A Curse Dark as Gold

by Elizabeth C. Bunce

  “What must we do?” I kept repeating. “Spinner must be the man—or the spirit of the man; oh, mercy—who cursed Stirwaters.”

  “Aye, lass, there seems little doubt of that now.” Mrs. Tom lifted the broadside account and read it over William’s tiny shoulder, and I remembered sitting here with her, months earlier, talking of these matters over a casual cup of tea. “You’ve wandered into dark territory indeed, then, if there’s witchcraft involved.”

  “But how can we stop him?” Rosie’s voice was desperate.

  Mrs. Tom pursed her lips. “You must know what brought about the curse—and how it were laid down. Who cast it, and why.”

  “But we know who cast it,” Rosie said.

  “Do we? Truly? What do we really know of him—of what happened to him?” I shook my head, sweeping through the papers. “There’s nothing here.” But there was. If I could only understand it—if only I could marshal my thoughts and lay the pieces all in order, clear and plain, before me.

  Idly, I flipped the pages of Father’s book to the old map and traced my fingers over the odd names and inky figures. My finger came to a stop on SIMPLECROSS, and I paused for a moment and peered in closer. Farther up the river was a bridge labelled HARD CROSSING; I had always assumed they were companions, comparisons: Ford the Stowe here, where it is easier. But the cold, still feeling in my heart intensified as I stared at Simple Cross and saw that it was nowhere near the river. It was the convergence of four roads—one marked by parallel lines, the other by dashes.

  “Oh, mercy,” I said. “The crossroads.”

  Rosie peered in closer, and Mrs. Tom rocked thoughtfully. “Aye,” the old woman finally said. “Powerful magic at work in a cross-ways. Folk’ve been known to make dark bargains there—and worse.”

  “Dark bargains?” Rosie echoed, but I merely nodded, recalling Malton Wheeler’s letter.

  “I think that’s what Harlan Miller did,” I said. And worse. “And whatever he did there—I have to undo it.”

  “Well,” Mrs. Tom said gently, still holding the broadside, “from the looks of this, I’d wager your Mr. Spinner met a bad end there.”

  Rosie gasped. “You don’t mean—”

  Mrs. Tom continued. “There’s no good to come of pairing a cross-ways and a witch, and only one thing that would bring God-fearing men into the mix, as well.”

  “I must go there,” I said. My voice was very soft, little more than a thread through the lamplight, but I felt the rightness, the certainty of it like a warm weight settling into my bones.

  Biddy Tom nodded. “Tomorrow.” The clock chimed the quarter hour, and as I glanced its way, I saw that Mrs. Tom’s parlor was decked for autumn, in boughs of golden foliage, grape wreath, apples. They were fading now—somehow we had reached the end of October without me realizing it.

  “All Souls’ Night. When the dead walk.”

  “Oh, truly!” Rosie said. “You’re both mad, you are! There are—” she grabbed the map and counted. “One, two—five crossroads outside Haymarket. What makes you think this is the right one? It could take days to cover all of them—and then where will we be?”

  It is always a bad sign when Rosie is the voice of reason.

  “Look—” I spread the map Harlan Miller had drawn before her on the atlas, pointing to the facing page. The letters spread wide across the land Stirwaters was built on: SIMPLE. “This is the one it wants me to see. There’s something about this crossroads I’m meant to understand.”

  “How can you tell? They’re all on the same page!”

  What could I tell her? There was no rhyme or reason to it—I just knew. The way I heard the voice of the mill, the way the atlas had fallen open to that page, the way the pit had given me back Mam’s ring. I had closed my ears and eyes to Stirwaters’s messages too long; when would I believe before it was too late?

  We stayed at Mrs. Tom’s a few more hours, during which she told us dark things about restless spirits and the hold that great anger could have. Things I had glimpsed for myself already.

  “When the old year draws to a close—and I’m not talkin’ about the calendar year, mind, but of seasons and nature, and things the elements of the land understand—when the earth turns, it brings us round closer to the Other World. The wall between their world and ours is thinner, then, and all sort of things may pass between. The Fair Folk come down from their hills, and the ones who have gone before us sometimes come back.”

