Daughters of the Witching Hill

by Mary Sharratt

  Three Biters hast thou bitten

  The Heart, ill Eye, ill Tongue:

  Three bitter shall be thy Boot:

  Father, Son, and Holy Ghost,

  In God's name.

  And then, before Master Holden's unbelieving eyes, I chanted five Pater Nosters, five Ave Marias, and the Creed, all the while remembering how, a lifetime ago, my grand-dad had murmured the Latin words over me whilst I lay fevered.

  "That's popish nonsense," he said, but his voice was shaky and uncertain.

  Ignoring him, I turned to his wife. "Mistress Holden, if you could please bring me a mug."

  Without a word, she handed me a clean pewter tankard, the best she had in the house. Her eyes were lowered like a servant's when she pressed it into my hand. I poured ale into the tankard and drank. Wondrous cool from the cellar, the ale was. As I'd suspected, it was on the weak side, but refreshing just the same. I took a good long swallow before setting the tankard back down.

  "You brew good ale, Mistress Holden," I said, though that was stretching the truth a bit.

  Her husband poured himself a tankard and drank. "It was spoiled before, I'll swear to it. Sour as bad fruit. But now it's right again." He looked at me with something close to fear in his eyes.

  "She's a blesser," his wife said, casting her eyes down to the floor.

  "Where did you learn such things?" Master Holden asked me.

  "God has given me this gift, sir."

  No one could fault me for calling on God, I thought, and everyone knew that magic could be of the good sort. With my prayers, I'd allied myself with heavenly powers, as any respectable cunning woman would do. Miracles and wonders had always been part of the old religion. Light a candle, pray to a saint, and, with the saint's intercession and God's grace, your wish could be granted. When one of the Towneley wives could not conceive a child, she went on a pilgrimage to St. Mary's of Walsingham and, within the year, she was pregnant. Now that the shrines lay ruined, what could people do but turn to cunning folk?

  The Queen herself, I'd heard it said, employed a conjurer in her court—Dr. John Dee. Surely Elizabeth would not do such a thing if she believed him to work evil. Folk said that Dr. Dee could read the mysteries of the stars and turn tin into gold. Different laws, there were, for the rich and the poor. The highborn could hold fast to their astrologers and alchemists even if their laws forbade us simple folk our magics. What if the Holdens accused me of calling upon unholy spirits? My stomach curdling, I looked to the open door. The brown dog was gone.

  Mistress Holden, having recovered possession of herself, bade everyone to come eat. Knowing our place, Liza and I sat below the servants at the very foot of the table.

  "Some trickster you are," my daughter whispered in my ear. "How did you fool them?"

  I told her to hush up and put on a grateful face for the food we were about to receive. After the prayers, the maidservant ladled out lamb stew, the first meat I'd tasted in months. Tibb's promise had come true—I had to give him that. Whilst I ate, I made sure my head was bowed, meek and humble, over my wooden trencher. But I could feel their stares. The Holdens, their children, the servants, and the farmhands were all gawping at me. Word would go round. By Sunday when Liza and I walked to the New Church, everyone from Colne to Whalley would be saying that Demdike of Malkin Tower had charmed the ale at Bull Hole Farm. Could I endure the gossip and the looks that would follow me? Heaven knows, they'd said enough about me already.

  The stew and bread were rich and good, filling my stomach. Proper meal like that was enough to put a glow on Liza's cheeks. If you looked at her from the side, you hardly noticed her squint, and, apart from her wayward eyes and her skinny frame, she wasn't a bad-looking girl. Had her father's glossy brown hair. Her neck and wrists were graceful, her bosom well-shaped—that she had from me. For a moment I allowed myself to fancy that I had the power to bless more than ale. Could I charm one of the farmhands sat at this table so that he would turn his heart to my Liza? But the lads just kept staring at me. Couldn't even read the look in their eyes to tell whether they were nervous, awestruck, or simply curious. Only when the maidservant rose to collect the empty trenchers did I notice young John Device gazing at Liza. Shy lad, he was. Never opened his mouth unless he was spoken to first. When Liza swung her head round and threw him a big grin, he blushed and bolted out the door. So much for that.

