The Third Witch Read online

  Mad Helga’s trembling, gnarled fingers gather up the mouse bones, one by one.

  I ask, “With what coin, then, shall I buy my revenge?”

  “Once was wrecked,” Mad Helga sings in her creaky voice, “now made whole. Spend the life but save the soul.”

  The old fool! Swiftly I bend down to sweep the remaining bones up into one hand. With my other, I grab Mad Helga’s cupped hand and dump my handful of the bones into hers. “Take yourblasted bones, old woman. Now answer my question plainly. I’ve had enough of your riddles.”

  “Haste makes waste, slow the pace.” Mad Helga’s fingers moved lightly across the tiny heap of bones on her palm, flicking them one by one into a pattern. “Fleetest feet can lose the race.”

  I seize Mad Helga’s shoulders and twist the old woman to face me. “I do not want these silly rhymes! Answer my question, hag, or I will shake you until your bones are as loose as the ones in your hand.”

  Mad Helga grins. Her one good eye seems to twinkle. “Spells and charms can ne’er come free. Your heart and courage is the fee. Now fetch his things, one, two, three.”

  “What do you mean? Do you mean that I must seek Him out and steal three things from Him? Will you then cast the spell to kill Him?”

  “Through the world, a child must roam. Spells need things from heart and home.”

  Impatience rises in me like a bloody tide. “Should I seek Him out on the battlefield? Or must I go to His castle?”

  Mad Helga only chuckles. With one thick fingernail she flicks a bone into its place.

  “You daft old bat,” I say, “speak plainly!”

  Mad Helga holds up a tiny bone. The lower part dangles, broken. “See what your impatience has wrought? Once broken, never fully mended.”

  “I shall break your bones, old woman, if you do not answer me.”

  Mad Helga’s eye continues to twinkle. With the dangling end of the bone, she draws a faint pattern in the ashes on the hearth.

  “Heed well, Gilly. These curls here, this is our own wood, Birnam.” Her voice is suddenly as sane as a tax collector’s. “For two days you will travel through it. Until midday on the first day, travel due north. Then turn west for a day and a half. Partway through the morning of the third day, you must leave the wood and take to the road that folk call Old Grapius Road. Follow that road through the hills and mountains. ’Twill not be an easy journey through the mountains, girl, but the road will lead you through the best passes.Finally you will come to a long silver loch. Travel north past its northernmost shore till you come at last to the castle of Inverness, his northern castle, perched high on a ridge above the firth where he can guard against attack from the loch, river, or sea.”

  I study the map of ashes, tracing its outlines onto my heart and searingits curves into my memory. Finally I look up. “Helga, I do not remember much of castles and their ways. How shall I gain admittance?”

  Mad Helga’s hands thrust out suddenly, spilling the bones into the ashes. Her fingers flash about till the map is erased and the bones soiled and buried in the ashes. “ ’Tis your revenge, not mine, lass. I neither know nor care whether you be admitted to his castle or no.” She begins to rock back and forth, singing, “Graymalkin shall not stalk your rest, nor Ulfling seize your—”

  I close my fingers around her wrists. “Stay with me, Mad Helga, just a moment more. Tell me, I beg you, once I gain admittance to the castle, what must I take to bring to you?”

  For a long time Mad Helga is silent. She sits so still that I snake my thumb to the underside of her wrist and press to feel the throb of her pulse to make certain she is still alive.

  Then she says, “Bring me three pieces of his heart.”

  Try as I might, I cannot get Mad Helga to say more about the spell.

  After a long time, Nettle returns. I give her my most triumphant look. “Mad Helga has promised to aid me,” I say. “You were false, but Mad Helga is my true friend. On the morrow I set off to His castle to fetch what is needful for the spell of destruction.”

  Nettle opens her mouth as if to protest, and then closes it without-a word. She presses her lips together tightly. She turns toward Mad Helga, but the old woman continues to kneel by the fire, rocking back and forth to music that neither Nettle nor I can hear. Using the bottom of her skirt as a pan holder, Nettle picks up the small iron cauldron. “Gilly, do you want this porridge or shall I scrape it into the leavings bucket for tomorrow’s stew?”

  Even though I feel pinch-gutted, I say, “Scrape it.” No matter the cost, I will look strong to Nettle. I announce, “I feed on hope!” Instead of sounding defiant, my words merely sound silly, so I quickly add, “I’m off at daybreak, Nettle.”

