by H C Turk
Aye, there were at least one, but he could not be leaved until days next. One old and knotted man with permanent amusement and no foolish questions could depart now with his fresh horse and be returned with coin instead of spending it on cockles that only the wife relished and it did terrible things with the gas in her besides. Leave at once, through Whitford and to a river to kill us.
We journeyed in a small, flexible wagon with remarkably large wheels for extremes of landscape. The farmer offered an endless chat despite our poor interest in discourse, but Marybelle had to reply alone, for I knew our goal. I recalled the Wye, the killing river first mentioned by Wroth in London. And my companion, mother, sister, colleague, family, witch knew also, for she could smell my fear.
“We approach a river, sir?” she asked the farmer.
“We are, and a most beautiful and wild thing nearer the mountains.”
“We cross this water with effort?”
“No, and ma’am, in that our path leads to the shallows that are most this dry season.”
“I swim not, sir, and have a fear of needing to do so,” Marybelle continued.
“Well, don’t be fearing for that Wye which lies before us. Walking across it you could without getting your vest wet, though some water might be seeping up from the wagon’s floor, so hold your goods high if they should be keeping dry.”
Soon visible through the trees, the river proved to be narrow ahead, despite its odor of wet bulk. The sound as well was mild: no rushing torrents, no currents to drag me under. But with all my wide-eyed fear as we approached, I found further emotion, found surprise at the sinner’s lack of preparation, for he simply drove into the river. Up I stretched to view the water, seeing the far side of the Wye—as well as its bottom, so shallow and clear was the water. And I thought of some pool in some huge garden in some opaque city left behind, but Pangham’s had been water enough for drowning, despite its clear aspect. Then I settled within the wagon as we crossed, the single horse wet to its belly, the witches receiving some seeping as the farmer had warned, but no drowning as per Satan’s nocturnal vows.
As we gained dry land, the farmer stated: “And this is Wales, ladies, once over the river, in that it be the border between England.”
We proceeded to wilderness, a land I was finally able to contemplate, to feel. Only after crossing the river did I come aware that I had been considering nothing but this water. During the day’s travel, I had thought little of our goal, because I understood that any thinking would lead only to a river’s fear. But as we continued into Wales with all drowning behind, I sensed the countryside, seeing a wealth of the deepest greens ending with no brick building. I saw tall trees with countless peers, saw the land all around me in rising, falling curves, hills never flattened for a cathedral’s foundation. And where were the sinners? No road had they here, and scarcely a trail. This dent in the land we followed throughout the day, twice resting the farmer and his horse, the witches sitting on soft ground to smell cats of no London household, perhaps a bear, birds seen in every part of the air, and enough insects to support them all. I also smelled a witch, in that Marybelle’s salve had worn away so that again she smelled like family. Soon cresting a hill like a tide to carry me high, not drown me below, I viewed through the trees a unique sight, an idea known but never experienced. In the distance were ragged, conical cliffs of enormous scope called mountains. And when the sinning farmer turned to me, I had no explanation for that terrible sound of cackling, Marybelle’s only response a pleasure I could smell.
After more hours of driving in a wilderness that seemed endless, the farmer called to his passengers.
“Apologies to you, ladies, for the slow going, in that I and the wagon are both old, and the horse sensible enough to set the pace for the ground, not for clocks and things.”
“No hurry, sir,” I told him brightly, “in that we behind intend to live long lives not to be measured by timepieces.”
With fine laughter, the farmer proceeded. Soundless Marybelle smelled of wry satisfaction, for a long life in the wilds she had intended since breathing the Irish Sea, becoming a thief, then a semi-socialite, soon to fulfill herself by becoming a witch again.
