Witch Child (6 page)

‘A rabbit! How could that be?’ I laughed. ‘How did it hop aboard without anyone seeing? Where would it live?’

‘’Tis serious! Don’t laugh! A rabbit on board is very bad luck!’

‘I don’t believe it.’ I shook my head, still laughing. ‘It must be the ship’s cat.’

I’d seen that eyeing Martha’s chickens, a big evil-looking tabby with a scarred nose and ears all torn and ragged.

‘Maybe,’ Jack was not convinced. ‘But some say it’s a witch in disguise. Some of the lads are Cornish and they believe there’s something here.’ He frowned. ‘They know a witch faster than a Witch Pricker. They felt us being overlooked from Plymouth to Land’s End, and out beyond the Scillies.’

His words sank home. I had not been alone in feeling eyes watching from the shore, but only I knew who they were watching for.

‘I’ve heard no word among the passengers.’

I kept my voice merry, seeking to sound light-hearted still, although the mere thought of such talk struck dread deep inside me. I’d hoped to avoid suspicion, had not thought that it might follow me even across the ocean.

‘Nor will you. Sailors have their own superstitions, different from landsmen. What’s strange to us, ain’t so to you, like a parson on board or a woman whistling. Ships is odd places. It’s not just wind and weather causes upset. Captain’d come down hard on any found spreading rumours. They’d get a lashing. Besides,’ he shrugged, ‘things is going well at the moment.’ He grasped the wooden block above his head and gazed out at the fine day; just the right amount of wind in the mainsail to send the ship scudding over the spray. ‘It’s when things ain’t that folk look about for someone to blame for it.’

I was wrong. Word
had
reached the great cabin of strange happenings during the storm, Martha told me, and there had been a ripple of talk of some kind of wild creature on board. But what Jack said was right. Fears ebb and flow, surging like the waves beneath us. When we were becalmed among the ice, the Reverend Cornwell’s mind ran to witchcraft in a trice, and who knows what would have been said had the storm raged for much longer, but now the sun shines and land is in sight. The winds are set fair to bring us safe to harbour. God’s eye looks kindly upon us. We bask in His Providence. I am safe. For the moment.

Entry 24

I have the power, none may doubt it. Whatever I may have hoped, I cannot escape my destiny. What happened today has served to prove that to me.

The day was fine and I was up on deck talking to Jack. I do not seek him out (whatever Martha might think) but neither do I avoid his company. His work was slack and we were conversing about this and that, when suddenly there was yelling from up in the rigging. Someone fallen overboard, that’s what I thought, for from over the side of the ship came the sound of loud splashing.

Jack took me by the hand, laughing at my alarm. He led me up the sloping deck, bidding me to ‘Come and see.’

At first, I could see nothing, just a great turmoil in the water. Then I saw something dark just below the waves. It was so vast I thought it must be an island. The massive shape seemed to rise towards me and I could see clusterings of what looked like small white shells on the front edge of it. I remembered what he said about a treacherous coast and started back from the rail, taking this to be a rock. If we were to hit it, we would surely be lost.

Free from the mass of the sea, water streamed away down the shiny black humped surface and suddenly there was a strange trumpeting hissing noise and a mist shot up, so fine that a rainbow shone through it. There was a strong fishy stench and I saw a great mouth, curved into a permanent leering grin, then the creature was gone as quickly and mysteriously as it had appeared. A leviathan. A great fish, like the one in the Bible that swallowed Jonah. It looked big enough to swallow us, ship and all. Another Great Wonder for the book Elias keeps.

‘It will not harm us.’ The great tail paddled the water and Jack leaned over the side to watch the creature descend into the emerald depths. ‘There is no need to fear. Look yonder. There are more.’

I followed out where he was pointing and, sure enough, great fountains of water spouted up from more of the enormous creatures. Despite their huge bulk, they could leap right out of the water, landing with a great splash and a slap of their powerful curving tails.

‘I have never seen such fish.’

‘They are not fish,’ he said. ‘They are whales. Their blood is hot. They do not have gills. They breathe like you and me through the holes in their heads.’

