Feather by Feather and Other Stories

by Lynn E. O'Connacht

  Yet… I am not happy, James. Or, rather, I am happy. I too have wanted a child, but strange things are afoot on the grounds. There are new tenants and I do not trust them. Things have been going wrong since they arrived. Cattle has gone missing, milk has curled for no reason, and the animals are so easily spooked. They scare me, James. It is for fear of them that I am so frightened of this letter being discovered. Henry sees nothing wrong with them, but I have started to make enquiries into their history and origins discretely. I do wish that I could talk to you instead of write you letters. I do not believe that we are in any form of danger, but I still worry. I would dearly love to have you visit Moorcrest again, though I believe it would be better to arrange for us to meet in the city. It will afford us more privacy. I shall convince Henry that we simply cannot stay away from the city any longer.

  I ask again that you please burn this letter after you have read it. You shall have my deepest gratitude.

  Your loving sister,

  Lucy

  My dearest James,

  It was so good to see you and talk with you! It has been a great aid to me to have someone to share my observations with. It has also been quite beneficial merely to be within the grand halls of society. I love Moorcrest, you know I do, but sometimes I do miss the excitement and modernity of life within the city. The trip has bolstered my spirits so much; I do not have words to convey it even when I am writing. I am more certain now of my pregnancy and keeping this secret from my Henry has been quite exhilarating and it leaves me giddy many times a day. I fear he may suspect something.

  I know this is only a short letter and many people would consider me frivolous to send you only such a short missive, but I wished to show you that I am doing ever so much better. I do not wish for you to worry about your little sister.

  With all my love,

  Your loving sister Lucy

  My dearest James,

  Our new tenants are becoming quite friendly with Henry. It worries me. It worries me more now than it did a few days ago. I know you will call me foolish, but one of the children disappeared today. All of the other tenants blame it on the new ones. They have not outright denied it, but Henry has deemed — rightfully, I know — that there is not enough proof to speak of their guilt or innocence and we should not presume them guilty until this has been proven.

  Yet I am scared, James. It is no longer safe here. I am writing this in the stables. I am writing this in the stables because I am frightened and there is iron here. I do not rightly know how I feel about this. It is what our tenants have recommended and nearly all of them have iron above the door or salt on the window sills, so I am following them like a frightened foal. I am tetchy with myself for this superstition even though it helps me to sleep at night. Henry seems enchanted by our new tenants. He is fair, but one can tell that he is disinclined to believe even the people he grew up with. I am worrying the more because I cannot find it in myself not to worry about this. Surely one should worry if someone all but tosses their old friends aside for no apparent reason?

  I think that, given Henry is on good terms with them, we cannot be in grave danger, but it is precisely because of that that I worry. Have I not said that already? Oh, do please come soon, James. I must go. We are having guests for dinner — I shall let you guess who — and I will no doubt need to make myself presentable first.

  Your loving sister,

  Lucy

  P.S. If you receive any other letters after this one, please do read those first before running off to visit us or take any other form of action. Writing out my fears has half-convinced me that I am merely being a hysterical female. I shall tell Henry tonight.

  My dearest James,

  We are aflutter with preparations and distractions! As you will imagine, Henry was utterly delighted by the news! Indeed, he twirled me around the hall and he has not done this in a very long time. I have missed seeing Henry smile and laugh so much these past months. Certainly since the new tenants have moved in he has been more tired and irritable, but it appears that nothing can wreck his mood at present. It gladdens my heart. Are you at sea now, James? I would not at all be surprised. I know that your work calls you away unexpectedly. I am grateful for with Henry’s mood so restored my fears are once again at ease.

  This ease has meant that I have been able to continue my investigations into our new tenants. They have no past, James! I cannot find out anything. I have taken to questioning some of the tenants I encounter most often, but they have not yet yielded anything that I could look into. Some of them are quite sweet and the strange occurrences have lessened. I should not speak of them for I shall only talk myself into another hysterics fit. I have not had many. You know that I am not quite prone to those, despite what my tone may suggest. It is merely that we are in such a good mood now.

  I am sorely tempted to name the child after you if it is a boy, you know, but Henry looked at me so sadly that I have had to relent to consigning your name to the baby’s middle name if it is a boy. If it is a girl I am torn between naming her after Henry’s mother or ours. I always thought, from Father’s stories, that it was such a shame that we never knew her. She seemed like such a remarkable woman. I do not understand how she could have left us, James. Has Father ever told you anything? It does not feel right to call a girl after our mother, though, so I suppose that I shall not do it after all.

  I am sorry to have worried you so with my previous letters, James. I can only say that I am exceedingly glad that you have not yet had a chance to read the others and come running to your little sister’s rescue. I assure you that all is as well as it could possibly be.

