Widdershins

by Helen Steadman

  ‘Is it too much for a man to warm his arse by the fire after a day’s work? There’ll be no broth and I’ll freeze before the night’s out.’

  I bowed my head, knowing that an apology was the same as a confession.

  ‘So, John, what have you to say for yourself?’ Father grabbed me by my jerkin so tightly that his knuckles dug into my collarbone. He back-handed me with his free hand and blood ran freely from my nose. ‘Get yourself back to the farm and fetch a light. Go on, away, you big snot.’

  It was cold, my back ached and my nose was gushing blood. More than anything, I wanted to sleep. The thought of the cold walk made my thin shoulders sag and I began to snivel. At once, Father was all fists, feet and sharp bones. He pounced on me and flung me to the floor.

  ‘You snivelling wretch. What are you greeting for? If you hadn’t killed your mother with your greedy, sharp teeth, she’d be here now, keeping the fire burning and the broth warming.’

  ‘Please, Father, it wasn’t me–’

  Father sneered, my words spilling from his twisted mouth. ‘It wasn’t me, it wasn’t me. It wasn’t me that spilt the milk. It wasn’t me that let the fire go out. It wasn’t me that lamed the horse. It wasn’t me that killed my mother.’

  I lost control of myself. Moisture seeped out of me and chilled in a wet patch.

  But still he kept going. ‘It wasn’t me that pissed my breeks. Look at you lying there in your own mess, worse than yon bitch.’

  Jinny cowered in the corner, her dark eyes pleading. I prayed she’d not defend me again. The last time, Father kicked her in the belly, and she lost her pups and nearly bled to death. I bit my lip.

  ‘I’m sorry, Father, it won’t happen again.’

  ‘What won’t happen again?’ Father’s voice was soft. ‘Tell me, what won’t happen again, John?’

  With my breath coming out in shudders, I tried to keep my voice level. ‘The fire, Father. I won’t let the fire go out again.’

  ‘So you were the one who let the fire go out!’ At this, he kicked me in the guts.

  I doubled up and vomited. Jinny shot out from the table and attached herself to Father’s calf, sinking her teeth into the skin. But even this didn’t stop him.

  ‘You were the one that lamed the horse.’ He kicked away my little dog, who smashed head first against the far wall, before sliding to the ground.

  ‘Jinny, Jinny! What was that for, Father?’ I crawled over to my dog.

  Father minced about. ‘Oh, Jinny, Jinny. What was that for, Father? To teach you, laddie, that you must face the consequences of your actions. You were the one that killed your mother!’ His face was a purple, spitting snarl as he buried his clogged foot in my face.

  * * *

  When I came round, it felt like I was drowning in my own blood. My gums were a red mush of flesh and floating teeth. Beginning to choke on the combination of snot, tears and blood, I curled into a ball, begging God’s mercy.

  Jinny lay broken-necked and still-eyed. It pained me that she’d had no scraps and went to her reward on an empty belly. Even poisoners died better deaths than that. Father had gone, no doubt in search of drink and comfort. I rocked myself to calmness, wiped my nose, spat my milk teeth into one hand and put them in my pouch. When my nose stopped gushing, I limped outside to dig a hole for Jinny. Once it was deep enough to keep the foxes off, I placed her in the earth.

  ‘I’m heart sorry, Jinny, that you never had a kinder home, or a meal inside your shrunken belly before you were killed. I can’t spare anything to keep you warm in your grave, but I’ll give you some of my teeth. For these teeth couldn’t withstand Father’s clog, so they can’t possibly have bitten through Mother’s heart. Goodbye, sweet Jinny, I promise to find out who killed my mother and turned Father against us both. And when I do, you can be sure they’ll pay for it.’

  Tears blinded me as I placed some of my teeth in Jinny’s grave. I covered her broken body with cold earth, mounded it above her and tamped it down with my feet.

  ‘I’ll find some rocks to build a cairn. But for the time being, goodnight, sweet Jinny, and God bless you. So be it.’

  With that, I wiped my hands across my face and went back inside to curl up in my corner. Jinny had been my one comfort in life. She was always pleased to see me, kept me warm at night and stopped me being afraid of the dark. Now I was truly alone. Crying hot tears, and nearly toothless, I fell to my sleep.

  * * *

  On my way to the farm, Dora leaned out of her door as I passed through the woods.

