Fearsome Magics

by Jonathan Strahan

  As she hurries across the field to join the others she sees the object on the back is a machine, a monster of a thing made of metal and timber, with great pipes protruding from it.

  “It’s the threshing machine for the master,” Bill Egan says as she draws level with him, not taking his eyes from the road. Hannah nods, remembering hearing the talk about this machine, the way it has put men out of work in towns all over the county. But as she stands, watching the wagon wind on toward the big house it is not the machine she is looking at, but the young man on the horse, who has stopped and is conversing with old Tom Moore, his face relaxed and filled with an easy good cheer.

  IN THE DAYS that follow the thresher is the only subject of conversation in the fields amongst the men. The women, by contrast, are more interested by the young gentleman, whose name it seems is Thomas Middleton. He is an engineer, and has the manners of a gentleman, although he is often in the field with the other men. Jane claims to have heard he will be here a month, which means he will be here for the harvest dance, and for a time they amuse themselves by imagining who he might dance with.

  She does not join them in their chatter. Yet she watches him. He is handsome, but she does not see that, or not only that. Instead she sees somebody who has come from the town, somebody who moves in a world larger than this one. There is a lightness and an ease to his manner, an openness in his smile she cannot help but notice.

  Once, only a few years ago, he would have noticed her. Now though she pauses in her work to stare at him, aware of the way she has been made invisible. One afternoon, down by the road she pauses by the trough where the horses are watered and takes in her reflection, saddened by the sight of her sunburned cheeks and unruly hair, the coarseness of her skin.

  But then, a fortnight or so after he arrives, Old Tom Moore calls her to him in the east field and bids her bear a message back to the master’s house for the Widow Thirlwell. Because it is hot Hannah takes the path past the old dovecote by the stream, hoping to keep to the dappled shade of the beech trees that spread there. The dovecote has been abandoned for as long as anybody can remember, its structure home to wild birds, disturbed only by the children who come here to steal their eggs. But as she rounds the bend toward the road she is surprised to see Mr Middleton standing in front of it. Suddenly uncertain she comes to a halt, and is about to turn away and up the slope, but as she does he turns and looks at her.

  “I am sorry,” she says, “I did not mean to disturb you.”

  He smiles. “You have not disturbed me. I was just wondering how long this has stood empty. Do you know?”

  Hannah shakes her head. “It was empty when I was a child,” she says. “And even then it was old.”

  Mr Middleton looks back at the structure, as if considering her answer. “And would the local people use it if it were not abandoned?”

  Hannah hesitates, uncertain about what he is asking. “It is not ours to use,” she says. “It is the master’s.”

  He nods and looks at her again. “But if it were yours to use you would use it?”

  “I suppose.”

  Perhaps seeing her discomfort Mr Middleton shakes his head and grins.

  “I’m sorry,” he says. “I sometimes forget myself. It’s just it seems strange, you all toiling in the fields while something like this stands empty.”

  Hannah nods. “Perhaps you should speak to the master.”

  He looks at her. “Perhaps I should,” he says, then pauses, looking at her. “Do you have a name?”

  Hannah looks at him. Seen close up he is younger than she had thought, his eyes green beneath brown hair.

  “Hannah O’Rourke.”

  “A handsome name,” he says. “And what brings you this way?”

  “I am taking a message to the kitchens.”

  “I see. I am heading back there myself. Might I walk with you?”

  For a long moment he stands, watching her. Then, surprising herself, Hannah smiles. “Of course,” she says.

  WHEN SHE RETURNS to the field she does not tell the others of her conversation with Mr Middleton, although she knows some busybody will make sure they hear of it soon enough. But for now it is enough to have this thing for herself, to feel the way it swells within her. Perhaps Connor senses it as well, for as she makes her way back home that evening he lies against her quietly, without fighting or complaining as he usually does, and when it comes to sleep he passes easily into unconsciousness. Yesterday he screamed and fought and moaned and she wept with frustration, until she looked at him and saw what others saw, that there is something unnatural about him, something not-human, as if he were a distorted reflection of a child. Yet now, as she lies on the edge of sleep and hears him breathing next to her she does not know what to think. For although he is barely there, a dumb thing, still she knows somewhere within herself his flesh is of hers, his warmth is wound into her being, and to think otherwise is sinful, hateful, a denial of herself as much as of him.

  JULY FADES INTO August, the days coming high and hot so they work faster against the threat of the storms they know will come. As they cut the wheat she watches Mr Middleton directing the men, teaching them the operation of the machine. Although they have not spoken again since that afternoon she has seen his eyes seek her out across the field, seen the way his manner changes as she passes. So have others: although they are wary of teasing her about it some of the women have taken to whistling at her when he passes, although she will not give them the pleasure of responding.

  The machine is a monstrous thing. Steam-driven, it roars and hisses, belching steam and smoke into the air as it grinds and creaks. The first time it started Connor began to scream, beating his head into the ground so hard she was afraid he would do himself harm. That first day she bore him away down to the stream where it was quiet and spent half an hour trying to calm him, a response that has not altered, meaning she has spent much of the past fortnight with him screaming and beating his head, the merest murmur of the machine enough to make him grow rigid and begin to fight.

