The Winter Witch (20 page)

At last she is quiet and I begin the chant, repeating it as I gradually raise my arms. It is a curious task, indeed, to carry out instructions without having the first idea of what it is one is trying to achieve. I feel more than a little ridiculous, standing fully clothed in the pool, moving my arms as if in some manner of dance. A blackbird comes to the well looking for a drink, sees my curious behavior, and changes its mind.

To begin with nothing happens, save for water running down my sleeves and a deep chill setting into my feet. Seeing this lack of success Mrs. Jones berates me.

“You do need to think the words
clearly,
with sincerity. Again. Do it again.”

My actions are similarly without result the second time, and the third. Mrs. Jones tutts and shakes her heads, repeating the chant to me to make certain I have it right, pushing me to try again and again, over and over, until my legs are become numb with the cold and my arms ache. Then, suddenly, something does happen. On what could be the fifteenth attempt, I am aware of a change, a subtle alteration in the air about me. A slight ringing, or singing, perhaps. I recall the bells I heard when Mrs. Jones first showed me the
Grimoire
and wonder, with real hope, if we will be visited by whatever heavenly presence came that day. But no, we are alone, we two, save for the well and its own special magic. And now that magic begins to show itself. This time, as I raise my arms, the water rises with them. The effect is somewhat alarming, so that I have to fight to control my urge to stop what I am doing. The look Mrs. Jones gives warns me against any such notion. I continue to lift my arms, and the water, and now I can see that I am being encased in a complete bubble! A thin layer of glistening water, transparent but colored in parts by fractured light falling through it, envelopes me, so that I am soon totally surrounded. I keep my hands clasped above my head, scarce daring to breathe lest I break the spell. I am indeed inside a shield of water, totally enclosed and held, with plenty of air, and not a bit of wetness. What an astonishing feeling it is. I see my own glee reflected in the delighted expression on Mrs. Jones’s face. I experience such a wonderful sensation of both safety and exhilaration at one and the same instant that I cannot help laughing, and the second I do so the spell is broken. The bubble bursts with a loud pop and the water around me falls to the pool, soaking me as it does so. I am a silly sight, water dripping from my nose and coursing down my face, my dress sodden, giggling like a lunatic. For a moment I think Mrs. Jones will chide me for my lack of seriousness, but she, too, is taken up with the playfulness of the moment, and with my modest success.

She smiles broadly, her face dimpling.

“
Da iawn, cariad,
” says she with some satisfaction. “Well done indeed.”

Two days later and the morning of the shoeing arrives, and with it another spell of testingly hot weather. There is still moisture in the air, making it sultry and uncomfortable. As I kneel beside Meg’s grave, leaning forward to plant a sprig of honeysuckle, I can feel perspiration tickling the back of my neck as it runs. Cai has found a piece of slate to act as a headstone and cut Meg’s name onto it. He seemed pleased with his work, but to my eye it is too somber for such a cheerful spirit. The honeysuckle will soon cover it. Very soon. I will make certain of it, just as I have brought about the speedy proliferation of the poppies. At my side Bracken pricks up his ears. He has heard something I have not. I stand and shade my eyes with my hand, squinting down the road. Now I hear the sound of an approaching wagon, and soon a sturdy covered cart comes into view, drawn by a piebald cob possessed of a lazy trot and a walleye. Two men sit in the conveyance, and, as they come nearer, I cannot hide a smile at the comical sight they present. For the driver is a mountain of a man, with shoulders broad as a butcher’s block, his great chest straining at the buttons of his shirt, sleeves rolled up to show his arms, hairy and brown in the sunshine, muscles bulging like wool sacks. He favors a cloth cap, which is noticeably too small for him and is jammed onto the back of his close-cropped head providing neither shelter nor shade. His companion is a slender youth sporting a mass of dark curls that bush out from beneath his felt hat, which is of a size more suited to the driver. He is as slight as the other man is substantial, and as tall as he is broad.

