The Winter Witch

by Paula Brackston

  At this I cannot say what shocks me more—that she has just called me witch, or that she has declared herself to be one. In either case, my hands start to tremble. Before I can react further she continues, eager to dispel my fears.

  “There are different kinds of witch, mind. And we are not cut from the same cloth, you and me, cariad. I am a hedge witch, plain and simple. Everything I know I learnt at my mother’s knee, same as she did from her mother, and her mother before that as far back … ooh, as far back as any can remember, and then maybe a little further again. All the special recipes, all the cures and blessings, all the healing, all handed down through generations.” She pauses to reflect for a moment and I fancy there is a tear in her eye when she tells me, “I did yearn for a girl of my own. Near broke my heart that I was not blessed with a daughter. I do love my boy, of course, but … well, he do make a fine farmer, and would have made a very poor witch!” She chuckles at the thought. “My mother did say I had some talent, and she taught me well. Over the years I have done what I can to help people who needed me. Sometimes what I had to offer did ease suffering. Other times, as when poor dear Catrin was stricken with childbed fever … well, other times I was not able to help. My talent is but small magic, for small wants and needs. But you, cariad, well, you have such a strength in you, such a power…” She shakes her head slowly. “I do imagine it must scare you sometimes, isn’t that so?”

  At this I nod, and then stop suddenly, realizing that I have just admitted to … to what? To being a witch? To using magic? I have never confessed such a thing in my life before. Not even to Mam. It was unspoken between us, but understood. My magic came from Dada. He alone could advise me, guide me in this. But then he went away, and as far as Mam was concerned, that was an end to it. Having magic blood was dangerous. Even in these modern times, plenty suffer accusations of witchcraft. At best they are driven from their homes and drummed out of the parish. At worst, well, a mob is a terrifying thing. Some pay for their gifts with their lives.

  “’Tis a wonder,” says Mrs. Jones, “as others do not see the magic fizzing out of you.”

  Some do. Sometimes. My schoolteacher thought he saw it, though he could never prove anything. And the children, did they detect something … different, too? Others in the village had their suspicions. There were things I did that caused whispers, and then Mam would chide me and warn me not to be so reckless. And so I have become adept at hiding the light that would shine out of me. Until now. Here, with Cai, I have let down my guard. Mrs. Jones has recognized me for what I am. Reverend Cadwaladr was quick to form his own, fierce opinion of me. And now Cai has seen the poppies, and he knows that we saw him notice them. Now the secret no longer sits between us, blocking our view of each other. What will his response be? In what state of mind will he return from his walk?

  Mrs. Jones shifts in her seat, trying for a more comfortable position, but not for one second loosening her grip on the book in her lap. The kettle at last begins to sing. We exchange glances.

  “Would you mind, cariad?” is all she has to ask.

  I jump up, full of restlessness brought about by the subject of our discussion, and happy to be given something to do. I set about making tea while she talks on, finding it easier to mask my reactions to her words whilst I am occupied.

  “You do know what lies inside you, mind. How could you not? It must be hard for you, keeping the best part of yourself buried. Well, merched, you cannot hide the truth from your husband any longer. No more can he deny it. ’Tis fortunate indeed that you have come here, to Ffynnon Las, for this is a place built on magic. There is witching wisdom in its very stones.” She looks down at the book again, and, out of the corner of my eye as I pour tea, I see her start to open it. Gingerly, warily almost, she begins to lift the thick cover, the aged spine crackling minutely as she does so. I long for her to throw it wide open and reveal the contents, but it is as if she does not quite dare, does not quite have the courage. Or is it that she does not yet trust me sufficiently to share what is written? Is that what makes her yet hesitate?

  “I have told you of the well, of how any who own it own the power it possesses. If they do know how to use it. Well, there is something more. Something that makes this cursing well different to others. Sets it apart. Something that does make it a great deal more powerful. The origins of the well are widely known, hereabouts. What few people are aware of, mind, is what happened many years after the spring was first used to curse, after its magic was first called upon. The story was told to me by my mother, and before she spoke she made me swear a witch’s pledge never to disclose the secret to any save another witch, and then only if I was certain, certain, mind, that witch was to be trusted.” She looks up at me. “Well, Duw, don’t stand about letting that tea get cold, here, give it to me.”

