Evening of Wednesday, 17 January
Last Quarter
BACK IN NAOMI’S SITTING ROOM, comfortable amid its abundance of cushions and rugs, Claire and Naomi are both aware of the silence within the room and beyond. Outside everything is still. The snow has stopped falling, having settled in a thick layer that will transform the village into a Christmas-card scene in the morning light. A car passes and pulls up further along the road. Claire reaches over to refill Naomi’s wine glass.
And she freezes.
Her body is rigid and her eyes filled with sudden fear. ‘It’s him,’ she whispers. ‘He’s out there.’
‘Who? You mean Ayden?’ Naomi is immediately alert, her mind moving instantly to the series of pentagrams drawn in the air around the building and the images of iron bars at the windows and doors, reinforcing them with Earth and Fire.
Claire moves to the window. From outside, the house would appear to be in darkness. The curtains are drawn against the cold night, the room unlit except for a single candle flickering in a crystal holder. Claire moves the edge of a curtain an inch, enough to see down and along the road. That’s his black BMW, unmistakable.
‘Is it him?’ Behind her, Naomi’s voice is a whisper. ‘What’s he doing?’
‘Nothing. At least, he’s not getting out of the car. Watching us, that’s what he’s doing.’
There are two sets of tyre tracks in the road, those from Ayden’s vehicle weaving an erratic course to the curb, and the straight lines Naomi had created when they’d arrived home a short while ago. ‘He knows we’re here and that we haven’t been in long.’
Seconds slip by while they hold their breath. Minutes pass, and still they dare not move. Claire holds back the edge of the curtain while Naomi looks over her shoulder. There’s no sign of life from the BMW. They’re beginning to wonder if it has been abandoned. If that were the case, however, there would be telltale footprints leading away from it, but the road is as white and smooth as a wedding cake.
‘This is ridiculous.’ Eventually Naomi stands back. ‘Why the hell am I whispering? Look, I’m going down to talk to him.’
‘You can’t do that. Ruth—’
‘This is different.’ Naomi snatches up her cellphone and thrusts it into Claire’s hand. ‘You watch from here. Any sign of trouble, dial 999.’
‘I really don’t think you should do this. Let’s call someone. Perhaps George—’
‘I refuse to be intimidated in my own home. And, no, I don’t need a man to sort this out.’
Claire feels sick with fear. She listens for Naomi’s footsteps descending the stairs, then her muttered curses as she struggles into her boots. The front door opens and cold air billows up the stairwell. Naomi comes into sight on the pavement below, stomping purposefully across to where the BMW is parked. When she starts thumping the car roof, Claire punches in the emergency numbers, ready to press the talk button. She’s only slightly relieved to see that the door doesn’t open. Instead the window is being wound down.
‘You just don’t get it, do you?’ Naomi spits the words at him. ‘She’s left you.
She’s not your property any more. We’re not going to let you hurt her ever again.
Now piss off or we’ll call the police.’
‘The police? Bloody useless load of wankers, they are. Go on, then: call them.
What do you think they’re going to do, eh? Arrest me for sitting in my own car?
I’ve a right to park here. Go on—fetch the sodding police, if you want to. See what they have to say about it. They can’t touch me and you know it.’ ‘Well, let’s see what they do when we tell them about Ruth.’ ‘What? You think they give a toss about that interfering old bag? I’ll tell you the same as I told her: what I do with my wife is none of your fucking business. And you can tell Claire from me to keep her bloody mouth shut. And the same goes for you if you don’t want to see her locked up.’
Naomi steps back. Now she’s pointing at him, her arm outstretched, shoulders rising as she takes a deep, deep breath.
‘We know you, Ayden Drayton.’ Her voice sounds strangely resonant, echoing as if both distant and imminent; subtle, yet potent as venom.
The sneer fades from Ayden’s face.
‘We know you. We know what you have done. And we will make you pay.’ The words reverberate through the midnight air like cracking ice.
Ayden makes an attempt to close the window and fumbles at the dashboard. Somehow his hand finds the key and the engine fires.
From the flat above, Claire watches Naomi step back as the car spins away from the kerb and slews across the road like a huge, frightened beast. Naomi stands motionless in the roadway until the tail lights disappear, then she turns and makes her way back to her front door.