  “I heard you the first time.” With a piece of broken bark, Nettle carefully scrapes the sticky gray mess of porridge into the brown clay pot.

  “I shall need food for my journey.”

  Nettle scrapes the bark back and forth across the mouth of the pot, trying to save every bit of porridge so naught will go to waste. “You well know where we keep our store of food, Gilly. I trust you to take your fair share. Just have a care to take naught from my store of herb mixtures. Some of those are dangerous and could cause you much harm.”

  At Nettle’s words, I feel a prickling at the back of my eyes. The prickling is not tears, because I never cry. At the back of my breath, I feel a flutter that cannot be fear because I will not be afraid.

  But I dare stay no longer in our hut. For seven years, this hut has been the only home I have known. For seven years, these two women have been my only family. They risked their lives, taking me in. If He had found me, they too would be dead. And while I do not love the hut or the women—since I am a thing of revenge without even a sliver of space inside me for love—I am still a little worried that if I stay in the hut with them much longer, the prickling in my eyes might be tricked into becoming tears and the flutter behind my breathing might be bewitched into becoming something too close to fear. I gather my wolfskin and hold it tightly in front of my chest the way a warrior holds a shield.

  “I’ll sleep out of doors this night.”

  Nettle frowns. “You’ll do no such thing. ’Tis bitter cold.”

  “ ’Twill be good practice for my journey.”

  “ ’Tis foolish to freeze afore you have to, Gilly.”

  But I cannot afford to listen to her.

  My life is an arrow, and I am finally headed home.

  S E V E N

  THE NEXT DAY I travel west.

  Just as I am born into my new life, the earth gives birth to spring. I feel powerful, striding across this tender, shy, awakening world. Pale green blades poke their tips through a dusting of snow that looks like flour sprinkled on a malt loaf. The birches and oaks are beaded with dots of green. Only the pines are still in their winter dress, the tips of their sweet-smelling needles as sharp as Nettle’s tongue.

  I will not let myself think of Nettle . . . or of the girl I was before I was reborn as an instrument of darkness.

  I am a wanderer who prowls alone.

  Twice, during the first morning, I hide from wild beasts, holding as still as a stone until they pass. The first is a wolf, gaunt and swiftmoving, fierce on the scent of some other prey. The second is more deadly—a wild boar. But she does not heed me as she wheezes and snuffles her way along a little path she has made.

  Although Nettle does not like the wood, she has taught me its ways, showing me how to treat each animal with courtesy. I know never to look in the eyes of wild dogs, and that old boars will leaveyou alone if you do not venture too close, but that young boars—like newly dubbed knights—will pick fights to prove their mettle. Thus old boars are more deadly, but young ones are more dangerous.

  Nettle herself is rather like an old boar.

  After the boar passes, I seek out a walking stick. I find a fine one, near as tall as I, with only two gnarls. A good walking stick is your best possible companion for a journey. You feel less lonely with some
thing in your hands, and it is a grand protector if you encounter danger. I know that warriors name their swords, so I call my walking stick Fangmore.

  Three times that day I hear the sounds of people traveling. I melt into the trees until they go past. During these times of war, only a noddycock would risk meeting strangers.

  I know I should feel naught but joy now that I am on my way to the revenge I have dreamed of for seven years, but to my surprise, I do not feel joy. Instead I am filled with worries. What if I cannot find a way into His castle? What if I cannot find a way to get close enough to kill Him? What if He kills me first? I shiver. Despite my fine words, I truly do not want to die. Finally, just as I shut my mind to all memories of my time before, I shut my mind to these cowardly thoughts and concentrate on looking for any green shoots of lion’s tooth that might be poking up from the ground. After our winter diet of dried grain, the fresh, stringy, bitter leaves taste better than honey cake.

  At the edge of the first afternoon, when day turns the corner to dark, I hear the barking of hounds, shouts and squeals, and a crashing through the undergrowth. What can it be? It is too near spring to be a boar hunt, and I cannot think of any other reason that such a large company of folk would come into the wood during the burnt ends of Lent. I consider climbing a tree, but I do not wish to be treed by their hounds. So instead I run to a bramble thicket. I poke it with Fangmore to make sure no boar or badger or bear dwells within. When there is no response to my poking, I pull my wolfskin over my head and shoulders and wriggle into the heart of thethicket. Brambles claw me fiercely, but my wolfskin affords me some protection. Crouching, I peer out.

