The Witch in the Lake (10 page)

Brigida just smiled and turned to Merilee. ‘Come here, young one, don't be shy. Let me introduce you to all the company.'

Brigida only had to put up her hand and all the noise in the room stopped. ‘I want you to meet Merilee,' she said, ‘the young niece of our busiest member, Beatrice Alberti.'

The women clapped and as Merilee looked around and smiled and bobbed her head, she picked out one girl from the crowd who couldn't have been much older than she was. Or perhaps the girl was nearer Laura's age, she thought—if Laura had still been alive.

Merilee felt shy and lost in that huge sea of strangers.

But the girl gave Merilee a grin, friendly, intimate, as if they'd known secret things about each other for years. She patted the cushion next to her invitingly.

Merilee hoped no one took that spot before all the introductions were made. Beatrice had started on a long speech about a new potion for curing inflammation of the lungs. Merilee found her mind wandering off down little lanes of thought, like a puppy who'd been let off its leash.

But when Beatrice drew breath, Brigida said something that pulled Merilee up sharply.

‘So young Merilee is our new Initiate into the Order of Wise Women.' Brigida was smiling at her. ‘She will be receiving the usual instruction in the mysteries of our Art, and I'd like you all to join me in wishing her every success in her new life.'

The women stood. Each one held up two fingers in a V sign, entwining the forefinger with that of the woman beside her. The V became W, and Merilee saw the room filling with the sign of the Order, fingers fluttering like birds high above her head, flying up and down until the last, seventh time the fingers came to rest, pointing straight at her.

‘
Salute
and
fortuna!
' the women cried together, until the air echoed and shivered with their high rich voices.

Merilee tried to smile. Beatrice grabbed her hand to perform the ritual, placing her meaty finger over Merilee's. She hoisted Merilee's hand high in the air as the women had done and Merilee suddenly saw herself, not in the beautiful Green Room glowing with silk but in her yard at home, where Beatrice had made her stand, all those years ago, with her hands up high to drain away the poison from Leo's blood.

‘A new life,' Brigida had said. The words rang in Merilee's ears. It sounded much more than two weeks. It sounded like a sentence—the sentence of a lifetime.

She looked at Beatrice's face, scarlet with triumph.

In that moment Merilee understood she was her aunt's creature now, as surely as if Beatrice had put a chain around her neck and a bone at her feet.

The next morning Merilee woke in a soft, wide four-poster bed. She sat up and looked about her. A finely carved chest of drawers sat opposite, with her clothes neatly stacked inside. There was a chair and a writing desk, with a fresh quill and ink pot, and next to it was a small fireplace.

It was perfect. Merilee smoothed the crisp white sheets over her legs. The edges were embroidered with tiny roses. Merilee couldn't have dreamt of a more lovely room. But it chilled her just the same.

Last night it had been hard to see anything much when she came to bed. The slave woman (whose name was Consuela, she told Merilee, and she came from Spain, not Russia) brought her upstairs with a candle. But Merilee had been so exhausted that she'd collapsed on the bed in all her clothes, and fallen fast asleep.

There had been so much to eat—great glistening trays of roast lamb and rice cooked with almonds and slabs of cheese but Merilee had to sit at a table with Aunt Beatrice so she hardly tasted a thing. Beatrice talked—or shouted—over everyone, telling her latest news of pills and potions, of the ‘helpless' apothecary she continued to rescue (who, heaven only knew, must be
beside
himself with worry at being without her now). When someone at the table began to speak, Beatrice pounced on them like a cat with a mouse, and they never even got a syllable out before she'd crunched it up and swallowed the bones.

Merilee sat writhing in her chair, torn between trying to distance herself from this embarrassing relative of hers, and fighting an unbearable need to run away. How
could
a person have so little interest in anything outside of herself? How did her aunt ever learn anything when she never listened? Perhaps in this place, you just had to absorb the atmosphere through your skin, like sunlight on bare arms. Whatever it was, Merilee hoped it was something simple like that, because she found it very hard to concentrate at all.

