The Return of the Witch (3 page)

“I worked that out. That's when I realized, when I saw what it was I had to do. I mean, yes, I could have gone on making oils and tinctures and selling stuff here forever, I guess. But I wanted to do more. And I figured that's what you would have wanted, too. So I decided I would find other people who knew about magic. I would learn from them.”

“You mean to tell me you simply walked straight up to total strangers and asked them to teach you what they knew?”

“Isn't that what I did when I met you?” She grinned.

I smiled at the memory of that awkward teenager and her endless questions. There had always been something endearing about the girl that had made her hard for me to refuse. No doubt others felt the same.

“But how did you seek such people out?”

She shrugged. “I joined the twenty-first century. Went on the Internet.”

“I cannot believe anyone serious about magic or witchcraft would say so on something so public!”

“Well, there are a lot of weirdos out there, that's for sure, but if you look a little further … speak to someone who knows someone, ask around, get out there … it's surprising what you can find. With the right attitude.”

“And the right aura,” I added. “Of course, if you actually came face to face with a true witch they would recognize you for what you are.”

“Is it that obvious?”

“It would be to them. If they were authentic. Though I imagine you might have had to encounter a fair number of charlatans and fakes before you found what you were looking for.”

“Oh, you get past those pretty quickly. If you know how to test them,” she told me with a twinkle in her eye.

“I'm sure you honed all manner of your skills in the process.” I leaned forward and topped up our glasses. The wine was fruity and rich, tasting of late summer sun and the garden. It was only mildly alcoholic, but sufficiently so to loosen both muscles and mind to a relaxing degree. “Which system of magic did you find yourself most suited to?”

“They all had something to offer, something to teach me, of course, but you know, I kept coming back to what you had taught me, to working with Wicca, or the healing spells I learned from you. The way you had me connect with nature … which fitted right in with the shamans I stayed with. There was one in Siberia you would have loved! Have you ever been there?” When I shook my head she went on, animated now, her face brightened at the memories of the wonders she had seen. “I lived for three months with a Yakutsk shaman, in Russia but thousands of miles from Moscow. Just getting there took weeks. The land was so unspoiled, so wild, it made you feel how small a human being is. My time there really helped me put things in perspective. And the way she connected with the spirits of the place, it was mind-blowing.”

“It can't have been easy without a translator.”

“We shared the common language of magic. And she did have a little English. That seemed to be enough. After that I went to America. I'd been given the name of a Hoodoo priest in Louisiana. You couldn't imagine anything more different, but so powerful! The year before last I spent a full cycle of the Wiccan calendar on a remote island off the coast of West Wales, observing every ceremony and ritual to mark the seasons. It was such an incredible time! And recently, well, I've just returned from somewhere, from some
one
truly wonderful.”

And so we talked. She spoke of her experiences and I listened, and I saw how it was that she had been transformed during my absence. And I saw the light of magic glowing within her. That spark, that scintilla of magic ability that I had seen when first we met, it had been brought into fiery life by the learned people she had sought out. She had become a splendid witch, knowledgeable and strong. Perhaps there was a real chance that, standing together, we could resist Gideon's darkness. I went to bed that night clutching to me the small, bright hope that this was true.

*   *   *

I still couldn't take in the fact that she'd come back! I mean, she was there, Elizabeth was really there with me again. It was mad. But then, no madder than so much of what I'd seen these past few years. And it had all started with her, and the cottage. And Gideon. Would I ever be able to think of him without getting so stirred up? What did I feel? Anger, of course, because of how he had deceived me, because he would have killed Elizabeth if he could have, and me, too. Hate? Yeah, that, too. And I was scared. I'd have been crazy not to be. I remembered how hard it was to trick him, how we nearly didn't pull it off. That night in Batchcombe Woods it could all have ended very differently. And now someone was helping him. Who? Why? He would come to Willow Cottage, of course he would. Elizabeth was right about that. Well, we would be ready for him. This time, we'd deal with him once and for all.

