I think this is what has tired me—her manner of speaking. It is chatter.
But also, what she speaks! I am glad you were not there, my love. Such blasphemy! Such wicked ways! She sat there like a beggar—all rags and large eyes—and told me of so many ungodly things that I felt several feelings, amongst them revulsion and rage. Her mother sounds a dire piece—slatternly, is the kindest word. She (the mother) saw some unkind sights in her youth, but it does not excuse the wrong path she walked along in such a wanton way. Herbs are not to be dallied with. Prayer is the best cure, and a true physician—not this greenish alchemy that I won’t abide. And this woman told lies, and hid her false face behind a church smile! She took the communion to hide her debauched ways.
I do not recall her name. I do not wish to recall it—for it is poisonous. But I’ll say that the world is well to be rid of her.
Corrag defends her, of course. What harm did she do? I was minded to say plenty—an unfettered woman brings much trouble in. But I held my tongue.
I think this is why my mind is so tired, my love: I have endured an afternoon of rambles and offences which were of no benefit to our Jacobite cause. How can an English childhood bring James to the throne? Or some gabble on half-drowned kittens take William away?
Still. She promises she has news to help us—on Glencoe, and the deaths. If so, it is worth the endurance. And how else might I fill my afternoons, in such weather? It snows even more, now, Jane.
My landlord has the fine trick of appearing from air, spectre-like. On the stairwell this evening, he expressed shock at finding me upon there—when I am certain he was well aware. We exchanged pleasantries. But as I turned I heard and how is the wretch in the tollbooth? Helpful? Foul-smelling? They say she can turn into a bird …I was polite, Jane, but did not indulge him—not tonight, for his interest is rather tiresome, and the hour is late, and your husband is not as young as he was.
I will say this much more on Corrag. For all her wounds and tangles, and her squalid condition, and for all her prattling, her wickedness, and her restless hands, she can tell a tale. She has an eye which sees the smaller parts of life—how a tree moves, or a scent. It means I felt, briefly, as if I was in this Thorneyburnbank where she lived. But I’ll call this bewitchment—and resist it. It is further proof of her sin.
Moreover, I hope this will not offend you, but her hair is like your hair. Not in its knots or thorns—of course not. But it has the same dark colour, the same length. I think of your hair’s weight, when I last untied it. I watched her twist a strand of it about a finger, as she spoke, and I imagined you as a child—before we met. If our daughter had lived, I am sure she’d have had this same hair.
I will write more tomorrow. What would I do, in these hours, if I did not write to my wife? I would sit in the half-dark, and dream of you instead. If I did not have you at all, I would imagine the woman I’d wish for, as wife—and she would be you. Exactly as you are.
I marvel at your patience. I worry that you, too, worry—for my health, and protection. But do not be troubled. Am I not protected? Do I not have a shield? “The Lord himself goes before you, and will be with you; He will never leave you, nor forsake you” (Deuteronomy 31:8).
Write if you can.
Charles
II
“It is commonly found under hedges, and on the sides of ditches under houses, or in shadowed lanes and other waste grounds, in almost every part of this land.”
of Ground Ivy
Last night, she was with me. When you had gone, she sat on the stool and looked at me with her shiny bird-eyes. I said to her I spoke of you to a man today and I reckon she knew. I thought of all the things which belong to her, which make me think of her when I see them, or hear them—thunder, rope.
Every herb I ever used, Mr Leslie, has had my mother in it. She taught them to me. In the elm wood she plucked them, rubbed their leaves. She boiled their roots, pressed their stems, and she said do not think that the small leaves are not useful. Sometimes they are the most useful leaves of all… I know what I know about leafy plants because she knew them, and passed them on.
So when I saved lives, Cora saved them.
When I cured an ache, or sealed up a wound, Cora also sealed it.
NEVER love is what she told me. Sometimes I thought then she surely does not love me? If she says “do not love”? I know she could be black-tempered. I know that mostly she was daydreaming, and had a half-smile to give—but sometimes a cloud came down upon her. It made her hiss in the cottage. She would run out into the rain to curse, and roar. She hated the word justice, and churches, and tore at her nails, and she smacked me, too, sometimes. When I said a bad word against her she put a teasel in my mouth and said chew, so that I’d learn the soreness of such words—and I’d think, chewing teasels, this isn’t kind. I also thought this isn’t her…Not the proper Cora.
Do not love…But I think she did love me. I think so. For she combed my hair at night, and when my shoulder popped itself she’d kissed it, said poor old bones… And one winter in Hexham we caught snowflakes and ate them, left our shapes in the deeper drifts. We sang old and naughty witch songs on our way home, and that was good. There was love in that.
But there was no other love—not for people, sir. She loved no man. Instead, she packed her heart away and let them take her like bulls take their cows—sighing onto the back of her neck. She never met the same bull twice. Nor did she ever meet them by day, in case they were handsome, and what if her heart broke out, and was free? I blame the ducking stool for that.
Ride north-and-west. Don’t come back.
They may not sound much, to your ear—those words. But she did not have to say them. She could have let me sleep, on that night of dog-barking. Or she could have mounted the grey mare with me, and we could have fled together into Scotland, and forests, with our hair flying out.
