Time's Echo

by Pamela Hartshorne

  ‘I don’t think so.’ I set my chin stubbornly. ‘I do not forget what you have done for me.’

  ‘Better for you if you do forget. There is mischief afoot.’

  I lower my voice. ‘Do you see the future?’

  ‘Better not,’ she says after a moment. ‘Better not.’

  ‘I will speak for you at your trial,’ I promise, but she shakes her head.

  ‘Won’t do no good, and it’ll be worse for you.’

  I go anyway. The court is damp, and the widow’s cough shakes her whole body. Francis is there, smirking and triumphant. They lay out the accusations, one by one – that she cast a spell on Anne Harrison, that she made Percival Geldart’s cow sicken, that she caused the corn to mildew – and they get progressively darker, as if the imagination of the city is peering into a dark hole. She communes with Satan, she has a familiar, she sucks innocents into her web of evil. And the proof, if proof were needed: she has a witch’s mark. The women have stripped her and examined her, and the mark of the Devil is there on her leg.

  Sybil just shakes her head, unable to speak for coughing, so I get to my feet. ‘Good sirs, this is nonsense. Sybil is not evil. She is a cunning woman who makes remedies for folk who ask, that is all.’

  ‘She is in league with the Devil himself,’ cries Francis. ‘Are you her accomplice to speak for her so?’

  There is a hiss from the onlookers at his veiled accusation. I look steadily back at him and keep my voice level. ‘I am her friend. Sybil Dent has helped me, as she has helped you.’

  Francis’s eyes bulge. ‘I have never had any contact with that vile creature. How dare you suggest it?’

  ‘Because it is true,’ I say. ‘During the sickness, I went to her for a remedy. I gave it to you when I nursed you, and you were cured.’

  ‘It was God who saved me, Mistress, not you!’ Francis is striding around, putting on a show of outrage. ‘The witch’s remedy didn’t save your husband, did it? Or was that its purpose, hmm?’

  I clench my fists in my skirts. My jaw is so tight that I can barely unlock it to speak. ‘It was the pestilence killed my husband, not the Widow Dent,’ I say, biting out the words, knowing I cannot give in to the rage and loathing that consumes me whenever I see him. ‘She has only ever saved me from harm.’

  I meet his eyes. There is no point in telling the court that Sybil saved me from him. They would not believe me, but Francis knows the truth, and I know it.

  But no one listens to me. They have made up their minds about Sybil. She is to hang to make them all feel better.

  I visit Sybil in the prison and pay the gaoler handsomely to treat her well, although whether he does or not I cannot tell. I take her a basket of food and an infusion to calm the spirits, for which she nods her thanks.

  ‘You’re a good girl,’ she says as I crouch beside her. ‘You look out for yourself now, though.’ She reaches out and her frail hand closes around my wrist. ‘There is danger for you, and it is close. You must be careful.’

  ‘I’m always careful,’ I say lightly, but she shakes her head.

  ‘You rush like a fool into the unknown. You act without thinking of the consequences. You must stop and consider.’

  I don’t understand what she means. Yes, I did once rush to meet Francis before I knew what he was. That was a mistake, but I won’t make it again.

  I cover her hand with my own. ‘I know Francis Bewley watches me,’ I say. ‘I know he would hurt me if he could, but I will not let him,’ I promise. ‘I have learnt my lesson.’

  Sybil tries to speak, but her words are lost in the terrible coughing. ‘The rope will put an end to this cough anyroad,’ she wheezes at last.

  ‘I’m sorry.’ I wish I could help her, wish I could save her, the way she saved me.

  ‘There’s one thing you can do for me.’ Even now she is able to read my mind, it seems. ‘Look after Mog. She’s a fine cat and I don’t want them hurting her.’

  They hang Sybil the next morning. The sky lours sullenly and weeps a fine drizzle that clings to my eyelashes. I am there as a witness. Stony-faced, I watch as they half-lift her onto the scaffold. She is so small and frail, she looks tiny standing under the noose. At the last moment she opens her eyes and looks straight at me.

  ‘Remember,’ she says. I don’t hear her, but I know that is what she says.

  ‘I will.’ I will always remember, and in my heart I curse Francis Bewley and the jeering crowd around me, who think killing an old woman will make them feel less afraid.

