13 Curses

by Michelle Harrison

  She pushed her way past Lara and ran to the door, her good arm clamped tightly around James. Somehow, she was short of breath, as though she’d run a great distance, but she did not stop running until she had reached her room and shut the door behind her.

  She would never tell anyone. She couldn’t and wouldn’t. There was nothing she could do, she told herself. The real Megan was gone. Now Rowan just needed to concentrate on getting herself and James out of this place.

  She really believed she wouldn’t tell.

  Red’s tale was interrupted by a chilling shriek from the cottage above. She stopped speaking and shrank back. Something shuffled over the trapdoor above, then silence.

  “What happened next?” Eldritch prompted, unfazed.

  “What’s going on up there?” Red asked, her past momentarily forgotten. The terrible scream had chilled her through and through.

  Eldritch leaned forward, as though listening intently. Then he shrugged.

  “Perhaps someone’s come to the cottage,” Red said, her voice lifting. “Perhaps we’re going to be rescued!”

  Eldritch laughed darkly. “I doubt it. If anyone’s come here, then it’s not to do any good. Don’t waste your time hoping.”

  “There’s always room for hope,” the other man said. Red looked at him and saw him staring at Eldritch through narrowed eyes.

  Eldritch ignored him and settled back against the wall, closing his dark eyes. A film of sweat clung to his skin.

  Without warning, the bolt on the trapdoor shot back, startling all three of them. There was a long pause before the trapdoor began to lift—slowly, maddeningly. Then a foot appeared on the first step.

  “Quickly!” Red hissed. “She’s coming down again!” She scrambled back to the foul-smelling straw and lay down, eyes squeezed tightly shut and breathing raggedly, positioning herself to look like she was still tied up. Opposite her, the man did the same.

  A stomach-churning groan made them both turn toward the steps. What they saw instantly made them sit up, their pretenses forgotten.

  The Hedgewitch was staggering down into the cellar, one hand clutching at her throat, the other clawing at the wall for support. She was staring at Red.

  “What… have you… done… to me…?” she rasped. “Poison… you’ve p-poisoned… me! Should have skinned you… should have gutted you like a rabbit straight… away!”

  Red scrambled to her feet, tingling with adrenaline. What was happening to the Hedgewitch?

  The woman took another step toward her, her hand outstretched. The skin on it bubbled, as though something was simmering under its surface.

  “You’ll pay… for this!” she hissed, her eyes burning with malice. Then she doubled over with a howl. “Make it… stop… I beg… you… make it stop! Please…”

  She thinks I did this, Red thought, confused and terrified. She thinks I’ve poisoned her somehow!

  “What’s happening to her?” Eldritch crowed, leaping to his feet. His face was animated with excitement. The chain attached to his manacled hand rattled wildly.

  “Poison… poisoned me…”

  Red had no idea what was going on, but she knew that this could be their only chance of escape. She had to seize it.

  “Release us,” she said. Her voice was firm and cold. It was a voice she had rehearsed well.

  The witch collapsed at her feet, writhing on the ground.

  “Make it… stop!” she screamed.

  “Release us!” Red repeated.

  “Yes! Anything… just make… it… stop!”

  “Give me your word,” Red said coldly. “That you will let us go safely from here. And I’ll make it stop.”

  “I will…” the witch’s body twitched with spasms. “I’ll release you…. I promise!”

  “The keys!” Eldritch yelped. “Don’t forget about me! Get the keys from her!”

  “Give me the key,” said Red, unwavering. “Where is it?”

  “Up-upstairs…”

  “Where upstairs?”

  “Please…” the witch gasped. Her eyes were bulging now, with the effort of speaking. It was like seeing a fish out of water, the life draining away. “I’m dying….”

  “The key!” Red snarled, forcing herself to remember everything the Hedgewitch had done. All the lives she had stolen. Her evil threats. And in her heart she found no pity for her.

  “In the… chimney… loose brick… now make it… stop. Save… me…”

  The man was on his feet too now, next to Red. He leaned over the witch, his mouth open as she wheezed out another fragmented sentence.

