Fanny (12 page)

Of Prophecies and Herbs; of Witchcraft and Magick; of Courage and a red silk Garter.

A
FTER THE PROPHECY HAD
been utter’d, we three sat in the dark Chamber by the Light of one flick’ring Candle and star’d into the Depths of the Crystal Sphere, saying no Word to each other. A steady Rain began to drum upon the Roof; a chill Wind flew down the Chimney causing the Fire to dance madly for a Moment, then leap upward once more; and Lustre rear’d upon his hind Legs, neigh’d wildly, show’d his Face at the Window, his Eyes blazing, and then grew suddenly silent again.

“I will lead him to Shelter under the Eaves,” Isobel said, and for a Moment or two, I was left alone with Joan, my Seeress.

“What doth the Prophecy mean?” I askt.

“It means,” she said, her Voice return’d to its normal State, “whate’er ye take it to mean. You yourself are the Creator of your Destiny—ne’er forget that.”

“But what doth the Prophecy portend?” I insisted. “How shall I turn Blood to driven Snow? How shall I stay the Devil?” (I could not but shudder at his very Name.)

Joan lookt at me with all Solemnity and said: “I’faith, Lass, I do not know. I can only tell ye that when I gaze into the Ball a Pow’r greater than myself seizes hold of me and what I say I oft’ cannot rightly remember afterwards. My Voice turns high and shrill as the Wind shrieking, my Throat goes dry as Kindling, my Eyes burn in my Head like Embers, and it seems my Brains bubble like boiling Milk. Yet Folks tell me my Prophecies oft’ come true. I can’t boast of it myself because I don’t remember ’em.”

“But you say they come true?” I askt.

“Other Folks say so,” said Joan. “Oft’ the Possessor of a Pow’r is the last Soul upon Earth to credit it. When I come back to my own true Self, as now, I swear I cannot remember the Prophecies at all.”

“But I remember ’em,” I said. “I shall ne’er forget ’em.”

“That’s good, Lass,” said Joan. “Let ’em seep into your Brain and give ye the Pow’r to seize your Life with Courage. Courage is the only Magick worth having. If I could brew a Potion for kindling Courage in the Heart, I’d be the richest old Lady in all of England. But, alas, each of us must brew it in the Cauldron of her own Heart. There’s no other Way. If my Prophecies can do a little to heat the Flames, I’m content.”

“This is potent Witchcraft indeed,” I said, as the Prophecy silently burnt into my Brain. “Pray tell me, what other Enchantments do you know?”

At that very Moment, Isobel appear’d out of the Rain, where she had tended to Lustre, and hearing the last Query, made quick to answer (as if, i’faith, she had not been out of the Room).

“We know,” she said, “Herbs that restore Stolen Goods to their Proper Place and Herbs that reduce Fever and calm the Nerves….”

“We know Herbs to raise Sores on Beggars to promote Sympathy…and Herbs to improve the Complexion…” Joan added.

“We know Herbs to cause a Death-like Sleep,” said Isobel, “and Herbs to cure Warts.”

“We know Herbs to treat Flatulence,” said Joan, “or cause Abortion…or bring Lovers back together…”

“We know the Use of Poisons,” said Isobel, with a Hint of Mischief in her Voice, “Baneberry, Balsam Apple, Hellebore, Cherry Laurel, Caper Spurge, Christmas Rose, Cuckoo Pint…”

“And don’t forget Hemlock and Deadly-Nightshade,” said Joan.

“And you use all these Herbs just for Good, not Ill?”

“Well,
nearly
always, Dear,” said Isobel.

“Yes,” said Joan, “almost all the Time. But, of course, there
are
difficult Moments in Life that call for strong Measures…”

“And then, to be sure,” said Isobel, “’tis good to have some special Wisdom at one’s Fingertips…”

“’Tis not pleasant to be ill-prepar’d and totally at the Mercy of the Fates,” said Joan.

“Alas,” said Isobel, “’tis a hard enough Thing to be born a Woman in this Vale of Tears without resorting to some Witchcraft or other to make it bearable. I’m sure Fanny will agree, won’t you, Dear?”

“Oh, yes,” I said, thoroughly puzzl’d and beginning to grow uneasy again. “Oh, yes, certainly. Indeed.”

Isobel lookt at me with her twinkly blue Eyes. “Lustre is well,” she said. “He askt after you when I ty’d him under the Eaves…. I told him you had been frighten’d, but that you were a stout-hearted Girl and would learn Courage sooner than most…. He seem’d content. I promise you, the vile Mr. Doggett cannot follow him here. Come, Fanny, let’s prepare a Bed for a sleepy Girl….”

As the two Women took down Quilts and Eider-Downs and laid a Bed for me before the Fire, I thought of all the astonishing Things I had heard that Ev’ning, the strange Prophecy, the Herbal Wisdom of the Witches, Isobel’s uncanny Ability to read Thoughts and converse with Animals…. What more could these two wond’rous Women do? Could they raise Storms? Could they fly thro’ the Air?

