by Mark Parker
But as he pulled the covers and tucked them tightly under her chin, she wondered if that was actually the reason. Was he protecting her, or suspicious?
Had he been waiting up, keeping his eye on her?
Lying awake in the dark, listening to him make his way to his bed and climb inside, Hellen imagined this was how her mother had felt, turned upon by her own family, accused under the guise of salvation.
***
The nightmare came again. It began as the memory. When it reached the part where the magistrate lit the fagots and her mother was to say, I love you, Hellen was relieved the villagers were there. At least it wouldn’t be the isolated, twisted version of last night. They crowded behind her in the mud as they really had, and her mother said it.
“I love you.” The broken, fearful tone. She looked into Hellen’s eyes with that brilliant green gaze. Murmurs from the crowd. “I love you,” she repeated.
I love you too, Hellen mouthed, as she had.
“What’s the matter?” Marjorie said.
Hellen looked around. Everyone stared.
“Aren’t you going to say it back?” Marjorie asked, angry. “Aren’t you going to tell your mother you love her before she burns to death?”
The crowd’s murmuring grew into concerned discussion. If she said it, would they accuse Hellen of being a witch too? Would they call her loyalty allegiance?
The flames reached her mother’s robe and she began to scream. Hellen felt sickly relieved at the return to the actual order of things. At least it wasn’t that silence, that horrible silence of the night before.
When the screams grew frantic and ragged, just before her mother had tossed back her head and begun to thrash, the nature of the screaming changed. It was gradual at first. The screams slowed, grew false, and then Marjorie was pretending to scream, the way you would mock someone else who was screaming.
The crowd was silent now. The flames leapt towards Hellen’s cloak. Her father didn’t try to pull her back.
Marjorie’s cruelly mocking screams morphed and bubbled into laughter. Rich, boisterous, atrocious laughter. She tossed back her head and laughed, her breasts jiggling with the motion, and the flames continued to climb, to eat her, and she laughed.
She laughed and laughed as her hair caught fire and the flames bit Hellen’s cloak and the smoke slipped down her throat and smothered her, so heavy she couldn’t breathe.
She woke with a start, hot, sweating and shivering, Mery’s weight balled on her chest. It was well before dawn, pitch black, and the cat’s eyes must have been closed for Hellen could see nothing, only feel the pressure of her, only taste bitter fear on her tongue, only hear the echoes inside her mind of mother’s maniacal laughter as she burned.
***
Hellen rose with the dawn, cold and tired and heavy again, the men gone already to the fields. The harvest was largely over. Now they gathered the waste for burning in great heaped piles spread around the village. The air was distinctly colder and sharper, bordering on November.
She remembered to put on her shoes, so she didn’t step on the pale gray thing left for her on the floor, but it still startled her. She bent, gripping it in the bottom of her skirt.
This time it was a foot.
It was larger but still tiny, chubby, with nails at the ends of the toes. It stopped cleanly below the ankle, cold and drained of blood. Hellen hurried to the outdoor fire, imagining the babe it’d come from. Had she been able to follow Mery last night, she might’ve found where the poor thing was buried. Probably behind the house of his or her wretched parents.
She tossed it into the flames, covering it with scraps.
As she turned to go inside, a wail rose from down the path between rows of dwellings. People clustered outside, a woman on her knees in the center of them. Who? Young Agnes, perhaps, with the newborn.
Hellen’s stomach sank. Not again. Not another.
“Aye,” came a scratchy voice from the side. Hellen jumped, peering into the shadows under Old Effy’s front covering. The woman watched her with sharp gray eyes. “Another babe gone missing.”
Jonet stood beside her, an unusually pretty woman of about her mother’s age: one of those who had testified against her. She, too, watched Hellen rather than the small crowd gathering around Agnes.
Hellen’s heart pounded. Maybe she wouldn’t need to follow Mery to the bodies. “’Tis the first child since my mother was taken in. This proves her innocence! It cannot be her, for she is gone.”
Euphemia laughed, the skin under her chin waddling. “Gone? Gone. Who’s to say? There are those who will think someone else has taken up her wicked quest.”
