In Fallen Woods

by R N Merle

  Over the next few days, Darklin watched over the house. Every day, John returned and tried his best to rid the house of its unwelcome guests. One day he brought cats. He tried ratters, poultry to eat the insects, smoke to clear the rooms, all to no avail. As days passed, John’s face grew more confused, more concerned, and Darklin took more pleasure in watching him. She traced the shadows that darkened his eyes; at last, misery seemed to have touched him. Darklin felt a grin slide across her face, her peace of mind returning for the first time since she had set eyes on him. She felt the influence of her power, and revelled in it. If this was what being a witch was like, perhaps she could find the courage to go to Fallenoak after all…

  After a week had passed, Bess and the boys came with John to the house. From the wood, Darklin listened to their conversation carried on the wind.

  ‘Mrs Day is sure it will work, and it can’t do any harm to try.’ Bess said.

  ‘I suppose not.’ said John.

  ‘I told her about the things that went missing, and now this, and she swears it is not natural. I agree with her, John. It is too strange. And it would explain why they didn’t take the coral. It is charmed against witches and things.’

  ‘I heard Mrs Pottle say that Mrs Day is a witch.’ said the elder of the two young boys.

  ‘Hush your mouth, Tom. You should not go around repeating unkind gossip, especially about one of our dearest friends.’

  The boy looked sheepish. ‘Sorry, Bess.’

  ‘Very well, don’t do it again.’

  ‘I seen a witch.’ The smallest boy piped up. ‘I saw her in the trees. Dressed in black she was.’

  Darklin gasped; her body struck rigid. She strained her ears, and leaned forward.

  ‘You need not worry, James. Witches of that kind don’t really exist.’ John said as he gently ruffled the small boy’s curls. ‘They are only in stories.’

  ‘You shouldn’t go about calling people witches, either of you,’ chided Bess lightly. ‘‘Tis not kind. It’s not long since folk used to go about killing lonely old ladies they imagined were witches, because they thought them old and ugly. It’s not wise to start rumours.’

  Darklin exhaled, then smiled at the Somerborne’s ignorance.

  ‘If witches don’t exist, why are you putting a charm up?’ said Tom.

  John and Bess shared an awkward look. Bess sighed. ‘I don’t know, Tom. What has happened is probably just bad luck, in which case, it can’t do no harm to try it.’

  Before the family left, Darklin saw Bess hang something on the door, but she could not make out what it was. Darklin waited until long after the family had gone, and then approached the house. She went immediately to the front door, and found a kind of wreath, entwined with sage, lavender and holly, hanging from a shiny new nail. If they think a bundle of dried leaves, tied with white ribbons is going to help them, they are more foolish than I anticipated, Darklin thought, as she snorted in contempt, and idly fingered one of the leaves. The sharp point of a holly leaf pierced her skin, and she abruptly drew her hand away. She put her finger in her mouth and tasted blood.

  Darklin left the wreath where it was, and went over to the parlour window, knowing what she would find would give her pleasure. She cupped her hands to the glass. Inside, the insects were crawling over the floor, furniture and ceiling, just as they should. But as Darklin watched, they began to group together and move collectively in the same direction. The pace of their journey was extremely slow, but Darklin could see a steady flow of them were creeping out of an open window on the opposite side of the room.

  Darklin shook her head in disbelief, sure she was imagining it, but the wriggling black sea was diminishing before her eyes.

  ‘No!’ Darklin cried, banging on the glass with her fists, as if she could command them. ‘No!’

  She ran around to the other side of the house, and slammed the window shut. She could hear a steady hum above her head. The wasps and hornets were flying out of the chimney, turning the sky grey with their gathered mass. She looked back inside the parlour. The insects were escaping through any crevice they could find, following the wasps out of the chimney, and pouring out of an upstairs window. Darklin stared in horror.

