by Isla Jones
Grandmother reaches out her hand and curls her fingers. She wants payment for her constant tending to the garden and my access to the plants.
I reach into my corset and pluck out a small, blue-tinted phial. “Nothing comes free from you, Grandmother. Extract of toadstool, as requested,” I say and toss it at her.
Grandmother betrays her elderly appearance and snatches the phial with a swift swipe. She uncorks it before she sniffs once. Satisfied, she tucks it into her own bosom, but I can’t imagine how safe it will be in there without a corset to keep it in place.
“What are your plans for it?” I ask.
Toadstools are fly agarics—the red and white mushrooms that grow wild all over these lands and beyond. Grandmother is capable of extracting the oil of it herself, so why she needed me to do it was a mystery that piqued my interest.
Grandmother gives me a lingering look, then closes it off with a wink. “Secrets are best kept among the dead,” she tells me as she rises from the couch. “The garden is where you left it, Ella. Stay as long as you need, but be within those village walls before sundown. You hear?”
“Loud and clear, Grandmother.”
I watch her dip through drapes to the back of the cabin. There’s a room back there, locked tight—the only door in the whole cabin that has a lock and key.
Often, when I was a child, I’d spend hours waiting for Grandmother to emerge from the Secret Room. I’d conjured up dozens of ideas of what lurked on the other side of the door. Then, I stopped caring the night the wolf came to our neck of the woods and tore apart our garden.
Not a normal wolf…
It was the one that belonged to the village, where it stalked for prey each full moon, and never retreated until it shed blood. The day it came to the cabin, I watched it through the upstairs window, terrified. My cries called for Grandmother, but she stayed in the Secret Room for hours, long after the wolf left.
It was then that it dawned on me the way the sun dawns on the world—there could be nothing as horrible inside the Secret Room than the beast who tore apart the garden that night.
The Werewolf.
For years, no one has seen it. One full moon, it simply didn’t show. And the full moon after, and the one after that.
Some think it dead. Others think it hibernates or has moved to another place.
No matter what happened to the wolf, I am glad it’s gone. Still, I carry a bundle of dried and pressed wolfsbane wrapped in cloth on my person wherever I go. Just in case.
Aconitum.
Sometimes known as aconite, devil’s helmet, or wolfsbane.
4.
The cold wind whips me so hard that I shiver under my cloak and chatter my teeth together. I’m sure my whole face has turned pink by now. Even as I coax the stems of the plants out from their roots, beneath the gloves I wear, my fingers have gone rigid and stiff. This is gentle work, and should be done with delicate movements, but I fear I have ruined the roots of the plants from my abrasive touch.
I kneel before a plot of the garden. Between me and the belladonna sits my wicker basket, half-full with wolfsbane and mugwort.
I move onto the valerian shrub and hack at it until the entire root is unearthed.
Valerian root is a fine sedative, one that unwinds the worries some of my customers harbour, and eases them into restful sleeps. It is the remedy Abigail comes to me for. Though, I suspect her need for it has gone farther than I am comfortable with. Should she become addicted …
Well, Priest Peter won’t be too pleased with me, and his displeasure is a turn that could push me out of the village and back to Grandmother’s cabin. Villagers would still come to me there for their remedies and medicines.
I would lose business to those too afraid to venture through the woods, not to mention I cannot stand a full life with Grandmother, whose maternal nature had been stomped out of her by her own coarse mother.
It is our family curse.
The Hemlock women are born without the softness expected of us.
And I am no different.
Before I leave the garden, I cover my basket with a cloth and dust some of the snow away from the still-rooted plants. Grandmother takes wonderful care of them, and I realise—that is where her maternal instincts are directed. Perhaps all Hemlock women weren’t born without the softness. Instead, we might have been born with a misdirected care, and it leads us to nature in its bare form.
I go back into the cabin to warm myself with a mug of spiced milk by the fire before I trek through the woods again. I peek through the drapes, but the bed is empty and the herb room to the left is without her presence.
