The Winter Witch

by Paula Brackston

  At the same time, there is the practical business of the drove itself to occupy us all. The livestock whose fate lies many miles from here have so far proved easy to herd along. Of course, this may not be the case a few hours from now when they are part of the whole drove. For now they are content to graze in the paddock behind the Talbot Inn. I think Cai is pleased with how I have managed them. Thus far. I confess I am excited about what lies ahead—being in charge of the ponies, traveling farther from home with each passing day, seeing new places, meeting new people. And, not least, the chance to visit Mam. Oh, how good it will be to see her again! It feels a lifetime ago that I sat in the garden in Cwmdu watching her tend the vegetables, or listening to her chat over the fence with our neighbors. I will hold her so tight she will plead with me to be released, but then she will squeeze me every bit as hard.

  I have never seen so many people as are come to Tregaron this day. The streets teem with bonneted ladies, squealing children, red-faced farmers, and all manner of persons. Reverend Cadwaladr is holding court in the town square, waiting his moment to bless the drove. How different he looks to the wreck of a man I saw at Isolda’s house. I confess my loathing of him has in part turned to pity. It is clear his actions were driven by fear for his family. Fear of Isolda. How can it have taken me so long to see her for what she really is? My instinct recoiled from her the first time we met, but I thought my feelings were those of a new wife faced with her husband’s beautiful friend. I should have known. I should have looked deeper. Dada would have done. Could it be that she was, in some way, masking her true self, beyond simply presenting herself as a respectable neighbor? Was I, too, bewitched, so that she has only now revealed herself to me because it suits her purpose to do so? For the more I have thought about it, the more I have come to believe that she did see me that night, in her drawing room. That she knew full well I was there, and her treatment of the reverend was for me to witness. It must be so, for a witch is visible when witchwalking only to another witch, and such Isolda has shown herself to be.

  Mrs. Cadwaladr and her daughters are besporting more ribbons than a Maypole, and clutch parasols designed, it seems to me, with the express purpose of startling livestock. There are stalls selling pies and toffee apples and cakes and ale, so that the air is filled with a stew of smells so savory and sweet my stomach growls at it. Everywhere people stand in animated conversation, about what I cannot imagine. How can they find so much to say to one another? Are they so interested in the condition of the cattle, or the size of the drove? I think not. The snatches of chatter which have reached my ears have been of so little point I wonder that sensible people bother to engage in such nonsense. But then, I confess, I am entirely taken up with my own concerns. Ahead of us lies an immense challenge; one that will either secure the future of Ffynnon Las, or see Cai forced to sell his beloved farm. The drove will take three weeks, if we make good time. We are to hope for fifteen miles progress each day, but expect less. I worry that some of the older mares will suffer at these demands, and some of the foals, too. Cai has promised he will call a rest day if necessary, and that he has chosen a route with particular attention to the quality and abundance of the grazing, so that mares with foals at foot will be able to continue supplying milk to them.

  Dai the Forge and Edwyn Nails have been here two nights already, shoeing all the cattle that are to be taken, so that the holding fields outside the town are a shifting mass of black beasts. Cai told me that our newly purchased cattle together with those he is taking for other farmers there will be near 260 Welsh runts, as they are so unflatteringly known abroad. ’Tis a poor title for such valued stock—the English might name them so, but it is these runts that will feed their desire for roast beef for many Sundays to come. For nowhere in England do farmers produce their equal. We may be thankful for the fact, for it is this that keeps the droves running, year after year, taking the prized meat on the hoof to London.

