‘I understand,’ I said. ‘I must not go any closer.’
Nettle slowly drew her hands away, casting me a distrustful look. She gathered more twigs and herbs from her jars and returned to McGray. The scent was so strong I could perceive it yards away: a rather sickly sweet blend of liquorice, rancid tobacco and something else I could not identify. Nettle waved the herbs above McGray’s face; he turned his nose away, groaned and kicked about.
Suddenly he jumped up, startling us, roaring as a spurt of bile jetted across the room. It was horrendous, ghastly, and shockingly … it was black.
I felt powerless, watching as Nettle pulled at McGray’s torso and helped him bend forwards, to empty his insides on to the floor and not on to himself. He coughed and gagged, and I felt genuinely sorry for him.
Nettle beckoned me with her knotty hand and I helped her drag McGray’s body, now completely spent, away from the nasty pool of blackness. She opened the door, letting in the icy air, and then began mopping up the bile with the hem of her ragged cloak. That made me feel even more revolted than the vomit itself.
I installed McGray in a corner, where he fell into a deep, yet disturbed slumber. I could see his pupils flickering madly beneath his eyelids, and his weakened jaw moved as if he were trying to speak.
He was a sorry sight, but the old woman mopping up the sick was even worse. I felt my spirits sinking into a dark, cold place I had not visited in the years since my mother passed away. I wanted to escape from that horrendous place, to eat, to wear clean clothes, or at least to be able to breathe warm, clean air.
I had to turn my back to them, feeling the despair clutching at my chest, and ended up facing the hearth. From a prudent distance I watched the little hummingbird, and it held me engrossed as the flames consumed it.
I wondered what other secrets that old woman kept, how she’d learned all she knew … and how she’d ended up a mute, miserable hermit.
One of the tiny wings sprang up as the fire crackled, and there was a sudden flash of colour: an intense, dark red, which made me think inescapably of congealing blood.
29
McGray had the most troubled sleep, yet I could not help the ghost of a smile: that probably meant he was returning to his normal self.
In the windowless kiln it was impossible to tell the hours of the day, so I walked out to check as well as to breathe some much-needed fresh air. The sky was for once clear and blue, and the sun finally shed golden light on to the fields. I knew the warmth would not last, so I rejoiced in it.
Nettle came and went, fetching herbs, digging up roots, washing her ragged cloak in the icy waters of the stream … That was her life, a meagre, hardworking existence, scraping food from the forest and the moors in utter solitude.
Quite laboriously, she cooked some sort of broth out of melted snow, wild seeds and a single carrot, and when she shared it with us I felt a gratitude I had never known before. That woman was as poor as one can imagine, and as ugly as an old boot, but she was all charity and kindness.
She fed McGray at first, but after a few slurps he managed to hold the bowl himself. I could see him swiftly coming back to life, and the first words he uttered could not have been more eloquent: ‘Have ye ever felt as battered as if someone had run ye through a butter churn filled with porcupines?’
I chuckled. ‘Is that how you feel?’
‘Nae, that’s what ye look like.’
Even Nettle smirked.
‘That I must grant you,’ I said, all bitterness. ‘Unshaven, soiled, half starved, beaten, scratched and having worn the same undergarments for the past five days …’ I pointed at my bruised nose. ‘Oh, and this was your doing.’
McGray grinned. ‘Aye, it felt really good. I’ve always wanted to punch yer snooty face, especially when ye wrinkle yer nose in that shite-sniffing way – like now! I had shown restraint ’cos I pity yer delicate constitution.’
I raised an eyebrow. ‘I thought it was the jinx that made you do it!’
McGray turned sombre. ‘Well, aye and nae.’
He stood up – although he had to crouch under the low ceiling – and limped towards the hearth. He picked up Nettle’s iron poker and started digging in the ashes. All that remained of the charm was a minuscule skull, and McGray pulled it out and passed it from hand to hand as it cooled. Nettle did not try to stop him, so I guessed whatever nastiness it had carried had already burned away.
McGray sat by the fire, examining the charred remains of the hummingbird.
