The Winter Witch

by Paula Brackston

  “Now then, Mr. Jenkins. Drink this, if you please.”

  “What is it?” Cai sniffs suspiciously, wrinkling his nose at the unfamiliar smell, even though it is pleasant enough.

  “A remedy for your cold. And a draft that will help you sleep, for there is no cure I do know of can be effective without hours spent peacefully in your bed. Drink, now, bach.”

  Reluctantly, he does as she bids him. It must surely be strong medicine, for barely have I helped him into bed than his eyes close. He fights sleep for a moment, murmuring at me, his words too slurred to make sense. I stroke his brow and plant soft kisses on his face until he lies quiet, his rhythmic breathing indicating sound slumber.

  Upon returning to the kitchen I am surprised to find Mrs. Jones wearing her outdoor clothes and lighting two lamps.

  “Hurry, cariad, there is much to be done,” says she, handing me my duster coat and drover’s hat. I am at a loss to know why she should want us to go outside, and my surprise turns to alarm when I see her furnish herself with the carving knife. Seeing my shock she pauses to explain.

  “Cariad, you are a Welsh woman. You well know the custom in ancient times of burying the head of a horse beneath the hearth.” Seeing me gasp she holds up her hand. “’Tis no time to be squeamish, merched. Our forbears understood that the spirit of a horse is a thing possessed of great strength. Protective strength. You do know the legend, don’t you? You will have heard tell of what it is we are about, though none will admit to doing it themselves. ’Tis always the friend of a neighbor, or a cousin’s husband … But there is powerful magic to be had here.”

  I shake my head, horrified, as understanding dawns. She wants me to cut off Wenna’s head, bring it in here, and inter it beneath the hearthstone! I cannot! I shake my head, backing away from her, my eyes drawn to the lamplight that flashes on the blade in her hand.

  “But you must, Morgana. Listen to me.” She steps forward and grips my shoulder, just as my mother used to do when trying to make me see reason. Her reason. But this feels like madness. “Listen!” Mrs. Jones insists. “There are dark forces working against us. Winter has come unnatural early and fierce. Cai is ailing. We do know who is behind these terrible things. There is nothing she will not do to get what she wants. She do threaten your husband, your home, your own life, cariad. We must use whatever we can to defend what we do hold dear. Fortune has brought us a great gift with the death of this old mare. She served Cai well when she was living, would be a nonsense to let her passing go to waste. You do know the legend, don’t you?”

  I nod, blinking back tears that sting my eyes.

  “’Tis well known,” says she, “and for good reason. Generations have called upon the horse spirits to protect their homes in just this way. To protect their homes against witches.”

  I raise my arms in confusion.

  “Evil witches,” she goes on. “You have nothing to fear, but Isolda, Duw, she will not find the air tolerable in this house with the talisman in its place, see?”

  Still I cannot bring myself to take the knife from her. To mutilate dear Wenna, to so despoil her body … it is a dreadful thing.

  At last Mrs. Jones gently takes my hand and places the knife in it, closing my fingers around the handle.

  “Do it for love, merched. Do it for Cai. You must.”

  She is right. I know it. I know this is too good a bounty to pass up. We are ill matched against Isolda, I know this also. Who knows if I will truly be able to command the power of the Grimoire, or if it will prove too dangerous? We must defend ourselves in all ways possible.

  I take up one of the lamps, and together, we go outside. Bracken sets up a squeaking as we shut the door on him, but this is not a job he can assist me with. The icy rain has stopped but an iron frost is already gripping the ground. The air is so cold it hurts my teeth. We hurry to Wenna’s stable. The other mares have moved to the far side, instinct driving them to put distance between themselves and death.

  “Fetch Honey,” says Mrs. Jones. “We must take the mare outside.”

  Honey is put out at being summoned to work in the night and I have to drag her from her stall by her bridle. I fit a collar over her broad neck and secure the logging chains to it. Mrs. Jones helps me loop the loose ends of the chains around the pitifully skinny corpse. Already the cold is making me clumsy and slow. I wonder that Mrs. Jones can stand it so well, and I know her arthritic legs must be paining her greatly. I heave on Honey’s reins as Mrs. Jones slaps her on the rump and eventually she consents to move forward, dragging her uneven load across the frozen cobbles of the yard. We go into the meadow, behind the barn, to a patch of soft mud.

