by Hilda Lewis
“Every sin may be forgiven,” he said. “But first it must be acknowledged and atoned. That you may be forgiven you are here, burdening my heart with a hateful tale.”
“And there is more to come!” she told him suddenly spiteful. “And though you have heard it until your soul sickens, still you must hear it again! Very well, then. Let us say it was sad at Belvoir—what then? Turn and turn about! We were merry enough down at the cottage. Philip’s hands were full—fine folk make fine work; she could not be spared from the Castle and Meg was left in peace.
Our house was full at nights. Joan Willimott would come from Goodby and Ellen Greene from Stathorne; and they would bring Ann Baker with them, plucking her from her bed, here in Bottesford, as they went through. Yet that was no witch, priest; she saw us at our sport and looked and longed and took no part. She was a simpleton that knew nothing.”
“That was as well,” he told her, grim.
“Oh priest, your life has been too snug, too rich in friends to understand. But for us that are poor and hated, what better than the little room fast-shut against the cold—and our friends beside us? False friends; but we did not know it then. And the familiars waiting to do our bidding whatever it might be—to fetch meat and wine; or to strike down the enemy with our curse. Power. That is what the Master gives us; power over life and death. It turns a woman—even the poorest, the stupidest, the ugliest—into a queen.”
“Did you truly feel a queen when no-one would willingly pass your door? And when those who met you crossed themselves?”
“Priest, you know how to prick! You can see into the heart of a woman, even though she be a witch. I’d tell myself I didn’t care. But there were times I longed for the kind word, the coming and going with one’s neighbours—running into a house to borrow this or that; a pinch of salt, maybe, a cup of milk. Or being sent for, when a man lies sick. . . .”
“You could not expect it,” he said more gently.
“No, priest. But—” and she wrung her shadowy hands, “must I tell you again? We are only human—we backslide now and then to goodness. And I was wise in curing the sick; my mother taught me long and long ago. She said to throw wide both door and casement to the spirits of sun and wind. She cared not at all for bleeding, except in the way of sacrifice—and then a cock only, or a hen. She did no harm her life long; they called her a white witch.”
“There is no such thing,” he told her, stern. “All witches traffic with the Devil. When you use the power he gives you, even though you do good and not evil, even when you save a life that had otherwise gone down to the grave, still it is Devil’s work and mortal sin.”
“There is no pleasing you!” she said petulant.
“Not until you please God—or try to please Him.”
“There was one time I might have pleased your god—witch though I was; but I was not let. It was spring, I remember, a month perhaps or less, after the second little lord died. Willows in the hedges, coltsfoot and celandine . . . a golden spring. You’d think, maybe, a witch’s eye would not see such things, so common and so sweet. But we that serve the Master rejoice in the beauty of this world because it is the work of his hands.”
He shut his eyes against the blasphemy.
“Patchett’s child lay sick. A kind and pleasant child; too young to cry out after a witch or cast a stone. I could not rest for thinking of him lying there in the dark room and all springtime shut out.”
“You were a strange woman,” he said. “You had robbed the grave to make your filthy ointments. You had murdered three children—and one of them your child’s child. Yet you hankered to save this child that was nothing to you.”
“He smiled at me, priest; he had cast no foul word, no stone.”
“And the little boys?” he asked quickly. “And your daughter’s child? What foul words had they cast? What stones?”
“The child we kill for vengeance—that is not murder but our sacred duty. And the child we kill for sacrifice—that is an act of righteousness. And if we use bodies to make our holy charms, how can it hurt them that are dead? But the child that has not offended, who is too old for the sacrifice and useless for our spells, that is another matter. Why, indeed, should we kill such a one, since he goes straight to your god and is forever lost to the Master?
As for Patchett’s child—there were few like him, fearless and friendly. I would have saved him if I could.
I knew I should not be welcome; lucky, indeed, if the dog was not set upon me. But all the same I went.
When I opened the door the stench of sickness came at me and all but drove me back; but still I went inside. And there was the goodwife dragging herself about with a great belly and a peaked face. I knew at once her days were numbered; it was no fruitful belly. When she saw me she opened her mouth to cry out and her eyes were like black holes you might burn in a cheesecloth.
I gave her good day and went over to the child. The mark of death was upon him, too. He lay as though dead already, and his breath so faint I could hardly catch it. If witches could weep I should have wept then; it was a pretty child and had smiled at me.
I turned away—nothing I could do. And there, at my back, stood Patchett himself, looking as though he would kill me . . . as afterwards he did do, witnessing against me with a lying tongue.
‘Had you called me in time this child would have lived,’ I said. ‘Now you may dig his grave.’ And I looked across at the woman with the swollen belly that was not great with child and said, ‘You may lay his mother beside him.’ ”
“It was a cruel thing to do,” Samuel Fleming said, remembering how, before the may was white in the hedges, they had, indeed, buried mother and child in one grave.
“It was the truth and any leech would have known it. Priest, do you quarrel with the truth?” And when he spread helpless hands and could not answer, she said, bitter, “It is I who should do that, seeing they cried after me that I had killed them both, the goodwife and the child. And they brought it against me complaining to the justices; it was set down in the charges when I was brought before you. Ah well, it matters nothing now!