  In a moment, a boy bursts into view. He is small, perhaps half my size, and in a sorry state. The wood has pulled and scratched his tunic until it is little more than rags, and his skin is filthy with sweat-streaked dirt. He is crying as he stumbles along. The boy’s head jerks from side to side, like a trapped and baited bear cub’s, unable to decide which way to run. He pulls along with him an equally ragged woman. The woman does not run well. She lurches and staggers. I see that she has an injured foot.

  About two tree lengths from where I hide, the woman falls to the ground with a small cry.

  I slide my hands into the pouch at my waist and slip out my broken dagger.

  These folk may bring trouble upon me.

  “Go on, my partridge,” the woman says, tugging to pull her hand away from the boy’s. “Get thee gone. Run ahead, and I will follow.”

  How like a mother. As soon as there is trouble, she sends her child away. For even in this brief glimpse I can tell these folk are not canny about the wood and its ways. If he runs ahead, she will never find him. Her bad leg will never allow her to catch up. With that leg and her ignorance of woodlore, if the hunters do not finish her off, the animals will. The wood has no kindness for those who are ignorant.

  “I c-c-c-cannot,” he blubbers like a babe in arms. “I will not leave you, Momma.”

  “Hie thee hence, lad,” she cries out again. “For both our sakes, do not let the Witch Hunters find thee.”

  I do not know whether it is mention of the Witch Hunters or a feeling for one cast off by his mother that makes me act so foolishly. Without thinking, I wriggle out of my thicket and grab hold of the boy’s sticky hand.

  “Come,” I say. I pull him away from his mother and begin to run across the small clearing, back into the trees.

  “Momma!” he screams like a spear-stuck bear cub.

  The crashing grows louder in the wood behind us.

  “The Witch Hunters are coming!” she screams, as loud as he. “Run, lad, run!”

  “Run!” I scream, louder than both.

  The mother and I both keep screaming, “Run, run!” louder and louder and shriller.

  The boy and I run.

  E I G H T

  WE RUN for a long time. I hold Fangmore out in front of us to keep branches from slapping us in the face. For a long while the boy sobs, and for a longer while he makes no sound except grunts.

  I make the same sound.

  When we finally come to a small brook, I judge we have run far enough. I let go of his hand.

  “Drink,” I wheeze. “Rest.”

  I fall to my knees by the brook. My breath sounds like a torn thing, like cloth ripped by a savage wind. I make my hands into a cup and drink two handfuls of the sweet, icy water. Then I splash the water all over my head. I fall to the ground and lie on my back, panting, looking up into the branches and the sword-colored sky beyond. I cannot believe my foolhardiness. To risk a band of Witch Hunters for this unknown boy . . . sometimes, even as old as I am, I still wake sweating and whimpering from nightmares about Witch Hunters and what they do to their prey.

  Only as my breath returns to normal do I realize that the boy is huddled in a heap where I dropped hold of his hand. He is crying again.

  Let him cry. But I roll over with a groan, and push myself to my hands and knees. I crawl to him. I take his hands and pull them away from his face.

  “Hsst. Stop that blubbering. We have run far, and by the looks of you, lad, you have run farther. Drink some water.”

  “Momma,” he sobs. “I want my momma.”

  “Your momma did not want you,” I say. “Now cease your blubbering and drink some water. We still have a ways to go before dark.”

  He does not stop crying completely, but he does make a gallant try to swallow his sobs. Obediently he crawls to the brook. His first drink of water is slow, but then he drinks his second handful eagerly, and then two more. I stop him when he reaches for a fifth.

  “Wait. Too much cold water, especially after running, will give you belly cramps. Wait a spell.”

  I dip the ends of my tunic in the water and wipe the sweat off my face. After a moment, since my hem is already dirty with my grime, I do the same for the boy.

  “Lie on your back and snatch a moment’s rest,” I tell him.

  He lies down. To my amazement, in a moment I hear a familiar pattern of breathing.

  The boy has fallen fast asleep!

  I study him as he sleeps. Although he is sturdy of body, he is younger than I first thought. He looks to be about the age of a boy toward the start of his service as a page, perhaps eight or nine turns of the year.

