Perhaps Vivien thought the only one still alive who knew the truth was herself. And at six years old she was hardly a threat. Children weren’t back then – their voices didn’t count. And besides, she hadn’t understood much of anything except there had been a terrible fight and Dad had walked out and never come back. The horrible truth had only surfaced many years later.
She’d been out walking in Grytton Forest not long after marrying Victor’s oldest son, Jonathan, in the summer of 1961. The fire hadn’t reached the woods due to the time of year it happened, with everything sopping wet and dripping with thaw. Thankfully the lovely old oaks, silver birches and copper beeches had survived; and despite all the stories of black arts and evil deeds, she loved walking alone there. Quiet and still it calmed the mind; the brook ran fresh and clear, spraying the rocks with crystals, and the white-haired girl with the tinkling laugh who kept her company was a happy spirit.
On that particular day it was a God-given Autumnal afternoon. Bees buzzed drowsily around wild foxgloves and fat blackberries swelled on the brambles. She had lain down by the pool, heady with sleep, the sun on her face, idly pulling stems of grass through her fingers and thinking about nothing in particular, when without warning a vision shot into her mind’s eye with such clarity she sat up gagging with sickness. The ground beneath her bucked and rolled and she almost blacked out with the shock.
A second was all. One flash. One image. Playing with Great Grandma Annie’s kittens at Wish Lane Cottage. And looking up from the old sofa at the ring of adults around the table. Her mother, Auntie Flo, Auntie Connie, Violet, Old Annie, Agnes, Grace, Vic… and a very handsome man with a quiff of blond hair. There were two or maybe three men there too – but with their backs to her – and Snow. Snow had her head on the table and seemed to be asleep. It was dark but the glow of sunshine could be seen through the closed curtains. Candles flickered. There was something on the table in the middle. And a low hum vibrated in her ears. Then suddenly they all stood up, things flew off the table and Old Annie cried out.
A man was standing in the doorway.
The vision had dimmed just as quickly as it had appeared, leaving her sitting there holding onto the ground by the fingernails to stop the tide swell, swallowing saliva repeatedly to prevent herself from vomiting. For a few moments the colours in the forest appeared brighter - more vivid - and the birds’ singing ricocheted inside her head. She covered her ears… The insects were screeching like chainsaws. Until finally it stopped. And when she looked up again the sun had gone down and it was dusk.
The vision haunted her for the rest of her days and still did. But now, the only people who knew about that circle who were not in it were either long dead or long gone. Except herself.
Grace Holland had been charged with a crime of passion and served just fifteen years before emigrating to Australia. Max had also emigrated to Australia – as a wealthy man.
Had it been a crime of passion, though? Had it?
Even after all these years it seemed safer not to question it, even in her own mind, for fear of what came in the night – every night like an omen – and would surely visit Gillian one day too if she was ever to possess the knowledge. The centre of the maze – now with a fifth stone – existed. Whether she walked in the woods on a summer’s evening or lay in her bed chamber in the dark with her eyes wide. And then of course, there was the night terror… the one where Marion and Rosa were banging on the windows of Lake View Villa, surrounded by flames, engulfed with smoke, as the roof, the girders and the walls collapsed around them.
Only she knew why Annie was not buried in consecrated ground; and why Vivien had kept her mother’s death a secret, even from her own husband. The time had to be exactly right so Annie could be laid to rest alongside The Four in the core of Grytton Forest. Perhaps she was the only one alive who still possessed that knowledge…who knew about the old ways, the crossing of the songlines, and the phases of the moon? But with that knowledge came danger because when the Dark Side knew you were looking it looked right back.
Best then… best she took the family’s legacy to the grave, lest it follow her beyond it.
***
References
A History of the Pendle Witches and Their Magic by Joyce Froome.
The Legend of the Gods by Freddy Silva
Thank you for reading The Soprano. If you have enjoyed reading this, please would you kindly leave a review on Amazon? It would be greatly appreciated.
Other books by this author are all available in digital, paperback and audio formats online; or from any bookshop.
Father of Lies
Tanners Dell
Magda
The Witching Hour (online in digital and paperback only)
Future release information http://www.sarahenglandauthor.co.uk
The Soprano Page 25