The Winter Witch

by Paula Brackston

  Until then, all I can do is care for Cai. Ease his pains. Since we returned home from chapel this morning Cai has not stirred from his chair. I have banked up the fire. I offered him a blanket, but he will not have it. It is as if he fears acknowledging how frail he is. As if to do so would make it more true. He is sleeping now. I have fetched one of my father’s books—Treasure Island—and come to share the window seat with Bracken. It comforts me to hold the book close, to recall the story, to recall Dada. How I wish he were here to help me now. Somehow I am certain he would know how best to defeat Isolda. Bracken and I gaze outside together and watch the grey light of the day dwindle. The cold is such that I feel it coming through the window as if there were no glass at all. I run my hand over Bracken’s soft, warm fur and he thumps his tail lazily. The landscape beyond the garden is dull and uninviting, with no pretty sunset to lessen the metallic gleam of ice that covers everything. It is difficult to discern the horizon. It is as if the world is shrinking to only a few frozen yards beyond the house. And now, as my face begins to tingle with the cold, I see them. The first flakes of snow.

  “Morgana? Morgana, where are you?” Cai’s voice is heavy with sleep. I slip from the window seat and go to him. “You will freeze over there,” says he. “Close the shutters and come and sit by the fire with me.”

  I do as he wishes, pausing for a moment to watch as a snowflake, new and wonderfully intricate, sharp-edged as if made of sugar, sticks to the pane. For a few brief seconds it remains there, beautiful and perfect. And then the scant heat from the house works upon it, and it begins to blur, its definition is lost, before it is absorbed by another flake which lands atop it. And another. And another. I swing the shutters to and drop the heavy metal latch that secures them. I sit on the settle opposite Cai’s chair. Bracken comes to lie as close to the hot coals as he can safely put himself. I still have my book in my hand and Cai sees it.

  “What’s that you have there? Oh, Treasure Island, a wonderful story.” Seeing my reaction he goes on. “I read it many times as a boy. Scared me then, mind.” He smiles faintly. Watching me stroke the worn leather of the cover. “They were your father’s books, weren’t they?”

  I nod.

  “They must be very special to you, then. It must give you great comfort, to read them.”

  I look away, my eyes darting to the intense red of the fire, unable to meet his gaze. I attempt to maintain an impassive, impenetrable expression, but he knows me too well.

  “Morgana, what is it?” he asks, shifting to lean forward in his chair, the effort making him draw a quick breath. I cannot help but look at him now, and in doing so I reveal the sadness within. “Cariad, I’m sorry, I did not mean to cause you distress by mentioning your father,” says Cai.

  I give a small, dismissive wave, but he remains unconvinced.

  “No, I have upset you. I have been thoughtless,” says he. “Is it that you don’t want to read the book without him, that it reminds you too much of him? Is that it?”

  I shake my head. And I realize that I want him to understand. I want him to see that without someone to share the stories with, they are but half experienced. Oh, how I would relish having him read to me! To journey to all these wonderful, exotic places together, away from here, from the hardship and dangers in our own world. I open the book to a random page and take it to him. I point to the words, letting my finger trace them, and then I look at him and then put my hand to my heart. He watches attentively, and I know he wants to understand. I take my hand and lay it palm down over his heart, and then, smiling, pass the book to him.

  “Why yes, it is as I said, cariad, I do enjoy such books. I have always loved to read. But what…?” He thinks for a moment, and then his mouth opens as realization blows away the mists of confusion in his mind. He is astonished. “You’d like us to read them together, is that it? For me to read to you sometimes, perhaps?” At once his face brightens. He reaches out and strokes my face, pushing wayward hair from my brow.

  “I can think of nothing I would like better than to share these stories with you. Is that what you would like, Morgana?”

  So that he be in no doubt as to my answer I shower him with kisses, each one of them a heartfelt yes.

  He laughs. “Steady now! Best not get me too distracted, else I won’t be able to concentrate on what’s written, see?”

  I nod, sliding from his lap to sit on the hearth rug at his feet, forcing Bracken to move over to make room for me. I reach up and open the treasured book on page one. Cai smiles down at me for a moment longer.

