Читать книгу The Witch’s Tears - Katharine Corr, Katharine Corr - Страница 9

MERRY WASN’T SURPRISED to be back at the lake again. Somehow, it seemed … inevitable. Whatever path she chose, she kept ending up in the same place. But today it looked different. The water wasn’t sparkling, or reflecting the cloudless sky above. Instead, the lake lurked within its hollow: shrunken, dark, stinking of rotten vegetation. As she got closer to the edge, she saw that it was choked with algae, and she thought, This place is dying …

Finding a clear spot, she knelt on the bank, staring down into the water. She could see him there, gazing up at her, his blond hair floating about his head.

‘Jack?’

He stretched out his arms towards her, struggling to reach her. Instinctively she leant forward – forward – until her face was almost touching the surface of the lake, until—

Terror suffocated her. Scrambling backwards, she froze the surface of the lake, trapping Jack underneath. But she could still hear him, beating on the underside of the ice, screaming her name over and over …

‘Hey, Merry?’ She sat up with a jerk. Ruby was shaking her shoulder; the train was just pulling into Tillingham. ‘You OK? You were muttering something in your sleep.’

‘Uh … no, I’m fine. Just tired.’

Flo was staring at her, frowning. Merry shook her head fractionally; she didn’t want to start discussing her strange dreams in front of Ruby.

Merry stumbled off the train after the others. Flo said goodbye to them there as she lived on the other side of town and was getting a bus home. Merry got into Ruby’s car and turned the air conditioning on to full, trying to blow away the cobwebs of sleep still clinging to her brain.

Thankfully, Ruby seemed happy enough listening to the radio as she drove.

Merry was supposed to meet Leo at Gran’s house for dinner, so Ruby dropped her off there. Gran was in the kitchen, and despite the heat outside, the house was pleasantly cool.

‘Hey, Gran.’ Merry kissed her grandmother on the cheek. ‘That smells good. Where’s Leo?’

‘I made a chicken pie. And he’s not coming. He called and said he’s not feeling well.’ Gran gave Merry a searching glance, but Merry didn’t offer any explanation. She was hardly going to tell Gran that she’d been misusing her magic to spy on her brother.

‘Can I do anything?’

‘No. Go and relax.’

Merry wandered into the living room, spent a few minutes playing with Tybalt – Gran’s tortoiseshell moggie – then began browsing her grandmother’s bulging bookshelves: fiction, political memoirs, history, lots of knowledge books and wisdom books. And in a separate bookcase, Gran’s journey books. Merry opened the doors and ran her fingers along the spines. Gran favoured brightly-coloured, cloth-bound notebooks, though the bindings of the earliest books were faded now. As her nails bumped across the rainbow fabric, Merry remembered the photo of Ellie Mills, and that strange feeling of familiarity. And then she remembered an evening at Gran’s house a couple of months ago when Gran had asked her to copy out a spell from one of the journey books.

Ten minutes later Merry was sitting on the floor, a jumbled pile of discarded notebooks by her feet, one open upon her knees. Here was the spell: a charm Gran had developed for getting rid of acne. And on the opposite page was a photograph. Gran, with a group of six or seven other women of different ages, all standing a little awkwardly among four large, irregular-shaped rocks. A younger Gran – it had obviously been taken quite a few years ago. The camerawork was a bit wonky, but Gran had helpfully written the names of the women underneath the picture. And at the edge of the group – her hair bright pink in this photo – stood Ellie Mills.

Merry took the journey book into the kitchen. Gran was laying the table.

‘Gran, who’s this?’

Gran glanced at the photo.

‘Oh, it was taken at a convention in Derbyshire, held by a local coven. We went on a day trip to visit a nearby stone circle. About ten years ago, I think.’

‘But why is she there?’ Merry tapped the photo. ‘Ellie Mills.’

‘She’s one of the local witches. I don’t know her that well. Powerful, but rather … scatty, as far as I remember. Of course, she was only young when that was taken. She might be more disciplined by now. Why?’

Merry hesitated. Gran didn’t seem to know Ellie Mills that well, but still …

Her grandmother was peering at her over the top of her spectacles.

‘Merry?’

‘Er, the thing is … I think she’s dead. There was a photo of her in the paper today, and it said …’ Gran had gone sort of rigid, staring at the knife still in her hand. ‘I’m really sorry, Gran. I s’pose it was an accident. I didn’t read the whole article, but—’

‘No. It can’t have been. At least, not the kind of accident you mean.’

‘But – you don’t know that. Even witches have accidents. Mum told me about your sister and the car crash. So maybe Ellie Mills fell, or—’

‘No!’ Gran slapped the knife down on the table. ‘You think you know everything, Merry, when you’ve barely scratched the surface of what it means to be a witch! I won’t …’ Gran clamped her lips together. Merry could almost taste her gran’s agitation: an acidic fog filling her throat and her lungs.

‘What’s happening, Gran?’

‘I don’t know.’ Gran sank into a chair. ‘There are no more family curses. But—’ The oven timer went off and Gran flinched. But she made no move to get up.

