The Witch’s Daughter

by Paula Brackston

  ‘My mother is an exceptional woman. Clearly, I am a lesser being. My connection was tenuous. My gift only viable when it was enhanced by my being a child. It could not withstand the brutal business of my becoming a man.’

  ‘But you still retain a sensitivity. You must. How else would you know … know about me?’

  ‘A person would have to be blind not to see that you are someone truly extraordinary, Bess. The light shines out of you. A powerful energy.’

  ‘It is powerful, certainly. Though that power is not always a force I am thankful for.’ I turned and studied the low-burning fire. The heat had eaten through a lump of hazel to expose an old copper nail, so that tongues of green danced among the orange flames. ‘There are times when I feel cursed. When I allow myself to let what-might-have-beens twist and turn in my gut. What if I had been able to save my mother somehow? What might have happened had I been strong enough to resist Gideon? Could I have led a simple life, with husband, family, a home to stay in and love in and feel safe in?’ I closed my eyes briefly, shutting out the familiar pain. When I opened them again, I saw how strongly my words had affected Archie. ‘I’m sorry,’ I said. ‘I should not be gloomy. Not here. Not now. I suppose I’m letting myself think of these things because of you. Because, somehow, I know you will understand. Understand something of what it is like to be…’

  ‘Different?’

  ‘Yes, but not just that. More than that. To be connected to something else, something wonderful, and yet not quite to belong there either. As if we are suspended between two worlds.’

  Archie nodded. ‘I know, my love,’ he said softly. ‘I know. But it’s not all bad, is it?’ He leaned forward, eyes bright with curiosity and awe. ‘I mean, what I had, what I could do, it was special, yes, but it was insignificant compared to what you can do, to what you are. I understand what you say about being lonely, truly I do. And it breaks my heart to think of you, all those years, with no one by your side, no one to trust, to share your gifts and your life with. That’s hard, Bess. But, well, the magic!’

  I smiled, his boyish enthusiasm lifting my mood. ‘Yes,’ I agreed. ‘The magic is splendid. To feel it coursing through your veins, to feel it inhabit you so utterly, mind, body, and soul, well, there is nothing I can compare it with. It is as if you are connected to an energy so infinite and so ancient … I am a conduit for that power, nothing more. But in that moment I am blessed, I know it. And yes, when I experience that wonder, and when I see the good it can do, and I know that I am a part of that goodness, then I am no longer alone. For the briefest of moments, no longer lonely. It would be impossible to experience separateness at that time.’

  ‘It sounds like bliss.’

  ‘It is. It is. And yet…’

  ‘You pay a high price for it.’

  A stillness settled between us, and we were silent for a while. There was no need for further words. It was the first time since my dear mother had died that I believed myself to be completely accepted, for all that I was, by another human being.

  We talked on and listened to each other until the last of the logs had burned down to a scarlet glow, and then Archie took my empty glass from me and pulled me to him. We stood in front of the dwindling fire holding each other as if nothing could ever part us. He lifted a hand to my brow and touched the white swath of hair. Self-consciously, I pulled away a little, but he shook his head and let his fingers trace the line to the pins that secured it at the back. Gently he pulled my hair free of its restraints and watched it fall about my shoulders. He leaned forward and lightly kissed that snowy trail, that gleaming streak that he knew stood for the streak of magic within me. He slipped one hand beneath my hair at the nape of my neck, whilst with the other he held me firm about my waist. He lowered his lips to mine, and we shared the sweetest kiss of my whole long life. There in the warmth of the embers, we undressed each other, slowly and with infinite care. The shadows from the lamp and the shortened candle filled the dips and hollows of our bodies, and the irregular pools of light lent a sheen to the curve of a shoulder or the angle of a hip. Archie picked me up and carried me to the bed. The coldness of the linen made me gasp, but I was not aware of it for long. Archie proved to be the most imaginative and exciting of lovers. In him, I found that ideal balance of tenderness and aggression that results in exquisitely intense and satisfying sex. We fell asleep with limbs entwined, hearts locked together, enveloped in the gentle harmony of the ancient cottage and our own deep love.

