The Witch in the Lake

by Fienberg, Anna

  There must have been thirty women in the dining hall, but Merilee discovered that there were sixty-five in all. The woman called Maria who sat next to Merilee had been yawning and wriggling in her chair, and soon she whispered that she was off to find her friend.

  ‘Where are the rest of the women?’ asked Merilee.

  ‘Oh, some have retired to their rooms to study,’ replied Maria, ‘and others like to meet with special friends in their apartments. I wouldn’t mind joining them, actually,’ she added, lowering her voice. ‘There’s a good game of cards going on in Sandra’s room, I know for a fact.’

  Merilee grinned. Aunt Beatrice disapproved of cards—said it was gambling, the devil’s vice.

  But at that moment Beatrice swung around and scowled at Merilee.

  ‘I suppose you know so much you don’t have to listen to how one makes up a pomade?’

  Maria excused herself just then, saying she had a headache. But she had to wait for another ten minutes while Beatrice gave her advice on how to treat it.

  Watching her go, Merilee decided fiercely she might just learn how to play cards. Or maybe there was a music group who liked to sing or play recorder in the evenings. And Beatrice could go and jump in that lake full of foul and dreadful things and drown herself!

  But next to being back home, Merilee wished most of all that she could go and sit on the nice comfortable cushion next to that smiling girl.

  The girl knew something, Merilee was sure. That smile was welcoming and friendly, but it was knowing, too. And Merilee needed all the information she could get.

  Merilee lay in bed for a while thinking of the night before. Scenes streamed past in her head, faces she’d like to know better leaped out at her. It was all so different, so colourful and big somehow, after living all her life in one small village. But clouding everything was Aunt Beatrice, lurking over her shoulder like a giant shadow.

  From along the corridor somewhere she heard a gong sounding. ‘Breakfast,’ she thought, and jumped out of bed. Last night, with all the worry and surprises, she’d hardly eaten a thing. Now she was hungry and the new day had given her hope.

  She took a fine linen under-gown from the drawer and chose a red dress to slip over it. A new girdle her mother had packed, of white silk webbing with silver threads, was tied around her waist. She gave her long hair ten brush strokes (her mother had always done a hundred) then dashed out into the hall.

  She could hear laughter, and around the corner she met Maria and three others who were all hurrying to the ‘Yellow Room’ for breakfast.

  As she entered, an ocean of voices crashed around her ears. It seemed that all the women were present, sitting at six long tables. The pale yellow silk of the walls reminded her of eggs and cheese and her stomach rumbled. She quickly glanced around, searching for the friendly girl of last night, when she felt two heavy hands on her shoulders.

  ‘This way, young lady,’ boomed Aunt Beatrice, her breath stale in Merilee’s ear. ‘Come with me.’ She steered her to the third table where Brigida was seated.

  ‘We can’t start too early with her lessons!’ Aunt Beatrice said importantly, making sure Brigida heard.

  Brigida smiled at no one in particular, and went on eating her fruit. Merilee was beginning to recognise that smile. It seemed kindly and a little vague, but you could tell that behind it Brigida was watching everything like a hawk and she’d make her own steely mind up, thank you, and there wouldn’t be a thing you could do about it.

  Merilee looked away uneasily and helped herself to some figs.

  ‘First thing this morning, you go to Workshop 4,’ Beatrice told her. ‘You will be learning about essential oils—how we gather them, why we use them.’

  ‘Will you be teaching me?’ asked Merilee, choking a little on her fig.

  ‘Close your mouth when you’re eating,’ barked Beatrice. ‘Unfortunately not. I have to give a lesson myself, on my Tonics.’ Her voice rose suddenly and she leaned forward on her elbows, towards Brigida. ‘I think the lecture will prove very interesting—I’m going to discuss the use of geranium and ginger, oils which restore vitality to the body with remarkable speed.’

  Brigida thoughtfully swallowed her egg.

  Beatrice sat back on her chair sharply and turned to Merilee. ‘Listen to all that is said in your lesson, and take notes. I want everyone to see what a studious niece I have.’ She picked up a hunk of cheese and swallowed it. ‘Tonight I’ll come to hear what you’ve learned. So pay attention.’

