The Memory of Snow

by Kirsty Ferry

  ‘My daughter!’ cried a woman’s voice. ‘My only child. My little Alice!’ Meggie burst into the small living quarters and ran towards a bed in the corner of the room.

  Alice lay on the bed white and cold, her black hair fanned out around her pale face. Her eyes were closed and her lips were bloodless. Dark smudges stained the skin beneath her eyes, as if thumbs had been pressed into the hollows and dragged out ugly marks.

  ‘Oh no. Oh no. What happened? What happened to her?’ sobbed Meggie, throwing herself onto her knees by the bed. She grasped hold of Alice’s hand and tried uselessly to rub some life into it. Alice’s mother cried out and pulled Meggie away from her.

  ‘It’s your fault. You did this to her!’ she cried. ‘You and your potions. I found it. I found the stuff you’d given her. I knew all about it. I could tell. She was different. I guessed what had happened. I knew it was that Hay lad. But we could have done something. Anything would have been better than this! You killed her.’

  Meggie stared at her, terrified. Two more women appeared from somewhere in the shadow alcoves by the fireplace and stood glaring at her, arms folded and heads shaking.

  ‘I didn’t! She asked me to help her. I did what she wanted...’ Meggie looked at all three women. She raised her arms before her and turned her hands palm upwards in the age-old gesture of pleading for one’s innocence.

  ‘You killed her!’ cried Alice’s mother. ‘Look at her. Look at her and tell me you weren’t responsible...’ she howled pitifully and crumpled onto a stool, sobbing pathetically. ‘My baby is dead, and it’s all your fault,’ she said. ‘She’s dead.’

  Meggie ran back to the bed and hung over her friend, searching for some hope, some faint breath or heartbeat that would tell her all this was a mistake. It couldn’t be happening. Not to Alice. Not because of what she had done. But it was. Her spirit had come to tell Meggie as much when she had been at the Sacred Well. But she’d also told her she didn’t blame her. It had to be the mugwort; Alice had been too weak to take the full strength potion. Why hadn’t Meggie thought ahead? Alice was being violently sick, and that was how she had guessed. But Meggie hadn’t been sensible, had she? She only wanted to rush in and help her friend. Not only could the mugwort do what Meggie had prepared it for, but it could make you fall asleep. Too much of it- or if the person taking it was too weak - and the drug would numb your senses. It might even lead you into a sleep from which you would never wake. Alice was dead.

  ‘No!’ Meggie shouted. ‘Alice told me. She doesn’t blame me. It’s not my fault. She came to me, I was on the moors by the old fort and she...’

  ‘Enough!’ screamed Alice’s mother. ‘Enough of your evil. It is your fault and I blame you.’ She pointed at Meggie. ‘Get her out of here. Get her and her evil ways out of my house. She killed my daughter. She killed her!’ Alice’s mother broke into a fresh onslaught of sobbing. One of the women in the house pushed Meggie roughly out into the street. She was, Meggie realised, the widow of a farm labourer, killed in an accident last year. She had a son and two daughters of her own. Three children, all under five years old.

  ‘Don’t you dare come back,’ the girl hissed. She was barely twenty two. ‘Don’t you dare turn up at the funeral, you hear me? You’ve done enough damage as it is.’ She looked terrified. And with good reason. Meggie’s eyes widened in disbelief. This girl had received the same service from Meggie only three months ago.

  ‘You!’ cried Meggie. ‘You. How can you do this, Lizzie? How can you believe all this?’

  ‘Just go away,’ said Lizzie. ‘Just go away.’

  Lizzie slammed the wooden door in Meggie’s face. Meggie was left standing in the street, scared, lonely and very, very bewildered.

  Hidden away in the alley across the street, Charles Hay watched the proceedings with no particular emotion. It wasn’t his fault. The girl, Alice, had obviously been weak and sickly anyway. He turned his back on the cottage and mounted his horse. Flicking his crop against its flanks, he trotted away from the village towards the old pack horse route across the moors. It was annoying, but he felt sure he would be protected. Nobody except Meggie and himself knew the truth of the matter. To anybody else, it would just be one of these tragic incidents that happened every now again. He didn’t need to worry about it all.

