The Runaways (13 page)

But she didn’t. The spells went on being spells. There were a few nice ones such as the one, ‘For making a man dote upon a woman. Take the petals of seven scarlet flowers picked at midday under the sun, red rose,
carnation
, geranium, according to the season, and infuse them together with vex-vain and endive seed and well-water, drawn up at midnight under the full moon. Bottle and use in secret, the back of the beloved being turned, pouring a teaspoonful into his ale or wine, preferably
his wine, especially if it be a red wine. Continue until his love be at the desired heat.’ But the nice ones were few and far between and the rest were all horrible. There was one for making a person go blind, and another for making him dumb. The one for ‘Binding the tongue’ said, ‘At the dead of night take a root of mandrake, shape it to the figure of the person, standing with tongue thrust out, pierce the tongue with sharp pins and put the figure secretly aside.’

And there was another nasty one ‘For causing a man to lose his memory that he wander away and be lost, even when the man is at a great distance from you. Take a mandrake root and form of it an image of him. Then pierce the head and feet with pins, take the image to some far place, even as he is in a far place, and hide it there. The place must be very secret, for if the image be found the man also will be found. Do this at a time of great darkness, either when there be thunder in the air or when the moon is hid.’

The last spell in the book was ‘For making a coolness and a strangeness come between a man and woman that love each other. Take nine snail shells and crush them. Then take seven foxglove-bells from a place of shade, also the feathers of a black cock and the blood of the same, and…’

This spell went no further. There was a spatter of ink as though the pen had been flung down, and no more. It looked as though someone had suddenly come in and interrupted Emma Cobley. She had written nothing more in the book. The rest of the pages were blank.

Nan had been reading for a long time. She was cold
and stiff and scared and did not know what she ought to do. There seemed nothing she could do at present, except wait and see. She was glad when Ezra banged the big gong for tea and she could go and be with the others and push Emma Cobley to the back of her mind. It was easy to do this because during tea they were busy thanking Uncle Ambrose for their presents, and there was the cake that Ezra and Betsy had made to be eaten, and then Andromache came in with her kittens staggering after her, giving them their first Sunday outing, and Absolom had to be restrained and Hector pacified while the six round balls of prickly fluff were nursed and Andromache was given milk in the
slop-basin
. Then tea was washed up and the rest of the day passed according to plan, Uncle Ambrose’s plan. They ate the cold supper that Ezra had left ready for them and they were in bed by the time Uncle Ambrose came back from church. But only just. Robert took the final leap and pulled the sheet up under his chin when he heard steps on the stairs. It was the first time Uncle Ambrose had come to their rooms to say good night to them after they were in bed and they wondered what he would do. He did not kiss them as their father had been accustomed to do, but he stood very upright beside their beds, Hector growing taller and taller on his shoulder, adjusted his spectacles, looked at them benignly and said, ‘Ha.’ Then he patted their shoulders and stalked away and they heard the library door close behind him. Now he was going to write his book. Nan believed that he stayed up very late writing his book. His days were not as leisured as they had been and she
realised suddenly that the education of children is not a process in which the children alone are the sufferers.

Nan woke to find the moon shining on her face. She got up and went to the window and looked out on the back garden. The moon had just come out from behind the tower of the church and the scene was lit up as brightly as though it were day. She could see the beehives and the strange bunchy little figure standing near them. It was Ezra in his best coat. She slipped out of bed, put on her shoes and her warm dressing gown, ran downstairs, through the kitchen and up the garden. As well as the full-skirted beech-brown coat, Ezra was wearing his mustard waistcoat and scarlet neckerchief. His trouser-leg was pulled up to show the beautiful bee on his wooden leg and in one hand he held a bunch of herbs and flowers.

He turned round and saw her. ‘Miss Nan! What be doin’ ’ere? ’Tis close on midnight.’

‘What are
you
doing here, Ezra?’

‘Come the first night o’ the full moon I talks to the bees at midnight.’

‘May I stay with you while you talk to them?’

‘Aye.’

He had scarcely spoken when midnight began to boom out over their heads. Nan stood beside Ezra until the last reverberation had died away over the moors and then she followed him close to the hives. Handing her the bunch of flowers and herbs to hold, he took from his pocket a bag containing preserved sugar plums and pieces of barley sugar. At the entrance to each hive he laid a little offering of these sweet things, and at each hive he bowed. ‘Madam queens an’ noble bees, you sleep,’ he said, ‘but in your dreams you will know that the offerin’s be laid upon the threshold. For this moon more, madam queens an’ noble bees, extend your protection over your domain.’