  Suddenly, she was distracted by the perception of movement in the corner of her eye. She turned her head an inch. A brown spider the size of a mouse, was poised on her shoulder. For a moment Darklin was petrified, only able to take in the twitch of its long substantial legs. Then she screamed and wildly jerked her arm, hoping to flick it away. But the spider crawled closer to her face, each of its legs moving with steady independent precision towards her neck. Darklin screamed again, the volume failed, the sound she made instead broke into a high whimper.

  She plucked madly at her cloak, but the spider became still as though it was pretending to be dead. Darklin drew a shaking right hand up to her neck and swiped the spider away with as much violence as she could muster. She watched it fall to the ground, and quickly stamped on it. Instantly relieved, she felt foolish for reacting so strongly; it wasn’t as if she had never picked up a spider before.

  She drew her hand across her cloak, trying to wipe away the unpleasant sensation of touching the spider, but the material was not smooth and familiar. She could feel the shape and texture of other creatures. Almost afraid to look down, she saw her cloak was alive with small black bodies.

  In the instant before she could move, Darklin became aware of how every surface around her had blackened into a quivering, humming, river of life. The glass at the window, the walls of the house, the ground at her feet, everywhere; insects. Darklin fled, sprinting over the writhing grass and back into the woods. When she thought she was a safe distance from the farmhouse, she skidded to a halt.

  Shuddering violently, she tore at the cord around her neck to release her cloak. When it fell to the floor, she took three steps away from it. She couldn’t get rid of the vile sensation of disgust, the feeling that made her want to flap her arms and trample the ground, that made her face twist and distort. She bit down on her lip to stop herself screaming, or worse whimpering. She took a deep breath and combed her hands through her hair, then swept them down the length of her body. The insects dropped one by one to the floor, and when Darklin was sure she was free of them, she did her best to stamp on as many as she could. She shook her cloak vigorously, checked her hood and pockets, then tied it back around her neck.

  When she had composed herself, Darklin went cautiously back to Shadows End. Many of the insects had dispersed, though there was still a covering of them on the grass, which Darklin widely avoided. She went again to the door where Bess had hung the wreath. She considered it a moment, then grabbed one of the ribbons and pulled. It was only hanging by a nail, yet it would not move. Darklin scowled deeply, her eyes wild with anger. She tried again, taking a firmer grasp. The holly leaves jabbed into her skin. Darklin flinched and snatched her hand away. It had pricked her, but the pain was different; it felt like she had been burned, like her hand was on fire. She nursed it against her chest and blew gently on her skin. When she looked down at her hand, there were no visible burn marks.

  She shook her head in disbelief. She covered her hand with her cloak and tried once more. When the cloth of her cloak touched the wreath, a wisp of smoke enveloped it, and Darklin felt red hot heat, as if she had driven her hand into a furnace.

  ‘Not possible.’ she hissed. She turned away unsteadily, went back to the window and nervously peered inside. The creatures were almost gone. The room appeared as though they had never entered the house at all. Darklin’s heart pounded, but she tried not to panic. She could recast the spell overnight, and John would find the house full of insects tomorrow, the same as he had today. Her magic was stronger than the superstitious bundle of twigs and leaves hanging on the door, she was almost sure.

  In the dead of night, Darklin again looked in through the window to make sure she had not dreamt what had happened that afternoon. Though the room was dark, she could
see the insects had vanished. She went to the window sill where she had planted her curse, and re-drew the same symbol. She walked back into the woods, finding the exact place where she had stood to cast the first spell, and took out her wand.

  She closed her eyes and began to chant. The grey smoke appeared, just as it should. With one eye open, she watched it drift toward the house, but when it reached the stone walls, it rebounded back towards her, and dispersed into the wood. Her heart sunk, her hope of success draining away with every heartbeat. She finished the spell anyway and waited, trying not to think of how different it had been the last time she had performed it. After a few minutes of waiting with little expectation, she accepted it was not going to work, and turned back with a heavy ache of defeat.

