the Grimoire of the Blue Well heed this warning. Only those who have been seen, only those who have been heard, only those who have been judged and deemed worthy are welcome here.’”

  She sits back a little and gestures for me to turn the next page.

  “It is for you to do, Morgana. I cannot enter. You may.”

  I may, but should I? Have I been deemed worthy? How can I tell? I have been given no sign to indicate that the Witches of the Well did not find me wanting. What punishment lies in wait for one who is not welcome?

  I lean forward and touch the gilded edge of the page. It feels cool, and the second my flesh connects with it I hear again the sweet ringing of some far-distant bells, high and pure, as beautiful a sound as I have ever had laid upon my ears. I try to turn the page, but oh! It is so heavy I cannot lift it. How can something so flimsy have such weight? It takes both my hands and all my strength to heave the page over and lay it flat so that the next is revealed. This one bears one word only: Contents, but it lists none. There is nothing save blank space beneath the title. I frown, confused. Mrs. Jones touches my arm lightly.

  “You do have to tell the book what it is you need. You will be directed to the right place,” says she.

  I take a breath. I must be succinct, clear. I close my eyes the better to focus the request.