  What a fool, to fall asleep in the midst of all this danger. I think back to all that has befallen me these past two days. What a fool I am to saddle myself with this strange boy. Yet part of me is strangely satisfied. Is it because I am no longer alone in the wood? That is not it. Is it because Nettle and Mad Helga rescued me, and now I have paid my debt by rescuing another child and need no longer be beholden? This is not it either.

  What I do know is that I will have to tell him about mothers, about how they cannot be trusted, but I will wait a few days.

  I think back over our escape. My blood still chills at the memory of the mother’s screaming at her son to run away into the wood. Surely she could tell that her son could not survive without her. I remember grabbing him and our dash away. I can hear again her screams at him to run. As we ran away, I thought I heard her call out something different. I seemed to hear the woman cry, “God bless thee, lass, for our good angel and savior.” But no, this must have been a trick of my memory, the voice of my wishes rather than the voice of truth.

  I turn my head to look at the sleeping boy. What shall I do with him? And then, into my head, comes a funny idea. I could give up my revenge. I could instead haunt the towns and villages. Wherever I see a child who is not wanted by his mother, I could steal that child. The Old Folk steal children and leave a stone in their place. I could do the same. It would be blamed on the Old Folk. We could all turn outlaw, like Rob o’ the Green, and I would be queen of the band of unwanted children. We would steal our food and live in a hut in the wood, all together . . . and then I see the walls of the red castle. They loom high above. I am tiny. Too tiny even to reach the knocking-brass on the studded gates. In the dying light of the dying sun, the top
of the walls glow golden. Perched on the top of the walls I see an angel. He is coming to rescue me. He leaps into the air, his wings streaming out behind him, his wings made of light . . .

  I wake with a start. I am shaking. I have not had that dream for a long time. I force myself to sit up. My bones feel like frozen rocks. It is dark and and my body is stiff. The witch boy is rolled into a ball like a hedge pig. He shivers, but he sleeps on. I shake him awake.

  His eyes jerk open. “Momma!” he cries.

  “She is not here,” I tell him. I fish an oatcake out of my pouch and break it in two. I hand one half to him.

  He stares at it a moment as if he does not recognize it, then he stuffs it greedily into his mouth, making one bite of the whole thing.

  “Are you hungry?” I ask.

  He nods.

  I silently hand him the other half of the oatcake. He bolts it in a single bite.

  “Where is my momma?” he asks.

  I stare at him without answering.

  “Will my momma be coming soon?” he asks.

  “I do not think your momma will be coming,” I say cautiously. His lip starts to tremble. I quickly add, “Leastways, not for a while.”

  He stares down at the ground, biting his bottom lip. I think about offering him another oatcake, but with two of us I need to be stingy with our store of food.

  “Why were people chasing you?” I ask.

  He fixes his big blue eyes on me. He has a pleasing enough countenance, although his nose is shaped too much like a turnip for his face to be considered handsome.

  “The granary burned down to the ground. You know. Old Peterkin’s granary.”

  I have no idea who Old Peterkin is, but I nod.

  “Momma”—he swallows hard before continuing—“said it was ’cause of Old Peterkin’s dadda who likes to carry live coals in a little stone box in his pouch, but Old Peterkin started saying it was because of Momma and how she had had a baby and no husband and how that baby was born a lackwit. At first nobody listened, but then everyone in the village began to get hungrier and hungrier, and Old Peterkin and his dadda started saying it more and more, and how Momma was a witch and her lackwit son was the spawn of Satan”—his voice, when he says these things, unconsciously takes on the tone of a cranky old man—“and then the miller’s house was set ablaze, and Momma said that was done by Jack Cabbage-Nose, who is a mean boy and only looks for the chance to do mischief, only nobody believed ’twas Jack after he claimed he was out tracking March hares. More and more folk started to look at us funny, and then Molly Bailiff ’s baby was born dead, and she started to scream it was witches had done it, and me and Momma went home, but Granny Truag came to our house this morningand told us to be gone from the village because they was going to hunt us with dogs and hang us to rid the village of the curse, and Momma wanted to pack a few things, only Granny said begone now, there’s no time to fritter away, so Momma wrapped us up in our outdoor things and we took off through the wood, but we got lost and then we heared the dogs and started running, and Momma fell and broke her foot, and—” His lip begins to tremble again.