‘I do not breathe through a hole in my head.’

‘What is your nose? What is your mouth?’

I laughed. I had not thought of it like that.

‘One day, I mean to hunt them.’ He mimed picking up a harpoon and flinging it over the side. ‘I mean to have my own ship and I will hire men to go after them, for they are here in abundance and there is great wealth to be made from them ... ’

He leaned on the ship’s rail and stared out at the great creatures swimming around us. Maybe it was the sea glittering beneath him, but his eyes seemed full of coins.

The sun was hot above us, and the ship quiet, except for the creak of canvas and the hiss of the sea below. I, too, stared down at the water and the shimmering surface seemed to act just like the scrying bowl my grandmother used to tell the future. People would come to consult her and she would set up a bowl of clear water. She would stare down into it and visions would come unbidden; some showed the past, some showed what was to come. I had never tried it, although she thought I had the sight, so this had never happened to me before. As I looked, I saw.

Scenes came in a jumble, not ordered by time.

A boy, scarce more than a child. He is standing at the open door of a rough wooden hovel. His face is sad. His fair hair is dirty and unkempt, falling into blue eyes stripped of all merriment. He stays for a moment, uncertain. He glances back into the dark recesses of the hut, then he squares his shoulders and sets out down the dusty red path. He walks head down, looking neither to the left or the right as he passes through fields full of strange plants with big flopping leaves. The plants grow taller than him and are spaced apart in rows. Although I have never seen them before I know that they are tobacco. Through the leaves a great river gleams. A small narrow boat is tied to a little dock. It rests like a toy on a tarnished mirror. The boy gets into the craft, casting the rope off, and the river takes the boat, twirling it like a twig drifting on the current.

The image fades and now I see a young man grown. He is dressed in a dark coat, buttoned to the neck, fur at the collar. He is bareheaded, his cap of bright hair shining in thin winter sunlight. He stands next to another river. The water is grey, slow-moving, sluggish and cold. This river flows through a great city. Buildings tumble down to the shore and crowd the bridge that crosses to the opposite side. He laughs, his white teeth shining, his breath curling in the air. In his hand he holds a purse bulging with gold.

I see him older, bearded, wearing a captain’s blue jacket. He is standing in the prow of a long narrow boat. Some men are rowing, others crouch forward, pointing like dogs all in the same direction. They hold weapons with barbed points, ropes curling from long wooden shafts. Behind them a ship stands at anchor, sails furled. All around them other boats plough through the choppy sea, hunting the whale.

The waters churn and froth. A huge blunt head breaches, narrow mouth open and armed with teeth. Harpoons dangle like darning needles from the creature’s grey side. Baited beyond fury, the great whale turns with a lash of its huge tail and lunges towards its tormentors. It swims with powerful beats, making waves as great as a ship in full sail. Then the sea settles and the crew look about, wondering where their quarry has gone. It surfaces right underneath them, as if it had marked the spot. Whale and boat disappear in a welter of blood-streaked foaming water. Gradually the sea calms. Pieces of wood float on the surface but there is no sign of the men.

‘What is it? What is the matter? What ails you? Are you ill?’

I was back in the present and Jack’s hand was on my shoulder, callused and scarred, but a boy’s hand, brown and supple. I shook my head. ‘Nothing.’ I have seen his past. I have seen his future. I know how death will come to him and I feel the knowledge like a burden. Grandmother said never to reveal the manner of someone’s dying. There is no help and no avoidance. What will be, will be, but to know too soon will colour someone’s life, darkening the hue for them, stealing the light.

Jack was looking at me, his blue eyes bright and puzzled. I thought he would demand to know more, for he is shrewd and sharp-minded, but just then the captain began shouting, ‘Hey, you there! Jack! I’m not paying you to idle the time away talking with wenches! Look lively or you’ll feel a rope’s end across your back!’

Jack jumped to, leaving me alone, and I was glad, for I had much to think about. The visions came to me unbidden, just as they did to my grandmother, but the gift does not come fom her. It comes from my mother. This is art of a different order, beyond my grandmother’s power. I felt it settle about my shoulders like a weighty mantle.

