His mistress held up a hand and turned back to me.
“Ask not where, but when,” she said, and then repeated, louder and sharper, “Ask not where but when!” So saying, she and her guards flitted back into the hedge and vanished among the shadows. Her voice echoed painfully through my head. I forced myself to quell rising panic. How could I possibly trace Tegan with such scant information? It was facts I needed now, clear clues and indications, not riddles and whispers.
“Wait!” I cried. “Please, I do not understand. Can’t you tell me more?”
But she had gone. The connection was broken. I would hear nothing further.
And yet there was something other, some other gift of insight yet to reach me, and it was not to be listened to but seen. Unnatural ripples began to move the surface of the pool. I leaned forward, watching as the undulations spread and parted and colors and images started to form in the water. I was aware of Aloysius becoming still as stone, his little body tensed in the presence of such magic. Shapes were pulsating but none were clear enough to properly discern. I struggled to make sense of what I was seeing, but it was all too confusing, too fleeting. The colors started to fade and the movements grew less vigorous.
“No! I have not seen clearly!” I was terrified the vision would be snatched from me before I had been able to read it. “Wait…” And then suddenly it snapped into sharp focus. An entire scene, as detailed as any painting labored over for weeks. I saw green fields, with ancient woodland in the background, and to the fore a cluster of people. On looking closer I saw that they were, in fact, soldiers, all armed, in uniform, standing close together and alert, staring into the middle distance, as if expecting an attack from some unseen foe. I scanned the group, but Tegan was not with them. Their weapons were far from modern—muskets and pikes—and their garb centuries old. They wore plain helmets and rough jerkins cinched by broad yellow sashes. I had seen such soldiers before, many, many years ago, when I was still young and only just setting out on my near-immortal life. With a chill I recalled the bloody battles that raged on for season after season, and the pitiful wounded I had sought to help. The image began to flex and distort. I studied it as hard as I was able, attempting to commit every aspect to memory. There was something familiar about the setting, and yet surely it could have been any field in England. Any stretch of woodland. As the ripples stirred once more and the vision started to fracture and fade I noticed something in the far corner of the picture, at the very limit of the landscape. The tall trees, all in the full leaf of summer, bordered this side with their dark, verdant shapes, a mass of green and a tangle of branches, but at one small point there was a gap. An area where some of the trees had been felled, and through this fissure in the forest I could just glimpse tall but distinctive redbrick shapes. Chimneys. The tall chimneys of a grand house. Such was their uncommon pattern and number that a jolt of recognition made me gasp in the seconds the image disappeared.
“Batchcombe Hall!”
For it could be no other. I straightened up, gulping the chill night air to steady my dizzied senses. If the vision was showing me where I must look for Tegan, then I had not far to travel, for the great house I had known as a child lay only on the other side of the very woods I could see from the village where I now stood. The faerie had told me, Ask not where, but when because the “where” was here. Gideon had not taken Tegan somewhere else. He had taken her somewhen else. And that “when” was revealed to me in the pool by dint of those soldiers and their unmistakeable Parliamentarian uniforms, and my heart tightened to think of her in that terrible, dark, and blood-spattered time. How had Gideon gained the ability to journey through time? Why, I wondered, had he gone to such trouble, such risk? Traveling into the past was known to be extremely dangerous, and was never lightly undertaken. Whatever his reasons, I myself did not have the necessary skills to be able to follow them unassisted. If I were to go after Tegan, I would need the help of a Time Stepper.
I slept poorly that night, my dreams filled with memories of the civil war that had set villagers, friends, and family members against one another. Why had Gideon chosen to take Tegan back to years of such turmoil and violence? Of course I knew that his own foul magic fed upon the aggression and violent energy produced in war. Had this influenced his choice of when, his choice of where? I was thankful not to have found Tegan’s corpse, and yet I think I had always suspected he would not want to simply kill her. To capture her was far more in keeping with Gideon’s avaricious, vengeful nature. At least it afforded me the opportunity to find her and attempt to rescue her. Which was, in all probability, precisely what he expected—what he wanted—me to do. Was it all truly a game to him? Some twisted entertainment? I believed not. There had to be a deeper, more compelling reason for his actions. Reasons which would not readily reveal themselves under such distant scrutiny as I was able to subject them to.
