by R N Merle
John stood with his hands curled in tight fists. Although rage boiled through his veins, he composed himself; any show of emotion on his part, might make the jailor suspicious. ‘What will happen now?’ he asked, his voice sounded strange, not his own.
‘We will keep looking for the body, but I don’t hold out much hope. It’s likely that no one will ever find her, she’ll have been lost to the river, I should expect.’
‘I expect so.’ replied John.
‘Well, I’ll be on my way.’ said the jailor. ‘Good day to you, young sir.’
‘Good day to you.’
The jailor went whistling down the garden path. John grabbed hold of the door frame, and leaned against it heavily, just as Tom and Mrs Day tumbled out of the woods, carrying between them a large willow basket.
‘Take me to her John.’ Mrs Day panted, as she rummaged through the basket full of medicines and tonics.
Daylight faded, and nothing had changed in the fire lit room. Mrs Day had administered every remedy she could think of, gently tipping liquids passed Darklin’s unresponsive lips, and stroking her throat to make sure they were swallowed. She applied tinctures and balms to her bruises, smoothed her hair and talked softly to her. When there was nothing more she could do, she collapsed into a chair by the bed, ready to nurse Darklin through the night.
‘We will have to wait now. See what tomorrow brings.’ she said to John and Bess who sat at the bottom of the bed with grave faces, as the night came on.
In Darklin’s mind, she could see swirling colours, strips of deep greens and thunder cloud blues, spinning in a vortex where nothing made sense. The colours spun above her head, circling upwards. She had to climb, she had to reach them. The higher she climbed, the brighter the colours became; violet and orange and crimson. She strained, fighting with every bit of life she had inside. At last, as the vortex slowed, pink and gold and white patches started to appear out of the blur. The loud hum of the vortex slowly died away, and she heard a voice.
‘Bide awhile, my girl. You’ll be out of the dark soon.’
From then on, the nightmare visions came strongly. Darklin was back at Gressyl’s house, sitting beside the smoking ruins. She couldn’t breathe, the air was too full of smoke. She saw the charred debris begin to move. A grey skinned hand with long black fingernails, rose jaggedly out of the dust and ashes. Then Gressyl came crawling from the ruins, her body strong again, her black eyes wild and flashing. She was coming for her, to punish her for her betrayal. Darklin was helpless and terrified. Gressyl’s cane swooped violently at her head. Darklin screamed.
She woke, and could still hear screaming. Her eyes were open, but the room was dark. She couldn’t make out anything. She shut her eyes again. She felt strong arms holding her, a warm hand delicately stroking her cheek, gently running down the length of her hair…
She was back in the cold water, trying to get to the surface. She could see the white sky above her. Her head bobbed up, and she snatched in air, but the face of the witch hunter leaned over her. His large hand grabbed hold of her head and pushed down hard, plunging her back underwater. She inhaled the river, deep into her lungs, and tried again to surface. This time when she broke through, she saw the ghastly face of the man in the dungeon, his red eyes gleamed as he let out a manic laugh. Darklin pulled her head back under the water, out of his reach. Her lungs were on fire, the river was pulling her away.
She surfaced again, but this time she was floating on her back. She looked at the riverbank. She could make out a figure standing there, behind a wall of wildflowers. It was Annie Sparrow, dressed in white. Her hair was moving in the breeze and she was smiling. Her face was rosy, she was alive. She was waving goodbye, slowly getting smaller as Darklin disappeared downstream.
Darklin opened her eyes. A pair of blue eyes watched her.
‘Darklin?’ she heard, and then slipped back into sleep.
A voice was singing a lullaby. She was a child again, and tucked up in bed. A woman sat beside her, she could see the woman’s face clearly. Warm, dark eyes smiled down at her.
‘Alison? Alison, are you feeling better, my love?’
‘Yes, mother.’
‘You’ve been very poorly.’
‘I know.’
‘You were delirious for a while. You didn’t know where you were, or what your name was. I’m glad you’ve come back to me, safe and sound.’ Her mother laid her hand upon the side of her face and stroked it tenderly. ‘I’m glad you’ve come back.’ she said.