  When it is over I take my basket and I go out to Sybil’s cottage. Already it is lifeless and dank. I collect the herbs Sybil used, and I scatter them on the wind. ‘I won’t forget,’ I say.

  Mog appears and makes no protest when I pick her up and put her in the basket. Indeed, she appears to be expecting it, and curls up to make herself comfortable for the journey.

  I open the basket in my kitchen and she gets out, stretches and sits down to wash her paws.

  Bess is delighted with her. I expect Mog to hiss and spit when my daughter tries to pick her up, but no. She lets herself be clutched against Bess and seems happy to have Bess’s face pressed into her soft fur.

  ‘Where did you get that one from then?’ asks Jane.

  It’s best for her not to know. ‘I found her outside the walls,’ I say.

  ‘Found it?’ Jane looks at me closely. ‘Why’d you want to bring a cat home?’

  ‘She can keep the mice down.’

  Jane doesn’t point out that there are plenty of cats in the city. ‘The neighbours won’t like it,’ she tells me bluntly.

  I know she’s right, but I am angry and sad. I wanted to save Sybil, the way she saved me, and I couldn’t. I failed her, but I won’t fail her cat.

  ‘I don’t care what they think,’ I say. ‘The cat stays.’

  I blinked down at the half-made pie. The pastry flopped pale and flaccid over the edge of the pie plate, and the slices of apple were turning brown in front of my eyes. My fist was clenched in front of me. When I uncurled my fingers, the smell of cloves made me queasy.

  I dropped them into the apples and threw the whole pie away.

  It wasn’t over at all.

  ‘You’re very quiet.’ Drew’s eyes were narrowed as he studied me over the table that night.

  ‘Am I? Sorry, I’ve got a bit of a headache.’ I pushed the pasta to the side of my plate and put down my fork. I couldn’t eat. I kept seeing Sybil’s face as she hung from the gibbet, her face engorged, eyes bulging, tongue protruding obscenely. Foreboding was curdling in the pit of my belly. Something terrible was about to happen. I could feel it.

  ‘Is there any pudding?’ asked Sophie.

  I swallowed the nausea that rose whenever I thought about that pie. I had so nearly served it up with the apples seething with mould inside. I imagined biting into the pastry and tasting rotting flesh, and I nearly gagged again. ‘Not tonight,’ I managed.

  ‘Ohhh . . . Why not?’ whined Sophie, slumping in her chair with an exaggerated grimace of disappointment.

  Drew frowned at her. ‘You’re lucky Grace cooked at all tonight, young lady. Don’t get used to her providing all these wonderful vegetarian meals for you. You won’t be getting anything like it when she goes.’

  His voice was quite even, the way it always was when he talked about me going. He’d never told me again that he loved me, but discussed my departure in a very matter-of-fact way. I was glad he wasn’t going to make things difficult for me, of course, but sometimes I wondered if he wasn’t secretly relieved that our relationship had a definite ‘use by’ date on it.

  Sophie’s bottom lip stuck out. ‘I wish you’d stay,’ she said to me. ‘Dad’s such a crap cook.’

  ‘It’s nice to be appreciated,’ I said. I meant my voice to be dry, but I was still trying to shake the image of the rotting apple pie, which kept getting muddled up with Sybil’s expression as they dropped the rope around her neck; my smile must have seemed forced, beca
use Sophie’s face clouded and she hunched a defensive shoulder as she bent her head.

  ‘I didn’t mean . . . ’ She sucked a strand of hair and looked at me from under her brows. ‘Why don’t you stay?’ she asked abruptly.

  There was an awkward silence. ‘It’s complicated,’ I said after a moment.

  Bess . . . ess . . . ess

  I stiffened as the whisper trickled slimily through the air.

  ‘What is it?’ Drew was watching more closely than I would have liked.

  ‘Nothing.’ With an effort I rearranged my face into a smile. ‘I’m sorry there’s no pudding tonight, Sophie. I’ll make one tomorrow.’

  ‘I’m not a baby, you know!’ With a teenager’s lightning change of mood she shoved back her chair.

  ‘Sophie!’

  ‘I hear you sneaking around at night.’ Her voice rose over Drew’s. ‘Going home like a good girl! Do you really think I’ll believe you’re not sleeping together?’

  ‘That’s enough, Sophie,’ said Drew at his most forbidding, but Sophie was beyond reasoning.

