I swallowed, part of me yearning to collapse like him, to give in and let those witches give me final rest. I looked around desperately, trying to think of anything I could do. I saw Joel’s gun lying among the blazing logs, its edges already glowing; I tried to get to it nonetheless, but the heat burned my hands before I could even touch it.
The torch was now less than ten yards away. I could see the outline of a veiled head and thought perhaps it was Redfern, returning with another vial of acid to throw at us.
‘Use a torch,’ Nine-Nails snapped, his face now distorted by pain.
I tried to pull one of the logs out of the pyre, but they were mighty hot. I could not believe McGray had actually wielded one. I ran to the one he’d used, cool enough now from lying on the snow, but the oily substance still kept its flames green and surging. It was quite heavy too, and I had to use both hands to lift it. I stood in front of Nine-Nails.
‘Back off!’ I shouted, swinging the torch. To my dismay the flames were already waning, but I had no time to resort to anything else; the dark figure was so close I could hear their muffled steps on the snow and see the bony, blotched hand that held the torch. A second hand emerged from under the black rags, armed with coarse, claw-like fingernails, and very slowly pulled back the tattered hood.
McGray and I held our breath as we watched that face emerge; first a saggy neck, the skin as pale as that of something that dwells underground, every inch wrinkled like ancient bark. Then a mouth, half open, with a set of blackened teeth bent in all directions. Then the tip of a crooked nose. Finally, a pair of eyes so sunken and surrounded by folds of skin I could barely see the spark of their pupils.
It was not Redfern but a woman I’d not seen before, surely one of the oldest people I had ever met.
‘Who are you?’ I barked, not believing that such an old, frail woman could frighten me so much.
There was a meowing, and I saw the large, glimmering eyes of a cat, rubbing itself against the folds of the crone’s cloak. It was the same black cat I’d seen fleeing from the fight a few minutes ago.
‘Who are you?’ I repeated, and then waited, but the woman said nothing. She raised her hand, showing us her leathery palm, as if asking for patience. I pushed the flames closer to her, but she did not move or blink. She simply stared at me with sad eyes I would never forget.
‘What do you want from us?’ I shouted.
Again, no reply. I felt as if those eyes were drilling into me, searching for something under my very skin, and I had to look away for an instant. When I looked again her eyes were fixed on McGray’s. He was staring back as if in a trance.
The extended palm moved then, as furtively as the cat, both approaching McGray like predators. I blocked their path with the torch.
‘Get away!’
They halted, but did not retreat. The cat hissed at me, while the woman kept her eyes on McGray. I pushed my torch at her again, deciding to burn her hands if I had to, but then McGray grabbed the log and tried to pull it out of my grasp.
‘What are you –’
He took hold of the torch; I felt it slipping out of my hands and then he threw it out of my reach.
He was going to take the woman’s hand. I hurled myself between them, but McGray pushed me aside with renewed strength and I fell on my rear.
‘What on earth are you doing?’ I squealed, seeing McGray join hands with that crone.
‘This one’s different,’ he mumbled.
‘McGray, you are not yourself! These witches have done something to you!’
He was deaf to my words. The woman tugged his hand slightly, but just then there was a simultaneous movement: the woman’s face and the cat’s head turned suddenly, looking at the opposite side of the hill. I saw nothing there.
The crone pulled McGray more persistently, then threw her torch into the beacon’s flames.
‘We have to follow her,’ Nine-Nails said, struggling to stand up. I had not realized how much his calf was bleeding until he stretched his leg and I saw the red patch on the snow where he’d been sitting.
‘I’m not following that crone,’ I insisted, but she and McGray were already staggering away.
The woman whimpered as she looked at me, her eyes imploring, her knotty finger indicating the spot her cat was still staring at.
Three, then four flames appeared in the distance. They were all green, like the ghostly torches I’d seen the previous night.
‘We’ll move faster if ye help!’ McGray snapped.
I looked between him and the lights, grunting in frustration. In the end I decided to go with them and help the old hag move him, but only because I’d rather take on one witch than four.