“Ah, Fanny Dear,” said Isobel, putting a warm Arm around my Shoulder, “you fret too much. ’Tis nothing to worry about. Your Face is the Mirror of your Fears.”

“But can you raise Storms and fly thro’ the Air?” I askt.

“Perhaps,” said Isobel, teazingly, “and perhaps not.”

“Only little Storms,” said Joan, “no Lightning.”

“And short Flights,” said Isobel. But ’twas impossible to tell if they were jesting with me or not.

“Here, Fanny,” said Isobel, lifting her long Skirt, slipping a red silk Garter down her slender Thigh and giving it to me. “’Tis all the Magick you’ll need Tonight. Wear it and be safe from all Harm.”

I lookt closely at the slightly faded red silk Garter with its pink Rosette and silky red Ribbands hanging down; I felt the Silk with my Fingers. Woven into the Band was a Motto almost out of the Cloth with Time: “
My Heart is fixt, I will not range, I like my Choyce too well to change
.”

“Put it on, Dear,” said Isobel, “and don’t fret.”

“Good Night, Lambkin,” said Joan, kissing me upon the Forehead.

“Good Night,” I said, more puzzl’d than e’er before. But I made sure to slip the Garter on my Thigh as I undress’d for Bed.

Isobel’s Persian Cat crept o’er on noiseless Feet and curl’d up in the warm Hollow betwixt my Knees and my Belly. The Embers glow’d upon the Hearth, and the Cat’s Fur seem’d charged with that sort of subtle Fire Sir Thomas Browne had found in Amber and term’d “Electricity.” Joan and Isobel sigh’d and roll’d o’er in their Bed. Then one of them—’twas Joan, I guess’d—began to snore mightily. I felt myself secure, protected, as if by two Mothers, and ’twas a pleasant enough Feeling for an Orphan. And so, the ample Arms of Morpheus reach’d out to break my Fall, and I slept; I slept the dreamless Sleep of the Blest.

On the Morrow, I was awaken’d by the Sounds of iron Potts clanging and Buckets of Water being brought from the Well. Joan and Isobel were preparing a fine Breakfast of white and wheaten Bread, sugar’d Buns, Lisbon Oranges, and hot Asses’ Milk. Save for that humble Beverage, ’twas lavish Fare for two plain Country-women, but I was so accustom’d to Wonders in this House of Wonders that I did not ask where Lisbon Oranges grew in these bosky Woods.

At Table, Joan and Isobel askt me where I was going and what my Hopes were.

“Only the Hope to seek my Fortune in London,” I said. Whereupon I recounted the whole sad Story of Lord Bellars’ Seduction and Betrayal, Mr. Pope’s Hypocrisy, Daniel’s scurvy Usage of me, and Mary’s Envy.

Joan and Isobel listen’d intently. Isobel’s merry blue Eyes flam’d with Anger as I spoke and she seem’d at one Moment (when I mention’d Lord Bellars) to utter a Curse ’neath her Breath. Then she compos’d herself, as if by a Supreme Effort of Will; and when I had finish’d, she said to me: “Oft’times the Strongest and most Beautiful have to bear the heaviest Burdens, because, added to their own Burdens, they bear the Envy of others. But fear not, Fanny, ’twill make you stronger.”

“But if you wish to be revenged upon that Whoremaster, Lord Bellars,” said Joan, looking like the very Devil, “I can think of a Way….”

Isobel star’d at her, read her Intent in her evil Look, and said, “No. I’ll not permit it.”

“Permit what?” I askt.

“The Waxen Puppet, the red-hot Pins,” said Isobel. “’Tis Foolishness. Leave him to Heaven. ‘Vengeance is Mine, saith the Lord.’ Bellars and his London Mistress shall find their Punishments soon enough and at their own Hands.”

“Can you truly make a Waxen Puppet?” I askt.

“Joan can,” said Isobel.

“Indeed,” said Joan, with great Pride, “and an excellent Likeness, too.”

“And doth it injure the Person whose Likeness you steal?”

“Some say it doth,” said Joan. “’Tis certain ’twill make
you
feel much better, if not him much worse.”

“I won’t permit it,” said Isobel. “’Tis uncall’d for here.”

“We might put it to the Coven,” said Joan, “and call a Vote.”

“You belong to a Coven?” I askt.

“’Tis a fancy Name for a Sewing Circle of old Ladies,” said Isobel, looking fiercely at Joan as if to silence her. “’Twould bore Fanny extreamly.”

“On the Contrary, Isobel, my Dear, Fanny will need such Knowledge if she is truly to seek her Fortune in this cruel World.”

“I will not risque subjecting an innocent young Girl to the Charge of Witchcraft,” Isobel said warmly. She rose from the Table and set her Tankard of Milk loudly upon it to enforce her Displeasure.

