by Green, Sally
But you’ve got to keep going.
You’ll be at the end of the loch in a minute.
Doing well. Doing well.
Not far now.
Soon be able to see over into the valley, and—
Ironing
“You nearly lost your hand.”
It’s lying on the kitchen table still attached to your arm by bone, muscle, and sinew that are visible in the open, raw groove round your wrist. The skin that used to be there has formed lava-like rivulets, running down to your fingers as if it has melted and set again. Your whole hand is puffing up nicely and hurts like . . . well, like an acid burn. Your fingers twitch, but your thumb is not working.
“It might heal so that you can use your fingers again. Or it might not.”
She took the band off your wrist at the loch and sprayed the wound with a lotion that dulled the pain.
She was prepared. She’s always prepared.
And how did she get there so quickly? Did she run? Fly on a bloody broomstick?
However she got to the loch, you still had to walk back with her. That was a tough walk.
“Why don’t you speak to me?”
She’s right in your face.
“I’m here to teach you, Nathan. But you must stop trying to escape.”
She’s so ugly that you’ve got to turn away.
There’s an ironing board set up on the other side of the kitchen table.
She was ironing? Ironing her combat trousers?
“Nathan. Look at me.”
You keep your eyes on the iron.
“I want to help you, Nathan.”
You hawk up a huge gob, turn, and spit. She’s quick, though, and snatches back so it lands on her shirt not on her face.
She doesn’t hit you. Which is new.
“You need to eat. I’ll heat up some stew.”
That’s new too. Usually you have to cook and clean and sweep.
But you’ve never had to iron.
She goes to the pantry. There’s no fridge. No electricity. There’s a wood-burning range. Setting the fire up and cleaning it out are also your chores.
While she’s in the pantry you go to look at the iron. Your legs are weak, unsteady, but your head’s clear. Clear enough. A sip of water might help but you want to look at the iron. It’s just a piece of metal, iron-shaped, with a metal handle, old. It’s heavy and cold. It must be heated up on the range to do its job. Must take ages. She’s miles from anywhere and anything, and she irons her trousers and shirts!
When she comes back a few seconds later you’re round by the pantry door and you bring the iron down hard, pointed side against her head.
But she’s so bloody tall and so bloody fast. The iron catches the side of her scalp and sinks into her shoulder.
You’re on the floor clutching your ears, looking at her boots before you pass out.
The Trick
Doesn’t Work
She’s talking but you can’t make sense of it.
You’re back sitting at the kitchen table, sweating and shuddering a bit, and blood from your left ear is running down your neck. That ear won’t heal. You can’t hear at all on that side. And your nose is a mess. You must have landed on it when you fell. It’s broken, blocked up, and bloodied, and it won’t heal either.
Your hand is resting on the table and it’s so swollen now that the fingers can’t move at all.
She’s sitting on the chair next to you and is spraying your wrist with the lotion again. It’s cooling. Numbing.
And it would be so good to be numb like that all over, numb to it all. But that won’t happen. What will happen is that she’ll lock you back up in the cage, chain you up, and it’ll go on and on and on . . .
And so the trick doesn’t work. It doesn’t work, and you do mind; you mind about it all. You don’t want to be back in that cage, and you don’t want the trick anymore. You don’t want any of it anymore.
The cut on her scalp is healed, but there’s the wide ridge of a black-red scab underneath her blonde hair and there’s blood on her shoulder. She’s still talking about something, her fat slobbering lips working away.
You look around the room. The kitchen sink, the window that overlooks the vegetable garden and the cage, the range, the ironing board, the door to the pantry, and back to the ugly woman with nicely pressed trousers. And clean boots. And in her boot is her little knife. She sometimes keeps it there. You saw it when you were on the floor.
You’re dizzy so it’s easy to swoon, sinking to your knees. She grabs you by your armpits but your left hand isn’t injured and it finds the handle and slides the knife out of her boot while she grapples with your dead weight, and as you let your body sink farther you bring the blade to your jugular. Fast and hard.
But she’s so bloody quick, and you kick and fight and fight and kick but she gets the knife off you and you’ve no kick and no fight left at all.
* * *
Back in the cage. Shackled. Kept waking up last night . . . sweating . . . ear still doesn’t work . . . you’re breathing through your mouth ’cause your nose is blocked. She’s even chained your bad wrist, and your whole arm is so swollen that the shackle is tight.
It’s late morning, but she still hasn’t come for you. She’s doing something in the cottage. Tapping. Smoke’s coming out of the chimney.
It’s warm today, a breeze from the southwest, clouds moving silently across the sky so the sun is managing a series of appearances, touching your cheek and casting shadows from the bars across your legs. But you’ve seen it all before, so you close your eyes and remember stuff. It’s okay to do that sometimes.
HOW I ENDED UP
IN A CAGE
My Mother
I am standing on my tiptoes. The photograph is on the hall table but I can’t get hold of it properly. I stretch and stretch and nudge the frame with my fingertips. It’s heavy and hits the floor with a clatter.
