A Witch Alone (The Winter Witch Trilogy #3)

by Ruth Warburton

  I sat holding his hand very gently, until Elaine came back.

  ‘Was everything OK?’ she asked in a whisper.

  ‘He woke up,’ I said slowly, still trying to process what I had seen and heard. ‘But … he didn’t really recognize me. The nurse gave him some more morphine.’

  ‘Oh good.’ Elaine gave a relieved sigh. I didn’t know if she was relieved about the morphine or his lack of recognition. ‘Thank you. For coming, I mean. I really appreciate it. Even if Bran doesn’t exactly remember, I think somewhere he’ll know. I just wish … I wish Seth …’

  She stopped. I nodded, and we both stood, dry-eyed mirrors of each other’s pain.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I said. I hoped she knew what I meant. For Bran – for Seth – for everything.

  Bran died that night, in his sleep. The funeral was three days later, at the small stone fishermen’s church on the cliff, with the granite memorial to all the townsmen lost at sea over the centuries.

  Dad parked on the verge and we walked slowly along the cliff path, the wind whipping at my black skirt and flinging Dad’s funeral tie irreverently over his shoulder.

  ‘Do you know who’s going to be there?’ I asked. I thought my voice was convincingly level, but Dad wasn’t fooled.

  ‘Lots of townspeople, I’m sure. But Elaine’s very upset because it looks like Seth won’t make it. She was thinking of postponing, but no one could guarantee when he’d be allowed to fly out.’

  ‘Oh.’ I closed my eyes for a moment and some strong feeling washed over me like a wave. I wasn’t sure what it was. Relief? Disappointment? My cheeks felt hot in the cold sea wind. ‘What’s the problem?’

  ‘Apparently he put into some port he didn’t have a permit for, because he was trying to get back quickly. It backfired and he ended up mired in red tape and without an exit visa, so they wouldn’t let him fly. Elaine got the embassy involved, but last I heard it wasn’t going to be resolved this week.’

  Poor Seth. Poor Elaine. We walked in silence until we reached the graveyard, where townspeople were milling around the door of the church, smoking last-minute cigarettes and chatting with an air of grim concern.

  ‘Tom!’ someone called and Dad was absorbed into the crowd. It struck me for the first time what a part of this community he was now, how easily he fitted in.

  Someone passed me an order of service and I glanced at it. On the back was printed a poem.

  Death is nothing at all

  I have only slipped away into the next room

  I am I and you are you

  Whatever we were to each other

  That we are still

  Life means all that it ever meant

  It is the same as it ever was

  There is absolute unbroken continuity

  What is death but a negligible accident?

  Why should I be out of mind

  Because I am out of sight?

  I am but waiting for you for an interval

  Somewhere very near

  Just around the corner

  All is well.

  Canon Henry Scott Holland

  The lines were familiar but strange – and they gave me a little prickle of anger I couldn’t put my finger on. Then I realized. They were the same lines my mother had used in her last note to me, only longer. More of the poem was here. But something – something was missing …

  ‘Hey,’ said a familiar voice at my elbow and I looked up in surprise.

  ‘Abe! What are you doing here?’ It wasn’t only his presence that shocked me. He was barely recognizable. He still hadn’t shaved, but he was wearing a beautifully ironed white shirt and a black tie, and an impeccably cut black suit that I suspected belonged to Simon. He looked – well, he looked hot, if I was being honest. I pushed the thought away, disgusted with myself, hoping Abe couldn’t read the flush on my cheeks. Hoping no one could read it.

  ‘I’m here with Maya and the gang.’

  ‘But Bran – you know … He hates, I mean he hated …’ The word ‘witches’ hung in the air, like an unspeakable swearword. Abe shrugged.

  ‘We still owe him respect. He was a powerful man.’

  ‘And he saved Emmaline’s life, don’t forget.’ Maya came up at Abe’s side, with Emmaline behind her. ‘He was a good man, Bran Fisher. Whatever he thought of us, I admired him and I owe him a great deal.’

  ‘Well, I’m glad you’re here.’

