The Return of the Witch

 

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For Simon—who is the Well Beloved with good reason

 

PROLOGUE

For a moment the sounds of the forest were denied me, replaced by a supernatural silence, as if there was no air to carry the noises of the nighttime. I had the impression that I was a prisoner in my own senseless body, hearing nothing, seeing nothing, able to utter neither cry nor word. As I lay where I had fallen, unable even to feel the snowy ground beneath me, I fought to gain breath, to regain movement, to come properly to life once more. Then, just as it seemed I would suffocate in this nothingness, all senses returned. My lungs sucked air hungrily, the cold of the winter's night rasping down my throat. My heart thudded, rapid and irregular, as if I had been running. As if I had been terrified. As indeed I had. Departing the Summerlands had been a dangerous and painful experience. It was not a place from which one was meant to return. Witches arrived there with no thought of ever leaving. And yet here I was, expelled from that world of ultimate peace and magic like some flawed angel thrown down from heaven.

How could I have let this come to pass? How could this be the path I had to follow? We had been so sure that his capture was secure, that he would never be able to escape. And yet there I was. At first, when the news had been brought to me, I had refused to believe it. Had refused to accept what I was being told, certain there must be some mistake. But truth is a tenacious thing which will not long be ignored, and the truth was that Gideon had managed to slip his magical bonds, evade his captors, leave the Summerlands, and return to life on earth again.

But, how? No captive had ever succeeded in doing so before. There was no record or memory of it happening, not once. For all his dark magic, he never had sufficient power to attempt such a perilous and difficult act. One thing I knew beyond any doubt is that he could not have escaped alone. Someone, or something, helped him. And Goddess knew, that someone must be in possession of the most terribly powerful magic. With such an ally, Gideon would be doubly dangerous.

I rose unsteadily to my feet, brushing snow from my clothes. Above me, a cruel wind whined through the bare trees. I pulled my cloak around me, tightening it against the cold. As my eyes adjusted to the lack of light I was able to make out my surroundings quite well with the aid of the waxing moon. Batchcombe Woods were familiar to me, and so filled with fierce memories that to be there once more was in itself deeply disturbing. Images of times past flitted before me: running between the trees as a girl; gathering mosses and herbs for my mother's pharmacopeia; my family; William; Tegan; and Gideon. Always Gideon.

I chased the pictures from my mind. I had to collect myself, marshall my thoughts and my energies and bring them to bear on the present moment. It was crucial I put aside the pain I felt at having to leave the place that had become my home, and where I had believed I would dwell with my sister witches forever. To be wrenched from there because of Gideon was to know a profound grief, for the order of things had been rejected, and it was possible I would never again be allowed to enter.

The forest floor, with its icy coating, felt strangely solid after five years living a noncorporeal existence. My limbs were heavy and my movements sluggish. An owl swooped past, letting out a screech that cut through the night air. I straightened my shoulders and raised my chin. Gideon had a head start. I was certain he would seek out Tegan. My course of action was clear. He must be stopped, and I must be the one to stop him. And this time, there would be no mercy.

 

PART ONE

 

1

MATRAVERS, FEBRUARY 2014

Willow Cottage appeared pleasingly unchanged, looking so very much as it had the day I made it my home nearly six years before. February winds had brought abundant snow, so that the entire village was thickly coated. The storm had moved on; the air was clear and the sky free of clouds. Morning sun glinted off the white ground. Standing at the gate that marked the boundary of the garden, I noticed the holly plants I had used to fill gaps in the hedge had grown well, adding their prickly strength to the protective border around the front of the house. Beneath the layer of snow I could discern the familiar shapes of sturdy shrubs and winter plants, and to the side the willows themselves were still graceful, even in their unclothed, brumal state. On the roof bare patches of slate gleamed wetly where the heat from the chimney had melted the snow, and a steady plume of pale smoke suggested seasoned wood was being burned on the Aga in the kitchen. My heart tightened. I could so clearly picture the cozy stove, the worn furniture mellowed by age, rows of jars and bottles on the aged oak dresser, the low window over the sink looking out to the vegetable patch at the rear of the house.