After the pool in the garden had revealed the details of Tegan’s abduction to me, I had set about enlisting the services of a Time Stepper. This was no simple task, as it is hard to know where, and indeed when, they might be found. I first learned of their existence and their singular gifts when I was apprenticed to an herbalist in southwest France in the early years of the eighteenth century. Madame de Vee, who was, of course, a witch as well as an accomplished practitioner in the use of medicinal herbs, insisted on growing all her own supplies. When a beloved but aged sage plant fell victim to the sirocco, she was distraught until she struck upon the idea of traveling back in time a few years to obtain cuttings of the exact same plant. She had duly summoned a Time Stepper, and once she had convinced him that her mission was not as trivial as it must have sounded, he agreed to transport her to the time and place requested. He was right to caution her against traveling contrary to the urging of the moon unless her reasons were compelling, for such voyages can end badly. People are sometimes adversely affected by the first step, so that they are unable to repeat it and return to their own time. Others are lost altogether.
Time Steppers are known to be peculiar in their habits, which is perhaps unsurprising, given the erratic nature of the lives they lead. When I considered how, for them, time did not signify mortality in the usual way, I felt a sudden kinship with them. Would they not of necessity live solitary existences, as I had done for so many years before meeting Tegan? I understood their training was long and arduous, and that they were learned and erudite. I was fortunate to have witnessed Madame de Vee’s experience all that long time previously, so that I knew how to set my summons in motion. Back inside the cottage once more, I took out my Book of Shadows and read my diary entries concerning her time travel. I then turned the house upside down to find the required silver bell, wine goblet, red wine, parchment, quill, and ink. Following the instructions to the letter, I sat down to pen my request. As tradition dictated, I spoke the words aloud as I set them upon the page.
“I search for Tegan, apprentice hedge witch, lithe, young, fair, of good heart and shining soul, possessed of pure magic. Taken against her own will by the warlock Gideon Masters, a man of dark deceit, evil intent, and cruel spirit, who means her great harm. I believe her life and soul to be in peril. He has taken her back through years in their hundreds, a time of civil war and famine, when the country gnawed at its very being, and men, women, and children were lost to the lofty plans of great men. I have sought help and divination from the faerie folk. They see her there. They see her then. A land with no king.”
I sketched as best I could a representation of the uniforms I had seen, of the weaponry, and of Batchcombe Hall itself from memory. When I had finished I furled the parchment, tied it with ribbon, and dripped wax upon it, into which I pressed a pendant belonging to Tegan, shaped into a Celtic cross. The potent symbol was not, in truth, as important as the fact that it was something of Tegan’s, and a thing that she would have worn next to her skin, close to her heart. I rang the bell eight times, poured the wine, and set the items on a west-facing windowsill.
It worried me that I did not have an exact date to aim at, so I made sure to include as much detail as I could in the picture of the condition of the landscape and trees (which suggested summer, at least), and so on. I recalled that a reply would take at least six hours, so I forced myself to attempt sleep whilst I waited. Before settling in the chair by the fire for a second night, however, I dressed myself in clothes more fitting for the seventeenth century. My wardrobe yielded a simple green woolen dress, beneath which I wore a cotton shift and petticoat. I tied a scarf over my hair and a fine woolen shawl around my waist, giving me a passable appearance for the sixteen hundreds. I added some simple beads at my neck and a chain of gold at my throat, not wanting to appear a pauper. My laced ankle boots still had plenty of wear in them. Soon I was ready. A glance in the mirror made my heart thunder, my costume inevitably reminding me of those terrible months when I had lost all dear to me and been forced to flee for my life. As I drew the chair a little closer to the stove, Aloysius scurried onto my lap, nestling into the folds of my shawl, eyes shut tight, clearly exhausted by the day’s long and traumatic events. In truth, I, too, was fatigued to the point of dizziness, and though my slumber was to be fitful, it quickly claimed me.
