by R N Merle
She trembled as she stepped out of the shadows and into the light of the clearing. John’s dog was by his side and growled deeply at the sight of her. Darklin thought she could hear it’s hatred of her in the sound. Its hackles rose, and its lip curled back to reveal its long, white canine teeth.
Darklin looked at John. Her mind echoed with the words of Vardyn’s rules, “A Witch must reject the ways of the folk. She must not speak to them, or communicate with them in any way.” Darklin cleared her throat to break another rule.
John Somerborne looked up sharply as he heard his dog growl. He turned and saw the dark figure standing before him. He blinked and stiffened, reliving the first time he had seen her, coming through the rain, the outline of the black cloak, draped over a small frame.
That chilling night, trapped in that unnatural prison, he feared he would face something ungodly. As the figure approached, he imagined that he would see a ghastly skeletal face with devil red eyes, concealed under the black hood, and his blood ran purely cold. He had hated himself for being afraid. He had silently prayed that the Lord would give him strength and courage, and protect him from what was evil.
As it had come closer, the more substantial the figure became, the less John had feared it. When he had grabbed her wrist and her hood had fallen away, he had prepared himself for something hideous, a face that would haunt him for the rest of his life. Then he had seen her. The frightened black eyes, huge within a gaunt and ghostly young face. Her face had not scared him, but he knew it would haunt him.
He had been unable to stop thinking about her, wondering who she was, and if she had been the one to imprison him, and make him speechless. It was almost impossible to think she was responsible, she looked so young and fragile. But where had she come from, and what had she been doing in the woods so late at night?
He thought of how she had approached the cage to give him a drink, and how it was possible that she had been there to help him. But logic told him he could not afford to give her the benefit of the doubt. He had good reason to be suspicious of her. She had a way of clearing away the thorns, but had not set him free. And he had seen her muttering, and holding something like a wand, as if she were performing magic, though he couldn’t tell exactly what she had been doing, or if it had been meant for him.
What was she? He looked at her face in the light. He could barely see her eyes under her hood, but her skin was now clear of the black powder. He couldn’t help being reminded of his father’s description of the faire folk, with their pale faces and pointed chins and their magic. Again, there was nothing about her that scared him. He willed her to speak; he needed answers to his questions, as much as he needed his voice to ask them.
The girl took another step forward. Willow barked out a warning. John put his hand on the side of the dog’s head, but did not take his eyes from her.
‘I need you to tell me if you have told anyone that you saw me. I need to know if they are coming.’ the girl said in a shaky voice.
John couldn’t answer her even if her wanted to. He pointed at his throat.
The girl reached into her sack and pulled out a small glass bottle. ‘If you drink this, you will be able to speak,’ she said quietly. ‘It will not harm you, I swear. I need to hear your answer.’
She held the bottle between her finger tips as she reached it toward him. Willow snarled, but John nudged him to be quiet.
John looked into the girl’s dark, almost black eyes, trying to discern if she was honest. She held his gaze for an instant and then looked to the ground. He could sense no malice in her. He wanted to take the potion, to believe it would cure him. It was terrible not being able to speak, to have his family’s eyes constantly following him, full of worry. It was dangerous, perhaps foolhardy, but he took her at her word. He put down his axe and cautiously took the bottle from her. He twisted off the cork and poured the contents into his mouth. He swallowed hesitantly. The taste was harsh and bitter.
‘Who…’ He was so relieved and startled that the potion had worked so quickly that he had to start again.
‘Who are you?’ John demanded.
The girl ignored his question. ‘I need to know, please, did you tell anyone?’
‘Did you put the cage around me? Was it you who took away my voice?’ asked John.
She nodded slowly and looked away from him.
John felt a tug of disappointment, followed by a rush of indignation. He stepped toward her, she stepped back. ‘Why did you do it?’
‘Have you told them?’ she cried.
‘How could I? I have not been able to speak.’