Darklin’s eyes flickered open to a bright room. She lay confused, disorientated, and in a great deal of pain. Her lungs were raw, and it was agony to breathe. She felt feeble and exhausted. Her right hand was numb and tingling. As her eyes adjusted, she slowly began to recognise her surroundings. She was back at Shadows End. Another dream, she thought. She looked down. She was wearing a white nightgown, and she was tucked under a thick quilt, embroidered with flowers.
She attempted to move her arm, but it was somehow trapped. Darklin’s eyes moved further down the bed, and saw the golden head which lay on top of her hand. John. Her heart spilled over with love. She tried again to move her hand, to stir him, but it was firmly pressed between his cheek and his hand.
‘John?’ she breathed. He did not move. ‘John,’ she said, reaching across her body with her free hand. She stroked the soft mass of golden waves. She saw the black bruises along her arms, and trembled. The sweetness of being able to touch him, and the memory of her ordeal, crossed in the same moment, and she became lost in the unbearable convergence of emotions. Tears streamed down her face.
John’s eyes opened at the sound of her sobbing. As he realised that she was conscious, Darklin watched his sleepy, rose-leaf eyes transform, from worry to relief, and finally joy.
‘Darklin.’ he said, as he drew her into his arms.
‘I love you.’ Darklin breathed, without hesitation.
He tenderly kissed her mouth.
‘Am I dreaming?’ she asked.
‘No. Not unless I am.’
Darklin felt safe, but she couldn’t ignore the creeping memories of the crowd.
‘They’ll be coming for me.’ she said in a shaky voice.
John’s hand stroked her spine, easing her panic.
‘It’s been a week. No one else has come looking for you. You are safe.’ he said.
‘The witch hunter, he won’t give up.’
‘He’s gone, Darklin. He’s dead. They found him drowned, trapped under a fallen tree. Bess sent Joseph to find out what had happened. Everybody believes you drowned in the river, too. A few kind souls threw flowers into the river and prayed for you. I promise no one will lay a hand on you again. I won’t let them.’
He held her tightly, with her head pressed against his heart. She felt drowsy with relief. As her eyelids drooped, she whispered, ‘John, my name is not Darklin,…it’s Alison.’
A week later, after tireless nursing, Alison was able to sit upright in bed. All were careful to call her by her real name. They did not press her for details of what had happened, nor how much she knew about her past life.
Mrs Day visited every day, with instructions of what she should eat and when, and how long she should rest. The late October sun streamed warmly through the bedroom window, moving across the bed during the day.
‘Put her in the sun as much as you can.’ Mrs Day told Bess. ‘Dry out her bones a bit. And see that she never gets cold. We’ll have to take great care of her over the winter.’
One grey afternoon, when November had come, Alison stared thoughtfully out of the window, watching fallen leaves swirl and scatter in the garden below. Unnoticed, Mrs Day came quietly into the room, and sat down in the chair by the bed.
‘Alison, love?’ she said gently.
Alison jumped ever so slightly. She smiled warmly when she saw Mrs Day.
‘How are you feeling today?’ asked Mrs Day.
‘A little tired.’ Alison said, ‘It’s the dreams, they w
ake me.’
Mrs Day sighed sadly. ‘We could try putting some daisy roots under your pillow.’ She reached over and brushed Alison’s hair from her forehead, and cupped her face in her hand. ‘They are said to make you dream of your true love. But it’s the wrong time of year, we’d never find any. What are the dreams about?’
Alison shook her head, she didn’t want to say.
‘They are not dreams of your family, like before.’
‘No.’ Alison said. How she would welcome those dreams, she would sleep every minute to have them. Her dreams now were terrifying, dark. Cursed.
‘Of what happened in Fallenoak?’ Mrs Day guessed.
Darklin nodded.
‘That night after the party, did you learn anything from the witch, about your family?’ Mrs Day probed gently.
Alison frowned, and turned on her side. She didn’t want to think about Gressyl. She hadn’t told anyone what had happened. She hadn’t been able to speak of it.
‘Just a name.’ she replied. ‘Trewyth.’
