Shaman of Stonewylde

by Kit Berry

  She remembered nothing of her time in the circle. She recalled trying to reach Mother Heggy. She’d tried to picture the crone she’d seen in that brief vision in the Stone Circle back in January, when Magpie had taken her hand so desperately and shared with her what he’d been lucky enough to see. But Mother Heggy had not appeared to her tonight, nor sent any message or revelation. Leveret knew that the shadows that had shrouded Stonewylde for so many months were still there, blighting people’s lives. She felt it her responsibility to help lead the community from the darkness, and yet darkness was all she’d seen tonight, both in the Dolmen and here in the cottage. Why wasn’t Mother Heggy honouring Leveret with her presence? Didn’t she approve of Leveret being the new Wise Woman?

  With a sigh of sorrow, Leveret gazed up at the Blue Moon.

  ‘Mother Heggy, please help,’ she whispered. ‘I want to do your bidding – please show me what to do.’

  She returned to the cottage and closed the door. She roused the sleeping Magpie, who didn’t wake up properly at all, and guided him over to lie down on the thick rug. She put a cushion under his head and covered him gently with a blanket, stroking his hair tenderly. She loved this boy so much and felt the deep connection between them that had always been there. It went beyond love and friendship – it was as if their souls belonged together, side by side, through eternity. He murmured in his sleep but no words came, and Leveret knew they never would. But this no longer mattered, for now he could read and write a little and he could still communicate with her in their special way.

  ‘Sleep tight, dear Maggie,’ she said softly, and went over to blow out the candle on the table. She glanced down at what he’d been drawing in their Book of Shadows whilst she slept in the circle. She was surprised and then amused to see he’d over-written her handwriting with his neater and better-formed lettering. Maybe she should get him a book on calligraphy, she thought, rather than simply concentrating on teaching him the basics of writing. He seemed to appreciate the artistry of fine lettering.

  She leafed through the pages, turning the heavy parchment in the great book that Clip had bought for her. She saw the work they’d added yesterday, when she’d made a decoction for stomach gripes and a gargle for bleeding gums. The old folk at the Hall loved her remedies, and Hazel was happy to recommend them. Leveret noticed the list they’d made of the herbs gathered this evening, before she and Clip went up to the Dolmen, when the moon was waxing full. Magpie’s spelling was definitely improving and he’d learnt how to use the pocket book of herbs and plants to check how to write a word. She was so very proud of him and the way he’d applied himself to learning. She’d always known he wasn’t stupid; it was just language he had a problem with.

  Leveret turned the last page, surprised that he’d added something after the Blue Moon harvest list. What else had he needed to draw? The sight that greeted her on the next pages made her heart leap in her chest and all the air burst from her lungs. Her throat constricted with the shock and her eyes filled with scalding tears.

  Magpie had used his watercolour pencils and a big double page spread to draw a scene from this very cottage. The full moon shone in through the window, patterning the floor. A small figure wearing hare’s fur on her head sat on the flagstones, a hare in her lap and five small candles burning around her on the circumference of the circle. She glowed with a magical aura, giving off a strange green light. In the rocking chair nearby sat a tiny woman, her face ancient and wrinkled. She wore a battered hat and boots, a shapeless old dress with a shawl wrapped around her. She was watching the girl in the circle, and in her gnarled hand she held the athame, whilst the crow with the white tail feather perched on the back of the chair.

  Leveret shuddered as she looked at the fine detail in the drawing, a true record of what Magpie had witnessed that night. Then she looked at what he’d written in bold black ink at the bottom of the page. In his careful handwriting, the spelling obviously gleaned from the wildflower handbook, he’d written two words: Prepare Wolfsbane.

  The moonlight gleamed through the tiny gaps in the heavy canopy, speckling the dry earth with flecks of silver. Where it touched Sylvie’s flesh she glowed, as if sprinkled with tiny stars. Yul traced her smoothness with reverent fingertips.

  ‘I love you so much,’ he said softly. ‘I wish we—’

  She put her fingers across his mouth, not wanting to spoil the magic of the moment with words. She stroked his lips, running her fingers down his jaw and throat, seeking out that hollow she’d only been thinking about earlier. How had this happened? It had seemed so inevitable, once they’d entered the sacred circle of the clearing. The yew had drawn them both under its boughs, weaving its enchantment, igniting their passion all over again.