‘You could have written it down.’
‘I cannot write.’
‘Drawn an explanation?’
‘No.’
‘There is no one coming after me?’
John hesitated. He had not begun to think about retribution, his concern had been finding out what had happened to him, and if he would ever speak again. He had a right to be aggrieved. She had caused him and his family a great deal of pain and anguish. He shuddered to remember the hours he had been in the cage, not knowing if he had been left to starve and perish, or what was happening at Shadows End while he was away. He’d had to live through days of thinking that he might never speak again. And the woods that had always been a place of contentment for him, had now become sinister and dangerous. The last thing he had wanted to do was to return to the orchard after all that had happened, but he knew it was the one place he might find her.
He looked at her downturned face. She had freely owned up to being responsible for what had happened. It seemed fair that she should be punished for it. He could still be in danger; he didn’t know the extent of her powers or what exactly she held against him.
But it was hard not to reassure her; she looked so wretched, and her voice was so full of fear. The girl appeared wholly uncared for, half-starved and half wild. He found himself solemnly shaking his head.
The girl made a sound, half way between a sigh and a sob.
‘What are you?’ John heard himself asking.
She looked at him as if she didn’t understand.
‘Why did you put me in that cage? Why did you steal my voice? Tell me why I should not have the Justice come for you?’
‘Please, please don’t send them after me.’
‘You do not think you deserve punishment for what you did to me?’
‘I am a witch, it is my duty to punish.’
‘A witch?’ John breathed in sharply, and repeated the word in his mind. A witch. Impossible. She did not look like a witch. Witches were old women who made potions for ailments, and sold charms for luck, and they didn’t have any real magic. And they didn’t punish people. Only the witches in stories had any real power. Was she in earnest?
‘What did I need punishing for?’ he asked, still unsure whether to believe her.
‘All folk are wicked and need to be punished.’
John looked at her in confusion. He had heard that all folk were sinners, but it was up to God to pass judgement.
‘And what makes you think this?’ He was having trouble taking it all in. It seemed so fantastical; this frail child, a witch, with powerful magic, seeking out people to punish.
‘My mother…’ she began, and then shook her head. ‘I cannot talk to you. Please, I just need to know, will you send them after me?’
‘I have a reason to.’ he said.
‘Please, they will kill me.’ she blurted out, ‘I will give you your things back, the things you had taken.’
‘It was you who took our belongings, and put a curse on our house, wasn’t it?’ exclaimed John, realising that she had been behind all of their recent misfortune. Anger rose in him again as he thought of what his family had been through.
‘Yes,’ she said, almost inaudibly. ‘But I will return your possessions to you, if you do not go to the village folk.’
John studied the absolute terror on her face. Her eyes were desolate. He did not owe h
er anything, least of all peace of mind. But if he did turn her in, he knew how strange people were about witchcraft, it was likely that she would be hung, or at least locked away for the rest of her life. That did not seem right to him. He took a few moments to consider, then gave her his answer.
‘If you return our property, and make right the spells you have made, and if you stop your witchery, I will not turn you over to the Justice. But if I hear you have cast even one spell on any other person, I will tell them what you have done, and that I have seen you in these woods.’
The girl looked unsure, her eyes darted about the trees, as if she were searching for a way of escape.
‘You will have my word.’ John said.
‘Yes, John Somerborne,’ the girl said quietly, ‘I will have your word. If you should break your promise to me, you shall be silent for the rest of your days.’
John could not stop the shiver that ran over his skin at her words. He straightened his spine. ‘Very well,’ he said, ‘but you must keep your promise too.’
The girl nodded hesitantly. She took a step backward and then hurried toward the line of trees. John watched her scurry away. Willow barked again as if he had been the one to tell her to go. John looked down at him. Willow seemed instinctively not to like her. John was conflicted about his own feelings, his deep curiosity about her and her magic, seemed somehow to dull his grievances. He raised his eyes, to glean a last impression, but when he looked again she had disappeared amongst the shadows.