  The next morning when I awoke in our warm bed, Archie was gone. A jolt of fear lurched through me before my ears became attuned to the sound of axe splitting firewood outside the cottage. I climbed out of bed, wrapping myself in the pretty quilt. I opened the door to cheerful sunlight and a morning sky painted baby blue. The air was autumn fresh and revived my sleepy brain. Archie stood with his back to me near the log pile, hefting the axe methodically as he chopped blocks of oak and ash for the fire. I was about to call out to him but stopped. Instead I sent my thoughts to him silently.

  I’m going to brew some coffee, would you like some?

  He stopped splitting the wood and turned to smile at me. He put down the axe and walked toward me. Had he heard me? Had my voice sounded the words inside his head, or was it merely coincidence that he chose that moment to cease his work and come to me? He stood close and gently pushed my hair back from my face.

  ‘Not before I have taken you back to bed and made love to you again,’ he said, in answer to my question. This was beyond any expectation I might have had regarding our ability to connect with each other. Oh, the joy of it! I leaped into his arms, the silky quilt slipping from my shoulders as I did so. Archie laughed as he carried me into the house.

  It was not until some time later, when we sat in front of the newly stoked fire, sipping the bitter coffee, that a tremendous and fantastic idea came to me. An idea so enormous in its significance, so potentially life altering for both of us, that it took my breath away. For a moment I did not know how to give voice to such a thought. There sat Archie in the shabby leather chair, mellow from our lovemaking, refreshed by a coldwater wash and the strong coffee, with no notion of what I was about to suggest. Or had he? How much, how often, how successfully could he enter my mind and discern my thoughts if I did not will him to do so? I finished my coffee and went to kneel at his feet, taking his hands in mine. He looked down at my glowing face.

  ‘Well?’ he asked, waiting for whatever it was that had clearly so inspired me. If he already knew, he did not say but let me find the words myself.

  ‘Join me,’ I whispered, then again, stronger this time. ‘Join me! Be as I am. Take the step that I took all those centuries ago and become immortal. Stay with me through all time. I can do this for you, for us. I know I have the power if I choose to use it. I’m certain I can do it. Think of it, my love. No more partings, no more death. The two of us sharing our lives, never having to be alone again.’ I stood up, dropping his hands, too excited to remain still. ‘Imagine what it would mean, what we could do. And we would always have your wonderful home to live in, away from the rest of the world. No one would bother us there: you’ve said yourself how the local people love your family. They would not question our longevity. They would not fear it, not as others might. Don’t you see? It could be the answer.’ I was alive with the possibility of it now, transformed by the thought of sharing this love forever, and of never having to be alone and frightened again. Archie got up and wrapped his arms about me. ‘I will show you such wonders,’ I told him. ‘I will teach you everything I know. You are attuned, you have the spark of magic, the sensitivity to the otherworld, already within you. You cannot imagine the bliss of filling your being with the power of magic, with the gift of healing and of eternal life. Together, we will be happy. We will be safe.’ I closed my eyes and rested my head against his chest, his steady heart beating lightly against my eardrum. ‘Let me do this for you. For both of us,’ I said.

  He kissed my head and let his lips
rest against my hair. When at last he spoke, his voice was faint and hoarse with emotion. ‘Oh my Bess, my lovely, lovely Bess,’ he murmured, holding me tighter still, ‘I am so sorry, but I cannot do as you ask. I cannot.’

  I refused to believe what I was hearing. I stayed pressed against him, willing him to say the words that would change my existence beyond measure.

  ‘But … Archie, think how it might be. How wonderful. How magical. The two of us…’

  ‘I know, I know, but still I cannot, Bess.’

  I pulled away now. My hope and joy was quickly replaced by hurt and anger.

  ‘You mean you can, but you won’t,’ I said. ‘Why not? I thought, I believed, that you loved me. That you wanted nothing more than to be with me.’

  ‘I do, truly I do.’

  ‘Then what is to stop us? What reason can you have for not wanting us to be together?’

