“I do not want to be better. Let me be worse than the foulest demon in the bowels of hell—only let me destroy Him.”
Nettle quickly makes a sign to ward off the evil eye.
I kneel beside her, crushing some of the herbs beneath my legs. “Nettle, I ask nothing of you but that you fulfill your promise.”
We lock eyes. For a moment both our eyes are hard. Then Nettle’s face softens. She takes my rough hand in her even rougher one. “Gilly, you know that I have the double sight. And I hoped never to tell you this, child, but if you pursue this mad revenge, death waits for one that you love.”
“I love no one!”
She continues as if she does not hear me. “Not only that, but I see Gilly herself disappearing. I have seen it, and my double sight never lies.” She gives my hand a little squeeze. “ ’Tis Gilly, child, not him that will vanish in your revenge.”
Never before have I heard her voice so afraid. For the length of several heartbeats, I too am frightened. Then I make my face hard, but, to my surprise, my voice comes out as a whisper. “Then let Gilly die. But, Nettle, better a destroyed life than no life at all, and I can have no life while He lives and flourishes.” She tries to let go of my hand, but I squeeze hers tightly. “Nettle, death comes for us all. I would rather live briefly as a burning castle than for long years as a muddy stream.”
“You say that only because you are young—you do not know—”
I am a dagger . . . and a dagger has nothing soft and kind about it. I choose to be cruel, so I select words meant to wound. “Would you have me lead a life like yours, Nettle—an ugly, scrawny woman, old before her time—hiding in a tumbledown hut with a witless hag, scorned and jeered at by the villagers, eking out an existence gathering weeds and robbing battlefields? Is this the glory you would have me live? No, a thousand times, no. Give me blazing, give me the glory and high drama of the flame, make me the daughter of fire— anything but this.”
Mad Helga says, “The child is right, Nettle.”
Amazed, both Nettle and I snap our heads to look at Mad Helga. Her face is tranquil as that of the mother of Jesus.
“We did promise her,” Mad Helga says.
“You,” says Nettle. “Not I. ’Twas you made this mad promise.”
Mad Helga nods. “And I need your help to keep it.”
Nettle moves to Mad Helga and kneels before her as if she is confessing to the parson.
“Mad Helga, in the water, I have seen it, in the earth I have read it, I have found it in the smoke—if she pursues this mad revenge, our Gilly will be no more.” Her low voice drops even lower. “Helga, I see all life wiped from our hut if Gilly persists in her wild scheme.” She presses her hand against her forehead. “There has been enough death already.”
Mad Helga touches her free hand to Nettle’s cheek. “I will keep the promise, Nettle, with or without your help. I cannot read water or earth or smoke, but I do know that without your help, Gilly will have no chance whatsoever to outrun her fate.”
After a moment, Nettle drops her head in resignation.
Mad Helga looks at me. “Give me the three pieces of his heart.”
T W E N T Y - T H R E E
I TELL THEM what I discovered when I was entombed in the chest in His chamber. “The first piece of His heart is His loyalty to His king.”
Nettle opens her mouth, but Mad Helga holds up a bony hand and silences her.
I continue. “The second piece is His besottedness for the harlot He calls His wife. I do not use the word love—His passion is more sickness than sacrament.”
Mad Helga nods.
“And the third piece,” I say, my voice larded with triumph, “is His secret longing to be king.”
In a startled voice, Nettle asks, “He said that?”
“He did not say that,” I admit. “I do not think He even knows He fosters that desire. But the desire lurked in His tone if not His words—like a dragon who bides his time in the caves beneath a castle. From my earliest memories of Him, I know that He is ambitious. I know He covets what is not rightfully His. I know the laws of God and man mean less to Him that the hunger in His heart.” My voice shakes with my passion. “I know Him. His face may be as fair as a flower, but a snake lies coiled in its leaves.”
Mad Helga and Nettle look at each other for a long moment. Help me, I beg inside my head. You must help me. I have no other place to turn. I cannot do it all alone. Then Nettle lowers her head, as if she heard my thoughts. She whispers in a voice soft as prayer, “Tomorrow, then, let it begin.”