‘What a peculiar curse this was,’ he said. ‘Like nothing I’ve ever read about. It wasn’t even unpleasant at the beginning.’
I leaned closer. ‘Tell me more.’
McGray looked between the charred skull and the fire, deep in thought, before he replied.
‘I can only describe it … well, as if there was a fever in my very blood. I was like a locomotive without brakes. Everything I wanted to do I could do, and if something or someone wanted to stop me I could crush it without remorse. I do remember it all though …’ He stared intently at the tiny skull, its sockets as small as the eyes of needles. ‘It makes me cringe now … punching that abbot, setting off without a plan, standing in front o’ that blasted carriage …’
‘Punching and kidnapping me?’
‘Frey, I’ve already told ye how much I enjoyed that. This didnae put anything into my head. It was all me, all my will and wishes, only amplified, made reckless. I wouldn’t even stop to wonder why the change. I didnae notice any change, until …’
I ventured: ‘Until you began seeing and hearing things?’
He looked down. ‘Aye, it all went to hell very quickly after I thought I’d heard and seen Pansy.’
I was glad he realized it had been nothing but a vision, but it was not the time to gloat about being right. ‘That was Oakley, of course.’
‘Aye, it couldnae have been anybody else, but ye mentioned a few times that my vision was blurry. I could only see shapes, and without being able to make out all her features, I thought the lass looked just like Pansy.’
‘It is all right,’ I said. ‘They are both thin, dark-haired; besides, it all happened very quickly.’
McGray pressed his forehead with a weary hand. ‘And it was something I wanted to see.’
I felt my mouth relax into a triumphant smile. Could Nine-Nails finally be allowing some rationality into his stubborn, superstitious head?
‘A hummingbird …’ he whispered, now holding the skull a couple of inches from his eyes. ‘A sacred bird, without shadow.’
I sat back, feeling utterly defeated. ‘Oh, here we go again …’
‘These wee fellers symbolize joy, renewal … peace. Murdered hummingbirds are meant to inflict acute damage. To derail yer spirits.’
Nettle was nodding and I was gnashing my teeth. I could not believe I had even considered that McGray could be finally showing some sense.
‘Do you not think that perhaps that stupid bird was simply impregnated with something that gave you those symptoms?’
‘And what precisely d’ye think that “something” was?’
‘I do not know – I left all my toxicology books in London – but I can tell you there was some sort of fruit or cactus tied to it, and when it burned it flashed a strange colour. There are countless substances that –’
‘Yer forgetting Nettle here took the spooks out o’ me.’
‘The – what did you call them?’
‘Spooks. The jinx.’
I snorted. ‘Inducing vomiting in a frail person with a strong smell? Hardly a feat.’ I looked at her out of the corner of my eye. ‘No offence.’
‘It was black vomit,’ McGray reminded me.
‘You could have swallowed blood when that brute beat you.’
‘Or perhaps ye … Bah! Yer hopeless.’
He shoved the skull into his breast pocket: a memento he would probably add to his collection of sinister trinkets – if we ever managed to return, of course. He searched his ot
her pockets and produced the crumpled, torn map he’d stolen in Lancaster.
‘Oi, hen, tell us where we are.’ Nettle frowned and turned her face away. ‘Och, come on! We won’t tell anyone yer house is here, I swear.’
Begrudgingly, but still much sooner than if I’d requested it, Nettle stopped her work and came to peruse the map. She pointed at a small brook, the squiggly blue line flowing from a mount called Winfold Fell; I guessed that was where we’d encountered Joel and the other witches.
‘A little further from the roads than I expected,’ I said.
‘Aye, but not too far from Slaidburn or Dunsop Bridge. We can still get help there. Unless …’ McGray looked at Nettle, a cheeky glint in his eyes. ‘Unless Nettle here can suggest another destination.’
The old woman needed no encouragement this time. She reached for a jar full of dried peas and began placing them on to the extended map. One on Lancaster, one on Pendle Hill, one on Beatrix Fell.
‘Those are the beacons,’ said McGray as Nettle placed more and more peas, some of them even off the sheet, where Yorkshire and Cumbria would have been. Nettle then picked up other seeds, like peppercorns, star anises, and others I had never seen.