Blame. Aye, of course they would blame her. Unless she blamed someone else first. She imagined accusing Euphemia. ‘Twas her, she would shout out, righteous, ‘twas Old Effy all along! But she wouldn’t do it. She couldn’t do it. She could not stand the woman, but she did not believe she would kill babies. Probably Agnes’s baby caught the cough like so many did now, and helpless, afraid of being accused herself, Agnes had buried the child.
Was that whose foot Mery had brought her? She had to stop her cat from continuing this. Should someone see Hellen with such a thing she’d be found guilty without explanation.
She looked into the women’s eyes. “I was home all night,” she whispered, voice cracking. “I never left the house. My father can attest to it.”
Jonet spoke for the first time, her voice melodious and soft. “He can, aye, but will he?”
“I…”
“Have you been sleeping, child?” Jonet asked, crossing the straw-coated mud. In the gray light of dawn, her smooth skin looked radiant.
“Not well. I have this dream…”
“Poor thing. Have you tried valerian root? A tad in your stew will ease your slumber.”
“I haven’t any.”
Jonet reached a wrinkled hand—so much older-looking than her face—into the apron tied over her dress. She pulled out a large, knotted mass of tubes that for a moment reminded Hellen of the baby’s finger or a slow-worm tail, but then she saw the nest of them tangled over and upon each other and they looked exactly like the knotted veins pressing against the skin of Jonet’s hand. The bunch was fibrous and earthy, the bottoms of the roots diminishing into thread-thin wisps.
Hellen did not want to touch it, but Jonet proffered it between them with the expectation that Hellen would accept it, so she did. They felt smoother than they looked, slick. Downhill, Agnes’s cries had calmed to a muted sobbing.
“You need but a small bit of it,” Jonet said. “’Tis effective in any brew. Just a pinch will ease your sleep, lass.”
Then why did you give me so much? Hellen wanted to ask, but she kept her mouth shut and drew the tangle of roots toward her skirts.
“Aye,” called Euphemia, still huddled in the shadows. “And don’t mix it with ale, mind you, unless you wish to sleep like the dead.”
Hellen stared at the hag. She never drank ale. What was such a caution? Through the dimness under the covering, Euphemia’s wide, gray gaze caught hers, and she winked.
Shock ran through Hellen’s tired body. She remembered her mother’s green eyes in the dream, her wink, her stalwart, silent gaze as she burned. Hellen’s hands trembled.
“Head inside now, lass,” Jonet urged her. “I will come for a visit first thing tomorrow morn. Perhaps you miss a mother’s ministrations.” Fresh fear filled Hellen. What if Jonet found one of Mery-bell’s leavings?
Euphemia’s taunting call came next, following over Hellen’s shoulder as she hurried toward the doorway to her family’s small, squat hut. “Aye. Head inside now, Hellen Guthrie. Stay inside tonight, if’n you’re a good lass, for Allhallowtide approaches, and the Devil’s dues are due on Hallowe’en night!”
***
During dinner only a few lads came to the door begging firewood, and they stopped well before nightfall. Giles gave them each a bundle lest they bring any mischief on the house, but he caution
ed them to go home and stay inside, and would not allow young Duncan to join in the old games. Fyvie was somber this year. If anyone told fortunes or tales of fairies, they did it quietly.
Hellen went to the window at dusk, where Mery sat flicking her tail against the stone. She stroked her, watching the neighbors light their bonfires before turning away. Mery jumped from the window and lay in the corner.
“No one is to leave this house tonight,” their father said, closing the shutters. He looked at Hellen. “No one. Understood?”
All three of them nodded. Hellen bowed her head. “Aye, Da.”
Giles and Norman both drank heavily at dinner, Giles even allowing young Duncan some ale. Hellen quietly refilled their wooden mugs before the bottom was dry. She kept the fire burning hot so the room would be warm, and she served them large portions of hearty stew, and by a couple hours after dark, Giles snored in his bed. Norman slept quietly, and Duncan fell asleep sitting at the table. Hellen carried him to bed and tucked him in.
