Cunning Women Read online

  He stumbles back, tripping over his own feet, gasping like a stranded fish. Face white as the sky above us is dark. I hate him for the kindness he has shown then taken away more than I’ve ever hated the brutes that taunt and beat me.

  The mare begins to stamp and toss her mane. I try to will her hoof into his skull but I cannot, the gentleness of his voice stays with me. Instead I leave, flitting back over the rough grass, tearing through the hedge that rips my skin, lifting the bucket and slamming it into the bruises it has left on my leg as I run to the well.

  Clouds heave and flex, lightning splits the air and rain falls fat and cold. And I’m glad of it, glad of the pounding thunder and black skies and wet clothes that chill me through. Soon it will be all I can feel.

  Sound of the Storm

  Daniel waited as her words settled into him, the realisation of who she was and why she had come. She was the witch-girl. The Devil-boy’s sister. He stood, the mare shifting at his side, as the sky above darkened and then split with lightning. Was this her work? Was this a warning?

  He watched her go, both relieved that she left and immediately wishing her back. She had come only to harm him, surely. And yet. Her smile, so soothing, and given solely for him. Like a warm hearth, the comfort of which he could not resist. Her absence left him chilled.

  Her words slithered round his head. Voice sweet and clear as a spring raindrop, pretty little face full of light. He could not find the night in her. Those eyes. Every colour of the sea in there.

  It was witchcraft that made her appear so, for sure.

  Bewitched. The word carried a weight she must have been aware of. To let him know who she was, to demonstrate the power of their unhallowed ways. To remind him of the punishment that was his due. He wished that she had cursed him, and he now writhed in whatever suffering was his due. He could not bear the waiting, the fear of the inevitable torment to come.

  Daniel turned and vomited on the grass, just missing the mare’s hind leg. She did not flinch, leaning into him when another blast of lightning ripped through the clouds above them.

  He led her to the barn. Still shaky, the ground heaving under his boots. The mare followed willingly. Father and Gabriel sat in the corner, drinking ale and eating bread and cold eggs, while rain hammered the roof.

  Father pointed to the horse. ‘What’s this?’

  ‘Tamed the mare.’

  Daniel was certain an expression of satisfaction flickered across Father’s face. He would be judging his son’s achievement by its weight in coins. ‘Stable her, then,’ he said.

  As Daniel moved away, Gabriel spoke around the bread he chewed, ‘Could’ve broken that horse myself.’

  Daniel had witnessed this process. It left him sick and biting through his lip to stop the protests escaping. Broken was the word. Gabriel tied the animal at head and foot, beating until all spirit was gone. Every time Daniel saw it he swore he would not stand by and watch again.

  ‘Nathaniel says you’ve not found that lamb and I was thinking today that it must’ve been stole, else we’d have it by now,’ Gabriel said.

  Daniel stopped. Father grunted.

  ‘And I was thinking on the way to church, sure as anything it was that family that lives in the plague village that’s took it.’ He scratched the side of his head, frantically, so that his cap slid back and forth. Daniel’s grip on the mare tightened, and she gave him a baleful look. ‘It’ll be that little whore that lives up the hill.’

  Father frowned. ‘They’re a bunch of black-hearts, for sure. But I doubt it’d be the lass, more likely the son if any.’

  The boy’s face rose in Daniel’s mind: the sneer, the threat. The blood.

  Gabriel scratched harder. ‘We should gather some men, go and find what they’s at. Tonight. I’ll find her, the—’

  ‘What, that little lass?’ Father asked.

  Gabriel snatched his hand from his head, flushed. ‘No. Just – they all, I meant.’

  ‘When I find the culprit I’ll choose the punishment,’ Father said.

  ‘Lamb drowned,’ Daniel said. Without forethought and surprising even himself. ‘Saw it in the stream.’ He was in too much turmoil over the Haworths to fear uttering this deception. Worse hid in the shadows than his father’s temper.

  Father blew out an irritated sigh. ‘That falls on you, Gabriel. You need to check and block the hedges better. I’ll dock your wage.’