‘Well, we might get more out of her one day.’
‘Gressyl’s dead.’ Alison mumbled, closing her eyes as unpleasant images rushed into her mind. ‘The magic wore out her body.’
Mrs Day was silent for a long time. ‘I see.’
‘I suppose I’ll never find them now.’ Alison said, holding back tears. She wished John was in the room to take her hand, enfold her in his arms.
‘You never know. The mind is a strange old thing. There are days, when I think of my Jack, I go through all my sweet memories of him, but then, once in a blue moon, I’ll remember something different or new; his steady hand as he poured the milk from the jug, or the way he stretched when he was tired. Don’t give up, my girl. There’s plenty of time for you to remember.’
* * *
Slowly, the winter took hold, and gave way to spring. The birds began to sing again, and the roses around Shadows End sprouted with new shoots and tiny buds.
When May came around, Alison was fit enough to walk by herself in the woods. One afternoon, she slowly made her way to Mrs Day’s house. She wore a new, pale yellow dress, and a cream coloured shawl, that was really too warm for the time of year, but Bess had insisted upon it. It had been a long winter for Alison, confined to her bed. The youngest children would join her in the afternoons, and in the early days of her recovery, John had carried her back and forth to the parlour in the evenings, so that she could sit with the family.
Slowly, she had gained back her health and had put on weight. She had been able to start helping Bess again, and had begun to teach the Somerbornes how to read and write. She felt better for having something to do; lying up in her room, she couldn’t help dwelling on what had happened. The dreams had become less frequent, and she tried to concentrate on the present rather than reliving what had passed.
Occasionally, Alison feared that one day, somehow, she might come across someone who would recognise her from that horrific day in Fallenoak. But John and Bess reassured her that so few people ever passed by, or even near Shadow’s End, that it was not likely. ‘People are quick to forget.’ Bess told her, ‘and you look so different now. Nobody would recognise you as that sooty-faced waif. You’re no longer skin and bones, and you are so much taller, and your hair is shorter. With your rosy face, and sweet countenance, no one would ever suspect. Besides, it is impossible that you were the witch. You are our distant cousin, and you were staying with us the whole time.’
But there was still one thing that haunted Alison, one tie binding her to her old life, that she was not sure could ever be broken.
Arriving at Mrs Day’s cottage, Alison found her sitting in the garden. The fawn had grown into a graceful young doe, and was nibbling at the new grass in Mrs Day’s orchard. As it saw Alison, its ears twitched but it continued chewing, watching her with soft brown eyes. Greylady bounded up to her, swinging her long tail joyfully. Alison greeted her, running her hands over the dog’s soft head and neck. ‘Hello friend.’ she said softly.
Mrs Day waved. ‘Well, this is a nice surprise,’ she said, crossing the space between them. ‘How are you, my dear?’
‘I am well, thank you, Mrs Day. But I have something to ask you.’
‘Of course, come inside.’
Alison followed Mrs Day into the cottage, Greylady trailing behind her. As Alison walked into the room, she saw a fox cub curled up asleep in Greylady’s basket. Greylady went to the cub and gently nuzzled it, then turned her attention back to Alison, laying her head on Alison’s knee where she sat by the fireplace.
‘She wants to be everyone’s mother, don’t you, my sweet?’ said Mrs Day, looking fondly at her dog.
‘What will become of the fox? Won’t he go after your birds?’ asked Alison.
‘Oh, I hope not. I perhaps should not have taken him in, but I couldn’t leave him to suffer. I’ll let him go when he’s strong enough. Hopefully he’ll repay my kindness by not attacking my birds.’ said Mrs Day, handing Alison a cup of tea and sitting down next to her.
‘I need to know if Her magic is still inside me.’ Alison blurted out. Her voice was low with fear. ‘I can’t feel it, but I want to be sure.’
‘You want to see the Owl Man?’
Alison nodded.
‘But you know it won’t tell you everything. It is just a part, a glimpse.’
‘Yes, I know. I want to make sure that She is not there.’
Mrs Day sighed. ‘Very well. But I don’t want you to set store by what you see. Do you understand?’
‘I think so.’
