by Heide Goody
“No, it wasn’t that,” said Elizabeth with a cough. “What we want to know: is Shona really descended from you?”
“What? Yes. We are distant relatives. Now, who is the tactician here? Who will make notes on the weaknesses of each of the current military leaders?”
“I have a question,” said Turnip, her hand in the air.
“Yes? You want to enquire about the folly of an uncontrolled cavalry charge, perhaps?”
“Not exactly. Er, does Shona use henna on her hair?”
“Yes! Women in our family have done so for generations. It helps instil a little fear into our enemies. Now, back to the cavalry charge. There are two important things to be born in mind before entering into battle—”
The apparition faded at a subtle gesture from Shona. “She does go on a bit, doesn’t she?”
“Good,” said Matilda. “Well done Shona. Elizabeth, would you like to go next?”
“Yes. I will summon the spirit of this year: 1643.”
She bowed her head in concentration. She was very still. Gradually a figure faded into view. When Elizabeth raised her head again, an old woman stood facing her. Everything about the woman was grey: her hair and her skin were faded with age, her clothes were washed-out linen.
“Is there to be no rest?” croaked the figure. “What can you want from an ancient crone like me? I am very nearly spent.”
Shona edged forward in her seat. “This has been a difficult time indeed, madam, and I am sorry that it has taken a heavy toll on you. I would like to ask you this: are the people of England weakened by the war? If another year of fighting is to be endured, can they withstand it?”
“What choice do they have?” said the woman. “The situation has already driven families apart, and killed many. I see more desperation in the fighting as time passes. I see people undertaking any amount of deception to stay alive. I cannot say how long this will continue, but soldiers continue to train. Even now the garrison at Coventry is exercising. I fear that the New Year will bring many more deaths.”
Turnip rolled her eyes. “Well you’re a barrel of laughs, aren’t you? Let’s lighten the mood. Can you tell us something remarkable that you’ve witnessed during this year, madam?”
“It is not my place to know what is remarkable,” snapped the crone. She raised an eyebrow and gave a sly smile. “Would you call it remarkable when a well-respected witch slips herbs into a muffin in order to gain a man’s affections?”
“I wouldn’t know,” said Turnip hurriedly as all eyes turned on her. “Um. What about your personal highlights? What made this year special for you?”
The crone cackled with laughter. “Well I did rather enjoy the stomach malady which came upon the poor soul who ate the muffin. Someone wasn’t as accurate in their ministrations as they might have been. Mind, it got you inside his bed chamber, didn’t it?”
“Only to see to his chamber pot,” grumbled Turnip.
The crone dissolved into helpless laughter. Elizabeth faded her out with a small shake of her head.
“Fascinating.” said Matilda. “Fascinating. Now, Turnip, who will you summon for us?”
Turnip was still flustered. “I’m going to hand over to Alison here, so that she can summon her granny. Off you go Alison.”
The dark haired girl stepped forward. With a brief snap of her fingers, a woman stood before them. Alison’s granny was no crone, but a woman of a similar age to the three older witches. She stood before them in a curious posture of bold defiance. Matilda thought there was something familiar about her.
“You don’t recognise me, ladies?” she asked. “I am Joan of Altrincham.”
Elizabeth clapped her hands in recognition. “Joan! Oh my goodness. I had no idea. Alison: your granny was a regular at the Games, and then she just disappeared. Matilda, you and Joan were very close at one time, weren’t you?”
Matilda was reeling. She felt the blood draining from her. How could this be possible?
Joan turned to face her. “Surprised to see me, Matilda? We were close, weren’t we? Tell them how close. Tell them about the night we found the dead priest with the sack of church silver. No? Then allow me. Nothing we could do for the poor soul, nothing at all, so we buried him where he lay and took the silver away with us.”
“Alison, stop this now!” Matilda jumped to her feet and rushed at the girl. “I don’t know what you’re trying to do, but I simply won’t tolerate this … this slander.”
