The Witch’s Daughter (36 page)

2

I slept so badly that by five o’clock the next morning I had given up trying. I slipped out of the dormitory and exited the clearing station, heading away from the sound of the artillery. The darkness was just lifting into its pre-dawn pallor so that I was able to find my way quite well. I was very soon clear of the village and picked my way through fallow fields as yet undisturbed by war, except for their state of neglect. It was bliss to be free of the madness of the tents and their tragic occupants. Here I could convince myself normal life, whatever that was, continued. And would continue, beyond the chaos that raged only a few miles away. I found a moss-covered gate and sat on it to watch the sun rise. The light began to alter, lending an amber tinge to the flat landscape that stretched out before me. The first birds of the day started to sing out. There were larks, rooks, and finches. In the grass, poppies and marigold vied for attention, so clean and bright and unashamedly pretty. How I needed to remind my weary heart that life would go on. That there were still good things to be discovered, even in this fearsome place. I found myself weeping. For the men whose eyes had been permanently closed and would never witness such loveliness again. For the mothers back home who had lost their boys and would never see joy in anything again. For the pointlessness of it all. For my own uselessness. At last I could ignore that small voice in my head no longer. The ancient voice, the voice that I had silenced and refused to listen to after what had happened at the Fitzroy. I had promised myself I would turn my back on my magic. I would never again draw Gideon to me by using it or subject other innocent people to his evil power. And so I had lived a half-life, a lie—a tense, benumbed existence, denying what I truly was. I knew, as I sat there on that gate surrounded by beauty and goodness, I knew that I could pretend no longer. The bravery of the wounded men humbled me. What sort of coward would I be to put my own safety above theirs? What sort of woman would I be not to give help and care where it was so sorely needed? What sort of witch would I be not to use everything in my gift to heal? I stopped crying and lifted my face to the sun. I let its warm rays bathe my features. I took in its energy. I breathed in the sweet country air.

‘So be it,’ I said aloud. ‘So be it.’

By the time I arrived back at the CCS, it was too late for breakfast, so I went directly to the resuscitation tent. As I approached, strange sounds reached my ears: strangled, unearthly cries that made my skin crawl. Corporal Davies was locked in a nightmare of delirium.

I glanced around the ward. None of the other patients would meet my eye. All were clearly greatly affected by their comrade’s suffering. In the bed behind me, another soldier hissed between clenched teeth. ‘Shut him up, Nurse,’ he begged. ‘For Christ’s sake, shut him up!’

I passed my shift in a blur of confusion and anxiety. I knew what I had to do, but I was aware of the risks and of what the consequences might be if I was found out. I bided my time. At six o’clock that evening the doctor finished his rounds, and I watched Sister Radcliffe head across the campus to her office. I was left with one other nurse, a nervous young girl from the Home Counties.

‘You go and get some supper,’ I told her. ‘I can finish off here.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘It’s very quiet tonight. I can manage. Go on. If you’re quick, you might even get some fresh bread with your meal.’

She needed no further persuading and disappeared with something approaching a spring in her step. I checked that the patients were comfortable and settled and then quietly positioned screens around the bed of Corporal Davies. I picked up his notes and read his first name. Danny. Not Daniel but Danny. To somebody he was a son, a husband, a father, perhaps. Danny Davies from a far, far away place with mountains and viridian grass and speeding clouds in the sky. I looked at the wheezing, trembling figure on the bed and thought how cruel it was that he must suffer so very much and so very far from home. I moved to kneel beside him. I reached out and took his hand in mine. He stirred and looked at me. He had not been asleep, merely closing his eyes against the ghastliness of his painful waking world.

I met his gaze and leaned closer. ‘I cannot heal you, Danny. I am sorry, but I do not have it in my power to undo what has been done to your poor body. I cannot return you to the fine young man you once were, at least, not here. But I can help you; I can put an end to your suffering. Danny, I can send you to a wonderful place, a place free of pain, a place of happiness and love, a place where you can be whole again. Do you understand?’

He peered at me through flickering lids. For a moment he made no response, then, almost imperceptibly but quite distinctly, he nodded.

‘Is that truly what you want, Danny? Tell me. I must know that this is what you wish.’