PART TWO
5
BATCHCOMBE, 1647
I became aware that I was no longer sleeping, which is not to say that I was properly awake. My senses were confused and disordered. My body would not respond to my wishes, so that I was not even able to open my eyes. I felt rested and peaceful. In fact, my overriding feeling was one of calm. I had no real desire to rouse myself, yet I knew things were oddly out of kilter. Knew that I ought to be concerned and to fight against such seductive lethargy. I could hear sounds, faint and fragmented, but they were familiar. I attempted to focus my attention upon them in an effort to identify each. Birdsong. Light, high notes of small birds. Some louder crowing a short way off. Above me, the rustling of leaves as if disturbed by a gentle breeze. A curious distant creaking, rhythmic and steady, the sound of something heavy in motion, such as I was certain I had not heard before. I breathed deeply and could detect the scent of hawthorn and sun-warmed grass, could taste pollen and dusty soil; the scents and flavors of a summer meadow. Slowly I regained command of my body, sensation returning to my limbs, so that I was once again conscious of my own weight, my own strength, and that I was not sitting but lying down. I moved my hands out at my sides, palms flat, and felt soft, dense turf beneath them.
At last I opened my eyes and my vision confirmed that I was indeed in a beautiful field, a hay meadow, with fescues and grasses in full flower, and a benign sun warming the day. I shook my head to clear it, forcing myself to make sense of the nonsensical. The sky was sharply blue and devoid of clouds. On two sides the swath of pasture was bordered by ancient woodland. I was able to lift my head but was far too weak and too drowsy to sit up, let alone stand. One thing was clear to me: This was no dream. I was no longer in the kitchen, no longer in Willow Cottage. I noticed a thudding through the ground, growing stronger. Footsteps. Heavy. A man. I struggled to move, to find a place to hide. Was it Gideon? Was he coming for me now, too? I was so weak and vulnerable. My vision blurred as a figure came into view. A tall man, broad shouldered. I could not see his face clearly enough to identify him. I tried to speak but could utter no sound. I sensed a powerful magic emanating from him. The man stooped down and picked me up. I felt the rough fabric of his shirt against my face. I could smell bread, and as the strangeness of this struck me I fell into a giddy darkness and unconsciousness claimed me once more.
The second time I awoke was markedly different from the first. I was jolted from my sleeping state violently, aware of thunderous, crashing noise, and a shuddering of the very bed on which I found myself. I came to suddenly, gasping for breath, and cast about me to see where I was and what could be causing such unnatural sounds. I was in a low-ceilinged, sparsely furnished room with shuttered windows. Daylight fell through the gaps between and around them. The walls were of an uncommon construction, appearing to form a hexagon rather than a rectangle. The area of the ceiling was narrower than that of the floor. I swung my legs over the side of the rustic bed and as soon as my feet connected with the bare boards the strong trembling and juddering passed through them and disturbed my entire body. It was as if the very building was straining at its foundations, wishing to pull itself up and charge away across the countryside. In the center of the room was a curious column, a wooden inner chamber of sorts, which traveled up through the ceiling and down through the floor. Confused, I went to the nearest window, undid the latch, and threw open the shutters. At once an enormous board swooped down past the opening, causing me to fall backward in my shock. As I scrambled to my feet once more, I at last understood. I was inside a windmill. I watched a moment longer and sure enough, another sail passed the window, and seconds later another. The rumbling would be the millstone, the shuddering the echo of its heavy movement traveling through the whole building. I tightened my shawl about my waist and straightened the scarf on my head. Aloysius surprised me by peeping out of my pinafore pocket. I pushed him gently back inside and stepped warily down the dusty stairs that led from the far side of the room.
