Give me a way to defeat Isolda and lift the curse she has placed upon my husband.
I open my eyes to see the pages flipping over, ten, twenty, thirty … too many to count, a blur of gold and vellum, until the movement abruptly ceases. Yet more blank sheets lie before me, but as I watch they begin to fill with swirling color. It is pale at first, hardly there at all, and then becomes darker. Stronger. The bells change their note, shifting to deeper sounds. A cowbell? No, something bigger. On a church, perhaps? I cannot be sure. Mrs. Jones hears it, too, and believes she recognizes the sound.
“’Tis like a buoy at sea,” she cries. “A rough sea buffeting and bouncing a heavy iron bell warning ships of rocks or shallow water.”
I cannot think that our salvation lies on board a ship, but the water seems relevant. Indeed, the looping washes of blue on the page now form themselves into what resembles a map of rivers, and these rivers flow down to the bottom of the page where they form a broad sea. No, not a sea, a lake. Yes, a wide blue lake with mountains rising around it. Soon the blue water fills half the page, and then, to my astonishment, it starts to pour off the page. Mrs. Jones lets out a cry of surprise as water splashes onto her lap. We both spring to our feet, chairs scraping against the stone floor which is quickly becoming covered in water. On and on it pours with a speed and force that is beyond reason. It makes no sense that such a small outlet, the width of an open book, could so rapidly produce sufficient water to cover the area of the room, but so it does. And that water rises. And rises.
With a squawk Mrs. Jones teeters and I only just catch her arm in time to prevent her from falling into the deepening pool around our knees. I push at her now, urging her up first onto a chair and then to stand on the table. Still the level of the wild, foaming water rises. It does not seep out under the door as it should, nor force its way through gaps in the windows, but continues inexorably, terrifyingly upward. The outcome appears both horrendous and inescapable. The space will fill with water in less than a minute more, all air will be taken up, and we will drown. Already, though we stand, clinging to one another on top of the table, the level is such that it pushes against my knees. I doubt I can keep Mrs. Jones on her feet any longer. She begins to wail and cry out.
“Oh! Morgana, do something. Make it stop. Tell it to stop!”
But how? What message should I send? Why is this happening? Such a deluge as can kill us both—how can this be an answer to my request? What dare I ask next? Are the Witches of the Well refusing to help me, and is this their response? I must have failed their examination, been declared unworthy to use the magic of the Grimoire. And now it is too late. Their displeasure is fierce indeed! The book is floating atop the water, bobbing effortlessly, still open at the page of the rivers and the lake, endless, unstoppable water continuing to pour from it. I reach to take hold of it but it is too far, so that I am forced to step off the table and swim. But I have never been in such deep water. Bathing in mountain rivers and dew ponds has not equipped me to manage such depths, such swirling currents. As I kick and splash my progress toward the book is pitifully, uselessly slow. I hear a cry behind me and glimpse Mrs. Jones as she topples from the table and disappears beneath the surface of the water.
I draw in as deep a breath as I am able and dive after her. The room is transformed into an underwater nightmare, with chairs and wooden spoons and cloths and pieces of kindling tumbling and spinning everywhere. Mrs. Jones’s clothes are waterlogged and the weight of them is too much for her arthritic limbs to propel her to the surface. I snatch at her, grabbing hold of her beneath one arm. She clutches desperately at me, her panic halting any upward movement either of us might have achieved.
I sense that I am going to fail. That I cannot haul my dear friend to the scant air that remains in this unreal room. I cannot so much as kick my way to the door to try to free it, nor smash a window, so strong are the currents against me, and so scarce the breath inside me. For a moment all feels peaceful, and there is a temptation to succumb to what appears to be a gentle end. Simply to stop struggling, to float, to be carried into oblivion by the bright clear water, becomes a curiously attractive option.
But, it will not do. Really, it will not.