His breathing grew quicker. His mouth moved painfully. At last, in a rasp of exhaled air, seemingly from his very heart came a single, vehement word.

‘Yessss!’

I nodded and straightened up. I closed my eyes but kept my hand softly on his the whole time. Slowly I focused my mind; I directed my soul. I looked inward, deep into my own essence, searching, searching. Searching for the long-buried treasure. Gradually it began to stir. Haltingly at first, and then with increasing strength and speed, I felt the magic within me welling up, filling my being once more. It coursed through my veins; it charged through my nervous system; it pumped through my heart. It engulfed me. I could feel myself glowing with the power and the wonder of it. It felt so good to be complete again, after such a long time asleep and alone. I opened my eyes. Danny was watching me closely, but I saw no fear in his expression. I let my head fall back and began to whisper a chant. Softly at first, then as loud as I dared without disturbing the sleeping men on the other side of the screen. Over and over I repeated the incantation, putting all the longing of those dry, barren years into each word. In no time at all my calls were answered. They had joined us. The swirling green mist grew thicker and brighter, so that very soon I could make out the faces and shifting shapes of many of my sisters within it. Danny moved his head, trying to follow the whirling progress of the beautiful figures as they danced around and above him. I squeezed his hand, confident that he would feel no pain. The air was filled with an almost overpowering scent of roses. He looked at me again now, wonder in his eyes.

‘Do not be afraid, Danny. The Summerlands is a glorious place. Go now. Be free. Be strong and happy again.’

My sisters spun about him faster and faster until in one pulsating maelstrom they moved upward. There, in the midst of them, I saw Danny’s spirit rise up too. This was not the wretched, ruined, husk of a man like the one who lay in front of me. This was Danny whole and vibrant and youthful once more. He looked down at me and smiled, a smile of such joy it moved me to tears. I knew in that instant I had done the right thing. Whatever was to come, whatever the consequences, this was what I had to do. There was no other path to be taken. Suddenly, in a heartbeat, they were gone. The small space was still and silent once more. Danny’s body was empty. I let go his lifeless hand and hurried out of the tent.

In the nurses’ quarters I found everyone else asleep. I sat on my bed, my heart still pounding, my mind fizzing, and my body tingling. For the first time in a very long while, I felt properly alive. I sat for almost an hour, unable to proceed with the mundane business of undressing and getting into bed. Knowing, in any event, that I would not be able to sleep. I was lost in rekindled memories, in rediscovered bonds and friendships, in the bliss of magic filling my being once more. I was so distracted I did not notice Sister Radcliffe enter the hut until she was standing in front of me. Startled, I sprang to my feet, convinced my altered state could not go unnoticed. She regarded me severely for a moment, her mouth set and tense.

‘Nurse Hawksmith,’ she said, her voice even more stern that usual, ‘my office, if you please. This instant.’

3

It would not be an exaggeration to say Sister marched me to her office. I braced myself for what was to come. I presumed that by now Corporal Davies’ death had been discovered. I could only imagine someone must have said something about my sitting with him shortly after the end of my shift. Had the other patients heard the strange sounds coming from behind the screens? Could they have seen the apparitions or heard my incantations? I had administered no drugs. There could surely be no evidence to suggest I had had anything to do with his death. However, even in his extremely fragile state, Danny had not been expected to die so quickly. Sister Radcliffe sat down behind her desk and, to my surprise, bade me take a seat myself.

‘I have been watching you closely since your arrival, Nurse,’ she said. ‘I admit I find some of your methodology, shall we say, unorthodox. Nevertheless, you have proved yourself to be hard working, diligent, competent, and, possibly most important of all, able to keep your head.’

I was taken aback. The last thing I had been expecting from Sister was praise of any sort.

‘Thank you, Sister,’ I said.

‘In peacetime these would have been qualities I would have expected from my nurses without exception. However, this is not peacetime. These are extraordinary circumstances, and many of the girls here would never have thought to unravel a bandage had it not been for the war. Suffice it to say most of them are not natural nurses. In truth, there are few here I consider worthy of the name. But we must make the best of what we have. To this end, my job is to see to it that the most expert care is given to those who require it, and this often means my best nurses find themselves overstretched and under considerable pressure.’

