The Witch’s Daughter

by Paula Brackston

  I put myself to the task of unpacking the last of the boxes. There is something comforting in the sight of well-stocked shelves, so that by the time I had positioned the last of the storage jars of pickled beetroot I had shaken off my earlier melancholy. The gleaming rows of glass and provisions suggested order and security. This evening I lit only candles in the kitchen and sat by the stove with the fire door open, watching a log of apple wood burn. The sight of it warmed me as much as any heat it might have given out. I was dressed, as is my habit through the winter months, in layers of comfortable clothing—a fine silk vest, soft woolen tights, cotton shirt, a heavy cord skirt that skims the floor, and two light sweaters. My sealskin boots were given me by an Inuit fisherman during my time spent in the great ice plains of the north. I peeled off a wool-mix knit. The yarn crackled as I tugged the garment over my head. Small sparks fizzed between the fibers and my hair, visible in the semi-darkness to a keen eye. I turned to the table and set some oil to warm in the burner. Rosemary. Soon the room was filled with the uplifting fumes. As it always did, the scent made me think of my mother. Her eyes were blue as the flowers of the plant, and her presence as powerful and restorative as the essence of the herb. Even now I can see her patiently showing me how to bind bundles of the twiggy stems together and hang them up to dry. I could have been no more than six years old. She would stand behind me and wrap her arms around mine, leaning forward to help my fumbling fingers. I was enfolded in her limitless motherly love, and I would breathe in her own sweet smell. She had such patience. Such tenderness. Such determination to teach me all that she knew, to share with me all her wonderful knowledge. It is the cruelest of the torments of my great age that grief does not abate, not beyond a certain level. It merely continues, my only companion across oceans of time.

  FEBRUARY 13, 2007—MOON ENTERS CAPRICORN

  Still cold, but the frost is weakening. I ventured into the village today. I was aware I had been putting it off. Whilst I do not wish to encourage more than the most basic of acquaintance with my neighbors, I know it to be a mistake to remain completely distant. To be a recluse is to be mysterious beyond the endurance of villagers of this modern age. Better to allow a polite exchange of nods and hellos and discourse about the weather. I strive to be dull in my conversation, even to the point of rudeness if it is unavoidable. I will impart only sufficient information for those with an interest to construct a dry history for me. That way I may be left in relative peace. However, I had not reckoned upon finding the teenage girl in the village shop when I went there to buy some simple groceries. Clearly not put off by my curtness during our previous meeting, she seemed pleased to see me.

  ‘How’s the hedge?’ she asked.

  ‘Taking shape slowly, thank you.’

  ‘Are you going to paint the outside of the house?’ she asked. ‘I saw one like that once done in light blue with white windows and a navy door. Like a fairy-tale house. That’d be fab.’ She faced me, eyes bright with her idea.

  I wondered at her interest in the place. She was on her own as before. Had she no friends in the village? In my experience, teenage girls rarely did anything alone. I reminded myself she too was a newcomer and might not yet have had time to make friends.

  ‘I hadn’t thought,’ I told her. ‘The color of the walls is not hugely important to me.’ I went about my shopping, hoping that would be the end of it, but she trailed after me up and down the aisles like an over-eager flower girl.

  ‘Have you got a dog? Great garden for a dog, with those woods at the back. Mum won’t let me have one. Says the hairs would clog up the vacuum.’

  ‘No. No dog.’ I took a bag of brown sugar from the shelf.

  ‘Oh, I like brown. Especially the crunchy stuff. On cereal. Do you like cereal? It’s over here, look. Honey Crunch or Cocosnaps? No, someone skinny like you’d be more into muesli, I reckon. Do you like muesli?’ She held up a packet, beaming now.

  I looked at her levelly.

  ‘You ask too many questions,’ I said, moving toward the counter, keen to be gone.

  ‘That’s what Mum says. But then, how can I learn anything if I don’t ask questions?’

  ‘That’s another one.’

  ‘Yeah, I suppose I just can’t help myself.’ She giggled, a joyful sound, like spring rain falling into a dew pond.