There must have been thirty women in the dining hall, but Merilee discovered that there were sixty-five in all. The woman called Maria who sat next to Merilee had been yawning and wriggling in her chair, and soon she whispered that she was off to find her friend.

‘Where are the rest of the women?' asked Merilee.

‘Oh, some have retired to their rooms to study,' replied Maria, ‘and others like to meet with special friends in their apartments. I wouldn't mind joining them, actually,' she added, lowering her voice. ‘There's a good game of cards going on in Sandra's room, I know for a fact.'

Merilee grinned. Aunt Beatrice disapproved of cards—said it was gambling, the devil's vice.

But at that moment Beatrice swung around and scowled at Merilee.

‘I suppose you know so much you don't have to listen to how one makes up a pomade?'

Maria excused herself just then, saying she had a headache. But she had to wait for another ten minutes while Beatrice gave her advice on how to treat it.

Watching her go, Merilee decided fiercely she might just learn how to play cards. Or maybe there was a music group who liked to sing or play recorder in the evenings. And Beatrice could go and jump in that lake full of foul and dreadful things and drown herself!

But next to being back home, Merilee wished most of all that she could go and sit on the nice comfortable cushion next to that smiling girl.

The girl knew something, Merilee was sure. That smile was welcoming and friendly, but it was knowing, too. And Merilee needed all the information she could get.

Merilee lay in bed for a while thinking of the night before. Scenes streamed past in her head, faces she'd like to know better leaped out at her. It was all so different, so colourful and
big
somehow, after living all her life in one small village. But clouding everything was Aunt Beatrice, lurking over her shoulder like a giant shadow.

From along the corridor somewhere she heard a gong sounding. ‘Breakfast,' she thought, and jumped out of bed. Last night, with all the worry and surprises, she'd hardly eaten a thing. Now she was hungry and the new day had given her hope.

She took a fine linen under-gown from the drawer and chose a red dress to slip over it. A new girdle her mother had packed, of white silk webbing with silver threads, was tied around her waist. She gave her long hair ten brush strokes (her mother had always done a hundred) then dashed out into the hall.

She could hear laughter, and around the corner she met Maria and three others who were all hurrying to the ‘Yellow Room' for breakfast.

As she entered, an ocean of voices crashed around her ears. It seemed that all the women were present, sitting at six long tables. The pale yellow silk of the walls reminded her of eggs and cheese and her stomach rumbled. She quickly glanced around, searching for the friendly girl of last night, when she felt two heavy hands on her shoulders.

‘This way, young lady,' boomed Aunt Beatrice, her breath stale in Merilee's ear. ‘Come with me.' She steered her to the third table where Brigida was seated.

‘We can't start too early with her lessons!' Aunt Beatrice said importantly, making sure Brigida heard.

Brigida smiled at no one in particular, and went on eating her fruit. Merilee was beginning to recognise that smile. It seemed kindly and a little vague, but you could tell that behind it Brigida was watching everything like a hawk and she'd make her own steely mind up, thank you, and there wouldn't be a thing you could do about it.

Merilee looked away uneasily and helped herself to some figs.

‘First thing this morning, you go to Workshop 4,' Beatrice told her. ‘You will be learning about essential oils—how we gather them, why we use them.'

‘Will you be teaching me?' asked Merilee, choking a little on her fig.

‘Close your mouth when you're eating,' barked Beatrice. ‘Unfortunately not. I have to give a lesson myself, on my Tonics.' Her voice rose suddenly and she leaned forward on her elbows, towards Brigida. ‘I think the lecture will prove very interesting—I'm going to discuss the use of geranium and ginger, oils which restore vitality to the body with remarkable speed.'

Brigida thoughtfully swallowed her egg.

Beatrice sat back on her chair sharply and turned to Merilee. ‘Listen to all that is said in your lesson, and take notes. I want everyone to see what a studious niece I have.' She picked up a hunk of cheese and swallowed it. ‘Tonight I'll come to hear what you've learned. So pay attention.'

It was late afternoon when Leo arrived home from the lake. He had wandered in the forest for a while, trying to quieten himself before he met his father. But Marco was already at the table, preparing supper when Leo stepped through the doorway.