  Once clear of the village, he whipped the horse harder and he felt its muscles contract beneath him. He clung on tight as it cantered away, and the fresh Northumbrian air blew all thoughts of Alice from his mind.

  2010

  ‘Wow!’ murmured Liv. She had made her way up the central aisle of the Mithraeum and was leaning over the three altars. She was bending over the altar on the left. A picture of a god was carved onto it and three leaf shapes were punched out of the stone at the side of his head. ‘Sunbeams,’ said Liv. ‘Of course. Mithras is the sun god.’ She ran her fingers over the stone. ‘The way that was glowing when we came in – like a candle was showing through the beams. Brilliant. Must have been the way the sun was shining through it.’

  ‘I didn’t see it,’ said Ryan. He had eventually trailed into the ruin after her. He shivered and looked around him. ‘Where’s the sun gone, anyway? Come on, Mithras!’ he bellowed, throwing his head upwards and his arms outwards. ‘Let’s have some proper sunshine!’

  ‘Hush!’ said Liv, turning and glaring at him. ‘You shouldn’t be shouting on like that here. They wouldn’t like it.’

  Ryan gave her an odd look.

  ‘Who wouldn’t like it? The Romans? Like they would still be hanging around here.’ He laughed. ‘Given the choice between here and Roma, what would you do?’

  ‘You don’t know what happened. You don’t know anything,’ said Liv. ‘Because they didn’t all come from Roma or even Italia. I told you, they’re from all over the empire; Holland and Germany and Spain and Arabia...’

  ‘Wasn’t that the line up for the World Cup semi-finals?’ Ryan quipped. ‘Joke! Joke!’ he added quickly as Liv’s face grew thunderous. ‘Aw,come on, Liv. Lighten up. You’ve gone all weird. What’s up with you?’ He walked up to her and tried to take her hand. She shook him off and turned her back on him. She hunched over the altars, studying them. ‘Liv?’ he asked, but she wouldn’t respond. Ryan sighed and sat down where the backpacker lady had been sitting. He stared around him, slouching down and stuffing his hands in his pockets. ‘So. Mithras,’ he said. ‘Tell me more about your people. If you say something, she might respond. It looks like I’m all out of favour.’

  ‘Get out,’ a voice said. Quite clearly. And quite close to him.

  ‘Woah!’ Ryan swore loudly and jumped to his feet. ‘Liv, did you hear that? Did you say something?’ Liv turned away from the altars, frowning at him. She had a sheaf of papers in her hand now, and was trying to match the weathered inscriptions on the altars to the information she had gleaned from her research.

  ‘Ryan, pack it in. Stop being so stupid. There’s no need to mock me, you know. I tell you what. You go home and I’ll finish up here myself. I can’t be bothered with you.’ She turned back to the altars and hunkered down in front of them. She traced her fingers over the inscription and spelled it out in her head; DEO INVICTO MITRAE M SIMPLICIVS SIMPLEX PREF VSLM

  ‘”To the Invincible God Mithras,”’ she whispered, translating it from her papers. ‘”The prefect Marcus Simplicius Simplex, willingly and deservedly fulfills his vow.” Wow. I wonder what his vow was?’ She straightened up and looked at the other two altars. For some reason, she wasn’t that drawn to those two. They were interesting, of course; but she wanted to linger by this one. Marcus Simplicius Simplex. ‘Who were you, Marcus?’ Liv wondered out loud. ‘And would I have wanted to know you?’

  ‘It was a mistake,’ said a voice. Liv spun around, expecting to see Ryan next to her. But he was standing on the raised grass area staring at her in horror.

  ‘There was a bloke next to you,’ he said. ’Right next to you. Looking at you. I mean it.’

  Liv looked Ryan str
aight in the eyes.

  ‘That’s enough!’ she shouted. ‘Go home, Ryan. Stop making fun of me!’

  ‘I’m not!’ cried Ryan. His face was chalky white and his eyes huge and terrified. ‘Really. I wish I was making fun of you. But I’m not. I swear it. I’m not making fun of you.’

