The Return of the Witch (6 page)

I knew I must wait until dark, for it was only beneath the moon that my searching-spell casting would be effective. The hours crawled by, but fortunately the days were still relatively short, so that it was only a little after six o'clock when I made my way to the far corner of the back garden. Aloysius hitched a ride in the pocket of my old woolen coat. He might not have known precisely what I was about, but I am certain he was aware that he would find his way back to his mistress only with my help, and so had decided not to let me out of his sight for a single second.

The sky was cloudless, blue-black, studded with bright stars and a helpfully luminous moon. The temperature had dropped again, so that the freshly frozen snow beneath my feet crunched as I walked to the small shrine beyond the vegetable patch. The running water of the stream was too quick-moving for ice to form over it, but where the day's sun had caused snow to melt and drip from overhanging hazel and holly branches, stalactites of ice had grown, fringing the dark pool which sat in the crook of the hedge. I remembered well when I had moved into Willow Cottage how I had selected the flat stones that formed the little wall and plinth at the back of the pond. Onto these I placed a stout candle of beeswax and a simple clay incense burner, which I filled with juniper oil. I lit both, and the night air was quickly tinged with the scent of juniper berries. With not so much as a breeze to disturb the flame, the candlelight was steady and soothing. I set the mouse down at a respectful distance. He looked for all the world like a tiny snowball himself, but he did not appreciate his paws coming into contact with the freezing ground and scurried up into the hedge to settle instead upon a bare twig of holly. I proceeded beneath his beady gaze.

Taking a long, slow breath I closed my eyes and opened my arms and my heart to the Goddess.

“Beneath the cloak of sacred night, I ask for your help, Goddess of all the hours and all the weathers, keeper of nature's wonders, guardian of all our best hopes and dreams. I pray that you will hear me, and answer my cry, for one of ours is lost. Her very soul in peril. Her life hangs by a thread.”

I opened my eyes and gazed down at the silky water of the pool, waiting, hoping. But no vision was shown me. No words laid upon my ear. Nothing. I called again, imploring the Goddess to come to our aid. A preternatural stillness descended. I waited, listening, not knowing what form any communication might take. A minute passed. And another. I repeated my words, solemnly, slowly, with care and sincerity. Still, there was no response. It was likely Gideon would have worked a spell to mask his location, but could he also have somehow contrived to block the ethereal conduit betwixt myself and deities or witches whose help I might try to elicit? It was a worrying thought. There was a small, sudden movement at the base of the hedge. I took a step back and peered into the shadows among the low branches and roots. As I watched, three tiny figures stepped out into the moonlight. Faeries! Such as I had not seen for many years. They were not the ordinary small folk common in these ancient woods, but smaller, brighter, more exotic beings. They did not wear clothes, but their bodies were covered in downy feathers, and their wings glistened as if made of crystal. Two of them appeared to be the male of the species and stood protectively on either side of the minute female whose eyes seemed to glow as she stared up at me. She had about her a regal bearing, and I have no doubt that she was indeed some manner of princess or even a queen. I gave a low bow. She responded with a brief dip of her tiny head. When, at last, she spoke her voice was sharp, almost painful to listen to, so that I had to guard against wincing, for it would not do to show any displeasure. I knew how honored I was that a highborn member of the faeries had chosen to reveal herself to me.

“The Goddess cannot answer you,” she told me, “for the path is not clear.”

“It is as I thought, then. Gideon has employed strong magic to cover his trail.”

“He has attached a hex to the words that will lead you to him. None of us can utter them without calamitous consequences.”

“I do not wish to put you at any risk of harm. Nor would Tegan wish me to do such a thing.”

“It is for Tegan that I came.”

“Do you know her?” I confess I was surprised.

The exquisite creature nodded. “We have been watching over her these past years. She is worthy of our protection, and we give it freely.”

“She is blessed to have such allies. If there is any help you are able to offer…”

“Tegan is in grave danger. You must go after her.”

“It is my intention, but I must know where she is.”

“I cannot speak of it. You will have to find her yourself. She is within your reach if only you stretch out your hand to her, but this will not be the case for very long. With each passing day she will slip further from you.”

