Authors: Graham Joyce
THI
RTY-FIVE
Fifteen miles.
It was fifteen miles from Church
Haddon to town
,
and
then fifteen miles back again. That, she considered, was a tidy step, and with
her arthritis it might even finish her off. But it had to be done.
Old Liz had already covered the first
three miles and was stroking her stick through the hedgerow. "Come out, felon.
Come out, old uncle
harry
." The
mugwort
was common, but not being in flower for some months
yet, it was difficult to locate. She was in sore need of it, if she was going
to survive this hike. "Come out, felon."
Three times already Liz had detected the
plant, but she'd rejected each specimen. "There, there, uncle."
Liz had woken that morning, dawn's light breaking in
through the
uncurtained
window, certain that Maggie's
children were in danger. "Amy and Sam," she'd muttered, hauling
herself out of bed. "We must look to Amy and Sam. Yes."
At times like these, she'd thought
ruefully, she could have done with a ride in Ash's car, or even on someone's
motorcycle. Those engines, she would have been the first to admit, were better
than any amount of craft. Certainly she could have telephoned Ash; she had his
number on a scrap of paper somewhere. But if she were to involve Ash, then he
would tell Maggie, and all would know and all would be known and she might just
as well stay at home.
No.
She would have to walk.
That
fifteen miles and back would have been a trifling thing in her younger days.
She would have taken it at a clip. But this arthritis and this bad hip, well,
it held her up. And she didn't have a lot of time.
Old Liz didn't even consider the
matter of breaking her appointment with Maggie. These other things were too
important. Maggie could make her own way. Anyway, it wasn't for Maggie she was
doing this, it was for those children. Liz had woken up vexed by what she'd
seen in those children.
Liz had known Maggie would bring
trouble from that very first afternoon she'd arrived at the house. What power
she'd seen in her that day, Maggie hovering on the threshold, unaware that Liz
was watching from behind, what potential! For a moment Liz had been afraid,
surprised and afraid. She'd had to stoop down and pick a bit of something that
day,
to keep Maggie back until she'd got her full measure.
Then she caught on how Maggie had no idea of her own capacity; it was all
corked, but like a cork leaking under pressure of volatile, fizzing elements.
For a moment Liz's heart had leaped, thinking Nature had sent her a little
sister; but then she'd had to quiet herself with the realization it was
impossible.
Maggie hadn't got a clue! And that
made her a danger. One voice inside Liz told her to have nothing to do with the
girl Ash had sent her; but another part of her had spoken up, and yes, she'd
seen the fine qualities in Maggie; and didn't she herself have a need of at
least someone?
A little sister,
to make the pass?
No, Maggie wouldn't do for that. But for Liz, there
were no others of potential in sight. Not a one. And there was no greater
crime, no uglier sin than to go to the grave without having passed on
the know
.
This was sacred when all things were
profane, and as Liz knew in her aching limbs and in the groaning of her joints,
every day the Old Enemy drew ever nearer. No, Maggie could not be the one to
take the pass, but there were other possibilities. The next best thing was to
give her a bit of instruction. It wasn't enough, it wouldn't satisfy, but what
else was there?
Liz was eighty-three years old. She
didn't want to guess how many more years might be hers. But it had gnawed at
her for a long time now that she might die never having found a little sister.
Was it a punishment, she wondered, for the misdemeanours of her early years?
She would rather have faced the torments of any Christian hell than allow that
to happen.
So when Maggie had first appeared, Liz
saw
a rightness
in it, a compromise, and also a sign
that she herself was not much longer for this world, and she resigned herself
to the idea. But then the shadow had crept over Maggie, and Liz had begun to
have her doubts.
The know
was for those
who struggle with purity of heart. Wasn't that how she'd been taught? The craft
was not to be sullied by sourness of motive. Even with right intention, the
path was fraught and dangerous.
But thankfully she was able to see
past Maggie.
Past and beyond.
There was hope, like a
crystal glimmering in the dark hedgerow shadows, and Liz could see it.
"Come out, felon herb!"
Liz found a young plant under the
hedgerow. It was leaning northwards, a detail that had her nodding with
satisfaction. She drew a sharp penknife from her pocket and unearthed the mug-
wort
by the root. Then she sat down on the grass.
