Kissing the Witch (12 page)

I stopped to think. If he was drowning, I said slowly, I suppose I’d jump in the sea to save him. I’d forget father and mother and sisters for his sake. I’d . . . I’d
weave nettles with my bare hands.

Not particularly useful in this case. She sighed. No point my telling you he’s not worth it, I suppose.

You’ve never seen him!

I don’t need to, little girl. I’ve seen enough men in my time. Whoever he is, he’s not worth what you’ll pay.

But –

But I can see by your face that you’re sick for him. If he was ugly as Lucifer you’d still see the sun shining out of his breeches and the stars in the leavings on his plate. No
matter how greedy he may be you’ll think everything belongs to him by right. No matter how stupid he is you’ll think he converses like an angel. Am I right?

I have to have him, I told her coldly.

Good, good, she said, a girl who knows what she wants. Tell me now, how big a job will this be? Does the man like you, at least?

I flushed a little. I think so.

She peered closer. I’ve got a ring on my finger that tells me if it hears a lie.

I haven’t spoken to him yet, I said in a rush.

The witch made a short bark I could only think was a laugh that was out of practice. I stared at her fingers, bare of rings.

This must be love indeed, she said, if you know nothing about him. This must be the real thing, if there’s not a pinch of truth in the brew.

This is the truth, I shouted. I want to walk where he walks. To walk in his world, down there in the big city. For his eyes to catch on me when I’m dancing.

Go dance for him, then; what’s stopping you?

No, I said, stamping my foot on the turf. You must change me first. Make me better. Make me right. Make me like a woman he could love.

She knotted her hands in her frayed shawl. What’s wrong with you, girl, that you would make yourself over again?

Everything.

Change for your own sake, if you must, not for what you imagine another will ask of you.

I’m doing the asking now, I said.

A gull screamed; we watched it flap by.

After a moment, I asked, Is it possible, then?

She turned her palms up to the sky. Anything’s possible.

It felt like a victory. I stood up straighter. I have no money today, I told her, but if you’ll give me a little time –

She ignored that. It’ll cost you your voice, she said.

I stared at her.

You won’t be able to laugh or answer a question, to shout when something spills on you or cry out with delight at the full moon. You will neither be able to speak your love nor sing it
with that famous voice of yours.

But –

But you will have him. Also, she said, while I was still taking a breath, there will be pain.

Pain?

Like a sword cutting you in half. You will bleed for this man.

Yes, I said all in a rush, before my other selves could stop me.

The witch gave me a gentle smile. Well done, my child.

Then I have chosen rightly?

Not at all. But I have a weakness for brave fools. She looked around her for a thistle, came close to me and combed my hair with it. Then she turned to go into the cave.

I stood like a stone, bedded in the earth. She looked over her shoulder. Yes?

Don’t you . . . don’t I . . . isn’t there something we have to do?

What? she said wearily. Should I make you vomit up your voice and bury it under the cliff? Pull it out of your mouth like a silken rope and seal it in a jar?

I tried again. All I want to know is, when will it happen?

She reached out one filthy finger and touched me lightly on the throat. It already has, she said. Then the shadows around the cave mouth took her in.

I walked down the hill, my cold ears ringing.

At first I could hardly believe that the change had happened, but soon I had proof. My mother saw me packing my bundle, and asked what I was doing, but when I tried to answer her I found my
throat was sealed tight as a drum. At last she understood and shrank back on her stool. One of my sisters turned angry, one mocked me, another wept as I set off from our cottage, heading into the
mountains.

I walked and walked. Whenever I would have liked to sing I counted sheep instead. After a day I could no longer smell the sea. On the third day I immersed myself in a mountain lake, and when I
stepped out I was white as the wind. I wound wild roses in my hair. Men who passed me on the road turned their heads to stare. It was all true, the witch had done what she promised. By the time I
reached the city I had no more fear. I sold all I had for a new dress that reached to the ground whispering as I walked. Power was ringing through my lovely body: what need had I of words?

I found him easily, by walking down the street of merchants to the tallest house and sitting on the steps. After a while he came out with his father. As soon as he saw me he laughed. He said
something to his father, and ran down to help me up. My feet were like raw meat, but my smile held his eyes. He was just as I had remembered. It was I who had changed. When he offered me his hand,
I felt completely new.

He was sure he’d seen me somewhere before. I was a puzzle to him. After a few days he began to call me his little foundling; how the words were sweet to my ear. He didn’t seem to
mind that I answered all his questions with kisses. He gave me silk slippers for my feet, and a huge velvet cushion to sleep on when he was busy with his work. He took me to feasts and balls in
castles and ships. Sophisticated women laughed behind their fans; I took it as a sign of jealousy. Clothed in his gaze, I could not be put to shame. When he was not dancing with me, his eyes rested
on me dancing.

And one night in absolute darkness my flesh opened and swallowed him up. He made a sound like a dog. I burned as if I were being split in two. I was glad I had no voice to scream; I would have
woken the city.

I couldn’t walk for a day or two after. I felt like some strange seaweed washed up on my bloodied velvet cushion. He was so sorry; he brought me trays of sweets. At night, following his
whispers in the darkness, I began to learn about pleasure. Every day I woke up a little altered.

After a while I would have liked to ask when we were going to be married. My eyes put the question, but all his did was kiss them shut. That was the first time I felt the loss of my voice.

