The Stolen One

by Suzanne Crowley

  I looked desperately around, finally spotting a bunch of lads, their gangly arms and legs hanging from an oak tree like snakes. They were watching something. A spectacle. I wondered if perhaps a soothsayer had come, like the one we had several years ago full of wordy wit and saucy jest. He was the only man ever thrown in the duck pond. He had predicted a bad hay harvest. He left before dawn, and sure as salt, the next season a drought hit the farmers hard.

  Piper rattled on as I narrowed my eyes on the tree. “I tried to get him to tarry, but no, so ill-mannered he was. He said he was done with women, so fickle and bothersome they are.” I pulled my eyes away from the tree. Piper was looking at me carefully, very carefully. “So I told him,” she continued, “he should put lad’s love in his shoe, like all the other boys, and before sunrise the woman who was meant for him will seek him out.”

  Over her shoulder I spotted Uncle Godfrey, also eyeing me strangely from where he sat playing dice with old Tommy Mundey. Uncle Godfrey, who has only ever had a kind word and soft hug for me. He crooked his finger for me to come, and I peeked at the tree of gangly snakes again before walking over to him.

  Uncle Godfrey stood and nodded to old Tommy. He threw him a coin and took my arm. “I’ll have a word with you,” he said, gently walking us away from listening ears.

  I couldn’t meet Uncle Godfrey’s eyes, no matter how kind they were. “I’ve watched you grow into a young lady and have hoped you’d gain more sense along the way, that I have.” He spit. “But my sweet Agnes will come home to me before that will happen, that’s for sure.” He nodded to the churchyard. “You will marry him, Katherine. You will. How can you be so cruel? To Christian. And Anna? And Grace? You won’t give her soul some rest before she goes?”

  “She will not die,” I said, not meeting his eyes. “She will save herself. And she does not know yet.”

  “Aye, and she will not know,” he said. “By God’s grace, if you upset her anymore—” His voice choked.

  I looked up and was surprised to see my uncle had tears in his eyes. My sweet, good uncle. Piper had asked me once what secrets he had, for he always went to confession after mass, when everyone else disappeared like summer rain. And after knocking her down, I had told her it was simply because he was good. Isn’t anyone wholly good, or are we all full of wormholes where we stuff our secrets and ungodly desires? But it had made me wonder about my uncle—what he knew and what he kept from us. He looked away from me, back to the churchyard where Agnes lay.

  “What is my secret, Uncle?” I asked. “If you could tell me, perhaps…”

  “Perhaps you could accept my good son?”

  I couldn’t answer him.

  “I don’t know everything, Kat. Only a little,” he said softly. “Agnes knew. Knew everything, but took it with her. You may not be of our blood, but we’ve raised you as our own. And that should be enough.” He shook his head in disgust and started to walk off.

  “Uncle Godfrey!” I called after him, but he never turned back, and disappeared into the dark. I took a deep breath, my eyes drawn up to the sky.

  Suddenly Anna came running, her eyes wild. She croaked, “I can’t find Mama. Come! Come!” She pulled me, and I followed her across the green, around the churchyard. I could hear shouting and yelling, and I saw we were at the oak tree, only now the lads were on the ground surrounding something, taunting. When they saw me, they parted, and the source of their amusement was laid bare.

  Christian, bloodied and covered with dirt, was rolling around with Jossey Boots, the town liar. No one believed a word Jossey said, even when he claimed his father’s barn was on fire and the blaze could be seen from every hill from here to London.

  I stood there for a full minute, dumbfounded, staring at the rolling fists and feet, while the lads in turn stared at me, grins wide. Suddenly there was a loud guttural roar. Anna.

  Everything stopped. Even Christian and Jossey. Anna stood there horrified as all eyes turned on her. There was no laughter, nothing, just shocked silence as she stood there, her hands trembling at her sides. Finally she turned and ran.

  Christian stood up. He plucked a handkerchief from his breeches and wiped at his bloody nose. It was the handkerchief I’d given him for his last birthday—his initials were embroidered on it. He seemed to have little care for it now.

  Jossey, the worst for wear, rose to his hands and knees, panting. Some of the lads helped him up, and off they went down the lane.

