Читать книгу Hidden Enemies - Steve Reilly - Страница 5

The lack of rain over the last three years had left the land looking parched. The trees had shed their leaves in order to conserve what little water they could glean from the dry soil and the yellow-green grass crackled underfoot when walked upon. Much of the bird and animal life had moved on in order to find more productive pickings.

In the midst of this dry country, where the Kings Road met the Northern Way, stands the small farming community of Thistledowne. This simple town existed as a resting place for weary travellers, the only reason the town had survived the drought for as long as it had. Thistledowne boasted a small inn, a blacksmith, a little church and, at its centre, the now grassless village green. The people of Thistledowne lived in basic wooden houses topped with thatched roofs, working small farms on the land around the town. The biggest event that had ever happened in Thistledowne occurred in the previous spring when King Leopold and his entourage passed through on their way to more important places. The town had suffered through drought before knowing that the rains would come eventually, but if they did not come soon the growing season would be missed again, and next winter would be difficult.

One farm did not suffer as badly as the rest. This was the farm of Myrle Unwood, the local witch, and her only daughter, Camille. Myrle was gifted in the use of herbs, helping the villagers during times of ills or accidents, for which the townsfolk paid in food or services. Their farm was not like the others in the district. It did not have fields of corn or maize but instead remained in its natural state with small trees, shrubs and grasses. These provided Myrle with all that she needed to help and heal the townsfolk while a small vegetable garden behind the house provided for their own needs.

Camille walked slowly among the trees, her eyes searching the ground for the faint hint of red in the dark shadows that would indicate her quarry. The lack of rain made it harder to find the herbs she sought but she knew that she would find what she was after. She passed an old oak with roots deep enough to seek out the moisture it needed. A flash of red in the shadows caught her attention. Ducking under the low branches and creeping into the darkness, she found her quarry - a patch of nightweed. The little flowers were beginning to open as the darkness approached. She sat, placing her basket on the ground beside her, and gently ran her hand over the little patch of green. The small round leaves and tiny red flowers growing along the delicate stems hid the true value of the plant. Camille reached into her basket and took out a small digging tool to gently break up the ground. Carefully lifting a clod of earth, she ran her fingers through the softened ground till she found the swollen nodules on the plant’s roots. Taking her time she removed the nodules and placed them in the basket before delicately replanting the nightweed. She knew that many people just tore the plant from the earth and took what they wanted but she felt that the little plant was giving her its bounty and in return she was responsible for taking care of it. Her mother would grind up the nodules to extract the moisture they contained and then leave both out in the sun. The fluid would evaporate away leaving white crystals which she used to remove the pain of injuries, while the dried fibre of the nodules could be burnt, giving those that breathed the smoke a feeling of peace and calm.

When she had collected enough to satisfy her mother’s needs she caressed the plants again with her fingertips in thanks before rising and taking her basket back out into the fading light. She decided to take the time to walk once more amongst the trees and enjoy the coming of the evening. She had done much thinking since her fourteenth birthday two weeks ago. She sat on a rock, watching the coming of the night sky. Sunset was her favourite time of day, when all was serene and the night birds became active. The night owl led the evening choir with other birds providing harmonies. The creaking of the crickets and the haunting tones of a far-off wolf added to the chorus of sound, all backed by the soft percussion of the rustling leaves. A full moon rested on the distant hills before beginning its dance across the darkening sky as the audience of stars took their places for the performance.

Nobody would ever describe her as pretty, least of all Camille herself, although the long black hair hanging down her back and tied with a simple leather thong was the one feature that provided any hint of beauty. Her face was marked with the scars of a long past pox, her nose was crooked and her chin too large. She wore plain black boots, good and solid for walking, and the dress her mother had given her for her birthday - plain black linen with long loose sleeves and a high square bodice. It hugged her small waist and fell to her ankles. There were no frills, no lace, nothing to decorate it except for the embroidered symbol stitched over her left breast in the shape of a gold shield over crossed gold swords. The shield was decorated with six coloured bars diagonally across the centre. Her mother had given her the dress along with the words that were etched into her thoughts. “This dress is you. When you understand the dress you will understand yourself and be the woman you were meant to be.” She had asked her mother to tell her more but Myrle had refused to discuss the dress or the words since they were given. This was a puzzle that Camille must solve for herself. She did not know where life would lead her, she just felt something deep within her that told her she needed to solve the riddle. Every day since her birthday she had thought about those words but could get no closer to understanding them than when she had first heard them. A slight change in the direction of the breeze brought with it a hint of sound out of place in the evening chorus. As Camille turned to rise, she noticed the glow. It seemed to be coming from the town and moving along the road leading towards her home. The noise was rising with the glow, impinging on the peaceful evening. The glow was bright, too bright to be a villager coming to ask for her mother’s aid. The noise as angry and threatening.