If they’d tasted the valerian root, they showed no sign of it.
She changed into her darkest frock and took out her cloak. Mery twined in and out of her legs.
“Are you ready to take me on your hunt, wee one?”
A rich, hearty purr rose.
“Lead me to the same place you’ve gone the past two nights, alright? Let’s dig up the proof my mother was no witch.” Even if the villagers wouldn’t believe, she could at least prevent Mery from bringing back the pieces and putting Hellen in danger. It would be safer on any other night, but Jonet had promised to pay her a visit first thing in the morning. Hellen couldn’t chance the nosy woman finding Mery-bell’s next gift. It must be tonight.
With the bouncing, hurried walk only a cat can make graceful, Mery darted out the front door, leaving Hellen no time to question her rightness of mind or the risk she was taking, and she was glad of it. Drawing her cloak over her hair, she followed.
***
When she was a lass, some of the braver villagers would take candles out onto the hills on Hallowmass Eve to leet the witches. Should the candle burn brightly the hour through, the village was said to be safe from evil, but should the flame go out it was taken as an omen of great woe. As she hurried now, hunched and silent, through the darkest space between two bonfires, beyond the village’s bounds, Hellen wondered what it meant to have no candle at all.
Indeed, she longed for a light, but she couldn’t risk it. Most people would be asleep by now, locked safely inside their homes, but a few may be out to keep the bonfires burning, and some may watch in dread of fetches approaching their home.
She was amazed by how quickly wee Mery-bell could run. She didn’t get the impression her cat was trying to lose her, though, for she occasionally looked back as if to check Hellen followed. As they burst into the open hills, the air was cold and crisp.
Mery darted across the long grass, tail high, and Hellen followed. It wasn’t until the bonfires were small behind them that she paused. The cat continued. Hellen whisper-called, “Mery-bell, where are you going?”
Two flashes of green as she looked at Hellen, but she did not stop.
Hellen pulled her cloak tighter. Surely the cat wouldn’t lead her into the woods? She’d been so worried lest villagers think she was something to fear that she hadn’t stopped to wonder if she should fear others. She was reminded of the jeer she and the other children used to yell at each other fleeing the bonfires on All Hallows’ Night: “Every one for himself and the Devil take the hindmost!”
She glanced over her shoulder.
Swallowing, she quickened her pace, and Mery led her uncannily, relentlessly, into the dark, heavy shadows of the woods above the village.
***
Hellen had always known Mery prowled at night. She was the best mouser in the area, which was perhaps the only reason the villagers had not demanded her burned as a familiar, but had Hellen known how far and wide the cat traveled, she’d have marveled that she made it home alive.
They were deep into the woods, and although the air was less cold, Hellen kept her cloak wrapped tightly, for the very trees moved and shadows shifted and Mery led her through it—always quick enough that Hellen couldn’t stop to rest, but never so fast she lost sight of her.
At first Hellen thought she heard her own panting, heavy and airy, underscored by the pounding of her heart, but as she continued deeper and deeper into the woods, the sounds separated and made themselves clear: chanting. Did she hear drums?
Her skin prickled. “Mery-bell,” she whispered vehemently, “Stifle your pace, lass. Someone is afoot.” Her throat was tight, mouth dry, eyes wide enough to burn in their attempt to see through the trees, but Mery did not stop. Hellen followed as quietly as she could.
The chanting grew louder, the distinct rhythm almost detectable as words, and Hellen grew less afraid of being heard over the din and more afraid of being seen. Ahead, striped by the ever-shifting trunks of trees, a fire burned. Shadows moved around it.
Mery headed directly toward it. Hellen was too frightened to call out to stop her.
Were there drums? Hellen couldn’t tell. Perhaps it was the relentless chanting that gave the impression of drums. Perhaps it was her heart, pulsing in her ears, making her whole body feel warm. Or perhaps that was the nearness of the fire.
Hellen stopped, having come upon the outskirts of the gathering before she meant to. A single tree stood between her and the flames, and the mad figures that cavorted around them.
The words were clear now. Women’s voices chanted:
Power, money, beauty, and prestige:
The Devil gives his gifts on Hallowmass Eve.
