This was a dreadful thing to say. ‘Mam! What for? Having too much ale?’
‘No. For … for getting the baby’s mother in the family way.’ Mam shook her head and put the last of the eggs into the crock. ‘I’m going back to bed. Let me rest awhile, and I’ll be up by and by. Can you make sure the Reverend has something to eat?’
There was no time to get a hot meal ready, but there was a cold cut and some vegetables from yesterday, so we made do. And if Reverend Foster minded the makeshift meal, he never said so.
‘Your mother, is she well?’
‘Just tired. After birthing the Green baby.’
‘Ah. Well, your mother’s a right to be tired. I’ll be in church again this afternoon, so how will you stay out of trouble?’
‘I’ll clean Mam’s birthing tools and put them all away properly. She was too tired when she came in.’
He pushed his plate away from him, frowning. ‘Very well. Hopefully, your mother will be well again by this evening.’
‘And if she’s not, I can make supper, Reverend.’
He looked upwards. Was he casting his eyes to heaven, or was he pondering Mam’s health? ‘Ruled by his stomach, that one.’ That was what Mam always said. I tidied away and then hurried out to the pantry. Mam’s satchel was stowed outside, which meant it was soiled. Nothing unclean was allowed across the threshold of the pantry. Sighing, I carried the bag at arm’s length to the scullery.
7
John
The Hellish Circle
It was the night of All Hallows’ Eve and, unbeknownst to Uncle James, I found myself at the outer reaches of the kirkyard where the unholy ones were buried. It was strange being out when spirits walked the earth. Everything was made eerie by the night creatures waking and their amber eyes shining. I was glad of the full moon, which made everything silver instead of grey, and it took away some of my trembling. Even so, the bole of the old oak tree was much less comforting at night than it was in daylight, but it was the best hiding place by far. As Uncle James had taught me, I closed my eyes and prayed to God to help me in my endeavour, and this made me feel a little braver.
Kirstie Slater finally appeared in the kirkyard, carrying a small lantern. Her father was no longer lying at death’s door, and the village was alive with gossip about how this had come about. I supposed Kirstie a witch and was determined to reveal her secret. But then thoughts of the child in her belly preyed on me. It was an ill-gotten bastard, but the child was hardly to blame, and it would be orphaned if she was put to the flame. I thought of my own orphaning. It was a terrible state to wish on another child – perhaps a boy like myself. But what if I turned a blind eye to this nocturnal magic-making for the sake of an infant? What then? Might it become indoctrinated into Kirstie’s dread practices? The thought of a new witch being created made me shudder. It would be an act beyond forgiveness to let another witch be born. If I was to rid the world of this evil, then I must be resolute. When Kirstie was put to the flame, God would save her infant from darkness. It was my duty to spare the innocent soul.
As Kirstie picked her way through the undergrowth, her bigbellied body undulated and cast freakish shadows under the moon. She paused and brushed away some red-veined dock leaves, revealing a flat rock. It was hard to see properly without leaning right out of the tree, but I did my best. The rock had to be one of thirteen witching stones reputed to encircle the village – one stone for each moon of the year.
Uncle had told me that, in old times, cunning women anointed the stones with blood from their womb in an act of hellish consecration. Once the blood was painted onto the stone, it was planted, blooded-side down. This practice passed from crone to mother to maid, to preserve the so-called sanctity of the land, irrespective of whose kirk graced the ground. But Uncle was not able to show me these stones, as no man had ever found them, and he warned me against seeking them. But here I was, through no fault of my own, so Uncle could hardly castigate me.
Was Kirstie Slater to become the latest guardian of the stones? If I watched for long enough, would I see her anoint the stone with her moon blood and turn the stone blooded-side down to seal her fiendish gift between stone and earth? Tonight was blood moon, although it was unseasonably warm for the time of year.
How did Kirstie remember which stone came next when there were so many of them and they were so far apart? Perhaps the devil lent his strength to her memory. My uncle said each stone in the circle gave off its own energy, but that each one must be nourished with dirty blood once a year. By the time the thirteenth moon approached, there would be a weakening at that point in the stone circle, as if a sentinel were readying to falter. I’d struggled to absorb this information and Uncle was forced to repeat himself.