  ‘I do want us to be together, my love. And so we shall. But I am not what you are. I can never be. No amount of teaching or spell casting can change that. Yes, I have a gift myself, an ability to reach through the veil that separates this world and the next. I am thankful for that gift. I cherish it. But it is not magic, Bess. I am an ordinary man with an extraordinary gift. I am not a witch. I cannot change myself beyond recognition to be what you want me to be. I am as I am. You are as you are. And I love you for it.’

  ‘But it is within your reach, Archie, I know it is. You have sufficient sensitivity, sufficient connection with the otherworld—your mother, your own ability to hear my thoughts. All else that is required is my use of the craft and your willingness. Together, we can make this happen.’

  ‘My love, I do not doubt for one second the marvelous strength of your magic. I know what you are suggesting is possible. No, please, try to understand. I love you for who and what you are. I accept the gulf that lies between us. I know you love me. But me, Bess. Lowly, mortal me. And that is how I want you to love me. As I am. Not as a … creation of yours. Not altered so that even I might not recognize myself. If I have learned nothing else in this wretched, filthy war, it is that we must be true to ourselves. Our raw, basic, imperfect selves. I cannot follow you into the craft, Bess. I wish us to share our lives as we are now. I am prepared to embrace the consequences. I will give myself to you completely for whatever time we might have. And however long or short that might be, I will be content because I will have been allowed to love you.’

  ‘How can you talk of love and yet know that it will end in death?’ I let my anger out now, unable to weather the storm of my emotions. ‘Will you be happy, then, to grow old while I remain young? To wither and die while I look on, unable to help you, unable to save you? Would you condemn me to the gnawing loneliness with which I have been forced to live all my adult life when there is another way?’

  ‘There is not, Bess, not for me.’

  ‘Then it is not love you feel for me at all! It cannot be!’

  I ran from the cottage and did not stop until I came to an ash tree at the far side of the paddock. There I crumpled on the ground and allowed myself to weep. It seemed just when I believed I had found the solution to the solitary torture, the loveless drifting that was my life, my hopes had been dashed. I was too distressed to see clearly the sense of Archie’s thinking and the wisdom of what he was saying. Only later would I come to accept that he was right.

  I heard soft footsteps behind me. Archie stood close but did not try to touch me.

  ‘Bess.’

  I stayed where I was. Slowly he knelt down beside me.

  ‘Bess,’ he said again, with such tenderness, such longing in his voice, that I could stay angry no longer. I turned and burrowed into his warm embrace.

  ‘For whatever time we might have, then,’ I whispered.

  ‘Yes, my love, for whatever time.’

  8

  Back at the CCS I found myself able to work with more enthusiasm, with more energy than ever before. I had, reluctantly, accepted Archie’s terms for our relationship, for our future. I knew, of course, that he was right; we are what we are. In a less emotional moment I recognized that I loved him as he was, and I would not want to change him, to alter him in such a significant way. We would survive the war, we would go to Glencarrick, and we would have a future together; that was what mattered. In the meantime, there was work to be done. I was relieved to find on my return that Captain Tremain had been discharged and sent home. Archie had listened to all that I had told him about Gideon and warned me that he sensed a presence among his men. Someone different. Someone dark. I had assured him that I was forever on my guard. And yet, suspicious as I was of Tremain, I did not believe him to be Gideon. Perhaps he was, after all, simply a man whose manner I found offensive, nothing more. Even so, it was hard to dismiss the fact that “Greensleeves” was being played the first time I met him.

  On Tuesday morning, Strap, Kitty, and I were detailed to see to the beds in the ward tent. Many of the casualties had gone home, so that there were fewer than ten patients for us to tend, and Sister Radcliffe saw this as an opportunity to turn mattresses and scrub lockers and generally see to chores that in busier times might have been neglected.

  ‘Here, this should cheer you up,’ Strap said in a stage whisper, holding out a folded piece of paper. ‘One of the ambulance drivers gave it me. Asked me to see it got to you.’

