Sorceress (6 page)

g

9

Mary

Movement behind the snow’s swirling curtain, a shape forming, grey on grey. It looked like a dog, leaping this way, that way. I thought it was Tom back again, but this creature was bigger in the chest and head, the muzzle longer, the eyes smaller, the space between them broader. This was no dog, this was a wolf. Great paws reared and fell, throwing up puffs of powdery snow. She was female, I saw her dugs as she pounced again and again, seeking some small creature, a rabbit or a mouse perhaps, trapped beneath the surface. She was toying with it, waiting to seize it, to snap its neck between her long white teeth.

I blinked the snow from my eyelids, seeking to see better, and she, alert to the smallest of movements, left off her pouncing and came forward. The red tongue hung from her open mouth. Her breath plumed in the freezing air. Suddenly I knew. There was no mouse, no rabbit. I was the hunted one. She had come for me.

She looked at me with yellow eyes, head on one side, as if deciding whether to kill me now or later. I wished for now. I beckoned her to me. I would rather die fast than slow.

She approached bit by little bit, crouched low to the ground, like a dog herding sheep. Finally she was in front of me. I thought now she will take me. Now. I could feel her breath hot on me, smell the rankness of it. I closed my eyes ready for the bite. It never came. Instead of ripping out my throat, she licked my face again and again. Her rough tongue melted the ice glaze from my cheeks, chafing sensation back into skin numbed beyond feeling.

She pulled at me, tugging at my coat, worrying my sleeve. Darkness was coming on and the snow was getting thicker. She was trying to tell me that it was time to leave, that I must follow her. I tried to stand, but I could not walk. My feet had lost all feeling. They would not hold me. As soon as I tried to take a step, I tumbled headlong in the snow. This happened again and then again, until I felt what little strength I had ebbing from me. She looked at me, head on one side, for all the world as if she was judging the situation, deciding what to do, and all the time the snow fell faster and faster until I could hardly see her. It was as if the very air thickened like a sauce to a seething whiteness.

At last she stood up. I thought she would leave me then, for night was upon us, but she did not. She began to turn round and round, like a puppy chasing its tail. This seemed no weather for games, but then I saw what she was about. She was creating a den, a depression in the snow. She carved deeper and deeper until she had hollowed out a veritable cave. When she was satisfied, she came to the place where I was and began pulling me across.

I could barely crawl, but managed to get to the spot. She fussed around me, nosing the snow back and pawing at it, as nice as any goodwife tending to her house. At last she seemed satisfied. She gave a large yawn to show this was so and stretched out as if in readiness for retiring. I pulled my satchel to me and tried to undo the catches, but my fingers were frozen, as unbending and useless as wooden pegs. I had to use my teeth, but at last I got it open. I fished inside for bacon and bread soaked in grease, the provender given to me by Sarah Rivers. I had not thought to eat before now. I unwrapped the cloth and tossed the bacon to her. She did not gulp it down, but accepted it carefully, holding it between her paws and chewing at it most delicately. I held the bread between my wrists, tore on the crust of it, getting it into my mouth to melt and chew bit by bit.

Food brought some warmth and strength back into me. She finished the bacon and curled up next to me, her back to the driving snow. I huddled in the shelter of her body, snuggling into her long winter coat, reaching my fingers through the coarse guard hairs of grey and black to clutch the soft fur which lay thick and white underneath. Her body gave off great heat. I held my face against the pale soft fur of her chest and neck and tucked my feet up into her belly. I felt better than I had since I left the settlement. Her warmth brought life to me – and hope.

We lay curled round each other as night fell and the wind howled, forcing the snow up and over us until we became a mere hump, a drift among drifts.

g

10

Tehionehkateh – Bright Waters/Shining Waters – Looking Glass Lake

The next thing Agnes knew, a bunch of smouldering twigs was being wafted under her nose. She jerked back with a yell from the pungent burnt-herb smell.

‘Easy!’ Her aunt held her gently cradled. ‘Easy now.’

‘I thought she was just sleeping,’ Sim said, a deep frown arrowed into his forehead. ‘I had the heater up high, but when I reached over she was so cold.’

‘You weren’t to know. Help me get her into the house.’