  "Spinning's done, scullery's clean," Liza said. "Time to be on our way—unless there's anything more they want you to bless."

  How could she make light of what I'd done? My head still rang and, in spite of the good food, a coldness settled in my belly. I fair trembled at the thought of stepping out that door only to meet the brown dog again. At any rate, it was time to ask the Holdens for our payment.

  The housewife and her husband were stood on the far end of the kitchen, their heads together as they spoke in low voices. Then they both looked at me.

  "Mother Demdike," Master Holden said.

  I was stood to attention, pleased that he hadn't just called me Demdike. "Mother" had a certain ring of admiration about it, the most a woman of my station could hope for. For the first time in my life, I'd an inkling of what it would mean to command respect.

  "Could I ask you for one more thing before you go on your way?" So careful and soft-spoken, the master was with me now. Hard to believe this was the same man who had railed at my Liza less than an hour ago. "I'll pay you for it. I'll give you a capon, a dozen eggs, and a dressed hare besides."

  Suddenly it seemed my labours were worth more than stale bread. I wet my tongue, searched for words. "If it's something I can do, Master Holden, sir."

  My first thought was that he wanted me to bless one of his cows. Tibb had already taught me the charm for ailing cattle: three Ave Marias and a sprinkling of water. But no. Master Holden wasn't even thinking about his herd.

  "It's my son," he said. "My little Matthew. He's poorly."

  Mistress Holden clasped her hands together, and I saw the red rims round her eyes. Before I could find my voice, Master Holden was leading the way up the narrow, creaking stairs, and Mistress Holden was coming up behind me, so I'd no choice but let them take me to the chamber where the child lay in a trundle bed at the foot of his parents' bedstead. Liza was left behind in the kitchen.

  Of course, I'd heard of young Matthew Holden, the sickly child never seen in church, but I'd never laid eyes on him before. He looked to be about four years old. His eyes were sunken, his skin waxen and dull whilst he lay there like a poppet. I wanted to tell his parents no, nothing could be done. One look at the boy was enough to tell me it was hopeless—this child wouldn't make old bones. Mostly I was afraid. My stomach turned and I longed to be far from the room. The Holdens could keep their capon, eggs, and hare. Charming ale was quite a different matter than blessing a sickly child. If I failed, if I spoke the charm and the child's condition worsened, or if, God forbid, he died, then I would be done for. The Holdens would accuse me of bewitching the lad and that would be the end of Mother Demdike. I'd be stoned or drowned or worse.

  I was about to flat-out refuse when Master Holden dropped to his knees beside the trundle bed. The sight knocked me sideways. So the loud-mouthed blunderer had a soft spot. I watched him lay a tender hand on the lad's brow.

  "His heart and lungs are weak," Master Holden said. "Last winter he fell ill and never recovered his strength."

  Mistress Holden knelt on the other side of the trundle bed and whispered fond words to the child before looking up at me. "We called in a doctor," she said. "But he demanded three pounds. We couldn't pay—"

  "Sarah!" her husband admonished.

  Mistress Holden flushed in her shame of admitting to a person as low as me that she and her husband could not afford a physician. "Can you not help him?" she asked, tears in her eyes.

  What a strange thing it was to be stood in their bedchamber with the master and mistress on their knees before me.

  "A sick child is a serious matter," I
said, so reluctant that I couldn't meet their eyes.

  "Please," Mistress Holden said. "At least say you'll try."

  One look at her face was enough to remind me what it was like to be the mother of an ailing child. When my Kit was only two, he fell ill with a terrible fever and I'd sworn that his death would be the end of me, only we both were lucky and he pulled through.

  My knees ached, my whole body was sore from the long walk to Bull Hole Farm and from the hours spent scrubbing out the scullery. I gazed out the chamber window, wondering what to do, when I saw the brown dog stood below, staring up at me. Sinking to the floor beside Mistress Holden, I took the child's clammy hand. Listless, the little boy stared up. Resigned to his fate, he was. Hadn't any hope left inside him of ever getting better.

  "Have you lungwort in the house?" I asked his mother.

  She shook her head.

  "I'll bring some tomorrow and brew him a tonic." Then I stroked the child's sallow face. "Best if you leave me alone with him for a spell."

