The Enchantress (Book 1 of The Enchantress Saga)

by Thorne, Nicola

  The pain stabbed again, this time ten times worse across the small of Analee’s back. She twisted and would have screamed but for the rag Reyora had left her, now wet with her saliva. The pain in the back was so bad that it seemed to consume her entire body, and her stomach felt hot as though there was a fire inside it.

  This continued through the night, and the misery of the long hours was only relieved by the presence of Nelly who comforted her with soothing words, and assuaged the pain by rubbing her belly and back with a cloth soaked in water and then moistening her lips.

  At dawn the curtain parted and Reyora entered again. She stood for a long time gazing down at the tormented face and twisted body of Analee. Then she knelt and prodded her abdomen with her hands, and felt gently inside. Her face looked worried. She ignored Nelly.

  ‘The pain, it is all in my back,’ Analee gasped.

  ‘The baby has turned,’ Reyora said shortly, ‘the head is the wrong way. It will be a long labour. The waters should have broken. I will fetch the phuri-dai.’ She got up and went quickly to the entrance. ‘What does she mean?’ Nelly whispered.

  ‘I am going to die.’

  ‘No you are not!’

  ‘I cannot bear the pain any more. The baby has turned: it is trapped.’

  Analee arched again and this time the spasm was unbearable. She screamed aloud, forgetting about the rag. She knew the scream would be heard by the whole camp and the women would be glad that she suffered so, and maybe Randal would be glad because it would teach her a lesson and tame her.

  ‘I cannot bear it ...’ she gasped and the curtains parted again and Reyora came in, followed by old Rebecca.

  They both stood for a long time looking at Analee watching her twist about, trying to stifle her screams.

  ‘I am dying,’ she called to them, pleading to them to help.

  Rebecca shook her head and held aloft a round object between her forefinger and thumb, which, in the dim light, Analee could see was an egg.

  Reyora looked at Rebecca and nodded. Muttering an incantation in romani Rebecca dropped the egg so that it fell on the ground between Analee’s legs.

  ‘Anro, anro hin olkes

  Te e pera hin obles

  Ara cavo sastovestes

  Devia, devla, tut akharel’ (The egg, the egg is round ... all is round ... little child come in health ... God, God, is calling you.)

  Reyora scooped up the broken yolk of the egg and rubbed it against Analee’s thighs, up over the heaving belly.

  ‘It is a spell, an incantation,’ she said, ‘to help with the birth when it is slow. See, you will soon be better.’

  She leaned over Analee, staring into her dark pain-filled eyes, the eyelids heavy and drooping with weariness. ‘It will be soon,’ she whispered.

  Suddenly Analee felt a rush of liquid between her legs and cried out again, thinking it was blood. She was dying. Reyora saw it too and smiled, nodding her head with satisfaction.

  ‘The gypsy spell has worked; the waters have broken. Soon, soon now, the baby will come.’

  Analee looked into those dark mysterious eyes and suddenly the pain went and she felt at peace. Reyora gripped her hand and with the other massaged gently the belly round and round. Then Analee felt a sharp tugging, a feeling that she must push and she grasped Nelly with one hand and Reyora with the other and pushed.

  Suddenly her whole body arched convulsively and the final push left her feeling empty and free, and then there was a long wail and then another and another.

  Analee jerked up her head as Reyora knelt upright, her hands clasping a pair of crumpled bloody tiny legs. She smiled broadly and laid the baby on Analee’s abdomen. Then she skilfully cut the cord with the knife and tied it.

  Analee gazed at the baby lying on her belly crying lustily. Nelly had reached over and was wiping it gently with a cloth, removing the blood and the yellow sticky protective covering. Analee looked at the baby and suddenly the crying ceased and her new born infant opened a pair of eyes that seemed to look straight into the eyes of its mother – a beautiful, large, perfectly formed blue-eyed baby girl with a thatch of bright golden hair.

  Reyora took the baby from Analee and gave her to Nelly. Then she called for hot water, and one of the boys brought a bucket and left it outside the tent, running quickly away again unless he should be tainted by the birth.