  And there will be Watson’s one hundred sheep, bleating and stinking and no doubt giving us all a deal of trouble. And our precious ponies—thirty-five of them, if I include Prince, which I know I must. Cai has patiently described to me the workings of the drove, so that I will know what I am to do. I so want to prove an asset to him. Around my neck, tucked beneath the cotton of my blouse, I am wearing the lovespoon he carved for me. I have never owned such a thing; never had such a gift made especially for me. I can feel the smooth wood warming against my breast. I will admit I was at first alarmed at the idea of the whistle. I am accustomed to being silent. I have never, in all my long years of wordlessness, found the need to make a noise of some sort in place of speech. On first seeing it I feared that equipping me with such an instrument demonstrated Cai’s concerns over my … lack, as Mrs. Cadwaladr so succinctly put it. Am I not, then, sufficient as I am? But I know him better now. Had he given it to me on our wedding day, with the whistle already in place, I would have thrown it back in his face. But I am content that the gift shows a thoughtfulness, and a concern for my well-being, which I find … touching. Whether or not I would be able to bring myself to use it in public is another matter! Time, and circumstance no doubt, will tell.

  It is not yet nine o’clock but the heat of the day is building. I find a wooden bench in the shade at the front of the hotel and sit. Cai is occupied with the final deals and tasks to be fixed before we leave. For he is not simply a man who will move livestock and sell it at the best price he can secure. He is emissary, taking important letters and documents from the great and the good of this parish to the center of commerce that is London. Some will send deeds of sale or covenant for land or property. Others wish investments to reach the city banks. Still others wish their sealed letters to be placed in the hands of distant relatives, or prospective brides, perhaps. All are entrusted to the porthmon; a man of honor, integrity, and worth. And such he certainly looks today. Even though he is dressed in the habitual drover’s garb of stout boots, woolen stockings, tough cord breeches, plaid shirt, and wide-brimmed hat, he has about him the bearing of a man apart. There is something in his demeanor, something in his deportment, that suggests, yes, here is a head drover. Here is someone with whom our livelihoods will be secure. Here is someone who will make something of all our hopes and dreams for the future. When the rains come, as they surely must on any drove at this time of year, Cai will put on his ground-sweeping coat, so that even in silhouette he will be recognizable as a drover. Over days and weeks he will accumulate a patina of grime and a weathering to his skin, but still he will be instantly recognizable as Cai Jenkins Ffynnon Las, porthmon.

  I, on the other hand, may very well draw only gasps of shock or stifled giggles from onlookers. My husband took some persuading that my choice of garments would not lay me open to ridicule. I stood my ground, however, and let him argue so long that he defeated his own objections. I must be dressed for practicality and comfort, not fashion nor acceptability. I must prove my worth to all on this drove, not just him, and to do so I cannot be hampered by ridiculous corsets and skirts. Mrs. Jones and I have been working in secret for some time, so that my outfit would be ready, and so that Cai could not gainsay either its decency or its suitability for the job in hand. My blouse is of soft cotton, the color of ripe hazelnuts, for white would be foolishly difficult to keep clean. I have a second identical blouse in my saddlebag, along with a washcloth; a light chemise that will serve as nightdress or extra layer if need be; a pot of lavender cream for cuts and bruises and to ward off biting flies; and a brush for my hair, which Mrs. Jones insisted I include and which, I confess, may not see a great deal of use! I am wearing a single, specially adapted petticoat, for modesty and comfort. I have not room for another in my pack, so I must look for an opportunity to wash it when I can. It is my skirt that caused Cai to balk, and which now garners curious glances from passersby. The idea for it came to me watching Dai the Forge with his split leather apron. At market, with a deal of mime and insistence, I purchased a quantity of tough brown cotton of the
sort used for men’s breeches. Further lengthy demonstrations and false starts allowed me to instruct Mrs. Jones to fashion me a skirt with a divide running the length of it. Either side of this gap the edges are strongly sewn, so that they will withstand weeks of rubbing against the saddle and the pony’s sides without chaffing or wearing through. When I stand, it is almost impossible to detect the construction of this garment, save for it being also somewhat shorter than the norm, as it scarce covers my calves. However, as I move, or indeed when I sit astride, the unusual feature of the skirt becomes apparent. Its divide means it falls into two, wide trouser legs, modest but practical, which is what will prove invaluable in the coming weeks. As a matter of necessity against sun and rain I also wear a black felt hat, its brim broad enough to give shade but not obscure my vision. A leather thong tied from it beneath my chin prevents it blowing off. It is irksome that people feel they have a right to stare and sometimes to pass comment on how I choose to dress myself, but it is not as if I am unaccustomed to being an object of curiosity. At least, in this case, I am become so by my own choosing, and with good reason. It is a small price to pay if it enables me to do my work better.

