Shakespeare's Witch

by Samantha Grosser

  ‘All rise.’

  The silence ended, chatter resuming with the movement as the congregation stumbled to its feet. Letting go of his hand, she risked a smile at her brother, who returned it with a tilt of his head. Then she turned the other way and saw that John had remained on his knees, lips still forming words of prayer, face lifted now in fervent appeal to God. She swallowed, made uneasy by his devotion: there was something desperate about it. She had seen such confessions before at her father’s church, the wicked and sinful pouring their souls out to God for forgiveness and filled with self-loathing. Nick touched John’s shoulder lightly and the boy swung towards them as though Nick had dealt him a blow. He stared at Tom.

  ‘What are you doing in here?’ he hissed. ‘Witch!’

  ‘Get off your knees,’ Nick said. ‘The service is ending.’

  ‘Get him away from me.’ John’s whisper carried and the worshippers nearby left off their conversations, turning to look. ‘How can you be here?! How can God tolerate your presence in His house?’ He staggered to his feet, and his eyes, wide with fear and hatred, never left Tom’s face.

  Nick grasped John’s shoulder more firmly and stepped forward, placing himself in front of the boy. John struggled, trying to see Tom around the older man’s body. Nick flicked a glance over his shoulder.

  ‘Just go,’ he said to Tom. ‘Go.’

  Tom turned and left without a word, and Sarah watched as Jane ran out after him. She was torn, wanting to follow but needing to stay. When she turned back, Nick was shaking John by the shoulders.

  ‘What is wrong with you?’ he breathed. ‘Get a hold of yourself.’

  John stared up at Nick’s face in a moment of bewilderment before all the emotion seemed to leave him in a wave and he slumped, falling limp in Nick’s hands. Sarah stepped forward to take one arm. His body was slight, the arm narrow in her grip, and between them they held him easily.

  ‘Let’s get him home,’ Nick said.

  They almost dragged him from the church – his feet shuffling on the ground and barely supporting him – stepping out into the brightness of the morning beyond the church doors, where the willows were still bare with winter. The yard was already full with people milling – deals being struck, arrangements made, arguments flaring. She searched briefly for a sight of Tom or Jane, but they were long gone and she wondered if they were together now, if Jane was at work. An image of the two of them together flickered in her thoughts, and she forced her mind away from it before she turned her attention once more to John, hanging almost limp against her, and the effort to get him home.

  At the house, Nick lifted and carried John to his room while Sarah set to laying the fire. By the time Nick returned, it was burning well, the room warming, and she was setting out bread and cheese and ale on the table. She looked up at his approach.

  ‘How is he?’

  ‘Almost insensible,’ he replied. ‘He’s praying again now. On his knees. I could get no sense from him, so I’ve left him to it.’

  ‘What do you think is the matter with him?’

  ‘He thinks your brother is evil. He thinks Tom’s bewitched him.’ He lifted his hands in a shrug of bafflement.

  She said nothing, turning her attention back to setting the dinner. But she knew of Tom’s lust after John and could only guess that John had learned of it too. She remembered the fate she had seen for them in the shewstone and wondered if this was the start of it – the first steps on the road to their deaths.

  ‘Sarah?’ Nick’s voice was low and he came to stand close at her shoulder. ‘Do you know something of it?’

  She swallowed. She must have let her thoughts show in her face. She had never been good at hiding her feelings – her mother had always known when she lied. She had no idea what she should say, and Nick’s presence so close flustered her thoughts. She shook her head, her voice failing her, no words she could think of to say. Nick laid a hand on the muscle of her arm and his touch pulsed through her, her breath coming short. She lifted her head, and his face was but inches away. She could feel the warmth of his breath and she dropped her eyes away from the question in his.

  ‘Sarah?’ he said again, gently. She wanted to move away and put distance between them to gather her thoughts, but the pressure of his hand on her arm was insistent. ‘Tell me the truth.’

  She was silent, eyes still lowered.

  ‘You’re protecting Tom?’

  She let her gaze meet his for a moment then, and nodded, grateful for his understanding. ‘It’s not my secret to tell.’

  He lowered his hand and moved back a pace, but his eyes were still searching her face for clues, still hoping, she guessed, she might confess after all. She was tempted, wanting his approval, his regard. But her fears for Tom were greater and she could not yet be sure of Nick’s response. The moment hung between them until he turned away, disappointed, and she breathed again. He moved to the fire and stood before it, stretching out his hands to the heat, more for something to do, she suspected, than for the warmth. It was a good fire, drawing well, and the room was already warm. She poured him a cup of ale and took it to him, and he accepted it with a small smile.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she said.

  ‘I won’t judge him,’ Nick said. ‘But I cannot help John unless I know.’

  She nodded, still torn.

  ‘And if John keeps crying witch, then Tom is in danger. You saw how people stared in church. How long do you think it’ll remain a secret?’

  ‘I know,’ she murmured. Nick’s stark assessment frightened her: she had seen the end of it in the shewstone. Whatever the truth of things, Tom was in danger. She clasped her hands before her and turned this way and that in front of the hearth, tortured with indecision. Nick watched her, sensing her weakening, and once more lifted a hand to touch her, taking her fingers in his, and drawing her closer to him until she was filled with his nearness. She kept her head lowered, staring down at his boots, only inches from the hem of her skirts.