I cease my pointless kicking and thrashing about. Mrs. Jones has on her face such an expression of terror that I am almost undone by it. She thinks I have given up, that I am submitting to the water, that we will both die here today, and be found drowned in a kitchen. I will not allow either of us to meet such a ridiculous end. I summon what strength there lies deep within me, and I can feel the power of it building up, pressing on my eyes, wanting to burst from me. Let the Witches of the Well do what they must—I have my own magic in me. Magic blood. I am not some piece of driftwood to be smashed and broken by this unearthly torrent. I wait as long as I dare, as long as my lungs will stand, letting the strength within me reach its height. Mrs. Jones’s eyes close and her grasp on my sleeve loosens. Now I act. I flick my head this way and that and the water moves, it parts, it recoils before me, and I am borne up, still holding on to Mrs. Jones, sent racing to break the surface of the water with such speed that I shoot on upward, meeting the ceiling with a thud. I gasp, gulping air, shaking Mrs. Jones so that she quickly does the same. We are afloat, yet the water is still rising. Time is running out.
The Grimoire is on the far side of the room, near the window. I scowl at it, willing it to come to me, and it does. As soon as it is within reach I snatch at it, plucking it from the maelstrom, and hold it high.
Stop! Do not test me further. This old woman has done no harm, and nor have I. I tell you, stop!
And, just like that, the water vanishes.
It does not recede quietly, letting us drift downward, but simply ceases to be. In the blink of an eye, in the heartbeat of a skylark, the water has gone and the room is dry, restored to its usual order. Even the fire burns cheerily in the hearth.
And we are returned crashing to the ground with such abruptness I fear for Mrs. Jones. She lies stunned and crumpled from the fall. I kneel beside her, raising her head and cradling it in my lap. She is horribly pale and I fear the ordeal has proved too much for her. What have I done? I was driven to use the Grimoire because of what I wanted. Because of Cai. It seemed a selfless desire, but what if this poor, good woman has paid for it with her life?
Wake up, Mrs. Jones. Oh, please wake up!
At last she stirs. Her eyes blink open and she takes a moment to recall where she is and what has befallen her. She struggles to sit up and I assist her.
Then, to my amazement, she smiles at me. Aside from my relief and joy at seeing her recover, I myself see little else to smile about. The power of the Grimoire came so close to ending both our lives.
“Oh, cariad, what magic!” says she, as if oblivious to the peril we were in. As if she has blotted from her mind the terror we have both just endured. She seems to read my thoughts, for she goes on, “No, I have not lost my senses. I know what happened, merched. You called upon the Witches of the Well and they answered you. They tested you, Morgana, and you passed that test. Next time, they will be ready to help you.”
Next time! I cannot imagine what would induce me to risk ever consulting the Grimoire again. It is too dangerous. Too powerful. Whatever Mrs. Jones thinks, I am not convinced the Witches of the Well have accepted me, and their strength is so great, the potential for destruction so real, how could I ever place myself or anyone else in such jeopardy again?
* * *
Barely three weeks have passed since Cai and Morgana returned from the drove, and October is only half done, but the weather is already bearing all signs of winter. Trees shed their leaves with indecent haste. Green grass quickly fades and turns to shriveled yellow. Northerly winds bearing icy rain assail farmer and stock alike, driving beneath collars, saturating coats, and chilling bones. Cai has watched the new stock he purchased with funds from the drove lose condition with each passing week. The three brood mares obtained at Llanybydder Horse
Fair were quick to grow their dense winter hair, and two have had to be treated for rain scald. He has already been forced to abandon the grazing in the higher pastures in favor of the more sheltered home meadows. The dozen young heifers he bought to replenish his herd of cattle seem shocked to find themselves inhabiting such hostile land, and have lost any spare weight they arrived with. Even the hardy Welsh ewes, bred for centuries to withstand the extreme cold and bitter gales the country of their birth has to offer, are noticeably thinner than when Watson delivered them a month earlier. Cai had reasoned that, with fewer cattle and without the ponies, he could turn a modest profit on a small flock of sheep without too much outlay. He had forgotten, however, that his fences had not been called upon to contain such small and willful livestock, and has spent many hours retrieving the sheep from neighboring farms or lanes. Bracken has taken a strong dislike to the silly creatures and is ineffectual at herding them.
