A Place With Two Faces

by Mann, Josephine

  Jenny crept nearer. The chant died away and the loinclothed man launched into another incantation; his bony body seemed full of authority as he stood there, rigid and a little threatening, pointing a sword at the sky. Suddenly Jenny knew him. She realized with a shock of horror that it was Nigel Forrest. And as the formal ceremony ended and the chanters began to talk in ordinary voices she looked at them anxiously, hoping not to confirm what she suddenly knew. But they were there. That grotesque, elongated cube on short, stout legs was assuredly Margaret, for she caught a glimpse of reddish hair in the lamplight and heard the deep fruity laugh. And the well-built man with dark curly hair who lingered lovingly hand-in-hand with the tall, high-breasted girl, they surely, were Robert and Bromwyn. She even thought she recognized Bernard Hawker’s high, foolish voice. She crouched on the hillside with feelings that veered violently from sardonic amusement to spine-chilling dread. Was it harmless games, a wife-swapping orgy or was something powerful, sinister even, being generated by those chanting figures and Nigel calling on unseen spirits with his formidable air of authority? They were all sitting in a tight circle now, eating and drinking. But a naked picnic on a March night? She turned and crept back to the house.

  She wrote a note to Margaret explaining about the car and left it prominently displayed on the chest in the hall. Then she went cautiously to her room, tensed, ready for any evil which might confront her, carrying her heavy rubber flashlight as a weapon. She searched the wardrobe and peered under the bed and, all seeming well, she washed and undressed quickly; she didn’t want to see or speak to Margaret while her mind was in such a state of turmoil. She locked her door and lay in bed wondering what she should do. Instinct told her to abandon the Mini and fly. To insist on catching the first train. But what could she say, what reason could she give? Did she have to admit to having spied, to having witnessed this shaming scene? There was no wind and the house was unusually silent, even the central heating had ceased to clank. Worn out by her adventures, Jenny began to drown gently in sleep. Then voices in the garden jerked her back. They’d come up from the field, would they be coming in? She crept to the window. They stood in the courtyard, lit by the lanterns some of them were carrying, a group of robed figures, strange and monk-like. There were so many of them she felt helpless, her locked door seemed a feeble protection. But now they were turning away, only one hooded figure came on to the lodge, the others vanished around the side of Kilruthan house and presently, hearing cars starting and Margaret moving about downstairs, she fled back to the comforting warmth of her bed.

  7

  The Poppet

  Jenny wakened as undecided as she had slept. She dressed slowly and miserably and came to the conclusion that she would have to play it by ear. They would talk abut the car first and that would give her a chance to assess Margaret’s mood and find out if she suspected her nudist orgy, or whatever it was, had been observed.

  Margaret seemed equally anxious to delay conversation for as long as possible. She lingered over innumerable cups of coffee and pretended to be totally immersed in the post. At last, twenty minutes later than usual, she looked Jenny firmly in the eye and said, “Well, since you’re back we may as well work. I’m sorry about the car; this certainly isn’t your lucky time.”

  “No,” agreed Jenny, furious to find that she was unable to meet Margaret’s eye. Why should she feel guilty at having witnessed those ridiculous gavottings in the meadow? It ought to be the other way around. But Margaret appeared quite brazen. She looked at Jenny critically for a moment and then she asked, “Well, what did you see last night and what sinister interpretation are you putting on it?”

  “When I went for the key I heard chanting,” Jenny explained in an embarrassed voice, “so I went down the field to see what was going on and there you all were going around in circles and jumping a coal scuttle thing.”

  “It was March, the twentieth, the spring equinox and a major fertility Sabbath,” said Margaret briskly. “The ‘coal scuttle’ was a cauldron, jumping it is one of the fertility rites to ensure good crops and so on.”

  “So it’s a sort of religion then?” asked Jenny.

  “Yes, Wicca, a very old religion indeed. We’re witches – now don’t rush out of the house screaming – we practice white magic, not black. We help people, heal, look into the future.”

  “I see,” said Jenny unhappily.

  “We’ve been longing to tell you all about it,” Margaret went on, “but you seemed in such a nervous state that we decided to wait until you knew us better; a wrong decision as things have turned out. We knew you were coming; long before I advertised for a secretary Nigel saw you – in his crystal. And we all think that you have a mystical element, a talent which needs channeling or training. Clairvoyance perhaps, we’re not sure, but you’re certainly the right material for a witch.”

