Читать книгу River Daughter - Jane Hardstaff - Страница 7

CHAPTER TWO

Old Lives, New Lives

It was dusk by the time Moss and Salter made it back to the village. She had stashed her apple sack in the hollow of the willow as usual, changing back into her dry dress in the bushes. Salter was wet through. But despite his sodden clothes, he kept up a cheery banter all the way from the fields to the lane. Every time Moss tried to mention the river, he changed the subject, so in the end she gave up and slunk into her own thoughts. In her head, a picture shimmered. She’d only seen it for a moment. But she had seen it.

The face. Her mother’s face? Was it possible? But her mother was dead. Could that have been her spirit in the river today? She turned the thought over and over. A year and a half ago, she’d seen with her own eyes how the dead could be given life by the cold waters. The Riverwitch had revealed herself. A restless spirit who haunted the rivers, looking for children to snatch.

Ignoring Pa’s pleas to stay away from the river, Moss had left him and made her way out of the Tower. And on Moss’s twelfth birthday the Riverwitch had come for her, just as she’d promised on the day Moss was born. She’d dragged Moss down to the depths of the murky Thames. But there in the swirl and suck of the river, Moss succeeded in changing her fate. And the Riverwitch had let her go.

Moss, Pa and Salter had walked away from their old lives in London and settled in a country village where Pa was welcomed as the new blacksmith. During those early days, Moss had wondered whether the Witch would come for her again. But the more she’d swum in the gentle village river, the bolder she’d become, until the strangeness of that winter had seemed so far away it was almost unreal. She’d buried those memories deep, hoping she’d never have to dig them up. The Riverwitch was gone from their thoughts and their lives. But today . . . what had she seen? The coiling weeds had filled her head with thoughts of the Witch. Yet the face in the water was not the face of the Riverwitch.

The squat little forge was a welcome sight. Moss pushed at the door. Warmth and smoke wrapped her like a blanket. Pa was already asleep, a rising, falling bundle on his pallet. They trod past him softly and settled on the low stools by the fire. The clear October sky brought a chill to the air and Pa allowed a log or two to burn way into the night.

‘Rabbitin tomorrow,’ said Salter. ‘Set the traps yesterday an’ I’m goin back to see what I’ve got first light.’

‘Salter . . .’

‘Yep?’

‘What was that, in the river?’

‘Search me. Some sort of freak current. Ain’t never seen it like that. All whipped up with mud an’ stinkin like a badger’s bum. Best not go swimmin fer a while, Leatherboots. Too dangerous. This time we was lucky.’

But it didn’t feel like luck to Moss. It felt like the river had changed. And the face in the waterweed – she couldn’t stop thinking about it.

‘Salter,’

‘Mmm.’

‘Can I ask you something?’

‘If you must. I can tell that head of yers is stewin. Though if you was to ask me, I’d say that questions only lead to more questions an’ don’t make yer troubles go away.’

Moss gave the fire a poke. On the one hand, she liked the way Salter just got on with life, making the best of things wherever possible. But he never questioned why things were the way they were, and this frustrated her no end. She supposed he couldn’t help it. After all, he’d been just six years old when his parents died. From that day on, alone, with nothing but his hands and his wits, he’d had to fend for himself. ‘Bread first, then morals,’ he always said. Survival was the most important thing and Salter had learned not to ask too many questions, of himself or anyone else. But the village was a world away from that harsh life, thought Moss. And there were moments when she wondered if there was more to Salter than he was letting on.

‘You think too much,’ he said.

‘Do I? And what about you? What goes on in that head of yours? Or is just full of rabbits?’

Salter grinned. ‘Yep. Fish an’ rabbits, that’s me, shore girl.’

‘Shore girl? I can swim almost as well as you.’

‘All thanks to my brilliant teachin.’

‘Oh, is that what you call it? Holding a rope and shouting from the bank?’

‘I could have just thrown you in and watched you sink.’

‘Do you know, sometimes I can’t quite believe it. All this. Swimming in the river, us living here, Pa working the forge. It’s more than I could ever have hoped for.’

Salter eyed her. ‘So what’s on yer mind, then?’

Moss hesitated, not even sure herself what she wanted to say.

‘Go on, Leatherboots, out with it!’

‘Well, here in the village, we have food, Pa has work, I’m not catching heads in a basket. Life is good, Salter.’

‘Yes it is.’

‘It’s just that, do you ever, sometimes . . .’

‘What?’

‘. . . feel that something is missing?’

‘Missin?’ Salter’s eyes widened. ‘Missin.’ He rolled the word around his mouth. ‘Well,’ he said, ‘since yer askin, I miss the old river.’

Moss sat up.

‘Yes, I do,’ said Salter. ‘The rush and the roar of the big river. This little stream is nice and the fish are fat, but it ain’t the Thames. Dirty and dangerous, that old river can snatch you quick as a rat’s fart and roll yer body like a barrel. But on a good day it’s wide and bright as the sea. And I think about the shack and the smoker and the sound of that old river breathin in and out on the shore. So if I was honest, and I don’t see why I should be, but if I was, then I miss it.’

Salter eyes were shining as the memory of his old life poured from his lips. Now Moss thought about it, it made sense that he missed the river that he’d rowed and fished all his life. She wondered how often his thoughts drifted back to those old ways.

‘So what about you, Leatherboots?’

‘Me?’

‘You said yerself, life is good here. So what’s the problem?’

‘It’s kind-of hard to explain. All my life I dreamed of being far away from the Tower and the Hill and, you know, the executions. To be free. To be with Pa, living somewhere just like this, in a village with fields and bluebell woods.’

‘So? Ain’t too many that get their dreams fer real.’

‘Yes, but now we’re here,’ Moss stared at the slow burn of the fire, logs shedding their feathery ash. ‘Now we’re here and everything’s fine, well, I guess there’s room to think of other things.’

‘Such as?’

‘Well, things . . . from our past. Do you ever think of your father and your mother?’

Salter blinked.

‘I was just wondering,’ she said.

Salter’s gaze dropped. He shuffled the embers with the toe of his boot.

‘Spend too long in the past,’ he said, ‘And you might not find yer way back.’

The fire spat. On his pallet, Pa shifted.

Salter stood up. ‘I’m turnin in. Much as I’d like to, can’t hang about all night chit-chattin.’

‘Night, Salter.’

But he didn’t reply. Moss watched him splash a little water on his face from the bucket. Then he disappeared into his corner, drawing the heavy wool curtain behind him.