The Moon Spun Round (14 page)

‘Survivors often feel guilty. Rationality doesn’t come into it. Perhaps it will all come back when you stop thinking about it. And it’ll turn out to be something really trivial, like forgetting to iron his shirt.’

‘I expect you’re right. How’s that tea coming?’

‘Ah, yes, the tea. You like yours not too strong, is that right?’

‘Yes, and no sugar…Naomi, can I ask you something?’

‘Sure. Ask away.’

‘Well, it’s not so much ask as tell. I need to tell you something. If we’re going to see a lot of each other, I think we need to get this out of the way.’

‘Oh dear, that sounds serious.’

‘Not really. It’s just that I’ve seen you before.’

‘Oh, yes. Where was that?’

‘In my garden. The night of the full moon. You were coming out of the trees and carrying a large jug.’

‘Ah, I see.’ Naomi pauses, tosses her head so that her hair shimmers. ‘I had the feeling I was being watched. I was certainly conscious of the cottage being occupied. I’m sorry if I woke you. Abbie has explained to you about the water, hasn’t she?’

‘She did, but I’m not sure I understand. And no, you didn’t wake me. I happened to be looking out the window.’

‘For me, the water needs to be collected at specific times, usually at night. I tried not to disturb you and I certainly meant no harm.’

‘Fran said something last night. She was talking about you.’

‘What about me?’

Sally takes a deep breath. ‘It was probably nonsense, but she said that you’re a witch.’

‘No, it’s not nonsense. I practise the Craft.’ Naomi looks straight at Sally. ‘Not so unusual. There have always been witches, although these days we’re more open about it. In fact, recently there has been quite an upsurge of interest in witchcraft. You must have come across others, surely?’

‘Well, I know it’s quite trendy at the moment. A shop around the corner from where we lived in London sells all sorts of pagan stuff. That’s witchcraft, isn’t it? I’m not sure what the difference is.’

‘Witches are essentially pagan in their beliefs, but not all pagans are witches. Though I prefer Wicca: that’s the old word for the religion.’

‘Oh, well this shop started off with crystals and incense, then got into pentagrams and spells.’

‘Usual sort of rubbish, I expect.’

‘I’m glad you said that. It’s exactly what I thought. A few of my friends got into it. Started chanting incantations and lighting candles in the garden at midnight. I’m afraid it all struck me as being a bit silly. Mostly it seemed to be about wearing black clothes and hanging pentagrams around their necks.’

Naomi smiles. ‘Yes, that sounds about right. They’ll lose interest as soon as the novelty wears off and they find they have to work at it. This time next year they’ll be into something else. It’s a dedicated discipline and real witches don’t go parading their beliefs around like a fashion show.’

‘Yes, I thought that might be the case. So, how long have you been into this?’

‘As long as I can remember. It’s something that’s born in you. But I’ve been practising since I turned twenty-one.’

‘Are there more of you in Hallowfield? Thirteen in a coven, isn’t that right?’

‘No, that’s another piece of misinformation. Some work in a group, which can be any size. Lots, like me, prefer to work alone. I try to be quite open about it, even though there are still a lot of religious zealots around. Not that I go shouting it from the rooftops, but I see no reason for keeping my beliefs a secret. We do have the protection of the law these days. I think being open and honest about it is the best way of fighting ignorance and superstition.’

‘You’re probably right. So, why do you need the water, if I’m allowed to ask?’

‘All sorts of uses, but mainly in ritual. It’s like holy water. It can be used to cleanse objects and consecrate them—that sort of thing. The water is a very special part of my work. It would be a serious loss if it weren’t to be available. But it’s your land, Sally, and you have every right to close access to the spring if you don’t feel comfortable with it. I would respect that. We all would.’

‘No. I don’t want to do that and so far it’s not a problem. I know there’s you and Abbie, and I’ve seen another woman—I think it’s the same one who was at the book club, I can’t remember her name—but I’ve not been aware of anyone else being there.’