  A tightness gripped my chest as I realized it was not my younger self the girl reminded me of, aside from her age. It was Margaret, my dear sweet baby sister. Margaret of the light step and easy laughter. Margaret who adored me as much as I did her. Yes, there was something about the openness and innocence of this girl that had also been at the heart of Margaret’s character. I nodded hello and thank you to the shopkeeper and handed over my money. As I turned to go, the girl stood looking at me, blocking my path to the door, as if waiting for something.

  ‘Shouldn’t you be at school?’ I asked.

  ‘Teacher training. We get the day off to study at home.’

  ‘Then shouldn’t you be at home, studying?’

  The girl had the good grace to blush. ‘I came in to get a Valentine’s card,’ she said, ‘only I can’t choose. Look.’ She pointed to the display near the counter. ‘Funny, sexy, or romantic—what d’you reckon?’

  ‘That rather depends on whom it’s for.’

  She blushed deeper and studied her feet.

  ‘Michael Forrester.’

  ‘Well, what is Michael Forrester like?’

  ‘He’s wicked. Everybody likes him. Especially the girls. And he’s brilliant at sports. Athletics, rugby, swimming. Wins everything. He’s so cool.’

  ‘His ego must be sufficiently inflated already, by the sound of it. I should save your money.’

  ‘Oh no, he’s really nice. He held the door open for me once. And he said hello.’

  ‘And how long have you been carrying a torch for this paragon?’

  ‘What? Oh, dunno. Only met him last month, didn’t I?’

  Her voice had dropped to a whisper, and her whole demeanor told of the torture of unrequited love. She was pretty enough but clearly lacked confidence. And something else. There was an absence of worldliness about her, despite her sham bravado, which, while strangely appealing to an adult, must have been a handicap for her among her peers. I saw now how solitary the girl must be. She did not fit in. She was an outsider. At that moment, with her guard down, loneliness emanated from her in painful ripples. The sound of the shop doorbell saved me from having to advise her further.

  ‘Morning, Mrs Price. Tegan, how are you, my dear? How is your mother? Ah, our newest new neighbor, forgive me for not having called in to welcome you to Matravers before now.’

  I looked round to see a stout, bearded man offering me his hand. His eyes shone with the love of life, and his smile was broad and sincere, but the very sight of him made my temples pound. It was not his fault. How could he know how the presence of a priest would affect me? How could he ever imagine the fury that his Church ignited within me? The same Church that had condemned my mother and taken her from me. I took a breath to steady myself, but the smell of communion wine lingered on his vestments. Still his hand remained extended toward me. He waited. The girl waited. Mrs Price behind the counter waited. Such a small moment, and yet it would define my position in the village for as long as I live here. I straightened my shoulders and mustered a smile, clutching my purchases to me.

  ‘Sorry,’ I said, indicating my packages.

  ‘Oh, not to worry.’ He smiled on and dropped his hand, ‘I’m Donald Williamson. You’ll find me at the vicarage most evenings. Feel free to drop in; Mary would love to meet you.’

  ‘Thank you. I’m busy unpacking at the moment, but I’ll keep it in mind.’ I began to edge past him, struggling with the revulsion such proximity to one of his kind inspired in me.

  ‘Any time,’ he called after me as I reached the door, ‘and hope to see you on Sunday. Ten o’clock. All are welcome.’

  I shut the door on his further entreaties an
d strode for home. Even after all this time I found it near impossible to conceal my feelings for an official of the Church. I had good reason to feel the way I did, but even so I was angry with myself. It was foolish not to be more in control and ridiculous to experience such fierce emotions toward every harmless reverend who crossed my path. Before I had reached the other side of the village green, I was assailed by a strong sense of foreboding. Unsettled as I was by the meeting with the priest, I recognized this to be a separate threat. I stopped. I lifted my chin and slowly looked about me. There was nothing to be seen. Not a movement. Not a shadowy figure. Nothing out of the ordinary. Silent thatched cottages. A quiet terrace. An empty bus stop. Ducks quacking with reassuring vulgarity on the pond. Nothing to be frightened of. Nevertheless, it was with no small amount of relief that I reached the sanctuary of Willow Cottage and closed the door swiftly behind me.