Entry 25

Contrary winds hinder our progress somewhat, but land to starboard keeps all in good spirits. Life on board has eased. The seas around us teem with fish and the captain has ordered boats ashore to find fresh water and to forage for whatever food the wilderness affords.

Jonah Morse has made up a salve and the cuts on Jack’s hands are healing well. He has been kept busy about his duties, so I have not had much chance to speak with him, but he knows where I am. He comes to the sail locker where I hide in the day to write. We meet there and talk, although he risks a whipping if he is caught.

I tell little about myself, but he makes up for that. He talks for both of us. He tells me of the places he has been, and what he has seen. I do not know how much of that to believe; sailors are famous for their stories. He also tells me of his plans and dreams. He tells me of Salem, the port where we are bound, and tells me of the handsome houses being built there, and the fine wharves for the ships to land their cargo. One day he will build like that, he says, only bigger and finer and in stone not wood.

‘You see if I don’t.’

I laugh, because I don’t doubt him, and that is when we begin pretending. That while he is away sailing the seas and making his fortune, I am at home, waiting for him, and when he comes back he will marry me. He will build a fine house for us, and bring me things to fill it: furniture from London, silks and velvets from Paris, tulip bulbs from Amsterdam. I laugh and so does he, we know it to be fantasy, but sometimes I find myself thinking at night as I wait for sleep; making lists in my own head, planning the rooms in the house, planting the garden, even thinking of the children we will have.

Then I stop. I have seen Jack’s life to come and I did not see myself in it. Even if we were meant for each other, even if we were destined to be together, I know I would be waiting all my life for the day when he would go to sea and never come back to me. The sight is a curse not a blessing. I wish that I had never seen anything.

‘Where do you disappear to?’ Martha asked today, as she snipped a strand of thread.

‘Just up on deck.’

‘Not to meet that sailor lad Jack again? Surely the cuts on his hands are healed by now?’

‘No,’ I said, but she knows I am lying.

‘The Reverend Cornwell has been asking for you,’ she said, looking down at her stitching.

‘What does he want?’

‘You have a fair hand, so he says, and he wants you to scribe for him again. Have a care, Mary,’ she added, folding the cloth over her worn fingers. ‘Tongues wag.’

‘What do I give them to wag about?’

‘You are a lone girl, nearing womanhood. You need to have a care how you conduct yourself with that sailor lad –’

‘We are friends! Why –’

‘Not just him.’ Martha nipped a length of thread between her teeth before starting another seam. ‘The Reverend Cornwell.’

‘What!’

‘He’s always asking for you.’

‘I
scribe
for him. Surely – no-one could think –’ I stopped appalled, and then began to laugh.

‘Hush!’ Martha gave me a warning look and glanced about at the crowded cabin. Even the bedding has ears. ‘Some would think him a good catch, a very good catch for a girl in your position.’

‘Well,
I
don’t!’ I could feel my temper rising. ‘I – I think it’s ... Why – he’s, he’s ... ’ I shuddered and shook my head. ‘He wouldn’t think of me. I am too lowly. You must be mistaken.’

‘Maybe,’ Martha shrugged. ‘I know the way a man looks at a maid. Here,’ she said, taking lengths of cloth from her work-bag and finding needle and thread. ‘You can get on with this.’

‘What is it that you are making?’

‘Seaming up cloth for a quilt cover.’ Martha had made a small living as a haberdasher and dressmaker. She had brought what was left of her stock with her. ‘The winters out there are bitter, so they say, and there is nothing like a quilt for keeping out the cold. These lengths are good for nothing else.’ She spread the pieces for me to see. Dark wools and linens, in earth browns and blacks, forest greens and indigo. ‘You can stitch ’em together. You are a good needlewoman, Mary, and it’ll keep you out of mischief.’ She regarded my ink-stained fingers critically. ‘It is a more fitting occupation for a woman than writing.’ She shook out the material she had been working. ‘And the way things are, perhaps we ought to make a start on your Marriage Chest.’