Darklin walked away from John in a dizzy haze. The promise she had made to him would make her life extremely difficult, but for now she was happy to revel in her relief. She hurried back to the house and lay on her bed. The weight and strain of the recent hours crashed down upon her, and she dropped into a heavy sleep.
The night came again too soon, before Darklin had time to think through what had happened between her and John. She craved more time with him. There was something about being in his presence that stirred her. There were so many things she had wanted to explain to him. She was amazed at how she had answered his questions so thoughtlessly. If she had stopped to think about what she was saying, she was sure she would have revealed far less.
She was staring unseeingly at the spell book, pretending to be getting ideas, but reliving every second she had spent with John, when Gressyl’s voice jolted her into the present.
‘The night is full-dark. Go to the village, and find someone to curse. You haven’t done anything since that healing fool, Vining. We’ll never get it done soon enough, if you are so slow.’
Get what done? Darklin thought. Was there an end to their work?
‘How do we know if it is done?’ Darklin asked timidly, unsure what Gressyl meant.
‘When we have destroyed hope for every last one of them.’
‘And then what will we do?’ For a hopeful moment Darklin wondered if when they had finished their work in Fallenoak, it might mean they didn’t have to be witches any longer.
‘We’ll find somewhere else, far away, and start again.’
Darklin slumped in her seat. She didn’t want to go anywhere. She tried to swallow a sudden lump in her throat.
‘Is there much work to do?’ Darklin asked, afraid of the answer.
‘That depends on you, doesn’t it, girl?’ replied Gressyl.
Darklin closed the spell book and opened the red book containing the names and families of the people of Fallenoak, and what had happened to them. She counted the people that lived there. One hundred and eighty seven of them; men, women and children.
To find out how much work was left to do, she read through what had happened to each of them, trying to imagine what a person could recover from, and what would leave them to think nothing good could ever happen again. She came across the Sparrow family, and read through the names. Mary Sparrow, married to Tom Sparrow. Gressyl had made her note every child Mary had given life to, and cross out each that had not survived. Seven names were crossed out, only one name was left. Annie. Darklin could not bring herself to put a line through her name. Without warning, her eyes filled with tears. Darklin was horrified, baffled as to where the rush of compassion could spring from, and why.
She had put herself in their place, she had imagined their sadness and it had become real. It wasn’t what a witch was supposed to feel, but her heart ached for Mary. She had lost the ones she loved, and Darklin suddenly knew, as if she were remembering something she had known all along, that it was a loss a person would not recover from. Mary must be a soul without hope. She put a black cross by her name, and turned the page.
Darklin went through each page of the book, making evaluations and lists as she went. She did not always have such a clear instinct as she had with Mary. It was hard for her, not knowing how and to what degree people reacted. Some of the curses did not make much sense. There were many that Gressyl had made poor, a few made ill, and some that she changed something about them. And how did Gressyl destroy the hopes of a child that had so much life, so many possibilities in front of them?
By the time Darklin finished her very rough assessment of Fallenoak, she estimated that there were twenty-seven people left to be ruined, the rest had been given curses that she imagined they would never recover from. As she wrote the names in the back of her book, she did not notice Gressyl hanging over her shoulder, watching her steadily scribe the names on the fresh white page.
‘Is that what you think? The rest of them can be let off, can they?’ Gressyl hissed.
Darklin jumped, her body lifting off the chair in fear. She felt any answer would be wrong, so she said nothing. Gressyl snatched up the book from under her hand.
‘George Stephens, Jane Pond, Elizabeth March, Richard Mooney…’ She read down Darklin’s list. ‘You haven’t got half of them on here. What of the Bengefields, and the loathsome Squire and his brats? What of Mary Sparrow, I made you note how she is to be reviled. Did you think you’d just let her get away with all her sickening foolishness about love and God and kindness? Why don’t you listen, girl?’
