by Rhian Ivory
‘It was the last swimming of an accused witch in the whole country, and it made Sible Hedingham famous! Witches had stopped being swum or ducked ages ago, so the Sible Hedingham Witchcraft case was even more shocking,’ she continues. As she reads, I look at the diagrams I’ve sketched on the corner of my worksheet.
‘The women’s right thumb would be tied to their left toe and their left thumb to their right toe. Then they were thrown into the water. If they sank they were declared innocent, whether they drowned or not, but if they floated then they were definitely a witch and met death at the stake.’ She pauses to take another bite from her cookie.
The stupidity and cruelty makes me feel explosive. I want to stand on her kitchen table and shout, ‘This is off the charts mad!’ But of course it all happened a long time ago, so I keep my temper, stay in my chair and gesture at her to carry on reading. I like listening to her voice.
‘On the 3rd of August 1865 a French boy, Blaze Ambroise, who had a reputation as a fortune teller, was accused of putting a curse on a woman called Emilia Rawlinson. Emilia Rawlinson is said to have accused the “foreigner Ambroise” of cursing her with Lyme’s disease.’
‘That’s just unreal. A curse?’ I want her to stop but she doesn’t notice and carries on.
‘It says here that the victim only communicated by a few words and his drawings, as English was not his first language. He lived somewhere in the village, having run away from the workhouse. The gipsy was always accompanied by his dog and wore several hats all at the same time. He was consulted by the local girls as a recognised authority on courtship and marriage. He also made herbal potions for villagers to heal ailments and common complaints.’ She finally finishes.
‘So just because he looked a bit weird and dressed funny and pretended to tell fortunes, he was accused of being able to curse someone, of being a witch?’ I ask. I don’t really know why I’m pretending not to understand. I know well enough what people are like about this kind of thing: about telling fortunes, trying to see into the future, mediums, clairvoyants, mystics, fortune-tellers and anyone who is a bit different.
‘It says here that “Even 130 years ago in rural Essex the fear of witchcraft was a firmly held belief in the minds of country people,”’ Beth reads.
‘But that’s ages ago. 1865? Things have changed a lot since then,’ I argue.
She looks at me long and hard and then reaches into her school bag.
‘I was going to give you this earlier, but there were too many people about at school.’ Her head down, she rummages in her bag. She pulls out a small velvet drawstring bag. It looks like it came from a gift shop and I wonder what is in it. She drops it into my hand.
‘It’s not my birthday or anything.’ I feel awkward. I don’t have anything for her.
‘I know. I know when your birthday is, it’s not for that! I just wanted to give you something this time. It’s not a handwritten quote or a bunch of weeds…’
‘Hey! They were wild flowers, beautiful wild flowers picked with care!’ I throw a handful of raisins at her that she’d picked out of her cookie earlier.
‘OK, OK! Flowers. Anyway, I wanted you to know that, even though we haven’t talked about it properly that much … well, I believe you, about what you told me, in your room. I trust you and I wanted to give you something to show you that, I guess.’ She stops and waits for me to open the bag.
I pull it open and take out a long thin black cord. A single stone hangs from it, a pale stone with a hole in, the one I found in her garden. I look back at her neck, she is wearing the other stone, the one she found. They are almost identical.
‘I can’t take one of your stones.’ I shake my head. It is too much.
‘Yes, you can. I want you to. It’ll keep you safe. I know it sounds silly but I really believe it. It’s not a charm or anything, but it’s special. Did I ever tell you where I found my stone?’
She picks it up out of my hand and stands up behind me. She starts talking again as she holds it around my neck, ready to tie it. I can feel the goosebumps on the back of my neck as her hot hands hover next to my skin.
‘When we first moved in, no one had lived in the Manor for years. I remember finding the hut under a mass of ivy in the snow. It felt like my own secret garden. When I was clearing the ivy off to get to the door, I found something, a stone under the snow, and as I searched I found more, all around the summer house like a trail, going round and round in a circle. There were small pretty stones, big lumps of quartz and a few tiny shells. And inside the hut I found this stone, it felt so different to all the others, light and soft. When I held the stone it was sun warm as if it was a scorching hot day, like today. But we moved into the house in the winter.’ She holds the two ends of the necklace as she talks; still not ready to tie the knot.