  I hand her a cup of the steaming drink and she slurps noisily. I sit opposite her once more but have no interest in my tea. I am far too taken up with her tale.

  She closes her eyes the better to savor her drink, drains her cup despite the considerable heat of the liquid, places it on the floor, leans back in her chair, and then, with her eyes remaining closed, she speaks again. When she does so her voice has about it an unsettling flatness, as if she is reciting something. Or, even, as if it is not entirely her own voice.

  “This is the Grimoire of the Blue Well. All that is written here was set down by a true Witch of the Well, and none other may read it or use it. She who seeks to use its wisdom must first prove herself worthy, must demonstrate her mastery of the craft, must adhere to the code of the Witches of the Well, and must pledge to preserve and protect the well and spring water from those who would destroy it, or would abuse its magnificent power.” Her eyes spring open and the sight of them makes me drop my cup which shatters noisily as it meets the floor. What a sight! Gone are the milky but bright brown eyes of my friend and housekeeper, and in their place sit brilliant orbs with irises of gold! Light shines out of them. I am unable to look away, and feel their unearthly gaze searing into my mind, into my soul. I am laid bare before them. I am being judged, I sense it, and not by Mrs. Jones. I have the sensation of heat entering my body, flooding it, until I fear I will be burned up. There is a distant sound of bells, high pitched, notes I can scarcely make out, but clear and beautiful and resonant. Then, as quickly as it started, the examination is over. The heat is replaced by a hollow chill, so that I am surprised to acknowledge to myself that I am bereft at its leaving. For that brief moment I felt … complete. At this instant I would give anything, anything, for whatever it was that inhabited my spirit to return.

  At once Mrs. Jones’s eyes return to their normal state. She gives a little cry, and I wonder if she, too, is grief stricken at the loss of such heavenly company. She takes a moment to steady her breathing and attempts a reassuring smile.

  “’Tis well done, cariad,” says she. “Very well done.”

  Yet even now she does not pass the book to me, nor open it. I find that I want desperately to hold it. I want it with such a fervor I cannot resist reaching out to take it. Mrs. Jones’s smile vanishes instantly.

  “Not yet.” Her voice is sharp, but unmistakably her own. “You have a way to travel yet, merched. But I will help you on your journey, and the rewards will be, oh, so very marvellous, cariad! I do know of the wisdom in these pages. I have been entrusted with the keeping of the book, but I am not witch enough to use what is written here. Nor was my mother, nor my grandmother. Rare is the witch who can hold such magic, who can take such knowledge into herself and use it without being destroyed by it. I do believe you are witch enough, cariad. You, Morgana, you are who the Grimoire of the Blue Well has been waiting for, all these long years. But you must prove yourself worthy. Demonstrate that you are ready to be instructed in the ways of the Witches of the Well. And the first step you must take is that you let your own sweet magic out. Give it free rein. Allow yourself to feel your own strength.”

  I look at her, shaking my head, wanting to
do what she asks, but not knowing how. And not knowing if I dare.

  “All will be well. You have been seen, cariad,” says she, and I know what she means by this, though I long to know, seen by whom? She looks suddenly very tired, and I see that acting as she did, as some manner of conduit, has exhausted her. She lifts a hand and waves it feebly in the direction of the door. “There is something you can do. Something you should do. I do think you know what it is.” With this her eyes close and she drifts into a deep sleep, all the while clutching the Grimoire.

  Unsteadily, I get to my feet. She is right, I do know what it is I have to do. Or rather, what I must try to do, for I am not in the least confident that I will succeed.

  I return to the parlor. The dresser is decimated. Most of Catrin’s china lies broken on the floor. I tread carefully and find a small clear space so that I am able to kneel down. I hold a fragment of a tea plate in my hand. The shard shows part of a wild strawberry plant, its tendrils brutally cut, its fruit split in half, the rough innards of the china exposed at the newly formed edges. Cai told me how much Catrin treasured the collection, and how strongly it reminded him of the wife he loved. A good wife. A proper wife. Not a wife who brings chaos and disaster with her. Not a wife who causes her husband to take to the hills to escape her. Not a wife with strange ways and abilities, none of which serve any useful purpose. Not a wife such as I.