He stopped and listened intently, and Nan listened too, and she thought she heard a far-away unearthly music as though an army of little people the size of her thumb were singing on the other side of the world. Ezra nodded his head, as though in satisfaction, and taking the bunch of herbs and flowers from Nan he touched each hive once with it, bowed again and turned away down the garden path. Nan curtsied and followed him.

‘Did you hear it?’ she whispered when they were halfway back to the house.

‘What, maid?’ he asked, and he stopped and fixed her with his intensely bright eyes.

‘The far-away music,’ she said.

‘You ’eard it?’ he asked in astonishment. ‘You ’eard the singin’ o’ the bees?’

‘Was it the bees?’ she asked. ‘But they were asleep.’

‘Bees sing in their sleep,’ he said. ‘But ’tis not often mortal ears can ’ear ’em. Maid, you be one of ’em.’

‘What exactly do you mean?’ asked Nan, feeling a little scared.

‘I thought as you ’ad it in your ’eart the moment I set eyes on ee,’ said Ezra. Then, a little shamefaced, he corrected himself. ‘The moment I set eyes on ee an’ me sober.’

They had walked on and reached the well and paused there and Nan asked, ‘What have I in my heart?’

‘The gold, maid,’ he said. He stretched out a horny forefinger and laid it gently on her chest, to the
left-hand
side. ‘In your ’eart there be a nugget o’ pure gold an’ if you could see it you would see a shinin’ like a flame. There’s not many ’ave it, but them what do ’ave it can ’ear the bees singin’, an’ call the birds to their finger. An’ they can lay down their life for another.’

‘Birds don’t come to my finger,’ said Nan.

‘You must call ’em to ee,’ said Ezra. ‘You call ’em, maid, I reckon they’ll come.’

‘They come to you?’ Nan asked, and then added, ‘But of course they do. You have the gold.’

‘Maybe,’ he said soberly. ‘But maybe ’tis only the silver in my blood. You see, maid, there be three sorts o’ men an’ women in this world, the gold-’earted an’ the black-’earted an’ them what’s descended from the silver ones.’

‘Who are they?’ asked Nan.

‘They lived on this earth before ever the good God thought to make men an’ women, they was the elves
an’ the gnomes an’ the giants, the fairy folk. That’s to say that in other countries they were called gods, an’ that the Greeks gave ’em names, Pan, Orpheus, Persephone an’ other names I don’t call to mind. But gods or fairies, maid, ’twas the same breed, an’ all of ’em with silver in their blood. Then, if so be you’ve read your bible, you’ll know there was war in ’eaven, the good angels fightin’ the bad angels. The bad angels was cast down to earth an’ a few o’ the good uns, them that was that angry they couldn’t loose their ’old, fell down to earth too, ’olding to the throats o’ the bad uns. So then there was three breeds, the golden-’earted angels, an’ the black-’earted, an’ the fairy folk with the silver in their blood.’

Nan had sat down on the parapet of the well. She thought a moment and then said, ‘I don’t think that’s quite true, Ezra. I’ve known people, especially
children
, who could be both black-hearted and
gold-hearted
. One on Monday and the other on Tuesday.’

‘That be true, I reckon,’ said Ezra. ‘That old battle between the dark and light, it do be goin’ on in every ’eart that ever beats. But as life goes on, maid, either one wins or t’other, you’ll notice. Miss Betsy, now, she’ll be good one day, bad the next, but the Master, well, I’ve never known ’
im
’ave a black-’earted day.’ Ezra’s voice sank to a low growl. ‘An’ I ain’t never knowed Emma Cobley to ’ave a gold-’earted day. An’ I’ve knowed Emma all me life. ’Er father was a black warlock, an’ ’e taught ’er ’is wicked spells, an’ my old mother she were a white witch an’ she taught me ’er good uns. So Emma and I, we just about ’ave the measure o’ t’other.’

There was a long pause and then Nan said, ‘So the silver in your blood is fairy power?’

‘That be right, maid,’ said Ezra. ‘An’ it be the power to make music an’ paint pictures an’ write poetry.’

