Fearsome Magics

by Jonathan Strahan

  She turned to look at him. He was smiling, carelessly beautiful.

  “Then you cannot know this road. I walk this way often.”

  He hesitated, and for a moment she regretted the sharpness of her tone.

  “I’m sorry,” he said, dismounting. “I did not mean to offend you.”

  She shook her head. “You didn’t.”

  “Why do you come here?”

  She shrugged. “I like the quiet,” she said, aware of the intentness of the way he watched her, his attention to what she said.

  “And you?”

  He smiled. “She needed riding and it seemed a fine day to take her out.”

  Reaching up Hannah stroked the bay’s long nose. “Is she still wild?”

  Brendan patted the bay’s neck with one hand. “Not for me.”

  While they were speaking they had reached the shadow of the great oak that stood between the road and the wood. Looking at it Brendan grinned.

  “Come with me,” he said, looping the horse’s halter over a branch and opening the gate. When she hesitated he held out his hand.

  “Don’t worry,” he said. “There’s nothing to be afraid of.”

  Taking his outstretched hand Hannah allowed him to lead her down the hill into the wood. Beech trees grew there, tall and green, and beyond them a stream. By the stream he slowed, placing his hands on her waist to lift her over, then, taking her hand, he led her on, into the wood.

  Beneath the trees it was quiet, the only sound the wind in the trees, the cries of the birds. Brendan moved quickly, quietly, a smile on his face. Then, as they reached the edge of a hollow he stopped, motioning to her to keep quiet.

  At first she did not see what he was pointing at. Then she saw a litter of fox cubs, playing in the hollow. The cubs were small, jumping and pouncing on each other and rolling here and there. Surprised, she smiled, and turning saw Brendan smiling back.

  “How do you know they were here?”

  He shrugged, and placing a hand on her arm pointed to the ridge behind the cubs where the vixen had appeared, a rabbit in her mouth. Perhaps catching wind of them she stopped, sniffing the air. Down below the cubs began to mewl and cry, racing toward her. Then, as the cubs reached her, the vixen lowered her head and, with her cubs jumping around her, jogged down into the hollow.

  “Does Old Hughes know?” she asked, and at the mention of the gamekeeper’s name Brendan shot her a conspiratorial smile and shook his head.

  “What if he finds out?”

  Brendan shrugged. “He’ll not mind about a few foxes.”

  Looking down at the mother tearing the rabbit apart for her cubs Hannah remembered how many times foxes had stolen chickens from the farms nearby.

  “Are you sure about that?”

  This time he grinned. “No.”

  That evening, when she arrived home, her father saw something in her manner, and, suspicious, asked her where she had been.

  “Nowhere,” she said, “just walking.”

  But her brother, Will, snorted. “Young John Bradley said he saw her walking with Brendan O’Rourke on the village road.”

  She shot her brother an angry look, but he just folded his arms and smiled unpleasantly. Across the table her father looked up, his face suspicious. The Bradleys owned the farm that bordered theirs, and he had long intended Hannah would marry Old John Bradley’s eldest son, Young John. Yet she did not care for Young John, thinking there was a coldness in him, a resentment that made him small.

  Her father removed his pipe from his mouth. “Brendan O’Rourke?”

  “He was out riding,” she said, perhaps too boldly. “It didn’t mean anything.”

  Her father sat staring at her for a long moment. “You be careful of that boy,” he said at last. “I’ll not have you as some Irishman’s whore.”

  SOMETIMES SHE WONDERS whether things might have been different if not for her brother and father’s determination she wed John Bradley. For as the summer progressed she found herself meeting with Brendan in secret.

  It was intoxicating at first, to have somebody so obviously in love with her. He was so handsome, so kind, so in love with the idea of her it was almost impossible to resist. Yet still some part of her held back. It wasn’t that she didn’t care for him: she did. Nor was it that he didn’t make her happy, or that his presence didn’t make her spirits lift: indeed when they were together she could almost convince herself she loved him as he clearly loved her. But each time they parted she felt that feeling slip away, replaced by a sick feeling she was betraying someone, although whether it was him or her she was never quite sure.

