Usually, the old garden shed was out of bounds; a mysterious place that Granny protected with a rusty old bolt and her key,kept in the cup above the wood stove. Whatever her grandmother did in there, she wasn’t meant to be part of it.
It took some time for Dorothea’s eyes to adjust in the gloom. A dank, earthen smell rose to meet her, and something else. Something herbal, slightly woody. At the end of the bench, her grandmother was perched on a stool, her long skirts almost touching the dirt floor. She didn’t speak, and Dorothea knew there would be no further invitation, so she moved closer to watch the repetitive motions:tap, grind, grind, grind, twist, grind. Granny’s hands were thick, her skin puckered, and they moved mesmerically. Dorothea was thrilled by the sounds and the motion—the knowledge that Granny had chosen her to watch when she never letanyonewatch. It made her bold and pleased.
‘That woman who came to the door needs some herbs,’ said Granny.
‘For her baby?’ asked Dorothea.
Her grandmother put down the pestle and turned to look at her.
‘The one in her belly?’ asked Dorothea, interested now. Silence fell between them, until her grandmother turned and began again, the grind of the pestle against the mortar. Dorothea wondered if she had said something wrong. The woman’s stomach was flat beneath her dress, but somehow Dorothea knew that deep within the woman, a life was stirring.
‘You saw the crow this morning when the woman knocked,’ said Granny.
Dorothea nodded. It had been on the fence, peering its beady eyes around, watching for worms. She liked seeing it dance around the garden.
‘That was the Morrigan,’ said Granny. ‘She is powerful, little one. She is the feminine force, connected to our cycles, and our land.’
‘A bird is powerful?’
‘And wise. She told us death was arriving today.’
‘That’s horrible.’
‘Always listen for the oracle, child.’ With the back of her hand, Granny pushed away stray grey hairs that had fallen from her loose bun and then returned the hand to the mortar. ‘You must earn your powers. You must do it with humility. Your wisdom will come. Listen for it. Listen to the earth and the wind and the birds. The answers are there.’
Dorothea frowned. She tapped her foot and ran her finger along the bench. ‘Why did the woman come to see you?’
‘She can’t feed another bairn. She has four already and no siller coming in. We need to help her.’
‘What is it you’re making?’ whispered Dorothea.
‘A potion, girl.’ Granny pointed to the opened jar full of curled-up grey-green leaves. Above it, a row of jars filled with powders and bottles with coloured fluid lined the wall. ‘Pennyroyal leaves, dried. We crush them and make a strong tea. This is the work the women in our family do. Your mother thinks it’s wrong, but she married my son and so you’re one of ours. The women in our family have always known herbs, so you must learn.’
Potion, leaves, tea, herbs. Dorothea could barely breathe. Her mother was appalled by the things that came from Granny’s mouth, but a devilish thrill rose inside Dorothea, a monstrous seam of fascination. ‘How will it help her?’
‘It will make her bleed to get rid of the bairn.’
Dorothea gasped and Granny stilled her hands. ‘It’s not a baby, pet. It’s just a growth, like a pea.’
Dorothea’s insides froze in sympathy with the poor doomed belly pea. How did Granny know it was only a growth? She hadfeltthe essence of the life within the woman. And nobody could see inside a belly. What if it was a perfect miniature of a baby, so perfect that if you took it out and fed it like a plant in the garden it would grow big enough to lie in a pushchair and drink milk? ‘Will it hurt the lady?’
‘Aye, a little, but in the long run she’ll be pleased by it.’
Dorothea thought about this. She thought the potion might also pain the baby but she didn’t want to anger Granny by asking. ‘What else do you help with?’
‘All sorts of things. There are herbs for most things. Ancient knowledge we’ve always served our people with.’ Granny kept up her work, strong and deft. After a long silence, she said, ‘Although at one time, not so long ago, our type would have burned for it.’
‘What do you mean?’ whispered Dorothea.
‘Witches, they would have called us. They’d have strangled and burned us without mercy.’
Dorothea let out a sharp giggle. She couldn’t see how anyone would be so horrible as to burn people. Granny liked to shock with her terrible dark stories, so perhaps it was a made-up idea. But she was silenced by her grandmother’s glare.
‘Healing with herbs; second sight. It is feared, Dorothea.’
‘Why?’ Dorothea bounced on her tiptoes, trying to restrain her need to move, perplexed by the innate stillness of her grandmother.
‘We knew nature,’ Granny continued. ‘We weren’t afraid of menfolk. We knew how to find cures, or to kill with remedies if it was needed.’