Grandmother must be in her Secret Room.
As a fare-well, I tidy her herb room—pinching enough salt for myself and a few almonds—then leave.
On the way back to the village, I see no sign of Colton, but I spot a handful of his traps. A hare is tangled in one, as stiff as my fingers in the cold. Temptation trickles through me, and I almost reach for it. I am owed a rabbit, but a hare will do just as well.
I stop myself.
Four rabbits will come my way if I leave this hare in its trap. And those four rabbits will give me four days to brew the remedies I need. So I pass the hare, and as I go, I wonder if Colton watches me from the white of the trees, waiting for my betrayal.
It doesn’t come.
†††
Thomas is still on guard at the gate when I return. He has moved up to the watchtower and shouts down at whoever is on the other side of the gate to open up.
I slide through the gap and rush through the village. Bundles of people gather in the Square, where they trade and barter in the snow. Some of the buildings that border the Square are built from stone, and others timber, but they all wear white faces with black panels running across them. I rather think the buildings pretty—but not the straw ones near the farms at the far end of the village.
The stares don’t follow me this time, or perhaps I am so frozen by the chilly air and sprinkles of snow that I hardly notice them.
I live down a lane off-street, as far from the tavern as I can afford. The noise of the drunken fools at night still reaches me, but I’m far enough that the sound blends in with the howls of wild wolves and the cries of the wind.
I unlock the door and rush inside.
Between me and the dwindling flames in the fireplace are two armchairs and a solid table with a candle-lantern on it. To my left, a ladder leads to the upper half-level where curtains hide my bed and clothes rack.
Under the second level, drapes dangle at the mouth of my prized room. Those drapes shield the most important part of my home—the space in which I prepare remedies and treat those who knock on my door after the sun falls.
My home is modest, but it is my home.
I am without a husband and children, and that comes with certain luxuries. As I push myself from the door, I drop my bag, rest the basket beside the lantern, and shrug off my cloak. My possessions are strewn about the home. Sun will fall soon, and I will have to tidy before anyone comes knocking at my door.
Tonight, I expect Abigail for the dosage of valerian and Colton to give me my rabbit.
I sigh at the mental reminder. My body and mind are tired. Should it be so unfeasible that I might have a night to myself? Apparently so.
I slide the wooden bar into its bolts to lock the door. When I first moved in, I invested in a metal lock and key, but I use them only when I leave my home to protect from invaders. While I am inside, I find that the bar works just fine.
I throw some cheap wood in the fire. Soon, I bask in a wide-reaching birth of orange light and begin to put away my things. I pull apart the drapes to my herb room and dump my basket on the bench.
Shelves are stacked all around me in this part of the home, and each holds a phial or jar of something from the garden. Oils extracted from plants, ground leaves prepared for special drinks, and even berries of the poisonous sorts are packed and stored on the shelves.
Some dried meats and herbs hang from ropes above, fruits are flattened on a wooden slab ready to be dried out, and salt is crushed in jars to better preserve foods.
Underneath the bench, I have carved a small cave to store my foods. Wrapped in paper, there are some scraps of cooked rabbit left and a shaving of ham. Oats sit in a woven bag for porridge, and a jar of nuts is tucked at the back, but I find it best to eat the quick-to-spoil foods first. One never knows when food might dwindle.
A loaf of stale bread is closest to me.
Grandmother is right, I am atrocious at baking. It should not be stale for another day, at least. Still, I snatch it and slam it down on the worktop. It lands with a thud so loud that I hesitate. If I had stew, I could soften the bread in it. Alas, I must wait for Colton’s visit, and sometimes he spends days out in the woods.
I risk the bread and eat it with the leftovers of rabbit.
It is a small meal, but it fills me quickly and I itch to untie my corset. My hooded eyes, drooped with exhaustion, slide to the window beside the door. At the edges of the curtain, some slivers of light seep in, but the light has darkened since I came home.
