The Winter Witch (19 page)

He has not gone half a mile when he comes across a farmer of advanced years mending a gap in the hedge. For all his age, he is able to deftly raise the short-handled chopper and split the hazel branches before bending them to weave a tight seal for the hole. Cai recognizes him as Dai the Forge’s uncle. They exchange pleasantries and pass the time of day for a few moments before Cai thinks to ask about the funeral.

“I had not heard that someone had died,” he says. “Do you know who they are burying up at Llanwist today?”

The old man’s eyes widen and he stares hard at Cai.

“There’s not been a funeral up at the old chapel for years,” he tells him slowly. “Not since Reverend Williams moved to the coast.”

“Well there’s one there this morning,” Cai assures him. “You must have seen it come past. I had to step out of the way to let it go by, see?”

The old man has paled noticeably. He shakes his head.

“I saw no funeral,” he says.

Cai is puzzled and not in the mood for nonsense.

“Well,
Duw,
you’d have to have been asleep in the hedge not to notice! A big ugly horse they had, pulling the cart. Smart enough bearers, mind, proper top hats … The mourners were not many or young, but…”

The old man repeats slowly, “I saw no funeral. And no more did you.”

“Are you saying I’m a liar?”

“I’m saying you are mistaken.”

“Don’t be daft, m’n. I know what I saw. How can I mistake a whole funeral?”

The old man points with his hatchet as he speaks to underline his words.

“I’m telling you they don’t hold funerals up at Llanwist no more, and not a horse nor a cart nor a coffin went by me here today.” He leans forward, his walnut face screwed up, his voice low. “What you saw was a
toili
.”

“A
toili
?” Cai laughs nervously. “Have you been supping ale for breakfast, granddad?”

“Aye, call me a fool or a drunk if that makes you feel any easier about it, but there’s no getting by the facts.”

“Facts, is it? You are telling me I’ve nearly had my toes trod on by a load of ghosts, and you’re talking about facts?”

For Cai has heard of a
toili
before. Many years ago, when he was no more than a boy. He remembers his grandfather telling him of how Jones Heol-Draw witnessed a spectral funeral, horses with black feather plumes and all, over near Pontrhydigiad, one bright August afternoon. No one would believe him. Cai recalls hearing how the man had been scared half out of his wits and was adamant about what he had seen.

The hedger goes back to chopping at the hazel branches to finish his repairs. “No good denying it,” he says, not bothering to look at Cai any more as he speaks. “Not for us to decide these things. A
toili
comes as a message from the spirits, from those passed over. ’Tis a message for him as sees it and none other. Someone is in danger,” he states, baldly. “Someone close to you is going to die, and there’s not a thing you or anyone else can do about it.”

Cai opens his mouth to argue further with the man, but a coldness has gripped his heart. He knows the superstition well enough. And he knows what he saw. He is tempted to retort that there is no one close to him any longer; that death has already claimed the woman he loved. And then he remembers Morgana, and a fresh pain stabs through his heart as keen and as agonizing as anything he felt for Catrin. Morgana!

He runs. He runs so hard and so fast that even Bracken is left trailing behind him. He runs though the air sears his lungs and his chest might burst from the effort. He runs though the muscles in his legs scream and his head becomes giddy from the doing of it. His hat flies from his head but he does not pause to retrieve it. He can think only of Morgana, and that he has judged her harshly. He sees now that it is unfair of him to take against her strange ways—they have always been a part of her. He has simply been choosing to ignore them; how can she be to blame for that? The realization comes to him that he does not care, not about magic or mystery or things he cannot explain. He cares only about her. Morgana, with all her wildness and her curious gifts. Such talents as she has cannot be bad, he reasons, because they are part of her and she is a good person, he is certain of that. Why should these gifts not be God sent, after all? The thought that she might be in danger, that something might happen to her before he can reach her, drives him on.

He runs until at last he can see Ffynnon Las, and then he runs harder up the drive, past the pond meadow and into the house itself, flinging wide the front door.

He all but collides with Morgana as she emerges from the parlor. Standing in the hall, panting, fighting for breath so that he can speak, he grips the startled girl by the shoulders.

