Shadows at Stonewylde (49 page)

‘Now Magpie, you know what pictures we use at Imbolc, don’t you? Delicate white snowdrops with a sheath of green, great rich brown bulbs with the kernel of creation within them. Flames with layers leading in to a central core, like the bulbs. And the silver bow – with an arrow crossing it and just pointing up slightly, aiming for higher things than an animal target. You understand, don’t you?’

The boy nodded happily, his turquoise eyes shining with excitement. He wore a warm cloak against the harsh January chill and his cheeks were rosy from the cold air. His bright butterscotch-coloured hair was covered by a thick felt hat such as the men wore in winter. He was unrecognisable from the filthy, half-starved cur who’d skulked around Stonewylde only a couple of months ago; he’d even learned how to use a handkerchief.

‘Magpie, today you
must
listen to what you’re told. The others will show you the pattern they’ve adopted and you must follow it carefully so the whole Circle is linked through the images. If you do it wrong it’ll be scrubbed off. Please, Magpie, do this right! I want them to be pleased with you just as I am, so you won’t take it in your head to do your own thing, will you?’

David was a little worried about this for Magpie could be stubbornly independent at times. Often when David was teaching him an idea or new technique, the boy would ignore him and do what he felt was right. David had to admit that whatever Magpie created was usually far superior. But that wouldn’t do today, not when it was the first time he was allowed to join the established painters.

They reached the Circle where the people were already well into cleaning the stones. Old Greenbough looked up at the new arrivals and raised a gnarled hand.

‘Blessings! And young Magpie come to help us – there’s a turn up. Looks a deal cleaner now hisself. Right then, lad, here’s a brush and a bucket o’ water – get to it then.’

Magpie had been peering into the cart examining the pots of pigment waiting to be mixed with water and the special binding agent, a blend of organic material that held the paint to the stones for the six or seven weeks required. He looked up and beamed at Greenbough, then took the proffered tools and set to work a little clumsily, sloshing water onto the stone and scrubbing in great sweeps. Greenbough shook his head, the dewdrop on the end of his nose flying off as he muttered in David’s direction.

‘I don’t know – how can that lad paint the stones good enough when he’s so ham-fisted? We don’t want the Circle looking messy or daft. I hope you’re right about the boy.’

Greenbough had little faith in any Outsider recruited to teach in the Hall School. They didn’t have Stonewylde in their bones so how could they do a good job here? But orders were orders and he’d give the boy a chance. Not that he was in charge of the painting – that was for the artists. It was Merewen, the Stonewylde potter, who supervised it for every ceremony. She lived and worked in the Pottery further down the river from the Village where the great clay beds lay. She was grizzled and gruff, striding around the Circle in her coarse linen tunic splattered with old paint, her cloak flung back over her square shoulders, hob-nailed boots clumping in the soft earth floor.

She glared at Magpie, as doubtful as Greenbough about the outcome of this daft venture. She too knew the boy of old – everyone did – and she couldn’t equate her memory of a gormless and dirty outcast with someone who could possibly decorate the stones to her satisfaction. Merewen had worked with the clay all her life, like her father and grandfather before her. She’d inherited the role of potter of Stonewylde as in the old days children usually followed in their family’s traditional occupation. So she now lived alone in the cottage by the Pottery, in charge of all those who worked there to produce ceramics for Stonewylde’s needs.

Although Merewen loved the medium of clay and was a gifted potter, her real talents were artistic. She decorated her wares beautifully with patterns and motifs, so the role of supervising the stone decorations was an obvious one for her and she’d been doing it for many years. She knew Greenbough well as she must liaise with him about charcoal for firing her kilns. She caught his rheumy eye now and they grimaced together at the spectacle of Magpie with his bucket of water. Cleaning wasn’t something he’d had much experience of in the cottage where he’d grown up.

