by Kit Berry
Leveret paused here, and Magpie rose silently to take Hare from her lap. Leveret stood confidently, clasping Clip’s ash staff in one hand and the leather collar around Shadow’s neck in the other. The flickering firelight illuminated her golden-furred and long-eared headdress, and her dark green dress that flowed to the ground. Leveret began to step round the stage, and people forgot that she was blind because their Shaman had the true sight, and she would not falter or stumble. She paced the circle, the staff raised high and the grey dog by her side, and they felt her power and her wisdom.
‘Folk of Stonewylde, we’ve seen difficult times. We’ve suffered losses and betrayals. But these things pass and we now move on to better, happier times. We are the same tribe as our ancestors. Their blood still flows in our veins. We are made of the same stuff as them, passed down through the ages to us today. We still hold the sacred land and the Goddess still walks here, blessing us with her bounty and her favour. We are honoured by her and now we must once again share her special magic with others who need it. We must once more let other folk who need to be healed come into our lands, be welcomed by our tribe, and be permitted to cast themselves on the sacred earth here and be made whole again.’
She stopped in the centre of the stage and raised the heavy staff towards the roof. Above her hung a great bough of mistletoe, moving slightly in the heat.
‘Folk of Stonewylde – the shadows that blighted our land are receding. The darkness and evil I spoke of before, in this very place, are now gone. They were banished by our beloved Clip, by the sacrifice he made for us all at Samhain. The vipers have been cast out, and, as the returning sun grows stronger every day, so too will our community become strong again. Babies will be born, new people from other tribes will come amongst us and become our friends. They’ll share their skills and bring us gifts, and in return we shall take them to our hearts and share with them the abundance that we have. Once more we will honour our elders and listen to their wisdom. We’ll build up our Village again, make fine new dwellings for our young folk, and draw new water and new energy for our people. Our craftspeople will once more practise their skills with pride and joy and our farmers will be amazed at the fecundity of our herds and flocks, of our fields and crops. A golden age is coming to Stonewylde and we must embrace it with open arms!’
She paused and Magpie appeared, taking Clip’s ash staff from her and handing her the Asklepian wand. She released Shadow, who sat back on his haunches and stared solemnly up at her. Leveret’s fingers traced the carved snake on the rowan, feeling the magic of the ancient symbol of life and healing. Every person in the Great Barn was silent and spell-bound. She smiled, her sightless green gaze roaming the sea of faces and encompassing them all with a sweep of the wand.
‘At Beltane this year, when the Green Man once more raises the sap and fertilises the White Maiden in the never-ending cycle of rebirth and growth, something magical will come to pass. When this comes about, my beloved tribe, you will know that your Shaman the Hare Woman has spoken true, and will always be here to guide you. Yule blessings to all! Bright blessings and be whole and healthy!’
Later, Maizie sat at the long table in the Barn in her element. It was the Yule feast, and the first one she’d actually sat down to enjoy since she was a girl. Rosie had taken on the organisational role, but unlike her mother, she proved adept at delegating, thus giving herself some time for enjoyment too. So it was that Maizie and many members of her brood sat down this evening together to enjoy the traditional feast, perhaps the greatest one of the whole year. The only ones missing were her eldest and her youngest.
Tom had arranged for a small pony and cart for Leveret’s transport. She could and had walked the distance from the Hall to the Village and back, but she walked slowly and in the cold, this wasn’t ideal. Tom wanted to drive her himself, so after her performance he took her back to the tower. She was exhausted by the Story Web and looked forward to curling up by the fire and relaxing in peace and quiet. She’d persuaded Magpie to stay in the Barn and have some fun, which he certainly deserved. Leveret had Hare in the basket on the seat beside her, whilst Shadow loped alongside the cart. She huddled in her cloak in the chill evening and longed for the warmth and security of the tower.
‘I wish your brother could’ve heard you tonight,’ Tom said. ‘He’d have been proud o’ you.’
‘I wish he’d been there too,’ said Leveret sadly.
‘They say . . . they say he’s gone into his cave for a bit,’ said Tom. ‘Can’t blame ‘un really – these things can happen in marriage, but ’tis hard. He’ll be back, no doubt about that. As you said in that story, all will be well again.’
