A Witch Alone (The Winter Witch Trilogy #3)

by Ruth Warburton

  ‘For … Seth?’ I concentrated on chopping up a roast potato to avoid her gaze.

  ‘Yes. But Seth’s in the middle of nowhere on some boat. What can he do? He’s turned back, but I really doubt he’ll be in time.’

  The meaning of her words hit me suddenly. Bran was so ill that he was probably going to die before Seth made it back to Winter.

  ‘What’s funny,’ Elaine went on, ‘well, you’ll laugh …’ She looked like laughter was the last thing on her mind. ‘He – he asked for …’ She looked down at her hands and then took a breath. ‘He asked for you.’

  My fork fell from my fingers.

  ‘Me?’

  ‘Yes. Funny, isn’t it?’ Elaine said in a flat, hollow voice.

  ‘But – why would he ask for Anna?’ Dad said confusedly. ‘He always seemed quite … um … resistant.’

  Resistant was the understatement of the year. Full of bitter hate, was the phrase I’d have chosen. Elaine spread her hands.

  ‘I know. What can I say. I was surprised too. But don’t worry, Anna – I’m not telling you this to make you feel that you have to go. I wouldn’t put you through it – it’s not like he’s ever done anything to deserve your compassion now. And I don’t think he’s entirely lucid anyway, to be honest. He’s asking for all sorts of people – people from the past. People I’ve never heard of. Last night he was raving about someone called Isla. God knows who that could be – I’ve never even met an Isla.’

  ‘Isla?’ I choked. I could see from Dad’s face that he was as shocked as me.

  ‘Yes,’ Elaine looked from me to Dad and back again. ‘Sorry, do you … ?’

  ‘Anna’s – her mum was called Isla,’ Dad managed at last. He reached for his glass and his hand shook. ‘Funny coincidence, that’s all.’

  I picked up my fork again and put the potato to my lips, chewing mechanically. But it was suddenly impossible to swallow.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  As soon as we got back from the pub I disappeared upstairs, muttering excuses about revision. As I peeled off my walking socks I mentally promised myself that I would actually do some revision, so it wasn’t completely a lie. Only – after some extracurricular research.

  But two hours later the internet had thrown up nothing. There were lots of hits for Codex Angelis but nothing that looked remotely right and ‘The Riddle of the Epiphany’ didn’t return a single hit.

  Next I checked the Winter library catalogue and then, when that turned up nothing, the British Library online catalogue. Nothing.

  At last I clicked on my email browser and started a new email.

  Dear Caradoc,

  I hope you’re well and Jonathan too. It would be lovely to come up to London to see you some time.

  But I’m afraid I’m emailing to ask a favour; I’m trying to trace a text called ‘The Riddle of the Epiphany’, from a book called the Codex Angelis. The book is in the Ealdwitan library – but their copy was defaced and the page with the riddle in was torn out.

  Do you know anything about the book? Might there be another copy in existence? I can’t find any record of it, but I wondered if you might have other avenues.

  Any suggestions would be very welcome.

  Much love,

  Anna

  Then I closed down the email and opened up my neglected file of revision notes. Today, according to the timetable above my desk, I was supposed to be doing Maths practice papers.

  The first one said fifty-five minutes and I set my alarm clock and got down to it. But I’d barely got halfway through the first problem when my email pinged. The harder I tried to ignore it, the more it niggled at the edge of my consciousness, stopping me from concentrating. At last I gave in – it’d be better just to check the sender and then, when it turned out to be something boring, I could go back to the exam paper.

  But it wasn’t boring. It was from Caradoc.

  I clicked it open, ignoring the ticking clock. Had he found something so soon?

  Dear Anna,

  How delightful to hear from you – and with such an intriguing question too.

  I know of course the volume to which you refer. The Codex Angelis, named for the illuminated angel on page two, is a tenth-century collection of Anglo-Saxon riddles, prophecies and poetry. Much of the mundane content is similar to that in Codex Exoniensis and the Vercelli Book, but it is a shadow volume – that is to say, unknown to the outwith world, hence your difficulty with the British Library – and the prophesies are, as far as I am aware, totally unique. I know of only one copy in existence: that which resides in the Ealdwitan library.