But for all that I spoke the truth that day in Patchett’s cottage. The boy was dying when I saw him. Had they sent for me or for some surgeon in good time, the child would be alive now. It was they that had killed him in their foolishness—his own parents. But I bore the blame. As for the mother, naught could have saved her at any time, for she carried death in her belly. And for that also I bore the blame.”
“You were a witch and they were afraid of you. Let any man offend you and—though no harm was meant—your hand was raised to strike. On some you brought ruin; on others death. How should they not turn against you, holding you guilty for every misfortune, great or small?”
“It was unjust,” she said. “This one time I would have done good. I had to confess it to the Master and bear the blows.” She shook her shoulders as if even now she could feel the strokes. “Surely this one time I should not have borne the blame.”
“It is the way of men. As for your master, can you still deceive yourself about him? He lied to you from the beginning; before even you put your mark to a most wicked bond. He brought you to a hateful death; and after that death he shut you out from those delights—delights, God save us, he promised you. Why else do you wander between the worlds? Your master is the Prince of Lies and there is no faithfulness in him.” And when she would have spoken he stopped her with uplifted hand. “Can you doubt it? You were promised your heart’s desire yet you lived on what you could steal; and men and women hated you.”
“We had our fellowship and our Sabbaths,” she said, defiant, and stopped. And now she was shaken by so deep a sigh that her body shook. “Oh priest, priest, you are right! The dead when they speak must speak true; it is a compulsion upon us. Our daily life was bitter, indeed. It is hard when men and women hate you; hard to be forever picking and
stealing to keep the life within your body. Oh, we could be gay enough at night; when the wine is in the wit is out. But . . . when the feast is over and the guests departed?” She sighed again. “Meg was poor company. She’d sold her wits with her soul, you’d think. A sullen piece of itching flesh.
Philip came down from the Castle, bundle in hand. She was great with her godling; and now that the guests had departed the virtuous lady had cast her out. Philip laughed at the whole matter. She had flaunted her belly before the lady. ‘She had a stricken look,’ Philip said, laughing still. ‘She was like a lamb when you hold the knife to its throat. For all her greatness, for all her virtue she envied me.’ Philip patted her belly. ‘And I laughed in her face. And now my lady has no child of her own flesh and blood. And what comfort will she get from the proud little lady? But let her find comfort or none, it matters not at all. Now we clear the little lady from the board.’
‘No!’ Meg cried out, sudden and sharp. ‘I have killed my child; I have helped to bring the little boys to their death. It is enough.’
Philip said nothing . . . but her fingers crooked; it was hard for her to keep her hands off Meg.
‘You had best tell that to the Master,’ she said, cruel. ‘Tell Him when you come to the Sabbath. And, if you play the coward, I’ll speak for you!’
Meg shrank back against the wall; her face had a blue look—skim-milk blue. She looked a poor thing; but I could not pity her. She had been accepted into our fellowship; power had been put into her hands. Yet she did nothing but mope and make the air sour with her complainings. At our merrymakings she sat forgotten; she spoilt our esbats with sorrowful looks and heavy sighs. Her thoughts, I knew, turned more and more to the lover she had lost and child she had sacrificed. As for the Sabbaths, they had become a terror to her. She was mortally afraid of what Philip might tell.
I made myself gentle. ‘Never fear,’ I said. ‘Philip will not tell—not if you are a good lass and sensible.’ But I did not believe what I said. ‘Come now, let us forget this nonsense. It is time to deal with the little lady—if we have the means. What have you brought,’ I asked Philip, ‘that we may cast the spell?’
She smiled and pulled from her bosom a little kerchief stitched about with fine lace. Her smiling face went bitter. ‘If this were found upon me I should be whipped and set in the stocks; hanged maybe, since this pretty thing is worth—I know not what! I picked it up in the park as I came through. Well let it be worth what it may—it will serve.’ Her hands clawed at the pretty rag.
I brought out the basin and she cast the shreds of linen into the boiling water. ‘This is my vengeance,’ she said, ‘and I take great joy in it. I have stomached enough and enough from my hateful little lady. Oh she says nothing! But let her meet me in the path and her eyes do not see me; and her nose is pinched as at some foul smell. Yet she is no better than the next one, if the truth be known, young though she is!’ She drew the knife across her arm; and when the blood spurted she laughed and shook it into the basin. ‘But you shall take your part with us!’ she told Meg roughly. ‘Come, call up your familiar.’
Meg made no answer. She sat deaf and blind and seemed not to know what we did there in the room. So we laid hold of Rutterkin and Philip stirred the brew singing the while.
Pine and die
In coffin lie.
Mistress proud,
Weave the shroud.
High heart, saucy tongue,
Die young.
On Sathan’s sacred Name we call,
Master, Maker of us all.
There was no sound in the room; only in the basin the reddened water bubbled. Meg went on staring at nothing with her pale eyes. Rutterkin crouched stone-still; there was no purring sound with which he greeted the working of a spell. I knew then that things were wrong; and I was afraid.