Her cat came closer, sniffing at the seeds and touching them with its paws, yet never moving them. After a moment it sat up very stiffly, its front paws right next to a peppercorn that marked a small village: Slaidburn.
Nettle nodded, caressed the cat and then poked at the mark for Slaidburn rather vehemently, and then at some spot further south, where she placed one last pea.
‘There is nothing there,’ I said, but McGray looked pensive.
‘That’s just off the slopes of Pendle Hill.’
‘The witches’ hill?’ I asked.
‘Aye. D’ye need more convincing? Joel’s definitely going there.’
‘It is not convincing I need now,’ I retorted, but McGray was already on his feet, as if acute poisoning and the graze of a bullet had been mere trifles.
‘Ye coming or what?’
I blew out my cheeks. ‘Nine-Nails, have you not regained your smidgen of good sense? This woman might well have drawn the map to our deaths.’
He laughed heartily. ‘Och, can ye be any more theatrical? Come on. If ye live through this, ye might have a future writing tacky novels.’
I had forgotten how cold it was outside.
McGray wrapped himself in his overcoat, letting out a hearty ‘Brrrrrrr’. He was still limping a little, but I was surprised by how quickly he was recovering.
He turned to look back at Nettle. ‘Och, hen, thanks for yer – What?’
She grasped his arm and pulled at him gently. Her cat was jumping about enthusiastically, leaving a meandering trail on the snow. Nettle followed it and made her stumbling way to the foot of a gnarled ash tree. The bark was almost as pale as the surrounding snow, with black buds waiting patiently for warmer days to burst into new foliage. Nettle leaned down, kicking the snow aside, and then dug with her bare hands. McGray helped her, and soon they reached the frozen soil. Nettle used a stone to crumble it and uncover some round, filthy object.
At first it looked like an oversized turnip, but it was in fact a bundle of rags, which Nettle retrieved with great effort. McGray helped her, and Nettle began to undo some very tight knots. It looked as though that object had been buried for years, for the fabric tore with the slightest pull.
Nettle untied fold after fold of cloth. The innermost layer looked surprisingly clean; it had been dusted with a white powder, which turned out to be ordinary flour. That had effectively sealed the pack’s contents from the elements, and we nearly gasped when we saw a very fine pouch made of dark leather, with a shiny brass buckle.
I stretched my neck to see as Nettle opened it and poured its contents out. The first thing I saw was a bouquet of assorted herbs and dried flowers. There followed some bizarre items like locks of human hair, a mummified frog, and others I was unfortunately becoming familiar with, like bent nails and a very old red onion. Finally I heard a clanking, and what Nettle produced left me open-mouthed.
It was a gun. A very fine revolver with an ivory grip, the metal as shiny as if she’d just taken it from a merchant’s shelf. There was also a smaller pouch full of bullets.
McGray seized the lot before I could stop him, and examined the weapon with the excited eyes of a child on Christmas Day. ‘This’ll really smooth our way. Thanks, hen!’
She also produced a small twig of lavender tied to a dry bay leaf, and put them in my breast pocket with motherly care.
I wanted to give her something, anything, as a thank you, but except for those dried flowers my pockets were empty.
Almost by a miracle one of my cufflinks still clung to my shirt. It was a fine, small piece of gold. I took it off and offered it to the woman, but she shook her head and made to turn away.
I grasped one of her hands – her skin was drier and more calloused than I’d thought – and I forced the cufflink into her palm, wrapping her bony fingers around it.
‘Do take it. Please.’
She assented in the end, waving her other hand, asking us to leave. We hopped on slippery stones across the stream, and as we climbed the slope towards the road I looked back one last time.
I saw the old woman standing very still next to her stone shed, the cat lying along her shoulders, both of them watching us intently. Inexplicably, part of me felt sorry to leave.
When I looked ahead I found McGray smirking at me. ‘Och … ye like ’em older.’
‘Pox on you.’