  Chapter Nine

  It was late afternoon when Leo arrived home from the lake. He had wandered in the forest for a while, trying to quieten himself before he met his father. But Marco was already at the table, preparing supper when Leo stepped through the doorway.

  ‘Chop some more wood, will you?’ Marco called as he looked up. ‘I’m bone-cold, there’s ice in my veins.’

  Leo nodded quickly and went round to the courtyard where the logs were stacked. He was glad to be alone, his breath still ragged, his heart wild.

  He dragged out a log and picked up the axe.

  The hour he’d spent walking had done nothing to calm him.

  Coward! he hissed as he swung the blade. Dunce! he spat, splitting the wood. Call yourself a wizard? For a moment the dark rose again before his eyes, the impossibility of it, and despair made him crack the log in two, sending splinters flying.

  ‘I can’t even see now,’ he told the earth as he flung himself down. ‘A cat could see better in the dark than me. What have I against the weapons of witches?’

  Leo split all the logs that were piled in the courtyard. He went on working for longer than necessary, beating out his frustration as he crashed through the wood. It was dusk when he finally threw down the axe and brought the night’s logs inside.

  ‘What have you been doing?’ demanded Marco as Leo trudged inside. ‘I’ve called you twenty times.’

  Leo put the logs next to the fire and went back to close the door. Outside, there was the moon, not yet full, pearling a patch of sky.

  As Leo leaned against the door, gazing out at the night, he asked himself a question. What if the moon had been full, down there by the lake? What then?

  Leo sat at the table to eat with his father. There was a plate of fruit and cheese, and a pitcher of wine.

  Marco gestured at the food and shrugged. ‘I saw that you bought sausages, but they’ll keep for tomorrow. I’m not so hungry tonight—’

  Leo stared at him. ‘But Fabbio chose them for you specially. They’re your favourite kind.’

  Marco shook his head. ‘You got enough for thirty people—what possessed you to buy so many?’

  Leo looked down at his plate.

  ‘Fabbio gave them to me—as a gift.’

  He expected his father to exclaim at this, and interrogate him. Fabbio was a good friend but a shrewd merchant, and he didn’t often give his best meat away for nothing. But Marco just nodded vaguely.

  Leo watched him. He was relieved that he didn’t have to explain about the day, make conversation. But he wondered at Marco’s lack of curiosity.

  Marco picked a pear from the plate and began to peel it. Leo noticed that his hands were trembling slightly, and his palms were sweaty.

  ‘Are you feeling all right, Papà?’ he asked. ‘Are you still cold? It’s really quite a mild night.’

  ‘Yes, yes,’ said Marco. ‘I’m just a bit tired. I don’t think that fish I had at the city market was too good today, that’s all.’

  Leo cleared away the dishes. He helped his father out of his tunic and straightened the sheets on his bed. It was only early evening, and here was Marco getting into bed. Leo couldn’t remember that ever happening before.

  The afternoon’s danger receded to a dull ache in his mind as Leo looked at his father. Alarm filled him. He went to close the shutters.

  He’ll probably leap out of bed in the morning, hungry as a horse, Leo told himself. But Leo took a long time to get to sleep that night. As
he lay listening for the sound of Marco’s breathing, the moan from the forest blew in, pulling at him each time he closed his eyes.

  Leo was dreaming of his father standing at the edge of the lake, calling to someone, when a noise woke him. He sat up straight, his heart hammering. ‘Papà?’

  ‘Leo, get me a bucket, quick.’

  Leo threw the sheets off and went to fetch it. He could hear the rasping of his father’s throat, the raw scraping sound of a heaving stomach. He put a hand on his father’s shoulder. Marco shook it off as he bent over the bucket again.

  Leo sat on his bed, hugging his knees. He put his fingers in his ears. It was so scary, that sound. Scarier, even, than the voice from the lake. Marco shouldn’t be sick—he was never sick. His shoulder had been damp with sweat. Leo had felt it through his nightshirt.

  God, please don’t let him be sick. Make him better now, please. He’s all there is in the world. Please, oh please.

