Corrag (7 page)

L
ast night, she was with me. When you had gone, she sat on the stool and looked at me with her shiny bird-eyes. I said to her
I spoke of you to a man today
and I reckon she knew. I thought of all the things which belong to her, which make me think of her when I see them, or hear them—thunder, rope.

Every herb I ever used, Mr Leslie, has had my mother in it. She taught them to me. In the elm wood she plucked them, rubbed their leaves. She boiled their roots, pressed their stems, and she said
do not think that the small leaves are not useful. Sometimes they are the most useful leaves of all…
I know what I know about leafy plants because she knew them, and passed them on.

So when I saved lives, Cora saved them.

When I cured an ache, or sealed up a wound, Cora also sealed it.

N
EVER
love
is what she told me. Sometimes I thought
then she surely does not love me? If she says “do not love”?
I know she could be black-tempered. I know that mostly she was daydreaming, and had a half-smile to give—but sometimes a cloud came down upon her. It made her hiss in the cottage. She would run out into the rain to curse, and roar. She hated the word
justice,
and churches, and tore at her nails, and she smacked me, too, sometimes. When I said a bad word against her she put a teasel in my mouth and said
chew,
so that I’d learn the soreness of such words—and I’d think, chewing teasels,
this isn’t kind
. I also thought
this isn’t her
…Not the proper Cora.

Do not love
…But I think she did love me. I think so. For she combed my hair at night, and when my shoulder popped itself she’d kissed it, said
poor old bones…
And one winter in Hexham we caught snowflakes and ate them, left our shapes in the deeper drifts. We sang old and naughty witch songs on our way home, and that was good. There was love in that.

But there was no other love—not for people, sir. She loved no man. Instead, she packed her heart away and let them take her like bulls take their cows—sighing onto the back of her neck. She never met the same bull twice. Nor did she ever meet them by day, in case they were handsome, and what if her heart broke out, and was free? I blame the ducking stool for that.

Ride north-and-west. Don’t come back.

They may not sound much, to your ear—those words. But she did not have to say them. She could have let me sleep, on that night of dog-barking. Or she could have mounted the grey mare with me, and we could have fled together into Scotland, and forests, with our hair flying out.

But she said
ride north-and-west
—because she knew she would die.

She knew they would follow her—hunt her till they found her, and on finding her, hang her, and whoever she was with.

Be good to every living thing
she said.

She died alone. Which was better in her eyes than dying with her daughter by her side.

M
ISS
her? Sometimes. Like how I miss the soft, dreamless child’s sleep that I once knew but don’t, now. And I wish her death had not been murder, and I wished for a time that we’d had a better, true goodbye. But she is in the realm, now. It is a good place to be.

She said her own goodbye, much later.

It was dusk, in a pine forest. I looked up to see her ghost passing by. I knew she was a ghost, for ghosts are pale and very quiet, which she never was in life. She trod between the trees and glanced across at me. She looked so beautiful, and thankful, and this was her goodbye.

I
THOUGHT
of her at the Romans’ wall. With the stars and silence. With the mare working quietly on the pear.

I thought of her too in the forest. There were small sounds like the wind high up, or a pine cone dropping down—and I thought maybe these sounds were Cora, like she was speaking to me. I listened for a while, thinking
is it you? Are you there?
And the wind shushed the trees which was like
I am here. Yes.

I thought of how she’d crouched in wynds, selling herbs and secrets.

How she loved blackcurrants.

But what good are backward glances? They do not help. They cannot be helped, or do any proper helping. I had her with me.
I will never be far away from you.

So I said
on with it
—I had to. I knew a life awaited me.

M
R
L
ESLIE
. I am glad to see you.

I thought perhaps you’d not return today. For I know how my talking can be. I was always one for going on and on—for saying so much a person’s eyes grow fish-like, and dead. Maybe it’s the lonesome life I’ve had. I’ve been mostly out of doors, on my own, with no soul but my own to talk to—so when I have a person with me I talk and talk and talk.

Was I that bad? Were you tired last night?

I am glad that you are here again. With your folding table and your goose quill.

I know you do not care for what I tell you very much. What does a James-loving man want Hexham for, or grey mares, or Mossmen? He doesn’t want them, I know. But I will give you what you need, in time.

The forest, then. The mare.

Mr Fothers’ mare, the grey one he’d called
bewitched,
his
grizzled old nag.
He had locked her up with every full-moon and given her no water to drink, for Mr Fothers thought water called the Devil in. So she’d licked the walls, whinnied for rain. We took a pail to her, Cora and I. One night we held it to the mare and she sucked and sucked the water up. She blew hard through her nostrils, scratched her rump on the doorpost, and Cora said
she’s too fine a horse for him
. Which was true.

Now I rode her.

I was on her back.
Me.

I looked down. I had not fully looked on her before. I had patted her nose at the Romans’ wall, and I’d pressed my cheek to her neck and clutched at her mane as she’d galloped. But we were not galloping now. We were treading through a forest, and I saw that she was a pretty horse—white-coloured on top, but with brown flecks on her hind parts and belly like she’d trodden on soft apples and they’d burst, speckled her. I felt how she swayed. She was wide like barrels, so my legs stuck out.

