by Kate Forsyth
The skeelie’s cottage was set in a small copse of trees with a stream running through its back garden. It was small but its doorstep was scrubbed white as none in the village had been. Isabeau gingerly lowered herself to the ground, and let Lasair free to graze as he pleased. Before pushing open the gate and proceeding up the path, she cast an experienced eye over the contents of the garden and was impressed by the multitude of herbs and plants growing there. The skeelie could cure most of the village’s ailments with what grew in this garden. Isabeau even recognised the pretty blue flowers of flax in one corner, a powerful plant that would have been difficult to grow in this cold climate. She laughed a little—here she had come, thinking she could give the skeelie a plant she did not have and it looked as though she would be begging her for something instead.
The door was opened before she had a chance to knock, so Isabeau was left with one hand foolishly raised in the air. ‘C’min, c’min,’ the old woman said breathlessly. ‘Wha’ can I be doing for ye? Are ye having trouble wi’ your menses, lassie? I have some tea made wi’ ploughman’s spikenard which’ll clear that up right away.’
‘Why no’ pennyroyal?’ Isabeau asked. ‘I notice ye have a good crop right by your door, while surely ye would have to travel to find ploughman’s spikenard?’
‘True, true,’ the old woman said, shooting Isabeau a shrewd glance from sparkling black eyes. ‘But I have no’ made the pennyroyal tea, while I have plenty o’ ploughman’s spikenard left from a batch o’ tea I made a few years ago. But I dinna think ye’ve come to see me to discuss pennyroyal and ploughman’s spikenard. Ye hungry? It looks like it’s been a few days since ye’ve had a good meal. I’ve some stew on the stove.’ Relief made Isabeau’s knees weak, and she staggered forward with no hesitation.
‘Will your horse no’ stray, left loose like that?’ the skeelie asked.
Isabeau shook her head. ‘Och, no, he’s very well trained,’ she responded, and sat down in one of the cushion-laden chairs before the fire, holding her chilly hands out to the comforting blaze.
The skeelie moved briskly about the tiny kitchen, swinging the kettle over the fire, getting out cups and bowls, polishing spoons with a tiny cloth. As she worked she chattered away in her breathless voice, about the unseasonable cold, the hard winter, the difficulty in finding rare roots and flowers.
Isabeau let her body relax, suddenly realising how very tired and hungry she was. When the skeelie passed her a cup of tea, she took it and sipped, frowning a little at the unfamiliar taste. The warmth of the fire and the comfort of the chair together made her bones as soft as butter. Then the skeelie passed her a bowl filled with fragrant stew, carrots and potatoes bobbing about in a rich, dark sauce. Isabeau ate ravenously.
‘So what’s a bonny young lassie like yersel’ doin’ wandering the moors?’ the skeelie asked, the firelight playing over her wrinkled face.
‘Going south,’ Isabeau mumbled through the stew.
‘Goin’ south? So many young people seem to want to go south, though really there’s nothing there, just a dirty city and the blaygird sea and pirates. Lookin’ for work, I s’pose, in the city?’ Isabeau nodded. ‘Just ye and your horse, heading south.’ Isabeau nodded again, cleaning out her bowl with a piece of unleavened bread and trying not to look hopefully at the pot still steaming at the side of the fire. ‘And have ye no family to worry about their bonny daughter all alone on the moors?’ the skeelie asked, taking Isabeau’s empty bowl and filling it again.
Now was the time for Isabeau to bring out the story about her elderly grandmother who lived on the moors, and sent her out in search of healing herbs. She opened her mouth to say it, and was surprised to hear herself say, ‘No, I never knew my real family.’
‘They died when ye were young?’
‘No, at least, I do no’ ken. I was found.’ Isabeau was surprised that she had spoken so freely. She glanced up at the skeelie, and saw her old face was calm, the black eyes vague and more interested in locating the rare pieces of carrot in her bowl than in watching Isabeau. Her uneasiness died.
‘Ye were found! That’s an interesting story. Most rare. I do no’ think I ever met anyone who was found before. Who found ye?’
‘My guardian. I call her my grandmother, but she’s no’ really.’