But I was coming to realize that my predicament was not unique. At the balls he took me to there were many beautiful young women who didn’t say a word. They answered every question with a
shrug or a smile. If champagne got spilt down their dresses they only sighed; when the full moon slid out from behind the castle they watched it in silence. I could not understand it. Had they sold
their voices too? Even their bodies were silent, always upright, never loosening their lines. They walked like letters on a page.

I had no fear, the evening my new life began to fall apart. I was dancing with all the grace I had, happiness stretched like a scarf around my shoulders. I turned to find his gaze, but for once
he was not there. I walked through the ball, my smile unfaltering. Was he hiding from me for a game? Was he busy, perhaps, telling his friends about our wedding? The night was warm, scented with
blossoms. On such a night love should be sung aloud.

When I found him on his back in the garden he was not singing, but whimpering in delight. I couldn’t see which girl was on top of him: her smooth head was turned away.

You will laugh to hear how shocked I was. I had so trusted the witch’s bargain, I never thought to wonder how long it would last. How I would like to be able to say that I turned and
walked away, out of the ball and out of his life, stripping his presents from me step by step. Instead I must admit that I crouched there, watching, for the little eternity it took.

Later I went home with him, as always. He read nothing, it seemed, in my eyes; the night was dark. Without a word from me or even a shake in my voice, how could he tell my heart was cracking
apart? The velvet cushion under us was still soft. My legs around his waist must have been as warm as ever.

How should I blame him? How was he to know what mattered to me? Perhaps we get, not what we deserve, but what we demand. His sweet dumb little foundling asked so little of him, and that little
was so easy for the flesh to give, why should she get anything more?

Some nights he came home, some nights not. On one of the nights he lay beside me, sleeping like a child, it occurred to me to kill him. There was a knife in his belt, hanging on the chair. It
could all be over in a moment. If I drank from his throat, might it give me back my voice?

Whether it was love or some other weakness that stayed my hand I will never know. I stole away before morning.

After a week without food I began to follow the only trade open to a wordless girl. The men were not as gentle as he had been, but they could do me no further damage. I reeled from one day to
the next, working for a mouthful of food at a time. What a fish out of water I was now, gulping on the cold streets as if every breath would be my last.

How could I stay here? Where else could I go? I was betwixt and between, spoiled for every life I could have lived. Always I would be restless now. Always I would know what I was missing.

I stayed through the winter, long enough to fill a jar with my tears. Their taste reminded me of the sea. I never thought I’d miss the smell of it, but finally, come spring, I did. I
didn’t know how to send a message; all I knew was the way home. The days of walking were like knives under my feet.

I made straight for the witch’s cave, and threw stones into its clattering darkness till she came out.

I said you’d catch him, she remarked, leaning on her stick as if we were resuming an interrupted conversation. I never said you’d keep him. There’s no spell long enough for
that.

I threw another stone; it went wide. She didn’t flinch.

Your sisters were here, pleading for you, she said.

My eyes widened.

They sold me their hair. She let out a snort. It was their idea; it seemed to make them happy. They’ve woven it into a shawl to keep me warm this winter.

I stared as she pulled the dark covering closer around her shoulders. They asked me to bring you home, she went on, and give you back your voice.

I tried to speak but couldn’t.

She came a few steps closer. I don’t have your voice, you know, she said softly. You do.

The flints were digging into the insides of my fists.

Your songs are still out there on the clifftop, hanging in the air for you when you want them. She paused, searching my face. Wish to speak and you will speak, girl. Wish to die and you can do
it. Wish to live and here you are.

I don’t understand, I croaked at last. My throat hurt.

She yawned. Your silence was the cost of what you sought, she said; it had nothing to do with me. What would I want with your voice? The music you make has always been in your own power.

Then why did you take my sisters’ hair in exchange?

She smiled wickedly. People never value what they get for free. Having paid so dearly, your sisters will treasure you now.

I gathered up all the months of pain and spat. It landed at her feet. As I trudged down to the village, my sisters ran out to meet me. Their cropped heads soaked up my tears.

My mother had no words of greeting, only arms thrown round me like ropes. I watched my father among the fishermen bringing the boats in. I would never again leave this harbour that smelt like
home.

At the end of a week my feet had healed. By the next spring my sisters’ hair had grown long again. Yet another year went by, and I married a fisherman with green eyes who liked to hear me
sing, but preferred to hear me talk.

Climbing to the witch’s cave one day, I called out,

Who were you

before you came to live here?

And she said, Will I tell you my own story?

It is a tale of a kiss.

I
KNOW WHAT
they say about me: the gulls bring me all the gossip. Knowing what they say about you is the first step to power. Contrary to what you
might half believe, I am no monster under my skirts. I grew up in a place much like this one, though half a year away. When I was the age that you are now I was a girl like you, though not quite as
stupid.

There was another difference: my bleeding was meagre, when it came, and by the time the cough carried off my mother I no longer bled at all. This gave me reason to think about my future. As far
as my people were concerned, women like me had no future. I knew what they thought of women past bearing; unless they had sons to honour them and daughters to clean them, they were old rags tossed
in the corner. A barren woman was hated even more; the way they saw it, she had never earned a bite of bread.

But I was not going to become an old rag, when every hair I had was still red as a lobster in the pot.

I could of course have lied and smiled, got myself a sturdy husband. The men had started lurking near our door as soon as my mother was taken bad. I could have sunk my nails into one, girded him
to me and kept him hoping and cursing year after year, even pointed the finger at some other woman for looking crossways at me and hexing my belly. But I wouldn’t stoop to that. So after they
buried my mother, I packed up all the herbs in her store and came away.