by R N Merle
Darklin replied instantly. “For all folk, happiness lies in money. It is the ruler of their lives; what they value above all else. They can never have enough of it, even if they have the wealth of a king.
Remember, folk will do anything for a shiny piece of silver; they’ll crawl for it, they’ll steal for it. They’ll even kill for it. Ridding folk of their money is often the easiest and most effective curse. If having money is what makes them happy; losing it leads them to despair.”
Gressyl nodded, and said, ‘Take away their treasure and watch their happiness drain away like spilled water. Worry takes over their minds. They are distracted, scraping around for any pennies they can get, to replace what has been lost. The carefree ones are soon put in their place at the thought of starving in the street, or being hauled into a debtors jail. I assure you they will not be laughing then. You would be capable of such a spell. Now, you have only to find a suitable victim.’
‘Oh, I have a few in mind.’ thought Darklin. She almost smiled. She imagined the Somerbornes in despair; their easy complacency vanished, and a bleak reality of poverty and debt setting in. No money, no food, no time to waste sprawling in the sun. Yes, it would do for them. She went to the book of spells to check if she remembered the spell she had in mind correctly, and stood turning through the fusty pages until she found it. A spell to take what was most valued. Before she could read it, the cane whipped through the air and struck her arm before she had time to flinch. The pain brought tears to her eyes. She was as much stunned by the attack, as Gressyl’s sudden change of mood.
‘You should know your spells by heart. Do you think you can afford to waste time?’
Darklin shook her head.
‘If your time is so empty of purpose, it will now be your job to make the supper, as well as doing all your other chores.’
Darklin did not welcome this development, as she knew it would mean she would have to go out and check the gruesome traps. But she couldn’t worry about that now, she had work to do.
She searched her mind for details of the curse. When she was sure she had remembered it correctly, she went to the shelves and found the potents she needed. As she prepared the potion, she plotted exactly what she would do, what hazards she might face, determined that nothing would go wrong.
The next afternoon, Darklin found her way to the Somerborne’s house to gather more information, intent on finding any details she could use to make their unhappiness greater. She could see that they were farmers. They had a small group of animals, some ducks and geese, pigs, sheep and two cows, and the golden haired boy’s horse. There were fields to the side of the house that ran adjacent to the river, Darklin supposed they grew crops on them. Near the edge of the woods was an orchard with lines of fruit trees and bushes that would harvest enough fruit to feed the family ten times over.
She expected today she would see the parents, and then she would know more. She imagined the mother going about her work with a fixed insipid smile, like those of her children, and a weather beaten father, who John probably assisted in the fields and with the animals. She watched all afternoon, but saw no one, other than the girl called Bess and the children. When the baby cried, Bess attended to it. She wondered if perhaps the mother and father were away and if that was why the children were so happy. She smiled to herself. If there were only children in the house, it was likely that she would not be heard, as Gressyl had told her that children slept soundly at night.
She watched Bess as she went about her work; as she ordered the younger boys to hang the washing on the trees to dry, as she toiled in the vegetable patch, pulling out the shoots of emerging weeds. In between jobs, Bess would sit with the baby beside her, under the chestnut tree, weaving a willow basket with quick skilful fingers. She probably made them to sell Darklin thought. They were obviously not wealthy; Darklin decided it would be easy to take away their sense of security. She snuck back to the witch’s house, still wary that Gressyl might wake and discover her, but feeling less guilty for being out in the sunlight now she was going about the business of a witch. She waited anxiously for darkness to come.
The moon was full, and consequently it was not a suitable night to go to Fallenoak, so when Darklin had collected water and wood, she made the excuse that she was going to check the traps and gather potents, hoping that Gressyl would not decide to join her. She couldn’t take one more night of waiting to give the Somerbornes their punishment. She took two small jars of potions she had prepared, wrapped them in rags so they would not make a sound, and surreptitiously placed them into her pocket. She took with her a sack that was usually used to collect plants and herbs, and a trowel, so Gressyl would not be suspicious, and slipped out of the door.
Darklin set off through the woods with a giddy energy. When she reached unfamiliar territory, she watched out for markers that she had observed earlier in the day to find her way in the dark, then followed the sound of the river. In less time than she had anticipated, she arrived breathlessly at the Somerborne’s house.
For a long time she stood and caught her breath in the darkness, watching and listening carefully for any signs that the family were still awake. All was quiet, only the hoot of an owl disturbed the night.
The time had come. She took a steadying breath and crossed the garden. Unused to not having any kind of sheltering tree over her, and illuminated by the bright moonlight, she felt horribly exposed and vulnerable. A surge of fear rushed through her, as she suddenly sensed the danger she was putting herself in. She sprinted toward the house, desperate to be hidden again. When she reached the side of the house, she flattened herself against the wall, gasping for air.
Did she really have the courage to go wandering about the Somerbornes’ house, relying only on her presumption that the family slept soundly to keep her safe? She wondered what would happen if the golden haired boy awoke and saw her…. She imagined his accusing eyes. Would he know instantly that she was a witch, or would he think she was a thief? Either way, he would surely try to detain her, to bring her to justice. She saw herself inside Fallenoak dungeon, and shuddered.