  I took Emmaline’s arm and we walked together into the church, Maya, Abe, Simon and Sienna bringing up the rear. Dad was still chatting to his friends in the porch and I touched his arm as I passed, telling him that I’d be sitting with Emmaline. He nodded.

  Inside, the church was very cool and I couldn’t suppress a shiver as we moved down the aisle, looking for a free place to sit.

  ‘Cold?’ Abe asked me, as Maya led the way into an empty pew.

  ‘I’m fine,’ I said and ruined it by shivering again as I sat down between Abe and Emmaline. Abe pulled off his suit jacket and slung it round my shoulders. ‘I’m fine,’ I said more crossly. There was something unbearably intimate about the gesture, with the jacket still warm from his body and faintly scented with his aftershave.

  ‘Suit yourself,’ Abe said casually. ‘Keep it on, take it off. Take everything off if you like, I don’t care.’

  ‘Shh,’ Maya said severely and I saw the minister had entered and was making his way to the pulpit. It seemed easier to subside and accept the damn jacket.

  ‘Friends and parishioners,’ he began. ‘Let me welcome you here today, to celebrate the life of our friend Bran Fisher, well-known to us all in the town of Winter.’

  The service wasn’t long. Elaine spoke briefly about Bran’s life. His naval service in the Second World War, where he sustained his war-wound. His time on the fishing boats in the Fifties and Sixties. His semi-retirement as lighthouse keeper on Castle Spit; and then, as the light went automatic, his true retirement, to eke out his life on his war pension, in the cottage leased to him for life by the lighthouse trust.

  Then we sang ‘For Those in Peril on the Sea’ and then the minister got up, I assumed to close the service. But no.

  ‘And now, for the final reading before we make our way to the graveside, I would like to invite Bran’s old friend, Reginald Markham, to read part of psalm one hundred and seven, sometimes known as the Sailor’s Psalm.’

  An old, old man got up from the front of the church and made his way, very slowly, up the steps of the pulpit. Then he raised his head and began to speak, his old cracked voice reaching to the back of the silent church.

  ‘They that go down to the sea in ships, that do business in great waters;

  ‘These see the works of the Lord and His wonders in the deep.

  ‘For He commandeth and raiseth the stormy wind, which lifteth up the waves thereof.

  ‘They mount up to the Heaven, they go down again to the depths: their soul is melted because of trouble.

  ‘They reel to and fro, and stagger like a drunken man, and are at their wit’s end.

  ‘Then they cry unto the Lord in their trouble and He bringeth them out of their distresses.

  ‘He maketh the storm a calm, so that the waves thereof are still.

  ‘Then are they glad because they be quiet; so He bringeth them unto their desired haven.’

  He stopped, and bowed his head for a moment, rubbing his old eyes beneath their glasses. ‘My friends, we can be glad that Bran Fisher has reached his haven.’

  And suddenly I was crying. I wasn’t the only one, but I felt the most hypocritical. I’d hated Bran. I’d hated him and ranged myself against him in a fight for Seth’s love. And we’d both lost, only Bran had lost his life too. He’d died without ever saying goodbye to his grandson. The last words between them were full of bitterness and hate, because of me.

  I found I was sobbing and I stood, blind with tears, as the pallbearers moved to take their places at the corners of the coffin.

  Abe put his arm around me and
for a minute I shook my head, blindly resisting his comfort, trying to pull away, but he hugged me close and it felt so good to have a shoulder beneath my cheek.

  Then, through the swimming tears, I saw the pallbearers heave the coffin to their shoulders and I stood up straighter, Abe’s arm still comfortingly around me, and faced the aisle to pay Bran the respect due to him on his final journey.

  The coffin moved slowly, even more slowly than was customary. As I swiped away my tears, I saw that one of the bearers was moving awkwardly, his leg dragging stiffly as he walked, and the others were matching their pace to his painful limp.

  But it wasn’t until they drew level that I saw his face.

  It was Seth.