  “You are so very beautiful, my wild one,” says he.

  And then he starts to read. And as he does so I experience such a muddle of feelings. It is a joy to listen to him, to share the magical journey of the story, yes, but that joy is tainted, for this is a moment I fear may never come again. How long will we have together to enjoy such special times, such precious times, if Isolda cannot be stopped? Will there come a day when all I have is the memory of this instant, a treasured recollection of one occasion when he understood me so well, and we journeyed into make-believe foreign lands and story worlds, the two of us? Are we to be robbed of such a simple pleasure as his strength fails him, until he can read no more? Until he can breathe no more!

  Tears sting my eyes as I listen to his soft voice recount the story that is so familiar to me, but I do not let him see my fears. I lean my head against his knee and let the words soothe me, shutting out Isolda as best I can, refusing to let her rob me of even this. An hour later we are both fighting fatigue and I help Cai up the stairs and to bed. His rest is fitful, and I lie beside him watchful and concerned, hardly daring to take my eyes from him in case he should worsen while I sleep.

  It is now two days since the snow started to fall, and it has not yet stopped. Cai has taken to the pastime of shared reading with an eagerness that is at once heartwarming and heartbreaking. I feel he does not, as I do, question how long we may have to enjoy this gentle pursuit. Why, he has even promised to teach me to write. My excitement at this idea was short-lived. For a brief moment I allowed myself to think what this could mean; to imagine all the ways I could employ the skill of forming my thoughts in ink upon paper. But even in these few short days I have watched my dear husband sicken further. Every wheezing breath, every wince of pain, reminds me that our future, all that we wish for and hope for, stands hostage to Isolda’s wicked desires.

  Mrs. Jones valiantly made her way here on foot yesterday and is now unlikely to leave in advance of some sort of letup in the weather. Inside the house, at least, we are snug. There is plenty of coal to keep us warm, and though the pool is frozen the spring itself continues to bubble, so that we have water. Thanks to Mrs. Jones we also have a well-stocked larder. However, there are things which we are in need of, not least some more brandy to ease Cai’s suffering. His joints pain him badly now, and are not helped by the cold. Mrs. Jones has also suggested that a bottle of laudanum might be obtained from Dr. Williams. It would, indeed, be a blessing if Cai could sleep more than a few snatched hours at a time, for how can the strongest among us thrive if we are in want of sleep? And at this time, Cai is far from strong. Alas, Mrs. Jones has no more of her own sleeping concoction left. It is decided, after much debate and some resistance from Cai, that I will go into Tregaron and fetch what we need. I will ride Prince and lead Honey, who will serve as a packhorse. I will obtain the medicines Cai has need of. In addition I will purchase more sugar, a sack of oatmeal, some dried fruit, and a ham, if I can find one. Who knows how long we may be snowed in? It is best to make the most of the trip.

  I know that Mrs. Jones has plans for us to call upon the strength and magic of the Grimoire again. I am fearful of it, but she has convinced me there is no other way, if we are to summon the force needed to rid Cai of the curse, and to rid all of us of Isolda, once and for always. But first we must attend to Cai’s immediate needs. We must keep him as well as we can whilst we ready ourselves for the confrontation that lies ahead.


  I prepare myself for facing the cruel weather by donning the heavy divided skirt and long duster coat I wore for the drove. They are roomy enough for me to be able to fit several layers of woolen garments beneath them for warmth. I have once again turned to Catrin’s trunk of clothes and found some fur-lined leather gloves which will suit my purposes well. I have pulled an old pair of Cai’s gaiters over my boots and hose for further protection against the elements. In my bedroom I regard my reflection. The clothes are worn, but will keep out the snow. In order that my broad-brimmed hat fit properly and stay on my head I wear my hair down. I am conscious of how outlandish my appearance will be to the people of the town, but in truth I care little for their opinion. None have come to offer help, though they know Cai to be unwell. They are content for me to manage the livestock on my own. Not for the first time I am thankful for Mrs. Jones, for I would not like to leave Cai alone for the hours it will take me to make my journey. In the kitchen the sight of me makes him smile. He sits up straighter in his chair, the knee rug he has finally agreed to use falling from his lap. I pick it up and tuck it tightly around him once more.