But then she recalled how the Somerborne’s made her feel, and a spasm of torment shot through her heart. She swallowed the last fluttering of fear. Revenge would be worth feeling a bit of apprehension for. She raised her chin and straightened her spine.
She sidled up to the entrance. Over the doorway, by the moon’s light she could make out the words ‘Shadows End’ carved in stone. She stood looking at the words for longer than was necessary, trying to understand if there was more meaning to letters that she was missing. She shook her head, then lifted the latch, opened the door a crack and slipped inside.
She was greeted by a low, harsh growl. The brown and white dog she had seen about the farm, stood bearing it’s canine teeth, its ears plastered back against its head. Though the sound made her shiver, Darklin was not surprised. She had prepared for it. She brought from her pocket a chunk of fresh rabbit meat. The dog stopped growling and licked its lips. Darklin dropped the treat at its feet, and unable to resist, the dog swallowed it guilty. Darklin watched in satisfaction as it tilted drunkenly, then collapsed on the floor.
She found herself in the kitchen. She could smell something that made her stomach tighten with a sudden, wild hunger. She could not remember ever having an appetite, though now she felt like she could eat for a week and still be hungry. An impulse tempted her to search through the pantry to feed her craving; but she did not give in, realising if she did, she would be no better than the wretched dog.
Making out a row of lidded clay pots high on a shelf of the dresser, Darklin thought immediately that it would be a good place for them to store their treasures. She climbed on a chair, and reached them down onto the table, one by one. In them, she hoped to find something like bags of coins, or jewellery. If she found them there, it would be far quicker than having to use the spell she had prepared. Gressyl always said that jewels were an item of value, a treasure. She looked eagerl
y in each of the clay pots but found them empty. As she lifted one of the jars back on the shelf, its lid slipped off and rushed toward the stone floor.
To Darklin, the crash was deafening. She froze. Her first instinct was to run, but she suppressed it. She willed herself to wait, and only bolt at the first sign of stirring. Moments passed. Darklin waited in agony, desperately wanting to follow her instincts and flee from the house as fast as she could. She listened so hard, it was painful. Silence. There was no sign that anyone had been disturbed, so she went forward with her plan, telling herself she must be quick. She did not have time to waste putting the rest of the jars back, and instead felt her way across the corridor and into the parlour, which she determined to be the centre of the house.
She pulled out her wand from the sack, and stood in the middle of the room. She closed her eyes in concentration, and began her spell.
‘Air draw strength
To search and move
Scour the walls
Rooms and halls
Nook and corner
Crack and crevice
Bring to me here
The things this family
Most hold dear.’
As she chanted, she held the sack open in front of her. The grey smoke swirled out from her wand, spinning farther and farther away from where she stood, curling around the furniture, sliding over the walls, slowly filling the entire house. It lifted the lids off boxes, and slithered into drawers and cupboards. As it came in contact with certain objects, the smoke lifted them and they began to levitate and spin around the room. After a few moments, abruptly, the smoke changed direction and began to swirl the opposite way, carrying with it the objects it had lifted. The smoke shrank and spun back toward Darklin and she felt the sack jolt and get heavier as the smoke slowly dropped the things it had found inside. She was pleased when she heard the chink of metal, thinking that it was the sound of coins clashing together. When the magic subsided, Darklin slowly opened her eyes. By the weight of the sack, she was sure she had done well, she had never expected their house to contain so many treasures.
Feeling extremely pleased with herself, Darklin did not stop to look at what she had taken, but quickly left the house through the front door. Pausing, she took two vials of the vermillion potion out of her pocket, and sprinkled the roots of every rose bush she could see, and then ran into the woods without looking back.
She hurried towards the witch’s house, knowing that Gressyl would be wondering where she was; she had taken much longer than was normal. She sensed it was near dawn. She picked a few plants and herbs along the way so that she would not be caught out. Suddenly, she realised that she had no way of explaining the hoard in the sack. She didn’t know what to do with it. She looked up at the sky, sure that it was brightening. She panicked, she had no time to think of a plan. Without taking any note of her surroundings, she used the trowel to dig a hole large enough for the contents of the sack and hurriedly tipped the hoard into the hole and covered it up. She scurried back to the witch’s house, hopeful that Gressyl was not in a punishing mood.
7
The Vanishing
John Somerborne, a son of nineteen summers, awoke with the first light of morning. He rose from his bed and dressed silently, careful not to wake his young brothers who were still slumbering under their blankets. He meandered toward the door, knowing to avoid certain places where the floorboards creaked loudly, and slowly crept down the twisting stairs. He yawned and stretched and rubbed his eyes, always feeling like he could sleep a few more hours. Every morning, as he reached the last stair, he would hear the scratching of claws on wood, and the dog would be waiting to greet him with a wagging tail; only this morning it wasn’t.
John gave out a soft whistle. When the dog still did not come, he crossed the hall into the kitchen, and found it lying by the back door.
‘Come boy, up now!’ he said. The dog did not raise its head.