  Daniel left the sound of Gabriel’s protests, the mare following him now with a trust in her eyes that reminded him for a moment of the Haworth girl, the open expression she carried as she stepped forward.

  She appeared harmless as any animal on the farm. Beaten, afraid and ready to run, her fear all that made her a danger. An enchantment. No more.

  Those That Know Me

  The hill is slippery with mud and sodden grass. A shot of pain as my foot lands on a stone. I cry out and stagger, losing balance and falling to the ground.

  I lie, thinking of the look on the boy’s face, of all Mam’s warnings that we must remain separate from the village. The knowledge we carry, passed on from her grandmother and guarded by each chosen member of the family, must remain ours alone. And here am I, speaking with him as though we are the same kind. Happen he tricked me, just as he lulled the horse, into trusting him. His show of fear a deceit, and he had known me all along.

  Scrambling up, I shake out my dripping petticoat, glare down the hill to the farm and village. To the places I shall never belong. I was chosen by another, for a fate I do not yet know, but I am ready to accept it. Exhausted now with resisting it.

  Clamber up the hill. Hands and knees where I must. I need to be among those that know me.

  I throw myself at the door and stagger into the house. At the sight of Mam bending over the fire my anger thins and spreads to nothing. I’m worn down. Like a child Annie’s age I walk to her, resting my head against her shoulder.

  She folds her arms around me, sits me on a stool and fetches the cloth. Wipes my face with slow strokes. When I’m clean she turns away. I reach for her arm.

  ‘I want you to teach me.’

  We start with healing and protective charms.

  ‘Let’s begin sweet,’ she says. ‘Much of our trade satisfies a want for revenge or a wish to cause suffering, of necessity for that’s the nature we serve, but there’s purity to this side that suits you well. ’Tis good you embrace it. You’ve not the choices of other lasses.’

  Her voice falters as she speaks, and I know she means I’ve not the chance of a husband. I think briefly of the fear in the farm lad’s eyes, then draw myself up strong. What use would a husband be to me, anyway? No. I shall stay with Mam and John and Annie. I shall learn the skills of our kind.

  I’ve often wished I was born to that other life of food on the table and warm clothes. A husband, a family. A life of laundry in the stream with other women and church on Sundays. Mam tried to give us that life, but he that we serve conjured the storm that ripped it from us, took our father and all else besides.

  We are not made for that life. I must turn my mind to cunning ways now. This part of our gift has always called to me, the easing of suffering and healing of hurts. It’s a kindly skill. As I work I imagine a time, not far from now, when the village sees us as only benevolent. When we’re welcomed and our lives may mingle. In this time, if one morning I wake and discover a mark on Annie’s skin, it won’t carry such dread. She will remain safe. Soon I’ll have the power to show them the good in what we do, to take away their fear. For though she’s wrought of magic, it’s of a different, gentler kind than that we serve.

  There’s much I know already from watching Mam, and I could tell anyone which herbs will cure a bellyache or calm a rash. Many a time I’ve gathered plants for her. Now she goes about teaching me the skill of transforming them to salves or tinctures, of learning charms to find lost goods or release curses.

  Today I mash the mallow leaves and stems we’ve gathered until they become a thick, stic
ky paste that fills the room with its fresh scent. Mam guides me as I add a little water and stir, making a tonic that, taken by the spoonful, will soothe a sickened stomach.

  John sits, watching. There’s a hunger in his expression as he takes in Mam’s hand guiding mine, her soft laugh as I fail to mash the mixture smooth. He twitches his leg, taps the point of his knife against the table, waiting until she snaps at him to stop. She does not, and he scrapes his stool back, leaving without a word.

  I remember John’s face when he heard Mam explain what my mark meant. He was but a lad of ten years, watching wide-eyed. The next morning he stripped and searched his own skin for a mark, running to Mam in excitement when he found a small dark stain on his chest.

  She barely glanced his way. ‘That is not his mark, son,’ she said, bending to lift an infant Annie from her basket. ‘You are not chosen nor ever shall be, for yours is not the kind of soul he seeks.’ She jiggled Annie with one arm and placed the other hand on John’s bare shoulder. ‘You’re man of the house. Your job is to work. Provide.’