I hold my breath. No one comes.
I pick the frame up carefully. The glass hasn’t broken. I sit under the table with my back against the wall.
My mother is beautiful. The photograph was taken on her wedding day. She is squinting into the sun, sunlight on her hair, a white dress, white flowers in her hand. Her husband is beside her. He is handsome, smiling. I cover his face with my hand.
I don’t know how long I sit there. I like looking at my mother.
Jessica appears. I’d forgotten to listen for her.
She grabs hold of the frame.
I don’t let go. I cling onto it. Tight.
But my hands are sweaty.
And Jessica’s much bigger than me. She yanks it up, pulling me to my feet, and the frame slides out of my hands. She holds it high to her left and brings it down diagonally, slicing the edge of the frame across my cheekbone.
“Don’t ever touch this picture again.”
Jessica and the
First Notification
I am sitting on my bed. Jessica is sitting on my bed too, telling me a story.
“Mother asks, ‘Have you come to take him away?’
“The young woman at the front door says, ‘No. Absolutely not. We would never do that.’ The young woman is sincere and keen to do a good job but really naive.”
I interrupt. “What’s naive mean?”
“Clueless. Dumb. Thick. Like you. Got it?”
I nod.
“Good, now listen. The naive woman says, ‘We are visiting all White Witches in England to notify them of the new rules and to help fill in the forms.’
“The woman smiles. The Hunter standing behind her has no smile. He is dressed in black like they all do. He is impressive, tall, strong.”
“Does Mother smile?”
“No. After you are born Mother never smiles again. When Mother doesn’t reply, the woman f
rom the Council looks concerned. She says, ‘You have received the notification, haven’t you? It’s very important.’
“The woman flicks through the papers on her clipboard and pulls out a letter.”
Jessica opens out the parchment she is holding. It is a thick piece, large, and the folds make a deep cross shape. She holds it delicately, as if it is precious. She reads:
“‘Notification of the Resolution of the Council of White Witches in England, Scotland, and Wales.
“‘It was agreed that to facilitate increased protection of all White Witches, a record of all witches in Britain should be made and maintained.
“‘A simple coding system will be used for any witches and whets (witches under age seventeen) who are not of pure White witch parentage, using the references: White (W), Black (B), Fain/Non-Witch (F). Thus Half Codes will be recorded as (W 0.5/B 0.5) and Half Bloods recorded as (W 0.5/F 0.5) or (B 0.5/F 0.5). The mother’s code will be the first code, the father the second. The 0.5 codes will be maintained for as little time as possible (and not past age 17) until an absolute code (W, B, or F) can be designated to the person.’
“Do you know what it means?” Jessica asks.
I shake my head.
“It means that you are a Half Code. A Black Code. Non-White.”
“Gran says I’m a White Witch.”
“No, she doesn’t.”
“She says I’m half White.”
“You’re half Black.
“After the woman has finished reading out the notification, Mother still doesn’t say anything but goes back inside the house, leaving the front door open. The woman and the Hunter follow her in.
“We’re all in the lounge. Mother is sitting on the chair by the fire. But the fire isn’t lit. Deborah and Arran have been playing on the floor but now they sit on either side of her on the arms of the chair.”
“Where are you?”
“Standing right by her.”
I imagine Jessica standing there with her arms folded, knees locked back.
“The Hunter positions himself in the doorway.
“The woman with the clipboard perches on the edge of the other chair, her clipboard on her tightly clenched knees, pen in her hand. She says to Mother, ‘It’ll probably be quicker and easier if I fill the form in and you just sign.’
“The woman asks, ‘Who is the head of the household?’
“Mother manages to say, ‘I am.’
“The woman asks Mother her name.
“Mother says she is Cora Byrn. A White Witch. Daughter of Elsie Ashworth and David Ashworth. White Witches.
“The woman asks who her children are.
“Mother says, ‘Jessica, age eight. Deborah, five. Arran, two.’
“The woman asks, ‘Who is their father?’
“Mother says, ‘Dean Byrn. White Witch. Member of the Council.’
“The woman asks, ‘Where is he?’
“Mother says, ‘He is dead. Murdered.’
“The woman says, ‘I’m sorry.’
“Then the woman asks, ‘And the baby? Where is the baby?’
“Mother says, ‘It’s there, in that drawer.’”
Jessica turns to me and explains. “After Arran was born, Mother and Father didn’t want any more children. They gave away the cot, the pram, and all the baby things. This baby isn’t wanted and has to sleep on a pillow in a drawer, in an old, dirty onesie that Arran used to have. No one buys this baby toys or presents, because everyone knows it isn’t wanted. No one gives Mother presents or flowers or chocolates, because they all know she didn’t want this baby. Nobody wants a baby like this. Mother only gets one card but it doesn’t say ‘Congratulations.’”
Silence.
“Do you want to know what it says?”
I shake my head.
“It says, ‘Kill It.’”
