The Winter Witch (45 page)

I turn on my heel and run down the stairs. Bracken, sensing the urgency in my footsteps, dashes out of the kitchen and follows me as I slam out of the back door. Behind me I hear Cai calling my name having been woken by my noisy exit.

The gusting wind that has blown ceaselessly since yesterday now has hard, mean, snow in it. They are not so much flakes as tiny pieces of ice which sting my face and prickle my gloveless hands. The noise of the wind fills my head as I stare down at the ice-covered pool. I do not have the hammer in hand, so I snatch up one of the coping stones from the wall around the spring. I raise it high above my head and bring it down with all the force I can muster. The ice splits and cracks, but only a small hole appears. I raise the stone again. And again, and again, and again, until at last the ice crust gives way, shattering and dispersing in the oily water. Above the whining of the wind I hear Cai calling from the back door.

“Morgana, for pity’s sake, what are you doing? Morgana, you have no coat. There is plenty of water inside. Come back to the house.”

His words are swept away by the relentless wind. I cannot stop now. There is something more to be found here, I am certain of it. I plunge my arms into the black water, my breath catching in my throat at the intensity of the cold. I grope and grasp, running my benumbed palms over the slimy stones, searching, seeking, testing gaps and crevices. Where could it be? Where? Where?

Cai has battled his way against the wind and crossed the yard to stand beside me. He sees that I am looking for something.

“What is it? What do you think to find? We took the stone out, Morgana, don’t you remember?”

I have not the time or the strength to attempt to explain myself, and he knows me well enough to understand that I will not be put off doing that which I have set my mind to. So he sets to helping me, pulling great slices of ice from the water and casting them out, so that it is easier for me to search. My hands are beyond feeling now, and the water has soaked through my sleeves completely, so that my arms are aching with the cold. And yet I search on. Here and there I find a loose stone, one which has become dislodged from the wall, but with nothing inscribed upon it. I pass each one to Cai and he checks them, but can detect no letters. I fumble on, digging in unseen corners and slender gaps in the interior wall, gouging ancient mud from the floor of the pool. And then I find it. I know, even as my cold-clumsy fingertips reach it, I know I have found another cursing stone. I lift it out and show it to Cai. It is slate, as the first one was, a small rectangle. And on it are scratched initials. Three letters this time—
CTJ
.

Cai stares at me. “My initials.
My
initials—Cai Tomos Jenkins. This stone curses me.” He pales at the realization of the truth. Pales first, and then colors with anger. “The first one was not meant for me. Dear Lord, the first one cursed Catrin!” He reels back as if struck. “That witch! That evil, Godless creature! She cursed Catrin! She killed her, and did for my baby, too!” With a cry of rage he grasps the slate in both hands and brings it down hard onto the edge of the pool wall. It splits and shatters, dashed into a dozen harmless pieces. Cai stands panting with the effort, the wind moaning about us, a full blizzard raging now, so that we can scarce see the house across the yard. I put my frozen hand over his. When his eyes meet mine they are filled with tears. I stroke his cheek, wishing I could take away his pain. We share a moment of such stillness, it is as if the wild air and ice that assails us does not exist. But then, into this intimacy, into this instant of remembrance, of loss, and of hope, comes a sound that causes my scalp to crawl. It is a small sound, but it is out of place and unnatural.

I turn toward it, peering into the white maelstrom, searching for the source. Beside me I feel Cai’s whole body tense as a shape starts to emerge through the swirling snow. Slowly, something blurred, a vague figure, approaches, accompanied by sounds of dragging, of slithering over the icy ground. There are no footfalls. There is no breathing. And yet this is, this must be, something living. As it draws closer I have to fight the urge to flee, for whatever it may be is possessed of such a terrifying presence that every part of me longs to run as far and as fast as I can. I hear Cai gasp and call for God’s protection as the figure lumbers into view. It is Isolda. Or rather, it was once Isolda, for the creature hauling itself across the frozen earth can scarcely be described as human. Her clothes are melted and fused into her horribly burned body. Her hair has gone, so that her scalp glistens wet and black, mercifully obscured to some degree by the blizzard. The flesh on her face and arms is red and charred and hangs from her in shreds, as if some sharp-clawed demon has attacked her. She does not so much walk as progress in painfully awkward, lumpen movements, flopping heavily onto the snow with each yard of ground gained.