  “Never mind me,” says he, “you’d best get started. Make use of the daylight. You don’t want to be caught out in this when dark falls.” He grins slowly. “I had not thought to see my little drover again this season.” His attempt to lighten the moment is short-lived, however. He sees the lovespoon whistle around my neck. “Take care, my wild one. Treat the weather with respect, even if it is not deserving of it.”

  I smile at him and kiss his hot cheek before hurrying out.

  Mrs. Jones meets me in the hallway, and sets to winding a fine wool scarf about my neck.

  “Now then, merched,” says she, “have a care. Duw, ’tis no weather for you to be going outside. I know, I know.” She holds up a hand as if to stop me speaking. “Your husband has need of what Doctor Williams can send him.” She finishes tying the scarf, tutting as I pull my hair from under it so that it falls over my shoulders. She looks at me seriously now and I see real concern in her kind brown eyes. “Take heed, Morgana. I do not doubt you and that sure-footed pony of yours will manage the weather, but there are more dangers than snow in Tregaron this winter.” She pauses, searching for the right words. “People are scared, cariad. And you know a creature is never more dangerous than when ’tis frightened,” says she.

  I embrace her, closing my eyes briefly to breathe in the comforting smells of lavender and baking, smells of home and hearth, smells of my mother. I use the back door. The front one has swollen in the weather and is near impossible to open now. The smaller door at the rear of the hallway is sheltered by a narrow stone porch. Even so, I have to tug hard at the handle before it moves, and there is the discordant sound of wood scraping upon flagstone.

  The snow has not so much ceased falling as paused. As if it is drawing breath for further effort. I must take best advantage of the respite, however short it may prove to be. I stride over to the stables, a sharp squeaking accompanying each step in the snow, which is easily deep enough to cover my boots. I can hear Bracken barking back in the house, but I will not take him with me. His legs are so short and his fur so dense he quickly becomes balled with ice and makes poor progress. He must guard his master and wait with him for my return. Prince, as ever, is willing and more than a little agitated. Honey is reluctant to leave the stable. I tighten the girth on her panniers and the one on Prince’s saddle. I have only been outside minutes, but already the cold is beginning to penetrate my gloves, making my fingers clumsy and slow. At last I swing aboard Prince and tie Honey’s lead rein to the saddle. We all but haul her out of the yard and onto the track. She objects to the very idea of going abroad in such conditions, and Prince quickly becomes bad tempered at having to drag her along. We have not gone many yards before I decide it is better to let her loose and ride behind her, herding her along with Prince and a springy hazel stick like the old nag she insists on playing. I do not look back at the house as we go, but I feel I am being watched. I can clearly imagine Cai and Bracken at the window seat, following my laborious progress, both of them wishing they were out here with me.

  There is neither wind nor sun. The air is thick with cold, and the sky pregnant with the promise of more snow to come. The landscape beneath this heaviness is a dull white. A white tinged with grey. A white that does not reflect prettily, or glisten brightly. A white that suggests merely an absence of life. Nothing can thrive or grow in such bleakness. The birds and animals whose lot it is to exist here, now, in this suffocating cold, can only endure. Only work to survive the bitter ice that would still their hearts and freeze the blood in their veins. As I ride farther along the lane, Prince and Honey are forced to stagger and plunge through drifts that have formed between the hedgerows. Fog descends upon us, so dense and heavy with moisture that it has soon soaked manes and hair alike, and this water in turn quickly freezes. Within a short time, every branch and twig, every stone and fence post, is coated with a bristly covering of ice. As are the horses. As am I. My hair is frozen white, and makes an unearthly tinkling sound as I move. What manner of winter is this? It is unnatural. So much so, that I even begin to suspect Isolda’s hand behind it. The notion that she might be capable of bringing out such deadly conditions, blighting not only the objects of her fury but the weak, the vulnerable, the innocent at random, is a heavy thought to carry with me.

