Witch Child (2 page)

She took a ring from her finger. A purple stone, flat cut, engraved with the initial
E
at the centre. My fingers closed around it. The gold weighed heavy in my hand.

I looked into her eyes, and saw my own staring back, the same peculiar shade, pale grey, flecked with yellow, rimmed with black. Now I knew the nature of her debt. It had weighed on her conscience for fourteen years. I was looking into the eyes of my mother and I knew that I would never see her again.

Entry 6

The carter picked me up as if I weighed nothing. He was a big man, hunched over, with long arms stretching down. He was wrapped up in layers of clothing and wore a big black hat, shapeless and greasy, pulled low over his forehead. He put me on the little bench above the horses, swinging himself up next to me with surprising agility. The horses pulled in their traces, impatient to get started. The heavy animals stamped their great feet, snorting and blowing, their breath showing like plumes. I pulled my cloak about me, glad that it was thick wool and of good quality, for the air was chill.

The carter sniffed the air and muttered, ‘Frost tonight, you see if there ent.’

He wound his scarf tighter and whipped up the horses and we were clattering out of the inn yard and into the cobbled street.

Soon the cobbles ended and the thick wheels jolted over the rutted track which was the road south. I said little to the carter, he even less to me. I felt small next to him, and lonely, full of doubt and uncertainty. I could see no end to the journey I was starting.

I must have fallen asleep, for I woke to find us crossing a vast open plain.

‘Them’s Merlin’s Stones, them is.’

The carter waved his whip towards huge stones looming to the right of us, rearing up out of the close cropped grass. I stared, transfixed. This must be the great Temple of the Winds. My grandmother had told me about it. A circle of stones, much, much greater than any other, built far to the south of us. Such places are sacred to those who live by the Old Religion. At certain times of the year my grandmother would set off for some stones that lay a day’s journey or so from where we lived. She never told me what went on there, or who else attended, and I knew better than to ask her. The rituals practised there were mysteries, the celebrants known only to each other.

Soon the great stones faded. Darkness drew in on either side and there was only the road unwinding like a white thread in the moonlight.

Beyond that all was black.

Entry 7

I had never seen the sea, but even before the carter’s brawny arm could shake me, I felt a difference in the air, damp against my cheek and smelling of salt and fishy decay, and heard the cry of the gulls like mocking laughter. I opened my eyes to white curling mist. The masts and rigging of tall ships showed through it like bare branches in winter. The cart rumbled along the quayside on iron-rimmed wheels, and all around was the suck and slap of water, the creaking of timbers, the grinding of ships rubbing together. I wondered which one of them would take me to America.

Puritans are early risers. The day was scarce past first light, but they were already breaking their fast in the inn’s cavernous parlour. I stood at the door, reluctant to enter, listening to the murmur of voices, the rattle of dishes, food being chewed. The moment weighed heavy upon me. As soon as they noticed me, my life would be changed entirely. I wanted to run away, but where could I run to? The carter had already left to make his other deliveries. I had no place in the world to go.

The children noticed me first. They were good and dutiful: eating their food quietly, only speaking when spoken to, but their eyes were moving all the time, darting this way and that, alert to the chance of distraction. A row of little ones looked at me, then at each other. One of them pulled the sleeve of an older girl, older than me, about seventeen, who I took to be their sister. She, in her turn, regarded me with large grave eyes before dabbing her lips with her napkin and touching the arm of the man sitting next to her.

‘Father ... ’

The man looked up and saw me standing in the doorway. He continued to chew his food carefully. Then he swallowed and stood up. He came towards me, a man above average height, his light brown hair greying, hanging straight to his shoulders. I judged him to be a farmer; his face was leathery from outdoor work, the skin round his eyes crinkled at the sides from squinting at the weather and the hand that shook mine was callused across the palm.

‘You must be Mary. Welcome, child. You have been expected.’

His eyes crinkled further in a smile and, as he looked down at me, I saw that his face, although hard and grooved with lines, was kindly.

‘Thank you, sir,’ I replied and dropped what I knew of a curtsy. ‘And you are?’

‘John Rivers.’ His voice was deep and the words came drawn out and slow, different from where I lived.

‘Then this is for you.’

I handed him the letter which I had been given. He read it and nodded before tucking it inside his jerkin.

‘Are you hungry? Come. Sit. Eat.’

He led me back to his table. The children shuffled along the bench to make room for me. His wife ladled porridge from a pot over the fire, moving slowly as if her back pained her. I guessed her seven months with child, perhaps more than that, although little showed under her bulky clothes. The girl who first saw me filled a mug with ale and then turned away to help her mother. I remembered to mutter a prayer of thanks, in part for the food, but also for my own deliverance.

As I ate, I felt curious eyes on me. I observed back from under my lashes. As yet no face stood out from another. They appeared as similar as the lumps in the porridge in front of me. I estimated about twenty families in all. Folk of a middling sort, none very rich, none very poor. A mix of farmers and tradesmen, all dressed in the dark sober clothes which mark them as Puritans. I had no clue as to what type. They could belong to any one of a multitude of sects, each one with their own set of beliefs. It would not do to say the wrong thing. I would have to listen carefully and take my lead from what I heard.

They soon lost interest in me and went back to eating and talking among themselves. I could see strain on their faces, hear worry in the low muttering
voices. These people had suffered, like folk everywhere,
their lives thrown into confusion time and again by war, bad harvests, poor prices, lack of trade. Peace and prosperity go together, that’s what my grandmother used to say, and the country had seen neither for too many years. Most folk just put up with misfortune, taking it as their lot, but these were different. Disappointed, disillusioned, doubting what was to come, bitterness had grown in them until it was strong enough to drive them across an ocean. But what would happen then? They were as anxious as I was. I saw my own fears reflected all about me.