When she speaks, it is through a hideous, lipless mouth.

“Well, what a pretty pair you make,” says she. “Morgana, I see you found the little gift I left for Cai. A pity to disturb it when its work was so nearly done.” She hauls herself closer and Cai brings his arms around me, instinctively drawing me to him, even though we both know he is weak beyond defending even himself.

“Did you think I could be so easily vanquished?” Isolda hisses at us. “I will suck the final breath from each of you, restore my body with your blood, and then let the buzzards feast upon your carcasses!”

So saying she flings her melted, fingerless hand out in Cai’s direction. The pain he receives is such that he is thrown across the yard, crashing heavily against the stable wall, where he lies moaning, clutching at his head. I find myself, once again, unable to move. Something protruding from the newly drifted snow catches my eye. I can just make out the handle of the lump hammer! Gathering what strength I have left, knowing that not to act will mean the end for me and for Cai, I cause the hammer to fly from its resting place and hurtle through the air. It reaches Isolda with sufficient force to break her bones. But it does not. It merely passes straight through her. Now I understand! This is not Isolda’s earthly form before us, but a mirror of it. She is witchwalking. Her body must lie trapped in the ashes and cinders of her cellar, but her spirit escaped and came to find me. She lunges forward and I feel her phantom hands gripping my throat and pushing me back over the wall of the pond. How can I fight what is not here? I wriggle and squirm, but she has me as in a vise. I feel the water soaking into my hair, dragging my head backward, so that I might snap my back on the wall, or drown, or be throttled.

“Morgana!” Cai calls to me. “Morgana, here!”

I twist in Isolda’s grasp so that I can see him just as he throws something to me. Instinctively I catch it. It is a sharp-edged piece of slate and I think perhaps he means me to use it as a weapon, not understanding that Isolda’s rotten spirit cannot be harmed by such a thing. But now I see that he has scratched something on it. Letters. Initials I force myself to attend, to think, to recall—yes, letters—
IB
. With one last effort of will I wrench myself from Isolda’s choking hands. I lean over and plunge the cursing stone into the water, all the while holding her loathsome gaze. Then I form the words clearly in my head, words that I know she will be able to hear.

I curse you, Isolda Bowen! I curse you to hell, now and forevermore!

The air is rent with a hideous shrieking, all the sounds of a nightmare visited on one brief moment, as the dreadful apparition before us writhes and squeals and reels and crashes and spins, smoking, until suddenly, it is gone. And the snow stops. And the wind stills. And there is silence. Nothing but stillness and silence.

*   *   *

Tomorrow is Christmas day. I take Cai’s hand and we walk across the meadow and up toward the high pasture. The sun shines softly, low in the sky. There is snow lying on the ground, but it is of a variety so gentle, and so appealing, that I am happy to see it. A dusting on the trees helps relieve their winter bareness. A frosting on the grass beneath our feet lifts its drab December color.

It is wonderful to see my husband restored to good health once more. The second Isolda was cursed and banished, his suffering stopped, just like the snowstorm. Likewise, the sickness that had been plaguing the town disappeared. Any who were ill rallied and recovered, including Reverend Cadwaladr’s daughters. General opinion was that, after all, I was not to blame. It seems that the fire that destroyed Isolda’s house revealed the existence of the basement. The charred remains of its contents had been examined closely, and the reverend, along with others versed in the practices of the occult, had identified items which spoke of sorcery and magic. The conclusion was drawn that it had been Isolda who had visited sickness and starvation upon them. The rest of the house was cleared away and disposed of. Isolda’s remains were buried beneath a heavy slap of stone well beyond the boundary of the town, and without sanctified ground.

As we lean into the steepness of the slope, our breaths white clouds in the cold winter air, Cai turns to me, smiling.

“I didn’t think to see you without your drover’s hat and coat ever again,” he laughs.