Cai has heard them, too, and appears from the yard, where he has been making preparations. The cattle, what few we are to take with us, are already in place, milling about the cobbles, disconsolate at the lack of grass. The ponies we gathered yesterday and are waiting now in the paddock behind the barn. I have not yet reconciled myself to their being sold. When Cai explained to me that this is the only option left to him if he is to turn a profit on the drove I understood his words, his reasoning, but I could not believe he meant to do it. All of them, save for Wenna and one other aged mare, neither of whom are strong enough to make the journey. But the rest of the herd must go. The herd which his father and his grandfather spent their lives nurturing and expanding. I cannot bear the thought of all these wonderful, wild creatures being wrenched from their home, from all that they know, to be taken to a far-off place, tamed, broken, and used as driving or riding ponies among the fearful noise and clamor of London. I know it pulls at Cai’s heart, too. Just as I know that had the cattle not died the ponies would not have to be sold. Once again the sour taste of guilt flavors the memory of that awful day. To his credit, my husband has done his utmost to assure me that he directs no blame toward me for the loss of his herd. That the past cannot be undone. That we must work together toward a secure future. And that I am to accompany him on the drove. This decision he delivered as matter-of-factly as if it were a passing thought of no consequence. But, oh, it is of great consequence to me! I, who have never been farther than an overnight journey from my home, to be traveling across counties into the heart of England, guiding and caring for the ponies. If go they must, I would rather it be me taking them, seeing to it that the drove is as safe and gentle an experience for them as it is possible to be. Cai says I am to have Prince to ride, and I shall treasure the hours I get to spend with him before we must part forever, for even he is to be sold. Cai will have to make do with Honey, which is a matter of some concern, he tells me. She is, in truth, too old and too slow for such work, and will not make the testing task of
porthmon
any easier, but he cannot afford to purchase another. She, too, is to be sold at the end of the drove, and we are to return home by stagecoach.

The hefty piebald reaches the house and comes to a clumsy halt, regarding me warily with its startling light-blue eye. The men greet each other as old friends, and there is much back slapping and good humor. At last the giant man, who is, if it were possible, even more imposing once he has climbed down from the cart which creaks under his shifting weight, spies me. I stand up, awkward beneath so many eyes, still clutching a handful of honeysuckle.

“Well,
Duw,
” says the man mountain, “who is this vision of loveliness? Queen of the May, is it?”

The younger, slighter man says nothing but steps forward and puts me under such intense scrutiny that I blush horribly.

Cai smiles, pleased, it seems, at their interest in me. Will he never tire of me being a curiosity? Perhaps it will be worse now, in our newfound life together which includes all that I am able to do. All that I am.

“This is my wife, Morgana
.
” Cai is enjoying making the introductions. “Morgana, this is Dai the Forge, and Edwyn Nails,” says he.

Dai snatches his cap from his head. “Well, Jenkins, m’n, you didn’t tell me as you had taken an angel for a wife! ’Tis a pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Jenkins.”

Cai explains, this time without awkwardness I fancy, “Morgana does not speak.”

“Well,
Duw,
you are a lucky man, Ffynnon Las. A beautiful bride who chooses to be silent. There’s doubly blessed you are!” says he, before letting out a bellow of laughter. He jams his cap in place and gives Edwyn Nails a slap on the back that sends him teetering. “Come on with you, m’n. Stop staring like a stoat at a hen. There’s work to be done.”

Edwyn contents himself with nodding in my direction and joins Dai in fetching what they will need from the wagon.

Dai sets up his portable forge, pumping at the bellows until the coals glow first red, then orange, and ultimately white. The fumes of the burning coal oil fill my nose and sting the back of my throat. The cattle cluster nervously on the far side of the yard, but they need not concern themselves, for they will be cold shod. The ponies, however, must have iron shoes heated and beaten to fit their neat little hooves. Prince and Honey will have a full set. The foals, young stock, and most of the mares will go without, the breed having naturally dense and durable hooves. Only some of the older mares whose feet are given to mud cracks or splitting will also need to be fitted with shoes. Edwyn assists Dai in stoking the forge and placing anvil and tools so that they can be easily reached. The three men exchange easy banter and teasing, and the mood is light, filled with a sense of purpose and the pleasure of shared work. All the while, however, I am aware of Edwyn’s eyes upon me. No matter that he is occupied with the task in hand, he finds time for furtive glances and even outright stares. Cai seems not to notice, or if he does he makes no comment. I soon become uneasy beneath such unceasing interest, however, and find his behavior bothersome. If it were not for this attention I should be enjoying the day, for here I feel useful, included, valued as a part of Ffynnon Las, given that Cai trusts me with the ponies. When they are gone, I wonder, will he find me useful still?