  For is he not correct? Is it not true I have brought him only trouble? He should not have struck me, ’tis true. But then, I should not have bitten him. He only raised his hand to me instinctively, as a person would to swat a stinging wasp. I cannot berate him for it. And had he not chosen to return home to me, rather than stay with Isolda? He came to my bed, as a husband has a right to do, having shown more patience than I deserve, and how did I repay his kindness? With violent protest. How can he view what have I done since I arrived here at Ffynnon Las? The cattle died because I could not call them from their fatal path. I have humiliated him at chapel twice in as many weeks. And through it all he has striven only to make me feel at home. He has not forced himself upon me. He has not cast blame in my direction, though he could have done so. And he has not questioned the curious, some would say unnatural, occurrences which, at times, my will provokes. Until now. He cannot pretend he has not seen Meg’s grave. We can none of us pretend any longer. And, that being the case, I can, surely, put what meager and whimsical talents I have to some good use. Mrs. Jones tells me I must let my magic out. Whatever it was who visited me through her, whatever it was that stole into my soul and examined me, whatever it was needs me to prove I am mistress of my own magic. This is a test I must not fail.

  I look at the piece of china in my hand. Slowly, merely by willing it to do so, I cause the door of the parlor to swing firmly shut. Mrs. Jones said there is powerful magic in the tears of a witch, but at this moment I have no tears. What else do I have to offer, to sacrifice in order that the spell might take? I run a finger along the sharp edge of the broken plate and it slices into my skin. A thin line of blood wells up in the tiny wound. I watch the blood ooze and trickle down the length of my finger, holding up my hand, turning it, so that the crimson rivulet travels to my wrist, twisting around my arm like the tendrils of the strawberry plant. At last a thick, glossy droplet falls from my elbow onto a tiny chunk of broken china on the floor in front of me. I close my eyes. I feel the air in the room stirring, growing colder, the force of it whipping up my hair and my nightdress, gaining strength, until it begins to rattle the window latches and lift the rugs and wobble the candlesticks on the mantelpiece. Soon the entire space is in motion, a swirling, whirling muddle of dust and ash from the hearth and slivers and crumbs of china. I keep my eyes tight closed and raise my arms. Blood continues to seep from my finger, and with each drop the pressure in the room builds like the coming of a storm. I sway now, letting the maelstrom move me, my head dizzy, my chest tight, my limbs starting to shake and twitch with juddering tremors. I have no conscious notion of what it is I do, only the sense of doing it. Only the will. My will. I feel the power of it envelope me and everything in the room, until all is connected and pulsating with the thrilling force of it, so that I feel the walls cannot withstand it and must surely burst outward. But they do not.

  * * *

  High above Ffynnon Las, morning cloud sits heavily upon the mountain. As Cai walks the dampness settles about him and he can see no farther than a few yards in any direction. But he knows these hills well and could walk them blindfolded if he had to. He is familiar with the rocky stretches of path, the precipitous drops, and the sucking bogs, and even in his current, distracted state can navigate between them without danger. A curlew, its song muffled by the water-filled air, sets up its whirring call which rises to questioning, upward notes. Cai does not hear it. His mind is occupied with attempting to reconcile what he knows to be good sense with what he can no longer ignore or deny. There is something about Morgana which defies explanation. Her strangeness goes beyond her silence and her wildness, he knows that now. There is more behind Meg’s death than she is able to make him understand. Then there are the sudden winds, the slamming doors, her enviable, almost unnatural, rapport with the livestock … and now the flowers on Meg’s grave. Flowers which should have taken two or more years to become so abundant, and yet he saw what he saw. She had planted a solitary flower and watered it in with a single tear and now there grow a multitude of blooms. What is more, he can no longer hide what he knows about her from Morgana herself. She saw the moment of his epiphany. All pretense must cease. He must admit, first to himself, that she is … what? Possessed by demons? A conjurer? A sorceress? A witch? Even hidden inside his head the words sound preposterous.