‘It’s very simple, John. Thirteen moons pass between your birthday and the next one. The time between the twelfth and thirteenth moon is when you are at your weakest and most open to evil influence. As if you were a fort and a wall had fallen down. That’s why you were out of your rightful humour just before your last birthday. Do you see?’
I’d nodded, but didn’t really understand a word of what the old man said. It made no sense to me. But under the moonlight, I wondered. Kirstie was casting sidelong glances at the stone. Then her hand slid out and touched the stone, before withdrawing. What had she felt? Did the stone give off a force – even if only a weak one that was getting weaker? Once the stone was lifted and the blooding done, would the stone gain in strength? Would it sigh as it rested back in its hollow, newly strong and alive, strengthened by the ripe blood, the full moon and the dark spirits roaming the earth?
Kirstie placed her hand back on the stone and closed her eyes, as if waiting for some sensation to grow in her hand. Was it just a trick of the night, or was there a growing warmth, a light coming from the stone? This was most certainly the work of the devil, and my eternal soul must surely be in peril. I altered my position to pray, but my movement made Kirstie turn and stare at the tree. Certain that she’d seen my eyes shining, I closed them quickly, trying to keep my breath steady as I heard her moving nearer to my tree.
‘Who’s that? Who’s there? It’d better not be you come back to get me, Arthur Murray.’
Arthur Murray. Kirstie’s rapist, according to the justice, who’d seen the man swing for it. An innocent man bewitched out of his wits, according to my uncle. Either way, she was a brazen girl, out in the moonlight when she might be at home tending to her siblings. She was both brave and foolish since many women had been burnt for less. Yet, she sounded afraid, even though she must still be standing within the protective bounds of her evil master’s stone circle.
It was not such an obvious circle that I could see it. According to Uncle, the vast spaces between stones meant they didn’t announce themselves. And these were not tall, manly stones that demanded men’s notice; they were only flattish rocks, weighty enough to make a hollow for themselves, but light enough that they could be lifted by a girl. This was the only stone from the circle that I’d seen, which made me wonder where the others might reside. Perhaps Kirstie would lead me to one at the next full moon.
When I opened my eyes, the witch was still distracted from her task and loomed ever nearer to my tree, her face as white as the moon. My heart raced as she moved towards me, this pale wraith, with tiny moths fluttering about her. She raised her lantern and peered into the darkness. I turned my head lest she catch a glimpse of my eyes. But then she went back to her stone.
In the silvery light, Kirstie knelt before the stone and removed a jet bowl from her skirts. She held the bowl up to the light of the moon. Collected there was little more than a spoonful of liquid. Her womb blood was the colour of jet and seemed only a slightly more viscous part of the hollowed bowl. I knew little of women’s menses, but innocent blood was scarlet and ran freely, so some demonic influence must be at work. She heaved up the stone, laid it on its back and then waited a few breaths – perhaps to let the tiny creatures underneath make away.
Jet was used in birthing bowls to purify, so the bowl would remove any influence from the blood by absorbing into itself any evil. This confounded me. If this womb blood was a satanic offering, why would Kirstie remove the taint by using a jet bowl? The blood itself was a small offering, and one with no great sacrifice attached, but then so much blood had already been shed here, not much more could be needed. Kirstie dripped the contents of the little bowl onto the bottom of the stone and began muttering.
‘Stones so old. Stones so wise. Stones so hard. Drink this moon. Drink this night. Drink this blood. Bound us safe. Bound us strong. Bound us hale.’
Then she raised the stone and let it drop back into its hollow.
My blood sang in my ears and I feared for my soul as Kirstie began to walk widdershins about the kirkyard. What would happen if this hellish circle were sealed with me inside it? Before she was able to complete her third circle, I leapt from the tree and gave a mighty roar. Kirstie jumped a foot in the air and her lantern smashed on the ground. She clutched her belly, and for a second it looked as though she might fall down dead. But she recovered herself quickly, no doubt abetted by her dark master.