I took a quick look back, just as we stepped into the deeper darkness, and saw that the cat had stayed behind.
We rushed along almost blindly, entirely at the mercy of that old woman, who seemed to know by heart every rock and feature of the terrain. We followed a twisted path, but not once did we stumble across an obstacle or a patch that was not smooth.
The woman was panting now, and she whimpered again when we heard female screams from the top of the hill. She did not breathe easily until we reached a small cluster of pine trees. I heard the trickle of a little stream, but under the evergreen canopies and a weak moon I could not see it. The land did descend abruptly to its banks, but the woman led us by an easy route. I felt flat stone steps under my feet, taking us to what I thought at first was a pile of rubble. It was in fact a tiny stone dwelling, ensconced in an indentation of the land.
The woman dashed forwards much faster than I would have thought her capable of, and opened a creaking door I could not even see. She pushed McGray in and I followed, groping about until my forehead hit a wooden beam – the entrance was barely four feet tall. I did not have time to moan, for the crone pushed me in as well and then shut the door.
Suddenly we were trapped in absolute darkness.
I cannot tell how long we waited in that place, only that it felt like hours. I could hear nothing besides McGray and the woman breathing, for none of us moved a muscle. We simply crouched there, expectantly. My nostrils became filled with herbal scents, not too dissimilar from what I’d smelled in Madame Katerina’s rooms.
At last there came a scratching at the entrance, and I saw the old woman light up a homemade match. I had a first glimpse of her jar-lined walls as she bent to open the tattered door.
The cat had returned, purring loudly as it walked in. The woman let out a relieved sigh, and after locking up again she reached for an improvised oil lamp (a rusty tin pot with a wick made of thick string). The light bounced off hundreds of glass jars, containing everything from herbs and powders to crawling bugs and slithering reptiles. The ceiling was low and slightly domed, and there were no windows. The building could have been an abandoned kiln or a place to store grain, but this woman had made it her home, and it looked nothing like the lodgings of a beggar. There was a neat pile of blankets for use as a bed, another bundle where the cat curled up, and a small stone hearth. She had a fire lit in no time and then hung a pewter cauldron over it.
‘Who are you?’ I asked again, but the woman was busy at work, carefully gathering jars and pouring their contents into the pot. I could not help regarding her with suspicion. ‘What are you doing?’
She mixed dry leaves and oil, her back turned to me, and I could not think of anything to do or say. I was not even sure we should have followed her; for all I knew she could be preparing every manner of venom and explosive, ready to murder or torture us.
‘Why should we trust you? Are you not one of them?’
I did not know myself what I meant when I said them.
‘Can you understand what I am saying?’
She turned slowly, her eyes as sad as before, and she pointed at McGray’s leg. Only then did I realize that he’d dropped to the floor, his back resting against the crooked wall and his outstretched legs covering almost the entire length of the room. His trouser leg was s
oaked in blood, yet McGray seemed to be sleeping peacefully, his chest swelling in long, slow breaths.
I kneeled down swiftly, tore away the ghastly tartan and inspected the wound. The bullet had gone in and out cleanly, missing the bone, but it would soon get infected, unless …
Just as I thought that, the old woman threw a damp cloth into my hands. I was unsure whether to use it, until the sting of some sort of alcohol hit my nose. The woman certainly knew how to disinfect wounds. After wiping away the blood I applied a tourniquet, using strips of McGray’s own trousers, and just as I tied the cloth the old woman pushed me aside.
Before I could protest she was already applying a green unguent to the wound, an oily mash of herbs that smelled of camphor and mint. McGray grunted a little but then settled back to his slumber. The woman finished by wrapping the leg with a clean bandage, so neatly I could not have done much better with my Oxford training.
She stood up and went back to her small fire, where she began to boil potatoes as if it were a normal evening.