So it is that for the third time in as many days Cai finds himself, short axe in hand, hedging mitt gripping the thorny branches of the hedge, stooped against the relentless wind, as he works to repair yet another gap in the boundary which the restless ewes have widened in their efforts to take themselves somewhere warmer. Ordinarily, Cai would find such inconveniences irritating but inconsequential. But these are not ordinary times. Aside from the freakish weather, there is something else he must contend with. Something so unfamiliar to him that he is at times at a loss as to how best to proceed. For Cai is unwell. He is not sick in any way he has experienced before. He does not have a chill, nor suffer fevers. Nor is he compelled to vomit. This illness is curiously unspecific, and worryingly debilitating. A lethargy began to overtake him soon after arriving home from England. At first he thought it merely fatigue, but no amount of rest would refresh him. Next the malaise manifested itself in a heaviness in his limbs, and was soon accompanied by dull aches in his joints. Mrs. Jones proffered remedies first for rheumatism, and then for arthritis. None gave him any relief from his symptoms. Soon after he started to be troubled by a painful tightness beneath his skull, as if his brain were in the grip of some medieval instrument of torture. Mercifully these bouts of increasingly severe pain visit him only occasionally. Not wanting to alarm Morgana, he has done his best to keep his suffering from her. He has tried to discern a pattern to their onset but can find none. Gradually, as time goes on, he has adjusted to these afflictions, accepting them as responses to a hard life and the onset of a harsh winter. Even so, they weary him, so that the hill behind the house feels steeper than it has ever done, the trek to the far boundary longer, and the weight of a feed of hay for the stock heavier. By the end of each day he sinks gratefully into the chair by the range in the kitchen, tired to his bones.
Now, as he chops at the slim hazel sticks made brittle by the intense cold, he has time to wonder if the decline in his vigor will ever halt. It is perplexing to find himself so debilitated; it is deeply troubling to consider the possibility that the downward slide of his health might not be checked. Could a person die of such a thing? Of nothing, and yet everything, being wrong with him? It is as if each day a little more of his youth, of his strength, of him, indeed, seeps out, leaving him minutely but unmistakably diminished. He feels it with each rise and fall of the blade as he chops the branches. He feels it every time he puts his effort to pulling or bending the thicker boughs in the hedge. He feels it with each step as he trudges homeward, face into the stinging wind, hat pulled low on his head, eyes struggling to focus on the ground a pace ahead in the failing light of the day. By the time he reaches the farmyard he is not walking but staggering. He is slogging his way toward the back door when a disturbing sound stops him. It is coming from the stables where the mares are housed.
Cai feels a chill not brought about by the low temperature flood his body. He has spent his life with horses, and he knows too well the sound of one in extremis. He is not surprised, therefore, to find Wenna flat on her side, her flanks heaving, her breath ragged and labored. The old mare’s coat that used to gleam in the sun like polished bronze is dulled with sweat. Cai drops to his knees beside her and puts a hand on her dainty head. Her eyes move minutely, her ears flicker in response to his presence, but he can tell she is barely alive. The severe cold has beaten her. She has seen her last mountain winter. As if she had been waiting for him, she starts to breath more softly until, very soon, all movement has ceased and she has gone. Cai feels her passing as if she were a family member taken from him. He remembers her as a foal, nimble and flighty, as one of the most beautiful ponies his father had ever bred, and as the best brood mare of the herd, producing quality colts and fillies, protecting them as the perfect mother should. He knows she has had a good, long life, but to lose her now, when all seems so bleak and so hopeless, is a body blow.
Clambering stiffly to his feet he trudges to the house and pushes open the back door, all but falling through it onto the cold flags. Hearing him, Morgana and Mrs. Jones fly out of the kitchen.
“Oh! Lord save us, Mr. Jenkins!” cries Mrs. Jones.
Morgana kneels beside him, putting his arm around her shoulders, and helps him to his feet.
“Morgana,” he gasps, “Wenna…”
She searches his face, trying to understand what it is he wants to tell her.
“Never mind about the ponies now, bachgen.” Mrs. Jones helps haul him to his feet. “Bring him to the fire, merched. Quickly now. We must get those wet clothes off him. What were you thinking, bach, staying out so long in this cruel weather when you are not well?” She bustles through the door, flapping her tea towel at Bracken who has already put himself as close to the hearth as he can. “Shoo, silly dog. Here, sit down now. Duw, what are we to do with you?”