  ‘You can’t just make me a pudding, pat me on the head and pretend that everything will be all right! I’m sick of being treated like a child!’

  ‘Then perhaps you should try not acting like one.’

  Sophie shot her father a venomous look. ‘I don’t want her stupid pudding anyway. I’m going to be fasting tomorrow.’

  ‘Fasting?’ Her announcement, flung over the table, caught Drew unawares. ‘What on earth for?’

  ‘Because tomorrow is my initiation.’

  ‘Initiation? What initiation?’

  ‘To the Temple of the Waters. If I pass the test, and show myself worthy, I can ascend to the first level.’

  ‘Oh, for God’s sake!’

  Sophie put up her chin and looked belligerently at her father. ‘Ash says I’m ready. He doesn’t treat me like a child. He says it’s time.’

  ‘I’ll bet he does.’ Drew visibly yanked on the reins of his temper. ‘Sophie, can’t you see that he’s just using you to get at me?’

  ‘He said you’d react like this,’ she said, and I had a sudden, shocking memory of Agnes smoothing down her skirts and saying almost exactly the same thing to Hawise.

  ‘Dad, Ash doesn’t want to “get” at you,’ she told Drew. ‘The truth is that he’s sorry for you. Your mind is so closed and warped by materialism.’

  ‘My mind is warped? That little tosser is warped through and through. He’s a fraud and a charlatan!’ I’d never seen Drew lose it before, and my mouth fell open at his roar. ‘Why do you think he’s taken such an interest in a fifteen-year-old girl? Ash Vaughan likes to manipulate people, plain and simple. He’s motivated entirely by ego. If you think there’s any goodness – any spirituality – in him, you’re fooling yourself, and frankly I’d expected better of you.’

  Sophie’s mouth was wobbling, and she was blinking furiously, but Drew was too angry to see the defiant set of her jaw.

  ‘If you think for one moment that I’m letting you undergo some kind of initiation rite with Ash Vaughan in charge, you’ve got another think coming,’ he raged at her.

  ‘You can’t stop me!’

  ‘I most certainly can. I’m your father and you’re underage.’

  He was losing her. I put a warning hand on his arm. ‘Drew,’ I murmured, but that was a mistake. It gave Sophie the perfect excuse to take out her distress on me.

  ‘Don’t interfere!’ Her voice was shrill. ‘What’s any of this got to do with you, anyway? You’re leaving.’

  I couldn’t argue with that. I took my hand from Drew’s arm.

  ‘Ash was right about you.’ Sophie’s voice was shaking with the black rage of adolescence. ‘You’re completely superficial.’

  ‘Sophie, for God’s sake!’

  ‘No, it’s okay,’ I said to Drew, but I admit that my lips had thinned a bit. ‘I had no idea Ash could analyse me so well, based on two short conversations! What else does he say?’

  Sophie had gone too far to back down now. ‘He says you might seem super-cool, but you’ve got no spiritual connection to anywhere or anyone, so actually you’re really sad!’ She was on her feet now, her face red and blotchy with inarticulate distress. ‘And he says you’re using me and you’re using Dad, but I don’t care, so the sooner you go, the better!’

  ‘Sophie!’

  Sophie flinched at the lash of Drew’s voice, but she couldn’t stop. ‘I hate you!’ she shouted. ‘I hate both of you! I’m going to be initiated into the Temple of the Waters tomorrow and then I can go and live with them, and you can’t stop me!’

  She slammed from the room and Drew put his head briefly in his hands.

  ‘Well, that must have done your headache a power of good,’ he said, looking up.

  ‘She’s frightened, poor kid,’ I said. ‘I remember feeling out of control like that, and lashing out at what I loved best. I was terrified by the strength of my own fury and frustration. Ash tells her what to do and think and feel, so she can channel all those churning emotions, and that makes her feel safe.’

  ‘Safe’s the last word I’d use in connection with Ash,’ said Drew, grim-faced. ‘I don’t want her going through with this initiation thing, but how am I going to stop her?’

  ‘Lock her in her room?’

  ‘There’s no lock on her door – and don’t think I haven’t been tempted to put one on!’ He sighed. ‘Besides, she’s fifteen. I can’t lock her up forever, however much I might want to, and I don’t want to push her into running away altogether.’ He rubbed a hand over his face in a gesture that was already shockingly familiar to me. ‘Her mother has picked a fine time to go away on holiday!’

