The Winter Witch (35 page)

I will not stay a second longer in her company. I turn and make to stride for the house but she springs to stand in front of me, her movement unnaturally quick and noiseless.

“Why, Mrs. Jenkins, do you not know it is the height of rudeness to walk away whilst a person is in conversation with you?”

I try to push past her but she seizes my arm, her grip painful, her touch poisonous, causing my skin to burn beneath it.

“Hear this! Cai Jenkins will never know good health more! His strength will wane, his blood thin, his mind loosen, until he is but a husk of a man. You will watch him, helpless, as he fades and suffers. And when at last he draws his final breath I will be there to sing triumphant! And I will see to it that you are driven from this place, and Ffynnon Las becomes mine.”

I wrench my wrist from her clutches and run for the house, but her words follow me.

“I curse Cai Jenkins! Curse him with a slow and torturous death, and your part in it will be to witness his suffering and know you could have prevented it, had you loved him enough to give him up!”

I slam the heavy oak door behind me, my heart thudding fit to burst from my chest, and race back up the stairs and into my room. I struggle to still my ragged breath. Cai lies sleeping still, peaceful, safe, and well. But for how long, I wonder. For how long?

17.

We are to use the
Grimoire
! Now that the moment has arrived I do not know which I fear most—the book’s possible power, or my possible failure. Through elaborate mime and the laborious scratching of a few words I was able to convey to Mrs. Jones the encounter I had with Isolda at the well, and the curse she has placed upon Cai. I find myself watching him obsessively now, searching for signs of suffering or sickness. Thus far, two days from the curse being placed, there is little to see, save for a marked tiredness and a dwindling of his appetite. How long will it take before he is gravely ill? Before he is beyond saving, even? The thought is too terrible to hold in my head for more than a fleeting instant. I was all for running straight to the book, wrenching it from its hiding place, and scouring the pages for some counterspell, some way of lifting the curse. I have to believe such a thing exists, for I surely believe Isolda has the power to do what she threatens. But, Mrs. Jones stayed my hand. We must work in secret, and I understand this. She has explained to me that the forces we may unleash by using the
Grimoire
cannot be easily masked or contained. Beyond these vague assertions I can get no more from her. What is clear is that Cai must be some distance from the house before we can settle to our task. Mrs. Jones is adamant it will do no good at this stage to tell him what dark cloud hangs over him. Indeed, she believes his knowing about the curse might even increase its effect. We cannot be sure, but while he is not suffering, she deems it better we keep the truth of his affliction from him.

And today we have an opportunity. The weather has been achingly cold, and Cai has decided to gather the ewes from the hill and move them to the pastures above the house instead, so that it will be easier to take fodder to them when necessary. He purchased the small flock on our return from the drove. He continued to mutter about sheep being more trouble than they are worth even whilst he was buying them, but he has calculated that they might turn a reasonably swift profit, so that we will be able to increase the herd of cattle further next year. I watched him urging Honey up toward the hill just after breakfast, Bracken nipping at the lazy mare’s heels. He plans to check the boundary hedge while he is out, so we can be confident he will not return until after midday.

I retrieve the book from its nest and sit beside Mrs. Jones at the kitchen table. The two of us are silent now, the book in front of us, unwrapped, waiting. Waiting for us to have the courage to open it. I can hear the ticktocking of the grandfather clock in the parlor. I can hear Mrs. Jones’s breath wheezing as she draws it, a little rapidly. Her cheeks are flushed and she licks her lips as she places her hand upon the
Grimoire
. Her obvious apprehension heightens my own anxiety. But I must not be timid. My future here at Ffynnon Las, Cai’s very life, everything I have left in the world and hold dear, all depend upon me. Upon the step I am about to take. I feel myself on the threshold of a new existence. I know that, once I have crossed that border, there can be no going back. Knowledge cannot be unknown. Experience cannot be unlived.