  Your devoted sister,

  Lucy

  My dearest James,

  The tenants have left! I presume from the circumstances that you have not yet read the letters I have written before this one. You have not replied to them or shown up here and you have only sent us a brief letter detailing your own adventures. I sorely miss your conversations, but I could not be more grateful for the stroke of luck that has called you away just when I was writing these letters. The tenants have left and all is well now. (Though I would still ask you to burn all my letters regarding this matter.) It gives me such great pleasure to reaffirm that there is no need for you to fear for our lives or safety. The tenants have left now and everyone’s spirits have been lifted so much. I can scarce believe that I have just started my letter with this, James. It shows you how much these tenants have been bothering me, but I am ashamed that I have not started with the news I am sure would please you most.

  I am a mother! I have no doubt that the announcement of little Henry James’ birth has preceded this letter by quite some time as Henry has informed me that I have been quite ill. I am told that the doctors had feared for my life! I do not know whether he has written of this to you, although I presume from your absence that Henry has not. I assure you that I am quite well! I am still weak, but I am told that I shall make a full recovery. You do not have to worry about me. The doctors have declared that I am out of danger and merely need a lot of rest.

  I… I hesitate to write these next thoughts down, but who can I trust if not my own brother? It is merely that I am finding myself less enthused about being a mother as I had expected myself to be. I have spent months, even years, looking forward to this moment and now I find that I can barely look at my child without a shudder. I have done my best to be cheerful and loving and I have been telling myself that it is merely because I have been so ill that I am feeling this way. I must give myself time to recover and I must not be so strict with myself. All the same, I am lucky that one of our tenants had a miscarriage around the same time as I gave birth.

  It is a horrible, horrible thing to say and I am ashamed of myself, James. I truly am. But that is how I feel. Our tenant’s name is Sally. I am terribly sad for her having lost her baby, poor thing, but it eases my life so considerably. I do not know whether to be glad for my own good fortune or to cry at her lack of it. I should explai
n what has happened to you or my rambling will only leave you confused. Sally gave birth to her child only a day or so before me, but the child had died in her womb already. She has been nursing Henry James since he was born and she continues to do so even though I feel quite strong enough to nurse him myself. I do not wish to be too close to my baby or to hold him whilst alone. I fear my feelings will cause me to hurt the child. No, he is not ‘the child’. He is my child, my baby. Do you see why I do not nurse him, James? Please tell me that you understand and please, please do not tell anyone I told you this!

  Sally has been a wonderful person. I cannot understand how she still smiles and laughs, James. Whenever I see her, that is always what she is doing, despite having lost her own baby. I am, I fear, a little jealous of her good nature. She reminds me so much of you. You would find her charming, I am sure. If you are a summer’s breeze then she is the sun. Oh, do come and meet her and your nephew, James! Please do! I promise that I am not trying to play matchmaker! I know you have no interest in being married and she already is in any case. It is only that I think you could be such great friends if you met each other.

  That is the news that I should have started my letter with. I apologise for writing this so out of order. I might start this letter over and order it better, but I would have to get a new sheet and burn this one. It would mean too much movement. The doctors have told me I am not to get up unless I must. I wanted to tell you what has happened with the new tenants, though I am afraid that there is little to tell. No one here understands it! I am told that they disappeared on the night that my fever broke. Disappeared, James! Henry believes that they left and has been searching the moors to find them, but he has yet to find a trace of them. ‘Disappeared’ is truly the right word for they have vanished as mysteriously as in the tales the other tenants have been telling us all about fairies!

  I cannot say that I am not glad, even though they did not pay Henry the rent that they owed him. You know as well as I that we do not need the rent money, but it is the principle. That was the deal, as I understand it. Henry too may not be searching as diligently as he might. He is at present easily distracted. He has had me to worry about and we are planning a great feast in Henry James’ honour. Pray do agree to be his godfather, James. We could not wish for any better man. Henry and I have already decided that Sally shall be his godmother. Oh, do not give the paper that look, James! I know how you must be scowling at it now. Sally is from an even more respectable family than we are, but you know the laws better than I. When her parents died she was left with barely anything because she is a woman. I assure you that her name and her connections more than make up for her lack of wealth. If it does not, then I do not care. She is a marvel and has been a great boon to Henry and I.

  I shall seal this letter now and have it ready to be sent. I pray this finds you well and that you will make haste to visit us and your nephew. I cannot wait to introduce him to his uncle!

  Your loving sister,

  Lucy

  Confidentiality was one of the toughest stories in the collection. As a short epistolary piece written entirely from Lucy’s perspective, a lot of what happens never gets shown. Add in that Lucy is… not the most observant of people and it becomes a challenge to write the piece in such a way that readers will pick up on the clues that Lucy isn’t aware of.