  When Marco lay back on his bed, Leo took the bucket and sloshed it outside. He got a cloth and dipped it in the basin of water they kept for washing. Marco groaned. The sheets were wet beneath him. Leo felt his forehead. It was burning.

  ‘Here, Papà,’ he whispered, trying to stop his voice shaking. He laid the cool damp cloth on his father’s forehead. In a minute it was warm.

  Marco suddenly sat up and leaned over the bucket again. The dry coughing, the shuddering for breath. Leo sat by, not touching him, holding the blue cloth.

  The morning light shone in through the high window, making a square of gold on the wooden table. It drew a line across Leo’s wrist, warming his head that lay resting on his arms.

  He stirred and blinked at the light. Then the sinking feeling in his stomach returned as he remembered. He got up and crept over to his father’s bed. Marco was sleeping now, but his breathing was heavy and he moaned a little as Leo wiped his lips and forehead with the cloth.

  ‘Is it all my fault?’ Leo whispered, bending over his father. Dread clutched at his stomach. All my stupid fault, he thought. Why did I have to go to the lake—hurl those insults, throw the stone? ‘Leave it alone!’ his father had told him. ‘You don’t know what you’re dealing with.’

  He pictured himself at the market that day, full of silly pride. How he’d danced round the kitchen, certain he could do anything. But he’d always been like this, hadn’t he—getting carried away, not thinking. Why did he have to go against the order of things, disobey his father? Leo banged his fist against his knee. This is what happened when you did that. This terrible thing. This punishment.

  Leo stood up. He couldn’t bear it. If he could go back in time and snatch away his words, his silly dare, he’d give anything. Even his power. Marco had known his own limits. Why hadn’t he?

  Leo had lit the lamp during the night and prised open Marco’s box of papers. He’d looked under F for Fever in The Fabric. But he’d found nothing. In Marco’s notebooks there were a mountain of sketches and notes about bones and infected wounds and torn muscles, but nothing helpful to him. Towards dawn he discovered another notebook—it had been at the bottom of the pile—and the papers were tied together with a special ribbon.

  ‘The fever is the most vital element to cure. To reduce fever try tepid bath with infusion of Bergamot and Lavender. If necessary force her to drink water. She can’t swallow. Her throat is too sore—she says there are needles in her throat. What to do? Cloves? She’s crying, oh my love, don’t cry, she won’t stop crying. What should I do do DO . . .’

  The writing grew big and black on the page and the rest was covered by an ink spot. After that there was just his mother’s name scrawled all over the pages—Rosa, Rosa.

  Leo had found it hard to read any more because the pages kept blurring.

  With the morning light, Leo got up from the mess of papers on the table. He shuffled them into some sort of order, then filled the cooking pot with water. While it was heating he washed his face and dressed in his long hose and tunic. All these things he did silently, hoping not to wake his father.

  As he moved about the house his father’s handwriting was always just behind his eyes. He could hear the scream in the words, the loneliness. ‘What should I do?’ It was no wonder that his father spent his life trying to understand the human body. His magic had failed him: perhaps the answers lay in this new knowledge of medicine. Leo had only been six months old when his mother died. He hadn’t been able to help. But now he was older. Old enough to get help.

  Before he left the house, Leo soaked towels and rags in cool water, and sponged his father’s body again. Marco woke briefly and smiled at his son.

  ‘Papà,’ said Leo, feeling heartened by the smile, ‘I’m just going out for a short while. You rest, and I’ll be back soon with some medicine.’

  But Marco had fallen asleep again, the smile still lifting a corner of his mouth.

  Signor Eco, the apothecary, was at the back of the shop making a supply of lavender bags. Leo had to walk past the long bench at the front, lined with little bottles of oils and aromatic waters, and shelves fragrant with bouquets of herbs. The shop smelled busy and rich with all its complicated ingredients, and Leo’s spirits lifted.

  ‘Firstly, I’d burn rosemary and thyme in the room, to prevent further infection,’ Signor Eco advised when Leo had told him the story. ‘I’ll make you up a sachet right away.’

  The apothecary was reaching for neatly labelled bottles of herbs, bustling around as he talked. He had a large belly and big plump fingers and it always surprised Leo to see him handling the little jars and spoons and sachets so delicately.