  “Help… me…”

  I can’t, Red thought. She almost said it then, out loud, but something stopped her.

  “No,” Red said flatly.

  The Hedgewitch’s face contorted with fury and pain. Then, as Red, Eldritch, and the man watched, it crumpled. Literally. And then it was replaced with another face, that of a young man with twinkling eyes.

  “May I carry your basket for you?” he said, before his words melted on his lips. His hair fell out and his skin bubbled. Another face formed, this time a little girl with blond ringlets. The ragged clothes of the witch rippled as the body beneath shrank and became smaller, transforming into a child.

  “I’ve lost my mother!” she cried. “Will you help me to find her?”

  The little girl became an old man.

  “I’ll show you the way, come with me!” he said.

  The old man became a peddler woman… then a scruffy youth… then a woman in Victorian clothes….

  Red turned away, unable to watch anymore. These had been the victims of the Hedgewitch, that much she could guess. These poor people had never had a chance, falling into her hands, unaware that their fate was to end up as nothing better than a garment, a disguise of trickery.

  She heard the witch gurgling incoherently, and battled the urge to clamp her hands over her ears. There were a few last thrashes from the witch’s limbs, and then finally she fell still and quiet. Eldritch chortled.

  “She’s dead! I don’t believe it, she’s dead!”

  Red felt a wave of disgust roll over her at his evident glee. Reluctantly, she turned to face what was left of the Hedgewitch… and almost screamed as she saw what was there, on the straw.

  It was a distorted version of herself, visible in the light that streamed down from the open trapdoor: the pale, freckled skin, and green eyes that were glassy and staring. The face was twisted into a snarl. Oddly, the hair was not the mousy color she had dyed it but her natural auburn. As she looked at it, a thought occurred to her. The witch had taken a lock of her hair, not knowing that she had recently dyed it. Could the ingredients in the hair dye have been responsible for poisoning her?

  The man stepped over the lifeless body and limped toward the steps.

  “Come on,” he said to her. “We’d better go and find that key.”

  Red shook herself and knelt to search the body, purposely avoiding the face. In the folds of the witch’s clothes she found what she was looking for: her knife. She pushed it into her belt and then kicked straw over the prone body, before moving up the stairs into the cottage. Her skin prickled with goose pimples as she came into the warmth of the upstairs, and bizarrely, the sudden heat set her teeth chattering. She hadn’t realized how cold and damp she had become down in the cellar.

  The cottage was as the Hedgewitch had left it: candlelight flickered from wall sconces, a fire burned in the grate of the fireplace, and, over the hearth, two pots bubbled. Red approached, her stomach gnawing. It had been a long time since she’d eaten. She raised her hands to the heat from the flames and peered into the nearest pot. Something thick and brown with chunks of dark meat simmered there. Her mouth watered, but she did not dare to touch it.

  The man appeared beside her, and as she watched him breathing in the scent of the food, she knew from his expression that he was thinking the same: they did not know what else might be in it. Whatever had killed the Hedgewitch could
be in the contents of this pot. Wistfully, she leaned farther forward and looked into the other one. She met with an unpleasant sight. A lock of brown hair that she recognized as her own was being tossed about in a dark, blood-red mixture. Fragments of an eggshell swam beside it, and as the foul mixture turned over, more of its contents were brought to the surface: a piece of snakeskin and something that looked like a claw.

  “Destroy it,” the man said quietly, beside her. “Throw it into the flames.”

  Using a piece of rag that lay on the hearth, Red lifted the pot and threw its contents onto the fire. Instead of dousing the flames as she expected, they shot up briefly before dying down to a merry dance once more.

  The man took the rag from her and gripped the handle of the stew pot. “We can’t eat this,” he confirmed. “I’ll make something fresh. That way we’ll know it’s safe.”

  “We shouldn’t wait around,” said Red. “We need to get out of this awful place.”

  The man shook his head. “No point in leaving now.” He motioned to the cottage window. “It’s getting dark. We’re best to stay here for the night, eat, and take whatever supplies we can. If we stay, it’ll give us the chance to prepare properly.”