“I have been permitted to look inside this book but once in my life,” says Mrs. Jones quietly. “I was eighteen, and my mother deemed me fit to see, if not to use, what lies within. She herself never used the book, mind. She explained to me, the wisdom, the power, the strong magic of the
Grimoire
is not for hedge witches. Such witchcraft as it contains, see, well, ’tis not for the everyday and the commonplace. And in the wrong hands…” She turns to face me. “I do have to tell you,
cariad,
those who seek to harness the forces of this book become not only a danger to others, but a danger to themselves. This is a perilous path, and one we do not set foot upon lightly. Do you understand?”

I do. And she sees that, however dangerous, however hazardous, this is a journey I must make. I
will
make. For Cai.

Mrs. Jones nods. “Very well, then. Very well.” Carefully, slowly, and with trepidation, she lifts the cover of the book and opens it. The page revealed contains a statement, which she reads aloud.

“‘Let all who wish to consult the
Grimoire of the Blue Well
heed this warning. Only those who have been seen, only those who have been heard, only those who have been judged and deemed worthy are welcome here.’”

She sits back a little and gestures for me to turn the next page.

“It is for you to do, Morgana. I cannot enter. You may.”

I may, but should I? Have I been deemed worthy? How can I tell? I have been given no sign to indicate that the Witches of the Well did not find me wanting. What punishment lies in wait for one who is not welcome?

I lean forward and touch the gilded edge of the page. It feels cool, and the second my flesh connects with it I hear again the sweet ringing of some far-distant bells, high and pure, as beautiful a sound as I have ever had laid upon my ears. I try to turn the page, but oh! It is so heavy I cannot lift it. How can something so flimsy have such weight? It takes both my hands and all my strength to heave the page over and lay it flat so that the next is revealed. This one bears one word only:
Contents,
but it lists none. There is nothing save blank space beneath the title. I frown, confused. Mrs. Jones touches my arm lightly.

“You do have to tell the book what it is you need. You will be directed to the right place,” says she.

I take a breath. I must be succinct, clear. I close my eyes the better to focus the request.

Give me a way to defeat Isolda and lift the curse she has placed upon my husband.

I open my eyes to see the pages flipping over, ten, twenty, thirty … too many to count, a blur of gold and vellum, until the movement abruptly ceases. Yet more blank sheets lie before me, but as I watch they begin to fill with swirling color. It is pale at first, hardly there at all, and then becomes darker. Stronger. The bells change their note, shifting to deeper sounds. A cowbell? No, something bigger. On a church, perhaps? I cannot be sure. Mrs. Jones hears it, too, and believes she recognizes the sound.

“’Tis like a buoy at sea,” she cries. “A rough sea buffeting and bouncing a heavy iron bell warning ships of rocks or shallow water.”

I cannot think that our salvation lies on board a ship, but the water seems relevant. Indeed, the looping washes of blue on the page now form themselves into what resembles a map of rivers, and these rivers flow down to the bottom of the page where they form a broad sea. No, not a sea, a
lake
. Yes, a wide blue lake with mountains rising around it. Soon the blue water fills half the page, and then, to my astonishment, it starts to pour
off
the page. Mrs. Jones lets out a cry of surprise as water splashes onto her lap. We both spring to our feet, chairs scraping against the stone floor which is quickly becoming covered in water. On and on it pours with a speed and force that is beyond reason. It makes no sense that such a small outlet, the width of an open book, could so rapidly produce sufficient water to cover the area of the room, but so it does. And that water rises. And rises.

With a squawk Mrs. Jones teeters and I only just catch her arm in time to prevent her from falling into the deepening pool around our knees. I push at her now, urging her up first onto a chair and then to stand on the table. Still the level of the wild, foaming water rises. It does not seep out under the door as it should, nor force its way through gaps in the windows, but continues inexorably, terrifyingly upward. The outcome appears both horrendous and inescapable. The space will fill with water in less than a minute more, all air will be taken up, and we will drown. Already, though we stand, clinging to one another on top of the table, the level is such that it pushes against my knees. I doubt I can keep Mrs. Jones on her feet any longer. She begins to wail and cry out.

“Oh! Morgana, do something. Make it stop. Tell it to stop!”