I was not the scatty teenager I used to be. I had changed in so many ways. Ways that mattered. If Gideon had known perhaps he would have thought twice about tackling me and Elizabeth again. Before, when I was just beginning to find out what being a witch really meant, when I was so new to it all, Elizabeth had to look after me. But I'd been a busy girl since then. I'd traveled, I'd faced life in wild, unfamiliar places, and I'd learned so much. The time had come, then, to use my new skills. To put all that listening and practicing to the test. I wondered what sort of magic, and what part of me I would need most. Being an eclectic witch meant I had a whole bag of tricks to choose from. I knew some people sneered at the way I had roamed the world, exploring different types of magic just as I explored different countries. More than once I'd been criticized for it. Diluting the craft. Muddling systems and beliefs. Not being faithful to one way. Well, I had found my own way, and it included the best of everything I'd learned, from the best of all the witches who had been prepared to take me on as their apprentice. I knew in my heart what I was meant to be, which kind of magic I was truly meant for. But that discovery was really new. And there were risks. Big ones.

The two years before Elizabeth showed up at the cottage again had been seriously special for me. To start with, I had found a remote island off the west coast of Wales. Your tropical paradise castaway with white sandy beaches and palms it was most definitely not. This was a lump of granite and sandstone, its sheer cliffs rising out of the wild grey Irish Sea two hundred feet. It was less than a mile across, like a giant moss-covered rock, except that the moss was tough wiry grass. I chose this tiny island because it was once the home of a religious hermit, and remnants of the house he had lived in centuries before were still standing. What I was looking for was a place to live a full year in retreat, observing the Pagan calendar of seasons and festivals, living as simply as possible. Just me and the sky and the sea and the wind and the weather and the chance to think and to work on my craft. It was a kind of calling, I guess. It took months to find the right authority to pester for permission to stay there. Goes without saying, most people thought I was bonkers. And mad people aren't taken seriously. After endless doors slammed in my face, unanswered letters and e-mails, meetings that didn't happen, and men in suits saying No, I changed tack. Got myself joined up to an ecological movement, offered to conduct a survey of the wildlife of the island, with the view that the information gathered would give the Green lobbyists new ammo for their cause, and bingo! Doors started opening. Meetings started happening. A few weeks later I was dropped off on the one place on the island where you could get ashore. I shall never forget the feeling of total euphoria as I watched the crew waving from the disappearing boat, knowing that I faced twelve months of solitude. Perhaps they were right; perhaps I was crazy. But it felt right. For me.

I knew I was equipped to survive. Three years of hiking, trekking, camping in the wilderness, often on my own, had prepared me. I'd gathered so much knowledge, so many skills, so much magic. I needed time alone, really alone, to make sense of it all. The island was called Craig y Duw, which means God's Rock in Welsh, though the locals on the mainland had rechristened it Godforsaken Rock, and you could see why. There were barely any trees (four, to be precise, all thorny and bent and not impressive at all), so no natural shelter or firewood, the soil was poor, the single water source (a small spring) was given to drying up in summer, and the only inhabitants were seabirds and a few hardy mice. Plus, for a year, one increasingly crusty witch. Oh, and Aloysius, of course, who did not enjoy himself one bit and expressed his displeasure by nipping me, often. A habit he gave up the day we returned to Willow Cottage.

I arrived on Craig y Duw in August, so I had a little time to get settled in while the weather was good. The system we had set up was a three-way compromise to satisfy the authorities of my safety, the ecologists of my usefulness, and my own desire to be left alone. A boat would call once a month with supplies—wood, food, gas canisters—and to collect the samples I had gathered of various plants. Most of the data they needed from me I would send them via the Internet on my solar-powered laptop. I had a satellite phone, too, for emergencies, though I'm a bit chuffed to be able to say I never needed to use it beyond organizing the days for the boat to visit. The weather was unpredictable, so we often had to change our plans. Aside from that I had no contact with anyone, and I loved it! The hermit's stone dwelling was useful for storage, keeping my woodpile dry in winter, and my food from spoiling in the summer heat, but it wasn't practical to live in. At least, not as practical as the state-of-the-art tent that I took with me. I pitched it beside the hovel and set up a camp that was easily more comfortable than many I had stayed in before. I had a fire pit at the opening to the stone building, so that I could sit by it in the open or under cover. I had a small gas stove, which was a necessary concession given the lack of natural fuel for my fire. I dug a latrine at the edge of my encampment. At first it felt seriously strange, squatting out in the open, but what was the point of cover? Privacy was hardly an issue. I put up a tarpaulin to keep the rain off, and was surprised at how quickly I got used to my loo with a view. And what a view it was! Miles of ocean in all directions, with the mainland of Wales just a smudge of shoreline to the east of me.