  Sometimes she wondered why he couldn’t see it, couldn’t tell, and then she felt wicked, certain that it was her doing, that she was deceiving him. More than once she decided to break it off, and once even did, yet each time she saw him again, and her doubts fled. It was as if his love were enough for both of them when they were together.

  Meanwhile Will watched her, seeking to catch her out. They had never been close, something in his nature making him jealous of her. Sometimes she wondered what it was that made him want her to marry John at all, although she knew the truth was simple: that he wished her to conform to his wishes, to do as she was bid.

  And then, on the evening of the harvest, she and Brendan slipped away into the forest together. The night was warm, and as they walked they could hear the sound of laughter and music from the feast over the back. Yet as they reached the stream they heard a noise behind them, and turning, saw Will standing there.

  “Will!” she said, in surprise. “What are you doing here?”

  He laughed. “I would rather know what you are doing here, although I do not think it will take much unravelling.”

  “Where I go is my affair.”

  “Not when you go with this one.”

  “It is not your concern, Will. Go back to the feast.”

  He laughed. “Oh but it is my concern, sister. For you have been forbidden to walk out with this Irishman.”

  At this Brendan stepped forward. “I have no quarrel with you, Will.”

  Will looked at him as if seeing him for the first time. “No? Well I have a quarrel with you. Have you forgotten my sister is promised to another?”

  “Promised by you,” Hannah said.

  “Promised by our father. Or have you forgotten him?” Will said hotly, stepping forward. Beside her Brendan extended an arm, shielding Hannah from her brother, and as he did Hannah felt something shift, felt the way things moved around her. Perhaps Will felt it too, for he hesitated, then shook his head, and snorted.

  “So it’s to be like that, is it? Well you’ve made your bed, Hannah, I hope you enjoy lying in it.”

  AS THE DAYS grow longer she visits the village less and less. Although Connor’s fits of screaming have grown less frequent he has grown increasingly difficult in other ways, only rarely sleeping, his moods alternating almost without warning between jags of hysterical crying and a curious, empty state where he lies staring at the wall or the ceiling, as if seeing something there that she cannot. The nights are the worst, when he will not sleep for longer than an hour, demanding food and screaming in the dark or lying staring into the black in silence. Occasionally she tries to convince him to sit, for he is almost eight months old, and should be crawling soon, but he turns rigid at her touch, or lolls away.

  Yet despite it all Connor continues to grow. Sometimes when he is asleep she looks at him and sees the child he once was, the beautiful baby she held the day he was born, and in those moments she is filled with love for him. But when he is awake these moments pale in the face of his anger and screaming.

  In the village it is worse. It is common knowledge there is something wrong with her child, yet no one speaks of it to her. And so she goes through her days alone, tending to Connor and avoiding the gaze of people she has known all her life.

  Even when she works alongside them she is like one apart. In the fields, the others fall quiet when she is ther
e, or make awkward conversation, so much so that she takes to working on her own, bent over in a patch of field a furrow or two removed from the others.

  And then, one afternoon in July she is with the Widow Thirlwell in the kitchens, preparing the food for the men’s dinners. All week they have been bringing in the hay from the western fields, the men and many of the women labouring through the afternoons and into the long, high evenings, eager to take advantage of the warm, dry weather; and although it is hard work there is cheer in it, and in the meals they eat, often after ten, when the sun finally dips low and the dusk comes. As they begin bundling the food the Widow pauses and looks at Connor for a long moment before returning to her work.

  “You should not blame yourself,” she says after a few seconds, not looking up as she speaks. “Some children do not thrive.”

  Startled, Hannah pauses, a rush of emotion rising in her throat. A moment later the Widow lifts her face and looks at her. She has round cheeks that are burnished apple red by the sun, and her eyes are small and bleary blue, yet there is a sharp intelligence behind her laughing manner.