  “But I don’t want to be a witch,” Jenny objected in horrified tones.

  “Why not? If you’ve a talent for healing or seeing into the future it’s a pity not to develop it. Anyway, if you change your mind Robert is dying to initiate you.”

  “Robert?”

  “Yes, a female has to be initiated by a male witch and vice versa, it’s laid down in the law. Homosexuality – male or female – is forbidden.”

  “There are rules, or commandments then?” asked Jenny.

  “Yes, we have the Book of Shadows. But much of it was written in times of persecution and doesn’t really apply nowadays. You have to make your own copy of the book so that if you were caught no other witch could be implicated by the handwriting, that still goes on.”

  “And the pole in the hall?” asked Jenny.

  Margaret laughed. “Oh, so you’ve spotted that. It’s my broomstick, but I don’t ride on it; that was only a superstition, possibly due to some drug with sort of LSD effects, taken by a few covens who then thought they flew.”

  “Mrs. Gethin’s terrified of it,” said Jenny. “She must know that you’re a witch and the Forrests, too. That was what she was trying to warn me about the first morning.”

  “There have always been witches in Cornwall,” said Margaret. “And they’ve always been treated with a mixture of fear, hatred and respect. Yes, the village knows, though if you asked them outright they’d deny it. They’re not above dropping hints if they want something done. Widow Gethin always mentions her problems. We’ve had her son’s warts and her daughter’s childlessness, her own bad leg. ‘I don’t know if you can do anything?’ is the formula; it means, will you try? But I’m sorry she gave you awful warnings. Poor old Jenny. And now, to work. If you want to know more about witchcraft you must ask Robert.”

  Jenny worked her way through the day in a state of frustration. It was too soon to telephone the garage even to ask how the rewiring was going, but she had come to a conclusion; the moment the Mini was ready she would tell Margaret that she wished to leave and, if her decision was reasonably received, she would gladly work out her notice, but she wanted the Mini there, poised for flight, before she broached the subject. If your employer was a witch, you couldn’t afford to take chances.

  After lunch, she went into the garden. Spring had come at last and the daffodils and narcissi, which had been frozen in their various stages for weeks, were suddenly drifts of gold and white. The grass had a new vividness and the air was caressing and balmy. Jenny was admiring all this when a voice called her from a window, a Kilruthan House window. She looked around and saw Rosemary.

  “Oh Jenny, next time you’re going shopping in the village will you please get a few things for me? I haven’t been very well the last day or two and it’s no use sending Nigel, he just brings back bread and cheese whatever is on the list.”

  “Yes, of course,” answered Jenny. “Any time. Now if you like; I’ve got nothing to do and I can’t go anywhere exciting without my car.”

  “Now? You really mean that? I’ll make a list.”

  “I’ll go and borrow Margaret’s basket,” said Jenny, “then
I’ll come in for the list.”

  “You’ll come in the back way, won’t you?” Rosemary asked. “Nigel doesn’t want to be disturbed.”

  The door opening on the courtyard seemed to be Nigel’s exclusive door, so Jenny went around the far side of the half-house and entered by what was the original back door. She found herself in a dark hallway, from which, led steep stairs. There was a row of bells and room indicators, yellowish, clay-colored paintwork, and a feeling of dampness. She opened a door and found a large, beautifully proportioned farmhouse kitchen with two huge dressers. No sign of Rosemary. She went up the stairs, through a door and emerged on a landing. Windows looked across the courtyard at Margaret’s house, so bright and white and cared for in comparison.

  A feeble voice called, “I’m in here.” And she entered the equivalent of Margaret’s bedroom in the other wing. “This is kind of you,” said Rosemary sitting up in bed. “I haven’t felt up to shopping for several days and we’re beginning to run out of things. It’s no use asking Nigel, he can’t bear spending money on food.”

  Or on warmth or comfort, thought Jenny suppressing a shiver at the cold and damp of Rosemary’s room, all the more noticeable, because of the sudden warmth outside. The faded, once beautiful flowered wallpaper bulged from the walls, the furniture was a job lot and uncared for. All the best stuff had been put in the letting house, Jenny guessed, or sold.