‘On your own, young ’un?’

I turned to see a woman smiling at me. She was past her middle years, the hair tucked beneath her cap was streaked with grey, and her skin wrinkled as a winter apple, but her eyes were bright and sharp.

‘That I am.’ I tried to muster a smile, but this crowded room, all the families together, had made me feel more lonely than ever. ‘My name is Mary.’

‘I’m Martha, Martha Everdale.’ She put out her hand to shake mine like a man. Her fingers were strong, her palm toughened by work to the hardness of polished oak. ‘I am alone, too. Husband dead. Children along with him.’ She looked away to the distance for a moment, as if into some time past, and then back at me again, examining me closely, head cocked on one side, as though making up her mind. ‘We could make a good pair, I reckon. You can travel along a’ me.’

When we had finished breakfast, Martha took me upstairs to a large room where many of the families were sleeping. There was hardly space to move among their goods and the makeshift beds.

‘You can stow your goods along a’ mine.’ She looked around. ‘We’re all from the same place, more or less. Same town, same church. We follow our Pastor, Reverend Johnson. Him and the other church members who left years go. We were to follow soon after, but the War made everything uncertain. We were content to bide, for a time, but now the will is to go.’

‘The will?’

‘Of the Congregation. ’Tis important that all should be together and I go to find my sisters. They’re all I have left.’

‘How will you know where to find them?’

‘Trust to the Lord’s guidance.’ She spoke simply, as though this was a truth too obvious to question. ‘Now,’ she smiled down me. ‘Tell me, Mary, where are you from?’

‘Warwickshire. A little village.’

‘No one left there?’

I shook my head, and lowered my eyes as if tears threatened to spill. I was careful not to say much, but she did not ask about my family, or how I came to be here. She just cupped her hand under my chin and looked into my face. Her green eyes seemed to see clear into me. It was as if she did not need to question me. She knew already.

She took a lock of hair from my brow, tucking it under my cap. Her fingers smelt of juniper and made my cheek tingle. She has a healer’s touch.

‘You are with a friend now. Never fret.’

I stayed with her as she moved among the others, making herself useful, talking to this one and that one, introducing me to the company. She let me hide behind her chatter. The less I say about myself, the better. Lies are not rooted in the mind in the way truth is. Some think I am some relation of Martha’s, a niece, or a granddaughter. We let them think what they will.

It is not uncommon for orphan boys and girls to be taken to America. Not infants, or babes in arms, but sturdy boys, and girls nearing womanhood. The colony needs brawny arms and strong backs to fell trees and farm, and a good supply of wives and mothers to populate the new land. There will be others like me, attached to families, with them, but not of them. It seems to me an awkward position, like a servant, but not so. All in all, I am glad that I found Martha, or rather that she found me.

When we go about, I watch the other girls my age, observing how to behave, how to be the perfect little Puritan maid. Rebekah Rivers, the girl who first saw me, would make a good model, for she is quiet and helps her mother. Others, I notice, are not so demure. They giggle together and flirt with the inn servants and don’t help anyone at all.

It is not until evening draws in that I am able to examine the box that accompanied me here. It is not big, but handsomely made and carved with my initials
MN
. My heart beat hard when I opened it, wondering what I would find. The letter I hoped for was on the top.

g

Mary,

I hope the box pleases you and that you make good use of what it contains. It is no good wishing for what was not to be. Fate took us apart and has contrived to keep us so. You are ever in my thoughts, that you must know, and you will not be alone, however you think otherwise, wherever you go. I could write more, fill pages, but I see no point in it.

Do not doubt that I love you.

Farewell and may God be with you and keep you.

E.

g

My hands shook as I read it. I sat for a moment, staring at it, as though these few lines of writing could reveal the woman I would never know. Then I put the letter aside. No good crying over milk shed, that’s what my grandmother would have said.

I turned to examine the rest of the box. This is what I found: Clothes: several changes, spare sets of linen, a length of good cloth, sewing things – needles, threads, a silver thimble. A knife sheathed, a pewter plate, another knife, a spoon, a fork to eat with. Basic necessaries. It could have been packed by a maid.

At the bottom was ink, quill, and a deal of paper, folded to make a book. I seized on this, turning the leaves, hoping that here I would find answers to ease my heart. I put them back, my disappointment turning to anger. If this is a jest, I do not see the humour. Every page is blank.

I use the ink and quill to begin my Journal. Many here are writing them, to record the commencement of their Great Adventure. I resolve to do the same. For I do feel alone, very alone, whatever she may say.

Entry 8

The ship was to set sail on the morning of my arrival, but the mist came in with the tide, bringing a dead calm. It has lingered all day, smothering everything like a great fleece. The men go down to the dock and the women peer into the street. Ships can be confined for a week or more, becalmed like this, or kept in port by contrary winds. With each hour anxiety increases. These Puritans are careful people and every shilling spent here is a shilling less to spend in the New Land.

Evening comes on and the fog lies as thick as ever. The captain of the vessel has come to the inn, his fleshy face as long as a fiddle, to meet with the church Elders in worried consultation. They are inclined to say that there is no help, that it is God’s Providence – His Will, but they have declared tomorrow a day of solemn humiliation, of preaching, prayer and fasting. The captain leaves gloomier than ever, cursing under his breath, wanting to know what damned good that will do.

Entry 9

This morning, breakfast was replaced by prayers and they were led by a man whom I have not seen before. He is young for a preacher, not out of his twenties, tall and very thin. He wore a rounded hat and from under it hung whitish hair, tinged with yellow, straight as flax. The tabs at his throat proclaim him an ordained minister and he is treated with deference by the Elders.