We soon reached the end of the woods and the view opened to the barren moors. A thick cloud had begun to cover the sun, the receding rays casting a weaker light on the snowy hills, but we had no trouble spotting the road that went east.
We descended the gentle slope, all covered in bright snow. I looked at the smooth, pristine …
‘Frey, look,’ McGray said, exactly at the same time as I saw it.
The snow was not entirely undisturbed. There was a deep, messy trail, almost a dent in the otherwise pure whiteness. It went all the way from the woods we’d just left down to the road. As we approached we saw dark speckles smudged along the crumpled snow.
‘Blood?’ McGray asked as I kneeled down to inspect it.
‘Yes,’ I said, after touching and sniffing one of the droplets. The track was wide and easy to follow, until it reached a thick tree stump. There, clinging to the trunk’s splinters and waving like a standard under the breeze, we found a filthy apron, ragged and soaked in red.
McGray took a deep breath, then walked closer to the garment and we both looked at it carefully.
‘It belonged to a slender woman,’ I said, looking at the straps.
Nine-Nails picked it up by a corner and brought it closer to his eyes, so that I thought his eyesight must have gone bad again. ‘Here,’ he said, showing me the material.
Delicately embroidered in lilac thread there was a minute stem of foxgloves.
‘Oakley’s,’ I murmured, the memory of her shrill screams disturbing me as much as when I’d heard them. ‘Do you think she’s … ?’
McGray looked around. The ground surrounding the tree was mushy, as if it had been trampled repeatedly for a good while. There were spots of blood all around, and Nine-Nails shuddered.
‘Aye. I hope it was quick …’
We had not walked a full mile when the first snowflakes began to flutter around us, the clouds clustering together again. There was but a thin strip of sky visible on the horizon, tinted in red by the last rays of the sun.
‘Already twilight?’ McGray exclaimed, plunging his boots into the deep snow as we descended along the road. Other than his slightly slower pace, nobody could have told he’d been shot the night before.
‘Yes,’ I grunted, ‘you slept for quite a while.’
‘Och, Frey, ye sound like a wounded kitty.’
‘I am beyond wounded,’ I retorted, arduously dragging my legs. ‘I have never
been in such a disastrous state in my whole life.’
‘Not all of us can say that, dandy,’ he said, looking at his right hand with bitterness. ‘Things should improve once we get to Slaidburn. We can have a proper rest tonight and tomorrow morning we can go on to Pendle … now that we ken there’s definitely something wicked happening there.’
I snorted. I did not want to reveal my intentions just yet, but I could not humour McGray as he made plans for his crusade.
‘I am not going to Pendle.’
McGray did not seem to register my words. I had to repeat myself, much more firmly this time. He cast me a perplexed look. ‘Don’t be ridiculous. Ye’ve been reciting that like a bloody parrot since this all started.’
‘I have stomached enough,’ I snapped, my contained fury finally rising to the surface. ‘As soon as we reach that godforsaken village you will go on by yourself. I am heading back to Edin-bloody-burgh.’
McGray halted. ‘Yer deserting?’
‘One can hardly call it that. When I submit my report, Campbell will agree with my decision. This is English jurisdiction. We should never have ventured this far.’
‘Ye sound like that pathetic Messy back in Lancaster, sloping yer shoulders whenever some responsibility falls on them! D’ye not care about this mad lad killing and torturing people wherever he goes? Are ye not even slightly curious about the nasty trade these crones are carrying out?’
I rubbed my face in frustration. ‘Nine-Nails, this is not about Joel or those blasted witches. This is about your family!’
His chest heaved.
‘I am sorry for your sister,’ I spluttered. ‘I truly, truly am, but I cannot follow you any longer. Face it: this is a stupid quest for the vaguest of clues. For all we know, Pansy could have simply asked Joel to bring her some warm milk. And even if she did say something of import, that does not mean she will ever repeat the accomplishment.’
McGray grabbed me by the collar, his steamy breath bursting out like the vapours of a train engine. I could see the cold understanding in his eyes, the anguish, the wrath at words that perhaps he himself had thought but refused to acknowledge. He could have ripped me apart with his bare hands.
A Fever of the Blood Page 22