‘An’ where does your guardian bide? Wha’ is her name?’
‘M … M … M … ’ Isabeau tried to answer but found her tongue tangled in knots. She tried again. ‘She bides … ’ Again she found she could not speak, and her hand, which had risen from her lap to gesture towards the mountains, froze in the air. Isabeau tried again, but somehow her mouth could not enunciate the word ‘Dragonclaw’. After a moment, her hand dropped, and she kept on eating, shaking her head a little as if to dispel the buzz of an insect in her ear.
‘Ye live on the moors?’
Isabeau opened her mouth to say ‘Aye’, but heard herself say, ‘No, in the mountains’, and now felt real panic that she was answering so freely.
‘In the mountains!’ the skeelie exclaimed. ‘Ye must have had a hard winter—we were snowed in and many died. Mainly the auld, o’ course, and the very young. There was no’ much I could do, wi’ my garden frozen solid and the snow piling up around the windows. It must be much worse in the mountains.’
‘We never really feel the cold,’ Isabeau said, remembering how snow only ever lay in patches on the slopes of her valley home. Even at the height of winter, the valley remained only thinly veiled with snow. For the first time, she realised how strange this was, and remembered how she had had to fight her way through snow on the other side of Dragonclaw when she had left.
‘Ye must live in a sheltered spot,’ the skeelie said, and took Isabeau’s empty bowl away.
‘Aye,’ Isabeau agreed.
‘Yet I hear the mountains be harsh. It must be a hard life for a young lassie.’
‘I do no’ ken really … ’ Isabeau said slowly, wondering. Her life had never seemed hard; all she ever did was spin and sew, search for herbs, and listen to Meghan’s teachings. Remembering the thin children and the tired women in the village, she thought her life was probably much easier than theirs. She had never gone hungry or lacked warm clothes or boots.
‘Your guardian must be a very wise woman, to live in the mountains wi’ the cold and the storms, and no’ suffer.’
‘Aye, she be the wisest woman. She ken everything about plants and beasts and the weather,’ Isabeau babbled. ‘She can tell if snow is coming by the smell o’ the wind, and she—’ Suddenly she found she could not speak again. Her thoughts seemed to unravel so she could not remember what she was about to say. ‘She’s a very wise woman,’ she finished lamely.
‘Wha’ was her name again?’ the skeelie asked, but again Isabeau was unable to answer, Meghan’s name choking in her throat. She sat back in her chair, and found she could not even lift her finger to rub at her aching forehead. The shadows in the cottage were heavy now, rising over the two chairs by the fire so they looked alive. She was beginning to feel frightened, although even that emotion was very remote. Her tongue felt very thick and furry, and there was an unpleasant taste in her mouth.
The skeelie leant forward. ‘I want ye to tell me about your childhood,’ she commanded, her voice strong and clear.
To her dismay, Isabeau did. All sorts of details poured out—what Meghan made her for her ninth birthday, how she had to spin wool for hours in the winter, how bored she got with Meghan’s endless lessons. Again and again, however, the strange confusion came over her so she could not remember what she was trying to say. The shadows got thicker and more solid, the room beyond the circle of firelight vaguer and more insubstantial, and the skeelie more impatient, urging her for more information so at last Isabeau began to try and resist, and found to her horror she could not.
She told the strange old woman many things she would never tell anyone, but not one word about magic or witchcraft did she utter, nor could she say Meghan’s name. Somehow sh
e managed to resist revealing the more dangerous secrets of her and Meghan’s life, and as she resisted, the skeelie became more direct in her questioning. Soon it became clear to Isabeau that the old woman herself must know something of witchcraft. This compulsion to talk must be the result of some spell that Isabeau had not even noticed being cast. Once Isabeau knew this, she let herself babble, talking about the everyday mundanities of their life, until at last the skeelie leant forward in her chair, and fixed her piercing black eye on Isabeau’s face. She said something in a strange tongue and Isabeau felt herself being drawn forward, her mouth working as she tried to speak but her tongue refusing to respond, as thick as a plank of wood. For almost a minute, words raced back and forth in her mind, damning words that could have had her and her guardian dragged before the Awl and condemned to a horrible death. But not one word did she utter. At last the skeelie sat back.