  Nelly gently washed the baby all over, noting its beautiful white skin and blue eyes, its fair hair and rather imperious face even at this early stage. It was the loveliest baby Nelly had ever seen, and so sturdy and well formed with chubby dimpled limbs. No wonder Analee had had trouble in bearing her.

  While Nelly washed the baby and wrapped it in swaddles Reyora delivered the afterbirth, which she put in a bowl to keep because the afterbirth was very useful for unguents and lotions. Dried out in the sun and ground to powder it helped infertile women to conceive and made impotent men virile.

  She bathed Analee all over and rubbed her with a sweet-smelling balsam made from pine and essence of roses. She covered her with a blanket and left her to sleep. Then she sat for a long time by her side gazing alternately at Analee then at her baby, her face very thoughtful.

  Nelly was perplexed by Reyora. She knew enough about cohani to know that they were usually very brusque and always in a hurry. Why did Reyora linger, now that the birth had been accomplished? She crooned over the baby in her arms. Like her mother the baby slept.

  After a long time Reyora sighed and held out her arms for the baby. She looked at her, tenderly tracing her finger over her perfectly chiselled features, noting the deep cleft of the mouth and the long straight nose and the determined chin.

  ‘It is not the child of a gypsy,’ she said at last.

  ‘No?’ Nelly was puzzled. Never having seen Analee’s husband she did not know what the cohani meant.

  ‘It is the child of a gadjo!’

  ‘A gadjo!’ Nelly was appalled.

  ‘A blond, handsome, aristocratic gadjo. A lord.’

  ‘A lord!’

  ‘It is not Randal’s child. Randal is Analee’s husband. I thought if the child were dark it would pass for his child, but it won’t. Like Analee, Randal is very dark and swarthy; so is all his family. All the Bucklands are dark; there is not a fair one among them.’

  ‘Maybe in Analee’s family ... ?’ Nelly said helpfully, beginning to understand.

  ‘No. She is olive skinned. Besides, Randal knows about the gadjo. He saw them lying together. It is why he married her. Oh, don’t look like that, child!’ Reyora said impatiently, noting Nelly’s uncomprehending expression. ‘I don’t know why he did it. The way men behave is past my understanding. He thinks the child is his now, but when he sees her he will remember the gadjo and he will know. He will be very angry.’

  ‘What will he do?’

  Reyora shrugged. ‘Maybe kill it, or them both. He will be forgiven by the kriss because of his rage and grief.’

  ‘Oh no,’ Nelly looked at the beautiful baby in Reyora’s arms thinking of her own puny little dead one buried now under some stone on the wayside – unwanted, unlamented.

  Reyora clasped the baby closer and sighed. A plan was forming in her mind whose seed had been there ever since she knew that Analee had conceived by the gadjo. It could be done and only she, the cohani could do it. The only chance the plan had to succeed lay in the gypsy laws of marime: that a mother and child were unclean because of the birth, until baptism had driven away the evil spirits.

  The father would not come near the tent for days, maybe a week. He would not know the child was blue-eyed and blonde. Only Rebecca would see the child apart from herself and Nelly, and Rebecca was very close to Reyora; she knew her longing for a daughter. How she had tried and how she had failed. Reyora knew that only she could save this child; only she could give it respectability, make it acceptable to the tribe. Otherwise it was as good as dead or, at the very best, an outcast.

  Reyora closed her eyes because she too was tired, a
nd she hugged the beautiful baby girl very closely to her bosom, wanting it, cherishing it.

  Rebecca came in that night as Analee, rested and recovered, was preparing to feed her baby for the first time. Attended by the devoted Nelly and the experienced Reyora she was trying to ease the large engorged nipple into the baby’s mouth; but she was clumsy and the baby kept turning its head away and crying.

  Reyora showed Analee how to nurse the baby pressed to her stomach, so that the bellies of mother and child touched, and to cradle the head in one hand while offering her the breast with the other.

  Analee experienced a surge of joy at the feel of the baby’s mouth at her breast, the fact that milk was flowing from herself to her child, and she pressed her closer and put her face against the soft little head.