Leveret sat silently in her darkness, knowing that despite her encouraging words that evening, it might not be quite so simple.
‘Come and join us, do!’ cried Maizie, scarlet-cheeked and a little merry from the sweet red-currant wine she so loved. ‘Meadowsweet’s a fine new member of our family, right enough!’
‘I ain’t a member quite yet,’ said the girl in embarrassment, but everyone squeezed up on the bench to allow her in. She smiled at Gregory and Geoffrey and their goodwives and little ones, as well as Rosie, Robin and their two children. Sylvie sat at the table too, with Celandine and Bluebell who were enjoying being with their cousins and feeling glad to be part of such a large family. Sweyn and Gefrin had been talking, but as soon as Meadowsweet sat with them, Gefrin turned all his attention to her, his narrow face lighting up with pleasure.
‘Ah, look at our Gefrin!’ cooed Maizie, sitting opposite them. ‘ ’Tis plain he’s in love.’
‘More fool him,’ muttered Sweyn morosely, his bull neck scarlet and the sweat dripping down his heavy face.
‘Oh come on, you’ll have a sweetheart afore you know it!’ said Maizie. ‘Then all o’ my weanlings will be paired off.’
‘Not all,’ said Sweyn. ‘Leveret isn’t. And Yul’s split up from his wife.’
‘Sshh! They’ll be back together by Imbolc, you mark my words! And as for our Leveret . . . ’tis different for her. And she has Magpie, if you can count him. He certainly cares for her as much as any husband, that’s for sure.’
Sweyn rolled his eyes at this.
‘Come on, Mother – don’t pretend you like him now. We all know how you’ve always felt about the half-wit. Just ‘cos he’s had a bath don’t make him any brighter.’
Maizie frowned, not wanting any nastiness to spoil her happy evening. She turned her attention to Gefrin and Meadowsweet instead, ignoring Sweyn. He was only out of sorts because no girl was yet interested in him.
‘What did you think of our Leveret’s story tonight?’ she asked, tucking into another helping of the delicious plum pudding topped with a good dollop of clotted cream. ‘Weren’t she truly stepping into dear old Clip’s boots?’
‘Aye,’ said Meadowsweet happily. ‘She’s a magical girl and you must be so proud o’ her. My father’s glad she had Shadow, especially now she’s blind.’
‘That great dog is certainly a help,’ agreed Maizie. ‘Gefrin, you must’ve felt proud o’ her tonight, boy?’
‘Aye,’ he nodded, keeping his eyes on his plate, his cheeks flushing in tell-tale uneasiness as Sweyn snorted beside him.
‘Oh don’t mind Gef!’ laughed Meadowsweet, punching him playfully on the bicep. ‘He just feels a mite ashamed o’ the way he used to treat his little sister. He wishes he’d been a bit kinder to her now.’
‘What do you mean by that?’ said Maizie sharply. ‘Why would he feel ashamed?’
‘Oh, just the things he and Sweyn used to do. He told me all about it one night when he’d had a drop too much – about what they used to get up to. ’Twas cruel stuff, but our Gefrin’s turned over a new leaf and he feels bad about it now.’
‘No, you got that wrong, my girl,’ said Maizie. ‘Hasn’t she, Gefrin? ’Tweren’t nothing for him to feel bad about, Meadowsweet! Just a bit o’ teasing and messing about like brothers do.’
‘No
, ’twere a lot more than that,’ said Meadowsweet, not seeing Gefrin’s expression of dismay. ‘He and Sweyn tormented her all the time, he said, and never let up. When she were little they had a regular game to see how many times in one day they could make her cry. They hurt her a lot but they never left marks so’s you’d find ’em out, and they was always thinking up new torments. Why, he told me they often used to force her into a poky little cupboard under the eaves and lock her inside in the darkness, poor little mite! And last year at Imbolc when she were the Bright Maiden, they even—’
‘Meadowsweet!’ cried Gefrin in desperation, his terrified glance taking in Maizie’s expression across the table. ‘You’re talking a load o’ swill! Why don’t—’
‘No I ain’t!’ she said crossly. ‘Don’t you start denying it now, Gefrin! You told me all about Imbolc and how you and Sweyn switched poor Leveret’s breakfast cakes for them tainted ones from Old Violet, and how you—’
With a shriek of outrage Maizie jumped up, almost tipping over the long trestle table in her distress. Her glass went flying, the crimson liquid spilling in a shocking pool onto the white cloth. The blood had drained from her cheeks and her eyes blazed as she glared at her two youngest sons in round-mouthed horror. They both stared fixedly at their plates, but Maizie leant over the table and grabbed Sweyn’s collar and a handful of Gefrin’s hair, her face now flooded scarlet with rage. She could barely speak, yanking them hard from their seats as if they were small children rather than strapping young men.