  “There, that’s everything,” said Rosemary adding to her list, “and here’s my purse, don’t lost it whatever you do, Nigel’s not exactly lavish with the housekeeping.”

  When Jenny returned, she left the shopping in the kitchen and went up to ask about putting the food away. Rosemary was lying on her bed twisting and writhing with pain, her face was white, her eyes dilated and frightened. Jenny took one look and said, “I’ll send for the doctor. Where’s the telephone and what’s his name?”

  “No, no,” gasped Rosemary. “You mustn’t do that, Nigel can’t bear doctors; he says they’re a waste of money. I shall be all right. There, it’s passing.” She sat up, her face had a greenish pallor.

  “I could telephone from Margaret’s,” suggested Jenny, “then he wouldn’t hear. And I could tell the doctor to come to Margaret’s and then smuggle him around. And if you’re on the health service you don’t have to pay.”

  “Well Nigel doesn’t like troubling people. I shall get over it in a day or two.”

  “Supposing it’s appendicitis?” suggested Jenny.

  “No, it’s not that. I know about it really; there’s not much to be done.”

  Jenny didn’t like the look of resignation on her face. “I thought witches could heal,” she said a little brutally.

  “Sometimes, not always; some forces are too powerful.” Rosemary sounded evasive.

  “Shall I make you some tea?” offered Jenny and when Rosemary accepted she went on, “What about the butter and things? Shall I put them away in the refrigerator?”

  “Oh we only use it in the really hot weather,” explained Rosemary, “it runs on calor gas and that works out to be rather expensive. But if you could put them in the larder, you’ll find it around the comer under the stairs, and be sure to shut the door because of the cats.”

  Margaret seemed unimpressed by Jenny’s account of Rosemary’s suffering and Nigel’s cruelty in denying his wife a doctor.

  “They like living like that, both of them,” she said. “Rosemary complains, but she could have left him years ago; she could leave him now if she wanted to. There’s nothing in Wicca about the sanctity of marriage and she can’t say she stays for the sake of the children because there was only one and he left home as soon as he was sixteen; ran away to sea, the story goes in the village.”

  “But she really does look ill and in pain. Supposing it’s appendicitis?” asked Jenny.

  “You offered to get the doctor?”

  “Yes, but she said that Nigel…”

  “Nonsense,” interrupted Margaret. “She’s free, white, over twenty-one and a witch. Of course she can have a doctor if she wants one, but it’s not our business to force one on her. Now it’s five o’clock and I’m going to work.”

  Robert came over after supper and Jenny felt pleased to see him. She hadn’t relished the prospect of an evening alone with Margaret, who had seemed rather cold toward her all day and was certainly much less talkative than usual.

  “I’m in the midst of a struggle with THE END,” Margaret told Robert in dramatic tones. “It’s almost like death throes. So if you dear people could bear to sit in state in the drawing room, I’ll go on working.”

  Robert seemed well-primed in Jenny’s mishaps and discoveries and had obviously had a long telephone conversation with Margaret during the day. “The first thing you’ve got to put out of your head,” he said, taking the cup of coffee Jenny had poured for him, “is that witches are, or ever have been, hideous old crones. Everyone grows old and women live longer than men so, obviously, every coven would have its quota. And then there were the cunning women, the village herbalists, who were often mistaken for witches. But since the craft was largely hereditary and you initiated your children, there were always plenty of young people in a coven. Then, for the high priestess you chose your most beautiful girl and she’s expected to stand down gracefully when someone younger and more beautiful comes along; that’s stated very firmly in the Book of Shadows. Rosemary was our high priestess before Bromwyn.”

  “You’ve been witches for a long time then?” asked Jenny.

  “Bernard Hawker’s our only hereditary witch, his grandmother initiated him, but Nigel joined a coven at eighteen or nineteen, I think, and formed his own when he came down here. They’ve both been third grade witches for years and have ‘power.’ Nigel’s our high priest.”

  “And Margaret?” asked Jenny.

  “Let’s think. She had a holiday cottage in Ermeporth while she was still living in London. It was before we came down, about ten years I should think. She’s stuck in the second grade; doubts her own ability perhaps or she may be funking the third grade initiation ceremony, I don’t know.”