  “But surely it’s dangerous,” Red argued.

  “No more dangerous than being out there,” he replied. “And now that thing in the cellar is dead, the main threat is out of the way.”

  “You haven’t forgotten about me, have you?” Eldritch called from below. “Hurry, find that key!”

  “You get the key,” said the man. “I’ll throw this away and make something else to eat.”

  Red nodded and stood up. She waited for the man to walk outside with the pot and heard him scraping the contents out.

  “I’m going to the stream,” he called through the open doorway. “Back in a minute.”

  As soon as he vanished, she played her fingers over the brickwork of the chimney above the fireplace. For a moment she thought the witch had lied and that there was no loose brick, but then she found it, moving slightly in its place. Deftly she began to nudge it with her fingers. It was wedged tightly in place, and it took her several minutes to remove it. Sure enough, when she did, there was a hollow cavity behind it, containing several small objects. She cast her fingers over them, withdrawing and examining them one by one. Just then, the man came in from outside with the newly cleaned pot.

  “You found the brick,” he said. “Is there a key there?”

  “No,” Red answered. “There are lots of other bits and pieces, but no key. The witch lied.”

  The man’s face fell. “It must be somewhere. We’ll have to keep looking.” His eyes scanned the caged animals in the cottage and rested on a small hutch containing some rabbits. He strode over, and took one out. It was large and fat. Red suddenly felt sick as she realized he intended to kill it. He caught her eye and collected the small knife from the hearth.

  “Sorry,” he said. “But we need to eat something that’s substantial. We don’t know when we’ll next be able to find food. It’ll be quick, I promise.” He moved toward the door once more with the rabbit under his arm, then hesitated and turned back. “Perhaps you should go and tell Eldritch about the key, and let him know we’re still looking.”

  Red nodded again, not trusting herself to speak. Steeling herself, she clambered back down the steps to the cellar, choking on the smell that she’d become so accustomed to only a short while before.

  Eldritch glowered at her. She could smell him, rank with sweat and grime.

  “What are you doing up there?” he hissed. “Why haven’t you unlocked me yet?”

  “There’s a problem,” said Red. “The Hedgewitch lied about the key—it’s not where she said it would be.”

  Eldritch threw back his head and gave an anguished howl.

  “You should have checked first!” he yelled. “Now it’s too late! What if we never find it?”

  “We’ll keep looking,” said Red. “It has to be somewhere.” She eyed Eldritch’s wrist, hanging in the manacle. It looked red and sore, and was clearly causing him discomfort. Evidently her thoughts showed in her face, for Eldritch spat on the ground suddenly.

  “Iron,” he said. “This is what iron does when it comes into contact with fey skin.” He looked at her, almost accusingly. “It burns.”

  “Like I said, we’ll keep looking,” Red answered curtly. She turned and made for the stairs again, eager to escape the rancid smell of the cellar. “There’ll be some food soon. We’ll bring some down to you when it’s ready.” She scrambled back up the steps, and was tempted to slam the trapdoor shut. It would be easier to forget that way that the cellar was now housing the dead Hedgewitch and the remains of the other poor creatures who had been her victims. But even though she did not like or trust Eldritch, it would have been unforgivable to shut him in the darkness. So instead, she turned her back on the trapdoor and began exploring the rest of the cottage.

  Through the mesh of their cages, the animal captives watched her, their eyes distrustful. She walked over to the nearest cage, which held a fox. It growled as she knelt next to it but shrank back, away from the door. Readying herself, she knocked the peg out of the latch and quickly stepped back as the door swung open. The fox was out in a flash, bolting through the open door of the cottage and away, out into the night.

  One by one she released the caged animals: rabbits, more foxes, stoats, and a box full of moths and butterflies that she took outside prior to opening, for fear they would fly toward the light of the candles or the fire in the hearth. Upon her return to the cottage, one creature remained, a rabbit huddled in the corner of its cage. It was lame—its back leg crushed from a trap. Otherwise it was fat and healthy. Regretfully, Red bolted the cage. It would not survive in the wild. Now she knew it would be an ideal candidate for the pot.