  Sylvie thought that this must be one of the most perfect moments of her life – her beloved Yul back in her arms, a changed man who still adored her, but had recognised the mistakes he’d made. She knew that things would work out between them now and there’d be no going back to the awful state of estrangement. She sighed happily, pulling him down so she could kiss him again . . .

  Yul felt himself drowning in a slurry-pit of guilt. If only he’d resisted temptation and remained faithful to this beautiful, innocent woman who would never betray him, never smash the trust between them, never destroy the perfect balance and understanding. He felt the breath catch in his throat in a silent sob of remorse . . .

  Martin’s face was contorted into a grimace of contempt. So – the bastard upstart and his whore were reunited, and now doing it under a tree, practically in public view. So much for everything falling into place. He felt bitterly disappointed. At Samhain when they’d summoned in the Stone Circle, and at Imbolc when his mother had sat in the Great Barn laughing at the travesty of Yul’s leadership – then Martin had felt that all would end up right with the world.

  But since then, nothing had happened to hasten the end of Yul’s rule at Stonewylde. Hallfolk had returned but quickly departed, and Yul still held the position of magus. Yul’s sister was being honoured as the next Wise Woman – not to mention Shaman – of Stonewylde, whilst Martin’s poor mother starved in a ruined cottage on the fringe of the community. He himself must treat fools like Cherry and Marigold as equals, and kowtow to the likes of Sylvie. Her treatment of him when she’d discovered Holly and Fennel in the Hall still rankled. She’d spoken to him as one would a servant – he who had more right than Clip to be owner of Stonewylde.

  Now Yul and Sylvie were reunited and the Dark Goddess knew where that would lead. Martin’s mouth hardened into a thin line and his eyes narrowed as he watched them lying there, sated with their disgusting passion. He’d waited long enough; now was the time to make things happen. It was Lammas tomorrow, and Martin made a silent vow that by Samhain he would have destroyed the present regime. At Samhain it would be a year since he and the crones had performed that dark rite in the Stone Circle and called down the elemental forces, tearing open the veil to the Otherworld to summon the dead. He’d waited long enough for his mother’s magic to take effect; the time had come to make it happen himself.

  As Martin left the hushed shelter of the ancient yew and stepped back onto the Village Green, he felt himself hardening with resolve. Nothing would stop him overthrowing the bastard, destroying his wife and family, and ensuring that Stonewylde returned to its former glory, run by the leaders it deserved.

  21

  Maizie whisked the last apple-pie out of the massive range in the Great Barn’s kitchen and passed it to a waiting woman to cut into slices. Scarlet from the heat of the kitchen and the exertion of organising food for so many people, she breathed a sigh of relief. Rosie came in to find her standing at the sink, flushed and sweaty.

  ‘That’s it, Mother,’ she said, bustling over and putting an arm around her. ‘This Harvest Festival is your last feast. At Samhain you’ll be sitting out there and enjoying the food for the first time in years. You’ve done enough – there are plenty of us young ‘uns to organise the
festival feasts.’

  ‘Are you putting me out to grass?’ laughed Maizie, pouring herself a glass of water and gulping it down.

  ‘Aye, I am!’ said Rosie. ‘I been helping you for many a year now and I know what needs doing. I’m taking over the organising and ’tis starting now! You go out there this minute, and sit down and eat something. When they start clearing the tables, you’re to stay put. I’m in charge now!’

  Feeling guiltily relieved to be ousted from her position as queen bee, Maizie untied her apron and went into the Barn. The excited noise from so many people chatting and eating at the long trestle tables rose to the rafters. She stood in the doorway for a minute or two watching the sight before her. It was now the Autumn Equinox and one of the worst harvests they’d had in many years. At the Lammas celebrations seven weeks ago, folk had been worried about the poor quality and yield of the cereal crop ready to be brought in. Then just two days after they’d symbolically reaped the Lammas field and stooked the sheaves prior to starting the harvesting proper, the rains had started. From having virtually no rain all spring and summer – since Imbolc in fact – the skies had opened dramatically and the rain had poured torrentially, almost without stopping, for a week. The weak stalks had collapsed under the driving rain and then the mildew had set in.