‘We try to create as little disturbance as possible. Everyone respects your privacy; that’s part of the tradition.’

‘I just find it so weird, that’s all. But, yes, you have my permission to use it whenever you like. Only next time come in and say hello. Unless it’s four o’clock in the morning, that is. Look, how many of you are there?’

‘I don’t know all of them. Women find their way there if they need to—they don’t necessarily know each other. Of course I know Abbie uses it, Ruth and Fran. And there’s Claire. There are others, but I’ve no idea who or how many.’

‘Ruth and Fran? What on earth do
they
use it for?’

‘That’s something you’ll have to ask them.’

A
FULL MOON OCCURS WHEN THE SUN AND
moon are at nearly opposite positions in the sky, which is why a full moon always rises about the time of sunset, as Sally would have observed had she not drawn the curtains early. While she ate her supper in front of the fire and re-read
Kiss of a Stranger
, the moon climbed steadily above the horizon. As it rose, it appeared to dwindle in size; an illusion created by the path of light rays through Earth’s atmosphere. This also passed unobserved by Sally, who went upstairs early without looking beyond her four cosy walls.

Tonight, in the early hours of December the fifth, when the moon is high above the house and as white as an arum lily, the apex of the cycle is due to occur. The sun is about to cast its light full upon the face of the Goddess as she swells to ripeness. Of this event, Sally has neither understanding nor awareness. She’s wrapped in her feather quilt and totally oblivious to everything.

Cat, in tune with the powers of the night, isn’t asleep. She is keeping watch as cats do, sitting very upright on the gatepost, tail tucked round her paws, ears pricked forward, eyes round like black marbles. She’s patient, despite the sharp air that carries the promise of a frost, but she doesn’t have to wait long. A figure appears at the bend of the lane, a woman wrapped in a padded coat and carrying a water jug, her long, dark hair tucked into a woollen hat.

‘Hi, Puss,’ whispers Naomi. ‘How’s my favourite mouser?’ Cat jumps down and makes a figure eight around Naomi’s legs. She is rewarded by a stroke of the head and a scratch behind her ears. ‘Now, let’s see if we can get through this gate without making it squeak.’ Naomi winces as the ancient hinges protest,
conscious of the sound carried on the still air. But only the field mice hear, and they’re too busy with their nightly scavenging to be overly worried. Sally sleeps on, undisturbed.

Naomi’s monthly journeys to the spring have always been surrounded by silence and secrecy. She doesn’t like to think of it as being furtive; discreet, she says, simply discreet. Ever since she came to Hallowfield, the cottage has been empty and she has made the monthly pilgrimage unchallenged. The arrival of the new Guardian has meant a shift, not in routine, but in her level of alertness. Admittedly, she feels more comfortable now that Sally knows about it; at least she no longer feels like a trespasser. ‘Even so,’ she whispers to Cat, ‘I think a diplomatic visit with the oil can might be in order.’

They pass through the gate, leaving it open, and follow the path around the corner of the house to the garden. As usual, Cat leads the way across the grass and their moon-cast shadows follow them. They both glance up at the window, but the house is fast asleep. Before they enter the trees, Naomi looks to the moon. The Goddess has many moods. At her last fullness she was a warrior queen, but tonight she is the Mother Isis, waiting to enfold her daughter in gentle wings. Cat still leading the way, they disappear into the shadows.

It is nearly half an hour before they re-emerge, Naomi bearing the weight of the full container. Cat sees her to the gate where they part company; the woman to follow the curve of the lane, the feline to pursue some night-time mission that only another cat would appreciate. Eventually, she also makes her way back home, enters through her own private doorway, and pads up the stairs. Careful not to disturb Sally, she noses her way between the folds of the quilt and slithers down beside the warm body of her sleeping priestess.

As the moon dips towards the horizon, Sally stirs. She finds the room bathed in white light as before. Immediately she is fully awake and alert, understanding the reason for the light and unable to resist slipping out of bed and going to the window. In the process, Cat is tumbled from the bedclothes.