  I didn’t know what to suggest. I got up and began clearing the plates away. ‘She seemed very insistent that the ritual – or whatever he’s planning – had to be tomorrow,’ I said at last. ‘Maybe it’s just a question of keeping an eye on her until Halloween is over.’

  ‘So, what: I should just bar her from leaving the house?’

  ‘Or follow her when she does go out, and make sure she knows you’re going to stick with her, whatever happens.’

  ‘I suppose I could . . . Shit, no, I can’t.’ Drew propped his elbows on the table and clutched at his hair. ‘I’ve got to give a paper tomorrow. It’s been organized for months. And my old mentor is coming over from the States. I’m supposed to be taking her out for supper. We were going to talk about my book—’ He broke off. ‘Well, she’ll understand, if I tell her I can’t make it.’

  He swore. ‘That bastard Ash! I’d call in the police, but what could they do? Sophie’s going along of her own volition, and I’ll bet you anything that little toerag has made sure everything is technically legal.’ His hand swept wearily over his face again and he pushed his chair back from the table. ‘I’d better email the organizers and tell them to cancel.’

  ‘Is it important, this paper?’ I asked, rinsing plates under the tap.

  ‘It’s not the paper so much, as the people who are coming to it. We’re hoping to set up a new international research group that . . . Well, it’s not brain surgery,’ he caught himself up. ‘It can wait, and Sophie is more important.’

  ‘I can be here,’ I said. ‘I’m not teaching tomorrow night.’

  Drew smoothed my hair behind my ear. ‘I’m not asking you to do that, Grace. Especially not after Sophie was so rude to you.’ He hesitated. ‘You know that she’s just upset because you’re going? She’s very fond of you.’

  ‘I know that,’ I said. ‘And you’re not asking me. I’m offering.’

  ‘You’ll be going soon. You can forget all about the Temple of the Waters and all the rubbish associated with it.’

  Bess . . .

  The whispery gurgle was so damp and so close that I had to resist the urge to wipe my face. It was hard to believe Drew couldn’t hear it, but he was still talking.

  ‘Sophie isn’t your problem,’ he said. ‘She’s mine. You don’t
need to get involved.’

  He was right. Only a matter of weeks and I would be on that plane to Mexico.

  Bess . . .

  Sophie wasn’t my responsibility. I didn’t need to get involved. But I knew how important Drew’s work was to him. I’d heard him talk about his mentor often enough to know that she was a big part of his life. I wouldn’t be there, but I wanted him to have his research. I couldn’t love him the way he wanted, but I could help him keep his daughter safe. I could do that for him.

  ‘I’ll be here,’ I promised. ‘You go and give your paper. I’ll stay with Sophie. I’ll look after her.’

  ‘Dad’s out.’ Sophie was in the kitchen, drinking a glass of water when I let myself in the following evening.

  ‘I know. But I’m not teaching tonight, and it’s such a filthy night that I fancied some company.’

  It had taken me some time to persuade Drew to go to his research group and let me stick close to Sophie, but he had agreed – reluctantly – in the end, on the condition that I rang him if there was any trouble at all.

  ‘I’m going out,’ said Sophie truculently. I had the feeling that she was regretting the argument the night before, but having insisted, she couldn’t now see any way out of it. I felt sorry for her. ‘I told you. It’s my initiation tonight.’

  The wind was wrestling at the windowpanes, throwing rain at the glass in short staccato bursts. I’d got soaked just running from door to door.

  ‘You’re going out in this?’

  ‘It’s Samhain,’ she said, glancing uneasily at the angry night. ‘It has to be tonight.’ But she didn’t look very happy about it, and I didn’t blame her. The clocks had gone back the week before and it was already pitch-black out there.

  ‘Well, do you mind if I hang around while you’re waiting to go out?’ I said. I knew there was no point in trying to dissuade her at this stage.

  Sophie scowled as she turned the tap to refill her glass. ‘Why can’t you hang around in Lucy’s house?’

  ‘I prefer it here.’ That was true. ‘Now that it’s almost empty, it feels . . . spooky over there.’ With the furious wind screaming impotently in the dark outside, it wasn’t hard to achieve a nervous laugh. ‘I think there’s a ghost in Lucy’s house.’