‘Willow!’ John said more loudly. Still nothing. Shakily, John dropped down and ran a hand over the dog’s silky head, and gently prised a brown eye open. To his relief, Willow finally stirred, thumped his tail twice on the floor, and laid his head on his paws drowsily. John’s forehead creased in concern. The dog was usually full of life, straining to get out of the house each morning, no matter what the weather. He swept his hand over the length of Willow’s body, and looked him over for signs of sickness. He thought the dog’s nose felt a little dry, so he fetched a bowl of water and lifted Willow upright, holding the bowl under his mouth, until Willow had taken a few sleepy laps of water.
Leaving the bowl next to the dog, John went to the pantry and cut a chunk of cheese to tempt Willow to his feet. The dog staggered drunkenly across the kitchen, and eagerly took the treat from John’s hand. Willow shook his coat, returned to his water bowl and drank thirstily until it was empty. Satisfied he was well enough, John decided to let him rest while he checked on the other animals. As he turned toward the door, he noticed the clay pots left opened on the kitchen table. His frown deepened.
‘Bess?’ he called quietly, wondering if she had moved them, perhaps to be cleaned. He knew they had not been there when he went to bed. There was no reply. She was not yet up, he thought. John felt a creeping sensation at the base of his spine; something was not right.
‘Bess?’ he called.
‘Yes?’ Bess answered sleepily from upstairs. ‘What is it? You’ll wake Grace.’
‘No matter. Tell you later.’
John hurriedly went outside to check and feed the animals. As he was leaving, he noticed Willow begin to follow him.
‘Stay here, good boy.’ John said, ruffling his fur fondly. He would give him a good breakfast when he got back in, sure the smell of cooking meat would revive him. He found the animals in the barn normal and settled, eagerly awaiting their breakfast. The sheep in the meadow were stirring; he counted them to make sure they were all there, five ewes, four lambs, one ram. Still, he did not feel right.
John walked through the dew wet grass to fetch some water from the river. He pushed his way through the sodden branches of willow and stood by the bank. The river was gently flowing, exhaling a soft veil of mist that wrapped itself around John, curling the ends of his hair. He shivered, uneasy. He could not forgive the river for its reckless power, for having taken his parents little more than a year ago. A thick fog of grief descended on him; it filled his heart as the river mist filled his lungs.
He thought back to the time before they had been lost, remembering his mother in the mornings. Sleepy eyed at first light, bustling around the kitchen, making tea, ensuring he and his father had hot cups to warm them before they went out. And every evening his father would spin a tale as they all sat by the fire, resting after a hard day’s work.
His father had been a master storyteller, unravelling tales he had imagined, collected and learned; of local legends, and adventures in faraway places, of heroes and villains, and extraordinary creatures living in magical lands. John did not think he had ever heard the same story from his father’s lips twice, though each story had bound him, as if the words themselves were magical. His father would make them laugh and cry, made them want to be good and fear being bad.
Those stories had filled his life, occupied the spaces in his mind as he went about jobs on the farm. He had been much more a boy then, absorbed with his own dreaming; putting himself in the place of the heroes in his father’s tales. He had even taken to thinking up stories of his own, becoming the hero of his own adventure, far away in a mysterious land, triumphing over some unknown evil in situations requiring deeds of bravery and sacrifice. He remembered how his father would have to remind him to concentrate as they worked, telling him over and over again, Keep to it, John.
He did not think of stories now, not since they had gone. He concentrated wholly on the work he needed to do, fully aware that one slip from him could mean the others went hungry. He could not fail his mother and father, any more than he could fail his siblings,
by letting that happen.
Every day, he worked as hard as he could. Although his father had always told him he had an uncanny way with animals, at first he had struggled woefully. He used up a great deal of time, having to learn for himself the tricks and shortcuts of the jobs his father had yet to teach him. He had returned to the house each night heavy-eyed and exhausted, his muscles protesting, his hands blistered, and body sore. Now a year had passed, he had learned the rhythms of the farm in time with the seasons, and things had become easier for him. His body was now stronger, his shoulders and chest broader, there was more power in his legs.
Still, though the work was easier, he found the burden of his grief changed little. Added to it was his new role as the father figure, and being responsible for the other four. He constantly questioned if he was doing enough for them, asking himself what his father would do if he had been there, trying like him to be patient, judicious, and kind to his heart’s core.
He swallowed a lump in his throat. He could not quite believe he would never see them again, he felt so strongly that they were still somehow near. For days after they had vanished, he had waited at the river’s edge, staring into the flow of water, waiting, as if in reward for his patience, the silent passage of the river would deliver them back to him. Even now, the pain of their loss made him want to follow the river’s course in search of a trace of them, to walk miles by its side until his grief had been eaten away by exhaustion. He slowly shook his head, then filled the buckets, and turned away from the river, the place which everyday revealed to him the depth and force of his sorrow.
On his way back to the kitchen, John noticed the rose bushes were drooping. The leaves were parched and yellowed, despite it having rained plentifully only a few days ago.
‘Too strange.’ he murmured under his breath, his brow furrowed. As he stepped inside, he could hear Bess was up and moving around.