The Winter Witch (17 page)

I feel a gentle hand on my arm.

“Cariad?”
Mrs. Jones’s voice pulls me back into the room. “I think we’d best put your little friend outside.” She nods at the bird. “Don’t you agree?”

Together we pick our way through the debris which litters the room. At the front door I kiss the owl briefly before holding it high. It stands on my hand for a moment, stretching its wings, blinking in the brilliance of the daylight. It rotates its head, as owls are given to doing, almost completely, scanning the area for possible dangers. Finding none, it makes a low, purring hoot before leaping upward, wings wide, and flies swiftly toward the trees at the far side of the pond meadow.

We have no sooner retreated inside and closed the door than Bracken tears into the hall, having finally managed to push his way out of the kitchen. He scrabbles frantically at the front door, leaping and whining, desperate to follow his master. I lift the latch and allow him to go, watching his foxy shape, nose down for the scent, tail up for balance, as he charges up the slope in pursuit of Cai.

“He’ll be all right now,” Mrs. Jones assures me. “Come inside,
merched
. I’ll wager a pound to a penny you’ve had no breakfast.
Duw, duw,
what are we to do with the pair of you?” she mutters, shaking her head as she leads me into the kitchen. “Nothing do feel so bad after hot tea and some of my Welsh cakes, you’ll see.”

I sit beside the unlit range. I am numb. It is as if when Cai stormed from the house in such a passion he took all my feelings with him. How could I have brought about such destruction? Catrin’s beautiful china … it is as precious to Cai as it was to her. I watch Mrs. Jones bustle about taking a spill to the kindling in the grate and working the bellows to encourage flames.

“Now, don’t you fret,
merched,
” says she without pausing in her work. “Cai Jenkins is a good man. He has it in him to forgive. A walk will calm him down.”

But what if it does not, I wonder. What if by my thoughtlessness I have broken whatever fragile connection there might have been between us, just as surely as I have broken Catrin’s china? Smashed. Beyond repair. And how will he treat me now that he can no longer ignore my … strangeness?
What manner of wife are you?
he asked me. What answer will he find up there on the mountain?

Mrs. Jones swings the kettle over the burgeoning fire. Water slops from the spout causing a deal of hissing steam. She continues to chatter on, words of reassurance and consolation, all the while fetching teapot and cups, and a basket of her flat, sugary cakes from the pantry. I do not have the will to rise from my chair and help her. Seeing my deepening despair she at last pauses in front of me. Hands on hips she smiles, kindly but determined.

“Mrs. Jenkins,” says she, her stout legs firmly planted, her head nodding slowly, “I think the time has come for you and me to have a talk.”

I frown, trying to understand what she can mean by this. She has been talking nonstop for the past twenty minutes. She knows I cannot contribute to the conversation. What can she expect of me? I put my head on one side, questioning. Her answer is to turn and pad across the flagstones to the old dresser.

This is a very different piece of furniture from the grand, gleaming one that, until now, safely housed Catrin’s china collection in the adjoining room. This is a workaday construction, its wood darkened by smoke from the fire, its size and age causing it to sag somewhat in the middle. With difficulty, Mrs. Jones bends to her knees and pulls open the lower left-hand cupboard. From this she removes pots and pans and boards and platters until she has the thing quite empty. Next, to my amazement, she all but crawls inside. Indeed only her own expansive girth prevents her from disappearing altogether, so that her aproned rump and broad feet remain in a most unflattering pose. When she calls to me her voice is muffled and her burrowing causes the entire dresser to rock, so that I fear it might topple.

“I do need your assistance,
cariad.
Seems I can’t … quite … reach.” With a gasp of exasperation she wriggles backward, turning to sit, flushed, with her plump legs outstretched in front of her. She takes a moment to dab at her brow with her apron and right her skewed mop cap.

“’Tis no good,” she puffs. “My arms have grown too short or the hole has grown deeper, one or the other.” She points into the darkness of the empty cupboard. “You will have to fetch it from there.” She waves me into the uninviting space. “Crawl to the back,
cariad.
Feel for the gap in the wood.”