‘The funniest thing about these hot stones is the holes in them. I’ve never seen stones like it. The holes are so perfect and round, they look like they’ve been made from a machine, but I just know they haven’t. When I found it I hid it in my jewellery box. After a while I threaded it onto an old necklace and started wearing it. This might sound strange but the stone makes me feel safe, safe and warm. And then you found this one and now it will do the same for you, I hope,’ she says as she finally ties it but keeps her hands on my shoulders.
I can feel her breath on the hairs at the back of my neck. For a second I think she might lean in and kiss me. She is so close, I can hear her breathe softly in her throat. She puts her hands on either side of my neck and presses her lips really slowly against my skin, warm and gentle. I turn around to face her as she sits down on my lap. I kiss her back as her parents come noisily through the front door, shouting about Beth’s brilliant comments at parents’ evening. Beth climbs off my lap and moves away as they walk into the room, filling it with their laughter, praise for their daughter and the smell of fish and chips.
When I get home Mum is rushing out the door to parents’ evening, having had to take a later appointment because of Dad.
‘Ah, at last, you’re home. Right, here’s a list to keep you busy while we’re out. Dad’s meeting me there. There’s a pizza in the oven. Hope I’m going to hear good things about you!’ She kisses me, wipes the trace of lipstick off my cheek and grabs her keys. ‘Don’t forget to put the wheelie bins out, will you? The recycling one’s nearly overflowing,’ she shouts over her shoulder before shutting the front door.
The list she’s written is endless. The first item is to weed and water the kitchen garden. She likes to call it a kitchen garden but it was really just a vegetable patch. We had a much bigger one in the last place. I wonder if she resented leaving it behind? If she resented me? There isn’t much to weed, Mum is on top of things like that, so I connect up the hose and turn the water on. The second item on the list is to put the wheelie bins in the collection area. There is a communal one at the end of our road.
The sun starts to slip down the sky as I drag the green recycling bin down the drive, round the corner and dump it in the fenced-off area. As I slam the back gate shut, I hear shouting from over the fence. I turn the water down to low sprinkle and look up. There is a kid sitting in the frame of the window. It’s the kid in the drawing, Eva’s brother. His back is to the open window and I can hear him arguing with someone, or trying to. It sounds like he is losing the fight. He keeps leaning further back, the small seat of his jeans hanging very slightly over the window ledge.
I don’t know whether to call up to the kid and risk scaring him, or to run over to the house and tell our neighbour what’s going on upstairs. If it had been anyone’s house but Eva’s, I would have done. I would have told his mum that her son was hanging out the window, that he wasn’t safe. But I didn’t. I couldn’t.
I stand there, panic charging into all my nerve endings, setting my teeth on edge. Spit is pooling in my mouth and I know the longer I wait the more dangerous the situation will get. I know this and I can’t stand by and do nothing, not again. I feel like s
houting, ‘Help, help me!’ but this could make the kid jump and fall.
And then I see her, standing in front of him. I can picture the smile on her face. I know it off by heart.
She is shouting and sniping at him. Then she undoes her tie, pulling the knot loose and unthreading it. I know where this is going, but I don’t know how it will end. I haven’t drawn that. I hear his weaker voice battle back and then she fills the window, leaning over him as her hands go to his throat. She wraps her school tie around his neck then tilts him back and forth like a seesaw, as his arms spin around, trying to push her away.
His head is completely out of the window now, hovering in the air, his arms flapping and he’s screaming, pleading with her. But she doesn’t stop. I can’t make out the words but I can hear the tone in his voice, desperate.