  This Harvest Festival was no better, with a poor yield in the orchards, gardens and hedgerows. Everything had been stunted; too deprived of water to grow well and then subjected to rot when the August deluge began. It was sad and depressing, but Maizie had seen enough harvests to understand that the bounty of Mother Earth is never constant. Some years the harvest was overwhelming, but everything works in balance, and this dearth was only to be expected.

  Her eyes roamed along the tables watching the folk she’d known all her life. She located Gefrin, sitting with Meadowsweet’s kin and enjoying himself. What a difference in the lad! He was a proper man now, and looked so much better since he’d had a sweetheart to bring a smile to his face. Maizie liked Meadowsweet and approved of the alliance. The girl wasn’t the brightest of lanterns but then neither was Gefrin, and she seemed to bring out the best in him. Her family lived and worked over the hills at the Tall Trees farm; a good, honest, old-fashioned farming family. As successive children were handfasted, Meadowsweet’s father Holm built or converted a cottage for each one, aided by countless brothers, uncles and cousins. So should they become handfasted, which seemed likely, Gefrin would have a fine cottage to share with his goodwife and the support of her extended family. He’d been labouring there himself since leaving school and they seemed to like him well enough.

  Maizie found Sweyn sitting with Jay and her spirits dropped. She didn’t like her youngest son mixing with him, and nor did she like Sweyn’s behaviour recently. He’d always been a bit rough and boisterous, reminding her more of Alwyn than any of her other children, but lately he’d become very aggressive. He was morose and bad-tempered for much of the time, and mixing with Jay could only make this worse. Maizie wished that he’d find himself a nice sweetheart and turn out like Gefrin. She could see Gregory and Geoffrey with their young families, both lovely men and good fathers, and Robin, Snowdrop and Edrun were further along the table wondering where Rosie had got to.

  Maizie then located Leveret over in the corner sitting with Clip and Magpie. Despite her best efforts, she still couldn’t really bring herself to like the boy. She remembered the old Magpie too well; the boy with the dripping nose and dull eyes who stank of soiled clothes and unwashed body. But she had to admit that the young man with such bright golden hair and gentle ways was a different person altogether, and he and Leveret were as inseparable as ever. If what Leveret said was true – that she would become the Wise Woman – then Maizie knew she’d stick to the old ways and wouldn’t be handfasted. So Magpie would never be her son-in-law, and for that Maizie was silently grateful.

  As she gazed at her youngest child, Maizie felt her heart melting with pride. She was still in the process of mending bridges with Leveret and they were establishing a new relationship. The girl was growing up and entirely independent of her. Maizie had to admit that she’d thrived under Clip’s care. No longer waif-like and miserable, she was bright-eyed and sparkling, her small frame filled out into gentle curves, her hair a long tumble of dark curls. Her skin was tanned from so much time spent out of doors but she was much cleaner than before, and although still dressing like an ancestor, she was now more careful about her appearance.

  Maizie and Leveret had begun to weave her special Wise Woman’s robes from the very finest of flax, grown and retted this year. They’d agreed to have the robes completed for Imbolc when she’d be sixteen and an adult. It seemed fitting that she should officially take on her role then. Much as Maizie had used to sneer, she now had to admit that her little Leveret was perfect for the job of Wise Woman, young though she was. Leveret spent time most days with Hazel learning about medicine, and also with the elderly folk living in the Hall, who shared with her what they knew of the old lore.

  Maizie still regretted that her daughter had turned her back on becoming a proper doctor, but she knew that folk spoke highly of Leveret’s remedies and sought her out when they didn’t want to bother Hazel. Several times Maizie had overheard people talking of her daughter’s cures and healing, and this made her very proud. She’d even accepted that the girl used Old Heggy’s cottage, although she’d yet to venture up there herself. Now, as Maizie watched her daughter in earnest conversation with Clip, she thanked the Goddess that it had all worked out so well after that trouble they’d had earlier in the year.