And she was tall. Maybe not to most people, but I am tiny-sized—so she was big as a house to me. The ground seemed far, far down. I learnt, in time, how mounting her was best to run a little, grab her mane and heave. If she minded this she never said so. She might even hold her foreleg up for me to step on which could be useful in hurried times when folk were shouting
witch
—and later I’d find hay or fistfuls of mint and offer them to her, kind thing. I think my clambering up was far better than a fat man on her back with whips and spurs. I’d once seen him jab her in the mouth so much with a horrid metal bridle that her mouth frothed pink and her eyes rolled wild. Wicked man. All I did to her mouth was fill it up with pears.

Nor was she quiet. I learnt this in those trees. She whickered at things that pleased her and at things that did not. She blew through her nose when I patted her, and sometimes she snored in her deep, horse-sleep. And most of her life she was eating—brambles, nettles, dock—so most of her life her belly grumbled at itself with all that food inside it. Food makes air as we know. She could be very noisy when that air found freedom. It’s not decent to speak of this but she could toot.

Yes I talk fondly. So would you.

Creatures do not care for
hag
or
witch
. It is what makes them so wise and worthy—how they only mind if they are treated well or not. That is how we should all live. The mare shook off
witch
like it was a fly or a leaf that fell on her. She kicked the ones who tried to hurt me, and she had a way of rubbing her head on my shoulders when I felt lonesome. This made her nice to be with.

I was glad of her. I rode her through the forest and told her so.

I called her
my mare.
I put a kiss on my hand, pressed my hand to her neck.

Not Mr Fothers’ anymore, but mine.

W
E WENT
deeper in. What else might we do?
Don’t come back
said Cora, and
north-and-west
. So we went deeper in.

It rained. It was
drip drip drip
from the branches, and
suck suck
from her hooves in the mud. We sheltered by upturned trees, or in a ruined cottage which was only mossy stones. And for eating we ate what we found—fir cones, and tree-roots. Berries. I took ants from tree-barks with my thumb, whispered
sorry
to them, ate them up. One day I fell upon some mushrooms which swelled like froth from the cleft of a log and I picked them, roasted them in garlick leaves and it was a meal of sorts. It tasted like Hexham—a man had sold them there and we’d bought a penny’s worth, Cora and me, and gobbled them. So I thought of her, as I ate them. The mare ate dead-nettle and moss.

They were dark and wet days. When I think on them I think
sad,
and
dark,
and
wet
.

I did light fires, sometimes. It was hard, in all that dampness, to light one that didn’t hiss or smoke blackly—but I did it once or twice. Once, we found a clearing that had a stream in it, and moss of such bright greenness that it glowed. There, by my fire, I unfolded Cora’s purse. I laid them out, on rocks. There were hundreds of them—all tied with string, all with different natures and smells, and properties. Some were fresh, and still soft. Others seemed so old that they powdered, to my touch, and I wondered if she’d found them when she was much younger—in her own wandering times.

I thought
some herbs might be older than me
.

Mallow, chervil, goldenrod.

Campion and eyebright—which is rare, but worth looking for. It brightens eyes exceedingly.

I gathered them up, one by one. I folded them into my mother’s cloth purse, and fastened it, and I said
these are her whole life’s gatherings
to the mare, who listened carefully. So did the trees, and the gold-green moss.

I put the purse under my cloak, to keep it safe.

Then the mare reared. She whinnied.

Then I heard a bird go
flap flap flap
so I turned my head, thinking
what is…?

And I was grabbed.

I was grabbed very roughly, with an arm on my throat so I could not breathe—I could not breathe for the arm was so strong and I kicked, and grappled with it. The horse snorted. That bird went
flap.

I could not breathe at all. My eyes sprang tears, and the arm lifted me clean up so my feet were off the ground and I had a small, cold moment where I thought
I will die here
—but then I thought
no I will not
. I was cross. I tried to scratch the arm but my fingernails were bitten so I reached behind to feel for this man’s face or ears or hair. I found his hair. I pulled it very hard which did nothing, so I fumbled with his face and found his eyes. I pushed my thumbs right in. Eyes are soft. It felt like they burst under my thumbs and there was a yell, a holler, and he dropped me. I scrabbled away and heaved in air.

He wailed
my eyes my eyes!

The mare squealed, and I coughed thickly. The man moaned
my eyes are bleeding, she’s blinded me
—and so I knew he was not alone. I turned. Three of them. Three more men came out of the darkness like thoughts, but I knew they were real—they were muddied and strong-smelling, and in jerkins of such thin leather and so laden up with rusted blades and ropes that I thought
I know your kind
…I remembered. I saw a frosty morning. I saw five ropes swinging.

I stared at them. I looked at each face as I crept back towards the mare—one had a plum-coloured face like he was half-burnt, and he beckoned to me.

Give us your purse and we’ll not harm you.

I shook my head. I was keeping Cora’s herbs for always—for all my life.

We saw it. Give your money.

I said,
I have no money.

He spat into a nettle bush. He stepped towards me more.
No one travels with no money
. Then he took a dirk out and growled again
your purse.
I heard his tongue’s accent which was Scotch—I knew it well enough from peddlers on the roads who’d beckoned me. I’d bought a silver mirror from a Scotchman once because it was so pretty and Mother Pindle saw me do so. She’d spat out the word
Scotchman
like it was
whore
or
plague.

I have no money!

He smiled quickly, like I was a joke to him. Then he came at me, lifted me right up and pushed me back against a tree. He struggled with me, seeking my purse so harshly that my teeth rattled, and I roared at him, and smacked his head.

Ha
he said, finding it. Cora’s purse.

He tugged it free and opened it, and out they went—radish, dock, lovage, fennel, comfrey, elderflower, sage. All over the forest floor.