The Moon Spun Round (11 page)
Read The Moon Spun Round Online
Authors: Elenor Gill
‘I don’t know what got into her, she’s never…I mean…I’m so sorry. What can I say?’
‘Never did like cats. You can’t trust them. If it was mine, I’d have it put down. Right, I’m off. I’ll send you the bill’
When Sally goes back to her office to collect the tray of mugs, the screen is alive and running online. She’s still shaking. She moves into the chair and is suddenly uncomfortable, conscious of the warmth of his body seeping into the cushion, his hands touching her desk. There’s a momentary feeling of revulsion before she
tells herself she’s getting it all out of proportion. A sleazy flirt, that’s all, thinks he’s God’s gift to women. She’s come across dozens of his sort before, and no doubt will again. No, it’s more than that. Her hand reaches into her pocket, touches the opal, feels it tingle through her fingers. There’s something not right about that man, some dark energy that echoes through hidden hollows deep in her mind. If only she could remember…
She comes off-line, shuts down the machine, and pulls the door to behind her, closing the whole episode.
Back in the kitchen, taps on full, hot water to scald clean the mug he had used. Then she hears the familiar
click-clack
noise of the cat-flap and Cat saunters into the room as if nothing has happened. She comes up to Sally, rubbing against her legs. Sally snatches her up from the floor and buries her face in the warm fur.
‘Thank you. Whatever made you do that I don’t know, but thank you. I wish I’d done the same. The creep.’
Cat tolerates this undignified outburst of affection, then, when released, decides she will eat some breakfast after all.
Sally goes upstairs and runs the shower, standing under it for ages, soaping herself then rinsing down repeatedly, as if something unpleasant had crawled all over her.
Philip Hunter-Gordon
26 January 2007
Spent most of yesterday on the Internet. Amazing! There’s a phenomenal amount of info about the witch trials. Many of the sites have been set up by modern witches (or Wiccans, as they prefer to be called). Numerous historical accounts and lists of the names of victims, literally thousands of them. Not all of it correlates, but that’s hardly surprising considering the area (most of Europe) and time span covered and the fact that few of the researchers, no matter how well intentioned, are experienced archivists. Nevertheless, I’ve amassed a mountain of printouts. Not that I intend sifting through all of it in detail. I’m just trying to gain an overview.
It seems there were some sudden, isolated spates of witch persecution, but mostly it came in waves of activity like an epidemic that gained momentum as it spread from town to city, then from one country to another, eventually dying away again. This happened several times over hundreds of years; at one time most of Europe was infected with it. And usually associated with the sort of events that would cause psychological stress among the populus.
First records date back to twelfth-century France and the persecution of the Templars and other large and powerful groups that were seen as a threat to the Catholic Church.
There were continuous outbreaks during the fourteenth century, a time when the black death (bubonic plague) swept through Europe wiping out whole communities. As the cause was unknown, it was concluded that Devil worshippers and heretics were conspiring to destroy Christendom.
Then came the period known now as the ‘Burning Time’. A mass hysteria that swept through Europe in the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries. It is claimed that thousands of individuals were tried and condemned to death, mostly by being burned alive after being tortured to extract a confession. But this may have been only the tip of the iceberg, as not all executions were recorded or even legally sanctioned. Sometimes whole villages were wiped out in one purge.
Witch-hunt hysteria continued among those who left Europe for the new colonies; reference the witch trials of Salem in 1692.
The last wave of official executions occurred in Europe in the early eighteenth century, but it had largely dissipated by the 1740s. The last legal execution of a witch occurred in 1782 in Glarus, Switzerland—not far from where the witch craze had begun in 1428. The last known witch burning in Europe took place in Poland in 1793, but it must have been an illegal act as witch trials were abolished in that country in 1782. However, that by no means put an end to the persecutions. Attacks by mobs or vigilantes continued into the nineteenth century in Western Europe.
The twentieth and twenty-first—yes,
twenty-first
—centuries saw outbreaks of killings in places such as India, Mexico and Croatia.
I had no idea of the extent of the problem. In fact I believed it to be something well buried in history.
It seems the Burning Times are far from over.
Afternoon of Monday, 27 November
New Moon
T
HE SKY IS GROWING DARK
earlier each day, the year fading with the light as November draws to a close. Sally is eager to pull the curtains against the frosting air as the afternoons are eroded by encroaching twilight. Trees stand bleak, their branches stripped clean by the autumn blast. Always a cold wind this time of year, the locals tell her, blows straight across from Siberia, nothing in the way to stop it. She believes they’re kidding her.
It has been three weeks since Sally took possession of the cottage. It’s her domain now, has become a part of her; it lives inside her skin as she lives within its walls. The three weeks have slipped by almost unnoticed, yet she feels as if she has been here forever. She’s feeling great, sleeping longer, resting more deeply. It may have something to do with those Bach drops Abbie gave her. Or perhaps it’s the country air. She doesn’t always think about Jonathan, not the way she thought she would. And when he does appear at the edge of her mind, she turns away from him. There are too many things to do with Jonathan that she doesn’t want to remember.