‘Bless me! John Sharpe! What do you think you’re doing jumping out of trees in the dark? I nearly lost the bairn with fright.’
‘Never mind what I’m about, Kirstie Slater! You were pouring your filthy womb blood onto stones and casting spells. I jumped out of the tree to prevent you opening the mouth of hell by walking widdershins about the kirkyard at midnight.’
Kirstie frowned at me. ‘John, how can you say such a wicked thing? Are you feeling all right in yourself, laddie?’ She gave a nervous laugh and put her hands to her belly. ‘And what womb blood can you mean? You know full well I’m with child. And it’s not anywhere near midnight – why, the sun went down barely an hour ago. I was only collecting elderberries to make cough linctus as I do every year. See down there, you’ve made me spill my baskets by giving me such a fright. Help me pick them up and then I’ll walk you back to your uncle’s house. You look feverish and in need of a lie down.’
Indeed, there were two spilt baskets of elderberries on the ground. But I shook my head, knowing full well what she’d said and done here tonight. I backed away from Kirstie and started running.
* * *
When I raced into Uncle’s house, Nosewise leapt at me, his volley of barks almost as terrifying as what I’d witnessed in the kirkyard. Perhaps Uncle saw something in my face, for he snapped at Nosewise and the slobbering beast slunk under the table to rest his misshapen head on his great paws. And Uncle didn’t chastise me for being out in the night – let alone on such an unholy night as this.
‘Sit down, lad, you look lathered. Take a deep breath and try to explain what has put such a stricken expression on your face.’
After I told him, he stroked Nosewise’s ears, for the dog had now flopped its brutish head onto Uncle’s knee.
‘Are you certain that you saw and heard what you report? It being dark, is it not possible the girl was just picking berries from around the kirk? Many favour the graveyard, as there are always bountiful crops there. Although it is a strange night to be out berrying. And Kirstie Slater has reason enough to watch her step in these parts as it is.’
‘Uncle, I didn’t dream it or make it up. I could see everything under the moon.’
Uncle sat quietly for a while, petting Nosewise. ‘Well, this land hereabouts is fat with the blood of sacrifice, with ritual victims sleeping layer upon layer in the quiet earth, silently remembering the old ways through the deep soil. The locals say this rich earth means the flora hereabouts contains exceptional healing powers.’ He paused for a moment. ‘In the morning, John, you will take me to see this stone.’
* * *
In the morning, there was no sign of the flat stone, and it was clear from Uncle’s face that he didn’t believe me.
‘Well, if you can’t find the stone, John, go and stand where Kirstie stood.’
I stood in the place where she’d spent most of her time. ‘About here, Uncle.’ He didn’t seem to hear me, so I raised my voice and shouted. ‘About here, Uncle.’
‘Very well, John, very well. So she was within arm’s reach of the elder bushes. Now, if I put myself next to the oak tree, here …’ He walked over to my tree and climbed inside, where his voice became muffled. Then he climbed out of the tree and walked back to me. ‘Now, if I were inside the bole of the tree as you say you were, it would be very difficult to see or hear Kirstie.’
Tears pricked my eyes. Uncle thought me a romancer.
‘Look, laddie, is it not possible that Kirstie was just gathering berries, and the moonlight and the excitement have turned it into something else in your mind?’
Tears dripped from my eyes. ‘Uncle, there is no mistake. As God is my witness.’
Uncle’s face softened then. ‘Have no fear, John, for if there is truth in Kirstie Slater walking widdershins around the kirkyard with a misbegotten child in her belly, then that alone might be enough to put her to the flame. And God will look down on you kindly for doing His will.’
8
Jane
A Terrible Question
I turned from Mam to eye the glories on the market barrows. The hams and gutted rabbits were hung high, and chickens pecked in wooden crates. Gossip chittered through the air, seasoned here and there with a pinch of salt. My nose filled with savoury smells from broth bubbling over open fires and fowl roasting on spits. In the distance, cattle lowed, snorted and stamped. My mother was on a special errand today, so I tried to ignore the stacks of preserves. Besides, Mam’s own pantry would more than see us through. Still, my mother clicked her tongue at the prices called by the market wife and shook her head.
