What if itisthat simple?
I will not hurl an accusation that could be baseless – my kind suffer that too often, and it takes so little to ruin a life, to send someone to the gallows or the waters or the flames. Anselm will watch his daughter; he knows where to find me. In time, the atmosphere in the baker’s home will calm, tensions will lesson, the child will either return to her sweet nature or she won’t – and if she doesn’t? Well, that’s no concern of mine.
I fear my own home is about to be of sufficient concern to me.
***
Deep in my thoughts, it takes a while before I realise two things: the usual bird sounds are lacking while conversely, there is a single constant noise becoming louder. A paddingsomewhere behind me. The rhythm is off, not simply a one-two, one-two pattern of something going on two legs. But extra beats. One-two-three-four – hard to distinguish unless you know what you’re listening for, but it is distinct. Wolf or bear, bear or wolf. Not horse, nor deer. Stealthy, tracking.
My options are limited. Climbing a tree solves the wolf problem briefly, but a bear will come right up after me. The stream to my right is too narrow to use to break my trail, too shallow to hide in. Desperate times…
My iron dagger is sharp and the nick on my palm is almost painless. I choose an oak (old, less likely to cling), and smear blood on its bark, whispering the words to grant me passage as I run my pointer finger down the bole. My nail bites into the wood, and I use both hands to pry the trunk open. Inside the hollow widens, sensing my need, and I clamber in, pausing only to turn and pull the tree closed behind me, leaving only a single knothole. I try not to think about the tight space, about lying in a belly as if swallowed. Try not to think about the old tales of witches sealed inside sacred oaks and set alight.
Instead, I concentrate on the restricted view through the knothole, watching the path a few feet away from me; one hand wraps around the talisman in my pocket. The sound of footfalls is deadened by my cocoon. I lean forward, the tree – the scent of sap so fresh and sharp – hugs me; I force myself to breathe.
A dark grey shape passes by and, involuntarily, I jerk away; there’s nowhere to go. I half expect whatever’s outside to circle back, for a giant eye to press against the hole, begin tearing at the tree…
Ten minutes later there’s nothing, no further noises. Unlessit’s lying in wait. But I can’t bear this hidey-hole any longer. I try to find the seam, the place I unpicked, and for long, long seconds my fingers can’t find anything, nothing except a smooth, slightly sticky surface. So long that I begin to think this is my end – after surviving everything else I’ve been through – in the guts of a tree trunk; that I’ll starve and rot and desiccatehere, and no one will come looking for me. Rhea will be left with a summer husband and no idea what must be done at the end of his season. Village folk will sicken and die with no one to offer aid. And all I am and all I might become will be lost.
Then my fingertips snag on a line, almost perfectly straight, the scar left by my knife. I speak the words of opening, and light pours in through the gap like water. Cleansing. And I tumble out like a child hiding in a cupboard for too long, gulping in air as if I’ve been drowning. I lie on the leaf litter of the forest path too long, especially if something is lurking. Fortuitously, there’s not. Nothing, except returned birdsong, the scrimbling and scrambling in the undergrowth of things with fur, harmless things. But no sense of oppression, no weight of attention on me.
I rise and set off towards home, nervous as a cat, listening carefully for anything out of the ordinary.
***
When I step out of the forest onto my holding, I see Rhea leaving the barn, dropping the bar back in place. She spies me and waves as if she hasn’t been caught doing exactly what I told her not to. As I get closer, her smile fades and I think how forbidding my expression must be, all the disruptions and discombobulations of this day writ large.
‘What did I say?’ I hiss, grabbing her elbow and pulling her towards the cottage. Her feet barely touch the ground and I’m aware of my height and strength, of her lack. I think about the fire that comes when she calls, but I’m too angry to be cautious. ‘What did I say?’
‘Not to leave the house.’
‘Not to leave the house. Not to go into the barn.’ I reef open the front door and push her inside. My right hand goes to the face of the green woman; the familiarity of the gesture calms me somewhat. ‘Why didn’t you listen?’
‘I was… curious.’ She throws herself onto the armchair, sulky as a child.
‘You know what’s said about curiosity and cats?’
‘Cats have nine lives, don’t you know?’ she snaps back.
‘How many do you think you’ve lost so far? How many close calls, how many escapes? Count those and you might decide to be less profligate with your remaining chances.’ I shake my head, pacing back and forth in front of the unlit hearth. ‘And, Rhea, you are not the only one at risk here if you’re careless. Me. I don’t flaunt my workings in front of the village, I never show anyone what I’ve made. Never show a summer husband! Never give anyone a reason to destroy you, certainly not because you couldn’t be bothered to control your whims.’
‘Mehrab, I’m sorry—’
‘Will you be sorry when we’re dancing in the flames or at the end of a rope? When they decide to swim us in a drowning pool?’
Those blue eyes fill, the bottom lip trembles, and I’m sure she looks fetching even when in floods of tears. Another ragerises in me that isn’t her fault; for a moment, I’m so jealous of her youth and beauty I could spit. With restraint, I remind myself she’s not responsible for that any more than she’s responsible for anyone’s reaction to her face. Beauty is luck, a gamble, and brings as much ill as it does good; and I had my share of it. I steady myself. ‘Weeping doesn’t work on me.’
Rhea gives me a sulky look but dashes the tears from her cheeks with angry wipes, sniffles. I remind myself how young she is; that she’s been separated from everything she’s known, family and friends; that she’s settled here surprisingly well; that she’s been helpful. That this infraction is quite small and I am overreacting.
‘Rhea, if I tell you to do something it’s not out of whimsy. Being aware of how easily life can change is the one thing that might keep you safe. This is a witch’s life. Unless you go deeper into the woods, off the paths, and never have anything to do with humanity for the rest of your life, you will always need to be vigilant.’
‘Why didn’t you go deeper into the woods?’
‘I did! When Fenna brought me here, it hardly ever saw a visitor apart from Yrse’s fosterlings. The village was smaller, but there’s more traffic now because the smith doesn’t just shoe horses but breeds them, his metalwork and weapons are in demand. The Audelay sisters’ tapestries and fabrics are sought after. These seem such small things, but they draw attention – at the moment things are sent out, but eventually… eventually folk will come in and then we will be noticed if we’re not clever and cunning.’ I sigh. ‘Places like Berhta’s Forge have neither doctors nor churches, so we can thrive here. Eventually,though, others will come. When they grow bigger – and trust me, this placeisgrowing bigger – those are two things that come seeking a foothold.’
She hangs her head. ‘Iamsorry, Mehrab. I’m… so used to thinking about myself and no one else. I can’t say I’ll ever be perfect, but I am trying. I am trying to be less selfish. You’re right. I was bored and curious. I wanted to see him, to know more…’
I clear my throat. ‘It – he has a purpose. He has a season. He’s an instrument. A time will come when you make your own, perhaps, wherever you wash up in life, if you need such a tool – but you need to learn how to create, how to manage and how toendsuch a thing.’ Shaking my head, I finish: ‘And the time will come when his season is over. Then you will have a task you will not like, but which must be done.’