“Morgana! Morgana, you’re all right. Oh, thank God. Thank God!” With one more gulp of air to sustain him he pulls her close, pressing his mouth over hers, kissing her with the passion and longing of a man starved of love for a very long time. A man who has only just realized what he has. A man shaken by the fear that he might lose what he has finally found. He stops kissing her but does not loosen his hold on her. Mrs. Jones has come out of the kitchen and is staring at him in astonishment, but he doesn’t care. Morgana looks shocked. He tries to explain, gabbling on about the
toili
and the old man in the hedge, making no sense at all. In the end he gives up and pulls her close, kissing her again, this time more slowly, with less desperation, savoring the sweet moment.

When she pulls back it is to look at him, questioning still, her expression uncertain.

Cai smiles and says gently, “Well, at least you didn’t bite me this time. I call that progress, my wild one.”

Morgana smiles now, her whole body relaxing, a deep sigh escaping, a sigh of letting go. She hesitates for a moment and then takes his hand, leading him into the parlor. Cai follows meekly. For a second he cannot see what it is she is trying to show him. The room is as it has always been. Now he recalls the chaos in which he had left it not three hours before. Order has been restored, pictures righted on the walls, cushions and rugs straightened, and there, on the dresser, every piece of Catrin’s china restored to perfection.

He steps forward and touches the teapot, searching for signs of breakage or mending, but can find none. Every cup and saucer, every plate, everything that was broken is now as new. Whole again and perfect.

Cai looks at Morgana who is watching him nervously, clearly unsure what reaction to expect. He is only glad he took that time on the mountain to think about his extraordinary wife and to consider how best to cope with the aspects of her nature he can no longer ignore. There could certainly be no more pretending now. Not for any of them. He gives Morgana’s hand what he hopes is a reassuring squeeze. He calls to the housekeeper.

“Mrs. Jones! I think we could all benefit from a cup of tea.”

“Oh, right you are, Mr. Jenkins.”

“We’ll take it in here. In the best china, if you please.”

“Oh, yes!” she cries, more than a little breathlessly, before disappearing to do as he bids her.

Cai looks at Morgana. He is still holding her hand and feels no inclination to release it. Instead he raises it to his lips for the softest of kisses and says only, “Thank you, Morgana. Thank you.”

9.

At every available opportunity, Mrs. Jones and I now engage in the practice of magic. What joy it is, at last, not only to be freed from the burden of my secret by sharing it but to be actually encouraged to use my gifts. Of course we must take care not to be observed, and are even cautious when it comes to revealing what we are about to Cai. I still tremble when I recall the moment I took him into the parlor to show him Catrin’s china restored. I had not been certain I would succeed, and my attempt to control my gifts so very specifically, so very precisely, felt childishly haphazard and blundering. And more than a little frightening. Never before have I sought to muster my strength in such a way. Up to that moment, all my efforts to direct what powers I have, to harness the strength of my will and send it out into the world, they have been more … instinctive, brought about as an immediate response to something. This time was different. This time I paused, considered, shaped my thoughts into something so much more particular. Even as I felt the familiar tempest surging out of me and connecting with the elements in the room I was uncertain as to how to proceed, or as to how successful my efforts might prove. I admit, I surprised myself. It was as if a hundred elves had worked their magic over a hundred nights to produce flawless results. I could not have wished for better.

And yet the notion of revealing my work to Cai terrified me. I knew there could be no turning back from such a path. This was my way of laying myself open to him, naked, vulnerable. No more hiding. No more pretending, to him or to myself.
This is what I am,
I was saying to him,
will you still have me as your wife
? I half expected him to put me out. Send me on my way. But he did not. Of course, the moment was in no small part eased by the kisses that preceded it! What mysteries men are. He had left the house in a fury, calling me a creature, lamenting ever having brought me into his home. He had returned, but a few hours later, fearing some calamity might have befallen me in his short absence, holding me to him, and kissing me with such fervor that had I been given to speaking I would have been dumbstruck. As was Mrs. Jones! The picture of her face, first witnessing Cai’s behavior, and then setting eyes on the china … Well, I shall recall the image whenever my spirits are in need of lifting.

Still, we must not press his acceptance of my talents too far too fast. He has seen what I can achieve; he has held Catrin’s reperfected china in his hands and stood and gazed at the poppies on Meg’s grave, but he knows nothing of the
Grimoire,
nor of the Witches of the Well. It is one thing for him to accept me, whom he loves—I am sure of that now—for what I truly am. It would be quite another for us to hope that he will consent to Mrs. Jones instructing me in the ways of an ancient order of witches, using a book that holds power even she is more than a little afraid of. She and I have agreed that there is no call for him to be bothered by each and every thing that we do in this regard. It is enough for me that he is content to let me be as I am, without secrets, without judgment, without fear.