At last the weather is fine enough for me to be dressed in the more becoming woolen coat that Cai has bought me, and I have no need of a hat. I like to feel the fresh breeze tugging at my loose hair. I swat at him playfully, tipping his cap over his eyes. I know he cares not how I dress, but he is happy to see me out of the swathes of clothes the brutal weather required. Neither of us will forget what we have endured, any of it. Nor will we ever be able to shake from our minds the unnatural winter that near stilled all life hereabouts.

As if reading my thoughts, Cai pauses in his walking, casting his gaze over the valley below, his expression grave, and says, “Do you think she would have stopped at nothing, Morgana? I do. I believe she would have killed every man, woman, and child without flinching, just to get what she wanted.”

I squeeze his hand tighter. We both know how close she came to succeeding.

“She hadn’t reckoned on you, mind,” says he. “She took you for a slip of a girl, see? Didn’t know what she was taking on when she went against you, Mrs. Jenkins. None of them did.” The seriousness leaves his face again, his eyes softening. “Mind, there’s not a person within twenty miles hasn’t heard of the new mistress of Ffynnon Las now. They saw you stick by me, saw how tough you were, how determined. They saw us come through that cruel weather together. And they found the right place, in the end, to lay the blame for their losses. You have earned the right to be here, Morgana. No one will ever question it again.”

We complete our climb and decide to take in the view, settling on a sloping flat rock that protrudes from the snowy ground. From where we sit, up here on the hill, we can see the valley in all its prettiness and know that everywhere people are busy with thoughts of new life, and hope, and good will to all men. The weather has improved so much we have been able to put the sheep back up here on the hill, and behind me the ewes dig about, finding roots and tender twigs to nibble. From here I can make out Prince in the pond meadow, pausing in his own idle grazing to round up his mares, nipping one smartly on the rump just to remind her who is in charge. The cattle, fattening again at last, have the run of the barn and the yard.

Bracken comes back from tracking a rabbit and sits next to me, licking my hand.

“Daft dog,” Cai tells him, putting his strong arm around my shoulders and pulling me close.

No further mention was ever made of any accusation of witchery against me. Cai was all for demanding apologies and there being a public clearing of my name. But I persuaded him to let things be. I am no longer feared or reviled, but accepted. Respected, even. I am content with that.

Besides, how could I have him stand up and deny what I truly am? It would make liars of us both. I am not simply Morgana who goes witchwalking, or Morgana with the curious talents—I can no longer think of myself as such. I am Morgana Jenkins, Keeper of the
Grimoire of the Blue Well,
Mistress of Ffynnon Las. With Mrs. Jones gone the
Grimoire
has passed into my care. Just as the well is now mine, so is the book, though it is true to say no such things can ever be owned. I am their protector, their guardian, as much as they are mine. I will use the healing properties of the well for those who might need it, though I will have to do so secretly. I will daily thank the Witches of the Well who came to my aid when I needed them most, and who permitted me to use the fearsome power of the
Grimoire
to save Cai and to, ultimately, rid us of Isolda. And, in the years to come, if we are blessed with children, it may be that one of them is a girl, and then I shall have someone to school in the ways of the Blue Well. I shall raise my own little witch, and show her how to witchwalk, and teach her to respect the magic blood that runs in her veins. The
Grimoire
and the Blue Well will be her heritage and her birthright, and I shall hold them safe for her until she comes.

And now Cai and I can be happy, here at Ffynnon Las,
porthmon
and his wild wife. Of course, our happiness is tinged with loss, for Mrs. Jones is sorely missed. Given the extreme weather we had all been experiencing, no one questioned that she had fallen victim to the cold. We are both doing our best to learn to cook, and often wish she were here to scold our hopelessness. I readily admit, Cai will make a better housekeeper than I.

I snuggle against him, taking in the beauty of the landscape below, warmed by his presence, by his love for me, and by the comforting happiness that comes from knowing I belong here. That this is my home. Cai puts a finger beneath my chin and turns my face to him. He looks at me with such an expression of tenderness as could thaw the most frozen of hearts.

“My wild one,” says he. “I love you, Mrs. Jenkins Ffynnon Las. You are aware of this fact, are you not?”