  The others wandered off until Christian and I were left, each of us breathing hard. I reached out to touch his bruised cheek, but he knocked my hand away. God’s me, but he reeked of ale. “Why, Christian,” I said. “You’re drunk as Cuthbert Wiggam!”

  “Leave it be,” he mumbled, sounding just like Grace. He turned to go, stumbling some, from the ale or the blows I was not sure.

  “Well, at any rate, you bested him, that you did!” I laughed as I followed. I remembered how timid he was as a child, when Uncle told him to scare the sparrows from the pear trees, and Christian didn’t have the heart. He’d given them oats to eat instead, and one had even eaten from his hand.

  “Christian!” I called again. He stopped, but would not turn. I walked up behind him. He was still breathing hard.

  “What was it? Why were you fighting?” I tried to touch his arm, but he flinched as though I were made of fire.

  “He was talking of you,” he started. “And Anna. Said you were witches.”

  “Christian,” I interrupted, “this is nothing new. Why would you have a care?”

  “Because if you are to be my wife”—he bit off the words one by one—“and Anna my sister, they cannot talk of you. They will not as long as I have breath.”

  “Christian.”

  “Shhhhhh,” and at first I thought perhaps it was the wind that spoke, so soft the sound was.

  “I have just not ever thought of us in that way,” I said quietly. “But I will think upon what you have asked. Truly I will.”

  He stood perfectly still. And then, “Have you thought at all that perhaps I have changed my mind?”

  I was still deciphering his low words as he stalked off toward the lane that led to Nutmeg Farm. I reached down and picked up the bloodied handkerchief.

  On the north side of the church, away from the churchyard where my aunt Agnes lay, is an old elm tree. Hannah’s Elm it’s called, and it’s said it grew from the stake in the heart of a suicide. A drowned maiden, she was. Underneath the tree’s wide, sturdy limbs, paupers and strangers were buried, along with the other suicides who were always buried in the dark, unshrouded and uncoffined.

  I walked past this sad ground on my way back to the revel and paused a moment, remembering. Poor Emma Townsend was regularly beaten by her husband, and everyone in the village knew. A bundle of straw was dumped on the Townsends’ doorstep as a warning for the man to stop. This, you see, was always done to sinful offenders of this sort, for the villagers always took care of their own. This time the warning didn’t stop her husband—if anything it brought on a worse beating—and not long after Emma was found hanging in her barn. Everyone said it was her husband that good as killed her, but still, poor Emma joined Hannah under the elm. The next day her husband was found dead, his head bashed in, on the doorstep of his cottage in a mound of fresh hay. Later, when I’d pulled a single stalk of hay off Grace’s back, she’d simply thrown it in the fire. And when I’d shut my eyes waiting for the inevitable slap, it hadn’t come.

  There are good men and bad, Grace says, but most are of the latter, full of wormholes. As I headed back toward the merriment of the revel, I heard a noise. I turned and froze. I saw a glimpse of something red in the fog, but when I looked back, it disappeared like a will-o’-the-wisp. The hair on my arms stood on end as a cold breeze blew across my cheeks.

  CHAPTER 4

  I once asked Grace if I was comely. “Alluring, you are,” she had answered. “But you might as well be ugly for the good it will do you.” We were at the river during the su
mmer I turned thirteen. Alluring. I had tried to glimpse my reflection, barely perceiving a flash of my wild red hair before Grace had thrashed the water with her hand. “Your father was vain,” she’d said, shaking the water off as though she’d dipped her hand in a manure pile. “And look where it got him. Dangerous is the man with the devil spark in his eye.”

  As I walked past the Pea & Cock, the minstrels were outside lounging, drinking ale. One of them had his arm around the town slut, Maud Davey. Poor thing. It didn’t take much to get the reputation, just being seen doing some kissey-kissey on a moonlit night. And I guess she felt she had to live up to her name, and the only thing worse than having a bad man, Grace said, is having them all. I glanced about for the handsome Spaniard. Aye, he was there. He caught my eye and winked, and I suddenly knew what Grace spoke of. I blushed down to my toes and walked on. I needed to find Anna and see if she was all right.