“Within my reach? She has not been taken far? Please, if you can give me some small indication as to where…”

One of the male faeries leaned forward and whispered in his sovereign's ear. They appeared to discuss the matter for a moment, and I noticed him indicate that it was not safe to linger, and that they should leave.

His mistress held up a hand and turned back to me.

“Ask not where, but when,” she said, and then repeated, louder and sharper, “Ask not where but when!” So saying, she and her guards flitted back into the hedge and vanished among the shadows. Her voice echoed painfully through my head. I forced myself to quell rising panic. How could I possibly trace Tegan with such scant information? It was facts I needed now, clear clues and indications, not riddles and whispers.

“Wait!” I cried. “Please, I do not understand. Can't you tell me more?”

But she had gone. The connection was broken. I would hear nothing further.

And yet there was something other, some other gift of insight yet to reach me, and it was not to be listened to but seen. Unnatural ripples began to move the surface of the pool. I leaned forward, watching as the undulations spread and parted and colors and images started to form in the water. I was aware of Aloysius becoming still as stone, his little body tensed in the presence of such magic. Shapes were pulsating but none were clear enough to properly discern. I struggled to make sense of what I was seeing, but it was all too confusing, too fleeting. The colors started to fade and the movements grew less vigorous.

“No! I have not seen clearly!” I was terrified the vision would be snatched from me before I had been able to read it. “Wait…” And then suddenly it snapped into sharp focus. An entire scene, as detailed as any painting labored over for weeks. I saw green fields, with ancient woodland in the background, and to the fore a cluster of people. On looking closer I saw that they were, in fact, soldiers, all armed, in uniform, standing close together and alert, staring into the middle distance, as if expecting an attack from some unseen foe. I scanned the group, but Tegan was not with them. Their weapons were far from modern—muskets and pikes—and their garb centuries old. They wore plain helmets and rough jerkins cinched by broad yellow sashes. I had seen such soldiers before, many, many years ago, when I was still young and only just setting out on my near-immortal life. With a chill I recalled the bloody battles that raged on for season after season, and the pitiful wounded I had sought to help. The image began to flex and distort. I studied it as hard as I was able, attempting to commit every aspect to memory. There was something familiar about the setting, and yet surely it could have been any field in England. Any stretch of woodland. As the ripples stirred once more and the vision started to fracture and fade I noticed something in the far corner of the picture, at the very limit of the landscape. The tall trees, all in the full leaf of summer, bordered this side with their dark, verdant shapes, a mass of green and a tangle of branches, but at one small point there was a gap. An area where some of the trees had been felled, and through this fissure in the forest I could just glimpse tall but distinctive redbrick shapes. Chimneys. The tall chimneys of a grand house. Such was their uncommon pattern and number that a jolt of recognition made me gasp in the seconds the image disappeared.

“Batchcombe Hall!”

For it could be no other. I straightened up, gulping the chill night air to steady my dizzied senses. If the vision was showing me where I must look for Tegan, then I had not far to travel, for the great house I had known as a child lay only on the other side of the very woods I could see from the village where I now stood. The faerie had told me,
Ask not where, but when
because the “where” was here. Gideon had not taken Tegan somewhere else. He had taken her some
when
else. And that “when” was revealed to me in the pool by dint of those soldiers and their unmistakeable Parliamentarian uniforms, and my heart tightened to think of her in that terrible, dark, and blood-spattered time. How had Gideon gained the ability to journey through time? Why, I wondered, had he gone to such trouble, such risk? Traveling into the past was known to be extremely dangerous, and was never lightly undertaken. Whatever his reasons, I myself did not have the necessary skills to be able to follow them unassisted. If I were to go after Tegan, I would need the help of a Time Stepper.

I slept poorly that night, my dreams filled with memories of the civil war that had set villagers, friends, and family members against one another. Why had Gideon chosen to take Tegan back to years of such turmoil and violence? Of course I knew that his own foul magic fed upon the aggression and violent energy produced in war. Had this influenced his choice of when, his choice of where? I was thankful not to have found Tegan's corpse, and yet I think I had always suspected he would not want to simply kill her. To capture her was far more in keeping with Gideon's avaricious, vengeful nature. At least it afforded me the opportunity to find her and attempt to rescue her. Which was, in all probability, precisely what he expected—what he wanted—me to do. Was it all truly a game to him? Some twisted entertainment? I believed not. There had to be a deeper, more compelling reason for his actions. Reasons which would not readily reveal themselves under such distant scrutiny as I was able to subject them to.