  “Some of the women say it was the shock of losing that husband of yours, others talk of bad blood, or witchcraft. Don’t listen to them: I had three children who did not thrive and I never lay with the devil or any foolery like that.”

  Still Hannah does not speak. Part of her wants to weep with relief, but another part is angry and upset she has been a subject of discussion.

  That evening, when she takes the food out, she watches the others talking and laughing, sees the children chasing each other, and, her head singing with exhaustion, finds herself gripped by a sudden fury, too afraid even to speak for fear she will shout or scream like a madwoman.

  A WEEK LATER she is out by the field when old Maggie appears out of the trees. Hoping to slip away Hannah averts her eyes but the old woman is too quick, calling her name so Hannah must turn and acknowledge her. As Hannah turns Maggie smiles unpleasantly, aware she has won this small contest of wills.

  “What is it?” Hannah demands, although she knows the answer well enough.

  “You did not pay me,” Maggie says.

  Hannah doesn’t flinch. “Why should I pay you for witchery?”

  “Perhaps you should ask yourself that question. After all, you’re the one with a child who will not thrive.”

  Hannah takes a step toward the old woman, her fists clenching. “Did you curse him, witch?”

  Maggie snorts. “Calm yourself, girl. I had nothing to do with what ails your child, though I would have been within my rights.”

  When Hannah doesn’t step back, Maggie smiles. “Are you telling me you haven’t guessed the truth already?”

  “What truth is that, witch?”

  “Your child: he is not human.”

  Hannah hesitates. “Not human?”

  “It is the work of the little people. A baby as fair as him is easy prey for them. Was there never a night you did not feel their presence?”

  She does not reply, just stands, looking at the old woman. Maggie smiles unpleasantly at her.

  “Yes, now you see. The child you rear is no longer yours. Your Connor is gone, stolen away. And in his place a changeling.”

  “No,” she says in a strangled voice. Maggie does not move, just stands, staring at her. Not for the first time Hannah sees the delight the old woman takes in causing pain.

  “Is he as other children? Does he speak? Does he walk or play? Does he cry out when you touch him?”

  She shakes her head.

  “It is because he is not human, he is a thing made of wood by fairy hands.”

  Something in Maggie’s words makes Hannah pause. “Wood?”

  Maggie smiles and nods.

  “And my Connor?”

  Maggie shrugs. “Gone.”

  “And how do I get him back?”

  “Drive out the changeling. They fear fire and water: if you push him under the creature will leap free rather than drown, and once the enchantment is broken your child will return.”

  Hannah stands looking at the old woman. Somewhere in her she knows this pleases Maggie, that the old woman sees a way to have her in her power, that this is itself a vengeance of sorts.

  “I must go,” she says. “I will be missed.”

  Connor is sleeping when she returns, although she sees by Jane’s face the time he was not was not easy. Taking a penny from her apron she presses it into her hand, but Jane pushes it back, telling her to keep it.

  “You have enough to worry about,” she says.

  She does not argue, just nods, dropping her eyes as Jane leans close and kisses her cheek before she slips out the door and away.

  Left alone with Connor she stares at him, hearing Maggie’s words echoing in her ears. Could it be that this creature she calls her own is nothing of the sort? That this thing she holds in her arms and feeds at her breast is nothing but a copy of a child? Part of her knows these fears are madness, that the old woman’s words were meant to disturb and frighten in precisely this way, yet as she looks at him lying there she cannot put the idea out of her mind.

  SHE AND BRENDAN had been married a year when she went to Maggie. Brendan did not suggest it, nor would he have wanted her to if he had known, but she knew her failure to be taken with child worried him. It was not for want of trying: although afterward she often felt lonely, lost, she could not help but take pleasure in the way their bodies moved together, in Brendan’s delight with her, the rapt intensity of his desire.