  ‘What about the vomiting?’ asked Leo. ‘It didn’t stop all night.’

  Signor Eco frowned. Leo had described very serious symptoms, and although he didn’t want to show it, he was worried. He almost wished Beatrice was here.

  ‘Look, Leo,’ he began, ‘we’ll try these methods but we can also get some special advice. I have to go to Fiesole tomorrow—’

  ‘Where the Wise Women are—’

  ‘That’s right. I need some more chamomile, the German kind, and Beatrice was able to get some for me. I told her I’d pick it up tomorrow, so I can ask her at the same time what her Order would do for a fever. You know, this chamomile could be good—’

  Leo gave a little jump of excitement. He never thought he’d be so happy to hear Beatrice’s name. The advice of a whole company of Wise Women! But then he stopped. ‘Signor Eco, don’t tell her who the advice is for, if you don’t mind. She’s not particularly fond of my father—she might prescribe deadly nightshade or something!’

  Signor Eco gave a hoot of laughter and his chins wobbled. ‘She may be a bossy bit of work, but she’s not evil, Leo. I won’t be back for a few days though, I’m afraid. I’ve got appointments all over Tuscany.’

  ‘All right, I understand. But when you go,’ Leo picked nervously at a scab on his thumb, ‘well, could you take a message for me to Merilee?’

  Signor Eco scratched his belly. ‘I don’t think Beatrice would like that. Aren’t you two supposed to be—’

  ‘Merilee would want to know about my father, Signor,’ Leo cut in, looking wounded.

  ‘All right, va bene,’ Signor Eco sighed. ‘But if Beatrice ever finds out, I’ll be a dead man.’

  ‘She’s not evil, though, is she, Signor?’ Leo asked him innocently.

  Signor Eco snorted. But he gave him an ink pot and a quill and carried on making up the herbs for Marco. Hastily, Leo scratched a note to Merilee.

  Dear You, he wrote, When are you coming home? Are you a prisoner? I miss you all the time. My father is very ill with fever. Is there anything you can suggest? Write and tell me if you want to escape. Or maybe you’ve become so Wise you don’t want to talk with the Unwise. Beware of Beatrice, Merilee. She’s a snake—she speaks with a forked tongue. Don’t believe what she tells you.

  L.

  Leo blew on the ink to help it dry, then folded the letter into a tiny square. ‘There,’ he said,
putting it into the apothecary’s hand. ‘You won’t forget it, will you?’

  Signor Eco winked at him. ‘I’ll put it with my money. I never forget that!’ He handed Leo the packets of herbs and wished him luck. ‘I may be able to get a message to you sooner. Otherwise, I’ll visit when I return.’

  Leo thanked him heartily, and almost skipped out of the shop.

  As he walked home he felt the sun like a warm hand on the back of his neck. The rain had cleared, leaving the streets shiny clean. Just writing to Merilee made him miss her less. It was almost like talking to her. There was just a gap in time until he had her reply.

  But when he opened the door to his house and found his father lying on the floor, drenched in sweat, a cold terror swept any other thought from his mind.

  Chapter Ten

  Merilee only found Workshop 4 by accident. Beatrice had hurried off—’Heavens, is that the time!’—without giving Merilee the slightest clue where she was to go, and the room emptied as suddenly as if it were tipped up like a jar of rice and turned on its head.

  Merilee found herself alone at the table. At the far end of the room was Consuela, stacking plates for washing. She was helped by two other servants who seemed to be arguing with her. Merilee felt silly sitting all alone like a stranded sheep, and stumbled outside.

  She walked along a corridor until she came to another spacious room. The door was ajar, just inches open, but through it wafted a perfume of rose and jasmine so overpowering that tears started in her eyes. It seemed that just behind the door, so close, her mother must be waiting.

  Shyly, she pushed the door open. She put her head in. There was no one.

  She sat down on a low wooden bench. Shelves above her were crammed with jars of herbs and little pottery vessels filled with fragrance. Merilee let the aroma drift over her. She could have almost fallen asleep. But her mind kept flicking over to that strange, tiered structure in the corner of the room.