  1650

  In the days that followed Alice’s death, Meggie was terrified at the prospect of leaving her cottage. Whenever she did manage to go out, the whole village seemed to be pointing at her and whispering about her. Conversations would stop as she approached and continue as she hurried away. She had never felt so alone.

  Meggie took to spending more time at Coventina’s Well than ever. She would pray and cry and ask for forgiveness over and over again. She would even call out for Alice to come back to her; but she never did. She tried once more to speak to Alice’s mother, to explain what had happened, but the door was slammed in her face. She snuck into the church for Alice’s funeral; a place she had never visited before and never would again. A group of village men spotted her sitting at the back, and manhandled her out of the building. One of them clamped his hand over her mouth to stop her protesting, and another pinned her arms against her side. Meggie was small and slim; it was not necessary for four men to force her out and to contain her struggles. Meggie felt sullied – the men had seemed to enjoy it in some horrible way. She could smell them on her skin for hours; feel their fingers gripping into her flesh and taste the hand that had covered her mouth. Lizzie was sitting three rows from the front; she put her head down and clasped her hands together in prayer as Meggie was thrown out. Meggie noticed her, and thought bitterly that the woman was thanking God it wasn’t her body at the front of the church, lying in the simple pine coffin by the altar. The coffin was so small, so tiny. Was Alice really that size? For a moment, Meggie visualized her rounder and softer than she had ever been, with another life curled up inside her. Once outside the church, and in fact outside the stone boundary wall of the church where the men had dragged her to, Meggie had slid to the ground howling uncontrollably. She realised again that it wasn’t one life she’d taken, it was two. And Charles Hay was living in blissful denial of this. He knew Alice was dead, of course he did. But Meggie was certain he didn’t care one way or another.

  Meggie was right. On the day of Alice’s funeral, Charles was in Newcastle on business with his father. They had met a gentleman by the name of Cuthbert Nicholson in a local hostelry. This was the man who had become a legend in Newcastle – twenty-seven witches had been identified by him. He was the toast of the city. His methods were questionable, but his work thorough. The witches had been hanged on the town moor and buried in St Andrew’s churchyard with metal nails hammered into their knees to prevent them from rising again. It was a necessary evil, Mr Nicholson had told them. Witches were rife. He thought he would be asked to go to Scotland and the borders after this; he had heard that there were some cases he needed to investigate up there. Charles had smiled into his ale. Dear Meggie; he hoped she would steer well clear of Mr Nicholson. He might need her services again in the future. Although, having said that, the more he thought about Meggie, the more he wondered what she would be like as a lover. She wasn’t the most beautiful girl in the village, but he thought she had potential. She would be feeling rather vulnerable after her friend’s sad demise as well. Perhaps she would welcome a little chat with him. A little fun. It would take her mind off things, that was certain.

  Yes, Charles Hay was in a rather positive mood as he took to his bed in the inn that night. He had paid his lady-friend well for her services and she had melted away into the darkness of the streets. But the whole time, he had imagined Meggie’s body beneath his; Meggie’s eyes meeting his as they moved together. He had suppressed a smile. She had that funny little squint when she looked at you; she put her head on one side and creased her eyes up at the corners. It was rather attractive, in an odd sort of way. But perhaps at such close quarters, she wouldn’t need to squint. A good wash and some clean clothes, the girl would be as good as a Lady and quite presentable. He lay down on the feather mattress with his hands behind his head, staring at the drapes above him. Yes; Meggie would be very interesting. He would have to work on fulfilling that ambition when he got back home. Charles closed his eyes and slept with a smile on his face; confidence is a wonderful thing and the best narcotic in the world.