After the pool in the garden had revealed the details of Tegan's abduction to me, I had set about enlisting the services of a Time Stepper. This was no simple task, as it is hard to know where, and indeed when, they might be found. I first learned of their existence and their singular gifts when I was apprenticed to an herbalist in southwest France in the early years of the eighteenth century. Madame de Vee, who was, of course, a witch as well as an accomplished practitioner in the use of medicinal herbs, insisted on growing all her own supplies. When a beloved but aged sage plant fell victim to the sirocco, she was distraught until she struck upon the idea of traveling back in time a few years to obtain cuttings of the exact same plant. She had duly summoned a Time Stepper, and once she had convinced him that her mission was not as trivial as it must have sounded, he agreed to transport her to the time and place requested. He was right to caution her against traveling contrary to the urging of the moon unless her reasons were compelling, for such voyages can end badly. People are sometimes adversely affected by the first step, so that they are unable to repeat it and return to their own time. Others are lost altogether.

Time Steppers are known to be peculiar in their habits, which is perhaps unsurprising, given the erratic nature of the lives they lead. When I considered how, for them, time did not signify mortality in the usual way, I felt a sudden kinship with them. Would they not of necessity live solitary existences, as I had done for so many years before meeting Tegan? I understood their training was long and arduous, and that they were learned and erudite. I was fortunate to have witnessed Madame de Vee's experience all that long time previously, so that I knew how to set my summons in motion. Back inside the cottage once more, I took out my
Book of Shadows
and read my diary entries concerning her time travel. I then turned the house upside down to find the required silver bell, wine goblet, red wine, parchment, quill, and ink. Following the instructions to the letter, I sat down to pen my request. As tradition dictated, I spoke the words aloud as I set them upon the page.

“I search for Tegan, apprentice hedge witch, lithe, young, fair, of good heart and shining soul, possessed of pure magic. Taken against her own will by the warlock Gideon Masters, a man of dark deceit, evil intent, and cruel spirit, who means her great harm. I believe her life and soul to be in peril. He has taken her back through years in their hundreds, a time of civil war and famine, when the country gnawed at its very being, and men, women, and children were lost to the lofty plans of great men. I have sought help and divination from the faerie folk. They see her there. They see her then. A land with no king.”

I sketched as best I could a representation of the uniforms I had seen, of the weaponry, and of Batchcombe Hall itself from memory. When I had finished I furled the parchment, tied it with ribbon, and dripped wax upon it, into which I pressed a pendant belonging to Tegan, shaped into a Celtic cross. The potent symbol was not, in truth, as important as the fact that it was something of Tegan's, and a thing that she would have worn next to her skin, close to her heart. I rang the bell eight times, poured the wine, and set the items on a west-facing windowsill.

It worried me that I did not have an exact date to aim at, so I made sure to include as much detail as I could in the picture of the condition of the landscape and trees (which suggested summer, at least), and so on. I recalled that a reply would take at least six hours, so I forced myself to attempt sleep whilst I waited. Before settling in the chair by the fire for a second night, however, I dressed myself in clothes more fitting for the seventeenth century. My wardrobe yielded a simple green woolen dress, beneath which I wore a cotton shift and petticoat. I tied a scarf over my hair and a fine woolen shawl around my waist, giving me a passable appearance for the sixteen hundreds. I added some simple beads at my neck and a chain of gold at my throat, not wanting to appear a pauper. My laced ankle boots still had plenty of wear in them. Soon I was ready. A glance in the mirror made my heart thunder, my costume inevitably reminding me of those terrible months when I had lost all dear to me and been forced to flee for my life. As I drew the chair a little closer to the stove, Aloysius scurried onto my lap, nestling into the folds of my shawl, eyes shut tight, clearly exhausted by the day's long and traumatic events. In truth, I, too, was fatigued to the point of dizziness, and though my slumber was to be fitful, it quickly claimed me.