Days on wagons’ bucking bottoms had yet to pain my bones, but soon my nose hurt. Deep into the day, we gained a final settlement, the younger witch disheartened to be amongst sinners again. Wystghllaenniomb was no more than a supply center for the local horse ranchers whose mobile crop we smelled. Unreadable words carved on the rare sign proved the foreignness of this region. The entirety of the village could be seen in a brief walk, no buildings here requiring stairs, no high roofs from which to observe more of the sinners’ constructions. No gardens to give a witch respite, for sinners were the aberration here, and around them was God.
“And where about this place is it you go?” the farmer asked as he halted his horse at the village’s far edge.
“We would go beyond this place,” Marybelle replied, and I wondered when last I had heard her speak, but could not recall.
“Nothing past but farms,” the man stated. “Toward which one would you go?”
“That one nearest the mountains,” Marybelle answered. “My father has a cabin in the forest beyond. There I take the daughter for healing.”
“A few farms be about, madam, and two that I know of toward the mountains. One lies there,” he said, and pointed north, “the other there,” and he stretched his arm south. “I believe I might recognize the name of that farm near your father.”
“I was given no name of the nearer farm, sir, only that it was the most remote and nearer the mountains.”
“Either one, madam, could it be.”
After a pause, Marybelle replied, “I believe it the one southernly.”
“And how is it we will know right or wrong, madam?”
“If correct, my father will appear with donkeys shortly.”
“This is the proper day for him to meet you?”
“It is the proper day, and a good time within it.”
“But what, missus, if the farm be incorrect?”
“I will know when we approach it. If incorrect, we shall hie to the other. Surely, an extra fee shall be paid you if more toting is needed.”
“Very well, and off we are, missus. And kindly speak to me of the wrong way as soon as it be known.”
We proceeded beyond the village toward the west and south. Before us lay the same land seen for hours, hills increasing in size as we neared, the green of the foliage deep, the breeze clean and smelling more of horses than sinners, the mountains seemingly as expansive as the sky itself, a grey atmosphere of stone.
We continued for another hour, continued toward animals. Soon, small, dark horses were seen at pasture. We then arrived at a farm, its buildings well removed from the path we traveled. Having sensed about carefully, Marybelle of course recognized the site.
“Yes, and this without question is the proper locale, sir, one not mistaken by me. Then we ask you to travel as far as you might to the dense forest beyond.”
He did, and we journeyed effortlessly, halting at the forest near dusk, stopping at wilderness.
“No farther can I travel, madam,” the man announced, “what with losing light and having no path. Yet I see no father nor donkey.”
“Surely, he is immediately about, or coming. If not, then we walk to his cabin which is exactly in that direction,” Marybelle asserted, and pointed precisely into a forest she had never seen before.
“And, madam, I have some concern if you may be wrong.”
The younger traveler then provided an answer.
“Kind sir, your thoughtful generosity of concern we dismiss with appreciation and clear explanation; for if by rare chance we have the wrong locale, we return to the farmhouse behind by walking. Great walkers my family members are, as per God’s gift and His witness.”
“But, miss, you will be walking in the dark.”
“Sir, we would be walking beneath the moon. If ev
er you had traveled in London at night with criminals likely to attack from every doorway, you would glory in the solitude of being away from true beasts. The horses about are safe, are they not, so what is to endanger persons?”
“No more than being lost, miss,” he replied. Even then the smell of this sinner’s concern had become odd, for I was no longer of his people.
“Sufficiently lost, sir,” I continued, “and we sleep until daylight, thereupon to gain the farm, the father, or even the village if need be. But no longer shall we gain your concern, for we deserve no worry from you to make you suffer, in that no suffering shall burden us. Therefore, with the grace of Lord Jesus we bid you adieu, and pray for your safety even as we pray for God’s kindness toward you never to end.”
Finally, the talkative lass convinced the farmer to abandon us, though he refused the additional coin Marybelle offered, for his thoughtfulness would not be moderated by money. A tip of his hat, a wish for good waiting, and he was gone.