Claire is already halfway down the stairs to meet her. ‘Are you all right? What did he say?’
‘Nothing that we didn’t already know. Come on up. I don’t know about you, but I really fancy some toast and peanut butter.’
Morning of Thursday, 18 January
Last Quarter
It’s now nearly nine o’clock and Sally ought to be getting down to some work. Cat brushes against her legs, and without thinking Sally picks her up. Since last night she hasn’t been sure what she feels about Cat. But with Cat tucked snugly in her arms, paws on shoulders and purring with the pleasure of physical closeness, she’s just the same cat she was yesterday and the day before that.
‘Who’d of thought it, eh, Puss? We make a formidable team, don’t we, you and I.’ Then she remembers Jonathan and is sickened by what she may have done. ‘I’m beginning to wonder what else we’re capable of.’
Just then the telephone rings. ‘Hi. Abbie here. Have you got a moment? Can you come over? I’ve got something wonderful to show you.’ She sounds excited. ‘Please say you can come. I’m in the stables.’
The garden and the area of trees are full of snow, so Sally goes the long way around. Even so, Wicker Lane is slippery and she’s glad of her thick boots and padded jacket. As she rounds the house and heads for the stable block, she’s not surprised to find Cat there ahead of her. She obviously took the shortcut and now ignores her mistress, having other business to attend to in the storage sheds.
As soon as Abbie sees Sally, she puts down her broom. ‘Shush, quietly now—we mustn’t alarm them.’ Her hair is a tousled mess and her face flushed. She looks radiant. ‘Over here.’
The foal is swaying on ungainly legs. It takes a couple of steps towards its mother, nearly tumbles, but manages to steady itself. The mare tosses her head and snorts a gentle warning at Sally, then nuzzles her newborn.
Sally gasps with wonder. ‘When did this happen?’
‘About two hours ago. As Ginger is her mother I thought we’d call her Cinnamon, Cindy for short.’
‘She’s amazing. Perfect. And she can stand up and everything. Have you been up all night?’
‘Well, most of it. Brian McPherson came out. Not that he was needed—it all went very smoothly. And George has been supplying endless coffee and sandwiches, bless him.’
‘I’ve never seen anything born. Well, only on TV.’
‘It’s something you never get used to—always a miracle.’
‘New life, a blessing after all that has happened. You must be exhausted. Or elated?’
‘Both. I’m still running on adrenalin. It’ll hit me about mid-morning, I should think. George’s the one who’s feeling it at the moment. Still, I’m keeping out of his way.’
‘Why’s that?’
‘Oh, this damned documentary thing. It was bound to come up again with Brian here.’
‘And?’
‘Oh, I don’t know what to think. I called in the vet as a matter of course, you see, but he wasn’t really needed. I delivered the foal. Me and Ginger and Nature, all working together. And after everything else that’s happened…’
‘After what you did for Claire, you mean. Look, you can’t deny that you have a…a what? Talent? Skill?’
‘I was thinking more of Ruth. She wasn’t afraid to follow her convictions, even though she paid a dreadful price. And here am I, holding back because I don’t want to upset George.’
‘What do you think he’d do? Divorce you? Cast you out of the family home, never to darken his doors again?’
‘No. He’d rant and rave, then sulk for a bit. Probably slam a few doors.’
‘And for that you’re prepared to deny who you are?’
‘When you put it like that…No, I’m being flippant. It’s not as simple as that. We’re an old family, you see. George has a certain influence in this community and he epitomizes certain values—honesty, integrity. It’s George and people like him who hold society together.’
‘But time changes things, Abbie,’ says Sally. ‘And values change, too. I know it looks like we’re making a mess of life, but some of those changes are for the better.’
‘Of course they are. But they can happen only if there’s some sort of basic stability. The only reason I’m allowed to practise alternative medicine, and that Naomi can call herself a witch and still walk through the village without being stoned to death, is because of George and people like him. Don’t you understand that?’
‘Hey, calm down now.’ Sally puts her hands on Abbie’s shoulders. ‘I’m sorry, I’d no idea you felt so strongly about this.’