  The man returned to the cottage then. He set the pot over the fire, stoked it, and then began to move around the cottage, poking into various sacks and corners. Red caught him glancing at the empty cages.

  “I freed them,” she said unnecessarily.

  “So I see.” He made no other comment, just returned with a few potatoes and a couple of old-looking carrots, which he then peeled, chopped, and threw into the pot. That done, he got up and began rooting around again.

  “That key has to be here somewhere,” he muttered.

  Red got up and followed him into the corner.

  “Be careful what you touch,” he said, running his hands over a large wooden chest. It had no lock, and so he threw the lid back. Red gasped.

  “My bag!”

  She snatched it and checked her belongings. Everything was there, packed in just as she’d left it. Beneath her bag were countless other items: bags, shoes, watches, clothing. Each had belonged to someone. Most would never find their owner.

  The man reached in and took something out as well. It was a knife twice the size of Red’s, and she eyed it warily.

  “This is mine,” he said. “It’s made from iron.” He slipped it into the empty holder on his belt and continued digging around in the contents of the chest.

  Red moved away, looking over a table at the back. A pile of books caught her eye. She picked up the one on the top and opened it. In the topmost corner was a handwritten name: Agnes Fogg. Red wondered if it had belonged to one of the Hedgewitch’s victims. As she began to flick through the book, some of the phrases and notes jumped out at her.

  Remedy for warts: apply dandelion milk by light of waning moon. Repeat for three nights….

  “What’s that?”

  The man’s voice next to her ear made her jump, and she dropped the book onto the table. It hit the surface, bounced, and then fell onto the floor. As it did, a strange thing happened. Tiny black insects scurried from the book and spread out over the floor, rushing into the dark recesses of the cottage. Red frowned and picked the book up.

  “It looks like a book of remedies, or spells,” she began, opening the book. One of the insec
ts ran up her arm. She made to brush it away and then stopped and leaned in closer. For the insect was not an insect at all. It was a tiny letter “A.”

  “What on earth…?”

  “Bewitched,” the man said. “There must be a spell on it to destruct if the wrong hands touch it.”

  Red flicked through the pages of the book. Every one of them was now blank; the words had run away, letter by letter.

  “There was a name written inside,” she said. “Agnes Fogg. Do you think she was another victim? Or maybe the Hedgewitch stole her book for the magic it contained?”

  “No, I don’t think that’s it,” the man said slowly. “I know of an Agnes Fogg. She lived around two hundred years ago in Tickey End. She was a wise woman—a healer and a midwife—and was befriended by Elizabeth Elvesden, the first lady of Elvesden Manor, who she began to teach about natural remedies. But after a child Agnes delivered died and then a sickness spread throughout the town, the people of Tickey End accused both women of witchcraft. They drove Agnes out and banished her to the woods. Elizabeth Elvesden ended up dying in a lunatic asylum.”

  “So you don’t think the Hedgewitch got Agnes Fogg?” Red asked.

  The man shook his head. “I think the Hedgewitch is Agnes Fogg—or at least was once.”

  Red placed the book back on the table.

  “How do you think she came to be known by that name?” she asked. “ ‘Hedgewitch’ sounds so sinister.”

  “It doesn’t have sinister origins,” the man said. “The word ‘hedgewitch’ simply means ‘solitary witch.’ It comes from olden times, when a witch often lived on the farthest outskirts of a village, close to a bordering hedge. The hedge would often be part of a garden of the herbs and plants used in their craft. Until now, I’d always thought of it as a gentle term.” He moved back to the fire, stirring the pot. The aroma of the food made Red’s stomach cramp with longing.

  “How do you think she ended up in the fairy realm? Doing such evil things?”

  “Who knows?” he answered darkly. “She wasn’t evil to begin with, from what I’ve heard. Perhaps she was tricked into coming here. Or perhaps she grew bitter and resentful of the way she’d been treated, and found a way to escape and have her revenge.”