But later in the day when they began to charcoal the designs onto the stones, Merewen was pleasantly surprised. First the group had discussed the overall pattern which was different each time, giving the Circle a feeling of innovation and excitement as well as tradition and beauty. Magpie couldn’t join in with the talk but had listened carefully and during the discussion, began to sketch rapidly onto the rough paper laid out ready for the first drafts. Merewen was grudgingly impressed with his deft hand and instinctive interpretations. His ideas were incorporated into the overall design and Magpie glowed with pride when he realised this. The rough outlines completed, the painters packed up their cart of materials and covered it carefully with canvas for the night. They’d return each day until the stones were finished.

The women were working together in the Barn; the Dark Moon closest to Imbolc was traditionally spent sewing baby clothes. The tiny white garments were carefully cut from soft linen and stitched into the long nightdresses worn by all Stonewylde babies for their first three months or so. The outfits were embroidered on the chest with white and green snowdrops and a small silver crescent, so whatever time of year the babies were born they’d bear a reminder of the promise of Imbolc, the potential of new life to grow into maturity and fulfilment. Most women completed a nightdress during the first day and would then knit vests, caps, jackets and long booties from the finest wool the next day.

The Barn buzzed with enthusiasm as this was one of the favourite Dark Moon tasks. Groups of women sat around together on the log stools and benches or at the trestle tables, some of the younger girls with aching wombs making big nests of cushions and sitting on the floor. Everyone worked diligently on their nightdress, warm and contented in the haven of the Barn – everyone except Sylvie who sat to one side with her mother. She surveyed the women sadly, not sewing the tiny pieces of linen with their enthusiasm.

‘It’s such a shame, Mum,’ she said quietly. ‘Look at them all sewing and putting their best efforts into making such beautiful tiny things. They don’t realise, do they?’

Miranda glanced at her daughter who’d seemed a lot happier today and had been so for the last couple of days. Her face wore a whisper of that dreamy contentment which Miranda had always envied, knowing its source. She’d been so worried about Sylvie but perhaps things between her and Yul were now on the mend.

‘Don’t realise what, darling?’

‘They’re still making all these lovely baby clothes just as they’ve always done and by the end of this Dark Moon there’ll be a great wicker hamper of beautiful new baby things. But where are the babies to wear them? The birth rate at Stonewylde is so low now, and once this batch of teenagers has grown up it’ll be even lower. We just don’t need baskets and baskets of new baby clothes made every year, especially not when everyone uses old things until they fall apart. There’re probably enough baby outfits at Stonewylde already to last for the next fifty years, and yet every Imbolc it’s the same, more and more being produced.’

‘I see what you mean – I’d never thought of it like that. But it’s nice for young mothers to have new things for their babies, isn’t it? I always longed for lovely pure white clothes to put you in.’

‘But Stonewylde isn’t about using new things, is it? Everyone makes things last and that’s how it should be. Do you know what actually happens to all these little outfits? And has happened for a while now?’

‘Well, I imagine … oh! You mean they’re sold on
Stonewylde.com
?’

Sylvie nodded sadly.

‘They keep some in the clothes store but the rest go to the warehouse and are advertised on the website. Stonewylde baby-clothes sell for a fortune, I believe, because they’re of the highest quality and so beautifully made. Hand woven fine linen, homegrown organic wool, and all that hand stitching and exquisite embroidery, all that loving care put into them. And then sold to strangers with too much money to burn – it isn’t right.’

Miranda put down her sewing, which had suddenly lost its charm. She’d imagined a tiny Stonewylde baby wearing the nightdress, not a rich woman’s offspring. She sighed.

‘I see what you mean. But ultimately everyone benefits, don’t they? I mean the money made from
Stonewylde.com
is ploughed back into the community so everyone gains in the end, don’t you think?’

‘I suppose so, but … it seems immoral to me, almost exploitation. At least the women should be told what’s happening.’

‘But then they wouldn’t look forward to it – or put in so much effort,’ said Miranda. ‘It’s bad enough now with Harold’s quotas. Maizie was telling me again the other day about the growing ill-feeling in the Village over those quotas and how people aren’t taking such care any more.’