“Step back, Matilda,” said Turnip, holding the other witch with a gesture. “Nobody lays a finger on my girls. Now: let’s hear what Joan has to say.”
“I succumbed to illness two days later,” said Joan. “The same illness which killed the priest. It sounds as though Matilda might have forgotten to mention my passing. Perhaps she was too busy gloating over her treasure.”
There was silence. Matilda felt stares of judgement coming at her from everyone. “I took care of the practicalities,” she said quietly. “It’s what witches do.”
“You mean you buried me in a shallow grave and took the treasure. Well, that silver would make a great difference to the Sanctuary. Alison’s the last of my line, and I want to make sure she’s looked after – along with those other girls who’ve been mistreated. I want you to give it to them, Matilda.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” said Matilda. “I never saw any silver and I can’t believe that you’re all listening to this nonsense. Didn’t Turnip say that Alison’s granny made things up? It’s clearly all a big joke. Turnip: command Alison to stop what she’s doing this instant.”
“That was before we knew who Alison’s granny was,” said Elizabeth. “Joan’s not some mad old biddy. She sounds serious.”
“I am serious,” said Joan. “And I can arrange a little demonstration to show you exactly how serious I am. Remember Turnip saying she didn’t know what Mo’s talents were yet? Well I know what she can do.”
Joan approached Mo and whispered into her ear. Mo smiled, stood and stepped outside. Everyone else hurried to keep up.
“Now, watch closely everyone,” said Joan. “Think of this as the Games’ grand finale; because I’m sure Matilda will have lost her enthusiasm for any more rounds. See that tree over there? Mo is going to cast a charm on it so that all metal objects in the area will be attracted to it.”
“Surely that’s not poss—” Shona dropped to the ground as an iron skillet flew past at head height and clanged against the tree. Everyone else followed suit: pressing themselves against the frozen ground as kitchenware streamed out of Aston Hall, along with boot scrapers and tools. An anvil slammed into the trunk, making the ground shake. Braziers from inside the tents scattered hot coals as they too joined the metallic coat that was quickly covering the tree.
A series of smaller items caught Matilda’s eye. She groaned. Silver chalices, ornate candlesticks and crosses formed a glittering cluster. All pulled from their hiding place.
Joan was the only one standing, unharmed by the continual stream of metal. Horses bridles whipped through her, and a large cauldron bounced off the ground where she stood. She was unmoved.
“I think you could probably lift the charm now,” she shouted to Mo. “We’ve done what we needed to do.”
“Someone’s coming,” said Matilda from where she lay, head on one side. “A lot of people.”
“Come now Matilda, there’s no point in trying to distract us. We can all see where the treasure is,” said Joan.
“No, she’s right,” said Elizabeth. “I can hear men’s voices.
The first of the men clanged heavily onto the tree, his breastplate knocking the wind out of him with an exaggerated “Oof!”. Several more followed, along with a cannon, numerous muskets and a tumbling mass of pikes.
The charm began to weaken and things dropped loose. A soldier cried out as a large saucepan dropped on his head.
“It’s the Parliamentarian forces from Coventry,” said Shona, striding about in front of the t
ree. “I’ll try and round up the broomsticks. We can’t have them getting captured. It would be a nightmare.”
“Maybe they’ll just go away,” said Elizabeth hopefully.
One of the soldiers pushed himself off the ground and started to shout orders. “Gather your weapons. I want every one of you lined up in a defensive position. Yes, Jones, even if you do have a sore head.”
Matilda stayed flattened on the ground in the hope she wouldn’t be spotted. With horror she saw that Turnip was not only on her feet, but had grabbed a small cauldron as it bounced past and put it onto her head.
“Coming sir,” she growled in her deepest voice, making her way towards the tree. Being Turnip, she was dressed in trousers and a loose smock, but in Matilda’s eyes, she still looked like a matronly woman with kitchenware on her head. Even so, the soldiers didn’t pay Turnip any heed as she rootled through the mess at the base of the tree. Just another trooper, recovering his weapon.