I chew my knuckles, but I don’t cry.
“The woman approaches the baby in the drawer, and the Hunter joins her because he wants to see this strange, unwanted thing.
“Even asleep the baby is horrible and ugly, with its puny little body, grubby-looking skin, and spiky, black hair.
“The woman asks, ‘Does he have a name yet?’
“‘Nathan.’”
Jessica has already found a way of saying my name as if it is something disgusting.
“The young woman asks, ‘And his father . . . ?’
“Mother doesn’t answer. She can’t because it’s too awful; she can’t bear it. But everyone knows just by looking at the baby that its father is a murderer.
“The woman says, ‘Perhaps you can write the father’s name.’
“And she takes her clipboard to Mother. And Mother is crying now and she can’t even write the name. Because it’s the name of the most evil Black Witch there has ever been.”
I want to say “Marcus.” He’s my father and I want to say his name, but I’m too afraid. I’m always too afraid to say his name.
“The woman goes back to look at the sleeping baby and she reaches out to touch it . . .
“‘Careful!’ the Hunter warns, because even though Hunters are never afraid, they are always cautious around Black witchcraft.
“The woman says, ‘He’s just a baby.’ And she strokes its bare arm with the back of her fingers.
“And the baby stirs and then opens its eyes.
“The woman says, ‘Oh goodness!’ and steps back.
“She realizes she shouldn’t have touched such a nasty thing and rushes off to the bathroom to wash her hands.”
Jessica reaches out as if she’s going to touch me but then pulls her hand away, saying, “I couldn’t ever touch anything as bad as you.”
My Father
I am standing in front of the bathroom mirror, staring at my face. I’m not like my mother at all, not like Arran. My skin’s slightly darker than theirs, more olive, and my hair’s jet black, but the real difference is the blackness of my eyes.
I’ve never met my father, never even seen my father. But I know that my eyes are his eyes.
My Mother’s Suicide
Jessica holds the photograph frame high to her left and brings it down diagonally, slicing the edge of the frame across my cheekbone.
“Don’t ever touch this picture again.”
I don’t move.
“Do you hear me?”
There’s blood on the corner of the frame.
“She’s dead because of you.”
I back against the wall.
Jessica shouts at me. “She killed herself because of you!”
The Second Notification
I remember it raining for days. Days and days, until even I am fed up with being alone in the woods. So I’m sitting at the kitchen table, drawing. Gran is in the kitchen, too. Gran is always in the kitchen. She is old and bony with that thin skin that old people have, but she is also slim and straight-backed. She wears pleated tartan skirts and walking boots or wellies. She is always in the kitchen and the kitchen floor is always muddy. Even with the rain, the back door is open. A chicken comes in for some shelter, but Gran won’t stand for that, and she sweeps it out gently with the side of her boot and shuts the door.
The pot simmers on the stove, emitting a column of steam that rises fast and narrow and then widens to join the cloud above. The green, gray, blue, and red of the herbs, flowers, roots, and bulbs that hang from the ceiling by strings, in nets, and in baskets are blurred in the fog that surrounds them. Lined up on the shelves are glass jars filled with liquids, leaves, grains, greases, and potions, and some even with jam. The warped oak work surface is littered with spoons of all kinds—metal, wooden, bone, as long as my arm, as small as my little finger—as well as knives in a block, dirty knives covered in paste lying on the chopping board, a granite pestle and mortar, two round baskets, and more jars. On t
he back of the door hang a beekeeper’s hat, a selection of aprons, and a black umbrella that is as bent as a banana.
I draw it all.
* * *
I’m sitting with Arran watching an old movie on TV. Arran likes to watch them, the older the better, and I like to sit with him, the closer the better. We’ve both got shorts on, and we’ve both got skinny legs, only his are paler than mine and dangle farther over the end of the comfy chair. He has a small scar on his left knee and a long one up his right shin. His hair is light brown and wavy, but somehow it always stays back off his face. My hair is long and straight and black and hangs over my eyes.
Arran is wearing a blue, knitted jumper over a white T-shirt. I’m wearing the red T-shirt that he gave me. He’s warm to lean close to, and when I turn to look up at him he moves his gaze from the telly to me, sort of in slow motion. His eyes are light, blue-gray with glints of silver in them, and he even blinks slow. Everything about him is gentle. It would be great to be like him.
“You enjoying it?” he asks, not in a hurry for an answer.
I nod.
He puts his arm round me and turns back to the screen.
Lawrence of Arabia does the trick with the match. Afterward we agree to try it ourselves. I take the big box of matches from the kitchen drawer and we run with them to the woods.
I go first.
I light the match and hold it between my thumb and forefinger, letting it burn right down until it goes out. My small, thin fingers, with nails that are bitten to nothing, are burnt but they hold the blackened match.
Arran tries the trick too. Only he doesn’t do it. He’s like the other man in the movie. He drops the match.
After he goes back home I do the trick again. It’s easy.