  “This will serve our purpose,” says Mrs. Jones. “We can cover the body in branches from the kindling pile for now. Cai is not well enough to come out here. We will worry about burying the carcass another day.”

  I want to protest, but I am all too well aware that this is no time for sentiment. I drop to my knees. One last time I stroke Wenna’s pretty face.

  Forgive me, little one. We need your help. Cai needs your help just once more.

  And now I begin to cut. The first surprise is that there is less blood than I had anticipated. This I attribute to the severe cold, and the slope of the ground on which the pony’s body lies. Nor is there any smell, as the carcass is chilled, and the process of decay has not yet started. Under Mrs. Jones’s guidance I cut through the skin and the flesh until the blade hits the spine.

  “Work in till you do find the join, right at the top of the neck. Take care, cariad. Best not to chip nor splinter the bone.”

  I frown up at her to express my displeasure at this seemingly unnecessary persnicketiness.

  “The skull must be complete,” she explains. “If the condition of the thing was of no importance we would have brought an axe.”

  Looking at her now I notice the strain showing on her face. I was wrong to think what we are doing is easy for her. It is difficult for both of us. It is not fair she should also have to navigate my qualms. I concentrate my attention on the task at hand once again. It takes some time to wheedle the point of the blade into the perfect spot.

  “Remember how you jointed the rabbit?” she asks. “’Tis just the same, only of greater size. Feel for the gap between the bones.”

  I have it! The knife plunges deep into the slippery joint and I can feel the skull working loose as I press and prise. Under the uneven lamplight it is troublesome to see exactly what I am doing, so that my eyes begin to water with the effort of it. A long, cold twenty minutes later the head is completely free of the body. It looks so forlorn, lying adrift on the unyielding mud. Away in the distance a fox barks, its grating cry breaking into my thoughts.

  Mrs. Jones swiftly wraps the head in an old bedsheet she has brought for the purpose. My muscles ache with chill and exertion as I heave wood from the pile to cover the mutilated corpse. I take the bundled head from Mrs. Jones and am surprised by its weight. We make slow progress back to the house. The fire in the range has gone out, and the cold of the night seems to follow us into the kitchen and cling to our clothes. Our work is not yet done. Bracken comes to sniff and wag as I use a bar to lever up the largest stone in front of the hearth. As I dig at the dry, dusty earth beneath it the dog joins in, thinking this a fine game. Soon his black nose and white muzzle are rendered chocolate brown, and he looks quite ridiculous. So much so that Mrs. Jones gives a chuckle at the sight of him. The sound seems out of place, given our morbid activity, and horribly loud. Instinctively I freeze mid digging, casting my eyes up to the ceiling, listening for any sign that we might have disturbed Cai from his drugged sleep. What would he say if he discovered us now? How could anyone react other than with revulsion at what we are doing?

  “All is well, cariad,” says Mrs. Jones. “The concoction I made for him will keep him wrapped in happy dreams until sunrise.”

  Soon we have our precious bundle pushed into its new resting place, and the worn and dented flagstone returned
to its position. Mrs. Jones sits stiffly on the floor beside me, holding her hands out in front of her, palms up. Her eyes are closed, and though I cannot hear any words, her lips move and I know she is offering up a prayer to the spirit of the horse. When she opens her eyes once more she looks straight ahead, unseeing, and says clearly and firmly, “We are Witches of the Well and we call upon you to protect us from those who would do us harm. Keep them from our home. Keep our loved ones safe, we implore you.”

  Bracken sits close to me, tips back his head, his mud-caked snout pointing to the heavens, and sets up a thin, eerie keening.