‘Chop some more wood, will you?' Marco called as he looked up. ‘I'm bone-cold, there's ice in my veins.'

Leo nodded quickly and went round to the courtyard where the logs were stacked. He was glad to be alone, his breath still ragged, his heart wild.

He dragged out a log and picked up the axe.

The hour he'd spent walking had done nothing to calm him.

Coward!
he hissed as he swung the blade.
Dunce!
he spat, splitting the wood.
Call yourself a wizard?
For a moment the dark rose again before his eyes, the impossibility of it, and despair made him crack the log in two, sending splinters flying.

‘I can't even
see
now,' he told the earth as he flung himself down. ‘A cat could see better in the dark than me. What have I against the weapons of witches?'

Leo split all the logs that were piled in the courtyard. He went on working for longer than necessary, beating out his frustration as he crashed through the wood. It was dusk when he finally threw down the axe and brought the night's logs inside.

‘What have you been doing?' demanded Marco as Leo trudged inside. ‘I've called you twenty times.'

Leo put the logs next to the fire and went back to close the door. Outside, there was the moon, not yet full, pearling a patch of sky.

As Leo leaned against the door, gazing out at the night, he asked himself a question. What if the moon had been full, down there by the lake? What then?

Leo sat at the table to eat with his father. There was a plate of fruit and cheese, and a pitcher of wine.

Marco gestured at the food and shrugged. ‘I saw that you bought sausages, but they'll keep for tomorrow. I'm not so hungry tonight—'

Leo stared at him. ‘But Fabbio chose them for you specially. They're your favourite kind.'

Marco shook his head. ‘You got enough for thirty people—what possessed you to buy so many?'

Leo looked down at his plate.

‘Fabbio gave them to me—as a gift.'

He expected his father to exclaim at this, and interrogate him. Fabbio was a good friend but a shrewd merchant, and he didn't often give his best meat away for nothing. But Marco just nodded vaguely.

Leo watched him. He was relieved that he didn't have to explain about the day, make conversation. But he wondered at Marco's lack of curiosity.

Marco picked a pear from the plate and began to peel it. Leo noticed that his hands were trembling slightly, and his palms were sweaty.

‘Are you feeling all right, Papà?' he asked. ‘Are you still cold? It's really quite a mild night.'

‘Yes, yes,' said Marco. ‘I'm just a bit tired. I don't think that fish I had at the city market was too good today, that's all.'

Leo cleared away the dishes. He helped his father out of his tunic and straightened the sheets on his bed. It was only early evening, and here was Marco getting into bed. Leo couldn't remember that ever happening before.

The afternoon's danger receded to a dull ache in his mind as Leo looked at his father. Alarm filled him. He went to close the shutters.

He'll probably leap out of bed in the morning, hungry as a horse, Leo told himself. But Leo took a long time to get to sleep that night. As he lay listening for the sound of Marco's breathing, the moan from the forest blew in, pulling at him each time he closed his eyes.

Leo was dreaming of his father standing at the edge of the lake, calling to someone, when a noise woke him. He sat up straight, his heart hammering. ‘Papà?'

‘Leo, get me a bucket, quick.'

Leo threw the sheets off and went to fetch it. He could hear the rasping of his father's throat, the raw scraping sound of a heaving stomach. He put a hand on his father's shoulder. Marco shook it off as he bent over the bucket again.

Leo sat on his bed, hugging his knees. He put his fingers in his ears. It was so scary, that sound. Scarier, even, than the voice from the lake. Marco shouldn't be sick—he was never sick. His shoulder had been damp with sweat. Leo had felt it through his nightshirt.

God, please don't let him be sick. Make him better now, please. He's all there is in the world. Please, oh please.

When Marco lay back on his bed, Leo took the bucket and sloshed it outside. He got a cloth and dipped it in the basin of water they kept for washing. Marco groaned. The sheets were wet beneath him. Leo felt his forehead. It was burning.

‘Here, Papà,' he whispered, trying to stop his voice shaking. He laid the cool damp cloth on his father's forehead. In a minute it was warm.