  ‘Tell me,’ he urged, rubbing her fingers. ‘I can’t protect him if I don’t know.’

  She took a deep breath, the decision whirling, coming finally to rest in a choice. But she needed also to find the courage to do it, the words to say. Lifting her head finally, she said, ‘I will tell you what I know.’

  He nodded and stepped back, guiding her to the chair at the fireside, placing a cushion on the seat. She eased herself down carefully. Then he drew up a stool and sat close by her. She leaned forward, elbows on her thighs. She couldn’t look at him.

  She said, ‘I have little enough to tell you …’ She lifted her eyes in a small movement of apology. ‘But I know that Tom lusts after John. Perhaps something has passed between them …’

  She took a deep breath, the words out at last, and lifted her face to meet Nick’s. He nodded. ‘Thank you.’

  She allowed herself a half-smile of surprise at his reaction. ‘You aren’t shocked?’

  He almost laughed, and patted her wrist. ‘I’m a Bankside player and I’ve haunted the stews and taverns of Southwark since I was a boy. There is little can shock me now.’

  She lowered her head, feeling foolish, tears prickling at the backs of her eyes as the emotions and fears ebbed and flowed. Nick tucked a finger under her chin and lifted her face.

  ‘Don’t cry,’ he said. ‘I understand you wanted to protect him.’

  With his kindness the tears she had kept in check began to spill and flow, and she found herself held in his embrace, her face against his chest, his lips against her hair. The image of her dream welled inside her, his nakedness beneath the clothes, the memory of his hand on her breast, and she struggled to force it down, but the craving swelled, burning her. She shifted and as he loosened his hold, she lifted her face to him.

  He looked down at her for a moment and she thought once more that he would kiss her, but then he let her go and stood in one quick movement, stepping across to the table, taking his place there to eat. She sniffed and wiped at
her eyes, breathing deeply to order her thoughts and quell her emotions, breath still catching in tight small sobs. It seemed he did not want her after all, in spite of her dream, that she still meant no more to him than as a servant and friend.

  ‘Come,’ he invited, gesturing to the table. ‘Have some food.’

  She nodded and stood up carefully, smoothing her skirts and her hair back from her face, where it had become tangled from his embrace. Then she joined him at the table.

  Dark drew in early, bright cold surrendering to the night and a heavy sky that promised warmer weather and rain. There was no moon, no stars, and she slipped from the house unnoticed to walk swiftly away from the life of the city towards the ancient peace of the forest, lighting her way with a torch. As the last of the houses dwindled away to the south, the lane petered into a narrow path that was shadowed by trees. She kept walking, following the path as it wove deeper into the forest amongst the great beeches and oaks, and out of sight between them she could hear the movements of fallow deer and foxes, halting in their stride to mark her presence. She was not afraid: the way had been well known to her since childhood by daylight and by night, and her skin prickled with the familiar sense of excitement as she turned off the path at last to thread her way between the trees toward the sacred Grove.

  Tom was there before her: she could see the fire he had lit in glimpses through the trees, drawing her in, and she quickened her pace as she drew closer, eager for its warmth and his company. Then the trees opened out into a narrow clearing that was guarded by the gnarled and ancient yew tree, looming black against the brightness of the fire beyond it, branches dipping close to the ground. She trailed her fingers across the bark as she passed beneath its boughs, breathing in the magic of its age. Tom looked up when he heard her footsteps and came forward to greet her, taking her hands in his with a smile of welcome. She returned the smile, then gazed around her. The protective circle was already prepared, marked out on the soft grass with branches but not yet closed, and a single candle stood at each of the cardinal points. Two blankets lay folded close to the fire, and three more candles marked the points of a triangle a little distance away. Though they had cast a circle together many times before, a sense of trepidation heaved in her gut; it had always been the three of them together – mother, brother, sister – enacting the sacred rites. That this was something different she knew by instinct. She lifted her face to her brother again.

  ‘What do you think?’ he asked.

  ‘I think,’ she began carefully, ‘you’re planning something wicked here.’

  ‘Not wicked,’ he was quick to say. ‘Magical.’

  ‘What is this?’ she asked, turning her eyes back to his face. ‘You asked me here to talk.’ He was watching her, eyes glinting dark in the firelight, but she understood the glow she saw in them, and the memory of her dream tugged inside her. She dragged her eyes from his and passed her gaze once more across the circle, letting understanding settle in her thoughts.

  ‘It’s just magic, nothing more or less than we’ve done before.’ He shrugged, dismissing it, but she knew that he was lying. This was far beyond the spellcraft and the natural magic of the earth she had been born to. This was something altogether darker and more dangerous. She could sense it.

  ‘What magic? Where did you learn of it?’