‘Outside!’ she spat, her lips quivering. ‘Outside, and I’ll hear the truth from you both! Aye, and you too, Meadowsweet my girl. I want to hear everything!’
News came at the beginning of January of Miranda’s mother’s death, and she and Sylvie travelled up to London the day before the funeral. Christopher met them off their train and whisked them away to check into the smart hotel he’d booked for them. He was dining with them that evening but had to work in the afternoon, so they decided to do a little sight seeing. On the way back from the art gallery, they paused at the entrance to a filthy tube station leading down into the bowels of the earth. Shaking their heads at the unwanted newspapers thrust at them, Miranda suddenly smiled.
‘Let’s not go back to the hotel this way,’ she said. ‘Come on, let’s hop on the old bus we used to take and see the flat. If it’s still there, of course.’
The crowded bus was dirty too and the seats smelled of filth and detritus. They sat together, mother and daughter, on the long, jolting ride, stifled by the stink of traffic, people and polluted air. Their eyes were assailed by buses, cars, hoardings, endless tatty shops and ugly buildings, and their ears rang with the relentless, jangling cacophony that was the London suburbs.
‘I really can’t bear it,’ said Sylvie, huddled miserably in her seat, her senses shrivelling in despair. ‘I’d forgotten how awful it all is – thank Goddess we moved to Stonewylde!’
At that moment, they recognised the desolate area and together peered out from the bus’s dirty window. The old tower-block was still standing, now even more dilapidated than ever. They saw the grimy balconies with their battered plastic shields, some hung with grey washing even in January, others crammed with bikes and rusty appliances. They saw the graffiti-sprayed entrance, the grey cement stairwell that probably still stank of urine, the sheer bleak ugliness of it. They got off the bus and stood at the kerbside staring in horror at the soulless place where they’d lived for so many years. Litter blew across the expanse of dirty grass and dog mess; they gazed in disbelief at the alien wasteland that had once been their home.
‘I can’t imagine . . .’ said Sylvie, fighting the tears, ‘I can’t imagine how it felt, to bring up a child in such a place. As a mother I now understand that need to protect and nurture and make everything as special as you can . . . how appalling it must’ve been for you to have no options, no chance of anything better for me despite your very best efforts. Mum – you were wonderful. Because I never, ever felt . . .’
She stopped, and Miranda took her tall, beautiful daughter in her arms and held her tight.
‘I can’t tell you how very proud I am of you,’ she whispered. ‘My darling Sylvie, you’re the best achievement I could ever have dreamt of.’
The funeral was large and grand, and Miranda was anxious not to be noticed by anyone. She concealed her deep auburn hair under an encompassing head-scarf, hid behind dark glasses like a celebrity and kept a very low profile. Nobody knew anything about Sylvie so wouldn’t have recognised her. Miranda and Sylvie mouthed amens at the prayers and sang a few words to some of the scarcely remembered hymns. As her mother was committed to the earth, Miranda shed a few bitter tears for the woman she’d never really known, and the sadness of lost opportunities. She couldn’t help but make a comparison between this rather sterile rite and Clip’s recent heart-breaking funeral. She was glad when it was all over and they could escape to their hotel, avoiding the large reception where her parents’ friends and acquaintances were heading in droves.
Sylvie was returning to Stonewylde that evening, not wanting to leave the girls for too long with Yul absent. It wasn’t fair on Maizie, who’d had rather an upset at Yule over Sweyn and Gefrin, and had been seriously out of sorts ever since. Sylvie gathered that finally Gefrin had come clean and admitted to drugging Leveret at Imbolc when she was the Bright Maiden. When Sylvie had heard that she’d felt vindicated; she’d always thought that Leveret’s behaviour that day had been out of character. Remembering the terrible row she’d had with Yul over it, she smiled grimly, knowing she’d been right all along.