The fire soon warmed up the little place, and the smell of boiling vegetables reminded me how starved I was. Even the dull aroma of unseasoned starch made my stomach growl, and when I saw the old woman put two large potatoes into wooden bowls my mouth began to salivate.
Brusquely, she landed one of the bowls on my lap. I was so famished that the sad spud was the most tempting of dishes; I still looked at it with distrust.
The old woman noticed this, and she pinched off a piece of potato and shoved it into her mouth, chewing slowly, her eyes challenging mine. The instant she swallowed I dug my fingers into the bowl and devoured the potato desperately, licking my fingers and smacking my lips in a way that would have made McGray blush. Each mouthful was like a gift from heaven, the soft pulp warming and restoring. Unbelievable that a humble potato, grown from mud trampled on by pigs and chickens, could become someone’s salvation.
I did not look up until I had eaten the very last shred of potato peel. I found the crone kneeling by Nine-Nails: she was crushing the other potato and then feeding the mash into his mouth, as carefully as a very experienced nurse.
As I watched them an irresistible slumber began to take hold of me. I did not know whether it was something in the food, or the herby smell of the place or sheer exhaustion, but my eyelids were suddenly so heavy I could not struggle. It was but a moment before I drifted off, and the last thing I heard was the empty bowl falling from my hands.
28
I woke to the sound of scratching, and then the tinkling of glass. When I opened my eyes I saw the black cat playing around with an empty jar, rolling it across the floor with its paws and then chasing it. There was no trace of the crone but a pot of porridge was simmering over the fire.
Nine-Nails was lying in the exact same position, so pale and still that my heart jumped. I was going to rouse him, but then he inhaled long and deeply – not even babies sleep so soundly, and for a moment the fact made me hate him.
I was about to slap him, but then the door opened and the old woman returned, carrying a basket full of roots and frosty weeds.
She helped herself to porridge and then poured me some. It looked like sludge, but I was still very hungry so I ate without a murmur.
‘Are you never going to tell us who you are?’ I said, but I met the same silence as the night before, which did not improve my mood. ‘Can you not speak at all?’ I snapped.
She turned her face away, as if my words had been a splash of water. There was a slight, almost imperceptible tremble in her hands. I had hit the nail, and I immediately felt a pang of guilt.
‘At least you understand me, I suppose.’ I shook my head, saying the first thing that came into my mind. ‘What can I call you? You must have a name.’
She did not react for a moment, and I was beginning to think she did not really understand my words, but then she stretched out an arm and pointed at one of the jars. I strained to see but did recognize the dry leaves inside.
I wrinkled my nose. ‘Nettle?’
The woman did not nod or assent, but simply resumed her meal. I did nod.
‘Nettle it is – whether you are hinting at the truth or simply humouring me.’
We ate the rest of our oats in silence, and when Nettle was finished she poured another portion and began feeding McGray.
I took a look around, and the obvious hit me. That room was like a smaller, cosier version of the warehouse in Lancaster. Exactly at that moment, as her arm stretched out with a spoonful of porridge, I saw a dark shape on her wrist, faded and distorted by the folds of her leathery skin: it was a very old scar, showing two intertwined snakes, each head biting its partner’s tail to form an eight.
‘You are definitely one of them,’ I said, ‘but why would you look after us?’ I felt the bowl becoming cold in my hands. ‘You are not trying to harm us, are you?’
That was the first time I received a clear response from her. Nettle looked straight into my eyes and then shook her head. She also pulled down her cloak, concealing the old mark.
I would have to believe her.
McGray chewed the food lethargically. I still could not believe that a shot in the leg, painful as it would be, could leave him prostrated like that – not Nine-Nails McGray.
I arched an eyebrow as I looked at the old crone and her collection of jars. Perhaps destiny had brought us to the place we most needed.
‘If you understand their witchcraft,’ I began, feeling utterly ridiculous, ‘you might be able to help us.’ Nettle did not seem to hear me, but I’d realized by now that was simply her way. ‘I believe …’ I had to take a deep breath. ‘I believe McGray, your current patient, has been … well, bewitched in some way.’