Mad Helga gives the shaky sigh of an old woman. “ ’Tis not enough, Nettle.”
Nettle draws her breath in sharply. Her face is pale and frightened and lost. Into my mind flashes the tale she told me of how she came to live in the forest. How her father had betrothed her to a man as a gambling debt and how, at the altar when the debtor first set eyes on young Nettle, he had roared he would not be legshackled to such an ugly hag, no, not for all the money in Christendom. That night when her drunken father had thrown her out-of-doors to fend for herself, she must have looked just as pale and frightened and lost as now.
“You must talk with the Old Ones,” Mad Helga says gently.
The Old Ones? What can Mad Helga mean?
I had not thought it possible, but Nettle’s face grows even whiter.
“You know I do not like to let them in,” she whispers. “Someday I will not be strong enough to control them, and then what will become of us?”
Mad Helga sighs again. “We must give Gilly a chance,” she says. “Do it quickly.”
Nettle staggers to her feet, as if she is even older than Mad Helga, and totters to the corner in which she keeps her store of herbs. She pokes through them, untwisting several packets to dribble pinches of their contents onto her leathery palm. Then she totters back to the fire and eases herself down. She twists her head to look at me. “Go outside, Gilly. There is no need for you to see this.”
How dare she try to get rid of me! “No! ’Tis my revenge, and—”
“Go outside, I say!”
“I will not go. I have the right—”
“Gilly—”
Mad Helga’s voice breaks in. “She is old enough, Nettle, to witness what you do for her.”
Nettle opens her mouth to reply, then presses her lips tightly shut. I feel triumph . . . and fear. What am I about to see? Who are the Old Ones?
“Douse the light,” Mad Helga says.
I plunge the lighted rush into the bucket of loose dirt and pebbles. Its light goes out, leaving the flickering orange light of the fire pit surrounded by a moat of shadows.
Nettle shakes her hand over the fire like a farmer sowing spring wheat, scattering herbs. Some of the herbs make a little popping sound as they hit the flames. The hut fills with the smell of charred leaves and something vinegary sharp that puckers my nose. I hear Nettle’s heavy, ragged breathing.
Suddenly the room plunges into a bitter coldness—cold as quick and painful as if the hut itself had tumbled into an icy stream. I blink and look, but the fire continues to burn although it does nothing to beat back this terrible chill. My teeth begin to chatter. Then just as suddenly, the room fills with a wave of smell, an odor both sweet and foul, like the stench of a body six days dead. I cover my nose with my hand, but the smell is just as strong. I have to fight against gagging. What is happening? I don’t understand it. I look to Nettle, and I see that her lips are moving. Then I hear a voice coming out of her mouth, but it is not her voice. It is a voice I have never heard before, a voice that is gnarled and twisted and dry like the root of an ancient oak.
“You will find what you seek two leagues from Forres.” The voice cracks and grates against the cold and hurts my ears. I move my hands to my ears, but the voice is just as loud and just as painful. “Go north to Forres. Find the seven sisters of the north. And there you will find him, too.” Then the voice crashes into a blizzard of sound that mixes laughter, pigs’ grunts, donke
y brays, and the screams of dying horses.
Without warning, Nettle falls forward as if a rope holding her upwas suddenly cut. Her head misses the fire by less than a hand’s width. I quickly pull her to a safer distance. Then I notice that the room has grown warm again and the smell is gone.
“The Old Ones have spoken,” says Mad Helga.
THE FOLLOWING MORNING, I lead them north, following the route I took with Pod. Oftentimes my mind strays backward to early spring when he and I traveled this route. But then I imagine how frightened his little face must have looked when he learned I had left the castle. No. Pod is neither kith nor kin. I am not his keeper. There is not rhyme nor reason for me to feel guilty. He is safer in the castle than in the woods with the Witch Hunters seeking him. Did I not try with all my might to make Lisette apprentice him? He is nothing to me, and it is not my fault that the world is a cold place. I did not design it, and I cannot change it. But before my eyes is the fantasy of Pod’s pinched, white, woebegone face shooting reproachful looks at me. So as quick as wind can blow mist off the surface of water, I push the vision of his face from my mind.