Murder, mayhem, sacrifice, and fright:
The Devil’s dues are due on Hallowe’en Night!
Rich, gleeful laughter rose at will. Hellen stared, recognizing a face. The long, wavy white hair and the shriveled nose belonged to Euphemia Prat.
Hellen swallowed a gasp, searching the others. There was Jonet with her pretty face and old hands, and Mavis who was missing an ear, and even young Katherine, Hellen’s childhood friend, large with child.
Mery-bell walked calmly into the middle of the revel.
I should have picked her up! In the center of the ring, hung over the fire, was a large bronze cauldron. Large enough to hold a cat. For a moment, Hellen felt certain the wild women would throw Mery into whatever foul concoction simmered there, and she should lose her only remaining tender companion on this Earth.
Mery stopped, sniffing low to the ground, and only then did Hellen spot the baby.
An infant child was bundled tightly, perched against one of the rocks that ringed the fire. Mery sat on her haunches beside it and licked the delicate hair on the top of its head, mothering it with long, efficient strokes of her pink tongue.
Hellen was so enraptured by this strange kindness, this unexpected familiarity, that it took her a moment to realize all movement had stopped except for the flames and Mery’s tongue. The women stood still. When Hellen lifted her gaze, she gasped.
All four women stared at her.
“Hellen Guthrie,” said Old Effy. “I warned you about this night.”
Katherine, cradling her stomach, asked, “Do you come to join our Sabbat?”
“I—I didn’t mean to—I’ll go. I followed Mery...”
Jonet looked at the cat, who was still vigorously cleaning the baby, and said, “That isn’t her name.”
“Mery?” For a moment, confusion dulled Hellen’s fear. “Aye, it is.” She tilted her head to study her cat. The gesture she’d at first thought was tender now made her cringe. Mery’s tongue was so rough, with its barbs, and a baby’s skin so soft. She must be hurting the child.
“Perhaps when she was but a cat,” Jonet said patiently, as if speaking to a child. “But you don’t think a cat could find her way here, do you?”
The cat’s furious licking did not cease. The baby’s face scrunched in frustration. Still that black face h
overed over the bundle, licking, licking… tasting?
Hellen shook herself, appalled. “That is my cat,” she snapped, darting forward to shoo her from the babe. Then she realized she stood in the circle, beside the women. Her mouth dried.
Euphemia tilted back her head and cackled gleefully. “Aye, and what’s more, your mother!”
A log on the fire broke in two, collapsing in a fresh shower of sparks. Hellen jumped, backing up, damp shoes shuffling through the dead leaves. “What?”
“Your mother’s soul, anyway. For now,” she added. “But not for long if she doesn’t pay her dues before the dawn!”
Hellen’s heel bumped the base of a tree and she stopped, pressing her hands into its rough bark. She stared at her wee black cat who now undulated sinuously in the air as if she were rubbing against the legs of someone who wasn’t there, as if her spine were being stroked by invisible fingers. Around and around she circled, turning her head as if to better press it against something, but nothing was there.
“Mother?” Hellen asked, her voice small and high. She felt faint, but she could not pass out now.
The cat looked up, locking onto her with wide, piercing green eyes. They stared at each other for a long minute, and Hellen knew. Her mother’s soul resided in this cat. Tears tightened her throat, threatened her eyes. “Mother.” Her whisper cracked on the word. Then the cat blinked and continued sinewing back and forth as if about invisible legs.
The baby fussed, kicking in helpless lumps beneath its swaddling. Was it Agnes’s child? Hellen’s face felt painfully pale, drained of blood.
“You can’t blame Marjorie, Hellen,” Katherine said. “She had no way of knowing they would burn her before she paid.”
“Before she paid?” Hellen echoed, looking at her old friend.
“Aye, before she paid the Devil his dues.”
“The Devil,” Hellen gasped, breathless.
Euphemia’s jaw wobbled. “Marjorie owes Old Scratch a soul. If she doesn’t pay up tonight, he’ll take hers with him straight back to Hell.” She tossed back her head and laughed.