Nettle turned to me as if she’d heard an explosion. Even the cat appeared to stare at me. Nobody in my life had looked at me with such intense, undivided attention.
‘He … he has been acting oddly,’ I added. ‘He very rarely sleeps, but now he falls like a bloody log whenever he can; he is a remarkable shot but he now misses the most ridiculously easy targets; he has never been a feathery dove, but now he is irascible and throws punches and kicks at the slightest provocation; his eyesight seems impaired; and’ – I thought of what he’d said about his sister – ‘I believe he is seeing and hearing things that are not there.’
Her sunken eyes, with their half-hidden pupils, could not have shown more concern. She stood up and began to rummage through her jars, dropping a couple that smashed on the floor. I saw her produce a black wax taper, then a dry twig of something that could have been thyme.
Nettle tied the twig to the little candle, her bony fingers unsteady as she worked a tight knot.
Then she moved her lips. I thought she might finally say something, but she only hummed from the bottom of her stomach. It was a deep, guttural sound that echoed around the walls and made me shiver. She took the taper and herbs over to the hearth, and very gently spun them over the flames, humming and humming, until they caught fire.
The cat sat by her, very still, its green eyes hypnotized by the little ritual, as the musky fragrance of burning leaves slowly filled the room.
She turned around, and I nearly gasped when I saw her eyes, turned up and showing their veiny whites. She waved the little bouquet, the smoke drawing erratic shapes in the air as she advanced, her humming growing ever louder, interrupted only when her breath ran out. Then she resumed, louder still.
I heard McGray stir. His face was distorted, his nose wrinkled, as if the herbal scent disturbed him.
Nettle leaned over him. Her black rags, hunched back and wiry grey hair obscured my view, but I heard McGray snorting madly. I rushed up, fearing she was doing something horrible to him, but when I looked I saw Nettle hovering above him, barely touching his chest with just one finger. I tensed my legs, readying myself to jump at her if she tried anything untoward.
She poked McGray’s coat, at the fabric over his pockets. Then the cat moved, as stealthily as if hunti
ng a mouse, and used its paw to pull a fold of fabric. It pummelled its paws on it eagerly, but suddenly jumped away, hissing, as if pricked by a thorn. It ran into the furthest corner, where it curled up into a ball, hiding its head.
Nettle pulled the fold and her humming stopped immediately, as soon as her fingers touched a seam in the inner lining.
‘Of course!’ I whispered. I recognized the stitches: that was the spot the girl at the inn had mended – allegedly because the garment was so worn out it had torn. I felt my jaw drop, a million questions rushing into my mind. ‘How did you know that was there?’ was the first I could utter.
Nettle drew circles with the taper over and over, building up a small cloud of smoke over the fabric. She dug her nails in and ripped the patch off, and a little cloud of dust emerged, mixing with the smoke; underneath it I saw a dark bundle roll down, and Nettle took a step back, letting out a frightened moan.
The object looked like a tiny, blackened chick, so tiny I thought it must have been sacrificed before hatching. I could not help my curiosity and leaned forwards. On closer inspection I realized that it was actually a hummingbird, crushed flat like a pressed flower. Tied to it there was a round slice of some dried fruit. Or it could have been some type of cactus …
Nettle pulled me back, groaning in angst. She pointed at the bird, then her nostrils, then tapped her temples.
‘Does that make people see things?’ I said. ‘Is it a – jinx?’
I thought it must be, for Nettle would not touch it. She pierced it with a rusty poker, and then, holding it at arm’s length, and before I could protest, she threw it into the fire together with the candle and the twig.
‘Wait!’ I shouted. ‘That was evidence!’
I tried to pull it out of the hearth, but Nettle moaned again and grabbed my arm. She sounded desperate, letting out a sound close to a scream, and I felt her eager nails even through my thick sleeves. I retreated, out of pity more than anything else, and the old woman stood in front of me, with both palms held high and the most frightened grimace.
A Fever of the Blood Page 21