  ‘John? Where’s old Jinny? And your father? And what happened to you?’

  At Jinny’s name, my face crumpled and tears welled in my swollen eyes.

  ‘Just look at you. What’s that raging man gone and done this time? Come and let me put some sage on your nose. You could do with the barber-surgeon taking a crack at that beak. May the saints preserve us, laddie, where are your teeth?’

  I withdrew the bloody pearls from my pouch and held them out for inspection.

  She took a sharp breath. ‘Let me take a look at those wounds. You’re not fit for work like this.’

  I didn’t want her to minister to my wounds. Uncle James had warned me often enough not to allow her to meddle with God’s will. But when I tried to speak, my mouth wouldn’t open properly.

  ‘I know, John, I know, you have to work or that man will take it out of your hide. Just bide here while I sort out the worst and then you can get to your bit job.’

  Dora wiped my face with muslin soaked in brown tea, which made me cringe. I closed my eyes and prayed to God, begging Him to forgive me for being weak and putting myself in Dora’s hands.

  ‘Aye, aye, it’s a sage tincture and colder than the pastor’s heart, but it’ll take the swelling down.’

  I winced and my hand went to my gut.

  Dora’s eyes followed. ‘Lift that jerkin, lad, or must I lift it for you?’ She raised my bloodied garment. ‘Born to hang, that man, born to hang.’ She held up a hand. ‘Aye, aye, I know you must honour your father, but there is naught on God’s earth to make me say a kind word about him.’

  My skin was purple and black, and there was a bad swelling under my ribs.

  ‘He’s nigh on kicked the spleen out of you, lad. It’s a miracle you’re still breathing, let alone walking. Here, get this down you.’

  She threw a handful of dry yellow sprigs into a bowl and poured hot water onto them. ‘Yarrow. You’ll know it as woundwort. It’ll heal your innards if there’s blood there. Sip it slowly while I see to your middle section.’

  It was a sign of my weakness that I didn’t even try to turn down the yarrow tea. But surely God would understand. He wouldn’t wish children to suffer pain, would He? Dora lifted down a crock and spooned generous measures of dried leaves into her mortar, grinding them with the pestle. The sharp smell made me gag.

  ‘Too strong to stand sometimes. But old comfrey knitbone will mend your ribs.’

  She added hot water and dipped wide strips of muslin into the resulting paste. When I’d finished the forbidden drink, Dora wound me tightly in the hot cloths and, as the pain receded, I imagined the devil tightening his grip on me.

  ‘This poultice will stiffen and you’ll feel like an old wife in her stays, but keep it on, do you hear?’

  I nodded. She pressed her lips together and then turned to her stores, smeared some bread with honey and held it out.

  ‘Here, take this piece. I can hear your belly’s been empty for days.’

  I took the hunk of bread and nodded my thanks. It would be all right to eat as long as I said grace over it first.

  ‘And once you’ve grieved for Jinny, come and see me. I’ll get you a dog that your father won’t dare lay a foot on – and he’ll think twice before touching you again.’

  I shook my head and sniffed, tasting blood again at the back of my throat. There would never be a time that I stopped grieving for Jinny, so I could never love another dog. And I could allow no more dog
s within range of my father. I gulped to hold back tears at the thought of Jinny and then left Dora’s shack, determined to get to the farm so I wasn’t docked for tardiness – or worse, finished altogether. Father had warned me that I must start earlier, work harder and leave later than the others because I was a useless, skinny streak and the farm would as soon be rid of me for a burly lad worth his keep.

  Each step made every bone in my body throb. It felt as though my insides wanted to escape, and that only Dora’s poultice was holding my guts in place. The poultice was stiffening and it made it hard to get a proper deep breath in. How on earth would I manage to work like this? And what price would I pay for allowing Dora to tend my wounds?

  2

  Jane

  Infernal Creature

  I put down my sewing and opened the door on a wizened woman who was bowed under her burden. It was Meg Wetherby, the green woman in Mutton Clog.

  ‘Afternoon, Jane. Mind, it’s colder than charity out here!’

  ‘Hello, Meg. Come on in out of the cold. What have you got for Mam this week?’

  ‘Plenty, Jane Chandler, plenty. For this time of year, at least. The forage is never plentiful in the white months. Mind you, I’ve just made Tom Verger a happy lad.’ Meg shuffled to the hearth where she put down her sack and settled on a cracket. ‘Hello there, Annie. Busy the day?’