Sim carried Agnes in his arms and laid her down on the cot in the corner. He remembered sleeping here when he was a kid. He covered her with the worn patchwork counterpane, brushing back a wing of her hair, touching his hand to her cheek. Her skin felt warm now, he noted with relief. She looked so vulnerable; he’d hate it if anything hurt her. His mouth moved in a silent charm to keep her from harm. He loved her like a sister and had been looking out for her ever since she’d moved back to the Res, and before that when she used to come on vacation.

Sim stepped away quietly into the middle of the room. The cabin never changed. His great-grandfather had built it solid out of thick-sawed beams caulked between with moss and clay to keep the winter winds away. It comprised one room, with a kitchen lean-to at the back and a porch at the front facing down to the dock.

Most of the furniture had been made by the old man as well. Sim had never known him, he had died long before Sim was even born, but Sim always felt especially close to the old guy. He was called Karonhiahkeson, Along the Clouds. The name had been passed on at the midwinter naming ceremony; it was Sim’s name now. Sim was glad that nothing changed in his cabin. There was no electricity; the interior was lit by soft oil light and heated by a wood stove. He looked round. It could be when he was a kid. It could be a hundred years ago. He liked to think that if the old man stepped back he would know his place straight away and still feel right at home.

Aunt M came in carrying Agnes’s bag and jacket. She laid the coat over the back of a chair. As she did so, she suddenly bent forward, carefully hooking something off the collar.

‘What’s that you got?’

‘An earring.’ She held it out for him to see. ‘Must’ve got caught when she took off her coat.’

She went over to the cot where her niece was sleeping.

‘She be OK?’ Sim’s frown returned.

‘She’ll be fine now she’s with me. You want something? I got coffee on the stove.’

‘Nah, I’m good. I’m meeting Joannie. I’d better be getting back. Here.’ He reached in his pocket and took out his mobile phone. ‘I want you to have this.’ He held up his hand to ward off her protests. ‘I know you don’t want phones up here but I’d be happier, OK?’

To his great surprise she took it from him.

‘How do you use it?’ His mother regarded it suspiciously.

‘The way to use it is simple. Press here to switch on, punch in the number and then press this one, see? Any problems, anything you want, you call. You promise me?’

His mother nodded and put the phone in her pocket.

g

11

Looking Glass Lake, day one

Agnes woke in a strange bed; the mattress was lumpy, the frame narrow. She put her hand out to grab her watch off the table and her fingers closed on empty space. She opened her eyes and saw bare boards instead of carpet. She had no idea where she was. Panic grabbed at her stomach, then she looked up. Bundles of sage and braids of sweet grass hung from the shelf above her bed along with a couple of rattles, one made from a gourd, the other from a turtle shell. Right along from them hung a tobacco pouch made from a whole otter skin, the claws engaged to act as catches, folded nose over chin. Either she’d been transported to some shaman’s den, or she was at Aunt M’s place.

‘How are you this morning?’ Aunt M saw she was awake and came over with a cup of some steaming brew. ‘How many times has it happened?’

Agnes knew what she was talking about.

‘Twice. Just before I contacted Alison and on my way here.’

She had an idea she was just confirming what Aunt M already knew.

‘Drink this.’ Aunt M handed her the cup. ‘How are you feeling?’

‘Strange.’ The black herbal tea smelt good but tasted bitter. ‘Kind of tired. And empty. Like part of me is not really here.’

It was hard to explain, but everything seemed flat around her. Her life seemed pale, with no meaning. It was like waking from a dream and wanting to stay dreaming. It was a desire, but more than that, a need. A kind of hunger. Agnes wanted to be back with
her
.

‘Hmm.’ Aunt M sipped her own tea and thought for a minute. ‘You did right coming to me. She might be kin, and mean you no harm, but ... ’

Aunt M did not have to say it; fear and concern showed in her eyes. The dead don’t see the value we place on this life. She might just take the girl with her when she left next time. One more episode like that and Agnes might not survive.

‘You know why I’ve come?’

‘Sure do. And you know what I’ll say, don’t you? Can’t be close as us and not know what the other one’s thinking on most given subjects.’

‘So the answer’s no?’

Aunt M shrugged. ‘Depends what you want. My guess is things have moved on. This Alison woman, she still wants the medicine objects, but you’re not sure you want that now. Am I right?’

Agnes nodded. No matter how hard she tried to disguise her thinking, Aunt M always knew.