  By the time we reach Tregaron Honey is puffing and weary and both horses steam as sweat cools off them. The little town is hushed and empty, with few people venturing out. Even so I feel eyes upon me. Suspicious eyes. Wary eyes. Fearful eyes. With my icicled hair and outlandish clothing I must cut a curious figure. The snow-muted hoofbeats of the horses echo flatly against the stone walls of the houses in the square. I dismount, tie reins and rope to a hitching post, and knock upon the door of Dr. Williams’s house. Across the street from where I stand is Isolda’s imposing home. I know she will be aware of my presence. I keep my back turned and do my utmost to empty my mind.

  Dr. Williams’s maid opens the door. She looks down her crooked nose at me.

  “The doctor is engaged,” she informs me with unconvincing haste.

  I take the coins and the letter Cai has written requesting laudanum and hand it to her. She takes it from me gingerly, as though it might bite her, and disappears back inside, the door shut firmly against me lest I should force my unwelcome way in. As if I would wish to!

  A group of small children has assembled on the stone monument a few paces off. They watch me closely, whispering among themselves. Soon they are joined by an elderly man and two women whom I recall from chapel. They stand and stare at me as if I were a visitor from a foreign land. The looks they cast my way are not friendly. Indeed, they are openly hostile, and I notice the old man spit loudly in my direction, the yellow sputum discoloring the snow for a few ugly seconds before being absorbed by it. Now three more men emerge from the inn, their faces dark. Mrs. Jones was right—these people are afraid. Their loved ones are dying, and they have been convinced, not least by the exhortations of Reverend Cadwaladr, that someone among them is to blame. Someone different. Someone upon whom suspicion has already fallen. Someone with whom an untimely death is associated. And then I hear it, muttered quietly at first, and then again with gathering strength: the word witch.

  Abruptly the door in front of me opens again and the maid reappears. She thrusts a dark brown bottle into my hand and retreats once more. The door slams, sending snow from the roof onto the street beside me. I hear a heavy bolt pushed home. Tucking the bottle carefully into the inside pocket of my coat I walk as briskly as the going allows to the grocer’s shop farther down the street. I sense that the crowd is shifting behind me. Following me. I make my purchases as quickly as possible, planning to call next at the butcher’s for the ham and then make my escape. With the dried fruit packaged and nestled in my large outer pocket, a small bottle of brandy next to it, and the sack of oatmeal on my shoulder, I emerg
e once more onto the square. I need to turn right for the butcher’s, but my way is now blocked by three burly youths. They regard me with silent aggression. Someone in the crowd has more to say for themselves.

  “Go home!” comes the cry. “You are not welcome here.”

  “Stay away!” adds another.

  “Witch!” shouts someone bolder. “Witch!”

  Within seconds the entire mob is chanting at me.

  “Witch! Witch! Witch!”

  I push past, hampered by the oatmeal but pressing on, refusing to be riled. I must not be drawn into conflict, I must not! To let loose my temper now would only confirm what they suspect and fuel their hatred of me. Prince has sensed the danger and whinnies at me from the far side of the square. If only I can reach him I can leave quickly.

  The first stone whistles past my face. And then another. And another. I am close to the horses when a large lump of sandstone strikes my cheek with such force that I stumble, landing heavily in the snow, the sack of oatmeal snagging on the wall, ripping open, disgorging its contents in an instant. The crowd, as if shocked, hesitate, and I seize the moment. Abandoning the oatmeal I untie Honey, grab Prince’s reins, and spring quickly into the saddle. Blood trickles from the wound on my face, splashing crimson onto the pony’s frosted mane. It is taking all my concentration, all my will, to control the force that rages within me; my own protective instinct which would, given freedom, rain havoc upon these vicious people. I am on the point of urging Prince through the crowd and forcing an exit when I see Isolda come out of her house. She is dressed in fine furs and looks strikingly elegant and composed. How misleading are the appearances of people. How can I expect society to accept a wild harum-scarum such as I, and to doubt the picture of respectability and prosperity Mrs. Bowen presents?