I shout out ‘STOP!’ as loudly as I can and run to the fence. I try to get up and over, but my baseball boots are useless, I just slide back down. I bang the fence with my fists and shout out again, stupid things like ‘No!’ or ‘Wait! Stop! Someone help me?’ as loud as possible, as if Eva would even hear me, but the shouting and the crying stop. I kick my boots off and manage to get up on top of the fence in my socks.
The kid is panicking, trying to push her back, wobbling them both dangerously. His hands are in the air, reaching for her, as he tries to pull at her tie. He is going to pull her out of the window with him if I don’t do something!
‘EVA! Nooooooooooooo!’ I scream, as long and as loud as I can.
She grabs the kid around the waist, hauling him back into the bedroom and ducks out of sight. Her brother is sobbing and I can hear Eva saying, ‘Sorry, sorry, I’m sorry alright?’ over and over.
She sticks her head out of the window and looks around, but doesn’t see me. Her eyes are searching for something and then I see what: her tie on the patio beneath the window. She must have heard someone shouting and stopped. She must have heard me.
I slide back down the fence and stand in my socks in the mud, feeling shaky and tired but so relieved. I laugh, watching the water run all over the vegetable patch flooding the bed, but I couldn’t care less.
I stopped her. I’d seen what she was going to do, I’d drawn it and then I’d stopped it from happening. I hadn’t drawn the ending because I’d determined it. I’d made the ending happen.
For the first time in my life my drawing means something. It’s useful and not sad or threatening like … like all the others. Like that first time.
This time I stopped it.
CHAPTER 26
BLAZE
They took me quickly and carefully, as if they’d rehearsed it. They must have already worked out who would do what, because I was off the floor and in the air before I knew what was happening.
I hadn’t moved for hours, not since Dog left me. I’d been lying on the ground, wrapped around his slowly chilling body, but now I was wide awake.
One man had my feet and the other my arms. I was thrown up and over his great shoulder. I could smell him, Henry: he stank of ale and smoke. I shouted and kicked, digging my fists into his back, but he held me so tight and firm I couldn’t get down, no matter how hard I struggled. All the blood rushed to my head as he climbed over the fence, with me still slung over his shoulder. He ran down the river path as if I weighed nothing at all. My head banged against the back of his legs over and over as panic set in.
I could hear someone running next to him, muttering something to him. The sounds of the river crashed in my ears. I could hear the rapids and the roar as he ran along the river path, on and on. I dropped my hands and stopped kicking. His pace slowed until he stopped running and walked quickly instead, sensing I’d given up the fight. I kept up the pretence as best I could, biding my time, searching for the right moment.
He threw me to the ground and pointed at me, holding a lantern up to my face. There was a crowd, a group of men who must have followed Henry from The Swan. A cluster of women with scarves around their heads were coming over the bridge from the village, all staring at me. Henry started to speak, shouting, trying to raise the crowd’s anger to match his own.
‘See this boy? You’ve seen him, haven’t you? Yes, we all have. Skulking about the village like a thief in the night, well, we’ve had enough of it. He took Emilia’s ring. He came into the kitchen tonight and took my Emilia’s ring, creeping in like a river rat while she slept. And you can bet he’s taken something from all of you, oh yes, you can be sure of that. I know what’s been going on, she’s told me, she’s been watching you all, see, and she’s been watching him. You’re all guilty, each one of you, and it’s time to put a stop to it.’
He pointed at the women in the crowd who had reluctantly come over the bridge and down to the riverside, their talking and laughing replaced by a tense silence. This crowd parted to reveal Emilia and her wide smile. Clearly I’d got the measurements wrong and hadn’t given her anywhere near enough. She looked dazed, but anger boiled up in her eyes as she approached me.
‘See Emilia’s hands? See what he’s done to her?’
Someone gasped in the crowd and I heard a, ‘No, no,’ as Henry held Emilia’s hands up for all to see. They were swollen, red and lumpy, just as they had been before I’d started treating her. One night off her medicine and she’d got her claws back. Her raw skin had risen and was scorched like a burn and of course her ring finger was empty and naked.