  * * *

  Come Sunday Cai is determined that they will attend chapel. He knows it is as much to convince himself that his illness is no cause for serious concern as it is to convince Morgana. And Mrs. Jones. And all the others who have heard by the unfailingly reliable local whispering that he is not well. They will go to Soar-y-Mynydd. He will stride in to take his place in the front pew with Morgana on his arm in a fine woolen dress, and he will say his good mornings to all and any. He will even sing a little louder than is his habit. Altogether he will present a version of himself no man could doubt will shake off this passing minor affliction and continue to be a successful porthmon with his wonderful new wife. He is keenly aware that Morgana is no longer held in high regard in the neighborhood. There are those who still believe she was, at least in part, responsible for what happened to Dai. There are even those who, incredible as it is to him, have swallowed Edwyn Nails’s poisonous nonsense about a curse on the drove and ill luck following the new Mrs. Jenkins. They must show themselves at chapel, he has decided, and they must show that they are not people who will be put down by malicious gossip, speculation, or illness.

  The journey up the hill is a difficult one. The rain has stopped, but only because it is too cold. Should anything fall from the sky it will certainly be snow. A frost arrived the night before and has elected to stay, so that all about them lies a dully glittering dust of ice. A greyness colors the clouds above, which sit heavily, obliterating an already weakened sun. Ice has made the road treacherous, so that Cai quickly regrets bringing the trap.

  “Next time,” he tells Morgana as Prince slithers sideways yet again, almost putting them all in the ditch, “we will ride. ’Tis not fit weather for the trap,” he adds, somewhat unnecessarily, as they are both forced to clutch at the sides of the little wooden cart while Prince scrambles to regain his footing and make forward progress.

  They arrive in good time after all, and find a sizable number of worshipers hurrying into the chapel. Cai ties the reins and offers Morgana his arm as they cross the stone footbridge. To onlookers they are a well turned out couple making their way to morning prayer. In truth, Cai is leaning heavily on Morgana, and finds the short walk to the door an effort. His limbs refuse to move as he bids them, so that by the time they have crossed the graveyard he is dragging his left foot all too plainly. Glancing about him, Cai knows his condition has not gone unnoticed. The good and the faithful have braved the weather to turn out in fair numbers. Fortunately, none is tempted to linger and chat outside. Everyone present squeezes into the small space between the thick, frozen walls of the chapel. There is no fire to bring cheer or heat, but the snugly wrapped congregation create at least a modicum of warmth themselves, albeit a pungent one. It is not until he is inside that Cai notices the absences. Many of the families present are fractured. Many husbands are attending without their wives. Familiar faces are missing. He leans closer to Mrs. Cadwaladr.

  “Why are so many absent?” he asks. “Most have found it in them to face the weather to be here, but where is Mrs. Davies? Or Twm the mill? And why does not Dylys Evans have her babes with her?”

  Mrs. Cadwaladr looks stricken for a moment and then whips out a handkerchief, into which she weeps copiously.

  “Oh, Mr. Jenkins,” she wails, “have you not heard? There is sickness in Tregaron. Many are sorely afflicted. Some have…” she hesitates, her voice breaking, “… been lost!”

  Cai is amazed. He has not been into town recently, but these are surely sudden developments. When Mrs. Jones was last at the house, but three days before, she had mentioned only that one or two of the elderly residents had succumbed to the cold. And now he recalls her saying some of the babies were unwell. He had thought it the ordinary winter ailments, nothing more. But now, looking around him, seeing the distress on Mrs. Cadwaladr’s face, which is, indeed, shared even by her daughters, he realizes that this is different. He understands why so many have ventured forth in such inclement conditions. He looks into the eyes of those present and he sees fear.

  Isolda Bowen arrives late, making something of an entrance. From his seat in the front pew Cai gives a small bow by way of greeting but she does not respond, save to glare at Morgana. He is aware of the alteration in his wife’s demeanor at the sight of the woman. It seems their dislike is mutual now. Is Isolda jealous, then, he wonders. Is his own love for Morgana now so obvious as to cause her offense? His head begins to throb and his vision blur. He is alarmed by how quickly, and with how much severity, the episode occurs. He cannot stop himself putting his hand to his head. Morgana leans forward, concerned. He pats her hand, smiling, determined not to let her see how much he is suffering. Has he, too, fallen victim to the illness that is devastating the community? Is that why he has been so unwell? Are they all to endure this disabling sickness? Could he pass it to Morgana?

  Reverend Cadwaladr takes his place at the lectern. He lets his gaze sweep over the shivering congregation, nodding solemnly.