‘Exactly – they feel exploited. And what happens to all the money? I’ve never really got involved with the accounts – Yul and Harold deal with that and use an accountancy firm from Outside. But the profits must be enormous – the materials are home grown, labour’s free, even our electricity comes from the wind farms, so profits must be almost a hundred per cent. But where’s all the money going?’

‘Yul’s always said money’s needed to maintain the status quo and how much we must buy in, as we aren’t truly self-sufficient. Things like toothbrushes and glasses and school books, and Outside clothes and shoes for the students at college too. Fuel for the coach, the vehicles and the tractors, and the telephone bill. The computers in the Hall – you know all the senior students over fourteen have their own. And university fees! That’s where money’s needed.’

‘Yes but not the thousands and thousands that must be made every year from selling our things.
Stonewylde.com
has grown into a really big enterprise, you know. I worry about it and I think after Imbolc I’m going to find out a bit more.’

‘Be careful, Sylvie – don’t fight with Yul again. You seem happier at the moment and I assume things are better between the two of you?’

‘Yes,’ smiled Sylvie, a look of contentment creeping across her face. ‘Things seem to be on the mend. But this is something different, Mum – I won’t have people exploited.’

‘Alright, darling – just don’t go upsetting the applecart. You know what Yul’s like.’

‘I do, and he’ll have to accept what I’m like too.’

Over on the other side of the Barn, Leveret sat with her mother trying to keep her stitches small and neat, but too aware of the dull ache deep inside her to concentrate well. She’d started off sitting with a group of her contemporaries, but their excited chatter about Imbolc in just a few days’ time had filled her with burgeoning dread and she’d moved over to be with Maizie. She was terrified of the forthcoming ceremonies and not as ecstatic about being chosen as Bright Maiden as everyone assumed her to be. The other girls were very envious and many had wondered why a strange-looking, quiet girl like Leveret had been chosen. Traditionally, the role went to someone very pretty and bubbly. Some who’d seen her at the Outsiders’ Dance understood that Leveret was beautiful, in a slightly outlandish way, but generally it was thought she’d only been chosen because she was Yul’s sister.

Leveret felt hostility amongst some of the girls; Faun in particular gave her antagonistic looks from across the floor. Faun was one of the younger girls there and enjoyed sitting with older girls and feeling special. Leveret had never liked her – Faun was spoilt and indulged and seemed to think she was something above everyone else. Leveret had always found her bland face and long, plump limbs unattractive and her petulance irritating.

Leveret hunched on the stool hugging herself and wishing the cramps would ease off. She’d feel a lot better by the evening but that didn’t help her now. She had to speak to Maizie about the evening ahead, hoping to catch her mother in a good mood. Leveret had asked Clip’s advice about the Dark Moon. It was special to her and she wasn’t sure if she should cast another circle again and raise the energy, hoping to contact Mother Heggy, or whether that was best left alone for a while. Clip had been tentative in his advice.

‘I’m not a Dark Moon person,’ he’d said, ‘so I don’t really know. I’ve always felt an affinity with the Moon Fullness, like my mother Raven and my daughter Sylvie, and it’s when I journey best. The Dark Moon’s a mystery to me – it’s a different sort of magic and not what I’m in tune with. You must have an affinity with the Moon Fullness too, Leveret. I’m still amazed how successful our Wolf Moon journey was. It can take months, if not years, to make contact with your spirit guide, let alone make a full journey. You have the gift, you truly do. I felt it that day up at the stone on the hill when you passed out but I hadn’t appreciated just what potential you have.’

Clip had promised to speak discreetly to Maizie about their working together, and had also agreed not to bring up the incident about the apple barrel again. Clip knew he must handle this carefully as Maizie wouldn’t approve of anything that whiffed of magic, not after the trouble with Yul and Mother Heggy’s prophecies. And there was always the risk of her telling Yul too, which Clip knew would be a disaster. So he’d told Maizie that Leveret had a fine intellect and he intended to leave his books with her when he departed from Stonewylde later that year, as she was the only person he’d encountered at Stonewylde who’d truly appreciate them.