  After his parents had let themselves out of the room, the first spark of life shone in the boy's eyes. He looked nervous.

  "Your parents asked me to bless you," I confided. "What do you say to that, Master Matthew?" I chafed his limp hand between my own. "Wouldn't it be a grand thing to rise out of this bed and go out and play with your brothers and sisters?"

  From outside the window came the sound of children's laughter.

  "Fancy being out there with them. A fine day, this. You could be sat in the grass with the sun on your face. See the flowers and your father's new calves."

  "You stink," the lad told me. "You're dirty."

  I laughed. "So your sickness hasn't struck you dumb then. If I'm dirty, my lot is better than yours. Least I do more than lie abed all day like a great lump."

  A spot of colour entered the child's cheeks and that made me go soft. Though my back hurt, I lifted Matty from his bed and carried him to the window.

  "I'm only a poor beggar woman, but I can wander wherever my fancy takes me. Once I was sat way up there, atop Pendle Hill." I pointed out the window where the hill rose to touch the sky. "I could see all the way to the sea. But you're a prisoner in this room. Have you never prayed to get better?"

  The boy watched his brothers and sisters, who squealed and chased each other whilst they should have been weeding the garden.

  "Tell me this, Matty," I said, making the child look me in the eye. "Do you want to get better or do you want to lie in this chamber till you waste away?"

  The boy's eyes were huge. "I want to get better," he said in a tiny voice.

  My skin nettled. My eyes misted. It was as though I could look into two worlds at once. The child's spirit was snared in some dark place indeed, fettered at the bottom of a cold, dry well. A powerful charm it would take to raise him up into the light. The years flowed backward till I was a young woman stood in our church in the days of Mary Tudor. Above the new-built roodscreen was the fresh-painted image of Judgement. Christ the King was sat upon his throne between the glittering gates of heaven and the yawning maw of hell. Beside heaven's gate Saint Peter was stood, holding the keys. At the very same time, I looked through the Holdens' window to see the brown dog lie down upon the grass.

  The blessing seized me. The words flowed from my tongue, whilst the inside of my head buzzed like a swarm of bees.

  What hath he in his hand?

  A golden wand.

  What hath he in his other hand?

  Heaven's door keys.

  Stay shut, hell door.

  Let the little child

  Go to its Mother mild.

  I saw a picture, painted on the church wall, of Our Lady, clad in black, weeping at the foot of the cross, but even as she wept, she seemed swept up in a blinding vision.

  What is yonder that casts a light so far-shining?

  Mine own son that's nailed to the Tree.

  He is nailed sore by the heart and hand.

  Lastly, I saw the Angel Gabriel, all in white, holding a lily.

  Gabriel laid himself down to sleep

  Upon the ground of holy weep.

  Our good Lord came walking by.

  Sleepest thou, wakest thou, Gabriel?

  No, Lord, I am stayed with stick and stake,

  That I can neither sleep nor wake.

  Rise up, Gabriel, and come with me,

  The stick nor the stake have power to keep thee.

  Inside the child was a well of deep cold. My head a-flutter, I held him fast till that ungodly chill drained out of him and into me. Held on to him and chanted till his skin no longer felt clammy, but was warm as bread fresh out of the oven. All my warmth poured into the boy. When I tucked him back into his bed, I was shivery and faint, though sunlight streamed into the close little chamber. Had to hold on to the bedstead to raise myself to my feet. Staggered to the door, then called out to the Holdens, who flew into the room to behold their boy with his new-flushed cheeks and gleaming eyes. The child grasped his mother's hand, told her he would pray to get better and that he wanted to see his father's new calves. I was so weak by then that I had to go down to the kitchen and sit a spell. Liza spoke to me, the Holdens spoke to me, but I hardly knew what they were saying. A bell knelled inside my head. Even when I closed my eyes I saw the brown dog.

  When I could finally stand on my feet again and was well enough to wobble home, Liza had to carry the capon, the dressed hare, and the dozen eggs—a basket in each hand.

  ***

  "How did you do that?" my daughter demanded. First off, she'd thought I was putting on an act like some quack at Colne Market. Now she wouldn't shut her gob about it. "You never did such a thing before."