  AD 391

  ‘All hail!’ It was two months into the New Year. Saturnalia was all but a memory, and today Marcus had commanded the auxiliaries in his troops to stand to attention and welcome the Praefectus castrorum; the new Commandant. As a prefect himself, Marcus was in charge of a group of men but had no imperium- no immense power, such as this man had. Marcus stood at the head of his troops staring straight ahead of him. Janus was opposite him, in front of his group of men. And so it continued throughout the centre of the fort. The gates of Carrawburgh swung open and the horse which carried the new Commandant to his posting at the edge of the empire paraded through the entrance. A stocky, middle aged man sat in the saddle. His hair was shorn close to his head and peppered with silver. His eyes scanned the troops, seemingly noticing anything and anyone that might be out of place. Titus Perpetuus had been warned that this might be a challenging position, yet he was ready and willing to meet it. He had not risen through the ranks by shying away from difficulty. He followed Emperor Theodosius diligently; it was the only way. Christianity had started to bleed into the empire a while ago, strange beliefs creeping in and being met with suspicion from the Pagan Romans. Thanks to Emperor Constantine and his Edict of Milan, Christianity had been tolerated in the empire since 313. Theodosius was gradually stamping out the Pagan beliefs, and this was one of the reasons Titus had been sent here. Information had come through that worried him – the cult of Mithras was growing in these Northern territories, they still worshipped at the bog-spring which had been dedicated to Coventina the water nymph; they still had a shrine to some more water nymphs by this heathen temple. It was all wrong. Things would have to change.

  In the cart behind the Commandant a small, sharp-featured woman looked out over the men; the Commandant’s wife. Her eyes darted back and forth across the troops, noticing a lot of the men were lighter skinned and fairer haired than she was used to. The Batavians. Of course; they were a Germanic people. One or two were dark haired like herself and her daughter.

  Aemelia sat by her mother, warmly encased in animal skins and looking around her curiously. Carrawburgh was the same as any other fort, really. Aemelia knew her family would have a villa on the site, she knew mostly what the days would consist of. It was always interesting coming to a new posting with her family, though. She had spent her whole life travelling from one fort to another with them. Things had changed a little over those eighteen years; but not too much. But she had never been to anywhere as remote as this place. The fields stretched out endlessly beyond Carrawburgh. Somewhere to the North were the wild Pictish people. Aemelia had heard tales about these tribes. They covered themselves in blue woad, believing it would defend them from the Roman attacks; and what they lacked in battle strategy, or even weapons, they made up for in bravery. Or stupidity, depending on how you viewed it. She put her head down and smiled to herself, imagining the Picts running up to this fort, ready to attack the wall. She imagined them stopping dead at the vallum, wondering what they could do next to negotiate the great ditch which was hollowed out before the wall. She guessed they would shout a lot and jump around a lot. They would stand no chance against these soldiers.

  Aemelia raised her deep brown eyes and stared around at the men as the cart rumbled past them. Her gaze alighted on one of the Prefects, a tall, fair man, standing to attention. For a moment, his expression wavered as he caught her eye.

  Marcus was a trained soldier, a professional man. But even he couldn’t control the little flip his stomach made when the girl drove past him.

  Titus Perpetuus missed nothing. His eyes narrowed slightly and he mentall
y noted the tall, fair Prefect.

  Janus allowed himself a small smile as the cart passed his men. He missed nothing, either.

  1650

  ‘Cuthbert Nicholson. Are you willing to assist us further afield?’ The row of magistrates sat on a long wooden bench, staring at the man in front of them. Cuthbert Nicholson was a tall, imposing man. He favoured black clothing and stood like an immense bird of prey before the city dignitaries. He tapped his wooden staff on the floor thoughtfully, then raised it up and weighed it between his hands.

  ‘How much?’ he asked. His voice was deep and throaty. The measured tones had driven fear into the heart of Newcastle’s under-classes. Twenty-seven citizens had met their fate, albeit indirectly, by his word.

  ‘Twenty shillings per witch,’ replied the chief dignitary.

  ‘And where would I be travelling to?’ asked Nicholson.

  ‘Scotland.’

  Nicholson laughed and shook his head.

  ‘No. I shall not travel through those border lands unprotected. You must find yourself another man. I refuse to do that for such a paltry sum of money.’ He turned and made to leave the room.

  ‘Wait! Mr Nicholson. Perhaps we can come to some arrangement? There is a like-minded gentleman we would be interested to meet, a Mr John Kincaid. We have had word from our fellows in Dalkeith that he has done a great deal of good these last few years. We want you to bring him to us. He shares your concerns and Christian values.’ The magistrate leaned forward and interwove his fingers. ‘What would persuade you to travel north for our purposes?’

  Nicholson paused, tapping his fingers with the filthy, bitten nails off the door frame.