Meanwhile, Mrs. Jones is proving to be a formidable taskmaster. She was quick to inform me that restoring a few plates was not considered sufficient evidence of my abilities, and that my mettle, my talent, and the seriousness of my commitment to the Witches of the Well must be tested further before she would consider letting me read one word of the
Grimoire
. Thus far she has had me transport objects about the kitchen without leaving my chair (an exercise I found almost tedious in its simplicity), ignite a spill for the fire with my breath (which I will admit proved more troublesome than I had anticipated), and summon a mouse and his family to the pantry to feast on breadcrumbs on the floor. This last activity did not run precisely according to plan, so that within minutes the shelves were riddled with the tiny rodents, and it took us much longer to persuade them all to leave than it had done to invite them to dine in the first place. It was a lesson, as my mentor repeatedly reminds me, in how too much magic can be as unsatisfactory as too little when spell-casting. I was only grateful my clumsiness with the spell had not brought rats running to us, else I might have lost my nerve and fled.

And today we are to work with the well as we attempt to expand and develop my witching skills. Cai is absent. He has an appointment with Mr. Evans at the bank and left for Tregaron half an hour ago. We shut Bracken firmly indoors to spare us from his enthusiastic help, and go out to the well.

Mrs. Jones leans over the mossy wall of the pool and scoops up a palmful of the cool water. She takes it to her mouth, sips, and nods at me to do the same. As my fingertips break the glossy surface ripples fan out in hypnotic circles. The day is already warm. The curved wall above the pool is in deep shadow, so that as the water pours from the spout between the stones it remains out of the sun’s reach and retains its mountain chill. Only as the day progresses will the edge of that coldness be blunted by the summer warmth. This early, the temperature is both shocking and refreshing. Even with scant light, the water yet retains its characteristic blueness—a rich indigo, full of mystery and promises.

Mrs. Jones closes her eyes and lets another handful of water fall softly back into the pool as she speaks. “We ask for the protection and blessing of the well. We come to this sacred place with open hearts, bearing no malice to others, wanting only to act in harmony with the wishes of the Witches of the Well, followers of the
Grimoire of the Blue Well
.” She opens her eyes once again, and we two stand in silence for a moment, a silence broken only by the gentle trickle of the spring water and the lapping of the pool against the ancient stones which surround it.

I find I am nervous, no, not quite that … excited, at the prospect of further testing my magic. For so many years I struggled to conceal this part of myself, for fear of what I might do. And for fear of what others might do. It is thrilling to have the freedom to explore the wonderful gift that magic can be. Dada would be so happy for me, so proud.

“Take off your shoes,
cariad,
” says Mrs. Jones.

I hesitate, surprised at the instruction, but my teacher is in no mood to give what she clearly considers unnecessary explanations.

“Take them off,” says she.

Once my feet are bare she bids me climb up and stand in the well pool. If the spring water was shocking to my fingers it nearly takes my breath away as I lower myself, waist deep, into it. My skirts billow about me, tugged by the current where the water leaves the pool on its underground journey to the pond in the meadow below the house.

“A Witch of the Well can work with water like none other,” Mrs. Jones tells me. “It will be your element, Morgana, if you learn how best to persuade it of what you want. Never force it. Do not attempt to govern, only to guide. All the elements resist arrogance, mind. Remember that,
cariad.
Now, there are words you should use. No, don’t fret that you have no voice. It does not matter. Speak in your mind, and with your heart, and you will be heard. So, arms by your sides. No, not like that,
Duw
. You look like a scarecrow. Down low, loose, there.” She leans forward and shakes my arms to encourage them to flop. “That’s better. When you utter the chant slowly,
slowly,
mind, raise your arms. Raise them all the way up until they are above your head, where you clasp them together and hold them, as if you are joining two ends of a rope together. Are you ready? Well, then, repeat, over and over, as you move … ‘The circle of water has not beginning nor end. The shield of water holds me safe.’ Stand straight,
merched
! Right, on you go. No! Don’t wobble. Stand firm.” She prods me sharply in the stomach so that I flinch before I am able to compose myself properly again.