  I was too drained to speak. Took my last strength to drag myself back to Malkin Tower, where I collapsed upon my pallet. Anyone could see that the illness had left young Matthew only to enter me. Never mind the victuals the Holdens had given us—I could barely swallow a cup of broth. Couldn't rise from my pallet for a fortnight, but I sent Liza to bring the Holdens the lungwort.

  Whilst she was gone, Tibb appeared and let me hold his warm hand for strength.

  "Why didn't you warn me?" I asked him, tears in my eyes. "If I'd known it would be like this—"

  "Would you have refused to bless a sick child? I don't believe that for a moment, my Bess."

  My sight blurred. The way I shuddered and ached, I feared I would never be right again.

  Tibb stroked my hair. "In future, it will be easier on you. You're new to this is all. Lie back and rest, my Bess. You've earned your sleep."

  He covered my eyes with his soft palms, and then I tumbled into a shimmering fever dream. Three paths led off into the bluebell wood. One led to the right, another to the left, but some tug inside made me set off down the middle path as I called out after Tibb, begging him to show himself. Instead I saw a lady come riding upon a white horse. Rapturous lovely, she was, her red-gold hair shimmering like the sun at daylight gate. The woodland rang with the music of the gold and silver bells twined in her horse's lustrous mane. Lifting her hand in blessing, the rider smiled as though she'd known me since I was a babe. My lady sent me to look after you.

  The haunting chimes of those bells brought back my memories of the old ways. A girl again, I joined the procession round the fields to encourage the corn to grow high. We chanted blessings over the springs to make them pure. Yet when I looked round, I saw no crosses, no priests, just the young maids and the young men wandering off into the fields of waving green barley. Again the lady appeared, riding a graceful circle round me. Fresh and new as unfurling spring leaves, she was, but older even than the popish faith. She was not the Queen of Heaven, but a queen of earth, Queen of Elfhame.

  When the fever broke, Liza was sat beside my pallet with a piece of lamb pie from the Holdens. I fell upon it with a hunger that made her laugh.

  "Little Matthew's well better," she told me. "Today he left his sickbed. Ate at the table with the rest of the family. Stuck h
is head outside before his mother called him back. Then he was sat with me whilst I was winding wool."

  I smiled. At least my sufferings weren't for nothing. "You brewed the lungwort for him?"

  "Aye." She looked me over, her eyes strange. "Tell me, Mam. Did you have the powers always? Or did they come to you all sudden-like?"

  I stared up at the thatch and told her I needed my rest, but she wouldn't stop pestering me.

  "You've always sown them herbs," she said. "If we'd nowt else, there were them weeds of yours."

  "And a good thing for you," I said, thinking of the tansy.

  "But when you blessed Matty Holden, you'd no wort with you. Could you not teach me, Mam?"

  "It's not something you want to be meddling with. Look at the state it's left me in."

  "Teach me the charms, Mam, please! I've a good memory."

  "Child, there's more to it than just words."

  "Folk think my squint is enough to curdle butter," Liza said. "If my eyes can curse, sure I could bless if I set my mind to it."

  The notion had lodged itself in my daughter's skull, and there was nowt more I could say.

  When I was well enough to show my face in the New Church again, I was stood at the back with the other poor folk, whilst the yeomen and gentry sat in their pews. I tried to put on a good face, keep my thoughts on the hymns and scriptures, ignore how the Curate stared at me, how everyone looked my way. Word had certainly gone round.

  My old friend Anne Whittle couldn't take her eyes off me. Of all the people in that church, she knew me best, for we'd been best friends during our girlhood, always sharing the other's company back in the days of the processions, our loose-flowing hair crowned with the garlands we'd woven for each other. Such a beauty my Anne had been with her green eyes and her tresses the colour of flax. In secret I used to fancy that she was some highborn lady left by mistake in a labourer's cottage. Full of herself even as a little lass. Burst her spleen if any dared to belittle her. Her temper was fierce enough to make a grown man whimper. Anne forged her own way in life. If one door was locked to her, she'd find another, ever resourceful, never one to give up when she had her mind set on something.