It was still early. The grey clouds were streaked with
bands of white light, and the day could go either way. Liz stripped the fibrous
roots from the plant with her knife and cleaned the stem with her spittle. Then
she took a small vial of oil from her pocket. Pouring the yellow oil, she
massaged it into the stem with her leathery fingers. The stem turned brown and
the sap bubbled to the surface. Liz looked about her to make certain no one was
watching, and kicked off her shoes. She cut a chunk of the stem with a knife
and put it in her mouth, chewing vigorously while removing her thick socks.
Still chewing, she stripped the leaves and rubbed them vigorously into the soles
of her feet. When this was done she stuffed the crushed leaves into her shoes,
saving a few which she rammed into her pocket. Then she put her shoes and socks
back on, stood up and set off again.
Maggie arrived at Liz's cottage at around ten o'clock.
She pushed at the door handle, expecting it to swing open, but was surprised to
find the door locked. Liz's collie barked at her from behind the door, but she
knocked anyway. There was no answer.
Odd that Liz should have locked her door; Liz
never
locked her door. Even when she went out on one of her walks across the
fields she tended to leave it ajar. She had no fear of burglars or intruders,
and, as she said herself, she had "nothing worth pinching, '
cept
a bucket of shit in the outhouse." Maggie knocked
again. Getting no response, she stepped over to the window to take a peek
inside.
It had been inconvenient for her to visit Liz this
morning. The old woman had insisted she shouldn't bring the children with her,
and this had necessitated a telephone conversation with Alex to change the
standing arrangement. Since the hearing, Maggie had been stiff and formal with
Alex, collecting and returning the children exactly as agreed, even though Alex
claimed to want to be generous and flexible with the arrangement.
Alex, of course, now wanted them to be friends. He
wanted everything to be civilized. Whenever she called at the house, Maggie
accepted his invitations to have a coffee, but thwarted his efforts at
conversation with the frozen hostility of perfect good manners. She answered
his questions with the briefest of replies and deliberately failed to pose any
of her own. She would look at her watch intermittently, and made transparent
excuses in order to leave. She played the part of the stranger who disguises boredom
with studied
politesse
.
Today she'd had to break the formality by
asking Alex if he would agree to
changing
her day with
the children. Even though he'd arranged to see Anita, Alex was perfectly
amenable. He was happy, he said, for Maggie to see the children any time she
wanted.
Now Liz wasn't here. Maggie
squinted through the windows at the gloomy interior of the cottage. Her first
thought was that Liz might be ill, but Maggie could see her empty bed in the room
adjacent to the kitchen, its crocheted blankets folded neatly. Liz never used
the upper floor of the cottage; she slept in a bed downstairs to save her
arthritic legs.
The dog continued to bark. No, Liz
was out. Maggie went back to her car. She would sit and wait. Liz had no
transport; she couldn't have gone far.
When Anita
Suzman
drove past
the Sanders' home that morning she was disappointed to see Amy, Sam, and Dot
playing in the driveway. Saturday was Maggie's time with the children; Anita
had arranged to spend an uncluttered hour or two with Alex. But she was also
puzzled to see an old woman, apparently watching the children from the gateway.
As she drove past, she felt an irrational thrill of concern for Amy and Sam.
Something seemed amiss.
Anita was discreet enough always to park her
conspicuous bright red Cabriolet two streets away. She locked her car and
walked back to the house. As she approached, she could see the old woman still
in the gateway. Anita hung back to watch.
The grizzled old woman was beckoning to Sam. He didn't
seem to want to go at first,
then
he stepped over to
her. Amy and Dot had disappeared. The old woman stooped over Sam. She placed
her hands on his shoulders, and was whispering in his ear. Then she produced
something from the folds of her black skirts and hung it round Sam's neck. Sam
tried to lift it off, but she pressed it back on him, hiding it inside his
T-shirt.
Anita didn't like the look of what was happening. She
walked toward the gate, quickening her pace. The old woman, spotting her
approach, stiffened and walked smartly away in the opposite direction. Anita
watched her turn a corner and out of sight.
"Sam, come here."
Sam was playing with the string round his neck. Anita
pulled it from inside his T-shirt. Dangling from the grey string was a neat
little cloth sachet. Anita stretched out a hand, wanting to take a closer look,
but Sam pulled away from her. "Amy!" he shouted, running back up the
path in search of his sister. "Amy!"
Anita followed him round to the back of the house, and
stepped in through the back door. She found Alex up to his elbows in washing-up
suds. She brushed her lips against his cheek.
"Who was that old woman outside?"