‘What I mean is, what you see reflected in the glass is a moment, a point along your road, not a direction you should purposely follow.’
‘I understand.’ said Alison.
‘Come along, then. We shall see him now.’ Mrs Day lit a candle in the fire.
Alison rose to her feet shakily. She followed Mrs Day up the uneven staircase to her bedroom, where the May light gently infiltrated the room. They stood by the dressing table, over which the mirror hung, veiled by the purple curtain.
‘You remember what I told you last time. You must not look behind you. Promise me.’
‘I promise not to look over my shoulder.’ Alison stated earnestly.
Mrs Day lit the candles on the dresser, and drew back the curtain. Alison took a sharp breath as she saw the Owl Man, carved around the looking glass. Her eyes locked with his. She immediately felt his power, and closed her eyes to break the connection.
‘Are you ready?’
Alison nodded. Mrs Day guided her to stand directly in front of the mirror. Alison took a deep breath and opened her eyes. She gazed into the glass. For a long time nothing happened. Then, just as before, the glass grew cloudy. Alison didn’t know if it was because the room was subjected to the spring light, but the smoke in the mirror was now a different colour, more like lavender. It swirled around, seeming uncertain, twisting and rolling in no particular shape. Alison began to think it would never decide. Her eyes turned a fraction toward Mrs Day.
‘Patience!’ Mrs Day chided, and Alison looked once again into the glass.
More colours started to appear, soft gold, and green. The colours swam together, then shapes broke off, still moving, still transforming. Alison blinked. When her eyes opened again, she saw a child, a girl with long waves of dark hair, standing in a field of wild flowers as tall as her waist. She blinked again, and the image was gone. The colours merged and then receded, turning back to violet smoke that crept toward the edges of the glass and disappeared.
Who was she? Grace? A daughter? Her sister? What did it mean?
‘Can I look again?’ Alison asked desperately. Mrs Day hastily blew out the candles, and drew the curtain back over the looking glass.
‘No, it would not be wise. What did you see?’
‘A girl, in a meadow, but only for an instant.’
‘There was no sign of Her?’ asked Mrs Day.
Alison exhaled, then smiled broadly. She
was trembling with emotion, and tears pooled in her eyes. ‘No.’ she said.
‘Come then, let’s forget all about it.’ said Mrs Day, putting her arm around Alison’s shoulders. ‘I’ll give you something to calm the nerves. Camomile, I think. I might have some myself.’
They sat at the kitchen table. Alison was slightly dazed. ‘Do you think something happened to the magic?’ she asked. ‘Could it have hid itself, somewhere deep inside me?’
‘I’m sure there’s nothing left of it. Don’t you worry.’ Mrs Day said firmly.
Alison frowned. ‘But I used it against… Gressyl, then again, when I was in the water.’
‘I can’t say how it happened exactly, but I sensed that it had gone when I first saw you lying on the bed, that dreadful day. Likely, it mistook you being near drowned, for you being dead, and left.’
Alison let the information sink in. Steadily a warm rush of relief swept through her body.
‘It won’t find me again, will it?’
‘No, my love.’
‘And the curse, for breaking my promise?’
‘Forget it. We none of us know what is to come. Who’s to say what happened to you in Fallenoak wasn’t the torment Vardyn sent for you? Don’t waste your time worrying over it. Besides, my Grandmother taught me a fair bit about warding off curses, and she was a very wise woman. I’d wager on her magic over the dark any day. I’d not let anything happen to you. I will make sure that it doesn’t, do you hear?’
Alison nodded, tears of relief streaming down her cheeks. ‘Thank you. I don’t deserve your kindness.’
‘Of course you do. Whatever makes you think that?’
Alison shrugged. She had been a witch, could she ever be truly good?
‘Listen to me, now.’ Mrs Day leaned over, and took Alison’s hand between her own. ‘Look at me. What happened to you, and what you became because of that witch, was not your fault. You were an innocent. She taught you how to be cruel; but that is not what you were when you were born, and that it is not what you are now. Your heart is loving and pure, and you must trust it. You deserve as much love as anyone, if not more.’