‘Yes! Yes he did! He’s been selling her medicine, telling her he’ll make her better, but look here is the evidence for you all to see. He’s been poisoning her, making her worse! And none of you are safe, none of you women are safe with this gipsy in the village. Who knows what potions and poisons he’s been making your wives, sisters, mothers and daughters?’
He changed tack and started talking to the men, pointing at them and I saw their faces change right in front of me. They looked uncertain and scared, shifting, moving into one another to form a crowd, a mob.
‘And there’s more, isn’t there? We all know the worst of it, we’ve all been turning our backs to what’s been going on in this village, but now he’s shown his true colours. He’s been casting spells like a sorcerer.’ He paused to let that sink in. It took some of the men by surprise.
‘He’s been looking into times he shouldn’t, claiming to tell us what will happen, what will become of us. Telling us tall tales about our futures!’
He held up my drawing and shook it at me, proof of my sorcery, evidence of my witchcraft. No one was close enough to see Emilia in shackles or Henry in handcuffs. But it was enough, just the suggestion on paper, the suspicion of the future. The lines from my pencils and charcoal have sealed my fate.
‘You’ve been playing a dangerous game here, boy, but your time is up now. No one here wants to play these games with you no more.’ He looked around at his crowd, who were shaking their heads in agreement, calling out, ‘That’s right’, ‘I won’t be taken for a fool’, ‘Tell him, Henry, you tell him’, followed by a hiss of, ‘Witch’.
I can almost feel the crowd turn.
Witch
I caution myself to wait.
Witch
To watch.
Witch
And not to panic.
‘Yes! He’s a witch, that’s what he is. He’s a witch and we know what to do with ’im, don’t we? We know what happens to witches, to devil worshippers like ’im.’ He crowed the last bit out, raising his head and his voice. The crowd couldn’t stand still now, desperate to act, to join in, itching to do something.
The grass was wet underneath my back. I tried to inch away from him as he addressed the crowd, but Emilia gave me a sharp kick to my ribs rolling me backwards. All the eyes of the village were on me, narrowing, getting darker, angrier as Henry poisoned their minds against me.
‘So we’ll test ’im. We’ll see if his powers can save ’im, if his magic and spells and potions and pictures can tell ’im how to get out of this.’ He held up a line of rope like a showman entertaining a
crowd. He tied it tightly around my wrists. I fought him, losing my hat to the river, as I was dragged over to the edge. I dug my heels in the ground, but my boots had fallen off and the soles of my feet slipped uselessly in the mud.
Henry held me by the back of my shirt, tipping me over, leaning my body out in the air above the water.
‘Witches aren’t welcome here. Foreigners who lie and cheat and steal aren’t welcome here. Curses and black magic aren’t welcome in our village. So, as many have said before me standing over this very pool, I say: begone, witch, begone! I cast you out, witch.’ His throat rasped from all the shouting, and then I heard nothing as he plunged me into the water, feet first, his big hands holding my head under.
Now I fought back.
Now I wriggled and kicked and pushed my feet down against the riverbed with all the force I could gather. I held my last breath tight in my lungs, straining against the pressure, as I thrashed up to the surface and came face to face with Henry.
He looked surprised, his eyes wildly flicking from me to the crowd. He leaned forwards to push me under again and then he stopped. Something had caught his eye.
‘What’s this?’ he hissed at me, forgetting the role he was playing, forgetting the crowd. He pulled me out of the water, reaching past my shirt, his thick hands at my neck, and hooked out my necklace. Hanging from it were my mother’s stones and the ring, which he couldn’t take his eyes off.
‘What’s this then?’ he asked, shouting it out loud now, ready to make the most of this moment. ‘My Emilia’s ring, hanging around the thief’s neck. Proof, I tell you! Evidence of his crime in my hands!’
He grabbed the necklace and tore it from my neck, ripping my skin. The cord snapped and, for a second, paused in the air between his hand and my body, and then the stones and the ring flew off the cord, arched high in the air and landed with a soft splash in the river.
This was the moment I’d been waiting for.
The stones had saved me.
His hold loosened and I broke away.