The beauty of the night was broken. She picked up the basket of nightweed bulbs and headed back down the track. The noise and glow continued to penetrate the sparse bush. She crested the final hill and saw the people gathered in the clearing at the front of her house. The crowd continued to grow as the tide of townsfolk flowed from their homes. They were waving torches and yelling. She kept herself hidden on the hill, crept forward to a small thicket overlooking her house and lay quietly watching. She could see her house clearly. The little mass of shrubs was barely large enough to hide her but they somehow offered security.

Her mother stood at the door with hands on her hips and a frown on her brow. Myrle’s face was marked and twisted. Her yellow dress was cut plain and embroidered with patterns of green leaves over the bodice and around the sleeves and hem. Her long black hair with a streak of grey running from the left temple gave her face the appearance of ancient knowledge as well as strength of character. She appeared calm in front of the chanting crowd. Camille could hear the shouts of “Witch,” and, “It’s all her fault”. She was confused. The entire town knew that both she and her mother were witches. Her mother stood quietly in front of the mob. The noise grew as the crowd fuelled its own courage with vicious words until Myrle raised both hands over her head, somehow quietening those gathered before her. Her mother’s voice was clear.

“To what do I owe the pleasure of this visit from the good folk of Thistledowne?”

The silence persisted for a few moments until a lone voice called, “She’s the witch. It must be her fault. She made the river dry up. She wants us all dead.” The shouts began again. Myrle stood silent while the voices grew, then once more raised her hands commanding silence. The light of flickering candles from inside the house made Myrle appear to be glowing, adding to her appearance of power and control.

“Matt,” her mother said, selecting one man in the front, “Do you really believe that I could or would attempt to bring you any harm? Wasn’t it only last week that I gave you the herbs for your son’s fever? How is he? And Jon, how is your leg after I set the break for you? Jobin? Bern? All of you I have helped in times of trouble. Do you believe that I would do this?”

Myrle stood silently looking as many in the crowd began to shuffle their feet and reconsider their actions. The hint of a smile showed on her mother’s face as she looked at each man. Camille could see them waver. Myrle’s confidence seemed to grow with each dropped head and each set of eyes that looked away.

Then the spell was broken. A rock thrown from the crowd caught her mother on the side of the head and she fell to the ground, stunned. The lone voice called again, “We must save the town. We must get rid of the witch.” Other brave souls began to add to the calls. “Grab her, tie her up.” One man cautiously approached the fallen woman, followed by another, then two more until the crowd had once more found its courage. Her mother was bound, gagged and dragged out to the open space in front of the house. The voice from the crowd was now bolder and Camille could see that it belonged to a worker from the neighbouring farm who had arrived in town about two months ago. He looked to be in his early twenties and she knew his name was Xavier, a despicable little man with ratty eyes and a long mane of dirty red hair. Xavier worked his way through the crowd and wherever he went the sounds of discontent became louder. It became obvious that something terrible was going to happen. She could see that others, friends of Xavier, were also fuelling the crowd’s courage. A call went up to search the house. Camille could hear the sounds of furniture being destroyed, breaking crockery and general destruction. Then she heard something that made her blood run cold. “She’s not here,” called an unknown voice and Camille realised that they could only be talking about her. She could not think why they would want to find her.

“Search the woods. Find her. She can’t be far.” Men ran off in all directions. Camille crouched deeper into her hiding place and hoped that the leaves and the darkness would keep her safe. The men swarmed around, searching every place while Camille huddled lower in the bushes. Then Xavier was standing right beside her. “Find her,” demanded Xavier. “We can’t let her get away.” Camille was too scared to shake or even breathe.

It seemed an eternity but was probably more like an hour when the men finally gave up and began to gather back at the house. There Xavier and two other men had torn the pole from the front porch and driven it into the soft earth. Myrle was dragged to her feet and tied to the pole. Xavier worked the crowd into a frenzy, searching for someone to blame for all their woes. Myrle was the perfect scapegoat, trussed, gagged and unable to offer any resistance. The noise of the crowd grew dramatically with each passing minute. People who had been friends were acting as strangers. The whole situation was a nightmare. Scared and confused, Camille’s isolated existence on the farm had left her unprepared. Her mind spun, trying to make sense of what was happening. She heard Xavier calling for timber and anything else that would burn and watched in horror as pieces were torn from the old walls. Two men brought her bed from the house, along with her mother’s dresser. All of this was thrown around the feet of her helpless mother. Camille longed to run forward from her cover and call for the people to wake up.

Xavier walked to a nearby man where he took a torch and calmly threw it on the pile around the helpless Myrle. The flames sputtered, then slowly took hold to spread across the pile. The crowd was now silent as they watched the deadly scene unfold before them. The fire seemed to hold back as if savouring the moment before leaping forward to catch hold of Myrle’s dress. Her death was not quick but Myrle stood calmly in the pillar of flame staring down her attackers until the fire reached high to enjoy its meal. The crowd stood silent as the import of what had just occurred set in. The smell of burning flesh spread over the clearing. Another torch was thrown into the house and within minutes Camille’s whole life was burning before her eyes.

She lay huddled beneath the bush and tried to think but thoughts eluded her. She was wrapped in grief and lay her head down as silent tears streamed down through the valleys of her face.