  At last I see Cai making his way toward me through the crowds. His progress is slowed by people stopping him to shake his hand or even touch their caps as they wish him well on his journey. I stand up, smoothing my unfeminine skirt, momentarily ill at ease about appearing plain. He sees me and, noticing my discomfort, I fancy, gives me a warm smile. A smile that says, I care not about the strangeness of your clothes, or the strangeness of your ways; you are my wife, and all will be well.

  He is on the point of reaching me when Isolda Bowen steps forward from the throng, firmly setting herself between us. The Cadwaladr women do not stand the comparison well. Nor, I fear, do I. I hasten to build barriers in my mind, as I now do whenever I am in this woman’s presence. I feel her looking at me differently now, or is it only now that I have the truth of her I see her differently? No, I am sure of it, I sense her looking right into me, probing, testing for weakness, like a hungry wolf clawing at the peasant’s door.

  “Why, Mr. Jenkins,” says she, a soothing softness to her voice, “you are every inch the porthmon. An exciting day indeed.”

  “Isolda, it is good of you to come to see us off. And I am pleased to have the opportunity to thank you once again for the loan of your fine horse. It is exceptionally kind of you.”

  Kind! I doubt the creature knows the meaning of the word.

  “Think nothing of it.” She gives a dismissive wave of a hand. “I’m sure the work will be of benefit to my dear Angel; he loves nothing better than to be occupied. As I have said, I am confident he will go well for you.”

  “Having a fit horse will be a godsend,” says he.

  God, I venture, has nothing to do with it.

  Nor he did, Morgana.

  Oh! She is here, inside my head! I hear her words as clearly as if they were spoken aloud.

  Get out! I will not converse with you—leave me alone.

  I will leave you alone when you leave Ffynnon Las, not before.

  Even as she torments me she continues to talk with Cai, commenting on the brightness of the day and the cheerful mood of the well-wishers.

  I will be watching you, witch-girl. My eyes will travel with you. Know this, I will make sure that by the time you return from the drove everyone will know the truth of what you are, and your husband will realize the mistake he has made in choosing you over me!

  I want to turn and run, to get away from this vile woman, but to do so would color this moment, Cai’s moment. I will not let her spoil it. I will not! I stand my ground, letting my determination show in my expression, filling my head with snatches of Dada’s stories so that there is no room for her poisonous words. Summoning my courage I move forward and take Cai’s arm. He appears a little surprised, but pleased, placing his hand on mine before addressing the crowd.

  “I thank you all for your good wishes, neighbors,” says he, removing his hat and effecting a bow. “When next we meet, God willing, I will stand before you with gold in place of beasts, and we shall all face the winter with full coffers.”

  There is much cheering and ribaldry. Cai leads me through the archway to the rear of the Talbot and we fetch our mounts. Prince is already wide-eyed, all too well aware that something momentous in his life is about to take place. Angel is chewing at the bit in his mouth producing foam, his ears set back in a warning to all to keep their distance. Still, he allows Cai to spring into the saddle on his back. We trot through the small paddock and into the holding field, where the other drovers are waiting.

  “Morgana,” says my husband quietly, “watch me. I will set the pace. If you need me, use your whistle, or come forward if you must. If the ponies start to move too quickly you must slow them, or they will push the cattle to an unnatural pace, and that way accidents lie.” As if seeing the recollection this statement brings to mind he adds with a smile, “Show them, my wild one. Show them there are two drovers from Ffynnon Las working this herd.”

  I smile back briefly and then urge Prince into a brisk canter so that we might take up our position with the ponies. I pass Edwyn Nails, who gazes at me in a manner that almost brings a blush to my cheeks; a manner that should not be employed to look upon another man’s wife, I feel. Cai checks that everyone is in place, sitting securely even as Angel spins around, prancing and snorting. The horse is excitable, and sweat already lends a sheen to his arched neck, but Cai is not perturbed by such antics and holds the reins gently. At last he raises his hat high and gives the mustering cry of “Ho! Heiptrw ho! Hup!” and the drove starts on its lumbering, noisy, perilous way.