  The next night, Darklin used the hours she was supposed to be in Fallenoak waiting by the water pool, trying to track the time until she could safely go back to the witch’s house. She didn’t let herself think of what might be going on at Shadows End, how they would be celebrating returning to their home. They wouldn’t be happy for long, she told herself. She blocked the Somerbornes out of her head, and rehearsed what she would say to Gressyl.

  Back at the house, as Darklin hung up her cloak, she sighed loudly. She turned to Gressyl, and found her looking in her direction.

  ‘Come and tell me what you have done.’ Gressyl commanded.

  Darklin crossed the room and knelt by Gressyl’s chair, creasing her face into a frown, trying to look as confused and frustrated as she felt.

  ‘My magic did not work.’

  ‘What?’ Gressyl cried, putting her hand to her chest.

  ‘I could not make my spell work.’ Darklin replied, her voice beginning to quaver.

  ‘What spell were you trying to do?’ Gressyl demanded.

  ‘A spell of infestation, to get the Vining family out of their house. But when I cast the spell, the magic seemed to come back toward me.’

  Gressyl’s eyes darted back and forth in the space over Darklin’s head, their black intensity bleak with despair.

  ‘I noticed they had put some kind of wreath on the door.’

  ‘Describe it.’ Gressyl snapped.

  ‘It was made of holly, herbs and ribbons.’

  Gressyl took in a deep breath and leaned back in her chair. She closed her eyes and was silent. Darklin fiddled with her boot lace, grinding her teeth in impatience. After some moments Gressyl opened her eyes and said, ‘They have used a charm against your magic. It is not often folk know how these days. They think it’s meddling in the occult, that it’s some kind of devilry. But there are a few wise ones left who know the truth of such charms.’

  ‘How can I get rid of it?’ Darklin asked.

  ‘There is nothing you can do about it, if there is a charm on the house no magic will work on it.’

  ‘But our powers…’ Darklin stuttered, ‘Surely ours are greater than theirs.’

  ‘Not always. It depends on the charmer’s knowledge and skill. In this case she has bettered you. You had best go and think of another way to get at them.’

  Darklin was enraged, her blood boiled with anger. She did not want Gressyl to notice, so she nodded and quickly went to sit at the table. Who was this Mrs Day whose magic was so strong? After she had finished with the Somerbornes, Darklin knew exactly whom she would be going after next, and she would pay dearly for her interference.

  She put her face in her hands and closed her eyes. What could she do now to the Somerbornes? If she could not take away their possessions, or their security, what else made them happy? What was the source of their contentment? What was their secret delight?

  She imagined herself as one of them, living through a day in that house, with the family. What would she find pleasure in? They certainly seemed to laugh a great deal, but Darklin could not imagine that happiness was found in laughter for its own sake. You could not enjoy laughing if you were not happy to begin with. She had seen the way they spent their days; John worked in the fields and woods, and looked after the animals; Bess did the house work and tended the garden, the smaller children helped when they could. She could find no joy in this either.

  She closed her eyes and thought again. She was about to dismiss the idea that they found happiness in living together as impossible, but something caught in her brain. She realised there might be happiness in being near one of them, the one who had so captivated her. She had an idea that seeing him every day was something that might be akin to joy, even if it was a false, deceptive joy.

  She had found the answer. John. He was the source of their happiness. He was the one that made them content. He lifted their spirits when they had fallen. He was the one they waited for to return home each day. It made perfect sense to her now. Wasn’t he the one she hated most? From the first day, she had been cursed by him, drawn by his dangerous beauty. It had been him that had trapped her, coaxed her toward the torment.

  As she pictured him in her mind, strolling through the long grass, lying in the sun, sitting in the light of the fire, standing in the rain, she was struck by how foolish she was to have forgotten that he was her enemy all along. A vicious ripple of the torment clawed through her. She had been distracted by his family; all the time she had been going after them, she should have been going after him.

  She saw vividly that it was right to hate him. Her anger intensified, as if she had been struck by a thunderbolt of fury. She could barely contain it; she could feel the blood burning beneath her skin, and she bit down on her tongue to silence a scream of rage. It was pure, lethal energy.