But I was remembering the way things were when I lived there. When Willow Cottage was mine. Now it belonged to Tegan. Would she have altered the interior? I wondered. Would I find things displaced, new furnishings, a different mood to the place, perhaps? Of course, Tegan had every right to do as she pleased with her own home. I had given it to her completely, without condition, precisely so that she might find a sense of belonging that seemed to have always eluded her during her somewhat rootless childhood. And how would she receive me? There had been times when I had longed for this moment to come, but now I found myself reluctant to open the gate, walk up the narrow garden path, and knock upon the front door. I had visited her in her dreams on several occasions during the past five years. I had sought to give comfort and encouragement when I could. And I had tried to warn her. I was satisfied that she had heard me, and I believed I understood her well enough to know that she did gain solace and reassurance from that tenuous contact. To stand before her again, however, solid, earthbound, returned as if from the dead, well, that was another matter entirely. She would be shocked. She might well be frightened. Would she be angry with me for leaving her? Had she forgiven me? Would she comprehend the reason for my coming back, uninvited, into her life?

A low sound from beyond the house caught my attention. Muffled by the snow, the noise was rhythmic, workmanlike, coming from the kitchen garden. Sweeping, I decided. Tegan. I pushed open the gate and followed the path around the side of the house, happier that our reunion was to be outside, beneath the cheerful sun and the soft blue of the sky. At shoulder height, a blackbird flew as my escort, its song alerting everyone to my arrival. As I rounded the building the noise of sweeping ceased, and there she stood, leaning on a handmade besom, head turned to see who it was who called upon her. I stopped in my snowy tracks. Willow Cottage might have altered little, but Tegan was transformed. The slight, awkward girl I had left behind had grown into a strong, beautiful, young woman. She was warmly clothed against the winter's cold, with a woolen hat and gloves and a bulky padded coat. Her Wellington boots looked a size too big, and her legs were still slender, but she had an adult shape to her now. I studied her face, trying to read her expression, eager to gauge the impact seeing me would have upon her. She gasped. For what seemed an age, she neither spoke nor moved. My heart lurched beneath my breast. I could only imagine what turmoil her own must be in. Would she trust the evidence of her eyes? I am not sure that I would have done so, had our roles been reversed. I forced myself to speak, to say something, anything, to break the unbearable tension of that moment.

“You should not leave your sweeping unfinished,” I told her, pointing at the flat stones of the pathway about her feet, which were still smeared with snow. “Come evening that will freeze. An old woman could slip and break her bones.”

Tegan straightened, her grip on the broom handle tightening minutely.

“I see no old women here,” she replied, her face still inscrutable.

And then she screamed. It was a cry of pure delight. Throwing the broom down, she ran to me and flung her arms around me, pulling me to her so tightly she fair knocked the breath from my body.

“It's you! It's really you!” she cried, pulling back to look at me before hugging me again. “I can't believe it! Well, I can believe it. I mean, I must! Because here you are. But how can you be? Well, why not? Why wouldn't you be able to?… And I know I'm gabbling, but what did you expect? I mean, turning up, just like this. And looking, well, just like you!” She was laughing and crying now, and I was aware of my own tears mingling with hers as she kissed my face excitedly. “And you're exactly as you always were. Look at you. Oh, Elizabeth, I knew you'd come back! I just knew it. Even though it doesn't make any sense.” She paused to sniff and wipe her eyes with her gloved hand. “Here you are.”

I nodded, smiling as I stepped back to look at her once more, taking her gloved hands in mine. “Here I am, but where is the skinny child I remember? Who is this woman, all grown up and sensibly dressed, for once?” Now I noticed that it was not merely her physical exuberance that I had felt. There was something else. A different manner of strength.

“Am I so different, really?”

“You still chatter as much as you ever did, which is to say a great deal!”

She beamed. “How you must have missed that.”

“Almost as much as I missed your cooking.”

“Ha! Now I know you are confusing me with someone else.” She laughed.

We fell silent and simply stood, looking at each other. The morning air around us seemed to thicken, the day itself began to grow heavy with questions, with unspoken thoughts, with hurt.

“Aren't you going to invite me in?” I asked.

She shrugged, a little uncertain. “It's your house,” she said.

“No, Tegan. It's yours.”

She jammed her hands in her pockets, grinning. “The kettle's on,” she said as she led the way to the back door.

Once inside she stepped out of her boots and I did the same, leaving them to dry on the mat. I confess I was touched to find the kitchen unchanged. The Aga sat as it always had against the far wall with the same kettle whistling softly on one of the hot plates. The cream enamel of the old stove was a little more blackened and worn in places, but it gave out a welcoming heat. The ramshackle collection of chairs, tables, and rugs remained, as did the dresser. I could not resist inspecting the bottles on the shelves. Jars of preserved fruit and pickles from the garden. Dried herbs. Flower oils and infusions, all neatly labeled.