But she said ride north-and-west—because she knew she would die.
She knew they would follow her—hunt her till they found her, and on finding her, hang her, and whoever she was with.
Be good to every living thing she said.
She died alone. Which was better in her eyes than dying with her daughter by her side.
MISS her? Sometimes. Like how I miss the soft, dreamless child’s sleep that I once knew but don’t, now. And I wish her death had not been murder, and I wished for a time that we’d had a better, true goodbye. But she is in the realm, now. It is a good place to be.
She said her own goodbye, much later.
It was dusk, in a pine forest. I looked up to see her ghost passing by. I knew she was a ghost, for ghosts are pale and very quiet, which she never was in life. She trod between the trees and glanced across at me. She looked so beautiful, and thankful, and this was her goodbye.
I THOUGHT of her at the Romans’ wall. With the stars and silence. With the mare working quietly on the pear.
I thought of her too in the forest. There were small sounds like the wind high up, or a pine cone dropping down—and I thought maybe these sounds were Cora, like she was speaking to me. I listened for a while, thinking is it you? Are you there? And the wind shushed the trees which was like I am here. Yes.
I thought of how she’d crouched in wynds, selling herbs and secrets.
How she loved blackcurrants.
But what good are backward glances? They do not help. They cannot be helped, or do any proper helping. I had her with me. I will never be far away from you.
So I said on with it—I had to. I knew a life awaited me.
MR LESLIE. I am glad to see you.
I thought perhaps you’d not return today. For I know how my talking can be. I was always one for going on and on—for saying so much a person’s eyes grow fish-like, and dead. Maybe it’s the lonesome life I’ve had. I’ve been mostly out of doors, on my own, with no soul but my own to talk to—so when I have a person with me I talk and talk and talk.
Was I that bad? Were you tired last night?
I know you do not care for what I tell you very much. What does a James-loving man want Hexham for, or grey mares, or Mossmen? He doesn’t want them, I know. But I will give you what you need, in time.
The forest, then. The mare.
Mr Fothers’ mare, the grey one he’d called bewitched, his grizzled old nag. He had locked her up with every full-moon and given her no water to drink, for Mr Fothers thought water called the Devil in. So she’d licked the walls, whinnied for rain. We took a pail to her, Cora and I. One night we held it to the mare and she sucked and sucked the water up. She blew hard through her nostrils, scratched her rump on the doorpost, and Cora said she’s too fine a horse for him. Which was true.
Now I rode her.
I was on her back. Me.
I looked down. I had not fully looked on her before. I had patted her nose at the Romans’ wall, and I’d pressed my cheek to her neck and clutched at her mane as she’d galloped. But we were not galloping now. We were treading through a forest, and I saw that she was a pretty horse—white-coloured on top, but with brown flecks on her hind parts and belly like she’d trodden on soft apples and they’d burst, speckled her. I felt how she swayed. She was wide like barrels, so my legs stuck out.
And she was tall. Maybe not to most people, but I am tiny-sized—so she was big as a house to me. The ground seemed far, far down. I learnt, in time, how mounting her was best to run a little, grab her mane and heave. If she minded this she never said so. She might even hold her foreleg up for me to step on which could be useful in hurried times when folk were shouting witch—and later I’d find hay or fistfuls of mint and offer them to her, kind thing. I think my clambering up was far better than a fat man on her back with whips and spurs. I’d once seen him jab her in the mouth so much with a horrid metal bridle that her mouth frothed pink and her eyes rolled wild. Wicked man. All I did to her mouth was fill it up with pears.
Nor was she quiet. I learnt this in those trees. She whickered at things that pleased her and at things that did not. She blew through her nose when I patted her, and sometimes she snored in her deep, horse-sleep. And most of her life she was eating—brambles, nettles, dock—so most of her life her belly grumbled at itself with all that food inside it. Food makes air as we know. She could be very noisy when that air found freedom. It’s not decent to speak of this but she could toot.
Yes I talk fondly. So would you.
Creatures do not care for hag or witch. It is what makes them so wise and worthy—how they only mind if they are treated well or not. That is how we should all live. The mare shook off witch like it was a fly or a leaf that fell on her. She kicked the ones who tried to hurt me, and she had a way of rubbing her head on my shoulders when I felt lonesome. This made her nice to be with.
I was glad of her. I rode her through the forest and told her so.
I called her my mare. I put a kiss on my hand, pressed my hand to her neck.
Not Mr Fothers’ anymore, but mine.
WE WENT deeper in. What else might we do? Don’t come back said Cora, and north-and-west. So we went deeper in.
It rained. It was drip drip drip from the branches, and suck suck from her hooves in the mud. We sheltered by upturned trees, or in a ruined cottage which was only mossy stones. And for eating we ate what we found—fir cones, and tree-roots. Berries. I took ants from tree-barks with my thumb, whispered sorry to them, ate them up. One day I fell upon some mushrooms which swelled like froth from the cleft of a log and I picked them, roasted them in garlick leaves and it was a meal of sorts. It tasted like Hexham—a man had sold them there and we’d bought a penny’s worth, Cora and me, and gobbled them. So I thought of her, as I ate them. The mare ate dead-nettle and moss.
