Authors: Paula Brackston
She calls after me, “Don’t be too long, mind. We do have work to do, later.”
I pause and turn.
She nods, knowing that I understand, and adds in a whisper, “Time is short, Morgana. We must turn to the
Grimoire
for help.”
A mixture of fear and excitement speeds the blood through my veins.
Outside, the morning is glorious, the countryside splendid, and it is easy, just for now, to put from my mind the frightening events of the day before. My cheek still smarts where the stone struck it, and has developed a vivid purple hue. Was there ever a color more suited to hatred? I take up a handful of snow and press it to my skin. Within a moment all pain has vanished. The horses have heard my boots scrunching through the snow and Honey begins to bang her stable door, eager for her freedom and her hay. It is a joy to feel the sunshine and I pause to turn my face up to it. There are no clouds today. I have not seen such a blue sky for weeks. The landscape glitters beneath it, transformed from something lifeless and forlorn to something beautiful and blessed. I open the stable doors so that the horses may stretch their legs in the yard, then fetch them hay from the barn, which I share out in piles. Honey settles to eat straightaway. Prince makes a show of bossing about his mares for a minute or two before they are allowed their breakfast. Next I take a lump hammer from the woodshed. The spring is so furred with ice now that it is reduced to a trickle. Raising the hammer above my head I bring it down with as much force as I can muster onto the frost-covered ice which glazes the pool. With a loud crack which reverberates around the yard the ice breaks and splits, so that the black water laps over it. I do the same to the adjacent trough so that the ponies may drink. Leaving the hammer, I return to the hay barn and move the hurdles which separate the cattle from their feed. The herd is so small they have been comfortably accommodated in half the barn. There is nothing to be gained by keeping them out of doors in such weather, for, unlike the sheep, they cannot find any suitable food, and will lose condition. They shuffle forward with a deal of pushing and shoving until each locates a place where they can reach the hay. Sunshine slants into the bay of the barn, and even the beasts in their thick winter coats seem cheered by it. The sheep are in the meadow behind the yard. I take a pitchfork, jab it in the hay, then heave it to rest on my shoulder and slip through the gate into the field. There is a low, lean-to shelter against the wall, and the ewes mill about as I scatter the hay in it. I count carefully. Twice. Three are missing. I scan the field, shielding my eyes against the bright glare of the sun as it bounces off the frozen snow. The wretched sheep are not in sight. I must go and find them while the weather is benign. Bracken bounds ahead as I make my way across the field. It is not long before I spot a new gap in the hedge. Yet again, it seems, the silly animals have decided there is a better living to be had elsewhere. I stoop down to pass through the low passageway they have created. In the sloping hill field I can clearly discern their tracks, and set off to follow them.
As I slog up the steep incline somber thoughts begin to invade my mind, until the sunshine and prettiness through which I move is no longer sufficient to sustain my mood. There was something most dreadfully ugly in the way the people of Tregaron hounded me yesterday. I know they are scared. I know, too, they are many of them grieving. Yesterday, when, I suspect, they considered me out of earshot, I overheard Mrs. Jones laying some hard truths before Cai. Truths regarding Isolda, though he seemed not ready to hear these. And truths about the way I am thought of in the town. How it pained me to hear his shock, his horror—his disgust, could it be?—at their use of the word
witch
. I had thought him able to bear my singular talents, to accept that I have, as Dada would put it, the magic blood running in my veins. But how can he be at ease with these aspects of me when others around him view me as something dangerous, something wicked, something evil? He loves me, of this I am certain, and I hold the thought to my heart and hear it sing. But this is his home. These are the people he grew up with. The people who call him
porthmon
now. It must matter to him what they think of me. Of him. I remember now, his words to Mam on our wedding day:
She will be well regarded at Ffynnon Las