  FEBRUARY 17, 2007—NEW MOON

  Clear skies for my first day of trading at Pasbury market. I was up before dawn to load the car with my produce. The vehicle is, by any standard one cares to judge, a mixed blessing. It is an elderly Morris Traveller—small and cheap to run but with a roomy boot and helpful rear doors to allow me to transport my herb teas, oils, lotions, soaps, preserves, and wine hither and thither. It necessitates, however, the most tiresome paperwork. It is impossible to own a car and guard one’s identity at the same time. Every few dozen years I am compelled to reinvent myself, largely to be able to comply with the requirements of traffic laws. Nevertheless, I admit to a certain fondness for the vehicle itself. I rarely travel far, but without the car my market trading would be difficult, and the stall is an essential way of generating income. And of allowing those who need me to find me, of course. Even in this supposedly enlightened Age of Aquarius, I am unable to put a sign on the door saying WITCH—SPELLS AND POTIONS FOR EVERY OCCASION. No. I must adjust and adapt and present myself with a more … acceptable face to the outside world. The car was reluctant to start but responded to a spell. I left the engine running while I finished loading and secured the doors with string. I was locking up the house when I heard the motor stall. Without thinking, I focused, made myself still, and repeated my spell. There was a moment’s hesitation, and then the engine sprang into life once more and chugged on happily. It was only when I returned to the vehicle that I noticed Tegan standing at my gate, her expression all too clearly revealing that she had witnessed my remote motor mechanics. She grinned, her eyes bright. I pushed past her and secured the gate.

  ‘If you’ll excuse me, I’m in rather a hurry,’ I told her.

  ‘Where are you going?’

  ‘Pasbury, and if I dally, I shall be late setting up my stall.’

  ‘In the market? Cool. Can I come?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘To Pasbury. With you. I could help.’

  ‘I manage perfectly well on my own, thank you.’

  ‘Go on. You don’t have to pay me. Just give me a lift and I’ll help you unload this lot.’ She nodded at the boot of the car before stooping to peer through the rear window. ‘What’s in there, anyway?’

  I looked at the girl. As always, she was wearing too few clothes for the chill weather and had about her a lostness that I could not ignore.

  ‘What are you doing up at this hour?’ I asked.

  She shrugged, ‘Mum woke me up coming in off her night shift. Couldn’t get back to sleep. Mum was out like a light.’ She kicked at a small stone. ‘I didn’t feel like staying cooped up in there with no one to talk to.’

  ‘Won’t your mother wonder where you are?’

  ‘No.’

  I sighed. I would really rather not have had the company of a garrulous adolescent, but she was hard to refuse. ‘Get in. And don’t fiddle with anything, especially the door handle. It keeps coming … there! What did I say?’

  ‘Sorry.’

  ‘And put your seat belt on. The last thing I need is the attention of some nosey policeman.’

  The town of Pasbury is unremarkable but adequately supplied with shops and services. The market itself is, in truth, a lackluster affair. A mixture of worthy food, antiques of dubious provenance, pet supplies, heavily glazed china, and clothes that have had their labels excised. I had secured for myself a modest pitch, but in a good position at the bottom of the high street, where most shoppers would pass on their way to and from the car park and bus stop. Tegan put herself to good use helping me set up, apparently in no hurry to leave me. She showed an interest in my stock. So much so that I was quickly weary from explaining things to her. I gave her a handful of coins.

  ‘Go and buy us hot drinks,’ I told her. No sooner had she gone than a young woman parked her stroller at the stall and leaned over to scowl at the oils. There emanated from her such agitation, such anger, that I took a step backward. I noticed purple discoloration where her cheekbone met her hairline. She saw the direction of my gaze and turned to let her hair swing forward, but she knew that I had seen the bruise. Her babe was red-eyed but slept on in his stroller.

  ‘What’s that for, then?’ the girl demanded, prodding at bags of rosemary leaf.

  ‘It is helpful for rheumatism. And to ease period pains. The leaves make a tea.’

  ‘Tea? It smells disgusting. How do you use this?’

  ‘That is an aloe vera unction. A balm for burns, stings, that sort of thing.’