  Maggie’s hut was quiet when she reached it, although in front of it a fire burned, a pot suspended over it. Over the door hung rabbit’s feet, the skulls of animals. Seeing them Hannah hesitated, stepping back, behind a tree, but as she did old Maggie emerged, and looked her way.

  “Who’s that?” Maggie called. “Don’t worry, I know you’re there.”

  A moment passed then Hannah stepped out to find the old woman staring at her.

  “So,” she said, “it’s you. What brings you to my hut?”

  Hannah did not answer, just stood rigidly, and after a moment Maggie snorted.

  “I see,” she said, and turning motioned to Hannah to follow her into the hut.

  Inside it was dark, thick with the stink of smoke and herbs and the old woman’s body.

  “You would be with child?” Maggie asked, and Hannah nodded. For a long moment the old woman stared at her. Then she reached out a hand, quick as a snake, and shoved it into Hannah’s skirts. Hannah cried out, in shock and shame, but she did not pull away. The old woman’s hand was hard, her fingers rough. As she poked and felt Hannah fought the urge to look away, unwilling to give the old hag the pleasure of seeing her distress.

  “He loves you, I think.”

  Hannah looked at her in surprise and found Maggie watching her.

  “And you?” she asked, “Do you love him?”

  When Hannah did not reply immediately Maggie chuckled, a cold smile on her face.

  “No matter. Here, drink this, then lie with him under the full moon. A child will come.”

  Hannah took the herbs in her hand. Maggie was watching her. All at once she felt a kind of revulsion toward the old woman, her prying smile.

  “What, witch?” she asked, the anger in her voice surprising her.

  “You should be careful,” Maggie said. “He is touched by the fairies, that husband of yours. And they are jealous of those they favour.” As she spoke she reached out a hand for Hannah, but Hannah jerked away, suddenly filled with loathing. Maggie smiled in something like triumph, but shaking her head Hannah backed out of the hut, not turning back when she heard the old woman behind her, calling her name, demanding her coin.

  She waited a week, then on the night of the full moon she made the soup Brendan liked and drank the herbs, wincing at their bitter taste. And when they were done she took him to their bed, and with an urgency that frightened her, drew him into herself. But when they were done and he lay spent on top of her she felt
the old emptiness return, and with it a loneliness that sang through her like regret.

  AS JULY PASSES she works in the fields in the days, sleeps in her cottage at night. While the other children run and play by the hedgerows and on the furrows, chasing the birds under the care of their older siblings, Connor lies and stares at the clouds or the leaves overhead. Other children his age are walking, speaking, yet although his body is strong, the muscles in his back and neck holding him rigid when she touches him, he does not sit, and on those occasions she rolls him onto his belly the violence of his fury and screaming quickly convinces her to return him to his back.

  It is a blessing, in a way, for while he lies still she can work uninterrupted. Once she might have joked and laughed with the others as they worked, but as the months have passed the other villagers have become cautious around her; although they still laugh amongst themselves as they work, they keep their distance from Hannah, only speaking to her when they have to.

  It pleases her to be made separate like this. For she does not seek their company, and in truth she has little energy for it. For although Connor is calm in the daylight, he is not at night. Instead, when the darkness comes he begins to cry and thrash, his voice rising in the high-pitched scream she has come to hate and fear, the sound of it keeping her from sleep night after night.

  Were he another child she might be able to comfort him, to lull him to sleep. Yet her touch only makes it worse, provoking cries of fury and distress. The only thing that will work is feeding, and even that works less often with each passing week. More than once she has found herself seated outside, in the dark, listening to his cries inside, and wishing only for sleep.

  Unable to sleep at night she takes to curling up in the shade of the trees during the warmth of the afternoon, while the others rest and talk, dozing amidst the smell of the grass and the soil, the high song of the insects.

  Thus it is that one afternoon she wakes to the sound of voices, and sitting up sees the others have made their way to the side of the road. Lifting an arm to shade her eyes she sees a man leading a wagon along the road below, some object secured beneath tarpaulins atop it.