Philip said, pale, ‘This child is hard to catch; and my sister aids him. Her will is set against ours. It is a strong will but I have something stronger.’ She drew from her bosom a green riband knotted still where a careless hand had pulled it from its place; and—caught fast within the knot—a long, dark, curling hair.
‘The little lady is not patient,’ Philip said and she was smiling again. ‘It will be her undoing. This should be strong enough to catch that brave little bird!’ She cast the riband still knotted about the hair, into the basin and let fall yet more of her blood. Then, when the steam came up fierce again and the water rose and bubbled, she cast the spell a second time.
Still there was silence. The familiar crouched stone-still. I called his name softly. He would not come, and, when I reached out a hand towards him, he backed into the fire so that I must burn my fingers to lift him out.
‘Come,’ I said coaxing, ‘you shall drink well when this is done. We shall not spare our blood, not one of us.’ And still he would not stir.
But for all that I would catch him yet!
I turned my back upon him. ‘We must leave spellbinding for today,’ I said, my eyes upon Philip. Her eyes just flicked. ‘I am hungry,’ she said. ‘Let us eat.’ So I brought out a loaf and some cheese, and we sat down, the two of us, to eat. But still Meg sat in her place and stared at nothing.
As we ate I heard behind Rutterkin’s feet sliding and scratching upon the ashes. He was coming for his share.
Philip’s eyes glinted between their lids; she went on eating. Suddenly she pounced; and there was Rutterkin held by the neck. He scratched and he clawed but she held on. Then, scratching he drew blood and so sucking, remembered his duties.
He went quiet under her hand; but his eyes glowed red and spiteful; and beneath the fur, I could see him all tight and ready to spring.
With one hand Philip held his legs and the other she plunged into the basin not caring at all that she burnt her arm in the scalding water. She brought out the mess—the rag and the riband and the hair and she rubbed it upon his belly so that he squirmed and mewed; but otherwise he did not move. Then I cried out to him,
Familiar spirit rise and go,
In the Devil’s name I bid you so.
But he did not stir. We looked at each other across the cat’s belly, Philip nursing her scalded arm. There he lay, his four legs still upturned, glaring at us sideways out of his red, red eyes.
Rise and Go. Rise and Go! I said it over and over again. And when he did not stir, still commanding him, I set him upright upon the table. But, instead of rising into the air, he stood mewing like any cat that has been a little misused and not at all like a spirit.
Philip and I stared at each other. ‘It is useless,’ I said. ‘He will not do it, because he cannot do it.’
‘Cannot?’ she cried out. ‘Cannot? He is bound to our command . . . if the spell be cast aright.’
‘The spell was right enough!’ I said. ‘We have cast it twice before; and twice Rutterkin has risen and gone. And twice a child has died.’
‘Yes,’ she said, thoughtful. ‘Yes. The first time was easy. The second time was hard. Rutterkin was not willing—yet he obeyed. Now he refuses utterly.’ She stood there, eyes closed, head bent sideways as though she listened. ‘There is a will that works against us!’ she said. Suddenly, eyes still closed she spun about. ‘Your will!’ she cried out and pointed a finger at Meg.
Meg gave a great start. ‘What?’ she said and it was as though she came back from a long distance. And again, ‘What?’
‘You have ruined the spell,’ Philip said, cold and bitter. ‘It is a thing to report to the Master.’
My heart shook at that; but I gave no sign. ‘Do not blame your sister,’ I told Philip. ‘This is the will of the Master; and against it no will can stand. The proud child with her saucy tongue is not to die yet. I think the Master has use for her. Let well alone, my girl.’
Philip looked sulky; yet she could not deny some sense in what I said. And, indeed, that day I spoke truer than I knew. For the ch
ild brought stain to the honour of her great name until her father put all right with his gold!”
Samuel Fleming looked at Joan Flower in the gathering dusk. “Did you cast the spell again? For certainly the child was bewitched.”
“We did not try again.”
“But she was stricken—those fits, those pains, those fears.”
“We did not bewitch her—and so I have said before. And so Meg said and Philip also; though they confessed to all else. Believe me, priest, it had been easier for them to lie. They had already confessed enough to bring them to the rope; and this one question was put to them again and again . . . and it was put with torment.”
“That, at least, is not true!” he said, stern. “The law does not allow it.”
She laughed. Yet had she tears, he could have sworn she wept.
“If you did not know it—then the worse justice, you! And this torment, priest, it is all so useless. For it plays upon pain; and poor human flesh, for the most part, will say anything that it may rest a little from its pain. And, that being so, how shall you know true from false?
Listen, priest! There is more than one sort of people you call witch. There are true witches like Philip and like me; we do our work for the love of the Master. And there is a second sort, like Margaret, who are not witches by nature. They work their evil in fear and without joy because their love has grown cold towards the Master. And there is a third sort; poor wretches who have no dealings with the Master nor ever had; they abhor Him as you do. But because they are old and because they are ugly; and because they have grown a little strange—perhaps with their sorrows—you call them witch. And so they come to their hanging.”