  “But Spinner’s been back,” Rosie said. “Why should tomorrow be different?”

  Mrs. Tom stirred her tea with slow hypnotic strokes. I thought if I looked long enough, she might conjure a vision in the murky liquid. “Tomorrow he’ll be drawn to the place where he died—he won’t be able to help it. All things return to their beginnings.”

  I listened to her, my thoughts turning hazy and indistinct in the shadows swirling round us. “My father—” I could not keep the wistfulness, or the grief, out of my voice.

  Mrs. Tom set her teaspoon down with a snap. “Your father died a peaceful death, Charlotte Miller. He’ll have no reason to come back, and don’t you go meddlin’ with them that’s resting comfortable.”

  I rose from the table and lifted William from his basket. He murmured sleepily as I stroked his tiny plump hand. I whispered meaningless commentary into his wispy hair, and Rosie took a shaky sip of her tea.

  “Very well,” I said at last. “What must I do?”

  It was decided that Harte would accompany me, for Biddy Tom pronounced the journey too dangerous to make alone.

  “Understand—this is not just a night when the spirits wander. They’re also at their most powerful, their most unforgiving. Take that strapping lad what’s so keen on Rosie; he’s got a head on his shoulders.”

  Rosie would stay behind in Shearing, watching William at the Grange, Biddy Tom nearby.

  But things never go smoothly in this world, not for the Millers of Shearing, not for those they love. Saturday morning, Harte and I both came first to Stirwaters, of course, to tidy up last-minute loose ends and, I suppose, have a sort of heroic farewell. I don’t know how heroic Harte felt; I was only sick and desperate and angry.

  I watched it happen, watched and did not move, merely held fast to William and shook my head as the ladder Harte was standing on—his own perfectly sturdy ladder, hardly high enough to fall from, and from which he was certainly not overreaching himself—simply pulled itself out from beneath him. I don’t believe it, but that’s what I saw—Harte standing strong and easy no higher than the third or fourth rung, fixing a pulley into place, and then, for one sickening moment, hanging there in the air with nothing at all beneath his feet.

  He was lucky not to break his neck. I saw him land, saw the look of surprise on his face as the leg buckled and bent. I saw Rosie screaming from the other side of the room. I saw her throw down her tools and run to him, as I had done, once, long ago when my father fell at that spot. My breath stilled in my chest and I could not move.

  But then, there I was—at his side, barking orders. “Ian Lamb!” I bellowed, and the boy, running toward us, froze in his tracks. “Fetch Biddy Tom. Now!” Was I even thinking it was medicinal aid we needed?

  Harte lay stunned, a distorted heap of a body, one leg bent up under his back, his face twisted with pain. Rosie had hold of one hand, up close to her lips, and her fingers brushed at his forehead as if she were a little afraid to touch him. But her eyes, wide and blue as the Stowe, were on me. If Rosie never looks at me that way again, I may one day forget what it was like; as if the sum of every strange and awful thing of the last two years was in that look—the accidents and deaths, the magic we had to believe, and above all, the Stirwaters Curse.

  Mrs. Lamb took Rosie round the shoulders and moved her gently aside as two strong men came and lifted Harte from the floor. He screamed then, a raw, awful sound that could not have come from our Harte. They got him half to his feet, the broken leg dangling sickeningly at his side.

  “T
ake him to the house,” Rosie said, and her voice was clear and steady. With a slowness that was excruciating for everyone, they carried their burden down two narrow flights of stairs, across the rough shale yard, and into the Millhouse. It took them twenty minutes, for every few steps they had to stop and let Harte rest. I thought Rosie was going to faint, each time they paused, or jostled him, or bumped his leg against the stairway wall.

  Outside in the yard, someone said at my elbow, “Here’s the laddie, Mistress.” I glanced back to see Tory Weaver holding a jolly, gurgling William.

  “Merciful Lord,” I said. “I’d forgotten. How—”

  “You handed him straight to me, Mistress,” Tory said. “No harm done. He’s the picture of a prince, this a’one.”