The three of us travel more slowly than Pod and I did. For the first few days, Nettle is especially tired. Her face is drawn and she walks stiffly and often stops to rest. Whenever I try to question her about what went on in the hut, she ignores me. Finally even Mad Helga tells me to hush and speak of it no more. But I continue to puzzle over the scene by the fire and the strange voice and mention of the Old Ones. I can make no sense of it, and it makes me angry to be left out of knowing. Did Nettle let spirits into the room? Is she indeed the witch that the villagers call her? They call me a witch, too, but I have no powers at all. I have always known that Nettle has double sight, but so do many people, and I know that Nettle has skill in herb lore, but herb lore is something that can be learned like weaving or swordsmanship. What if Nettle is truly a witch? I do not like this thought. We women who live alone in the wood are vulnerable to attack and accusation, but if Nettle is a witch in truth— No, I do not want her to be killed. There is no safe place on earth for onewho is a real witch. Try as I might, I cannot put my thoughts in order, so on the fifth day I decide to shut the doors of my mind against all these matters. Over the years I have grown skillful at shutting out notions and memories I do not want to face.
On the eighth day we veer to the east. All Nettle will say is “This is the way we must go.”
On the tenth day we find ourselves in a wood that is more rocky and barren than our wood at Birnam. We fight our way through a heavy mist. We stay close together, wrapped in lengths of cloth whose color is a little darker than the mist and a little paler than the earth. We dare not stray from each other’s sight, for it would be a simple matter to disappear from view. Long lengths of the cloth also cover our heads in a vain attempt to keep us dry. A ghostly world surrounds us. Shapes loom up suddenly like apparitions, twitch into view to reveal themselves for the space of a heartbeat as trees or boulders, then disappear just as quickly into the broth of fog. We cannot see our way, but Nettle leads by using her double sight, although it seems that she is listening to an invisible voice rather than leading by her eyes.
After a long span of walking—or rather swimming on our feet—through the mist, Nettle stops and holds up her hand for us to stop, too. Although I am eager to reach Him, I am grateful for a few minutes of rest. Mad Helga—who has been panting and wheezing like a badger—can also use a break. Only Nettle, her shoulders as tense as ever, now seems to need no respite from this driven pace.
“Nettle,” I say, “I had not thought—”
“Hsst,” she hushes me. She stretches out a hand, a skinny finger pointing. What does she mean?
Then I hear the hooves of several horses, the sound of their approach muffled by the woolly mist.
They travel slowly because of the mist, but I can tell from the sound that these are horses of men at arms, not the ponies of wealthy peasants or the donkeys of the good brothers.
“It begins,” Nettle says.
She takes a few steps forward. I follow. I can tell by the feel of the earth under my feet that we have stepped onto a road. The mist thins out a little as we stand there so we can see several body-lengths farther.
The hoofbeats grow louder. Suddenly five or six armed men appear. They pull their horses up short at the sight of us. One horse rears, and its rider pulls its reins sharply.
One of the men beckons to us. “You there. Come closer.”
Nettle and I move to his horse. Nettle keeps her head lowered, but I look up at him. His face is shadowed by his hood, but on his cheek I see a blade-scar in the shape of a cross.
“Can you help us?” he asks. “We seek two travelers, two captains and thanes. One lives not half a day’s ride from here—you may know him by sight. The Thane of Glamis.”
’Tis the title of the very man I seek. My breath catches in my chest, but the rider does not notice. “Have you seen him?” he asks.
Another rider guides his horse up close to us. “We have word he will be traveling along this road today, but this blasted mist is so thick we have thrice gone astray since we set out.”
Without raising her eyes, Nettle says, “We have seen no one but you this day, my gracious lords.”