  She turned from him. He pulled his tunic on and ran down the hill to the village. The first time he sought work and his first taste of the cruelty and skitting of the folk that refused him.

  She does not comment now on his leaving, but watches me and pats my hand. ‘You’ve your great-grandmother’s blood,’ she says. ‘Now you shall come to the village and help me sell.’

  I shake off the sadness I feel for John, swallow down the thrill of unease her words bring. I am cunning folk, and can be no other.

  Mam and I wander from house to house, the shore at our backs and the breeze brackish with the scent of fish, coating our mouths and crusting our hair. This part of the beach is long, the sand smooth and, as the weather softens, the sea lilting gently. It’s busy with people: men in boats and hauling catches, women wading to find clams. This is not the part Annie and I come to, nor have I ever wished to.

  Apart from Taylors’ farm, the village houses cluster down by the sea. Dew-Springer seeks out any that might need our skills and today leads us here, according to Mam. Door after door closes against us, though most have used Mam’s cures at some point and she saw many of the children into the world. I learn what John endures when he seeks work.

  One woman stands back and folds her arms when she sees us. ‘You know that cunning woman from across the river came by not days since, and I’ve all I need from her.’

  Mam stiffens, barely breathing, and I feel the fury spark in her. ‘That hag,’ she says. ‘She’s a trickster and a devil besides, her wares are nothing but water and black magic.’

  The woman remains unperturbed. ‘Her wares cost me less than yours. So.’

  She shuts the door on us, and we move on to be turned away again and again, Mam muttering the whole while about how her rival is no more than a fraud and a dealer of foul doings. I do not point out that she is not beyond the use of a curse when it suits her.

  ‘No matter,’ she says. ‘We shall set Dew-Springer to act upon her.’

  When at last Robert Turner opens his cottage door, we’re called in. We wait in the dim room, where a basket of fish sits in a corner and his boots dry by the fire.

  ‘It’s Alice,’ he says. ‘She’s taken with a malady and lies a-bed but cannot sleep.’

  We follow to where she rests, eyes open wide and fingers clasping at nothing.

  I watch as Mam takes in the sight of the woman she once knew. Alice sits up, throws off her blanket and rises to her feet, staggering.

  ‘What’s she doing in my house?’ She looks wildly from Mam to her husband. ‘Get her out. Leave me be, you sorceress.’ She lunges towards Mam, hand raised, but Mam steps away and Robert clasps Alice, holds her still. She weeps and moans into his shoulder. ‘Can you see it?’ she whispers. ‘It’s here, do you see?’

  He shakes his head. ‘You know I cannot, my love. Ruth is here to help you. Lie down and let her go about her work.’

  Mam sits on the edge of Alice’s bed, takes her hand. She waits for a moment, silent, looking upon this woman, once her friend, with both compassion and contempt. ‘Tell me,’ she says.

  ‘It’s dark,’ Alice flutters her hands. ‘Moving, in the shadows and, and – winged, like a bird. And it whispers, I hear it, can you hear it?’ She looks wildly at Robert and Mam. ‘Such things it speaks of, tells me I should do, terrible things.’ She presses her hands to mouth. ‘Hurts, it wants me to cause hurts, to others, to my own self. Whenever I try to sleep it is upon me. I am cursed, yes?’

  Mam brings Alice’s hands down and pats them. ‘’Tis just a sprite, they’re known for mischief but no great harm. We shall have you soon free of it.’

  Alice grabs Mam’s fingers and presses them to her lips, lies back down. In the other room, Mam shows Robert how to fill a witch jar, cutting a chunk of Alice’s hair and some of her fingernail shavings to put in.

  We go down to the sea for water and Mam instructs him to add a handful of sand and some stones. I watch some men haul a boat ashore, heads bowed and hands busy. They show no interest in us, but I’m mithered by their presence. I prefer the solitude on the scrappy part of the shore Annie and I visit when we must. When the jar is done Mam presses it into Robert’s hands.

  ‘Bury it in the furthest corner of your land,’ she says. ‘I’ll return with a poppy elixir. She will soon be cured.’