  But then her gaze fell on her eldest child sitting next to his wife, both in their festival robes. Sylvie was talking to Hazel across the table but Yul sat silently, his face closed. He seemed to be miles away, and Maizie knew him well enough to understand the droop of his head and the scowl on his face. What on earth was the matter with the boy? What more did he want to make him happy? Maizie knew that the Blue Moon on Lammas Eve had marked a turning point for the pair of them. Since that night Sylvie had blossomed; the sparkle was back in her eyes and the spring in her step.

  Maizie knew that she was keen to live with Yul again, for the two women had discussed it. Maizie loved having Sylvie and her granddaughters staying in the cottage, but it had only ever been a temporary arrangement. Sylvie was adamant she wouldn’t go back to the grand apartments in the Hall; she wanted to live in a simple cottage. For some reason Yul was dragging his heels over this. Maizie had suggested they all live with her, which she’d have loved, but although Yul had stayed over a few times he’d declined her offer. Maizie simply couldn’t understand why he hadn’t jumped at the chance to be properly reunited with Sylvie and his girls. Looking at him now, she could see there was something really bothering him. Poor Yul – his life was never simple and her heart, as ever, went out to him.

  ‘Leveret, I really don’t like you working with this stuff,’ said Clip. ‘Do you know how lethal it is?’

  He glared down at the chopped roots on the table, the exposed flesh white and innocent. Leveret was working on a piece of slate and using an old knife from Maizie’s drawer, not wanting to contaminate her sacred knife.

  ‘Of course I do,’ she replied. ‘That’s why I’m wearing thick leather gloves and why I’ll dispose of the knife and slate afterwards.’

  ‘But why harvest it at all?’

  ‘Because it was the one message I received from Mother Heggy at the Blue Moon. I’ve waited until autumn, as I read that’s when the roots are most full of aconitine. That’s the actual poison in Wolfsbane.’

  ‘I think you’ve made a mistake,’ said Clip. ‘Mother Heggy would never tell you to harvest Wolfsbane. Why would she do that? Just preparing the concoction could kill you, let alone swallowing any of it.’

  ‘It’s not a concoction, it’s a tincture. See the alcohol? I’m adding these chopped roots to the alcohol in this flask, and when it’s steeped enough I’ll transfer it to this vial. I’ve
already labelled it and marked it “Poison”. Honestly, Clip, please don’t treat me as if I were a fool. I’m well aware of just how lethal this is and I know there isn’t an antidote.’

  ‘Alright – I’m just concerned for your wellbeing. Are you absolutely sure Mother Heggy wanted you to prepare this? I find it hard to believe she’d direct you to poison anyone.’

  Leveret shrugged. She’d wondered the same thing but the message in the Book of Shadows was unequivocal. She’d tried to question Magpie about it but communication that specific was difficult. He’d beamed when she’d asked about his lovely drawing of Mother Heggy and had pointed to the rocking chair and nodded. Clearly he’d seen the crone that night as Leveret sat inside the circle in a trance. But when she’d pointed to the entry below the picture – “Prepare Wolfsbane” – he’d merely looked puzzled.

  But Leveret had enough faith in Mother Heggy to believe that she must do this, and it was bad luck that Clip had arrived right in the middle of it. He’d immediately recognised the distinctive Aconite flowers and leaves, which she’d also harvested to give the tuberous roots extra potency. She felt uncomfortable preparing something so lethal, not wanting to be like Old Violet with her poisons, but was sure there must be a good reason for it.

  ‘Please, Leveret, promise me you’ll keep this stuff hidden well away. Imagine if Celandine or Bluebell were to find it accidentally when they visit? Or if Hare were to find a morsel of the root?’

  ‘That’s why I didn’t bring Hare up here today. When I’ve finished I’ll sweep the floor and table very thoroughly and then scrub them. And of course I won’t keep the tincture where I store my remedies. I’d planned on putting it in Mother Heggy’s hidey-hole – you remember that secret shelf up inside the chimney? Nobody except me and Magpie knows about that place, and it’ll be safe in there until I discover why she wanted me to make it.’