. How far from true that promise has proved to be. Yet I have more pressing matters with which to concern myself. Cai’s health continues to falter. Whilst the laudanum brought brief respite, it will not effect a cure. It cannot lift the curse. Nothing, I fear, will do so until I have confronted Isolda direct. Confronted, and emerged triumphant. For I know, in my heart, this will not stop until one of us is dead. And before that she will take Cai from me. For a second the breath is knocked from me by the thought that he might very well die soon if I do not act. Why must it be that everyone I love is snatched away by death’s hungry jaws? Must I always pay for love with the agony of grief? My head begins to pound with too much thinking. I have been foolish to allow myself to be seduced by the mountain, by the white wilderness, by the comfort of Mrs. Jones’s cooking and the freedom of walking the hill alone, away from critical eyes. I must hold my attention on what I am doing. Indeed, I have been so lost in thought I have scarcely noticed the change in the weather. Bracken and I have climbed more than a hundred feet, and the sky that was empty and bright such a short time ago is now sullied with dense cloud which descends about me as I watch. Bracken’s ears prick; he has seen a hare. I catch movement out of the corner of my eye, and in a heartbeat he is away, after it, lost into the thickening gloom. Within moments the horizon has shortened to but a stride from where I stand. And now the snow begins again, in earnest. There is no wind, and the day is not as cold as some have been recently, but there is something frightening in the nature of this snowfall. The flakes are unusually large, some as big as daisy heads, others fat as dandelion puffs. They fall with such speed and such relentlessness that it is hard not to breathe them in, and I wonder, is it possible a person might drown in snow? All sound has ceased. Not in the ordinary way in which winter weather can stop echoes and muffle noises, but
completely
ceased, as if the whole world has been struck as mute as I. The only thing that tells me I have not become deaf is the rasping of my own labored breathing as I struggle to walk through the rapidly deepening snow. I try to retrace my steps, but my tracks are being filled quicker than I can follow them. Of Bracken there is no sign. I clap my gloved hands in an attempt to summon him, but such soft noise as they make is sucked into the dizzying downpour of flakes and hushed in an instant.
It is now that I sense rather than hear the whispering voices. At first they are distant, as if someone else has ventured abroad and we have stumbled upon one another. But no. I quickly realize, as the words become clearer and louder, that they are not emanating from anyone present. At least, not anyone present in body. A stirring of the thick, wet air around me, an irregular pattern in the fall of the snow, alerts me to the fact that I am not alone in this white nightmare, and yet whoever is with me is here in spirit only. And those spirits are not friendly. As they whip past me, back and fore, and around me, causing me to turn this way and that, searching the whirling snowfall, I feel hot breath upon me. There is more than one. I detect a presence to my right and my left, and now another behind me. It is impossible to count them. All I know is I am surrounded by these dark, invisible entities, and I am in grave danger. I must get away, must descend the hill. But which way should I go? Such is the obliteration of any landmarks, of even the ground farther than a few short feet ahead or behind, that I can barely tell which way is down, let alone in which direction home lies. My tracks,
all
tracks, have been obliterated. A force rushes by close to my face, striking me with real power, even though there is nothing to see, so that the cut on my cheekbone opens afresh and begins to bleed again. I must hold my nerve. This is Isolda’s doing, I am sure of it. Now I can detect her rancid, sulphurous odor. The voices increase in strength and number. They call my name. They scream at me. They laugh at me. They wail and plead and badger me in all ways possible. At one point I think I hear the voice of my father, but I quickly understand it is but a trick. I must not falter. Cai will die without me. That is the truth of it. I will not meet my end here on this colorless, lifeless mountain, and leave him to his fate.
It will not do. Really, it will not.
I stand still and steady my breathing. Drawing in as deep a breath as I am able in the suffocating snow I clench my teeth and summon my will. I feel blood dripping thickly from the freshly opened wound on my face. The more I call on the force of my inner strength, the more it flows, splashing onto the bleached ground, spreading scarlet, staining the snow about me, the patch of redness growing and widening until I stand in a bright pool of my own making. I feel the voices recede, fading, growing more distant and less torturous. Even the snowflakes yield to the invisible bubble that surrounds me. I must seize the moment, I must make my escape. Still there is no sign of Bracken. I cannot leave him up here in such weather, alone, distracted by hunting. If only I could call him to me. My whistle! My heart races as I fumble beneath my clothes and pull out the lovespoon. The wood is warm from being next my skin. I put my numb lips to it and try to blow, but can muster nothing by way of sound. I try again, and it emits a damp splutter. Again—this time it works, a shrill noise cutting through the miasma and reaching far beyond what is visible. There is no response. I blow into the wooden mouthpiece once more. For a moment, nothing, and now, bowling into view, comes the snow-covered dog, his fur wet with icy water, his tongue hanging low as he pants and grins at me. I crouch down, holding his head still, making him look into my eyes. In my head I clearly picture home. Home and Cai.