I scramble inside, marveling that Mrs. Jones did not find herself stuck fast, so tight is the space. There is indeed a piece cut from the wooden back of the dresser, so that I can feel the cold stonework of the wall behind. Mrs. Jones’s efforts have already in part dislodged a smooth, square stone.

“Do you have it? You must pull the block out fully,” says she, “and then reach your arm right inside, far as you can go.”

I do as instructed, firmly banishing from my mind all possibility of disturbing a nest of rats. However at ease I am with countryside creatures, I still have a childish loathing of rats.

“Can you reach it? Have you found it?” Her voice has an edge of excitement to it now.

Had I words at my disposal I would mention that it is easier to tell if you have found something when you know what it is you are looking for. As it is I am left to grope about the gritty space. And, yes, my fingers have found something. Something that cannot be wood or stone, as it yields a little as I probe. It feels almost padded. Wrapped, perhaps. I fumble and scratch at it until my fingers hook the string with which the object is bound, and I am able to pull it free.

As soon as Mrs. Jones sets eyes upon the package she snatches it from me and holds it to her breast, her eyes closed, as if it were the most precious treasure returned to her. When she recovers her senses she smiles at me, holding out a hand.

“Well then, help an old woman to her feet. Not doing my poor bones any good sitting on these cold flags.”

With some effort I set her up on her legs and we take to chairs either side of the fire. The flames have caught the larger chunks of wood and are beginning to claim the coal now. The kettle is making faint but promising noises. Mrs. Jones tugs gently at the string, her plump fingers surprisingly nimble as they undo the bows and knots securing the parcel. With great care she removes the wrapping, setting it down on the floor beside her chair. In her lap there now sits a large book, its leather cover worn and showing signs of age, the gilding on its page edges rubbed bare in places. She strokes, no,
caresses
the book tenderly, and her face as she does so appears to lose some of its sags and lines, almost to regain a trace of her lost youth, so that her complexion glows with a secret joy. What can be written on these pages to bring about such a transformation? I lean forward in my chair to better examine the book and notice Mrs. Jones instinctively tighten her hold upon it. It is clear she will not give it over to me just yet.

“Now,
cariad,
where to begin? Ah, the poppies. Yes, I think we should start with the poppies.”

At this I cast my eyes downward, feigning interest in a loose thread on my nightgown.

“Oh, there is no call to be wary. Not with me, not now. You see, I do understand you, Morgana.”

Even though we have grown easy in each other’s company since my arrival at Ffynnon Las, it feels strange to hear her address me thus.

“When your parents named you, did they know, right when you were born, what talents you held? I wonder if they were recalling another who lived long ago, who was one of the most powerful and gifted witches that ever did live?”

The use of the word
witches
startles me into meeting her gaze. My father chose my name. And yes, Dada knew of its origins, for he often told me tales of the magic wonders performed by my mythical namesake. I have always imagined my sensible, earthbound mother would have fought against the choice, but Dada could be stubborn when it suited him.

“But, to return to the poppies,” Mrs. Jones goes on. “I do know you planted a single bloom but a few days ago. And now we can all see the cheerful abundance of flowers on poor Meg’s grave. I do believe you were almost as astonished as poor Mr. Jenkins at first sight of them, weren’t you,
cariad
? Think back, child. Might you have wept upon that flower as you planted it?
Duw,
there’s some strong magic in the tears of a witch. No, stay, don’t jump from your chair like a hare from a gunshot. ’Tis only a word.” She sighs softly, looking at me with great fondness, so that I find I am not afraid. I find instead that I am reminded of the way my own mother would look at me. “I knew what you were, what you could be, the first time you touched me,
merched.
Do not be frightened. No other living person will hear your secret from me, I do promise you this. For how could I denounce one as is the same as me?”

At this I cannot say what shocks me more—that she has just called me
witch,
or that she has declared herself to be one. In either case, my hands start to tremble. Before I can react further she continues, eager to dispel my fears.