  Your quest to find the text of this missing riddle will not be simple. My cursory researches have turned up a mention of a translation dating around 1570, but the reference is to a copy in the library of Peter the Great, the Tsar of Russia, and I can find no mention of the work since that date.

  However, I will make enquiries and will be in touch as soon as I have any news to convey.

  Your most affectionate friend,

  Caradoc Truelove

  Somehow it didn’t sound too positive and I typed a quick thank you then turned back to my Maths with a sigh.

  The alarm pinged for the final time to say that my time was up again and I set the last practice paper on the floor and stretched my tired back, before turning off the timer. It was nearly quarter to ten. No wonder I was knackered. I could hear faint film music filtering up the stairs and I guessed that Dad was probably snoring on the sofa. He always flaked out if he drank at lunchtime.

  Maybe it was doing the practice papers tonight, but all of a sudden the exams felt terrifyingly close. How many weeks were left? I wasn’t certain, but I had a horrible feeling that it might be down to single figures.

  As if in time with my thoughts the wind groaned in the chimney and I went to the window and looked out. There was something wrong about the weather again, the same false note Abe had mentioned the other night.

  But the air outside was sharp and cold, not a wisp of fog to be seen. So it wasn’t that. There was a storm building though. I could hear it in the howl of the wind and the crash of the surf against the far-off cliffs. The sky was clear overhead, but away out to sea I could see rolling black shadows, building and boiling in the distance. A crow wheeled and cried in the darkness, its wingspan a star-blotted blackness against the dark of the night sky.

  And then the phone started ringing.

  Automatically I looked at the clock. 9.50 p.m.? Who’d be ringing now? I clattered down the stairs to grab the phone before it rang out.

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘Anna?’ The voice at the other end was strange: croaky and hoarse, like someone who’d been crying.

  ‘Um … yes … ?’

  ‘Anna, it’s me – Elaine.’

  ‘Elaine! What – what’s happened? Are you OK? Is Seth—?’ I stopped. I couldn’t speak. My hands were cold and numb against the phone. I thought of the storm, of the distant boiling clouds in the black night, of a small boat, horribly fragile …

  ‘Seth’s fine,’ Elaine said, but her voice was cracked and odd, and there was an echo on the line. She wasn’t phoning from the pub. ‘Anna, I’m really sorry to ring so late, and I’m really, really sorry to ask you this …’

  She stopped and I swallowed against the fear and said, more harshly than I meant, ‘Elaine, please, you’re scaring me. Just say it.’

  ‘Anna, it’s Bran,’ she gulped, and there was a sob in her voice. ‘He’s d-dying. I really think he’s dying and so do the doctors. And he’s raving and sobbing and c-crying out – for Seth, but also for you. And I can’t do anything about Seth, he’s stuck in some port, trying to get a visa. And I know I have no right to ask you this, p-please believe me I do know that. You don’t owe him anything. But I thought—’

  ‘I’m coming,’ I said.

  Even as I spoke, getting the right department and ward, I was shrugging into my coat.

  Elaine was wrong. I owed Bran. And I owed this to Seth
.

  ‘Dad,’ I called as I ran into the night, ‘Dad, get your keys.’

  ‘Anna!’ Elaine jumped up from the side of the bed as I entered. Her face, even in the soft, low light from the bedside lamp, was grey and drawn.

  ‘Elaine.’ I kissed her. ‘You look … tired.’

  ‘I am tired.’ She passed a hand over her face and it trembled. ‘It’s been … Oh, I can’t bear it.’

  It hurt to see her like this, her face so raw and naked, and so alone. Seth should have been here, helping her. And he wasn’t.

  ‘Is there anything I can do?’ I asked in a whisper.

  ‘Well … I hate to ask … but could you sit with him for a few minutes while I go to the loo? I didn’t want to leave him before, but he’s asleep now so I think he’ll be fine for a while. They gave him something to help. You know, with … with the pain …’ she put a hand to her face.

  ‘Of course.’ I swallowed. ‘It’s no problem, I promise.’

  ‘OK,’ Elaine nodded and drew a deep breath. ‘Thank you. I’ll feel better knowing you’re here and can ring the bell. Just to warn you –’ she took another shaky breath ‘– he’s not very … lucid. He’s on very strong pain medication. He might not recognize you if he wakes, but maybe …’

  She stopped. I knew what she was thinking. Maybe that would be for the best.