  She dropped the pot back on the table. I pitied the poor creature, so young yet clearly so unhappy. I pointed to a bottle of bergamot oil.

  ‘This is very good for lifting the spirits.’

  ‘Huh! Give me a rum and Coke any day.’

  ‘And this gets rid of negative energy.’

  ‘Have you got one for getting rid of cheating bastard husbands?’

  Now I understood. I fetched a small blue glass bottle from the box I kept on my side of the table. The label bore only the picture of a half moon.

  ‘You might like to try a few drops of this.’ I handed it to her, and she peered at it suspiciously. ‘It makes a person more … considerate,’ I explained.

  She laughed, then caught my eye.

  ‘How much?’

  ‘See if it works first. You can pay for the next one if you’re happy with the results.’

  My first day of trading in Pasbury went slowly, but I detected a certain interest. I have found it often takes time for people new to my wares to pluck up the courage to buy them. No matter. Time is something I have in abundance. Tegan stayed with me the whole morning, only reluctantly agreeing to catch the bus home after I insisted she do so. I do not want to attract her mother’s disapproval, and I was aware the girl had not asked permission to leave the village. I paid for a pie for her lunch and gave her the busfare back to Matravers. She claims to be keen to accompany me every Saturday. We shall see.

  FEBRUARY 24, 2007—FIRST QUARTER

  The holly saplings I ordered were delivered this morning, and the ground is at last soft enough to work on. I spent a productive hour planting in the gaps I had cleared and am pleased with the results. I have long reconciled myself to being able only to garden in the short and mid term, as I know I will not be able to stay anywhere long enough for more than this. Still, slow growing as they are, the feisty holly bushes will knit well with the rest of the hedge in a few months. And I have the satisfaction of knowing they will survive long after I have moved on. Holly is one of the most protective plants to set about a garden, and I would not be without it. Whilst not sufficient on its own to guarantee safety, it forms a powerful part of my Wicca arsenal. Later, I unpacked my supply of herbal sachets and hung sweet herbs inside the doors and windows of the cottage.

  FEBRUARY 26, 2007—FIRST QUARTER

  The weather has turned unseasonably mild, sending bulbs into frantic activity, which they may regret when the frost returns. I have seized the moment and dug over the kitchen garden. The steady toil required to turn such a large area of patchy lawn into beds lifted my spirits. Impossibly ancient I may be, yet I am suff
iciently blessed to retain youthful health and vigor. After a morning’s effort, I had stripped to my shirtsleeves, and my skirt was hemmed with mud. The soil here is good—loamy and free draining but not so much so as to have difficulty retaining water. I must resist the temptation to plant too early. This is but a false spring. It is curious how my long march through the years on this planet has done nothing to teach me patience. My mother used to chide me for my lack of it, and I still fret and fidget when compelled to wait longer than seems reasonable.

  It was while I was leaning on my fork that Tegan arrived at my side. I was startled by her sudden appearance but far more disconcerted that I had not heard her approach. I saw she had abandoned her silly boots and was wearing trainers instead.

  She noticed me jump.

  ‘Sorry. I rang the doorbell; then I heard you digging. Wow, have you done all this yourself? You must be exhausted.’

  Despite myself, she made me smile.

  ‘I enjoy a little hard work now and again,’ I said. ‘Do you like gardening?’

  She shrugged, ‘Never done any, really. Unless you count growing cress on the kitchen windowsill.’

  ‘It’s a start, I suppose.’

  Again, the girl seemed to be waiting for something. She certainly must be a friendless soul to come looking for the company of a stranger on a mild afternoon, when other teenagers would no doubt be in a gaggle somewhere. I held out my fork.

  ‘Here, you try.’

  She grinned, then took it from me. She stabbed ineffectually at the earth, her face registering surprise at how little impact she made. She tried again.

  ‘Lean your weight onto the fork. Look, like this,’ I leaned over and repositioned her hands, showing her how to use her body to drive the tines into the ground. She giggled, that indomitably cheerful sound again, and did as I instructed. It was clear she was a quick learner, and soon she had picked up a rhythm and was making slow but steady progress through the sward.