She paused and I wondered if she was waiting for me to say something. I still had no idea where this speech was leading, so I sat still and remained silent.

‘The upshot is,’ Sister continued, ‘I face a dilemma. Should I, at all costs, keep the most able of my staff here at the CCS, where I know their talents will be well used? Or should I, as I have been asked to do, relinquish a valuable pair of trained hands to lend support to a woefully undermanned field hospital?’

‘A field hospital? You mean, at the front?’

‘Precisely.’ She pulled a letter from the neat pile of papers on her desk and studied it. ‘The request has come from the commanding officer himself. He does not ask lightly.’

‘Is it customary? To send nurses, female nurses, so close to the battlefront?’

‘It is not. However, there is soon to be a major offensive. I give away no secrets in talking about this, as you will have heard the Allied bombardment of the past few days. It precedes the order to attack. It is believed this may be the final push. Such is the nature of our sustained artillery fire that it is considered the risk to our own men will have been minimized. Heavy casualties are not anticipated. However, the number of soldiers involved is great, and it is felt that the medical officers need more support. All the CCSs have been asked to send someone.’ She looked up from the letter. ‘Well, Nurse Hawksmith, do you consider yourself equal to the task?’

‘Why yes, Sister. I am willing to do whatever is needed. I am flattered to be asked.’

‘Don’t be. I would have sent Nurse Strappington, but we simply can’t spare her. You are the next best choice. Have your things packed for the morning. You will be taken in one of the ambulances along with the requested medical supplies. Now, go and get some sleep.’

I stood up, ‘Thank you, Sister,’ I said. ‘I won’t let you down.’ I had almost reached the exit when she spoke again.

‘One thing more, Nurse. Corporal Davies passed away this evening.’

I was glad I had my back to her. I composed my features into as blank an expression as I could muster and turned around. ‘I’m sorry to hear that, Sister,’ I said.

‘Are you? Are you really, Nurse? I wonder.’ She looked at me through narrowed eyes and then returned to her paperwork. ‘Hurry along now,’ she said.

The next day I said brief farewells to Kitty and Strap and climbed into the front seat of an ambulance. The bonnet of the vehicle bore a deep gash. The driver told me with grim relish it was a shrapnel scar from a perilously close encounter with a German shell. I wedged my bag beneath my feet and clung onto the doorless frame of the open-fronted van as it rattled its way out of Saint Justine and toward the Front. Soon we had left the roads and joined the rough track that served as conduit between the railway station and the front line. This was the main route for all supplies, as well as being the most direct path for transporting the wounded to the hospital, and for troops going to join battalions in the trenches. As the ambulance drew closer to the location of the Allied artillery, the sound of the guns became utterly terrifying. And the farther we drove from the village, the more sinister the landscape was. Gone were the fescued fields and bird-filled hedgerows. Gone, indeed, were all signs of normal farming activity. A relentless combination of wagons, bombs, booted feet, and unseasonal rain had rendered the low-lying fields a muddy wasteland. All that could be seen was a gray-brown wetness pocked with waterlogged shell holes. The mud was riven with zigzagging trenches and entrances to subterranean dugouts. At random points, stretches of wire remained, all that was left of an earlier measure of the army’s advance: a previous line drawn on a map somewhere that translated to a wound on the skin of the landscape, jagged and barbed and filled with the blood of young men. The rain that had been falling steadily for many days showed no signs of stopping. Even so, it could not hope to wash away the stains such slaughter had left upon the gentle countryside. Nor could it cleanse the ground of the all-pervading stink of death. The smell was overwhelming. I pressed a hand to my mouth, amazed at how none of the passing soldiers seemed to notice the intolerable odor that filled my nostrils and threatened to make me retch. I was forced to the conclusion that they no longer detected it, so accustomed were they to the stench. It was the smell of stagnant water and rotting vegetation, of cordite and smoke, and above everything, the smell of decomposing flesh. I had encountered it so many times before, and in so many ways. The dead sheep behind the hedge. The plague corpse left too long in a house. The unmissed vagrant disintegrating in an alley. The hospital morgue on a warm day. There was no mistaking it.