Home, Bracken,
I tell him in my mind, willing the silent words to reach him.
Home.
I let him go, and he turns and bounds away through the snowstorm. I hasten to follow, trusting he will lead me back to the farm, turning my back and my mind on Isolda’s phantoms.
Our descent is speedy if clumsy, and the snowfall does not let up for one minute, so that by the time I trudge through the back door and into the house I am sweating from the effort and coated with snow. The house is eerily quiet. Not bothering to remove my boots I hurry into the kitchen. Cai is in his chair by the range, stirring as I enter. He wakes and sees me, shocked by the state I am in.
“Morgana?
Duw, cariad,
look at you! You are near turned to a snowman.” He struggles awkwardly to his feet. “Come and sit by the fire. Mrs. Jones will fetch you some broth. Mrs. Jones!” he calls. There is no answer. “Where can she be?” he wonders aloud, rubbing his eyes. “I am still groggy with that laudanum. Powerful stuff, mind. I recall now, as I was drifting off, she spoke of seeing to the laundry. She would have gone outside to fetch water.” He looks at me seriously now, suddenly fully awake. “You must surely have seen her as you came in,” says he.
But I did not. I dash from the room, flinging open the back door, all but tripping over a confused corgi in my haste. The fresh fall of snow is fast masking all traces of feet, paws, and hooves, but I can faintly discern stout boot marks leading toward the spring. I hurry to the low wall, still searching the ground for footprints coming away from the water again, but I can find none. A lurching sickness stirs in the depths of my stomach. With mounting dread, I force myself to peer into the pool. The thick, broken chunks of ice set adrift by the lump hammer have been fused together once more by a thin, glasslike sheet of frozen water, which has, in turn, been covered by a fluffy layer of snow. I reach down and wipe the sugary coating from the surface. Gazing up at me are the kind, gentle eyes of Mrs. Jones as she lies submerged and drowned in the dark, still waters of the pool.
* * *
Cai emerges from the house into the yard just in time to see Morgana plunge, fully clothed, into the spring water.
“Morgana!
Duw,
what are you doing?” He staggers over to the well, the ponies, alarmed by the tone of his voice and the unusual activity, shy away, driven from their hay to stand and snort at the far end of the yard. Bracken leaps up at the wall of the pool, barking frantically. Cai reaches the well and grabs hold of Morgana, who is half submerged and thrashing about in the ice and snow and deathly cold water. Now he is able to see what has driven her to such action. Now he can see she has Mrs. Jones in her arms and is battling to pull her out.
“Oh, dear Lord!” He grabs at the old woman’s arm and hauls her to the wall. Morgana pushes, and together they heave the sodden, lifeless body from the water, and over the low stones, so that it slithers onto the snow-gripped ground. Morgana falls to her knees beside the corpse, tears streaming. Cai’s heart constricts at the sight of her suffering yet more loss. “She must have fallen in trying to fill the pail,” he says, indicating the bucket sitting half covered in snow nearby. He shakes his head. “She shouldn’t have come out here alone in this terrible weather. She should have asked me to help her.” He realizes how little able he would be to help anyone in his current state. He is wheezing already from the effort of recovering her body, and his limbs are shaking. “I could have come with her, at least,” he says, his own eyes stinging with tears. He sniffs, wiping his face with his wet sleeve, clambering to his feet. “We must move her. Find her somewhere to lie.” He hesitates. The roads are impassable and may remain so for some time to come. They will have to keep her somewhere outside the house so that the cold preserves her body. He looks about him, forcing himself to be practical, to think only of what must be done, not of how he feels, not of what might have been prevented. “There,” he says at last, “we can put her in the end stable. She will be … safe, in there.” Morgana looks up at him, her face stricken. He helps her to her feet, brushing tears from her reddened cheeks. “We must move her,
cariad.
I need you to help me. Are you able?”