  “I see that you are cold, my brothers and sisters. I see that you are suffering in this bitter weather, this unseasonable, deadly chill that has had us in its iron grip for weeks now. I have noticed the sheep digging in the frozen ground, hungry and thin. I have seen small birds stiff and dead on the rocky path. I have heard the harsh wind moaning through my house at night. I have watched those who have so little already burning their winter fuel supplies, already running low on fodder for their stock, already afraid that their provisions will not see them through what threatens to be a bewilderingly ferocious and long winter. And I have touched the brows of those who have not been able to withstand the vile disease that has come to our town.”

  There is a murmuring in the pews. Sounds of assent and shared worry. Sounds of women gently weeping.

  “And I know there is fear among you. Aye, it is plain on your faces. And it strikes me here!” He beats a fist against his heart. “It pains me to see such suffering. And I ask myself, why? Why has the Lord seen fit to visit this hardship upon us? Why has He, in His infinite wisdom, decreed that His children should know hunger, should fall ill, should watch their livestock, their livelihoods, dwindle and fade? Why should He see the need to test us by taking our loved ones; the old, the strong, the innocent alike?”

  There is a wail from the back of the chapel.

  “I have prayed, my brothers and sisters. I have got down on my knees and prayed for answers, and for guidance. And God spoke to me!” His face has become red with excitement and fervor. “Yes, God spoke to me!”

  There is a ripple of gasps and amens.

  Reverend Cadwaladr leans forward, steadying himself on the Bible in front of him, earnestly regarding his flock.

  “He told me there is evil among us!”

  Now shock draws further gasps and muttered prayers from the congregation.

  “Yes, I’m here to tell you, the Lord said to me, clear as I stand before you, that there is evil among us! Wickedness! The ungodly and the satanic moves in our midst!”

  People begin to clutch at one another, shaking their heads, not wanting to hear.

  “He has sent us these trials to snuff out that evil. If it takes the death of every man, woman, and child in this parish, then so it will be! Listen to me, brothers and sisters. All is not lost. I tell you, we have it in our power to save ourselves, to save our community.”

  There are cries of “How may we do this?” an
d “Tell us! Oh, tell us!”

  “Are you willing to do what is necessary? Are you able to do God’s work, so that the innocent may be spared?”

  “We are!” comes the response. “We are!”

  “Then look to your neighbor. Look to those you know. Yea, look even to your own families, and seek out that evil. Find it, and drive it out!”

  “Amen!”

  “Drive it out! Cleanse our town of the rot that hides at its core, lest it infect us all, and our Lord must continue in His purging. Seek out the festering darkness that lurks among us, brothers and sisters. Are you up to the task? Are you?”

  There is a deal of shouting and waving of fists now. Cai feels his head might split open from the pain inside it and the cacophony around him. He has never seen people in such a state of fervor and determination, and it is the most frightening thing he has ever witnessed.

  * * *

  We will not be attending chapel again. Whatever sickness Isolda has visited upon Cai is worse in her presence, and she makes a point of being there. And now Reverend Cadwaladr has stirred up the congregation, exhorting them to search for the evil among us. It is clear to me he is still dancing to Isolda’s tune, like a helpless puppet whose strings are jerked mercilessly. She must have demanded he continue to turn the people of the parish against me. How stupid they all are! How blind. They do not see the wickedness of the creature who would crush any or all of them like a beetle beneath her boot if it suited her purposes to do so. They do not smell her reptilian odor, as I do. Do not taste the poisonous air she exhales, as I do. Do not hear her mocking laughter, as I do.

  It is terrible to watch my poor husband becoming more ill with each passing day. What must I do to break the curse? What can I do? I would pull her arms from her body and dig her eyes from her face with my own hands if I thought it would free him. If I believed she would allow me close enough to do her harm. I must find a way. I must devise a plan that will enable me to get near her, to find how she might be vulnerable. I do not believe there is anything I could do to persuade her to lift her curse. My only course of action, then, must be to kill her. Oh, to think such a thing! But it is the truth. In the end, it will come down to a life; Cai’s or Isolda’s. And I will not stand by and watch my beloved fade into death. I will hone what talents I possess. I will prepare myself as best I can. I will consider when and where I must strike. And then I will do what must be done.