The first to be shod are the old mares, who stand quietly enough. After these come Honey and Prince. Both tolerate the rasp and paring knife without complaint, standing calmly whilst Dai folds himself almost double to trim and file their hooves. Prince provides a particular challenge, being so small, so that Dai is at one point reduced to kneeling. Once he has shaped the feet he selects a set of shoes nearest to the required size and throws them into the furnace. Edwyn works the bellows, and the thick iron curves slowly change color. When they are ready, Dai uses a pair of heavy pincers to pluck them from the coals. He lifts up Prince’s off hind, pulling it through his legs so that it comes through the split in his tough leather apron to rest on his knee. With the utmost care, he positions the shoe onto the hoof, which sends up a plume of pungent smoke as the heat burns into the insensitive layer. When he lifts up the shoe the black print that remains shows him how close he is to the desired shape. Dropping Prince’s leg he carries the shoe to the anvil where he beats it with a bouncing
one
-two-three,
one
-two-three rhythm, wielding the heavy hammer as if it were no weight at all. He repeats the procedure twice more until he is satisfied and then plunges the shoe into a pail of water, which bubbles and steams as it cools the iron. Edwyn steps forward now, nails gripped between his teeth. He takes the warm shoe from him, lifts Prince’s leg, and tap, tap, taps the iron slipper into place. The work is slow and necessitates care, for a badly shaped or ill-fitting shoe will lame a horse within a mile.

I stroke Prince’s snowy neck, sending the pony into a doze despite the attention his feet are receiving. Looking across the yard I catch Cai watching me. He smiles, and I feel my heart speed a little. The memory of the way that he held me, with such sincerity, with such, could it be, passion? He has not kissed me since, but then our days have been filled with the business of preparing for the drove. I wondered if he might come to my room and found myself unable to sleep, but it seems I am still not to be “disturbed.” As if I were not already! I find his affection heartening. Soothing. Reassuring. If only we can make a success of the drove, then it may be that I shall know happiness with this curious husband of mine.

“Right, that’ll do him,” declares Dai, waking Prince up abruptly with a slap on the rump. “You can take him away, Mrs. Ffynnon Las. Let’s get to those cattle.”

I put Prince in the low stone stable with Honey while the men dampen the forge, more steam rising as Edwyn empties the water bucket over it. Where shoeing the ponies was a pleasantly sedate business, fitting
cues
to the Welsh Blacks is another matter entirely. Cai, Dai, and Edwyn select a beast, corner it, with the unasked for assistance of a barking Bracken, and rope it. It is now that I see why Dai’s size so perfectly equips him for his chosen trade. The bullock (for such this one is) must be turned. This involves Dai leaning shoulder to shoulder with the anxious, leaping beast, picking up a front leg, and pushing the whole of his considerable weight into it, his own strength and bulk pitted against that of the muscular animal until it is unbalanced, tipped over and falls to the ground. Cai sits on its neck, holding its head by the short, sharp horns, whilst Edwyn ropes its feet. Now Dai deftly places the thin shoes over the cloven hooves so that Edwyn can nail them in place. He must work fast, as the longer he is held the more the bullock will struggle and its captors tire. Within minutes it is done, the ropes untied, and the beast springs to its feet and rejoins the herd. I marvel at the thought that, come the drove, this process must be repeated with perhaps two hundred head of cattle. We have scarcely more than two dozen remaining, but even this seems an exhausting task. In order to be of use I employ Bracken to help me select those already shod and let them slip through the yard gate into the rear meadow. They buck and leap as they reach the turf, testing out their new footwear.

It is midday before we are finished. The moment the final steer joins its fellows Mrs. Jones appears in the yard with welcome refreshments.

“Here we are,
bechgyn,
” she calls to us, as if we were children played too long in the sun. “
Duw,
there’s dusty you are!” This is directed at me, and I notice now that my bare arms, and indeed my face and neck, are coated with a fine layer of grime kicked up by the cattle, stirred through the air by the heat of the furnace and the sunshine, and stuck to me by my own clamminess.