“There are different kinds of witch, mind. And we are not cut from the same cloth, you and me,
cariad.
I am a hedge witch, plain and simple. Everything I know I learnt at my mother’s knee, same as she did from her mother, and her mother before that as far back … ooh, as far back as any can remember, and then maybe a little further again. All the special recipes, all the cures and blessings, all the healing, all handed down through generations.” She pauses to reflect for a moment and I fancy there is a tear in her eye when she tells me, “I did yearn for a girl of my own. Near broke my heart that I was not blessed with a daughter. I do love my boy, of course, but … well, he do make a fine farmer, and would have made a very poor witch!” She chuckles at the thought. “My mother did say I had some talent, and she taught me well. Over the years I have done what I can to help people who needed me. Sometimes what I had to offer did ease suffering. Other times, as when poor dear Catrin was stricken with childbed fever … well, other times I was not able to help. My talent is but small magic, for small wants and needs. But
you, cariad,
well, you have such a strength in you, such a power…” She shakes her head slowly. “I do imagine it must scare you sometimes, isn’t that so?”

At this I nod, and then stop suddenly, realizing that I have just admitted to … to what? To being a witch? To using magic? I have never confessed such a thing in my life before. Not even to Mam. It was unspoken between us, but understood. My magic came from Dada. He alone could advise me, guide me in this. But then he went away, and as far as Mam was concerned, that was an end to it. Having magic blood was dangerous. Even in these modern times, plenty suffer accusations of witchcraft. At best they are driven from their homes and drummed out of the parish. At worst, well, a mob is a terrifying thing. Some pay for their gifts with their lives.

“’Tis a wonder,” says Mrs. Jones, “as others do not see the magic fizzing out of you.”

Some do. Sometimes. My schoolteacher thought he saw it, though he could never prove anything. And the children, did they detect something … different, too? Others in the village had their suspicions. There were things I did that caused whispers, and then Mam would chide me and warn me not to be so reckless. And so I have become adept at hiding the light that would shine out of me. Until now. Here, with Cai, I have let down my guard. Mrs. Jones has recognized me for what I am. Reverend Cadwaladr was quick to form his own, fierce opinion of me. And now Cai has seen the poppies, and he knows that we saw him notice them. Now the secret no longer sits between us, blocking our view of each other. What will his response be? In what state of mind will he return from his walk?

Mrs. Jones shifts in her seat, trying for a more comfortable position, but not for one second loosening her grip on the book in her lap. The kettle at last begins to sing. We exchange glances.

“Would you mind,
cariad
?” is all she has to ask.

I jump up, full of restlessness brought about by the subject of our discussion, and happy to be given something to do. I set about making tea while she talks on, finding it easier to mask my reactions to her words whilst I am occupied.

“You do know what lies inside you, mind. How could you not? It must be hard for you, keeping the best part of yourself buried. Well,
merched,
you cannot hide the truth from your husband any longer. No more can he deny it. ’Tis fortunate indeed that you have come here, to Ffynnon Las, for this is a place built on magic. There is witching wisdom in its very stones.” She looks down at the book again, and, out of the corner of my eye as I pour tea, I see her start to open it. Gingerly, warily almost, she begins to lift the thick cover, the aged spine crackling minutely as she does so. I long for her to throw it wide open and reveal the contents, but it is as if she does not quite dare, does not quite have the courage. Or is it that she does not yet trust me sufficiently to share what is written? Is that what makes her yet hesitate?

“I have told you of the well, of how any who own it own the power it possesses. If they do know how to use it. Well, there is something more. Something that makes this cursing well different to others. Sets it apart. Something that does make it a great deal more powerful. The origins of the well are widely known, hereabouts. What few people are aware of, mind, is what happened many years after the spring was first used to curse, after its magic was first called upon. The story was told to me by my mother, and before she spoke she made me swear a witch’s pledge never to disclose the secret to any save another witch, and then only if I was certain,
certain,
mind, that witch was to be trusted.” She looks up at me. “Well,
Duw,
don’t stand about letting that tea get cold, here, give it to me.”