  My mother paused at her work with the pestle.

  ‘Hello, Meg. I never stop, as usual. Get yourself warm by the fire, and Jane will fetch you some pottage.’

  I ladled pottage from the cauldron into a wooden platter and passed it to Meg.

  ‘You’re a kind lass. Thank you, hinny.’ Meg smiled, revealing a vile stew of grey tongue and gums.

  I had to look away. ‘How have you made Tom Verger happy, Meg?’

  ‘I’ve just taken my favourite lad a gift fresh from the smith. A bonny fire steel with the curved neck of a swan. Ask him to show it to you when you see him next. Very quick he was to make it spark. A clever lad, Tom, a clever lad. Now, straighten your face and open yon sack, Jane. There’s a pleasing notion in there for you as well.’

  Tom would love his treasure. Not just because of its utility, but because it came from Meg, who had taken the place of his mother in his heart. But still I hesitated, hand poised above the damp sack, and glanced at Mam.

  She nodded at me. ‘Come on, Jane, don’t be daft. Open it. Meg wouldn’t wish any harm on you.’

  But these winter sacks made me cautious. They seldom held anything welcome. When the earth was hard as iron and dressed in white, she turned hoarder and withdrew her bounty to her dark womb. The white months afforded very little that wasn’t dried, or else preserved with salt or soured wine. It was a time of bittered barks and dried leaves. Strange packages sourced from strange places.

  Meg waggled her head. ‘Go on, Jane, open that sack, and be quick about it.’

  My hand entered the sack, drawing out dried teasels, hardened berries and gnarled bark. At the bottom of the sack was a bundle of sticks sprouting yellow blooms. I held these queer stems at arm’s length to show my mother.

  ‘What are these, Mam? Their flowers look like caterpillars. And in the winter, too!’

  Mam shrugged. ‘I don’t know, Jane; they’re like nothing I’ve seen. Meg’ll tell us, won’t you, Meg?’

  But the green woman was enjoying herself by the fire, gumming pottage and swilling it down with ale, then fidgeting about under her garments. When her mouth was clear, she finally turned and looked me in the eye.

  ‘Hamamelis, it’s called, Jane. Hamamelis. Or, witch hazel.’

  My mouth formed a silent O and the stems clattered to the floor.

  Mam glared at me. ‘Jane! Get those picked up.’

  The old woman just laughed, then her cackle turned to a hockle and she spat into the fire. The flare and hiss of steam carried the dreadful smell of the old woman’s innards, and its putrid odour made me turn away, pressing a hand to my nose and mouth as I gathered the flowering sticks.

  My mother took one from me. ‘Meg, what on earth are these? What were you thinking? The name alone–’

  Meg waved her away. ‘Pay it no mind, Annie, it’s just an old name for a bending tree. Plant these sticks, and in two years’ time, they’ll give black seeds, and then you can grow more than you’ll ever need.’

  Mam’s eyes narrowed. ‘Meg, where are these sticks from?’

  Meg shrugged. ‘Why, they came all the way from the New World, Annie.’

  Even for Meg, this was unlikely. She was a magician when it came to finding goods from the east, and spices were relatively easy for her to obtain from the merchants on the Tyne, but she’d never brought plants from the New World before.

  Reverend Foster entered the room and noticed the sticks. ‘Meg, those stems wouldn’t, by any chance, be from Sir Jack’s botanical collection? I’ve heard that he employs a plant hunter in the New World.’ He looked at Meg until she looked down. ‘Do I have to remind you, Meg Wetherby, of the eighth commandment?’

  But Meg grinned her toothless smile and slapped her knee. ‘Reverend, you mistake me. There’s no need to steal when a body has a tongue such as this.’

  She stuck the horrible thing out and the Reverend closed his eyes.

  ‘Barter, Reverend, barter. Fair exchange is no robbery. There’s plants in these parts that Sir Jack’s plant hunter knows naught of, and these stems come with his blessing.’

  The Reverend turned to Mam. ‘Even so, Annie, plant them outside the church boundary, if you please. Now, I’m off to my corner to prepare my sermon.’

  ‘We’ll try not to disturb you, Reverend.’ Mam held a stem to her face and inhaled. ‘Its fragrance is sharp, but pleasing, especially for the depths of winter. What are its properties, Meg?’