  For the others the machine is a constant source of wonder. Even though the men still mutter darkly about how many have been put on the road by similar machines this one is a source of constant fascination, so much so that at any given moment a group of them are to be found standing near it, watching as the wheat is fed into its maw and discussing its operations.

  And then, all at once, the harvest is over, and the celebrations are upon them. Although it is two years since she went to the harvest dance, this year she finds herself as giddy about it as she was when she was a girl of fourteen.

  The Widow Thirlwell offers to care for Connor while she is at the dance, and so on the evening appointed she brushes her hair and takes the shawl Brendan bought her when they wed and walks the half a mile into the village to leave him with her and then on, to the back barn, where the dance is to be held.

  It is a warm night, and although the storm that has been threatening all day has held off clouds are gathering to the west, lightning dancing on the horizon. Perhaps sensing she meant to leave him, perhaps simply because he was uncomfortable in a strange place, Connor had begun to whimper as she bid the Widow farewell, and although she hesitated the Widow had placed a hand in the small of her back and pushed her out into the warm night, leaving her anxious; but now as she approaches the barn that unease falls away, replaced by a strange, giddy delight in the possibility of her freedom.

  Although it is still early a crowd has already gathered, some seated at the tables that stand in the yard, others laughing and talking. To one side a group of the younger men are gathered around the barrels, drinking; as she enters she glimpses her brother and Young John Bradley, and for a moment she and Will’s eyes meet, before Will looks back to John and raises his mug. In the trees lanterns have been hung, giving the place the feel of a fairy kingdom.

  Now she is here she is not certain she should be. Once these people were her friends: now she is a stranger amongst them. For a while
she lingers by the oak tree, looking out over the crowd. By the barn Tunny Brown and the others are tuning their instruments, in front of them some of the children are chasing each other, darting back and forth across the area that has been set aside for dancing. From somewhere in the distance thunder rumbles; without thinking she tightens her hand about her shawl.

  And then, just as she is deciding to slip away, to go back and spend the evening in the Widow’s kitchen, she feels somebody beside her, and turning, sees Mr Middleton, the sight of him causing her to step back in surprise. He smiles.

  “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you.”

  She shakes her head. “You didn’t.”

  “Are you sure?” he asks, and for a moment she hesitates, then laughs.

  “Maybe a little.”

  “Perhaps I could fetch you a drink to make up for my rudeness?”

  At first Hannah does not know what to say, then she nods, quickly, as if this moment might end. “Yes,” she says. “I would like that.”

  He extends his arm, and together they walk toward the tree where the barrels stand. As they approach several of the men glance at the two of them and turn away but if Mr Middleton notices he does not show it.

  “That man with Young John Bradley, he is your brother?” he asks as they wander back toward the tree.

  Surprised Hannah glances over her shoulder. “Yes,” she says. “How…?”

  Mr Middleton smiles and gives a little shrug. “I heard some of the men talking.”

  “And what else did they say?” she says, the flash of anger in her voice surprising her.

  If Mr Middleton is surprised by her anger he does not show it. “That you were married to one of the stablemen but he died. That you have a child who is touched.”

  Hannah stares at him, searching for some sign of mockery. “And if it is true?”

  Mr Middleton looks at her, his green eyes clear. “All villages are full of gossip,” he says. “In my experience it is best not to pay it too much heed.”

  Still Hannah does not move.

  “Although I am sorry you have suffered such grief.”

  His voice is so calm, so kind that Hannah cannot speak, and so for a long moment they stand in silence. Then over by the barn Tunny Brown and the others strike up a tune. With a smile Mr Middleton extends a hand. “Perhaps we should dance?”

  If Mr Middleton is used to more elevated pleasures it does not show, for he is light and quick on his feet, bowing to the women in a playful way that makes them laugh. But it is Hannah he returns to whenever he can, holding her hand and watching her. And when, after half an hour the two of them stumble off again, to lean against a tree, he bows to her with a flourish, provoking her to laughter one more time.

  “You dance well,” she says, and he laughs.

  “And so I should. My father is a dancing master.”

  Hannah looks at him. “No,” she says. “I do not believe you.”

  Mr Middleton laughs again. “Most assuredly. A good one as well.”

  “Then how did you become an engineer?”

  Mr Middleton shrugs. “It seemed a good profession.”

  “The men say the machine will put them out of work.”

  Mr Middleton pauses. When he continues his voice is less careless. “They are right. But it will be for the best.”

  “How can it be for the best if they are without work?”

  “There will be other work in the towns or the cities. But it’s not about them, it’s about the future. We have the chance to change people’s lives, to bring them ease and opportunity. We cannot not take it.”

  Hannah does not reply, and after a moment he continues.

  “This village, your village, it is a good place, but its ways are of the past. People here talk of witchcraft and fairies and ghosts. This machine and others like it are the beginning of the end for those old ways.”