  Yes, she was Brent Delamain’s child. There was no possible doubt about that. It made her remember the night she and Brent had lain in the forest; she could see in imagination the moonlight and feel the breeze on their bare flesh. It had been good and beautiful and the baby was lovely ... a love child. She smiled at Reyora over the baby’s head and she saw that Reyora knew what she was thinking.

  Then Rebecca came in and she knew, too. She stared for a long time at the baby, contrasting its very white skin with the olive skin of the mother, the full brown breasts and the big splayed nipples the colour of russet crab apples.

  Reyora had said nothing to her but now Rebecca knew. She said nothing to Analee, but beckoned to Reyora and, talking quietly together, they left the birth tent and walked slowly over to Reyora’s where they spent a long time together.

  Reyora waited for almost a week before she told Analee about her plan. Randal was becoming anxious to see his child and the preparations were being made for the gypsy baptism. The baby and Analee would be immersed deep in the waters of the river that flowed nearby, and then all the objects used for the confinement would be burnt, all her clothes and dishes and bowls, and Analee and her child would be judged fit to be admitted to gypsy society.

  Even Reyora who was not a hard woman but not a soft one either, didn’t know how she was going to say what she had to to Analee. She saw the delight Analee had in her baby; how she fondled her and dallied with her. With what care she washed and nursed her and the intense pleasure she had in feeding her, watching the milk froth up at the mouth, forming little bubbles when the baby had had enough.

  Analee thought she had never known such happiness as she had that week, seeing her sturdy well-formed baby girl, noting how easily it fed, how contentedly it slept, what a happy loving child it was. She held her to her last thing at night and, when she opened her eyes in the morning, she was the first thing Analee saw.

  It was a gypsy custom that the mother gave the baby a secret name, that was not known to anyone, even the father. In her heart Analee called the baby Morella, because that had been the secret name of her own mother. Whatever name the baby was eventually given, only Analee would know the real name, the name given to deceive the spirits, Morella.

  Nelly helped her all week; her mother was recovering well with the potions prescribed by Reyora. Her only fear was that they would be tolerated only for as long as her mother was ill. Brewster was not popular with the men of the Buckland tribe; he was forever after their women.

  A week after the birth Nelly knew that they would soon have to leave. Margaret was walking, and Brewster had begun to make preparations to go north to Scotland.

  She broke the news to Analee, interrupting at a time when Analee was playing with the baby, tickling it under the arms and in the groin and making it reach out its hands towards her as though it wanted more. Its large blue eyes were unfocused, but Morella seemed to know her mother, even to smile for her, though this was scarcely considered possible.

  ‘We have to leave next week.’

  Nelly stood at the entrance to the tent and Analee looked up sharply. Her expression changed from one who had come from a fairytale, delightful world into the real harsh one.

  Nelly thought how beautiful Analee looked with her shining olive skin, sweating now in the heat. Her face was no longer haggard with pain, but rested and rounded with contentment and fulfilment and the good food she had been eating. Her hair which fell about her shoulders shone and the clear eyes sparkled with good humour and the love of motherhood.

  Nelly, undeveloped, emaciated with spotty skin and mousy hair, venerated Analee. She thought she loved her in so far as it was possible for a woman to love another. She wanted to reach out and touch her breasts, and let her hands run over her silky supple skin.

  But now she had to leave. She choked with emotion as she looked at Analee.

  ‘To the border, to Scotland. We all have to go.’

  ‘Can’t you stay? Just you?’

  ‘No. They don’t like us here. The boys have been run out of the town for stealing and Lancelot says they give the camp a bad name. Father is always drunk and abusive and they say he is after the Buckland women. He is lazy, too.’

  ‘But just you. You can stay with me.’

  ‘I cannot. Oh, Analee ...’

  Nelly threw herself against Analee who clasped her, stroking her thin hair and letting her hands run gently over the plain pockmarked face. She felt that Nelly, too, was like a child who needed her as much as Morella did. Nelly was trembling, and then she turned her face to Analee and wept, letting the tears flow unchecked.