As I descended, the noise increased. Below the bedchamber was a storeroom, stacked with sacks of corn and flour. I noticed two fat tabby cats sunning themselves on a window ledge. Naturally, where there was food there would be mice, and where there were mice there would be those who liked to eat mice. I put my hand in my pocket to ensure Aloysius did not choose that moment to go exploring.
The ground floor housed the workings of the mill. Here a huge, flat stone lay, pinned at its middle by the colossal metal rod that dropped though the height of the building. The one acted upon the other through a series of cogs and wheels, each working the next, driving the stone on its slow revolutions, all power harnessed from the easy wind outside via those four broad sails. At one end of a series of troughs, a hopper dropped wheat through a chute to feed the hungry stone as it crushed and ground the grain into flour. The air was thick with fine white dust that tasted of breakfasts and picnics and warm, family kitchens. However appealing my surroundings, I was on edge. It was clear to me I had been transported to an unknown place and time, but by whom? Could the summons I sent out to a Time Stepper have been so swiftly heard and acted upon, and without my further conscious participation? Or had Gideon returned for me? It was crucial I remain on my guard. My witch senses were tingling, alert to danger, detecting a strong magical presence, and yet I did not discern a threat proportionate to Gideon’s power.
The main door of the windmill was open, and through it came the sounds of someone wheeling something. I ducked into the shadows, hiding myself as best I could, waiting to see who would enter the building. Seconds later a man pushed a trolley through the doorway, on which were stacked several heavy sacks. He stopped at the hopper and took out a long knife with which he sliced open each sack before emptying the grain into the worn wooden receptacle. His movements were not deft, but they were swift, impatient perhaps. My view of the man was partially obscured by the grain bins in front of me. I crept forward a little, needing to see his face. His build was similar to that of Gideon, but that in itself was not sufficient to alarm me. Surely if this was my adversary of centuries I would know him now? I reminded myself how adept the warlock was at masking his identity. I must be certain.
I watched as the man finished one task and began another. He removed the freshly filled sacks from the end of the chute and tied them securely before hefting them up onto slatted shelves nearby. He grunted with effort as he worked, and seemed strangely awkward in his movements, almost as if such labor was unfamiliar to him. As he lifted a particularly tightly stuffed sack he faltered as he swung it to his shoulder. His gripped loosened and the hessian slipped through his fingers. With a shout he stumbled, upending the entire sack of flour over himself. He cut such a comical figure, muttering oaths as he beat at his coated clothes, wiping flour f
rom his eyes and face, that I could not suppress a gasp. He looked up. I was discovered. Steeling myself, I stepped forward into the pool of sunlight that fell through the open door. Now, with a clearer view, even in his floury state, it was obvious this was not Gideon. It was not simply his physical appearance—which could have been easily influenced by magic—it was his aura, his own personal energy. There was no evil emanating from him, nor did I detect anything blocking my reading of him. I had not realized that I had been holding my breath. The relief was tremendous, but accompanied by short temper, as if so often the case when one has been close to an imagined danger and feels foolish for being fearful.
“Ah-ha!” exclaimed the miller, “You are awake.”
“Evidently.”
“And do you feel quite well?”
“Thank you, yes.”
He stared at me hard, as if examining some rare creature. I became uncomfortable beneath such scrutiny.
“I have no wish to interrupt your work…” I told him.
“Oh, this?” He laughed, making further futile attempts to dust off his shirt. “It can wait. A guest is more important than a few bags of flour, surely.”
“The families who rely upon it to stave off winter hunger may not agree with you.”
“Indeed they may not,” he nodded, with mock seriousness.
I found his teasing impertinent and unhelpful. I was at a disadvantage, not knowing where I was or who had brought me here. He must have known something of my circumstances and I did not appreciate his levity.
“If you would be so good as to tell me where I might find your master,” I said, “I will trouble you no further.”
This made him grin like an imbecile! After a pause he answered. “I regret he is not in a condition to receive visitors at present. However, I know he will be with you just as soon as ever he can. Might you be more comfortable waiting upstairs?”
The Return of the Witch Page 5