  “Do you have news for me, Kat?” Grace said to me quietly when I found her with the old women, the “old creatures” she called them, by the table laden with food. They were all sitting in a row, like sharp-eyed ravens, with a wide view of the town green. Anna sat off to the side, quietly eating, her eyes purposely not meeting mine. I wanted to go and talk to her, but I knew Anna well. She’d push me away and everyone would see. There was no sign of Uncle Godfrey. I wondered if he had gone home like Christian.

  I suddenly realized how hungry I was. There were dumplings with wild plums called heg-pegs, hot mutton pies, shortcakes, and elderberry pies. Grace glanced toward Jane Alden, the maker of the elderberry pies, before pushing them aside and pulling forward her pear tartlets. She then handed me a cup of dandelion ale, women’s drink.

  I took a small sip. I glanced over at Anna. Behind her on the green was the pack of gangly boys, who were now playing cross and cricket. “Perhaps we should go home,” I said to Grace. Piper walked by, and one of the boys grabbed her arm and whispered something in her ear. It wouldn’t be long before word of the fight reached the row of ravens. And then Grace.

  And sure enough, Piper, head held high, walked over to the table and told Alice Ogilvey, who had to wake the crone next to her, Old Hookey (an unfortunate nose, you see; no one remembers her real name, she’s so ancient), and on down the line it went until the last one said straight to Grace, “Your nephew’s been brawlin’ about your lasses.” All eyes were upon us. “Seems Jossey Boots ’as almost lost an eye.”

  I looked away. I noticed that someone was passed out on the green, feet splayed and shoeless. Father Bigg. He had the biggest feet in the village and, no doubt, next Sunday he’d be preaching about everyone’s sinful drunkenness and evil-making.

  “Why, of course he did. Sensitive boy, he is. Indeed. And a good son. Agnes would be very proud. He was only defending his intended, my Katherine here.” I gaped at her.

  The ravens’ mouths all dropped open as though they were chicklets ready to be fed a hot hearty meal. And Old Hookey even stood up, dropping her tartlet.

  My head spun around to Anna to see if she’d read Grace’s lips. Yes. Her face was stricken. And I knew then what my heart had been denying all day. Anna loved Christian.

  We walked home in the thickening fog. Grace seemed to be in her own silent world of triumphant dignity. Her face, softly lit by a small candle she held, had the countenance of a corpse who’s died a peaceful death. She didn’t seem to notice the forlorn figure of Anna, who walked along the other side of me and inched closer and closer till our arms brushed together every other step or so, chafing me with tender regret. Finally I hooked my arm in hers, pulling her tightly toward me. I heard a stifled sob escape her.

  Grace jested, “I think Kat would swallow you whole like Jonah’s whale if that would make you any closer.”

  Then she hooked her arm in mine, and the three of us, linked together like Puckleworth sausages, rounded the last hill toward Blackchurch Cottage.

  It was the sound of sparrows, clamoring in the birch trees like the bells of Winchcombe Abbey, that told us something was amiss. We slowed our pace and, as we did so, the birds’ call dissipated as though someone had said, “There now, you’ve done your duty, hush and let them see.”

  A faint light emanated in the fog. Fire? I thought to myself, my stomach dropping. Anna’s eyes grew large.

  “Pray, God’s death, what is this?” Grace murmured. The three of us began to run, Grace’s candle fluttering out.

  When we reached the cottage, to our relief we saw that it was not a fire, but several of our precious candles, flickering low in the windows, melted wax cascading like icicles. Grace never lets us burn our candles down. We live by the hearth fire at night.

  As we walked closer, we saw there were hawk moths buzzing at the window, desperate to get in. And our yew cross, the one the monk had placed on our door over a century ago, representing good luck and a long life, had been pulled from its hook. When I tripped over it, Anna crossed herself. But Grace, with the look of a challenged warrior, walked straight in the door.

  Our tidy cottage looked like it had been picked up and turned upside down by a giant. Our cooking utensils were strewn about, our chairs toppled over, yarn untwined and strung across the floor like an enormous colorful spiderweb. And everywhere a thin layer, like fairy dust, of Anna’s transferring powder. And God’s me, a terrible, sickly sweet odor—the odor of death. I held my breath as my eyes continued around the room. Thieves? Cutthroats, perhaps? A few years ago a thief had traveled unseen through several villages in our area on revel night, making off with a bounty of goods, for although the poor are always crying poor, everyone seems to have some bit of coin or jewel hidden.