  What a procession we comprise! Cai rides at the front, his calls serving both to lead the cattle onward, and to warn people up ahead of the approaching herd. For any cattle encountered loose along the way will be compelled by instinct to join the others, and, as Cai told me, it would be the devil’s own job to separate them from the drove once again. The beasts themselves are even more jumpy and boisterous than is their habit, now that several farms’ worth have been brought together. They bellow and blast, stirring up a perpetual cloud of dust with their newly shod hooves, jostling and buffeting one another for the safest position or the best mouthful of grass. Bracken is in his element, dashing about to nip the heels of slowcoaches, tail wagging, boundless energy willingly put to use.

  There is one other mounted drover, a wiry man known simply as Meredith. I am told he appears for this drove each year, regular as a harvest moon, always on a different horse of doubtful provenance, never encumbered by wife or offspring, his two preoccupations being the cattle and the ale, both of which will be available to him in abundance for the coming three weeks. He rides behind the beasts, pushing them along, cutting off the path to retrieve any strays, wearing his long duster coat despite the warm day.

  Walking with him is Edwyn Nails, his height giving him a long easy stride so that he has no difficulty keeping up with the moving herd. He looks for all the world as if he would snap like a twig if he found himself on the wrong side of a Welsh Black’s temper, but I have seen how he handled the beasts at the shoeing. He is a cattleman, every skinny bit of him, and as such will be an asset. Even so, I find his constant ogling of me disquieting and resolve not to be alone with him.

  Behind him are the ponies. They are shocked to find themselves part of such a rumbustious cavalcade, and there is a deal of whinnying and uncalled for bucking. The older mares are steadier than the rest, but those with foals are understandably anxious. The babes themselves seem to view the whole exercise as a game and flit about, curly tails over their backs, heads high, giving their mothers the bother of calling to them all the time. Prince and I cut among them, cajoling and admonishing. He is crucial to their cooperation. As herd leader they will follow him; as parent the youngsters will respect him; as stallion the mares will, however reluctantly, go where he bids them. I scarce have to tell him what to do, but
am merely a passenger offering occasional caution or encouragement through hand or heel.

  Next in this curious carnival come Idwal Watson and his sheep. The noise they make with their continual bleating drowns out even the cows. They sound to me like so many old women, all complaining about their sore feet and empty bellies, and rolling their unholy eyes at the two black-and-white sheepdogs that run back and fore beside them, tongues lolling over sharp teeth, grandfather wolf glinting in their eyes. Watson himself is distinguished as shepherd by the long wooden crook he carries and the melodious whistling with which he controls his collies.

  The creaking wagon of Dai the Forge follows on. His piebald cob clops along, blue eye half closed, mane trembling, and back twitching against the attention of irksome flies, his great feathered hooves demonstrating a remarkable economy of movement. In the driver’s seat Dai lets the reins lie loose in one hand, leaving the other free to whip off his cap so that he might wave it above his head when the mood takes him, with a booming cry of “Get on, you slovenly creatures!” or “Duw, there’s some ugly backsides to be staring at for weeks on end! Ho, hup!” It is well known he has no time for sheep.

  Padding quietly on foot, forming the rear of the procession, are the women and boys. There are four in all; Cerys, the wife of Dai the Forge (who is never allowed to ride in the wagon), and their twin teenage boys, Ieuan and Iowydd; and Spitting Sara, her skin weather worn, her eyes heavy lidded, of indeterminable age but an appearance that suggests she has seen more droves than anyone else present. She has earned her nickname for her fondness for chewing tobacco and the resultant need to frequently fling phlegm and brown juice from her mouth The women and boys knit as they walk, and will sell their stockings in markets along the way. Spitting Sara has already started up a song, the words of which she sings out all the while continuing to chew.