They were dark and wet days. When I think on them I think sad, and dark, and wet.
I did light fires, sometimes. It was hard, in all that dampness, to light one that didn’t hiss or smoke blackly—but I did it once or twice. Once, we found a clearing that had a stream in it, and moss of such bright greenness that it glowed. There, by my fire, I unfolded Cora’s purse. I laid them out, on rocks. There were hundreds of them—all tied with string, all with different natures and smells, and properties. Some were fresh, and still soft. Others seemed so old that they powdered, to my touch, and I wondered if she’d found them when she was much younger—in her own wandering times.
I thought some herbs might be older than me.
Mallow, chervil, goldenrod.
Campion and eyebright—which is rare, but worth looking for. It brightens eyes exceedingly.
I gathered them up, one by one. I folded them into my mother’s cloth purse, and fastened it, and I said these are her whole life’s gatherings to the mare, who listened carefully. So did the trees, and the gold-green moss.
I put the purse under my cloak, to keep it safe.
Then the mare reared. She whinnied.
Then I heard a bird go flap flap flap so I turned my head, thinking what is…?
And I was grabbed.
I was grabbed very roughly, with an arm on my throat so I could not breathe—I could not breathe for the arm was so strong and I kicked, and grappled with it. The horse snorted. That bird went flap.
I could not breathe at all. My eyes sprang tears, and the arm lifted me clean up so my feet were off the ground and I had a small, cold moment where I thought I will die here—but then I thought no I will not. I was cross. I tried to scratch the arm but my fingernails were bitten so I reached behind to feel for this man’s face or ears or hair. I found his hair. I pulled it very hard which did nothing, so I fumbled with his face and found his eyes. I pushed my thumbs right in. Eyes are soft. It felt like they burst under my thumbs and there was a yell, a holler, and he dropped me. I scrabbled away and heaved in air.
He wailed my eyes my eyes!
The mare squealed, and I coughed thickly. The man moaned my eyes are bleeding, she’s blinded me—and so I knew he was not alone. I turned. Three of them. Three more men came out of the darkness like thoughts, but I knew they were real—they were muddied and strong-smelling, and in jerkins of such thin leather and so laden up with rusted blades and ropes that I thought I know your kind…I remembered. I saw a frosty morning. I saw five ropes swinging.
I stared at them. I looked at each face as I crept back towards the mare—one had a plum-coloured face like he was half-burnt, and he beckoned to me.
Give us your purse and we’ll not harm you.
I shook my head. I was keeping Cora’s herbs for always—for all my life.
We saw it. Give your money.
I said, I have no money.
He spat into a nettle bush. He stepped towards me more. No one travels with no money. Then he took a dirk out and growled again your purse. I heard his tongue’s accent which was Scotch—I knew it well enough from peddlers on the roads who’d beckoned me. I’d bought a silver mirror from a Scotchman once because it was so pretty and Mother Pindle saw me do so. She’d spat out the word Scotchman like it was whore or plague.
I have no money!
He smiled quickly, like I was a joke to him. Then he came at me, lifted me right up and pushed me back against a tree. He struggled with me, seeking my purse so harshly that my teeth rattled, and I roared at him, and smacked his head.
Ha he said, finding it. Cora’s purse.
He tugged it free and opened it, and out they went—radish, dock, lovage, fennel, comfrey, elderflower, sage. All over the forest floor.
I wailed. I dropped to my knees to gather them. It was like my mother was sprawled on the floor too, and for a while there was silence—just me saying no no no…
Take her horse, then.
I screamed. I ran to the mare who was head-up and walking backwards, not liking this at all. I grabbed her mane but some Mossman had my leg so I could not mount her and the mare tried to carry me off, good girl. But the man had my boot, so I was stretched like
on a rack and the ground was lying under me, and I knew I could not hold the mare much longer. I also knew that if I let go they would take her so I screamed I’ll curse you all! I will summon the Devil and he’ll not like this at all!
Well that was a fine trick.
They let me go like I was on fire. I hit the ground, scrambled to my feet and turned with my back to the mare and my arms stretched out like I was hiding her from them, keeping her safe. These four men could only stare at me—or rather three did, for the fourth was still crouching and saying my eyes. I slowed my breath, stared back. It was like all the forest had heard me, all the birds and insects, and I thought then, too late, that maybe saying witch-like things was foolish. I was running from witch-haters, and there were no doubt plenty more in this country. Rats can cross walls, after all. But it was said now. It was done.
Witch?
They looked at each other.
They looked down at the herbs, understanding them now.
There was a small hush, so I heard all our breathing and the rain going drip. Then they muttered in their own Scotch words. They looked on me for such a long time I felt hot, awkward.
I didn’t say yes I am—for I’ve never called my own self witch. I held my tongue and scratched the mare’s neck how she likes, to calm her.
How old are you?
I pouted. I was cross because they’d troubled her and because they’d made Cora’s herbs fall out of her purse, and now they were treading on them, which was a proper waste and sadness.
Corrag Page 6