  He turned and, as our eyes met, his blazed into fury. I suddenly saw the scene as it would look through his eyes – me wrapped in Abe’s jacket, leaning into his casual embrace, Abe’s arm protectively around me. As if …

  ‘Seth …’ I managed, though my throat was raw with tears. I pushed Abe’s arm away and stretched a hand out past Emmaline and Sienna. ‘Seth!’

  For a minute his face burned with some emotion so strong it was impossible to read; the white face, blazing eyes – they could have meant anything from hate, to a kind of bitter, searing love.

  Then he ripped his gaze away from mine and continued his painful progress up the aisle of the church, out to where the open grave was waiting.

  I should have been watching the minister, or the coffin, or Elaine as she threw the first handful of earth into the grave. But I couldn’t tear my eyes away from Seth.

  He stood on the opposite side of the grave from me, just feet away, and the tears streamed down his face. There was no other sign that he was crying; he made no sound and his expression hardly changed from a kind of blank deadness. Just his eyes carried on spilling over and over, betraying his grief. Every part of me wanted to reach out across the void and comfort him. But of course I couldn’t. I couldn’t, because no one could soothe away a grief like that. And I couldn’t, because I no longer had the right.

  At last the service was finally over, the sexton started filling in the grave and the crowd began to disperse. For a long moment I just stood, ignoring Emmaline and Maya’s discussion behind me about whether to go for fish and chips or cook. I was torn between the need to speak to Seth and the knowledge that it would be a very stupid thing to do. He began to walk away. My insides were screaming to run after him. But I held fast. Until, at the lychgate, he turned and, for a second, his eyes flickered towards mine.

  ‘Seth.’ It was like a charm was broken and I began to walk, and then to run, towards him. ‘Seth, wait.’

  He quickened his step but with his limp he couldn’t hope to outpace me and I caught up with him halfway down the path to the cliffs.

  ‘Seth!’

  I put out a hand and he turned abruptly.

  ‘What?’

  The hostility in his voice was like a slap in the face and I flinched. Where had this anger come from? Our parting had been brutal, but Seth was the one who’d broken it off.

  Following him had been a huge mistake. I turned away. He made a small, bitter sound, like a snort of disgust, and I rounded on my heel.

  ‘What does that mean?’

  He shrugged, his lip curling into an expression that needled at me even more. ‘I didn’t say anything. If you’ve got a guilty conscience …’

  ‘Guilty conscience? What the—’

  ‘It didn’t take you long, did it? From my bed to his.’

  ‘Shut up!’ I was suddenly furious. ‘How bloody dare you, Seth. You know nothing, nothing.’

  ‘Nothing? So, let me see, wearing his clothes …’ He flicked a contemptuous finger at Abe’s jacket, still slung around my shoulders. ‘Letting him fondle you in public, cuddling up to him at my grandfather’s funeral …’ He was suddenly white with anger, a cold, still fury that made me flinch. ‘While I had to stand there and watch the two of you petting. All that was nothing, was it?’

  ‘He gave me a hug, you – you stupid, fatuous, nasty-minded bastard.’ I was choking with hot anger, almost unable to speak. But Seth – Seth was infuriatingly cold. He watched me for a minute, his face set into lines I hardly recognized. Then he seemed to shrug and began to limp away down the hill.

  ‘Stop it,’ I shouted, enraged beyond reason. ‘Stop right now, we are not done here, Seth.’ And then, as he carried on his slow, painful progress, I spat it again, putting all my power into the words this time. ‘Stop!’

  He stopped, dead, his feet glued to the path. For a minute he seemed unable to believe it. I could see the tide of blood flooding the back of his neck as he put all his strength into ripping himself from the ground. Then he turned to face me and his expression made me quail. There was something close to hate in his eyes.

  ‘Let. Me. Go.’ He spat the words very slowly, like the worst swearwords imaginable. ‘Or you’ll regret it, witch.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I covered my mouth in horror and then loosed the charm, so abruptly that he sprawled to the ground, stones cutting into his hands and knees. ‘Oh my God, I’m so sorry, please, let me …’ I put my hand to his shoulder, trying to help him up, but he threw my arm off so violently that my own hand caught me across the mouth, splitting my lip along the old scar where Caroline had slapped me, so long ago.