‘In that case, I got to tell you, she’s powerful. You can’t go unprotected. That’s why I put the quilt round you that first time it happened.’

‘And the earring?’

‘That too.’

‘How did you know about Mary? Was that more shaman stuff?’

Her aunt cackled. ‘Not really. Saw that Alison Ellman on the History Channel, talking about this project, asking for information about her. Read the book, too. We got stores up here, you know.’

‘So you think there could be a connection?’

‘Between this Mary and Katsitsaionneh, Bringing Flowers? I’d say most certainly. From the story; from what she brought with her. I even held a ceremony using the ring and the locket, figuring that she’s kin and if we have the gift of medicine power, it has come from her in no small measure. I thought she might come to me, but instead she went to you.’

‘Why? Why did that happen?’

Her aunt thought before answering.

‘Words are powerful. Hers had been hidden for all that time. Suddenly they’re alive again and out in the world. You are near the age she was when she wrote them, that could be the reason. These dreams you’ve been having, these visions, how do you know she does not dream of you? What happens in our world can reach into the spirit world too.’

To Aunt M, the spirits of those no longer living were perceptible presences, alive to her in the everyday, the world they inhabited as real as ours.

‘She’s using me to tell the rest of her story?’

‘Maybe she wants to tell her story to you.’

Her aunt stood up and beckoned Agnes to follow. They walked out into the waking morning and the clamour of bird call. Agnes had forgotten how beautiful it was here. The sun had risen through a gap in the hills and it was shining now down the length of the lake, rendering the mist banks luminous, turning the water to chased silver. Trees crowded the shore. Spruce and firs showed in the lake like reflected shadow. Stands of birch, trunks as bright as platinum, slender branches misted with new leaf, dipped towards the surface of the water like girls preparing to wash their hair.

‘Take your clothes off. You’re going in.’

‘What!’ That was not what Agnes expected. She looked out at the water. The spring had been exceptionally mild even up here, but there was still ice out there. ‘The water will be freezing!’

‘Won’t kill you. When we was kids we used to have to break the ice to go in. This is not going to be easy, Agnes. If you’re going to do it, we gotta toughen you up.’

Agnes did as she was told. She bathed naked, not that a suit would have made any difference. The ice had retreated from the margins of the lake, but the water was so cold that at first it numbed her completely and she thought that she would not stand it. But she was a strong swimmer and when she struck out from the shore the numb feeling left her, to be replaced by exhilaration and a sense of sheer amazement that she was actually doing this.

She swam out as far as the old diving deck and then turned for the shore. She got out when she felt the numbness creeping back. Her aunt was there with a towel. She led her back to the cabin for breakfast. Coffee and pancakes laced with syrup Aunt M had collected herself. Her aunt sat across from her dressed in a man’s plaid shirt, cord trousers and work boots. Whenever she came up here, she always dressed practically. She wore her hair in two braids. She’d had a white streak since she was young, like Agnes; now she’d pick a braid off her shoulder and remark that the rest was growing to match it. Her face was tanned from being out in all weathers and although she could look quite severe, she was smiling at Agnes. Even though her aunt wouldn’t say it, Agnes knew that she had passed some kind of test. Aunt M could be gruff, tough too, but right now her black eyes sparkled. In that moment, Agnes loved her more than she loved any other person, and she knew Aunt M loved her. It felt good to be here with her, better than ever before.

g

Agnes was not exactly sure what was going to happen, but she’d figured that they’d get started right away. It was pretty soon clear that was not going to be the case. After breakfast, Aunt M wanted chores done round the cabin. It had been shut up all winter and leaves had sneaked in, along with twigs and dust and the odd mouse leaving droppings about. So floors wanted sweeping, the old hooked rug needed beating, the windows were smeary, and the bedding could do with an airing now that the sun was out.

There were logs to be split for stove kindling and to be carted from the pile and stacked next to the fireplace. The day promised warmth, but Agnes was told to get a fire going to warm the place up after the long cold of winter, and dry out any damp that might have crept in during the spring thaw.