  I took the note and unfolded it, my heart speeding up at the thought of Archie. Strap tactfully stepped away as I read the short message.

  Bess, my love, meet me at the old schoolhouse tonight.

  Six o’clock. Yours always, AC.

  I was surprised. It was not like Archie to arrange something with such short notice. He was only too keenly aware of how difficult it was for me to steal a few moments or hours away from the CCS and to meet him without our being found out. But then, he was sometimes granted leave at the last moment. I glanced at my watch. It was already past five. I tucked the note into my pocket and glanced at Strap.

  ‘Strikes me,’ she said, shaking a cigarette out of its packet, ‘that a person who has been working so hard deserves a bit of time off.’ She lay back on her bed, boots on, gasper between her teeth, and closed her eyes. ‘Strikes me that’s only right and proper,’ she said.

  The old schoolhouse presented a gloomy aspect in the drizzle that spat at its gray walls. The gate to the schoolyard was unlocked. I pushed it open and walked across the empty space, abandoned so long that no hopscotch chalk or even paint marks remained, only the ghostly echoes of children’s voices. When I reached the main door of the building, I hesitated. It would surely be locked. I glanced behind me, but no one was abroad. The depressing weather and spate of air raids had put people off leaving their homes unless they were compelled to do so. I tried the large brass handle and jumped a little when the door latch clicked open easily. I pushed the door and stepped inside. The vestibule was drafty and lit only by the gray light falling through the door behind me. I continued on to the first interior door, which stood ajar. It creaked loudly as I opened it farther. I found myself standing in what must have been the main schoolroom. It was large enough to accommodate several dozen children and was filled with dusty light filtering through high windows. There was a dais at one end in front of an impressive blackboard. All the desks and chairs had been removed, no doubt commandeered for war purposes or burned for firewood by desperate villagers. In the far corner of the room stood an upright piano, and to the right of that a large chest of drawers, its doors swung open to reveal empty shelves. The heels of my boots sounded rudely loud against the polished wooden floor. I walked slowly to the blackboard and ran my fingers over the gritty surface. What had happened to all those children? I wondered. Where were they now?

  My thoughts were brought to an abrupt halt by music coming from the piano. I swung round. The instrument was at such an angle that I could see only the back of it, and the player was entirely obscured. The music was nothing I recognized, merely notes, scales, and arpeggios. I opened my
mouth to call to Archie, but something made me pause. I could not recall him ever mentioning he played the piano. Whilst there was no reason why he should not be able to do so, it somehow didn’t fit. I found myself walking toward the music, not wanting to speak and yet not prepared to flee. Then, when I was but a few strides from the wooden back of the upright, I began to discern a tune among the random notes. A tune I knew well. Very well. It was “Greensleeves.” My feet refused to move. Adrenaline charged my blood, sending shocks to my fingertips and making my heart bang beneath my ribs. It was then that I began to smell the sour, sulfurous odor I had first encountered in Batchcombe woods so many lifetimes ago. My first clear thought was to berate myself for being so gullible. Had I learned so little from my years of evading my pursuer? Had my instinct as a witch been so strained by the grief and suffering of the war that I had been unable to detect him in my presence? It seemed so. For here I stood, not more than a few yards from the one who wanted at the very least my destruction and more probably my soul. There was nowhere to run. There was nothing left to do but to face him. I forced myself to walk forward, to step around the piano. As the loathsome melody continued, I gained sight of the player, his head down, bent in rapt concentration over the keys. He straightened up unhurriedly as I approached and turned to smile. It was the same affable smile with which he had greeted me that first time we had met in the dugout.

  ‘My dear, I was beginning to think you might not come,’ said Lieutenant Maidstone as he continued to play, ‘but then I should have had more faith in the strength of true love.’ He made the word love sound ridiculous, piteous, despicable. At last, the tune came to an end and he swiveled round on the piano stool to face me. He narrowed his eyes. ‘You are grown pale and thin, Bess. This war does not suit you, I think. For myself, I find the energy here … invigorating.’ He stood up, stretching, his arms wide, embracing the dark power that is always to be found where there is violence.