A few business contacts, via George, have given her enough work to get started, and if her clients are happy the word will soon be passed around. A game of darts down at the Green Man, a friendly gossip and a cream cake in Ruth’s teashop, a plea for help to run a stall at the Christmas bazaar: the village has accepted her. Strangers smile and say hello as they pass in the street. Especially the women. She has found the library and arms herself with a pile of fiction against the long winter nights. And no, she’s not bored, although she’s not sure where all the time goes. Some of it is spent in wool-gathering, no doubt,
or talking to Cat as they take their long walks through the woods. The little pathway through the copse is wearing deeper as both she and Abbie tread the fallen leaves. Sally knocks only briefly at Abbie’s door nowadays, and doesn’t wait to be asked before entering. In turn, Abbie shouts ‘hello’ from outside Sally’s kitchen as she struggles free of her muddy boots.
And the little spring and the women who creep in, sometimes in the dead of night, to steal its water? If they come and go, she isn’t aware of their passing. Until this morning, that is.
It’s a grey day, despite patches of pale blue sky. The horizon is banked with gun-metal clouds; only the wind keeps the rain at bay. A small sliver of moon, incongruous at midday, rides high like a scrap of torn tissue paper tossed into the air. It’s nothing like the moon she saw that night. The air is cold and she’ll be glad to get indoors.
This morning it was another trip into Cambridge. A hairdresser’s appointment this time, then coffee at Auntie’s Tearoom. A set of antique copper pans gleaming at her from a shop window are just what is needed to brighten up the kitchen wall. She’s unloading them from the boot now, huge cardboard box balanced between one knee and the bumper. Suddenly her gate opens and a woman steps out, lugging a plastic water carrier.
The woman looks familiar. Sally thinks she might have seen her before, perhaps at the bus stop or waiting outside the schoolyard. She looks so practical in her waxed jacket and green Wellies, a knot of auburn curls escaping from under a headscarf. She looks up at Sally and smiles.
‘Merry meet,’ the woman says.
‘Blessed be,’ Sally replies.
Sally’s mouth hangs open as the woman trudges across the lay-by and onto the road. What was that? What did she say? What did
I
say?
What the hell
…?
‘Hey—’ Sally turns to call after her. The box wobbles and Sally teeters, both threatening to tumble into the mud. She shoves the box back into the boot and runs across the gravel, but the woman is way ahead now, almost to the bend. And what would Sally say if she caught up with her? Perhaps I misheard, she thinks. No, I didn’t. And she plunges her hand into her pocket and searches out the opal stone, clutching it tightly. No, I definitely didn’t mishear. That’s what she said:
merry meet
. And I said
blessed be
. She shakes her head.
Retrieving the box, she goes through the gate herself, still trying to get her head around what has happened.
Cat is waiting on the doorstep.
‘And what are you grinning at? Another friend of yours, I suppose?’
But Cat makes no reply, merely yawns and stretches her back.
The closed sign is clearly visible on the door of Ruth’s tearoom, the curtains pulled firmly across the lower half of the windows. But the door isn’t locked and yellow light from inside floods the pavement. The tearoom doubles as a social venue for small clubs, committee meetings and so forth. The village hall works fine for yoga sessions and the playgroup, and there’s a stage for the occasional public meeting or entertainment, but it’s far too cavernous for smaller gatherings. Besides, Ruth loves any excuse to play hostess, as if she doesn’t see enough of the villagers during the day. Her shop, with its ancient beamed ceiling and wall lights shaded in antique glass, provides a homely atmosphere where friends draw together in comfort.
Tonight it’s the monthly meeting of the Hallowfield Book Club. The early arrivals are pushing the small tables together to make one large surface, covering it with a crisp linen cloth. A circle of chairs is arranged around it and Ruth carries in her best china platters heaped with homemade biscuits.
‘Kettle’s on,’ she says, ‘I thought we’d start with a cup of tea this time. Nice way to welcome the new member, help her feel comfortable while we make the introductions.’
‘Abbie’s bringing her, isn’t she?’ That was a middle-aged man in a buttoned-up cardigan and horn-rimmed glasses.
‘That’s right. Next-door neighbour. Moved in about three weeks ago.’
‘Yes, I met her down at the pub,’ says the man. ‘She was playing pool with Abbie’s lad and his girlfriend. Attractive young woman, certainly. Now, if I were a bit younger…’ He winks at Ruth.
‘Well, you’re not, and even if you were I doubt your attentions would be welcome just at present’
‘That’s the woman whose husband…you know…’ A younger woman, large teeth, hair cropped into a severe bob, dumps her bag on the table. ‘It’s very awkward, isn’t it? I mean, I don’t know what to say to her. Do we offer condolences or what? It seems an odd way to start a book discussion. Like, it sort of colours everything, doesn’t it?’