The one giving orders started to shout something further to his men, but they all stood, mouths agape. Greensleeves blasted out from the skies at an unfeasibly high volume. Shona was herding all of the broomsticks, including Turnip’s muffin machine. She gave Matilda a small shrug, conveying that she really had no choice but to bring it along.
The officer in charge recovered enough to shout: “Witchcraft! Load your weapons!”
By then, Shona had ushered the youngest three witches onto broomsticks and was waving them off into the sky. “Matilda! You need to stay right there,” she called. “It’s like you said: someone needs to be around to apply the poultices afterwards. I’ll pop over a protective ward so they won’t see you. Turnip, Elizabeth and I will draw their fire, give the littl’uns a chance to get away.”
Matilda sank miserably into the cold grass. She watched as Turnip clanked to her noisy broomstick, beaming from ear to ear as she cradled her treasure-filled smock in her arms. The soldiers had failed to recognise her as a woman, but the officer whipped off her metal hat as she climbed on board the broomstick.
“Witch! Get her!” He was knocked squarely off his feet by Turnip’s well-aimed cooking pot. Elizabeth and Shona rose into the air behind Turnip and all three flew towards Aston Hall.
By now the soldiers had loaded a cannon. Matilda watched as they took aim. It was hopeless really, and she guessed the soldiers knew it as they aimed at three witches who were openly laughing and weaving before them.
The cannonade shook the ground. It was a few moments before Matilda could see through the smoke. The three witches had disappeared from view; Matilda wondered briefly if they’d been hit. The Hall certainly had: it sported a large hole in one of the windows, alongside several smaller holes made by flying metalwork, earlier. It took a few moments for her ears stopped ringing before she could hear the unmistakeable thump of overloud Greensleeves fading into the distance. Over the woods to the north she just made out three figures swooping low on their broomsticks, making for the cover of the trees.
FRIDAY NIGHT LOVE STORY
It is, as the many noise-makers call it: “The day on which I can boast of how much I detest my work and claim to only live for these few hours.” Or, as many others do: “The day on which I willingly participate in the assumption that I am hedonistic by nature and feel social pressure to disparage my chosen vocation.” They chitter and clack and make the noise, Friday.
I love Friday. Friday is the day I see you.
Here you come, my “I am this person but who am I?” You are with the one who calls herself “I am this person and I am the most important person in the world” and who makes the noise, Cassie. I do not like Cassie. Cassie does not love you like I do.
But it is Friday and I wait outside the hostelry at the canal’s edge. There are markings on the wall of the hostelry, ancient runes that say:
THE SLUG AND LETTUCE
I have listened to the noise-makers as they speak of these runes, with their lips and stink and their thoughts and their limbs and I understand that the runes mean “We understand the naming conventions of drinking houses and present to you ours which, whilst superficially suggesting we have poor standards of food preparation, implies that we do not take names (or by extension, ourselves) seriously and, therefore, ours is an establishment devoted to light frivolity.” It is a long name and some think it clever and some do not even think on its meaning for more than a second.
You and Cassie enter the hostelry and, some minutes later, emerge to take seats outside by the canal. This is as close to me as you usually get. But not tonight. Tonight I will speak to you. Tonight I will sing you the songs of my people.
Cassie raises her glass and says, “I am unable to achieve emotional equilibrium or closure on the minor issues in my life without the aid of alcohol.”
You smile and reply, “I wish to signify that I am also glad the working week is over and that I am, in this regard, a normal person.”
Cassie (who does not love you) says, “I acknowledge your existence because it is socially expected of me.”
“I am frightened that you will leave me to die alone,” you say. “And I flatter you to make you like me.”
“My life is very exciting and I am important,” says Cassie. ”This is evidenced by an anecdote featuring a photocopier which I wish to share.”