‘It’s terrible what these rains have done to the harvests lately.’
The market wife rubbed her hands and stamped her feet. Her face was chafed, and I didn’t envy her.
My mother paused at the woman’s stall. ‘A pot of berry preserve, please.’
‘Bless you, Annie Chandler.’
This extravagance made me gape, but one look from Mam stopped me asking why she was paying for jam thinner than that at home. The market wife nodded her thanks and we moved on.
‘Mam, what did you do that for?’
‘Charity, Jane, charity.’
‘But, Mam!’
‘Whisht, lass, whisht.’
I frowned, but held my tongue while Mam passed the time with local women and stopped to trade snippets with the known and trusted. During these pauses, I hopped from foot to foot, trying to keep warm without earning Mam’s displeasure. At the far side of the market, William and Walter Green ran past, a gangly puppy in their wake, and fog streaming from their mouths.
‘Mam, can I– ’
‘No, Jane, not with those Green boys. There’s always bother when that family’s around. Stand still. I won’t be a minute.’ But a minute on a cold morning felt more like an hour and it was unlikely that Mam would only be a minute. Even hopping from foot to foot couldn’t stop my numb feet from spreading their chill up my legs. Chasing after the rosy-cheeked Green lads was sorely tempting, but I couldn’t ask again.
A woman approached Mam. She was heavy with child, carried a babe in her arms and three small bairns toddled at her heels. She was gaunt and looked fit for falling down. She and Mam began speaking in low voices. They chattered at such speed that my head span, their voices like knitting needles clicking away, creating some new weave of a story. Just then, the Green boys collided with a barrow, upending it and setting turnips rolling. Lucky for them that the barrowman wasn’t there and his nephew, Andrew Driver, was minding the barrow instead. Andrew waved his fists, but the boys and their pup scampered off. I closed my eyes and whispered thanks that they’d not upended the potter’s barrow, or they’d have been flogged for sure. I tugged at my mother’s arm.
‘Mam, can I go and help Andrew? The Greens have upended his uncle’s barrow.’
With
a quick glance at the mess, Mam nodded, so I skipped over to the sprawl of turnips and began gathering them into my pinny.
‘Good lass, Jane, good lass. Those little buggers’ll come to a bad end if they don’t watch themselves.’
‘Is that right, Andrew?’ I smiled at him and settled the turnips onto the barrow, before bending to gather more. The turnips looked withered, whiskery and far too soft. The ones at home weren’t any better though.
‘Aye, hinny, you might well wince at them. Another blight like the last one and us farmers will all be done for.’
It was funny when Andrew called me hinny. He was only a year older than me, but already deemed himself a grown man. I kept my head down and allowed myself another smile. When most of the turnips were returned to the barrow, Andrew offered me one.
‘No, but thank you. Are you not hunting the day, Andrew? I thought you’d be away with Tom.’
He shook his head, which set his black curls dancing. ‘No, I’m not as lucky as Tom.’ He looked me up and down. ‘More’s the pity. Me da says I’ve to sell all these turnips for me uncle as he’s bad with the ague. Look at them, though. I’m used to hoying better than these to our cattle.’
‘Well, I hope your uncle is soon better, Andrew.’ I rearranged the turnips, turning their wizened faces away so they couldn’t be seen so well. ‘It’s not much better and most wives will squeeze them until the sun sets, but you have to try.’
‘Thanks, Jane. The sooner I’m back out hunting, the happier I’ll be. Can’t have Tom Verger taking the best of everything, can I?’
He leered at me, and it made me take a step back from him. Tom was his oldest friend, but the look in Andrew’s eye made me wonder now whether he truly liked Tom at all. I wanted to slip away back to my mother, but I couldn’t think of a way to leave without seeming curt, so I changed the subject.
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