Marybelle looked toward the forest. I watched the farmer depart. No horses were about, no farmhouse nearby, only a receding sinner returning to his world, leaving me for a wild land that seemed not only immediate, but infinitely beyond. The wagon left trails, but none extended into the forest. Only untouched earth and its remaining warmth from day, vines and grasses never seen by men, animals never corrupted nor killed by sinners, a new world so complex in its sensings and promise as to form a whole engulfing my perceptions. And all this world was ours.
“Can we be so safe so easily?” I pondered, speaking to Marybelle while facing the disappearing wagon and its dissolving sound.
“Only the end was easy,” she replied.
“This area is unknown to us.”
“Smells like God’s Earth to me.”
“In what manner do we select a direction?”
“Until the hills become mountains, we walk. Thereafter, eating and water may be sparse. We move away from the sinner smell.”
“And thereafter what is done?”
“We live. We live away from sinners. We walk and follow our sensings to the homesite that best fits us. We walk away from any trapper’s cabin, any other poison in the land.”
This was no Elsie. Marybelle lacked the servant’s sweetness, but also her naiveté. As Marybelle removed her veil to allow good air in, to relieve herself from having to hide, I saw how ugly she was, for the first instance in my life not finding a witch’s true face pleasing in appearance. Elsie’s and Rathel’s and Eric’s—faces like my own—were familiar and accepted, if not preferred; but was not this witch’s visage of God’s nature?
“We walk, then, into God’s land,” Marybelle stated.
“Away from Satan’s,” I replied. And we entered.
Chapter 22
Vantage Of Pleasure
We entered the forest deeply enough to be unseen by curious or dangerous sinners. Then we slept in the grass near the raised roots of huge oaks, an experience wholly unlike our night in Oxford’s commons, for in these wilds we were not bounded by sinners. We slept until dawn was announced by birds with their songs and insects abandoning their night buzz. Then we sought a home.
The Cambrian Mountains were not visible through the forest, but the pervasive stone smell of our site had a massive source I was eager to see again. Around us were parts of that range from its ancient past, for the trees were separated by mossy boulders. Past these hard forms of God I walked with Marybelle, through a haze of tiny moths, beneath flitting swallows, frightening a rabbit that brought a smile to me. I had forgotten how rapid and erratic were the moves of these beasts. Of course, not erratic: drunks in London were erratic. Hares were precise in their complicated turnings. The witches themselves remained steady, having stuffed hats and vests into bags, proceeding through a land of true life.
“Not enough undergrowth to feed even two witches,” I offered some unspecifiable time later when the coarse terrain had yet to change.
“We’ll not settle in a place to starve us,” Marybelle replied, “and not one so near sinners.”
Walk we did. After significant travel, I found myself losing energy. Marybelle, however, was as constant as the ocean waves. So steady was her progress that she seemed familiar with this land, though in fact she was only decisive. Worse, she seemed tireless, and I wondered if I could sustain this rate considering my lax life in the city. But Marybelle became weary enough to cease before I collapsed.
“I will pee here, and then we might rest,” she said.
“Excellent, in that I am less than accustomed to such hiking.”
We dropped our baggage, then squatted in different areas for different deposits. When we returned to our paired bags, as though a witches’ settlement, they became the subject of our speaking.
“If your bag be weighty, you might throw out what is useless,” Marybelle submitted.
“Within I have additional clothes and shoes if those I wear become depleted. No mementoes have I brought, nothing truly useless. For now, I shall bear the weight.”
“Are not all the dressing things beneath your gown excess?” Marybelle wondered. “Do they not interfere with your movement in a witches’ land?”
“To some degree, but removing them entails removing my dress, a process elaborate enough for me to delay until our next night’s sleeping. As well, divesting myself of underthings would necessitate my burying them, think ye not? Although I will leave my urine behind, liquids are worn away by the rain; whereas cloth remains to draw sinning curiosity.”
“Agreed. We need not attract sinners, even those unseen. If none are in any area, they soon may be.”