  William grinned his drooling smile at good old Tory, gripping his collar in a tiny wet fist. And Tory beamed right back at him, proud as any grandfather. Fighting back hysteria, I took William from his arms as calmly as I could. It was all I could do to hold him normally, not grip him as tightly as I wanted—tight enough to make him part of me again.

  God help me, it was done so easily. One moment’s distraction, and William was parted from me. How little would it take to make that parting permanent?

  In the Millhouse, Harte was laid out awkwardly on the parlor sofa, blankets heaped up beneath his leg. Pilot and Rosie stood guard over him, keeping the crowd well back and offering gentle comfort where they could.

  He looked like a man shot and dying, pale and sweating, his face a rictus of agony with every shallow breath. Rosie, at least, had recovered: She produced a knife and split Harte’s boot and trouser leg apart as smoothly as I’d seen her gut trout from the millstream.

  “Hold his hand—hard,” she said to me, and I grabbed Harte’s fingers in a grip like iron. “I’m taking the boot off; it’s going to hurt like the devil.”

  “Keep breathing,” I whispered—though to whom I am not certain. All the strength I wanted to pour into my grip on William was transferred to that poor man’s hand. Harte’s eyes rolled my way, but if he saw me, I have no idea.

  Rosie made another cut in the boot leather, and then with no sympathy whatever, pulled it away from the foot. Harte gasped and squeezed me hard, nearly pulling me down beside him. It seemed I could hear his heart beating, even from where I stood, and new beads of sweat rose up on his forehead.

  “All right,” Rosie said. “Now your stocking.”

  Harte mumbled something that might have been a curse, but his free hand fumbled out and touched Rosie’s hair, then her cheek. She paused a little and smiled at him.

  The boot and stocking free, it was plain how bad the break was. The very skin of the leg had turned purple; the knee pointed out in a direction contrary to nature, other bumps and protrusions taking its place. It made me sick to look at it, for while it could have gone so much worse, that morning a broken leg was bad enough.

  Biddy Tom arrived at last, her simples bag and another, much larger carpetbag in tow. She set to work briskly, dosing Harte first with some sleeping powder so she could set the limb with as little pain as possible.

  “He may not sleep,” she warned, “but this will help him bear it. Mr. Harte, if you could release Charlotte’s hand; I believe your mistress would like to sit down.” His grip softened and his hand fell away, but I could not feel my own fingers. I sank down, right atop the little tea table, and jostled William on my knee as we watched Biddy Tom set to work on Harte’s leg.

  The setting and plaster complete, she shooed the crowd away. Harte did sleep, which was a relief to all of us—his face relaxed at last, and he stopped shivering.

  “Good work, Rosie,” Biddy Tom said, and Rosie only nodded. She was looking us over with a strained and wary expression.

  “What do we do now?” she said. “This wasn’t a coincidence. Harte falling off a ladder, today of all days? Harte’s never fallen off a ladder in his life!”

  “No,” said Mrs. Tom, “no coincidence. The danger you are in is very real—”

  “It’s not him,” I said. “The mill didn’t want him to go.”

  “You mean the mill doesn’t want you to go,” Rosie said.

  I shook my head, the understanding so clear it was almost painful. “No, I must go. Otherwise I’d have fallen off the ladder—or come down with fever. But Harte doesn’t have to come with me. He isn’t a Miller; this curse has nothing to do with him.” It seemed a foolish thing to say, with him lying broken on our sofa, but I knew I was right.

  Rosie was shaking her head as she took my meaning in. “I won’t leave him,” she said, and I leaned over and touched her hand.

  “No,” I said. “You must still stay here and watch Harte, and watch William. Just as we planned.” And before I could feel the pang in my breast, I handed William over to his favorite aunt, my fingers lingering on his gown longer, perhaps, than necessary. “Mrs. Tom, will you stay with them?” She nodded.

  “You can’t mean to go alone!” Rosie said.

  “I must,” I said, certain down to my very bones. “I won’t risk what’s happened to Harte happening to anyone else. It’s put to me to break this curse, and I’ll not see anyone else endangered by it.”