“I am sceptical that there are any exciting anecdotes featuring photocopiers but I am willing to pretend this is not so,” you say.
I drift closer as Cassie recounts a story which is superficially about a reprographics machine but is, on another level, about the incompetence of other individuals who do not share Cassie’s worldview and which, on a deeper level still, is about an individual called “I am this person who dominates” (or Phil), who Cassie has been mating with for some weeks. I remain just below the surface of the water and, in the evening gloom, I am invisible.
I do not want to be invisible any longer. Tonight I will show myself to you.
You bark at Cassie’s anecdote, making a noise called laughter. “I do not understand your anecdote,” you say. “I pretend I am amused in order to validate your views in the hope you might not leave me to die alone.”
With her body, Cassie makes gestures of pleasure but, contradictorily, she says, “I am afraid that you know I have been having sex with ‘I am this person who dominates’ and you will be angry.”
You reply, “I suspect that you are having sex with ‘I am this person who dominates’ but I act as though I am ignorant of all evidence of the matter.”
Cassie leans in close. “I am glad you are personally devoted to me and, when the time comes for me to leave you, I hope you will accept it with passivity and, for the sake of neatness and convenience, die quickly but painlessly.”
“I think I shall die,” you say.
I am not from the same world as you, my love, but I understand how you are trapped by the social conventions of the noise-makers. Like the ducks which swim above me that I drown and leave under rocks, you are one thing above the surface and another below. You speak so eloquently of your true desires and fears, yet must act as though you can hear nothing but the noise.
You take hold of Cassie’s hand and say, “Dying will hurt,” and make the noise I love you too.
I have observed the noise-makers for many months. I have watched you, my love, these past weeks. I have learned your language, its cadences and layered meanings conveyed with sound and limb position and pheromone and silences. Your language contains so many unique, subtly-varied forms of silence, like marks etched in a surface and then erased, that I wonder how your young manage to learn it so swiftly. I have learned your language, my love, and I believe I am ready to speak to you now.
Have courage, I tell myself. I come, my love.
I surge forward under the surface and then rise up, breaching the surface and making myself visible both to you and the noise-makers around you. I hold my limb so and tilt my carapace thus to say: “Greetings, my love,” and inadvertently I make the sound that
is Szlup! Szlup! Bluuuuaaar!
You do not respond quite as I expected.
The noise-makers at the tables along the waterfront make sudden and vocal exclamations of surprise.
Cassie, who I do not like, pushes away her drink as she stumbles and says: “My mind is unable to comprehend this situation.” She makes the noise that is Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaagh!
You are frozen in your seat, my love, transfixed by my appearance. With wide eyes and eloquent silence you say: “In this moment, I question the notion of reality.” You think I am a dream, my love. A vision.
Emboldened, I rise further. The air of your realm irritates those eyes of mine which are above the water. I pose further limbs, here, here and here and say, “I am real, my love.”
The noise-makers around you scurry this way and that. There are loud sounds from within the building and on the nearby bridge. The noise-makers holler and scream. They shout: “I wish to return to a place of comfort and seek oblivion,” and: “I equate this situation with a childhood trauma I had thought forgotten.” Some others speak quieter but more obscure truths: “I suspect a deception is being perpetrated which confirms my beliefs that I am being lied to by those who dominate me.” On the bridge, a noise-maker holds forth a talisman device and says, “I am a camera and therefore I am not here. I am protected by being at one remove.”
I hear many of them call out a name, “eight-limbed, sea-dweller” and make the sound which is octopus. They mistake me for an octopus. I do not know what this is but they are clearly wrong (I do not have eight legs; my limbs are always of a prime number, never eight).
You remain seated, my love. You grip the arms of your chair tightly and say: “I purge myself of conscious thought and retreat from this world.”
I am delighted that you have put all other distractions aside at my appearance. I reach out to you.
You make the sound which is Fuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuck! and say: “I do not love ‘I am this person and I am the most important person in the world’ and I do not wish to die alone.”