  Hannah glances at him, looking for some sign he has divined her fears, that he is speaking to her of more than just the village and its ways.

  “I am sorry if I have offended you,” he says.

  She shakes her head. “You have not offended me. Yet I think you underestimate the difficulty of the task you describe. People here do not think their ways are old-fashioned, they think they are right. The idea of changing frightens them.”

  As she speaks a cry goes up from some of the men, and glancing over she sees the harvest princess has appeared.

  “And you?” Mr Middleton asks.

  Hannah hesitates. “I do not know. Now come, we must throw flowers with the rest of them.”

  There are more dances and songs and drinking, so it is after midnight when the storm arrives, the cool air sweeping in over the trees and sending plates and glasses tumbling. Taking Hannah’s arm Mr Middleton draws her away, and with his coat over her head the two of them run back toward the Widow Thirlwell’s cottage. By the stile at her gate they pause, the rain clattering down around them.

  “Thank you,” he says.

  “For what?” Hannah asks.

  “For tonight.”

  To her surprise Hannah laughs, and reaching up kisses his cheek. “You are a fine dancer.”

  He laughs. “As are you.”

  She can feel his eyes on her as she runs down the path toward the Widow’s door, the possibility of his presence making her step light. But before she is halfway there she hears Connor scream and her belly clenches. On the doorstep she pauses, eyes closed and listening, willing this moment to continue even as she steels herself for the moment when she opens the door and it begins again.

  He lies on a blanket, his body rigid and face contorted, his head beating rhythmically on the floor. The air stinks of shit. The Widow is slumped in a chair on the other side of the room, her face pale and drawn.

  Crossing to him Hannah kneels, but he jerks his body away from her, redoubling his screaming.

  “He’s been like this since you left,” the Widow says. Hannah does not answer, just nods, and reaching down she gathers him up, pressing his rigid body to her.

  “I am sorry,” she says but the Widow only shakes her head.

  “It’s not your fault.”

  Hannah doesn’t answer, just turns toward the door.

  “You can’t go out, not when it’s like this,” the Widow says, standing, but Hannah only shakes her head.

  “Thank you,” she says again, and pressing Connor’s stinking form to her chest she hurries out into the rain.

  SHE WAS COOKING when they found Brendan. She heard the cry, and running out she saw them gathering around the stables.

  He might have been asleep, save for the trickle of blood that ran down his forehead, and the way his body lay slackly. As she approached they stepped aside to let her pass, but some impulse made her stop before she reached him, stand looking at him lying there.

  Looking up she heard a horse whinny. “It was the bay,” she said. “Wasn’t it?”

  Old Bill Tompkins hesitated. His face was stricken. Then he nodded.

  “Aye.”

  Behind him she could see the horse’s face, its eyes calm, unconcerned, as if its actions had barely ruffled its consciousness. Sometimes, in the weeks that followed she would see the horse standing in the yard or grazing in the field. Each time she watched it, waiting for some sign it understood what it had done, yet all she saw was its impassive gaze, the glint of madness that had always been there. Sometimes, when she was alone, she tried to imagine what it must be like to be a horse, a bird, to move like that through the world.

  If she had thought Brendan’s death would heal the rift between her and her parents she was wrong. On those occasions she saw her mother or her father in the village they would turn away from her, as if ashamed. Her brother did not turn away, instead he stared at her, smiling, as if she had proven him right in some way.

  And so when Connor came she was alone, left to fight her way through the labour without help or guidance, his tiny body wrenched into the world in the soft dar
k of the summer evening, the floor around her thick with blood and fluid, the taste of her own flesh sharp in her mouth as she tore the cord, and afterward, his small, angry life pressed against her as they slept.

  It was two days before she was well enough to walk to the village. Her body weak, still thick with pregnancy yet loose and shattered as well. As she entered people stared at her, at the way she bore Connor against herself, and she saw the way she was no longer one of them.

  SHE IS DRAWING water when Mr Middleton appears, wandering along the path beside the stream in the half-light of dusk. Setting the bucket down she straightens, pleased to see the way he smiles when he sees her.

  “Miss O’Rourke,” he says, “I had not thought to find you here.”

  She nods toward the hut. “I live here,” she says.

  Glancing up at the cottage he nods.

  “So far away. Does it not get lonely out here on your own?” As he speaks he smiles, and Hannah blushes, afraid he is teasing her.

  “I like it. Why are you here?”

  He glances back the way he came. “I thought to see where the stream led.”

  Perhaps she looks disappointed because he smiles again. “And you? Are they not working in the high fields today?”

  “I’m not shirking,” she says, and he laughs.

  “I did not think you were.” As he speaks she stoops to lift the bucket and he steps forward.

  “Let me take that,” he says. As he speaks his hand closes on hers, and she looks up, sees his face close to hers. For a second or two they do not move, then he pulls gently on the bucket, and she releases it.

  She directs him to place the bucket by the door to the cottage, then turns and looks back down the slope toward the stream.

  “This is a fine aspect. A man might do well to look at it in the evening.”