"What woman?" said Alex, drying his
hands.
"Outside the gate.
Talking to Sam."
She went through to the lounge and
made herself at home.
"I've no idea. Shall I go and look?"
"She's gone. I think I chased her away."
"What was she doing?"
Anita never answered because the telephone rang. It was
Maggie. She'd discovered she wasn't as busy as she'd expected, and wanted to
know if she could have the kids after all.
"Sure," said Alex. "No problem at all.
When do you want to pick them up?
About an hour?
Fine.
See you then." He put the phone down. "That
bitch is playing games with me."
"Why do you say that?" The old woman was
forgotten.
"First she arranges to have the children today,
which is why I said I could see you. Then she phones this morning, desperately
sorry, can't have them. Now she wants them again. She's testing my
patience."
"I'm sure she's not, Alex."
"Yes, she is. Every time she comes here she does
it.
Very polite.
Nothing to say.
No emotion. No talk.
Nothing."
"What do you expect? She's
still furious with you, and I don't blame her."
Alex looked at her. No matter what
time of day it was, Anita always looked as if she was about to hit town. She
was utterly desirable in her tight-fitting black dress, black tights and heels.
Her lips were glossed and her eyes painted. She was fork-
bendingly
beautiful. He put a hand into her honey-blond hair and kissed her.
"You can hide upstairs when
she comes," he said.
"No, I'm not staying. That's
what I've come to talk to you about."
"What are you saying?"
"It's over. It has to
be."
Alex looked away.
"Bill suspects
something," Anita went on, "and I think we should quit while we're
ahead. Anyway, you know it was running out of steam, don't say it wasn't."
Alex wasn't saying anything.
"It was good while it lasted,
Alex. It was good, wasn't it? Wasn't it, Alex?"
THIRTY-SIX
Sunday
morning Maggie was back at her bed-sit. She was lying
awake in bed, staring at
the ceiling and thinking about Ash. The previous day, after failing to find Liz,
she'd spent a few hours with the children before returning to Ash's house.
There she'd made a big mistake.
"Ash, I intend to get my children back by any means."
"Please! Not again, Maggie."
"By any means."
Ash was making her a casserole. He stopped
chopping vegetables. "I can't argue with you while I'm cooking. All that
confusion, it goes straight into the cooking. And then you eat it. Did you
know that?"
Maggie knew that. "You said to me
you'd be a friend whatever happened, Ash. I believed you when you said
that."
"And I meant it. And I always will.
But to be a friend to you now is to tell you to drop this stupid idea. These
methods will not bring your children back to you. They will only poison your
own mind. If you want them back, you have to go and talk to Alex and work at
it."
"I can't believe I'm hearing this!"
"Maggie, if you try to work
something against Alex you might even succeed in hurting him. But you've
forgotten the first principles of this business. It's wrong path. It will return
on you threefold. I believe that. It's the scariest thing about it."
"I don't intend any direct harm."
"I know exactly what you intend! You
want to try this
shapeshifting
because you think it
will bring you access to the children and some kind of special influence over
them. I've been to the places your mind is going, Maggie! I know what I'm
talking about!" Ash collected up the chopped vegetables and threw them all
away. The meal was ruined before it had so much as simmered.
"It can't hurt anyone, Ash. I'm going
to ask you one more time to help me."
"Are you deaf?"
"I need your help. Please don't let
me down when I need you most."
"I said count me out!"
"Ash, if you're not with me, you're against me."
Ash looked stung. He grabbed her
arm. "Don't try to
lay
that on me, Maggie. Don't
you ever!"
It was their first dispute, and it was
deeply acrimonious. She felt betrayed.
The door swung open and Kate entered the
room. She was holding a copy of the
Sunday World,
a tabloid with a nasty
editorial line and a high circulation. "Have you seen this?" Kate
hissed.
Maggie sat up in bed as Kate laid
the pages before her. It was a double-page spread, with a banner headline
trumpeting COVENS OF ENGLAND. There was a large photograph of a smiling, pleasant
but dotty-looking elderly woman in a Queen of the Nile headdress. She claimed
to be—or the newspaper proclaimed her to be—Empress of the Witches of England.
There were other photographs. One of them clearly depicted Maggie and Ash
frolicking naked within a stone circle. Maggie was named, Ash was named, and
Ash's shop in the Gilded Arcade was named.
"But where did they get the pictures?" Kate wanted to know.
Maggie groaned.