The first rider nods. “I feared as much. I thank you for the information, my good—” He stops a moment, then continues, “This blasted mist! I cannot even tell whether you be men or women.”
He makes a signal to the men, and they rein to the side to walk their horses past us. Before they have gone more than a couple of paces, Mad Helga steps into the road.
“Will these two thanes welcome you, my lords?” she calls out, bold as a saint on the day after judgment.
The riders wheel their horses around, startled.
“You dare question your betters?” the second rider asks, and his tone is sharpened steel.
Mad Helga swiftly lowers her head and raises her hands in a placatinggesture. Her voice sounds humble. “I mean only, good sires, if we see these thanes, shall we tell them you seek them, or would you rather have us keep our silence?”
The first rider asks, “What is your meaning, old one?”
The second rider says, “Lord Ross, these peasants seek to buy our silence with a few coins shaken loose from your purse.” He leans down to Mad Helga. “Is that not so, old fox?”
“Silver has power to make one forget one’s own name,” Mad Helga says. She holds her hand up suggestively.
I am confused. What can she mean by this? Never have I seen her act in this fawning, begging manner. I feel ashamed of her.
The first rider laughs. His laughter pulls his scar sideways across his cheek. “You will get naught from us today, old one. The news we bring is joyful.”
Mad Helga says, “Joyful to you, perhaps, but will the Thane of Glamis find it equally joyful? A spider spins a joyful web, but the fly does not rejoice.”
The first rider laughs again. “In faith, old one, even the fly will rejoice this time. Our good King Duncan has added the fiefdom of Cawdor to Glamis’s holdings.”
Nettle steps forward and asks, “But what of the present Thane of Cawdor? Does he fling away his title and lands so carelessly?”
The riders exchange looks, and their hands move to the hilts of their swords. The second one asks, “How come you to know so much of the Thane of Cawdor?”
Nettle says, “I saw him once—not so many years since—when he and his retinue passed through the countryside. He looked to be a young and lusty gentleman.”
“He was a traitor!” snaps the second rider in a bitter tone.
The first rider says, “Should you wish to see what remains of this young and lusty gentleman, you might travel to King Duncan’s castle at Forres. There you may see the former Thane of Cawdor face to face. His head is impaled on a pole on the battlements.” All the riders laugh.
“The king punishes traitors,” says the second rider, “but he is generous in re
warding those who are true to him. Thus he sends us to find the Thane of Glamis to reward his honorable service in this last war by presenting him with Cawdor’s holdings as well.”
I cannot bear to hear these lies. I blurt, “He is not hon—”
Both Nettle and Mad Helga say, “Hush!”
The second rider leans down. “What does this one say?”
Nettle gives me a warning look, and already I regret my outburst. A sword that is drawn too soon will give a plan away.
“Please, great lord,” I say in my most humble voice, “I mean to say only that the man you seek is not on this road—at least not on the part of the road on which we journeyed.”
A third rider dances his horse closer to us. “Lord Ross, we lose time. Let us away, or we will never find Glamis.”
The first rider nods. He raises his hand, and all the riders flap their reins. The horses trot away into the white darkness.
Once the sound of their hoofbeats has died away, I demand, “Mad Helga, what was all that talk about the spider and fly?”
Mad Helga smiles to herself but says nothing.
“Tell me!” I say. I do not like to be kept once more out of the knowing. Annoying old woman! Why will she not explain her meaning? It is not right to keep me in the dark about this plan.
Nettle pulls her wrapping more tightly against the chill of the day. “What we now know, Gillyflower, is that the Old Ones spoke true. The man you seek is on his way to the king’s court.” She looks at me for a moment, then adds, “There is yet time to turn away from this, child. ’Twould be the wisest course.”
I say, “If we do not get moving, we shall miss Him entirely.”
AS WE TRUDGE ALONG, the mist grows even thicker. Nettle leads us through the wood for a long time till we finally reach another road. Walking is a little easier once we travel along this path. After a while, I raise the subject again. “Mad Helga, I still fail to understand what you meant about the spider and fly.”
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