Gressyl slammed the book back down on the table, so hard Darklin flinched again. ‘Recite the fourth rule.’ she snapped.
Darklin cleared her throat. “Never have pity. Pity is poison. Never allow sympathy to enter your thoughts, as it will open the door to weakness. Folk may appear harmless. They might seem weak and pathetic. They might look so beaten down, that they don’t need punishing. As you go about your duties, you will see the ragged and the starving, you will look upon the wide eyes of babes, the failing bodies of the old, the tired and the wretched. Do not be fooled. The weak need punishment as much as the strong. They must be foolish to allow themselves to become weak. Your loyalty to your purpose must never waiver. It is a witch’s duty to punish all; not one should be passed over.”
‘So you do remember. Perhaps you are just lazy. I will not tolerate it. You must be exhaustive and meticulous in your work. I will write the list of who needs our attentions. Come to think of it, that is a good idea. You will go to the village and perform the curses that I tell you. And no more one curse every two weeks or so, you will do at least three a night, and report back to me everything that transpired. Do you understand?’
Darklin nodded. She felt the backdraft of air as Gressyl turned and went back to the fire. Three curses, and three explanations. Darklin hoped she would be able to hold all the lies inside her head.
Sometime later that night, Gressyl called Darklin over to her.
‘Tomorrow night I want you to curse Mary Sparrow…The Squire and that pathetic steward of his while you are there.’ Gressyl shoved a scroll of paper toward Darklin. ‘Make these potions tonight, you can go tomorrow. And while you are there, I want you to look in on the clergyman Bengefield and his wife, I want to know their state of affairs.’
The following night, Darklin left the house and waited near the water pool for time to pass, rehearsing what she would tell Gressyl. It was lucky that Gressyl had at least supplied her w
ith the potions she would use and people she would curse, so now she did not have to be so inventive. She tipped away the potions she had made the night before into the mud, and carefully placed the empty bottles back into her sack.
Hours later, she dawdled back to the house. She sat at Gressyl’s feet and told of how she had performed the curses, without being heard or seen. When she had finished, Gressyl leaned back in her chair. ‘And what of the Bengefields?’
‘They were at the castle, feasting like pigs with the Squire and his….’
‘What did you say?’ Gressyl interrupted. ‘The Bengefields were dining with the Squire?’
‘Yes.’ Darklin looked up at Gressyl’s face, wondering if she was losing her hearing. Then realised with horror her mistake. Darklin recalled the facts from the notes she had written.
“Fanny Bengefield; likes the sound of her own voice, sings above everyone else in church, conceited, duplicitous gossip. Her Curse; split her tongue into that of a snake’s. Can now only hiss when she speaks. Never opens mouth in public.”
‘You are lying.’ Gressyl said slowly in a tone that caused Darklin to break into a cold sweat.
‘I meant to say he was there, not her.’
‘But you didn’t. You said they, not he. It is not an easy mistake to make, that woman hasn’t eaten or spoken outside her own house for more than five years. Don’t lie to me.’ Gressyl’s voice chilled Darklin to the bone.
‘He, he was dining with the Squire. I never saw her.’ Darklin persisted.
‘Why did you not go to the Bengefields house as I told you?’
‘I forgot.’
‘You are a useless, lazy wretch.’
The witch lifted the cane from her knee and swiped it through the air at Darklin’s head. Instinctively Darklin drew her head back and Gressyl missed. Darklin stumbled backwards to get on her feet, but Gressyl was already out of her chair and coming for her. Darklin panicked, misplaced her foot and fell awkwardly onto the hard stone floor. From her ribcage, Darklin thought she heard a muffled crack. The cane pounded down on her. Darklin covered her head. After a surprisingly short time, Gressyl stopped. Breathlessly she said, ‘If I find out you’ve been lying again, I’ll skin you alive, or worse. Now get out of my sight.’