Night is drawing nearer.
I don’t have much time now, and there is plenty to be done.
I store away my day’s loot—the adder, wolfsbane, belladonna, almonds, salt crystals, and mugwort. After these chores, I don’t feel so disappointed in my day’s efforts.
The valerian is sprinkled over the workbench, ready to be seen to. After I wash and chop the roots of the plant, I drop a handful into the stone mortar. With the pestle, I grind the root until my wrist aches and then some more. I only stop when the root is crushed to a sludge. It should be powder-like, but I haven’t allowed it time to dry out.
Abigail shouldn’t mind. She drinks it with hot water. The difference in taste is slight. Should she add lemon, it might overpower the trace of dirt in the flavour.
I am wrenched from my thoughts when the door rattles.
Has the sun drifted away already?
I wipe my hands on the beige skirt of my dress and bustle to the nearest window. Peeking through the curtain, I can sparsely make out a muscular figure standing at my door. My eyes narrow and I hesitate. Then, I spot the rabbit hanging from his grasp.
5.
I’m quick to unbar the door.
Colton sweeps inside before I can stop him.
My eyes widen as he shrugs off his thick, fur-lined coat and drapes it over my couch. Then he tosses the rabbit on the table, where it rocks the lantern.
“Thank you,” I snap. “That will be all.”
Colton falls back onto the couch and peels off his hat. Auburn curls fall into place, over his forehead, to his temples, and he brushes them to the side. “Close that door,” he demands. “All the heat is getting out.”
I roll my jaw, outrage in my chestnut eyes so sharp that I’m sure I could cut him with my gaze alone. “Leave, hunter.”
His head leans back on the couch’s spine as his eyelids shut. “In a moment. I must warm first.”
With a sigh, I slam the door shut—extra hard to jolt him—and slide the bar into place. “Warm fast,” I say, then approach the table. The rabbit is not too small, nor is it too fat. It’s just right—in the middle. I pinch my lips and sling it over my shoulder, lingering my gaze on the resting hunter that lounges in my home.
I don’t like it. I don’t want him here, but I understand the need for warmth. After a mere hike through the woods, my body ached to be near fire. Colton has been out there all day.
I take the catch to the herb room and lay it out on the worktop.
As I scoop out the valerian root from the mortar, I keep my wary gaze on the back of Colton’s head. My stare is so strong and piercing that I can see the hazelnut hues of a few wavy strands.
“Do you have any tea?” he calls out.
I pack the valerian mulch into a cloth bag. “Should I offer you some, will you drink it?”
His head turns, just enough for me to see the dirt-brown of his right eye and the shadows cast from the fire over his profile. He thinks over my meaning—a witch’s brew might not be so safe for those a witch takes unkindly to.
Eventually, he turns his face away again and slides closer to the fire.
“I did not think so,” I mutter, a dark smile on my face.
Colton is not afraid of me, but perhaps he is not as much of a fool as I had thought.
Abigail’s package is ready for whenever she arrives.
At the small firepit in my herb room, I bring some water to the boil and squeeze in the scraps of lemon juice I have left. Not much, but enough for two small cups.
I cradle the cups in my hands and join him by the fire. “I half expected you to camp out in the woods all night,” I tell him. “If only to make me wait for my owed rabbit.”
Colton doesn’t deny the cruelty. He takes the cup and sniffs it. “It’s a full moon in two nights.”
How could I have forgotten that?
We villagers—even Grandmother—do not venture into the night woods on a full moon, or the nights leading up to it. The wolf is gone, but superstition sometimes works to keep us safe.
I notice that Colton hasn’t tasted his lemon water yet. I bring my own cup to my lips and hold his gaze as I sip. This seems to reassure him. He drinks it with ease.
There is something in his eyes. He looks at me, and beneath those long lashes of his I see swarms of questions and thoughts. They are veiled, behind mistrust and suspicion.