  He gave no answer to her question. ‘Come,’ he said instead. ‘Sit with me.’ She followed him into the circle and he let go of her hands to crouch and spread the blankets out in front of the fire. It was a good fire, burning high and well, and the flames licked keenly into the darkness. She sat beside him, and the heat brushed against their faces. Then he swivelled to face her, taking her hands once again in his, long cold fingers wrapped around hers.

  ‘What is this?’ she asked again.

  ‘I thought more about your dream,’ he said, and she snapped her gaze away from the fire to meet his eyes. His face was near to hers and his expression was serious, earnest, eager.

  ‘What did you think?’ she asked. She was almost afraid to know, skin still alive with apprehension.

  ‘We can make magic, you and I, together, to gain what we desire.’

  ‘How?’ she breathed.

  ‘It’s very simple,’ he said, eyes sliding to the flames for a moment before returning to her face to meet the question. He hesitated, apparently searching for the right words to use. Then he said, ‘When two people … lie together … there is a moment of ecstasy, and that moment has great power in the realm of the spirits. Done rightly, we can call on the spirits to give us what we want. Done rightly, they can only obey.’

  She was silent, attracted by the possibility. She thought of Nick’s mouth close to hers earlier that day, the want for him that had almost undone her, the disappointment when he turned away. And though she was certain he was tempted, she had not won him yet, his desire seemingly still bound up with the woman at Court. Then she remembered the dream and Tom’s body pressed against hers, leading her on the path toward Nick.

  ‘It’s what the dream told you to do,’ Tom said as though reading her thoughts. ‘To go through me to have Nick. And this is how we must do it.’

  She swallowed. Her heart was racing now, and desire was pulsing through her for both of them. ‘You told me I could win him without magic,’ she said.

  ‘I was mistaken,’ he answered. ‘But this will bring him to you for sure. The dream has told you so.’

  ‘Can we?’ she whispered. It didn’t seem possible that her love for her brother could be turned in such a way, that they could join in the flesh to lead her to a higher love again. A part of her rebelled at such a joining, aware of the sin of it – forbidden love, wicked.

  ‘Of course.’ He smiled. ‘Why not? Who but our father’s Church forbids it? For aeons past, the ancients knew the power of coupling, the magic possibilities of love. You don’t yet know the bliss of it, the lighting of the spirit.’

  ‘I have a little knowledge of it,’ she whispered. ‘I have tried alone …’

  Tom laughed, surprised. ‘Then you know.’

  ‘But we are brother and sister. Did the ancients not forbid such unions also?’

  ‘Nothing was forbidden.’

  She nodded. She wanted to, and the awareness of the danger of it, the wickedness, merely fuelled the want. Only a small resistance remained, somewhere lodged inside – the voices of her childhood morality, the hard lessons of right and wrong drilled into her at the joyless church of her father. She dared not ask her brother again where he had learned of such magic.

  ‘Will we go to Hell for this?’ she asked him.

  ‘There are many realms,’ he answered, with a slight shrug. ‘Who knows where we’ll go?’

  ‘You’re not afraid?’

  ‘A little,’ he conceded. ‘But I gave up on the teachings of the Church long ago, and if there is a Hell I am bound there regardless.’

  She said nothing, letting the thoughts and emotions roll through her mind and body, giving herself to them, waiting for the answer to come. It took only moments and it came as a clarity, a lightness, a brightening of desire. She turned to her brother.

  ‘What must we do?’

  He smiled and lifted her fingers to his lips to kiss them.

  ‘First we must bathe,’ he said.

  They got up together and he took her hand again and led her to the stream that ran beyond the clearing, through the trees. They stood on the bank a moment before he let her hand go and began to undress, the whiteness of his skin ghostly in the half-light. She watched him, hesitant to undress herself, still searching for her courage, and then he was before her as he had been in the dream, naked and aroused. Instinctively, she blushed and looked away, made shy by the reality of him. It had been different in the dream – there had been no sense of doubt.

  ‘I’ll help you,’ he said, reaching for the ties that fastened her bodice, loosening the laces, cold fingers brushing her skin as he worked. She stood still, aware of the whoosh of the blo
od in her head, her breathing quick and shallow, and the doubts still lingered. Then she was naked too, shivering not only from the cold, and he stepped in close, skin against skin, his lips just brushing her temple.

  ‘I’m afraid,’ she murmured.

  He said nothing but took her hand again and guided her down the bank, keeping her steady as her bare feet gripped against the shifting pebbles on the riverbed. The water was icy and she gasped and laughed instinctively as he drew her deeper in toward the middle of the stream until the water lapped about her hips and waist, making her shiver. With a deep breath in for courage, she bent her knees and dropped until the surface of the water touched her chin. Then she rubbed at her body with her hands, washing, cleansing, purifying, until she was sure she was clean, and together they left the stream and climbed up the bank. It was hard to look away from his naked figure next to hers, tall and white and lithe, but she forced herself to look forward, doing as he told her and focusing her thoughts on the image of Nick as her lover, the goal of their magic. Goosebumps rose, her nipples growing hard in the cold, and she shivered.

  They stood before the fire on its western side, hands outstretched to its warmth, skin reddening, until finally he turned towards her again. She waited, uncertain and a little afraid of him, brother become lover, a different aspect.