Cai fights to regain his voice. “Wenna is dead,” he blurts out, regretting he did not speak more gently when he sees Morgana’s shock. “She was old, cariad. This cruel weather was too much for her.”
For a moment Mrs. Jones stops her bustling.
“Dead, you do say? Well, Duw, there’s a shame,” she concedes, seeming to ponder on the information. Cai is surprised, as the woman has never shown interest in the individual ponies, and is as pragmatic about livestock as only the daughter of a farmer can be. Seconds later she is back to the business of bustling about him.
He shakes his head as she stokes up the fire and puts water on to boil. “Don’t fuss so, Mrs. Jones. I am only in need of a little rest.”
“You are ill, Mr. Jenkins. ’Tis no good carrying on as if you are not, see?”
Morgana helps him off with his coat and hat, sending icy water hissing into the fire as she shakes them, and drapes them over the high back of the settle. It pains him to see the concern on her face. He knows she is worried about him. Knows, too, that she does not believe his casual dismissal of his ailments. At times, somehow, it seems to him she knows more of what it is that afflicts him than he does. He unwinds the wet muffler from his neck. The pitiless rain has even found its way through to his jacket, and this he discards, too. Mrs. Jones snatches it from him, shaking her head.
“I shall fetch a mustard bath for your feet,” she says.
Morgana kneels in front of him and sets to unlacing his boots. He watches her as her deft fingers tug at the wet leather. He feels he is failing her, by being ill. There is a hard winter coming. It will take all their best efforts to tend the stock and endure the long dark days ahead. He needs his health. At last he allows himself to form the question in his mind: What will happen to Morgana if he dies?
As if sensing his distress she looks up at him, frowning. He musters what he hopes is a reassuring grin.
“Don’t fret, cariad,” he tells her. “’Twas only the cold caught me unawares. I feel better already. Why wouldn’t I? I’ve got the two best nurses in the valley, see?”
She grips his left boot, tipping back the toe and pulling behind the heel until it slides off his foot. She works quickly, efficiently, her expression still grave. She takes off his other boot and the
n his woolen stockings. His feet are cold slabs, the toes tinged blue. Cai gasps as she begins to rub them firmly, coaxing blood back to his chilled extremities. Mrs. Jones arrives with a bowl which she sets in front of the fire, pouring steaming water from the kettle onto the ground mustard seeds she has placed inside.
“Now then, in with your feet, if you please,” she says.
Cai does as he is told.
“Duw, woman! Are you trying to boil me alive?”
“Well, there’s a baby you are. No, don’t take them out! The Lord knows, Mrs. Jenkins, men do make poor patients.”
Morgana nods thoughtfully, picking up his boots and holding them close. Cai sees, with some astonishment, that she is near to crying.
He offers her his hand and she takes it. He pulls her onto his lap, taking the boots from her and dropping them onto the floor.
“All will be well, cariad. They breed us tough up here in these hills, see? A few days’ rest, some of Mrs. Jones’s best steak and kidney pudding. I’ll soon be right again. Paid poeni.”
But she will not be consoled. She lays her head against his shoulder and he feels hot tears dropping onto his chest through his unbuttoned shirt. That she is so concerned shakes him. For all her apparent frailty, he has come to think of her as dauntless, fearless, a fighter who would die sooner than admit defeat. Yet that is, at this moment, precisely how she seems to him. Defeated. It is so at odds with her nature he cannot understand it. He holds her close, allowing her warmth to thaw his numb body. Drawing strength from the vitality he feels within her. Wishing she did not doubt him, for it makes him doubt himself.
* * *
The loss of his favorite mare has drained my poor husband of what little strength he had, it seems. The cold has reached deep to his marrow, so that it takes Mrs. Jones and I some hours to completely restore color to his feet and hands, and to stop his body shivering and his teeth chattering. At last we consider we have him warm enough to risk sleep. Before I take him upstairs, Mrs. Jones presses a mug of something hot and aromatic into his hands.
The Winter Witch Page 28