I set aside my cup. “Why did you really come inside?”
Colton licks a drop of water from his lower lip. He never leaves my gaze, not even as he leans forward and rests his empty cup on the table. Then, he brings his hands together and clasps them.
“It’s no secret in this village that you’re a witch. Everyone knows it. And even some come to you for certain…medicines—”
That is all he says before he is interrupted. A quiet knock taps through my home.
I look at the door, and it’s as though I can see through it. It’s not Abigail. I feel it in my bones. It’s someone who needs my help much more than Abigail does.
I stand. “You must leave, hunter. I have business.”
Colton clenches his jaw and looks at me a beat. Then, as quick as lightning strikes the sky, he has risen and pulled on his cloak.
“Out the backdoor,” I say as he moves for the front. “Now—hurry!”
The quiet knock comes again, only this time it’s a bit harder, more urgent.
Colton cannot hide the scorn from smouldering his eyes, but I shove him to the door in the corner. It’s locked most of the time, so I have to heave up the bar from its slot with all my arm strength. It pops out and I rip the door open.
Colton has barely made it through the door before I slam it shut.
“I am coming!” I shout as the third knock sounds, rapid like the thuds of a run. “Be only a moment!”
I secure the door and look around for anything out of place. But then the pain inside of me grows stronger, and my palms drip sweat.
This only happens sometimes, when a patron’s pain is at its highest. I feel her agony; her tears burn my eyes, the twist in her stomach churns my own.
This is why they call me a witch.
Because I am.
When I pull open the door, a cloaked woman dips inside. Ahead, in the lane, I catch a glimpse of Colton. He strides back to the Square.
Our gazes touch a moment, then I close the door on him a second time.
“Marigold,” I utter and slide the bar in place. I haven’t seen under her cloak yet, but I know Marigold’s panic like I know my own. “Take a seat, warm yourself.”
She does and peels off her coat with shaky hands.
I follow slowly, making sure to study each line of fear etched into her grim face. I barely perch myself beside her on the couch before her sobs boil over like water left in a cauldron too long.
I run my hands over my dres
s, sourcing her pain. My palms settle on the hem of my corset, at my womb. “Again?” I ask, with no judgement or disgrace, but with sorrow.
Hemlock women were cursed with misguided care.
Marigold was cursed with too much fertility.
At a mere thirty years of age, she has birthed five live children and two dead ones. There have been many that didn’t make it to the birth. It takes a toll on her body, more than her husband can understand. He takes no measures to stop the cycle.
It boils my blood and I itch to slip him some of my poisonous berries. But that will only bring more hardship to Marigold. She is not so well-to-do.
She wrings her hands together and tries to speak through her sobs; “I-I-didn’t kn-ow w…where to-to go—”
Silencing her, I rest my hand on her bunched-up ones. Marigold has no pence or shillings to give me. She has nothing to offer.
Still, I take pity on her. And I am a firm believer in a woman’s right to her own body.
It helps that she is kind to me when I join the markets in the daylight. Not many of the villagers talk to me, but Marigold does.
“I will brew you something,” I promise her. “Do you wish to drink it at home or spend the night here? I can offer you my bed to rest on.”
Marigold shakes her head, her hands battling with a handkerchief. “My husband … He’s at the tavern. It was my only chance to come to you. He’ll think it’s only another miscarriage…”
Only another miscarriage.
Those words will haunt me and further fuel my resistance to a husband.
A miscarriage is a horror to a woman who welcomes the seed inside of her. A pregnancy is a horror to a woman who wants no seed inside of her. Neither is a horror to a man who will never know either.
“I will fix you a brew and you can drink here. By morn, the worst should pass.”
This is not Marigold’s first visit to me, and I shouldn’t think it will be her last. Not if she wants to live… The same way I felt her pain before, felt the anxiety in the pits of her stomach, I feel her future as I touch her hand with mine. Should she birth again, she will die. Just as she almost did the last time.