  He nods. Mam holds out her palm for his coin. ‘The elixir will cost more,’ she says.

  We turn back towards the green and the hill. Mam is silent until we reach our door.

  ‘I called her friend, once,’ she says.

  I say nothing, for the loss is scored on to her face. But I try to imagine what friend means, what it looks and feels like. I remember children from before, when my father still lived and we dwelled by the sea. I remember scrambling over wet rocks and peering into the little pools, dipping our hands in to catch the tiny fishes that were trapped there. I don’t think this is what friend means when you are grown, though, when you are a wife, a mother. What it would mean for me now, stranded as I am between child and mother. Perhaps only ever to be one of these.

  Mam chats to Dew-Springer in whispers that shiver with malicious intent while I pick up the pot of salve we’re taking, for we have been asked to treat a pox.

  ‘Why dust have to go?’ Annie asks, sitting at the table and swinging her legs as she chews on dandelion leaves. She is just returned from exploring the ruins, her knees and hands smeared with mud. ‘There’s babby foxes in the woods and they’re all starting to crawl and jump around now and I want to show you. And I found another piece for us to play with.’

  She places a small wooden thing on the table, shaped like an acorn, flat at the top and coming to a rounded point at the bottom. It is speckled with dirt and mould, and I can see it crumbles at the edges. Annie looks at Mam expectantly.

  ‘Show her tomorrow,’ Mam says. ‘Take John. He’ll play with you and visit babby foxes.’

  Still rolled in his blanket, John sits up, with his hair askew and expression indignant.

  ‘Unless you’ve plans to join us and ask for labour?’ Mam asks.

  He grunts and lies back down.

  ‘But what is it, Mammy?’ Annie asks. ‘My piece?’

  I can’t take my eyes from it. Useless now, softened with age and decay, but I can imagine the little hands setting it to spin on the ground, small voices ringing with laughter.

  Mam glances at the treasure. ‘It’s a top. For childer, they would’ve spun it.’

  Annie’s mouth pops open as she stares and twists, but it falls over immediately.

  ‘Put it with the others,’ I say, only so I may stop thinking of the little hands mouldering under the soil, of the voices now silenced.

  She slides from the stool and places it carefully with her collection, jumping on John on the way back. He groans and complains, but I know he’ll not resist her for long.

  ‘Oh come, John, come and see,’ Annie says. ‘I’ll sh
ow you where the foxes hide, but you must be silent else you’ll scare the mammy.’

  ‘Leave me be, Squirrel,’ he says, burrowing under the blanket. I know he’ll be up and off to the woods with her as we step through the door. His affection for Annie runs as fierce and protective as mine, though he feigns disinterest in front of me and Mam, should we think him weak and incapable as our protector. I do, but it’s his softness, his inability to resist anything Annie asks of him, that thaws my feelings towards him.

  Mam turns from the path that leads down to the green and cottages at the shore, heading left towards the Taylors’ farm. She nods to a girl who waves.

  ‘Sweet lass, that Phyllis,’ she says.

  I stop. ‘You said the village.’

  ‘Farm is part of the village. Step on, lass.’

  I grip the bowl of salve, remembering the lad as he coaxed the mare, the gentleness of his voice, sunlight catching his eyes. How fear froze him when he realised who I was. ‘Who is the salve for?’

  ‘Farmhand. Suffering a rash of cow pox or the like.’

  ‘Oh.’ I begin walking again. It’s not the lad we seek, at least, and I imagine he must be busy with tasks. I remember the farmhand’s fist against my face and the fury beating through me as I cursed him. Happen my powers have ripened and his pox is my doing. I should be feared of what I’ve done, but the memory only brings back my anger, and I’m more inclined to witness his suffering than to bring a salve to heal it. Happy to take his coin, though.

  We’ve barely stepped into the yard when I see the lad, carrying a basket of eggs. He blanches at the sight of me, looks behind as though willing someone to come to his aid. We both falter, and eggs roll inside the basket. A task for a woman, I always thought, though perhaps am mistaken. Mam frowns at me and then turns to him.