  When he was a boy he heard talk of such people, of course, the legends of the land seethe with them. But they were spoken of with either fear or loathing. These were bad people, if people they could be called. Beings to inspire suspicion and hatred. Conjurers were tricksters and conmen. Sorcerers gained their powers from the devil. And a witch would be no man’s choice for a bride. Why had he not seen the extent of her strangeness sooner? Was he blinded by lust? By love? By his need for a wife? Why had nobody who knew her thought to warn him? And now he remembers how the villagers where she lived had spoken of her carefully, even kindly, but with those telling pauses. Those small hesitations. Now he understood what lay in those unspoken thoughts. For how could they speak to a stranger of such a thing as magic?

  He walks on, tramping over the wet ground, not letting the uneven surface disturb the comforting rhythm of his pace. At least up here he is able to think. Able to order his tangled thoughts. For aside from Morgana, there is the drove to attend to. He still has the cattle he will purchase from neighboring farmers to take, and a handful of his own stock. Others will bring their sheep, and he has the three ponies promised to the London breeder, but it is not enough. The simple fact is, as it stands, he will lose money. The cost of borrowing to buy, added to the expenses of the drove itself—the fodder, shoeing, grazing, accommodation, labor, and, of course, the tolls he will have to pay to use the roads—mean he will not clear sufficient funds to break even, let alone make a profit.

  Unless he accepts Isolda’s offer of a loan. She did not speak of terms, but he assumes they would be more favorable than those the bank might offer him. But what would it cost him, truly cost him, to accept such assistance from her? The idea of being in her debt does not sit comfortably with him. And yet, he is not in a position to dismiss it out of hand.

  With or without a loan, from the bank or a benefactor, another stark fact remains unchanged. If the future of Ffynnon Las is to be secured the ponies must be sold. All of them. Cai knows the London buyer will gladly take every last leggy yearling of the Ffynnon Las bloodline, and at a fair price. It will break his heart to do it, but his heart has been broken before and he has survived.

  He reaches the dew ponds and, as if summoned up by his decision, those ponies still on the hill step forward from the dens
e mist, emerging as if spirits from some ghostly realm. Cai stands still and lets them approach him. They are youngsters and sniff nervously, necks stretched long, ears alert, ready to whip round and tear away should a threat present itself. Which it does, in the wet and panting form of Bracken, who has at last found his master and comes barking through the miasma, scattering the snorting ponies. Despite himself, Cai laughs, and stoops to ruffle the soggy fur of his remaining corgi.

  “Now then, bach,” he says, “you’d best save your energy. There’ll be more than enough work for you to do this year.” He knows the truth of this. In fact, he knows that one dog will not be sufficient to work the drove, not with so many ponies to manage as well as the cattle. Cai watches the skittish youngsters disappearing back into the slowly rising cloud and a realization comes to him. The person most suited to herding the flighty little horses on the long journey is Morgana. He stands up, shaking his head at how convoluted are the twists of fate that life delivers. He has only this morning admitted to himself that his wife is a woman apart, a creature full of mystery and miracles, and here he is planning to enlist her help on a three-week drove that will make or break the farm and any possible future together they might have.

  “Dewch,” he bids the dog at his heel, and together they start to descend. His chosen route takes him to the lane on the far side of the hill, so that he will have a steady hour’s walk home still. He is in the act of climbing the neatly laid hedge onto the road when he hears hooves nearby. There is no cloud at this level, so that he can clearly see the small, raggedy funeral procession as it makes its way along the lane toward the old chapel at Llanwist. Cai steps out of the way and takes his hat from his head as they pass. The cortege is strangely silent, save for the steady hoof beats of the hairy-heeled horse, and the slow creaking of the wheels of the old cart it pulls. The coffin is small and plain. Ahead of the deceased a minister Cai does not recognize leads the way. There are four men following in tall hats, and these he takes to be pallbearers. There is a handful of mourners, no more than six in all, two of them elderly, shuffling women. The somber party drifts quietly on. Cai feels a chill travel up his spine and puts it down to the damp of the morning getting into his bones. He waits a respectful moment before continuing in the other direction, following the lane toward Tregaron.