They sat for what felt like ages, listening as the beep beep beep split the silence of the kitchen.

The meal that followed didn’t take long; neither of them had much of an appetite. Merry started the dishwasher then sat down opposite her grandmother.

‘Well?’

Gran sighed and pulled the journey book – still open at the page with the photograph – towards her.

‘Witches are … hard to kill. We can use magic to protect ourselves from ordinary people and to avoid accidents. We can heal ourselves. Usually, we prefer to expire in our beds: all our affairs in order, friends and family notified, and so on. Witches can’t hold back time, and eventually we’re usually ready to move on. But our deaths are expected. Organised.’

But Ellie Mills hadn’t died of old age. Merry glanced up at the ceiling; it was getting dark outside and even with the lights on the kitchen felt gloomy.

‘Unexpected deaths have three causes,’ Gran continued. ‘Usually, the dead witch has been experimenting with a dangerous or prohibited form of magic – that’s why it’s rarely discussed. Covens are embarrassed and try to cover it up. Or sometimes the witch has been killed in a fight with another witch. Or a wizard.’

Merry swallowed, remembering Gwydion: how he had controlled her and attacked her with fire runes. How he’d tried to kill Leo.

Gran brushed a fingertip across the image of the pink-haired girl in the photograph. ‘Ellie isn’t the first. There’ve been at least five unexplained deaths in the last year in the UK and Ireland. More abroad, before then. I’m just not sure …’ She lapsed into silence, fiddling with the journey book, folding and unfolding the corner of one page.

‘What about the third thing, Gran? You said there were three causes of unexpected deaths.’

‘Well … There are stories. Myths, some would say. Or at least exaggerations. Very old stories. The sort that nobody wants to believe could be true.’ Her grandmother’s anxiety was palpable now, surrounding Merry like a winter mist, seeping into her pores and her bones. A thought flashed into her mind: Maybe I don’t want to hear about these stories. These deaths are not my problem. Not this time … She picked up her phone and pushed her chair back from the table.

‘Sorry, Gran – I’ve just realised how late it is. Can we talk more tomorrow?’

‘Oh …’ Gran blinked and rubbed her eyes. ‘Of course. I can lend you a couple of books, just in case.’

In case of what? Merry wondered. But Gran didn’t say. Instead, she picked up the journey book and opened the elderly microwave that was sitting on the counter nearby. Inside – bizarrely – was a cardboard folder. Gran put the book on top of the folder, fiddled with the knobs and shut the microwave again. It pinged into life.

‘What the hell?’ Merry leapt up, hoping to stop the program before the book ignited. But there were no flames. In fact, when she opened the door, the microwave was empty. ‘Where did it go?’

‘It’s a concealment charm. I use this microwave to store things. Come on, let’s get you home.’ Gran paused with her hand on the light switch. ‘Honestly, sweetheart, prohibited magic is certainly the most likely cause of those deaths. I’m almost certain.’

Merry stared into her grandmother’s blue eyes. And she knew she was being lied to.

Merry was back home now, sitting in the kitchen, drinking iced water and stroking one of the cats. In front of her were the two books Gran had lent her. One of them, it turned out, Gran had actually written. She ran her fingers over the words embossed on its front cover:

Wizards: Their History and Customs

A Witch’s Perspective

by

Elinor Foley

Merry flicked through the first chapter, about how differently magic was practised by witches and by wizards. It was pretty dry and densely written, another big wodge of stuff to learn, by the looks of it. She pushed Gran’s book to one side and turned to the other book. The title had worn off the old leather cover, but there were still traces of some sort of design that looked like lots of strangely drawn animals swirling around and intersecting one another. She glanced through the opening pages, then turned to a bookmarked section and started reading.

Once upon a time –

Just for a change, Merry thought.

– a young witch, living in a remote village in the north, boasted of her skill at spinning and weaving. She claimed to be so magically gifted that she could spin ordinary flax into the finest cloth of gold, fine enough to be worn by the king himself. The earl in whose lands she lived heard of her boast and, pretending that he hated witchcraft, had her locked inside a cell. The floor and the ceiling and the walls of the cell were lined with mirrors, so the witch could not use her magic to escape. Then the earl revealed his true purpose: using only the flax that grew on his estate, he wanted her to weave a cloth-of-gold cloak that he could present to the king. If she succeeded in her task, he would give her a dowry and set her free. But if she failed, he would coat her in tar and burn her alive in front of the castle walls, as a warning to other witches and liars. The earl told the witch she had three days, then left her.

Of course, the witch knew no spell that would allow her to create cloth of gold from nothing more than flax. The best she could do was spin the flax into linen, which she could enchant to appear golden. But such an enchantment would only last a few days, and who knew how long the earl would keep her imprisoned?