  ‘Manyfold, hinny, manyfold.’ Meg looked at her empty platter. ‘Maybe a drop more pottage, if you can spare it?’

  ‘Hmm. Jane, fetch Meg another helping. But only a small one, mind.’

  I refilled the platter and set it in front of Meg, who stirred it with a finger to turn it to mush, and then she fumbled in her garments until she fished out a ball of reluctant black fur. She poked the ball with a sodden finger until tiny teeth appeared and the mouth began to suck. My eyes widened.

  ‘A kitten! Mam, look, a black kitten!’

  Mam frowned at it. ‘Yes, I wondered what was moving about inside Meg’s garments.’

  ‘It’s a lad, so you won’t be overrun, Annie. Spurned by his mother and left to die in the cold. But old Meg, see, she keeps him warm and feeds him mush, and he thrives, mother cat or none.’

  I stared at the kitten. ‘I’ll call him Gyb. Can I feed him, Meg?’

  ‘Aye, hinny, but go canny, he has claws like needles and doesn’t trust you yet.’

  Mam’s mouth tightened. ‘Remember our last Gyb? There’ll be no more cats here, Jane. And never a black one. There’s enough whispering around here as it is.’

  Meg passed the kitten to me and proceeded to drain the platter. The kitten mewed, and I caught Mam’s eye.

  ‘Oh, very well, Jane. Give him some more to eat, but only a little.’

  Reverend Foster looked up from his sermon and scowled at Mam, but she wouldn’t meet his gaze. Meg slurped at her platter and Mam turned back to the blooming sticks, bundled them and set them near the open mouth of the sack. The kitten’s claws left a trail of red across the back of my wrist, causing me to gasp.

  Meg cackled. ‘Cats for you. Dogs are pathetically grateful. But never a cat.’

  Mam grimaced at Meg. ‘Well, perhaps you should have brought a pup then, Meg. Pups are useful. And not so prone to attracting mischief and gossip. Jane, suck that wrist until it mends. And give that kitten back to Meg.’

  The kitten opened its green eyes and nudged me with its tiny paws, padding at my belly.

  ‘Ah, Mam, it seeks milk, bless it.’ I dipped a finger in some dripping and held it to the kitten. Gyb sucked my finger while I sucked my wrist.


  Meg nodded towards the larder. ‘You’ll have no bother with mice, Annie.’

  Mam clicked her tongue. ‘I’m not troubled by mice, anyway. Mine is a clean house.’

  The crone nodded. ‘Still, there’s always rats this near the river.’

  ‘Rubbish, Meg, we’re too high on the hill for rats. And, Jane, you can’t have that cat. They carry the plague.’

  My eyes flew wide, partly at the mention of the plague, and partly at little Gyb nicking my finger with his teeth.

  Meg raised her hand. ‘Hadaway, hadaway, it’s never the cats, it’s the rats that carry the Great Mortality. The numbskulls killed all the cats they could lay their stupid hands on. A premium on black cats, and that’s why they’re so hard to come by these days. The rat king must have cheered once his enemy was no more. His subjects feasted and bred, running across the land, and taking their nasty scourge wherever they went.’

  Mam looked at Gyb. ‘Rats? Rats carry the plague? I’ve not heard that before.’

  ‘Aye, mark my words, Annie, and mark them well. That’s what they’re whispering at the mart. It was a bad day when they purged the cats. Once word gets out that cats are blameless, there’ll be no buying a cat for love nor money. Now, enough of cats. Have you heard any whispering about the carry-on over the moor?’

  Mam’s head turned at the mention of the troubled village. Meg often brought terrible tales from over the moor. When I was very small, and when Mam’s back was turned, Meg filled my ready ears with tales from her own childhood, of how cunning women were burnt to death there. On Meg’s last visit, she was full of news about a girl being whipped in public. Mam had shuddered, perhaps at the thought of a girl like me being flogged. It wouldn’t do for Mam to show interest, though, as Meg could quickly detect whether something had value, and priced it accordingly. But Mam knew how to play the game and stayed silent, relying on food and warmth to draw the tale from old Meg.

  ‘A Puritan turn of mind’s come over the place. Since Carr’s lass was whipped for not being properly covered, the women look like they’re in mourning weeds. Covered neck to ankle, and not a speck of colour to be seen on woman or girl.’