  “And you cure warts and bad legs and do good?” asked Jenny.

  “We do our best to help,” said Robert modestly, “but we also enjoy ourselves. Wicca is more given to fun and pleasure than other religions. It is also more tolerant – more realistic. It doesn’t demand impossible standards of its devotees. It demands chiefly that you don’t give away your witch chums to the authorities, waiting for a chance to hang and burn. And, instead of ‘Thou shall not commit adultery’ the Book of Shadows says, ‘It shall ever be the way with women and with men also, that they ever seek new love. Nor should we reprove them for this.’ In fact if the high priestess runs off without resigning, ‘impelled’ by love, provided she returns within a year and a day she’s to be reinstated and ‘all is as before.’”

  “What about making little images of people and sticking pins into them?” asked Jenny.

  “Poppets or fith faths can be used for good and noble purposes,” answered Robert. “Supposing someone has a nagging wife or even one who just never stops talking, we could make a poppet and tie the mouth shut.”

  “And it works?”

  “Sometimes. We don’t claim a one hundred per cent success.”

  “And you believe in it all?”

  “You don’t have to ‘believe in it all.’ There’s no thirty-nine articles. To reach the second grade you have to show that you can raise power; in fact you’ve either become a witch or you haven’t. Any faith is in your own ability to call down spirits, work spells. White witches worship the Horned God and the Earth Mother, but there’s no compulsion to believe in them. Really each coven is the law unto itself. Now Jenny, admit that you’re just a little intrigued, that you can see yourself dancing by moonlight.”

  “No thank you. How could I after all the horrible things that have happened to me here? Even if most of you are white witches there must be a black one among you. And the really f
rightening thing is that if witches can work spells, use unseen spirits and the rest of it, one of you could have rolled the rock and smashed the well-cover and put the dead rat on my bed by – well – remote control, magic and that would mean that I’m powerless to protect myself.”

  “Except by becoming a witch and weaving counter spells,” said Robert.

  *

  Jenny’s conversation with Robert had made escape seem all the more imperative and next morning, she telephoned the garage before breakfast, choosing a moment when Margaret was in the bath and unable to listen on her bedroom extension. Mr. Trevor said that they had started work on the Mini, but run into snags – labor problems – and he couldn’t promise her that it would be ready before Friday. When Jenny pleaded for speed, he said that he really was doing his best, but if she liked to give him a buzz tomorrow evening, he’d tell her how things were going.

  At the very least that meant another two whole days at Kilruthan, thought Jenny despondently. Two days of watching for dangers, warding off Robert’s blandishments; she wanted to go, to get away from it all, to find some sanity. I’d better have breakfast, she decided, then perhaps I’ll feel better.

  Margaret had begun to revise the earlier chapters of the book while she waited for her mind to make up the end, and typing them for the second time was less exciting, more of a labor, Jenny found; though it was quite interesting to see the changes she had made and to make up her own mind as to whether they were improvements or not.

  At lunch, Margaret’s unusual silence continued and Jenny wondered if it was really the ending of the book preoccupying her or if she was annoyed at having been caught by her secretary in the midst of fertility rites; jumping cauldrons in the nude was not, after all, a very dignified occupation for someone of her age.

  Hurrying through the uneasy meal, gulping down hot coffee, Jenny muttered that she would see if Rosemary Forrest wanted any shopping done and escaped to the garden. The day was even warmer than its predecessor, the sunlight trapped in the courtyard was almost hot. Shrubs had burst into leaf and trees suddenly had buds. Rosemary Forrest was up, in the kitchen. Gray-faced, she wore her long hair in a school girl’s braid and, humped in a brown dressing gown, she sat at the kitchen table eating a souplike concoction out of a wooden salad bowl with a wooden spoon. Jenny thought that she’d never seen anyone look less springlike. However, Rosemary said that she felt much better, almost well, and there was nothing she needed, though she was most grateful that Jenny should come and inquire. And there the conversation lapsed with a heavy determination, which forbade any attempt to set it on its feet again. Back in the garden, Jenny saw the white Citroen outside Margaret’s front door. Well at least Robert would talk, she thought with relief.