‘I see,’ she said. ‘A very powerful ward.’
For quite a long time she stared into the fire, her gnarled fingers twisting in her lap, then she sat back and said in her breathless voice, ‘Dearie me, wha’ kind o’ hostess have I been, bothering ye wi’ questions when anyone can see ye’re dropping off to sleep where ye sit. Ye must forgive me, such a lonely life sometimes, biding here on the moors, it’s no’ often I have such a bonny, bright lassie to while away the time wi’. Come, come, let’s tuck ye up in a bed for the night, an’ tomorrow it’ll all look different.’
Isabeau could only obey. She was so tired her bones refused to move in unison and she stumbled as she followed the skeelie to a bed made up in one corner of the room, in what looked like a cupboard set into the wall. The bed was hard but warm, and she could see the shadows of the flames dancing over the rough ceiling. She crawled in, and almost immediately was asleep.
When she woke the next morning to the sound of rain hammering on the roof, she had only the vaguest recollection of the previous evening. She remembered the delicious stew, she remembered talking about her childhood like she never had before, and she remembered the feeling of being asleep while she was awake. It was hard to distinguish her dreams from what had really happened. A vague sense of uneasiness remained, though, and so her immediate thought was to barter for some food and maybe a knife, and then be on her way. The skeelie had other plans however.
‘Bide a wee, lassie, and I shall get ye some porridge and cream for breakfast. I’m baking some bread this morning; shall I pop in an extra loaf for ye?’ Then she needed Isabeau’s help in distilling some pure essences, and Isabeau found it hard to refuse. The skeelie was right, she should wait for the weather to warm, for the storm to pass, for the skeelie to have time to bake her some nut cookies. It was so comfortable in the little cottage, and she had never eaten such delicious food. The skeelie was a delightful woman, she showed such interest in Isabeau and all her thoughts and feelings. True, Isabeau sometimes felt uneasy or uncomfortable at her questions, but these feelings soon passed, and the skeelie could teach her things about plants even Meghan could not know.
The old woman made a delicious lunch that Isabeau could not bear to refuse, and before she knew it, night was falling and she could not leave. Again, each postponement of her leaving had seemed so natural and so difficult to refuse, that Isabeau felt only a vague uneasiness or impatience. That night, as she slept in the little box-bed, she dreamt only of summer on the moors.
Isabeau hummed as she sat on her heels in the garden. The air was very sweet and warm, bees buzzed around her, and the garden was thick with butterflies. After six days of storm and rain, the sight of clear blue skies and the feel of the sun warm on her face was a tonic for her spirits, which had been strangely depressed of late.
Manissia had sent her out into the garden with a basket and some scissors to cut flowers and herbs. Today they were going to start making the many teas and infusions that the skeelie used to heal the villagers nearby, and which she sold at the market. Isabeau had always been fascinated by the distilling of aromatic leaves, woods, and roots, and she was looking forward to seeing how Manissia’s methods differed from Meghan’s.
For a moment a strange unease stole over her, and then she shrugged the thought aside and concentrated on the rich smell of the earth, the spicy scent of rosemary and thyme, the sensuous pleasure of the sun on the back of her neck. Manissia was going to let her look at some of her strange books this afternoon, books with pages yellowing with age and filled with diagrams of the stars and planets, the two moons, and the sun. Meghan had never been interested in the sky, only in the earth, its animals, its plants … Again a frisson of anxiety crossed her, and for a moment she frowned and shivered, despite the sun, crossing her arms over her chest and rubbing at the goosebumps which had sprung up on her skin. Almost immediately the unease was gone, and she continued thinking happily about the skeelie’s books.
Isabeau’s basket was full, and her back beginning to ache when a sudden neigh made her stand and look around. The cottage was built in the shelter of a small copse of trees, with a stream that ran through the garden. Behind the house, a steep hill ran up to the great waves of purplish moors that undulated as far as the eye could see. A red horse was galloping along the crest of the hill, mane flashing bright in the sun. As she watched, the horse neighed again and tossed its head, rearing and striking the ground with its hooves. The horse was calling to her. Even at that distance she could recognise the sound.