“Ask
Fanny
if she wishes to go,” said Joan. “’Tis only right for Fanny to decide.”

“Go where? Decide what?” I askt, all in Confusion.

“Are you then agreed?” Joan askt Isobel.

“You play with Fire,” Isobel said, sternly. “This Prank could be the Death of Fanny—the Ordeal by Water, e’en Blooding.”

“You fret too much,” said Joan. “You learnt it at your Mother’s Knee.”

“’Tis better than what you learnt at
your
Mother’s Knee,” said Isobel. “I won’t see Fanny harm’d.”

“Nor will I,” said Joan. “I’faith, I’m fond of the Lass, too. But I say she lacks Experience. What can we give her to take to London but Wisdom of the World?”

“Wisdom, not Witchcraft,” said Isobel.

“Oft’times, the two are the same,” said Joan. “Come, Fanny, what would you? Join us with the Coven this very Night? Or go straight to London?”

I trembl’d. My Fate was indeed in my Hands. Would I see a Sight few Mortals e’er see and risque the severest Punishment, or would I play the Coward’s Part and refuse?

Alas, Belinda, it hath e’er been my Fate, when given the Choyce of Daring or Safety, to choose Daring. “
My Heart is fixt, I will not range
,” may be the Motto on my Garter, but I fear it refers to the Fixity of my Soul in search of Adventure, not the Fixity of my Body in search of Home. Thus I nodded my Head yes to Joan’s Query, and I steel’d my Soul to endure whate’er the Fates had in store.

CHAPTER XII

Containing some Essential Information regarding the Nature of Esbats, Sabbats, Flying thro’ the Air upon Broomstaffs, and other Matters with which the enlighten’d young Woman of parts should be acquainted; together with a most dreadful Scene upon Stonehenge Down, which few Readers should venture upon in an Ev’ning, especially when alone.

T
HAT AFTERNOON, WE PREPAR’D
for the weekly Meeting of the Coven. ’Twas agreed that after the Meeting, Isobel and Joan should put me on the Road to London (from which I had stray’d in eluding Mr. Doggett) and we three should part—howe’er, not without Isobel’s revealing some Mystery which, she declar’d, would both astonish and delight me. Therefore, I was to wear my Travelling Clothes—Daniel’s Clothes, to speak truly—and Lustre was to be groom’d and fed and prepar’d for the long Journey. As we made these Preparations, and Joan and Isobel readied divers Ointments and Brews for the Meeting, I was able to ask a few of the myriad Queries that had been seething in my Brain all Day. I wisht to know all about Herbs, all about Divination, and whether ’twas true (as I had heard from my Nurse in Childhood) that a Witch had only to stand o’er her Broomstaff and utter certain Words in order to fly thro’ the Air.

Whereupon Joan put a Broomstaff betwixt her Legs and said:

“Horse and Hattock, Horse and go! Horse and Pellatis, ho, ho!” But she mov’d not an Inch off the Ground.

“Then you cannot fly thro’ the air?” I askt.

“See for yourself,” said Isobel, laughing.

“But have you not
Flying
Ointments?” I askt.

“Ah, Fanny,” said Isobel, “some Ladies in our Coven set great store by an Unguent containing Extract of Monk’s-Hood, and Deadly-Nightshade; they say it enables ’em to fly; but I say it disorders their Senses and makes ’em think they fly. I’d sooner drink good Claret.”

“No Subject is more fill’d with Foolishness than Notions of Witchcraft in the common Mind,” said Joan, “and, i’faith, many Witches themselves believe that Nonsense. They join the Old Religion, hoping to learn to fly, or set Curses upon their Neighbours, and the Meaning of the True Devotion is lost.”

“But do they not worship the Devil?” I askt—for so I had heard.

“One Woman’s Devil is another Woman’s beloved Husband,” said Isobel, smiling mischievously, “and what the Witch-Hunters call’d the Foul Fiend, the Prince of Darkness, may be just another Name for God.”

“Then you believe in Jesus Christ?”

“No,” said Joan.

“Well, yes,” said Isobel, “but I believe in a greater God, too.”

“A Female God,” said Joan, “whose Name is too holy to be spoken. She that hath made the World and exists ev’rywhere in ev’ry living Thing. She that is both female and male, with Horns upon her Head, and a Belly that brings forth Young….”

“Hush,” said Isobel.

“But this is Heresy,” I said.

Isobel lookt at me sternly. “Be not so quick to use that Word,” said she, “lest it be us’d against you. The Passion that one Soul hath for God cannot be judged by another.”

I held my Tongue. Was it possible that the Great God who made the World was female? Or were these two old Women out of their Wits?

“And what Herb do you use to bring Lovers back together?” I askt, being quick to change the Subject.

“Caraway,” Joan said.

“With Lemon Balm,” said Isobel.