  ‘What is the worst curse you know of?’ she heard a voice that sounded like hers, only hoarser, asking.

  Gressyl, who was slumped in her chair looked up, and smiled, a flicker of pride momentarily flashed in her eyes. Darklin caught a glimpse of her small blackened teeth and tried not to react; she had never seen her smile before. Gressyl thought for a moment, her eyes clouding in such a way that Darklin thought she was remembering something painful.

  ‘We do not deal in death,’ Gressyl said eventually. ‘Suffering is our art. However, there is one curse we can use, when we feel it is necessary, but I do not think you are ready for it yet.’

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘You cannot end a human life, directly. But you can end their life as a human.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ asked Darklin.

  ‘You can change them, into any creature you think fitting.’

  ‘I could turn him into an animal?’ asked Darklin.

  ‘It is possible. But it takes enormous skill, only a talented witch can do it. A shape shifting spell would have to be cast under a witching moon, and this makes it a risk. You might be seen. And if the spell is not successful, it leaves you vulnerable. You must be sure this is the right course of action, and that there is no evidence of your part in it. And consider, once they have been turned, they can never be changed back.’

  Darklin let out her held breath. She already felt relieved just knowing there was something she could do; something as extreme as the way she felt, an act worthy of her hatred.

  ‘Who is it for?’ Gressyl demanded.

  ‘The apothecary.’ Darklin spluttered, then added, ‘But I do not think I am ready to use that curse. I will think of something else.’

  She did not want Gressyl offering her help or asking too many questions.

  Darklin turned back to the spell book, pretending to look through it. There was much she had to consider. It was a complex curse, full of risks. In truth, she wasn’t sure she was ready to perform such a spell. She wasn’t sure if she had any talent, let alone enough for it to be successful. Even if she could make it work, aspects of the curse were fraught with danger. A witching moon, when the moon was fully round and bright in the sky, was only usually used for potion making. Under a bright moon, it was far too dangerous to go to places where they might easily be seen. In addition, once she had committed to the spell, there was no going back. And if the spell did not work, he might
see her, and there would be no way of explaining away the circumstances. He would have to be silenced, and forever.

  But there was also much to be gained. He was destroying her. She had barely had a moment’s peace since she had first seen him. She was trapped and cornered by the torment, and in desperate need to be free of it.

  The idea of not having to see him; to have a mind clean of thoughts of him, was bliss. To be cured of the disease of the Somerbornes. One spell, would be enough. And after it had been done, there would be freedom, the joy of revenge, and the pleasure she would find in the lost faces of the remaining Somerbornes. She would have the satisfaction of knowing her power was strong, that she was a skilled and talented witch. If it worked, then nothing would hold her back.

  She turned the pages of the book, to see if there was another spell which would satisfy her need, without the level of risk. She considered a few, but none had the same impact or finality. When she reached the very last page of the book, she found it. The shape-shifting spell, and a mark of six black pentagrams. The hairs on the back of her neck stood on end. She looked behind her to ensure that Gressyl wasn’t anywhere near, then read through the spell with wide eyes, tracing the black ink with her finger.

  A Shape Shifting Spell- A Spell to use at Despair’s end.

  For man or woman, (half for a child) gather,

  1 Twig of Rowan Wood,

  A handful of Hemlock,

  13 Leaves of Tormentil,

  7 of Vetivert,

  27 Pairs of Dragonfly Wings,

  3 Thimbles of Moonwort,

  5 roots of Enchanter’s Nightshade,

  A Witch’s spoon of Boneshrink Moss

  The Tooth of a March Hare

  55 chrysalis of moth.

  The drained blood of the creature you intend for the victim,

  1 pinch of Uther’s Knot.

  Underneath a hawthorn tree, in the darkest hour of the night, draw into the earth the mark of Vardyn. In the centre, place a clay vessel and put inside each item in the order of the list. Repeat the words of the curse