  Analee felt the hot tears against her skin and knew how much Nelly loved her, but like a mother. Nelly had never known a real mother’s love. Margaret Driver had always been too harassed by a thousand cares to love or pay any attention to this plain unappealing delicate girl who though a maid and, briefly, even a mother, was unformed and immature.

  Reyora saw them like this. Noted how Nelly clung to Analee. She entered quietly and drew the curtain shut behind her. Analee looked over Nelly’s head towards Reyora and smiled at a woman she had come very much to respect and admire. Reyora had compassion. Of few women she knew could Analee say that.

  Reyora sat beside Analee placing between them a dish of sweetmeats she had brought from the town. She looked at Nelly and wondered if she should ask her to leave, then thought better of it. Analee would need some support.

  Briefly Reyora played with the baby, tickling its tummy and seeing it dimple, then she smiled at Analee and took her hand. Analee was surprised at the gesture, and stared at Reyora, answering the pressure of Reyora’s hand with her own.

  ‘It has been a happy time, Analee, with the baby.’

  ‘Oh yes!’

  She looked closely at Reyora’s face and saw how solemn it was. Her heart began to beat quickly and she put a hand to her breast. ‘Why did you say it like that?’

  ‘I have been thinking, Analee, about all this, not only since the baby was born, but long before. What if it should be blue eyed and golden haired and fair skinned?’

  ‘And ...’ Analee began to understand.

  ‘What would happen when Randal saw the baby?’

  Analee sighed and let her hand fall from Reyora’s. A weight seemed to press on her heart.

  ‘I know. It must happen soon. He sent a message with Nelly that he was preparing the baptism.’

  ‘When Randal sees the baby he will not let her be baptized. He will kill her.’

  Analee’s hand flew to her face, her mouth felt dry; her heart started to pound and she thought she would faint.

  ‘What are you saying?’

  ‘You know Randal Buckland, or rather you should. You have been married to him for nine months. He is a proud stubborn man; a real gypsy. He will know this child is not his and he will not want her.’

  ‘But they would not let him kill her!’

  ‘They might not be able to stop him. They might not even try. You know his temper; his passion. Imagine his outrage, his humiliation at knowing it is the gadjo’s child? That you were carrying it all the time he made love to you? Maybe he will kill you, too.’

  Now Nelly, listening to everythi
ng from the corner, cried out:

  ‘Oh, cohani, do not let this happen to Analee and her baby.’

  Reyora looked at Nelly and then at Analee. It was difficult to put into words what she was thinking.

  ‘Analee, you must go, leave the camp, Analee – tonight. I will take the baby. I will bring her up as my own and once I, the cohani, have said as much, no one will dare touch her. She will be special and apart.’

  Analee felt an involuntary spasm shake her body and suddenly she was looking into a great void. There was just darkness in front of her eyes, emptiness. Somehow she had known it would happen. Such joy was not meant. She had tried to get rid of the baby which she now wanted more than anything on earth – and God was punishing her.

  This was the vengeance of God and Reyora knew it – a blonde, blue-eyed baby when it could just as easily have taken after her and been dark.

  But this had been intended from time immemorial. Analee knew that. She was never meant to be happy, to have a lover or a husband who was tender to her and stayed with her, to have a baby of her own or to belong. She was meant to wander until she died; to roam over the face of the earth, over the mountains and across the valleys just like her people always had. Harried on from one place to another; never allowed to rest.

  Some said it was because the gypsies had offended God, had blasphemed Christ, that they were doomed thus. And she, Analee, without a name, was one of these.

  The darkness disappeared and the faces of Nelly and Reyora became clear again, tender, unsmiling, concerned. The baby Morella gurgled and smiled and reached out for its mother.

  ‘One more time,’ Reyora said, ‘then you must prepare to go. You must go under cover of dark and take the road to the west, over the mountains. You are stronger now, but you must not weary yourself. Rest well.’

  ‘And the baby ... ?’ Analee could not bring herself to look at the child she was leaving.

  ‘I will be her mother. I will look after her well. She will be very special.’

  ‘I have called her Morella,’ Analee said brokenly, ‘after my mother. It is her secret name.’