  For anonymous,

  with love and friendship

  Once there was an old witch, or at least an old woman people thought was a witch, who lived on a green hillock some ways out of the village and who made sure never to use her magic for evil deeds. Some people thought she was merely an old woman who knew herbs, people and theatrical tricks. Mostly, those were the younger villagers, who hadn’t yet had need to seek her out or who came home from the city with newfangled ideas in their heads.

  The old witch, whose name was Kara, didn’t really mind what people thought of her so long as they left her to her own devices and did not treat her unkindly when they didn’t. And, because most of the villagers believed she was a true witch, they treated her much as she desired. It wouldn’t do, after all, to anger someone who can curse you from here to Sunday, even if you’re pretty sure that they never will.

  The witch looked after her garden and a pair of surprisingly compliant goats, but she hardly ever had any surplus to sell at market. Most days what she traded in was advice and charms rather than any of her herbs and vegetables. Her charms were quite harmless. Most often, Kara knew, the magic of a charm stems from its owner’s faith in its success rather than any magic that has been cast on it. Because the old witch cared for others deeply, however, she fostered the villagers’ beliefs that her charms were truly magical. She didn’t particularly enjoying lying to them, but it was what gave the charms their potency. Besides, she did use magic when she couldn’t avoid it and withholding the whole truth wasn’t really lying, was it? At least, that was what she told herself at night.

  Lying was something that Kara had had to learn the hard way. It just didn’t come naturally to her in the way that growing herbs or reading people did. It also didn’t come naturally to her like magic did. In fact, magic was so easy for her that when she was a child people thought she was a changeling.

  She wasn’t, of course. Her parents had been wealthy, by rural standards, and various experts had been called in and had tested her at great or small expense and all had (independently, as Kara’s parents hadn’t been stupid) verified that she was merely a gifted human girl. Born to it, some would say, in a way that she hadn’t been born to herbcraft or midwifery. (She’d had to learn those.) Kara’s greatest gift, though, may have been that of premonition. People used to say that her nose was keener on the future than a hound following the scent.

  One day Kara had a premonition that it was going to be a very trying day. Her bones ached (not like they did when the weather turned bad) and her nose itched. If only her bones and nose could have told her why it was going to be such a trying day, the old witch thought. For all she knew her day would be trying because she’d trip and spill the pail of goat’s milk or because her arms would be too weak to make cheese. After all, her body was no longer young. Yet her morning routine of feeding the chickens, looking after the goats and milking the nanny went without incident. The chickens were content, the goats were fenced in as well as they were going to be (she really ought to ask one of the young men in the village to do it properly for her, she reflected), she’d worked on her vegetable patch… The old witch had just started on her supper: soup for four, as she suspected she’d have visitors and it wouldn’t do to be impolite. Anyway if she were wrong, she’d have to cook less food the day after.

  It was while she was making her soup that a man came hurrying up the lane and rushed into the witch’s house without even so much as a by-your-leave. The stranger was clearly agitated. He paced in her small cottage and garbled out nonsense. His hands moved from place to place like he didn’t know what to do with them. Kara tried to ease him from frantic into a state where she could at least make out coherent syllables if not coherent words, but at the last she had to snap at the man to sit down and stop wearing a trench in her floor and if he didn’t stop it at once he’d be a fool to think she’d help him before her floor was fixed.

  It worked too, and so Kara did not feel too guilty about it. When the man was seated, she fetched him a cup of fresh, sweetened goat’s milk and put that in front of him. The witch might have thought to give him some ale or beer, but she had none. “Now,” she said, “what is the trouble?” But she didn’t sit down to listen to him. Instead, she bustled about to prepare her food and, while she did, out came the whole of the man’s woe and his story.

  He was a carpenter he told her, and when he first learned his wife was pregnant, he’d left her living with his parents to see if he could find work in the city. Seeing how everyone there needed a license to do anything (and those licenses cost the earth if you were an outsider), it struck Kara as a supremely stupid thing to do. He had been g
one a long time, said the carpenter, and came back to find his wife having given birth to a baby girl. The child was a cross, wan child that would probably continue crying long after she were dead and buried, he told the witch, though his wife and his parents all insisted that the baby had been a beautiful, healthy child that never gave anyone any trouble (and weren’t they all like that, thought the witch, but she held her tongue) until a few days before he got home. The carpenter asked would Kara please take a look at the child for that the crying never ceased and no one had had a good night’s sleep since the baby had taken so ill and no one could tell what was wrong with her.

  Kara considered frowning, the more so because the girl was always nameless (though, now she thought about it, no one in the carpenter’s tale was named), but she didn’t dare predict how the carpenter would take it. Instead, being seated now, she steepled her fingers. The young father had calmed down during his tale, though he spilled some of his drink down his shirt when Kara smiled at him. Unable to help herself, she laughed. It wasn’t unkindly, but the carpenter took offence anyway.