Agnes swept round the rockers which stood either side of the hearth. She wiped down the oil cloth spread on the table under the window and pushed in the straight-backed chairs. A shelf ran the length of one wall. Agnes dusted over and round the battered storage canisters and rearranged the books. A mix of old maps, seed catalogues and mildewed herbals stood next to a selection of well-thumbed paperbacks fat with damp. They were propped up by a pile of stones from the lake, some round, some oval, smooth as eggs.

While Agnes worked, Aunt M buzzed about doing what she called ‘a bit of brightening’, tacking up pictures out of magazines and bright woollen blankets woven in stripes and zigzag patterns to cover where the whitewashed wall was webbed and meshed with cracks.

‘There. That’s better!’ She stepped back to admire her handiwork and then stepped forward, brushing her fingers over the flaking surface. ‘Needs a fresh coat, but I guess that can wait for another day.’

When they had finished, Aunt M brewed up more coffee. She made it the old-fashioned way, setting a chipped and blackened pot of blue enamel to heat on the wood stove, watching it until the brown liquid splurged through the thick glass dome on the top.

‘Got no milk or creamer,’ Aunt M said as she poured out two mugs. Agnes stirred in sugar from the bowl on the table to sweeten the brew.

‘Oh, I forgot. I brought you these.’ Agnes reached in her pack and laid the carton of cigarettes on the table in front of her aunt. Aunt M took the traditional gift of tobacco, nodding her acceptance.

‘Thanks, but I quit.’ She turned the red and white box over in her hands. ‘Smoking’s bad for your health, didn’t you know that? Take ’em to Jake over at the fishing shack. They’re his brand. He still uses ’em. Says he’s too old to quit.’

‘That’s clear across the lake! There’s still ice out there, I saw it!’

‘Won’t be a problem if you go careful. You can get me some bait while you’re over there and I need some supplies. Here.’ She handed Agnes a list. ‘If you go now, you’ll be back by dark. If you’re not, I’ll put a light out on the dock – just head for that.’

g

Agnes dragged the faded orange plastic canoe from under its tarp cover and took it down to the water. She climbed in gingerly, arranged the apron around her and used the paddle to shove herself off against the lapping water. It was a long time since she’d been in one of these. She hoped her stroke had not deserted her. It was a calm blue day with no wind to speak of and she glided over the water, guiding the boat through and around the remaining cakes and plates of melting ice. The stroke, the steering, it came back as natural as cycle riding. She began to revel in her new-remembered skill on the water, even though her back hurt from the cramped position and the handle of the paddle chafed her hand, breaking the blisters raised across her palm by a morning spent chopping wood.

Jake accepted the cigarettes with thanks and sent her off with a couple of cans of worms and coloured maggots.

Agnes went from his bait shack to the small store which supplied the boats and the summer folk, waited for the boy to fill out her order and toted the paper sacks back to the boat, stowing them in the nose and tail. She had to be careful, the extra weight meant the canoe rode lower in the water. Her hands hurt more now, making her progress even slower.

The sun sank in the west, its rays flooding across the lake until it seemed her paddle dipped and dripped liquid gold. She went on working her way towards the farther shore as dusk thickened and the sky’s blue deepened above her and white mist came up from the lake, rising around her like wraiths. She guided the boat with care through rafts of ice, feeling the chunks clunk against the sides of the craft before floating away again.

She took the canoe to a patch of clear water. Here stars showed above and below her and the moon shone like a silver coin cast on the rippling surface. She let the canoe float, stilling its movement as far as she was able, so as not to disturb the heavens reflected around her. If she kept motionless in just this way, it was almost impossible to see where the sky ended and the lake began. Above her blazed the Milky Way: the Spirit Path, the Ghost Road, the way taken by the dead on their journey to the west. It opened before her like a diamond highway.

It was getting cold, the creeping mist and the near-freezing water chilled the air around her, but she did not feel it. She lay for a long time rocking in the boat, looking up at the silent intensity of the stars. It was said that each one was a campfire lit by those who made the journey across the sky to the place where the sun sets. How many of her people had gone that way? The number was as countless as the leaves that grow in spring and fall at the end of the year. Was it possible to reverse the journey? For a soul to leave the land of the dead and come back to the living?

The need to know was strong within her. A fish rose near, rippling the water, breaking the spell. She turned, startled by the sudden sound, and halted the boat’s drift. Still reluctant to disturb the tranquil surface, she dipped her paddle with careful motion and made for the steady light winking on and off at the distant dock.