‘What are you doing under there? I thought we agreed you would sleep on top of the bed?’ Cat stretches, yawns, lifts her back leg to scratch the side of her neck. Sally stands by the window and pulls back the muslin.

And there is the moon. Not the creamy gold pearl of last month, but a stark, white disc. Yet somehow it feels softer. She isn’t overawed by this moon; instead she feels strangely peaceful. The room is thrown into hard contrasts by its penetrating rays. The smallest details are perceptible yet strangely transformed
as edges sharpen against black shadows. The crumpled bed is an alien landscape, the dressing table a cluttered treasure trove of crystal and silver. As bright as day. Yes, now what was that rhyme? Someone used to sing it to her.

Suddenly the room feels stuffy, too many bedclothes and the central heating has come on again to warm the house for morning. She needs air.

Yes, why not? Not bothering to turn on the light, she rummages in the cupboard for her warm boots and thick polar jacket. Her tracksuit-style sleep outfit will do; one of the benefits of sleeping alone—no need for seductive lingerie. Naturally, Cat feels it her duty to accompany Sally. They both creep downstairs as if not to awaken someone. ‘This is crazy,’ Sally thinks as she opens the back door. ‘
I’m
crazy. Yes, perhaps I am. Well, that’s OK, as long as there’s no one around to notice.’ Cold air slaps her full in the face, and at first she cannot catch her breath. It is another world, one of white silence. For a moment she hesitates. ‘This is a silly idea. Let’s go back inside and make some tea.’

‘Oh, all right, then. Just for a few minutes.’ Hands stuffed in pockets and her breath clouding in front of her, she treads warily onto the lawn. The blades crunch beneath her feet. Cat, more accustomed to walking on frosted ground, places her paws strategically between the larger clumps of grass and heads out towards the trees.

‘Where are we going, then?’ asks Sally, as if she doesn’t know. Cat looks back and meows. ‘It’ll be dark and muddy in there. Perhaps I should have brought the torch.’

She ducks beneath the branches. It’s surprisingly light among the trees. They’re now winter-bare, and light from the bright sky filters through a skein of black
twigs. A couple of times she almost slips and she snatches a branch to steady herself. Cat, of course, is more sure-footed. This is a path Sally knows quite well now—back and forth to Abbie’s house, morning coffee, an apple for the horses—and habit guides her feet. The night air amplifies every sound so that, even at a distance, she can hear water flowing from the rock into the pool. When they reach the stream, instead of crossing over, Cat turns from the path and follows the narrower trail to the spring.

‘Look, are you sure this is a good idea?’

The pool reflects the open sky above like a sheet of blue steel, its surface ridged by concentric circles radiating from the tumbling water. Sally stands at the edge, looking down at her reflection, a woman wavering in the ripples like some landlocked mermaid. Now she is here, she doesn’t know why she came or what to do. She looks for the image of the moon in the water, but it’s lower in the sky now and the disorderly line of tree trunks blocks her view. But the clearing is still filled with light.

Light as day—no, light as moonlight. A fairy-tale light in a Cinderella ballroom. There should be music. Sweet strains of the lute or harp. A gavotte? A minuet? Her body glides and her feet pace the turf, arms held gracefully. No, too sedate, too restrained. Gypsy music, a fiddle and a tambourine, swirling skirts and jingling coins, flames from a wood pyre. Her feet catch the rhythm, stamp the hard ground, hands clapping in time. Or something more exotic, a stringed gourd and a beating drum, hips swaying in sensuous time to the music of hot sands and spices; fingers strike cymbals, bare feet slapping on smooth mosaic tiles, the scent of jasmine and the juice of the pomegranate. Sally’s back arches, and her body bends and dips as light floods the temple floor. Around and around she turns at the water’s edge, beneath the bare winter branches, her breath spinning white clouds like a dancer’s veil. A dance for the Goddess Moon.