Miranda was staying on in London another couple of days at Christopher’s request. Apparently there were papers to be signed and personal effects to be gone through, but Sylvie knew there was more to it than that. She’d teased her mother gently about this new love-interest in her life and Miranda had surprised her by being neither defensive nor coy. She’d looked Sylvie in the eye and admitted that she found herself increasingly attracted to the kindly lawyer, who was only ten years older than her and about to take early retirement from the family law firm.
‘I really do like him,’ she’d admitted. ‘He’s amusing, he’s a gentleman and he makes me feel as if I’m someone special. But . . . we’re worlds apart and I can’t see how there could be any future for us. I’m certainly not prepared to leave Stonewylde to be with him in London – not that he’s asked me. And I can’t see him retiring to Dorset. He has all sorts of plans apparently, none of which could involve being buried alive in the green hills of Wessex.’
‘Well . . . I don’t know what to advise, but I would say he’s been very good to us so far with all the help he’s given, and he’s certainly interested in our plans for the healing centre. I like him – there’s a kindness about him, a twinkle in his eye – and the girls have taken to him as well. For what it’s worth, Mum, you have my blessing.’
Sylvie hadn’t booked her train and didn’t want to leave too late. She said goodbye to her mother in the hotel suite, wishing her a lovely evening with Christopher, and carried her small overnight bag down to the lobby. The lift was smooth and perfumed and as she crossed the thickly carpeted floor heading for the revolving doors, Sylvie reflected on the difference between this luxurious experience of London and the one she and Miranda had endured all those years ago.
Just as the glass carousel ejected her onto the steps of the hotel and the liveried doorman stepped forward to take her bag and put her into a taxi, she came face to face with a tall, heavily-built blond man dashing up the monogrammed steps. He grabbed her arm and cried, ‘Sylvie!’ and she stared at him in disbelief, shaking off his hand.
‘Madam?’ asked the doorman. ‘A taxi? Or . . .’
‘No, she doesn’t want a taxi, thank you!’ said Buzz. ‘Sylvie, I—’
‘Oh no you don’t!’ she cried. ‘How dare you? I’m going home—’
He smiled and held up his hands disarmingly.
‘I’m sorry –
let me rephrase that. I’ve just learnt that you’re here. I wanted to pop over and have tea with you and apologise for my intrusion last autumn. I also wanted to let you know how Swift’s getting on. Please, Sylvie, I promise to be on my best behaviour, so do spare me fifteen minutes of your time. We can nip in here to the hotel’s tea-room if you like. Please?’
More because she wanted to hear about Swift than anything else, Sylvie went back through the door again and, within minutes, she and Buzz were sitting in the elegant restaurant waiting for their pot of Lady Grey. He smiled at her quite charmingly.
‘Thank you for agreeing to this. I’m sorry – I dashed over as soon as I read the obituary for your grandmother and saw the funeral was today. I hadn’t realised you’d actually be leaving the same day. I very nearly missed you altogether.’
‘How did you know where we were staying?’
He grinned sheepishly, his pale blue eyes begging indulgence.
‘I got one of my office girls to ring the lawyer’s office. You know how girls will gossip . . .’
Sylvie scowled at this, ignoring his attempts to charm her and disliking him more than ever.
‘Since Martin’s death, it’s been impossible to find out anything,’ he admitted.
‘So it was Martin who was your mole all along,’ she said slowly. ‘When—’
‘Right from the very start, when I was sent away aged sixteen,’ he said. ‘We always kept in touch on the phone and he’d tell me all the snippets of gossip. That’s how I knew about your illness and being sent to the nursing home. Once Martin learnt how to use the Internet, we’d e-mail. And then Swift got involved too. He’s a bright lad, that one. He’s settled into his new college and he’s a wonderful house-guest. My wife’s very taken with him and the children love him. And he seems to be dealing with his bereavement well. He’ll go far, I’m sure, but he’s done with Stonewylde. He sees his future out here in the real world.’