  I cried out with pain and suddenly there was blood in my mouth and Seth had his hands to his face. His cold vicious calm was broken and he began to sob – great tearing sobs that seemed to be ripping him apart from inside.

  ‘Anna!’ he choked out, and then we were in each others arms, our limbs locked, my feet lifting from the ground, his cheekbone crushing so hard against mine that it hurt. There was blood on my lip, and in my mouth, and on his collar, staining the crisp whiteness of his shirt with scarlet blossoms across his shoulder and chest.

  ‘Anna,’ he sobbed again and I was crying too.

  I don’t know what the others thought. But no one came to disturb us, though we stood for – I don’t know how long. They left by the other gate and Seth and I stood, clinging together like survivors of a shipwreck, while the church bell tolled out the strokes of Bran’s long life and Seth’s heart beat beneath my cheek. He felt real in my arms, thin and hard, but real – his skin hot beneath his shirt, his heart strong and quick.

  At last the churchyard fell silent and I lifted my face from Seth’s shoulder to find the sun was setting in the west, red and bloody. Seth limped to the church wall and we sat, watching, as it sank into the dark clouds at the horizon, leaving the graveyard bereft and shadowy.

  ‘Seth, what have we done?’ I asked. I turned to look at his face in the twilight. It was thinner and there were shadows under his cheekbones that shouldn’t have been there and new scars I didn’t recognize: bruises and half-healed cuts.

  ‘I don’t know,’ he said at last. He ran his hand through his hair, his expression utterly defeated. ‘We can’t go back, there’s no way back, but I feel …’ He closed his eyes and my heart ached. ‘I feel broken.’

  ‘What happened to your leg?’ I asked in a low voice.

  ‘Stupid accident. I slipped, in a storm a few weeks back. Cracked my hip and thigh on a bulkhead. I thought it was just badly bruised and it seemed to be getting better but – well, these last few days it’s got worse.’

  ‘Will you see a doctor, while you’re here?’

  ‘I’ll have to. But I don’t know what they’ll say. Probably, rest up and don’t do anything strenuous. And that’s not really an option.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because I’ve been paid to transport a boat to Helsinki by a set date and if I don’t show up on time I’ll lose half my wages – I’m already behind. I’ve put into a strange port without any kind of entry visa or paperwork and then left the boat. None of this was part of the plan. And the boat, it’s not my property, I have to go back and retrieve it, pay the fines, try to get back on schedule …’ He sighed and rubbed his face wearily. �
��I’m sorry I was such a shit to you. I’m just – tired and in pain. The flight didn’t help – eight hours crammed into an economy seat. I could hardly walk at the end.’

  ‘Seth …’ I couldn’t help myself – I reached for his hand, but he flinched away.

  ‘Don’t.’

  I bit my lip and watched as he pushed himself upright, favouring his good leg.

  ‘Goodbye,’ he said with finality.

  ‘Don’t, wait …’ I begged, but he turned away and I blurted, without thinking, ‘Stop!’

  I winced as the words left my mouth, wishing I could snatch back the reminder of what I’d done, but he stopped – of his own free will, this time. He stood with his back to me, not moving, his silhouette long and lean against the twilit sky.

  ‘Don’t go, not yet. Will you – can we walk down to the town together?’

  ‘You’re going the other way.’

  I want to go with you, I wanted to say. But I bit back the words and only shrugged, trying to pretend an indifference I didn’t feel.

  ‘I don’t mind. I need a walk.’

  ‘OK,’ he said, almost angrily. ‘But it’ll be bloody slow. I can’t go at more than a hobble with this leg. Don’t blame me if you’re late home.’

  We walked in silence down the hill, side by side, my arm sometimes brushing his when trees and bushes narrowed the path, or when one of us stumbled over a tussock in the darkness. Once his knuckles grazed mine and I had to fight the temptation to catch up his hand, hold it in mine.

  Then, as we came out on to the cliff top, he spoke, unexpectedly, his face turned back towards the churchyard.