  ‘It’ll be fine,’ I said. ‘I’ll get one of the nurses to call you if he wakes up, I promise.’

  ‘Thanks, Anna.’ She gave me a watery smile and I watched as she walked, slow and stiff, away down the corridor.

  When she’d gone I turned to Bran.

  He lay under the sheets and his body was as thin and frail as a ten-year-old child’s. It was impossible to believe that this was the same man who, just a few months ago, had been hobbling around his island kingdom, fishing off the rocks, cackling and swearing and imposing his will on everyone.

  Now he lay completely still, his skin sunken around the bones of his face, his clawed hands slack against his chest. There was rheum around the edge of his mouth and at the corners of each eye. As I watched he seemed to shiver and I saw his eyes move restlessly beneath the paper-thin lids. Then he gave a gusting, weary moan that made my heart wring.

  ‘Seth …’ It was almost impossible to make out the word, but I caught it – just a whimper, the sound of someone keening for their lost child.

  ‘Oh Bran,’ I couldn’t help it. The words slipped out and I took his fragile old hand and pressed it to my cheek.

  ‘Eh … ?’ He gave a croaking sigh and his eyelids opened. I let his hand drop and steeled myself for his reaction, but it didn’t come. His filmy eyes searched the room. ‘Who’s there? Elaine?’

  ‘No, no, Bran.’ I leaned closer, so that he didn’t have to strain to see me. ‘It’s me, Anna. Elaine said that you were asking for me.’

  ‘Asking … yes, I was asking. For my grandson. Do you know him?’ His voice was piteous. ‘Do you know my grandson, Seth?’

  ‘Yes.’ My throat hurt. ‘Yes I know him.’

  ‘He’s a good boy,’ Bran said with a weary sigh and the ghost of a smile cracked his lips. ‘The sins of the fathers … but he’s a good boy. And who’re you, again?’

  ‘I’m Anna.’

  ‘No you’re not.’ He lifted his head from the pillow, shaking with the effort, and for a moment his eyes were as piercing as before and the grey flashed an impossible fire. ‘I know you, I know you!’

  ‘I’m Anna,’ I repeated. ‘Anna Winterson. I go – I used to go out with Seth.’

  ‘I did you wrong.’ His hand suddenly clutched mine. ‘Didn’t I? When I turned you away. And you turned your vengeance on me, with your curse.’

  ‘I don’t know what you mean,’ I said uneasily. His grip was hard, his nails digging into my skin.

  ‘You poor bitch, God knows your load was heavy enough, and I should have helped you, you and your child, but your curse took everything from me, everything. My life, my livelihood. When you crippled me, did you know what you did? I know it was aught but what I deserved, I know that now.’ His breath reeked on my face. ‘But don’t make my grandson pay for my mistake. Don’t pass the curse to him, I’m begging you.’ Tears flooded suddenly from his eyes, running down the lines graven in his cheeks. ‘I’m begging you!’

  ‘Bran, I don’t know what you mean!’

  ‘Say you won’t,’ he wept. ‘Don’t harm my grandson. And for my part, dear God in heaven I’m sorry – every day since, I’ve rued the night I spat at your feet and turned you away into the night. But don’t harm my Seth!’

  ‘I won’t!’ I said, bewildered but desperate to comfort him. ‘I promise I won’t – I love him. I love Seth. I’d never hurt him.’

  ‘Eh?’ He blinked and seemed momentarily confused, then he sighed. ‘Oh, aye.’ He gave my hand a feeble squeeze and lay back against the pillow. ‘Child, I’m sorry.’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘Aye, sorry. Sorry can’t undo the wrong I did your mother, I know, but that lies a score of years back.’

  ‘My mother?’ I found I was standing, my breath coming fast. ‘Bran, who do you think I am?’

  ‘Who are you?’ His eyes shifted from side to side and then he frowned. ‘Aye, who are you? Where’s my daughter?’

  ‘She’s gone for a coffee, but Bran –’ I found I was nearly weeping ‘– you said something about my mother. Did you know my mother?’

  ‘Know her?’ His eyes welled with tears. ‘No. I met her but once. And then I failed her, drove her to her death, and she cursed me for it, damn her for a cold-hearted witch. Ahhh …’

  A horrible groan of agony bubbled from his lips and he clutched at his side, then jabbed frantically at a red button on a wire. A nurse came hurrying through the door, holding a tray of tablets and vials.