A life like that, it changes you forever. There are rhythms that dictate what you do, but they aren't ones you choose; nature chooses them for you. The daylight hours dictate when you walk, when you work, when you sleep. The weather (dear Goddess, the weather!) is king of the island and you forget that at your peril. The seabirds got there first and it's their home, so you better get used to being a visitor, and learn to live with their raucous squawking and the stink they make on the cliffs in summer. At first they really tested me. I resented the way they could shatter the peacefulness I'd come for. But slowly I came to find a strange comfort in their company, and in the way they accepted my presence. Every day I got up when it was light, made herb tea, then walked the island, recording numbers of the different species of birds in my notebook, collecting samples as I'd been instructed. I was back at camp midmorning, when I'd eat something. The food was truly terrible, I can't forget that! I grew a few bits of salad in the summer, but most of the time I was on dried army rations and tins. But it was enough, it kept me going. In fact, I sort of liked the way I lost interest in food. It was one less distraction. Then, after my meal, my day was my own. I would sit quietly, talking to Goddess, or just listening for whispers from other witches or spirits. What I heard, what thoughts entered my head, what I felt, would shape the rest of my day, and often the night, too. Sometimes I'd feel the need to practice a spell. Other days I'd chant incantations that fitted the time of year or marked a special event. Some evenings I'd be governed by the moon, letting its limpid beams stir whatever magic in me needed to come out. It was a truly wonderful time. Skuas wheeled and tumbled through the endless sky. Puffins purred in pairs on the lower rocks. Among the wiry grass grew the cutest and toughest little flowers, some so rare they could be found nowhere else on earth. It was a kind of rough paradise. I valued every day, even when the wind blew so hard I thought I would lose my tent; even when I got sick and crouched under the tarp for twenty-four hours straight; even when I had a toothache, or woke up from a nightmare, or craved chocolate or a glass of beer. In those dark times I turned to what I had learned, I turned to my magic. And I got through. And each time I came out the other side I knew I was a stronger person. A better human being. A more accomplished witch.

Then, one spring day, when I had been on the island many months and was weathered and lean and a little blistered and aching but spry, and comfortable with the pattern of my solitary existence, I rounded a corner on the west-facing rocks and found I had a visitor. The shock of seeing another person just standing there, as if parachuted in, watching me, calm as you like … I screamed. I remember that quite clearly. I shrieked in a really girly, uncool way. Things got quickly weirder and weirder. This uninvited guest was an old man, I mean a
seriously
old man. Beyond grandad sort of age, more of your biblical whiskery type, a bit scrawny, shorter than me, with an impressive beard. So I was trying to make sense of anyone being there at all, let alone someone who looked like he'd need help getting up a flight of stairs never mind scaling the path that climbed from the shore to the cliff top, and trying to find something sensible to say and he just kept smiling at me, all unexpectedly good teeth and happy wrinkles. And that made me think he might be a little bit bonkers, which made it all the more strange that he had managed to get to Craig y Duw and, anyway, where was his boat? Or microlight? Or whatever the hell he had used to get there? And OK, it was a warm, sunny day, but he wasn't wearing decent outdoor clothing or hiking shoes, just a grubby Rolling Stones T-shirt, cutoff shorts, and cheap-looking trainers. He looked like some thrift store Robinson bloody Crusoe. He must have got fed up waiting for me to speak, because he just turned around and began striding away along the cliff path, and then shouted back over his shoulder,