  I immediately thought of running to Nutmeg Farm for Uncle Godfrey and Christian, but Grace stepped forward to the doorway of our sleeping room like a snake who has spotted its prey. I followed. Anna stood stock-still, frozen in the front doorway. I motioned for her to come.

  The first thing I noticed, beyond the odor which was even stronger in here, thick as the butcher’s shop on slaughter day (all three of us immediately held our aprons up to our mouths), was that our chest was open and our precious clothes were carefully draped over the sides. It was as though a gentle thief had been sorting through them one by one.

  Anna stiffened. She put one hand on my shoulder and pointed to our bed. Someone, or something, was lying in it. And it moaned. Grace walked right over to our bed and pulled the sheets back.

  Anna and I stepped forward on our tippy toes, peering the best we could around Grace. Lying in the bed, dressed in a little girl’s gown of gold silk edged in pearled lace, one I had but finished last week, was a child-woman sleeping fitfully.

  Grace stared at the creature with a strange melding of half puzzlement and half recognition on her face. “Jane,” she murmured. “Jane the fool.”

  And then, almost as if in response, the thing coughed violently, twitching as though invisible hands shook her back and forth. A thin line of vermillion blood ran down her chin and down into the gold of the dress, meandering like the trail of the bloody nose beetle Christian and I used to tease to see it spit its red poison. The creature opened her eyes.

  “Why, Grace,” she said in a strangely lilted accent, “are you not glad to see me? You owe me the pendant. We made a bargain, aye, that we did. And I’ve come for it.” Her eyes danced.

  “Mad,” Grace said through clenched teeth. “You are raving sick mad!” Grace turned to me. “Boil some water!”

  I stood stock-still, my eyes on the red S that continued to snake down my beautiful creation. The gown was fit for a little princess, and we were hoping to fetch enough for it to last through the winter.

  “Go, now!” Grace yelled when I didn’t move. “And Anna, you gather the digweed from the weed basket. And linen. We need linen. Leave it all on the threshold. Do not come back in here, the both of you!”

  “Shall I go to Nutmeg Farm for Uncle Godfrey?” I asked, still rooted to my spot.

  “No, absolutely not.” Grace turne
d to me, her eyes afire. “She’s got the plague. If they were to get it, they’d not likely be spared a second time. Go, now!” she screamed.

  And as I left, I heard the creature say as sure as daylight, “And that be her? The little babe? Perhaps I’ll take her; she’d be worth a queen’s fortune now, wouldn’t she?”

  I lingered, my back to them, my ears prickling. I’d waited my whole life for this. Dreamed of it. Aye, I had.

  “Go, Kat; she’s senseless. Go. If we are to save her, go, I beg you,” Grace said behind me. I turned just my head to see if Grace would meet my eyes. She would not.

  Anna busied herself collecting Grace’s herbs as I brought a pot of water to the stone hearth. I hooked it on the cooking rod and pushed it over the fire. My hands were shaking.

  Anna looked at me with questioning eyes, frantic eyes. “A fairy demon?” she croaked.

  I shook my head no. “A dwarf,” I mouthed to her as I hid my hands in my skirt. That’s what the creature in our bed was—a dwarf. One had come through many years back with a group of traveling troubadours—a jolly man with bells on his cap who danced a limber jig for coins. And Frances Pea, so enthralled with the little man and his friends, let them drink for free, since everyone had quickly come to town to get a gander at the little fellow. Grace, curiously, was not so enchanted. When she’d found me in town gawking with everyone else, I’d received a swift swat. “Cunning,” she repeated under her breath as she hurried me home. “Cunning. Cunning. Cunning.” I still don’t know if she was talking of me for giving her the slip, or the little man.

  Anna brought the herbs and linen and laid them in the doorway. I pulled the pot holder back and, very gently with the warmers, carried the water to the doorway. But Grace sat on the bed in such a way, like an animal shielding its young, that I could not see beyond her.

  She motioned for me to lay the water down where I was without turning her head. I did as directed and then turned to leave.