We had been walking for hours. If in London, I would have a home to accept me upon my return. This concern of shelter, however, was not entirely due to the sinners’ influence on me, for all my life I had slept indoors, first with Mother in a cabin. I mentioned this environmental change to Marybelle.
“With no roof above, we shall collect dew each night as we did this last. Never have I cared for such manifested dampness. The Rathel’s basement I found comforting, but the moisture there was in the air, not upon my skin.”
“I fancy the dampness,” Marybelle replied. “Even in London, I oft slept out. But here we’ll need a shelter. The smell of this clime promises a much harsher cold than Man’s Isle. Perhaps we’ll find a cave.”
“Having familiarity with such cliff holes from my past on the same isle, I have come to understand that against my recently stated preference, the average cave is not only damp in its nonabsorbency, but also typically dripping and puddling.”
“Not so wet as the Irish Sea,” Marybelle observed.
We ate our last cucumber. Though smelling water nearby, we did not avert our course, not being sinners, who require a constant intake of liquid. Soon we came to ridged land with fewer trees. Marybelle offered her sensing of more verdant land ahead, believing these stony ledges underfoot no more than a rocky foot to the mountains, the solid stone head well beyond separated by a richer torso. Often as we proceeded, we had to skirt sheer drops of several paces. Standing upon a minor height, I glimpsed the mountains, then leapt upward for a superior view. Being poor at leaping, Marybelle could only listen to my descriptions and smile. No difficulty had she in walking, however.
And walking. Further mountain views continued to thrill, renewing my sense of goal. Before darkness, we halted to select a site for sleeping, but what was our choice? A thorny bush. A mass of smelly flock plants, blue-green with sticky oil worse than that used by Elsie on my (my?) wooden floor. A rotten log with every type of bug, none of them appealing. Sharp, protruding ridges of stone. A bit of plain soil. Marybelle moved directly to a tree, placing her bag against the exposed roots. I wondered what mystery was contained within her luggage so useful that Marybelle would not dispose of its mass as she had suggested of mine. Perhaps its only value was as a pillow, for thereupon she settled, not opening her eyes until the next morning.
No bed here for me to be upon or b
elow. Seeing Marybelle settle so easily, and being fully wearied, I lay upon a flat section of dirt, brushing away stones poking my spine like a man’s hands against my bosom. Feeling dampness collect on me at once, I leapt up to remove my extra dress from my bag and cover myself completely. Though I nearly smothered throughout the night, I had none of that wet river feel surrounding me, drowning me. I slept, no dreaming.
• • •
“Is our walking endless?” I asked Marybelle during our morning rest.
“We walk till we find an end.”
“The smell of sinners is scarcely noticeable. Are we not sufficiently removed from them?”
“Not if they ride horses. Besides, the eating is poor here.”
“So I’ve noticed, since not even sweet grass roots have I found, only some small mushrooms that need be spat away.”
“Once living in these wilds, you will have less of a sinners’ need to eat throughout the day.”
“Living in these wilds in our current manner and I will require less sustenance by having less of a person in need of nutrition, my feet and legs falling off after further months of this travel. And though I’ll become accustomed to this endless walking by accomplishing same, how might we find your goal? Have we a better guide than randomness?”
“I follow my nose, which was not injured by the sinners as was yours.”
“Equally impaired are my eyes, since they see only rock ahead. For a time, I would rather be the bird flying above these trees to determine what lay beyond.”
“You shan’t become a bird,” Marybelle returned.
“Then I climb a tree.”
“I’ve no nimbleness for that.”
“Not being constructed like an average witch, I’ve adequate flexibility for such clambering, as perfected perhaps by climbing up and down the Rathel’s wall from my chamber to the street in formulation of plans unfortunately less successful than yours.”
“Yes,” Marybelle replied.
Considering my mass of words, I waited for at least one other from this sister, but only silence came. How much like the land this woman was becoming to issue no verbalities. Perhaps I should have brought Eric along.