The witch wept bitterly at her boastfulness. Then, on the third night, a man appeared in her cell. The witch was scared, because although the stranger was clearly magical, he seemed unaffected by the cage of mirrors. The visitor offered to help her by turning the flax she had been given into gold thread, which she would then be able to weave into a cloak. In return, he asked that she should give him the life of her firstborn child. The witch hesitated and begged the visitor to choose another reward, offering him all she possessed. But he still demanded her child, although he relented a little, telling the witch that if she found out his name before he returned, he would consider her debt cancelled.

‘It’s Rumpelstiltskin,’ Merry said out loud, and the cat blinked in agreement. In the version Merry had read as a child, the girl wasn’t a witch. And she ended up married to the greedy king. But presumably the ending would be the same: someone would figure out Rumpelstiltskin’s name just in time, and the bad fairy – or whatever he was – would disappear in a puff of frustrated rage. She turned the page to read on.

So, in fear of her life, and thinking that she may never be a mother, the witch finally agreed. The visitor burnt an invisible rune into the witch’s skin, just above her breastbone, and settled himself at the spinning wheel to begin his task …

The next morning, the earl was delighted with the shimmering cloak. And, much to the witch’s surprise, he kept his word, releasing her from the castle and presenting her with a large bag of gold.

Now wealthy, the witch was soon married to a young man she had long loved from a distance, the son of a local merchant. She forgot all about her promise to the mysterious stranger, until she fell pregnant with her first child. The witch began asking all the travellers she encountered for news of a man who could spin flax into gold, hoping to learn her visitor’s name. But no one had heard of such a man. So instead she sought to protect her family from the stranger, seeking help from many other witches and wizards. And it seemed to work: no one appeared to claim the baby, and the little girl grew in wisdom and in power. Until, nearly twenty years later, the witch, now a widow, heard a commotion outside her house. Thinking it was her daughter returned from gathering herbs, the witch hurried to open the door.

It was the stranger, looking exactly the way he had all those years ago. And in his arms, he held her unconscious daughter.

‘I have come to collect my debt,’ the man said. ‘Have you discovered my name?’

The witch, overcome with terror, could only shake her head.

The stranger smiled. ‘Then I shall take what I am owed.’ He laid her daughter on the floor and sank his fingernails into her face and began to draw out her power, while the witch, pinned in place by the rune on her chest, looked on helplessly …

Merry shuddered and pushed the book away from her, not wanting to read the last few lines.

That’s not a fairy tale. It’s a horror story.

There was a bad taste in her mouth. She drained her glass of water and stood up. At the same time a crash came from somewhere outside; fear bolted down her spine like an electric shock. She turned the light out and hurried to the window, peering into the darkness.

The lawn, the flower beds, the outline of next-door’s house: as far as she could see, everything was as it should be.

Merry started breathing again, picked up her books and ran upstairs. Apart from the thumping of the blood pounding through her chest, the house was silent; there were no sounds from Leo’s room.

And now she thought about it, there had been no sign in the kitchen that Leo – not usually the best at clearing up after himself – had cooked any dinner. She’d never known her brother to be too ill to eat. He was either seriously unwell, or lying his backside off. Walking to the other end of the corridor, where her bedroom faced his, she knocked on Leo’s door.

‘Leo?’

No answer. She turned the handle carefully, peeped inside.

The bed was empty.

Anxiety chilled her skin, making her shiver. She went into her own room and texted him.

Where are you? Thought you were home sick???

She waited, then sent the same text again. And again.

After the fourth text, Leo replied.

I’m out. Don’t wait up. If you’re worried just use your magic to spy on me again.

Merry sighed. Leo was right: it was spying. She couldn’t forget the angry, disappointed look on his face. So instead she got ready for bed, slipping into her pyjamas and under the covers quickly. She texted for the next hour with Ruby, then picked up a new book she’d just got from the library and tried to read. But she couldn’t concentrate. Something kept niggling at her. Her gaze wandered over to the wardrobe in the corner of the room.

Merry, get a grip.

Don’t even think about it.

She returned to her book, but found herself rereading the same paragraph. She glanced at the wardrobe again.

Come on. Don’t be ridiculous.

But there was no resisting it. She jumped out of bed, went to her dressing table and fished the large key out of her jewellery box. Then she marched over to the wardrobe and opened the doors. At the bottom, pushed right to the back, was an old cardboard box. Inside that was the trinket box, the contents of which Merry had used to defeat Gwydion only three months ago.

She unlocked it. The braid of Edith’s hair and the manuscript still lay inside. Mum had suggested burning them, to celebrate the fulfilment of Meredith’s oath symbolically. But Merry couldn’t bear the thought of destroying the only things that linked her, however tenuously, to Jack.

She hesitated, then picked up the manuscript and took a deep breath. Heart pounding, she opened it …

The pages were completely blank. Just as they had been ever since the day the manuscript had last been used. Ever since the day Jack died.

See? Nothing’s wrong. No magical activity going on whatsoever. You can stop being an idiot now.

Her hands were shaking. She carefully replaced the manuscript in the trinket box and hid it in the wardrobe again.

It was really late now. She got back into bed and had just reached over to switch off the bedside lamp when she heard the sound of voices. There was somebody downstairs.