‘You and Moses Glory Glory Alleluja both make music,’ said Nan.

‘Aye.’

‘And Daft Davie paints pictures,’ said Nan.

Ezra, who was busy doing something at the back door, swung round. ‘Do ’e?’ he asked. ‘I ain’t never been in the place where ’e bides. Can’t climb there. An’ other folks won’t go near the place. They be scared of ’im. Were you scared?’

‘I wasn’t scared,’ said Nan. ‘Daft Davie lives in a cave and he has painted splendid pictures all round the walls.’

‘Lady Alicia painted when she was a girl,’ said Ezra. ‘Not with a brush. With a needle. Needlework pictures.’

‘Did you know her when she lived here?’ asked Nan.

‘Aye. I was garden boy ’ere then.’

‘Betsy says she lost her little boy Francis when he was eight years old,’ said Nan. ‘Is that true?’

‘Aye,’ said Ezra. ‘The squire just gone away to foreign parts an’ Lady Alicia an’ the child an’ nurse went up to the moors for a picnic, to take the child’s mind off frettin’ for ’is father. The little boy rode ’is pony, an’ Moses, who was a young footman then, came with ’em to carry the picnic basket. ’E ’adn’t been with ’em long at the time, Moses ’adn’t. The squire brought ’im back from foreign parts when was just a young boy in ’is teens. They say bought ’im in a slave market.’

‘Poor Moses!’ said Nan. ‘Go on, Ezra.’

‘What I be tellin’ ee now, Moses told me,’ said Ezra, ‘so I know ’tis true. ’Twas a fine day, Moses said, but misty an’ ’e felt a bit anxious-like, for not been up to the moors afore an’ the French nurse was a young woman who couldn’t get ’er tongue round any decent language, only ’er own jabberwock what Moses couldn’t make ’ead nor tail on. Well, they ’ad their picnic tea, right up on Lion Tor under the Castle Rock, and then the nurse an’ the little boy went off to play games together an’ Lady Alicia sat an’ did ’er picture embroidery. Moses ’obbled the pony an’ then sat on a rock at a respectful distance, with ’is ’ands on ’is knees till ’e should be wanted. It got mistier, an’ the voices o’ the nurse an’ the child seemed further off, an’ Moses ’e felt uneasy an’ kept lookin’ at Lady Alicia, but she were stitchin’ ’er picture an’ did not notice the mist till she started to feel cold. Then she says to Moses, “Where be nurse and my son?” An’ Moses says ’e didn’t know, but ’ad ’e ’er permission to go an’ look for ’em? An’ she told ’im to go.’ Ezra stopped suddenly. ‘The Master would not like ee to be out ’ere at night, maid. An’ ’e’d not like me to be tellin’ ee such a sad story.’

‘It’s warm and bright as day,’ said Nan, ‘and you
have
to tell me this story.’

‘Aye,’ said Ezra. ‘There is somethin’ tells me as I do. You be young, but it’s always the goldens what put things to right, an’ things ain’t right up at the Manor.’

‘Couldn’t Moses find the nurse and the little boy?’ asked Nan.

‘’E found the nurse, lost an’ goin’ round in circles, poor silly thing. She’d played ’ide-an’-seek with the boy,
of all daft things to do in such a place, an’ e’d vanished. Moses called Lady Alicia an’ they ’unted all ways, cryin’ the child’s name, but there weren’t no answer, an’ then Lady Alicia sent Moses down to the village as fast as ’e could go on the pony to fetch ’elp for the mist was comin’ on thicker. All they ever found was ’is little ’at, caught in a thorn tree beside Weepin’ Marsh. They thought as ’e’d drowned in the marsh. Lady Alicia believed that. Yet maybe the gipies took ’im.’

Nan felt cold and shivery in spite of the warmth and brightness of the night, and she was so sorry for Lady Alicia that she wanted to cry.

‘Lady Alicia never went out o’ the ’ouse by daylight again,’ Ezra went on. ‘An’ she wouldn’t be visited. The squire ’e took to goin’ to foreign parts more than ever, findin’ it dull at ’ome. ’E went to look for some lost city out in Egypt an’ no one never ’eard of ’im again. It’s a sad story, maid, an’ you’d best come in an’ ’ave an ’ot posset.’