  ‘Mr Fisher, are you in pain?’

  ‘Aye.’ He was white and sweating. ‘A bad go just now.’

  ‘Would you like some more morphine? It’s past time, if you want it.’

  ‘Aye.’ He nodded gratefully. ‘Morphine. Yes.’

  I watched as the nurse administered the dose, then helped Bran to sip a little water. Then he sank back on the pillows and his lids fluttered closed.

  The nurse gave a sigh.

  ‘He’ll do now for another few hours. It’s very sad when they get to this stage. Are you all right dear?’ She turned to me. ‘It’s very upsetting seeing them in pain, I know, but he’ll be comfortable now for a while.’

  ‘I’m OK,’ I said huskily.

  She nodded, then said, ‘Well, I’ll leave you be.’

  After she went I took Bran’s hand and sat, holding it very gently and listening to his harsh, rattling breaths. His hand was thin and brittle in mine, and I closed my eyes.

  When I opened them he was looking at me, his grey eyes, so like Seth’s, filled with tears. He seemed to beg me to understand something – his lips moved, but no sound came out.

  ‘I can’t hear you Bran,’ I said. His grip tightened and he took a painful breath and tried to speak again, but the words were just sighs and rattling clicks. His face twisted, full of effort, and then his lids drifted closed, but his grip on mine was hard, as if he was trying to communicate his message through touch alone.

  I thought of Em and the way we spoke to each other in our heads, mind to mind.

  I thought of my promise never to interfere with an outwith again, never to cast a spell on an ordinary person.

  And then I thought of Bran’s agonized eyes, begging me to understand something he couldn’t say, begging me to help him before it was too late.

  I took a breath, closed my eyes, and touched my fingers to Bran’s temple. Then I waited.

  It hit me like the buffet of a wave – the smell of the quay, the howl of the wind, and the woman standing in front of Bran, her black hair whipping in the wind, her face white in the darkness, her coat clutched around her huge swollen belly.

  What do you mean, no? Her voice trembled.


  I said no. Bran’s voice – but not his voice. His voice as it must have been twenty years ago, strong, sure, above the crashing waves and shrieking wind.

  But I’ve come all this way – you don’t understand. You’ll be condemning us to death – me and the baby. The prophecy said you would save her – that you’d give your life for her.

  I’ll not give a brass farthing for her, or you, or any of your kind. Understood? You and your talk of prophecies – what do you know? My will is my own.

  Her face twisted. She took a step forwards, towards him.

  I’ve read the prophecy a hundred times – it can’t be wrong. A man of the sea – the Fisher King’s line. It’s you – it must be you. I scryed a hundred different ways and every way – the water, the rods, the bones – they all led me here, to Winter.

  And I will drive you away, back where you came from, witch. He spat at her feet, a gob of filth on the quayside, and she staggered back, her hands over her belly. I’ll die meself before me or my kin helps your kind. Understood?

  She looked at him. Her blue-grey eyes were full of tears and hate, and her voice, when she spoke, was a hiss.

  Then I curse you, Bran Fisher. I – Isla Winterson – I curse you for what you’ve done to me and my child. I curse you to limp through life a broken man, chained to the sea, your life in its grip. That wound you got in the war will fester, you will die a little more each time your foot hits solid land, and every tide that pulls away from the shore will take a little of your strength, a little of your life, a little of your hope. You will walk in pain every day until your death, and when you die the curse will pass to every son of your line, until they die themselves.

  She turned and began to walk into the storm-drenched night, her coat flapping in the wind.

  Don’t you dare walk away from me, you bitch! Bran shouted. He began to walk after her and then he stumbled, his foot hitting the ground in such a way that pain shot up through his knee and thigh and hip, a piercing pain from his old war-wound. He let out a groan, but forced himself on, after Isla’s retreating shadow. Get back here! The pain stabbed again, crueller, harsher than before, and he fell to the ground, clutching at his hip, and lifted his voice in a roar of inarticulate rage. The sound rose above the storm, echoing around the empty quay. Then it faded slowly into the noise of the hospital monitors bleeping and the sound of laboured breathing. The morphine took over and Bran drifted into a drugged and dreamless sleep.