But how? What message should I send? Why is this happening? Such a deluge as can kill us both—how can this be an answer to my request? What dare I ask next? Are the Witches of the Well refusing to help me, and is this their response? I must have failed their examination, been declared unworthy to use the magic of the
Grimoire
. And now it is too late. Their displeasure is fierce indeed! The book is floating atop the water, bobbing effortlessly, still open at the page of the rivers and the lake, endless, unstoppable water continuing to pour from it. I reach to take hold of it but it is too far, so that I am forced to step off the table and swim. But I have never been in such deep water. Bathing in mountain rivers and dew ponds has not equipped me to manage such depths, such swirling currents. As I kick and splash my progress toward the book is pitifully, uselessly slow. I hear a cry behind me and glimpse Mrs. Jones as she topples from the table and disappears beneath the surface of the water.

I draw in as deep a breath as I am able and dive after her. The room is transformed into an underwater nightmare, with chairs and wooden spoons and cloths and pieces of kindling tumbling and spinning everywhere. Mrs. Jones’s clothes are waterlogged and the weight of them is too much for her arthritic limbs to propel her to the surface. I snatch at her, grabbing hold of her beneath one arm. She clutches desperately at me, her panic halting any upward movement either of us might have achieved.

I sense that I am going to fail. That I cannot haul my dear friend to the scant air that remains in this unreal room. I cannot so much as kick my way to the door to try to free it, nor smash a window, so strong are the currents against me, and so scarce the breath inside me. For a moment all feels peaceful, and there is a temptation to succumb to what appears to be a gentle end. Simply to stop struggling, to float, to be carried into oblivion by the bright clear water, becomes a curiously attractive option.

But, it will not do. Really, it will not.

I cease my pointless kicking and thrashing about. Mrs. Jones has on her face such an expression of terror that I am almost undone by it. She thinks I have given up, that I am submitting to the water, that we will both die here today, and be found drowned in a kitchen. I will not allow either of us to meet such a ridiculous end. I summon what strength there lies deep within me, and I can feel the power of it building up, pressing on my eyes, wanting to burst from me. Let the Witches of the Well do what they must—I have my own magic in me. Magic blood. I am not some piece of driftwood to be smashed and broken by this unearthly torrent. I wait as long as I dare, as long as my lungs will stand, letting the strength within me reach its height. Mrs. Jones’s eyes close and her grasp on my sleeve loosens. Now I act. I flick my head this way and that and the water moves, it parts, it recoils before me, and I am borne up, still holding on to Mrs. Jones, sent racing to break the surface of the water with such speed that I shoot on upward, meeting the ceiling with a thud. I gasp, gulping air, shaking Mrs. Jones so that she quickly does the same. We are afloat, yet the water is still rising. Time is running out.

The
Grimoire
is on the far side of the room, near the window. I scowl at it, willing it to come to me, and it does. As soon as it is within reach I snatch at it, plucking it from the maelstrom, and hold it high.

Stop! Do not test me further. This old woman has done no harm, and nor have I. I tell you, stop!

And, just like that, the water vanishes.

It does not recede quietly, letting us drift downward, but simply ceases to be. In the blink of an eye, in the heartbeat of a skylark, the water has gone and the room is dry, restored to its usual order. Even the fire burns cheerily in the hearth.

And we are returned crashing to the ground with such abruptness I fear for Mrs. Jones. She lies stunned and crumpled from the fall. I kneel beside her, raising her head and cradling it in my lap. She is horribly pale and I fear the ordeal has proved too much for her. What have I done? I was driven to use the
Grimoire
because of what I wanted. Because of Cai. It seemed a selfless desire, but what if this poor, good woman has paid for it with her life?

Wake up, Mrs. Jones. Oh, please wake up!

At last she stirs. Her eyes blink open and she takes a moment to recall where she is and what has befallen her. She struggles to sit up and I assist her.

Then, to my amazement, she smiles at me. Aside from my relief and joy at seeing her recover, I myself see little else to smile about. The power of the
Grimoire
came so close to ending both our lives.

“Oh,
cariad,
what magic!” says she, as if oblivious to the peril we were in. As if she has blotted from her mind the terror we have both just endured. She seems to read my thoughts, for she goes on, “No, I have not lost my senses. I know what happened,
merched.
You called upon the Witches of the Well and they answered you. They tested you, Morgana, and you passed that test. Next time, they will be ready to help you.”