Chapter Thirteen
Crazy Lizzy’s hut was made of rock, mud, twigs, and straw. It was a strange, round, windowless building with only the doorway for light. The old lady kept a fire in her hearth at all times. Some days it would be of peat, the smoky scent of it filling the air; other days, her fire would be of wood, acrid and hot.
Lizzy claimed that her different fires served a purpose. Portia had assumed the choice had more to do with what was at hand and Lizzy’s eccentricities. However, after Harry’s talk of spells and reincarnations and curses, Portia feared she was ready to give anything Lizzy said more credit than what it deserved.
Portia knew from having been there that the walls inside the house were stacked with shelves and shelves of herbs. There was a humble table inthe middle of the room and Lizzy’s pallet on the floor to the side of the hearth.
As she entered the clearing surrounding the hut, she saw Lizzy sitting on a chair outside the door, eating a meal of cooked turnips. The crone’s face split into a toothless smile of greeting. She was as round as she was high and wore a mob cap over her frizzy gray hair. Her cheeks were chubby and her eyes reminded Portia of two brown buttons. But she was also old and wrinkled, with a huge mole close to her left eye that gave her a sinister look.
She wore the castoffs given to her by members of the kirk. Most times, considering her size, the skirts were too long, but she wouldn’t hem them. She’d wear them as they were, even if she continually tripped over them.
“I was hoping to see ye today, lass,” Lizzy said in her thick brogue. She’d stood. “Would ye like a cup of mint tea?” She started for the door.
“I don’t think I have time, Lizzy, but thank you,” Portia said, aware that Harry was following. She held the basket out to her. “The bread is yesterday’s but still fresh.”
“I shall enjoy it,” Lizzy said.
“Good. Well, then, I’ll be on my way.”
“Why are ye so anxious to run off? Let me showye my newest doll.” Lizzy made dolls of scraps of materials and dried fruit and whatever she could find. The bodies were twigs she fastened together. They were truly very clever and Lizzy had gifted Portia with several.
“I wish I could, but I am needed at home.” Portia took a step in the direction of Camber Hall, until a thought struck her. “Lizzy, by any chance did you see a small cat around here?”
“Oh, I see many cats. I don’t like them. They make me sneeze.”
“This would be an unusual one. She’s white like a ghost and her ears are deformed. They fold over so her head is shaped like an owl’s.”
“I’ve not seen a cat like that.”
So Owl hadnotcome in this direction.
“Lizzy, why do people think you are a witch?” The question just popped out of Portia. She’d assumed all the whispers about Lizzy in the valley came from the superstitious and ill-informed.
But after her conversation with Harry, she was no longer convinced of what she thought.
She had expected Lizzy to deny the charge or to be offended. Instead, the woman cackled with delight. “They think that,” she agreed.
“Is it true?”
Lizzy’s smile grew larger. “What do ye think,lass?” It was almost as if she was daring Portia to say she was.
“I don’t know. Do you have special powers?”
Placing a knowing finger by the side of her nose, Lizzy said, “Why should I tell ye?”
“Because we are friends,” Portia said, a bit annoyed. “I bring you food.”
“Ye do, ye do.” Lizzy patted the basket.
“Then answer my question, please. Are you a witch?”
“There was a man who came through these parts who asked the same thing,” Lizzy said. “An Englishman. A Chattan. He wants one particular witch.”
“But there is no such thing as witches, is there?” Portia pressed.
Lizzy reached up and scratched her head beneath her mob cap and pulled her skirt up over her belly before saying, “I don’t know of any.”
“Then why do they say you are a witch?” Portia repeated.