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Rosie wasn’t happy, releasing me to the unknown dark, alone, unaided. But in the end she agreed it was unavoidable. She insisted that I take Pilot, at least, and I confess I am surprised that dog left her master’s side for me that night. In the distance, a bonfire burned at the churchyard, the guidelight for the dead, casting its baleful glow into the rising night. I bit my lip and tried not to think what might be watching for those flames.

  I set off in Randall’s father’s carriage, the horses sprightly and glad to see me. There was no moon, just a glowering stormy overhang of clouds, and as we left the last of the village behind, I was grateful for the coachlights. The groom at Drover’s had filled and lit them, and as they swung in graceful rhythm to the horses’ steps, they cast a welcome arc of light around me.

  I pulled my collar up against the breeze. Those clouds did not look welcoming, and I could only hope my errand would not detain me in bad weather. It was a drive of four hours, and Harte’s accident had already delayed me. I had an overnight valise packed, in case I must stay at an inn, but I hoped not to use it. Pilot’s warm presence, tucked against my ankles on the footboards, was more welcome than I would admit.

  As I drove, I went over Biddy Tom’s instructions for the journey in my mind. I was not sure what I expected to find—some evidence, perhaps, of what had passed among Harlan Miller, Malton Wheeler, and Jack Spinner in the crossroads, so many years ago. I could only hope I had not misinterpreted the information—the mill’s intent—and that I was being drawn toward the breaking of the curse, and not my own fate at its fell hand. To that end, Mrs. Tom had given me clear instructions. I was to find something that witnessed the setting of the curse, and, if possible, the identity of the man who set it. She had likewise pressed me to accept a charm of protection—a blue string, tied round my wrist—but I had declined, fearing that any such might form a barrier between me and—whatever I was driving toward.

  No one else was on the road. We trotted along the pressed earth for miles, seeing no more than a light in a cottage window, so I was surprised when Bonny gave a neigh and shied slightly at a figure walking along the verge toward Shearing. I slowed to pass the pedestrian more carefully, and then gave the reins such a hard yank I nearly spun the carriage round in the road.

  I hadn’t recognized him, at first. Dressed all in black, he blended into the shadows, and might have been a highwayman. But he was so disheveled! His jacket was half off one shoulder, his waistcoat unbuttoned, shoes and stockings scuffed with dust. Beneath his hat, pulled low over his brow, his white wig stood out brightly in the night, a ragged halo round his drawn face.

  “My God,” I breathed, my hand trembling on the reins.

  For a moment, my uncle seemed not to know me. “Charlotte?” he said, at last
, gazing upward. A faint smile broke on his lips. “My angel of salvation. Why does it not surprise me to see you here?”

  This was impossible—and alarming. I shook my head, not sure what to make of it all. “Where are you going?”

  Uncle Wheeler hesitated, a hand on Bonny’s bridle. The black horse leaned into his touch, and he stroked her nose as if it were second nature to him. “As a matter of fact, I found myself rather compelled to go back to Shearing. Much as I adore the place.” The words were all in place, but his voice sounded odd, uncertain.

  “You’re mad.”

  His fingers paused on the horse’s soft nose. “I wonder,” was all he said. I could read no answers in his face. He was gazing into the distance and frowning vaguely, as if he could not quite recall how he had come to be there. A furrow appeared on his forehead, and a fog of confusion seemed to waft from him.

  “How did you get here?”

  He never looked up, his gaze still locked westward, into the last, fading light. “There was a gentl—an obliging gentleman, with a wain…” As he trailed off, he shook his head, but more as if to clear it. He brushed futilely at the dust on his jacket. “Now if you don’t mind, I really must be on my way.”

  “What can you possibly have to gain by going back to Shearing?” I said.

  He paused. “Ah, well, you know how it is. Just a little…ah, unfinished business to attend to…”

  I shook off the chill I felt. I could tell he was only half attending to what he said. Something was amiss, out of place, in the smooth mask of his face. He truly did not know where he was going—or why.

  “You heard it, didn’t you?” I said softly. I could scarcely believe I was saying such things, but it seemed so obvious now. “Stirwaters—calling you back?” The mill was drawing us all together, and onward, along some unknown path for some purpose yet to be made plain.