‘Isabeau!’ the horse called. ‘Isabeau!’
Isabeau stood still in confusion. The horse neighed again and suddenly she recognised the sound. Lasair! How could she have forgotten Lasair? As she watched, the horse turned and ran back again, pawing the ground and neighing. There was a shrill sound to the neigh, almost panic. Isabeau dropped the basket and ran round the side of the house. At the bottom of the long garden was a hedge set with a gate. She called Lasair to her, but though the horse neighed and tossed his head and ran back and forth frantically, he did not come any closer. Isabeau immediately went to open the gate to go out to him, but as soon as her hand touched the wooden clasp, all desire to go out suddenly left her, and she stood dreamily, brushing a tuft of grass gently with the sole of her boot.
Lasair had to neigh again, and then again, before Isabeau remembered, and then dismay and chagrin swept over her. How had she forgotten Lasair? And Meghan, her beloved guardian, and her journey to the south? All she could remember was the fire flickering on the creamy walls, the sound of rain washing against the windows, the skeelie’s breathless voice as she served up another delicious platter of food … and her own voice. She could remember talking a lot. What had she told the old woman? Cold fear swept over her. She must have been enchanted. But how? She had not felt any of the chill that came when power was drawn from the air and the earth, a usual sign of witchcraft. She had felt nothing, only an increasing comfort. If Lasair had not jerked her out of her dreamy state, she would have gone back in, eager for another afternoon with the wise old woman, not even thinking about the days slipping away.
Lasair was neighing again now, the sound shrill. Isabeau whickered reassuringly, and tried to think. After a moment she picked up a stick and knocked the clasp aside with it. Without letting the woven twigs touch her, she slipped through the roughly-made gate and ran up the slope towards the horse. However, it was an effort—white butterflies danced in the sunshine before her and it was hard not to get distracted by their pretty flutterings, or by the beauty of the view. She forced herself to keep climbing, while the chestnut stallion ran back and forth along the crest of the hill.
Once Isabeau reached the top, she felt a dullness and sleepiness slip from her that she had not known was there. She took great gulps of clean, greygorse-scented air, while Lasair pushed his head against her roughly.
‘She must be a witch,’ Isabeau said. ‘I never thought.’
Lasair neighed and tossed his bright mane. Isabeau ran her hand through it, chastising herself. What was she to do? All her belongings—her pack, her precious rings, even
the talisman that Meghan had given her, were still in the cottage. ‘I must go back,’ she said.
Lasair pawed the ground, shaking his head and neighing, but Isabeau knew she had no choice. How could she have left the talisman alone with a witch? Meghan had trusted her, and a month into her journey, she had lost her supplies, and her knife, and fallen under the spell of a simple skeelie!
She turned and hurried back down the hill, thinking, I have to be strong. I have to keep a clear head. I have to be strong and brave and clear-headed the way Meghan would want me to be.
When she pushed open the door into the cottage, the old woman turned from the fire, smiling. ‘Just in time for potato an’ tarragon soup, my dear. Put the basket on the table.’
Isabeau had forgotten the basket. She almost turned to go and get it, then she remembered. ‘Ye’re a witch,’ she said.
‘As are ye,’ the skeelie responded, ladling thick soup into an earthenware bowl.
Isabeau was disconcerted for a moment. ‘Ye put a spell on me. Ye made me forget what I was doing, where I was going.’
‘Did I, dearie? Well, ’twas very wet, miserable weather. Ye wouldna have wanted to be out there in that storm.’ The skeelie put the bowls on the table. ‘Eat up, lassie, ye’re skin and bones still.’
‘No, I have to go.’
‘Well, if ye want, lass, though does it no’ make sense to eat afore ye go?’
It did of course, and Isabeau found herself looking rather longingly at the bowls, which were wreathed with tendrils of steam and smelling delicious. In anger she swept her arm across the table, crashing the two bowls to the floor so soup poured onto the thick rug.
‘Now, dear, that’s no’ very nice. Wha’ a way to repay my hospitality for the week! I’m ashamed o’ ye.’