‘But can’t you see—’
‘Yes, I can see now. You’re between a rock and a hard place. Whatever you decide to do, you’ll feel you’re betraying someone.’
‘Yes, that’s it.’
‘But what about yourself?’
Abbie is silent for a moment, then nods and relaxes. ‘“First know yourself, and to yourself be true.” You’re absolutely right. What with everything that’s happened lately, I seem to have lost sight of who I am. I need some time out, some space to think when I’m not so tired. I’d better finish up here and then get my head down.’
‘That wouldn’t be a bad idea. But if you want to talk it through, you always know where to find me.’
Evening of Saturday, 20 January
New Moon
No one asks Naomi where she acquired the white ostrich feather at such short notice. It’s just one of those things that Naomi would be likely to have. Her sitting room has been transformed. White sheets and shawls drape the windows and furnishings. An altar cloth of white satin gleams like mother of pearl in the light of a dozen white candles. Outside, snow still covers the fields, crisp and brittle in the now-frosting air. The world is a temple of white, the moon a sliver of ice.
Little has been said since they arrived. United in their common purpose, the women are nevertheless isolated by their own thoughts, each nursing their own blend of loss, anger and sorrow; to each the colour of grief holds a subtle variation of shade.
Sally watches as Naomi sets up the altar, the Wand, Cup, Pentacle and Athame. These are now familiar objects, yet they stir within her a kind of reverence. Trails of incense smoke curl up from the fire, something sharp, slightly bitter. Cedar, perhaps? Vervain? There is a jug of water from the spring—she was asked to bring that—a small loaf of dark bread, and, beside them, the feather and a length of white cord.
In the centre of the altar, Naomi places an Egyptian statue: a young woman, all in white, with snowy wings and a single feather as a headddress. In one hand, the woman holds an ostrich plume, like the one on the altar; in the other, a set of scales. There’s also a photograph of Ayden that Claire found among the things rescued from her house. She was going to destroy it, but Naomi said no, it might come in useful. There’s a tension in the room, a tightness in the stomach.
‘Blessed be all who are gathered here.’ The words are also familiar now, the pacing three times around the circle. ‘I create sacred space.’ The Guardians of the quarters are summoned and the room is sealed. ‘I create this circle of light to be a temple between the worlds. In the name of She who is Astarte and Isis I do consecrate and bless this place. So mote it be.’
When the central candle is lit, the new Goddess is summoned.
‘We call upon Maàt, winged Goddess of Truth. She who guides the sun and the planets on their path through the heavens, may She guide us now. Through Maàt, we invoke the laws of Universal Justice. Through Maàt, we seek to right the wrong done to our sister Ruth.’ Naomi turns to the other women. ‘Do I speak for all here?’
There are nods and whispers of agreement, except for Fran, who speaks out loud and clear. Abbie wipes a tear from her face.
More prayers and praises and offerings of oils and incense and flowers. Then Naomi takes up the white plume in her right hand and the photograph of Ayden Drayton in the left, balancing the two as if weighing one against the other.
‘Goddess Maàt, the first and foremost of your laws is: I have not killed, nor bid anyone kill. You see within the soul of all beings. Look into the heart of this man. If he has wronged our sister, then may that wrong be righted. If there is malice in his intent, then may it cause harm to no one but himself. If there is evil in his heart, may it be destroyed. If there is justice owed to her, then may Ruth be repaid. Is this the will of us all?’
‘Yes,’ the women reply. ‘It is our will.’
‘Then this is what we ask of the Winged Goddess: that Truth be revealed and that Justice be done.’
Naomi places the picture and the feather one upon the other, and, taking up the white cord, begins to bind them together. ‘For the life that was lost and sorrow heavy borne, let Truth be known and Justice be done.’
The spell is repeated and one by one the circle takes up the chant: For the life that was lost and sorrow heavy borne, let Truth be known and Justice be done.
Over and over, the spell is made until it is learned by rote. So now it will be recalled whenever thoughts turn to Ruth or whenever her name is spoken. And all the while Naomi binds the cord tighter and tighter. Eventually, as if on an unspoken signal, the chanting ceases and the bound items are laid upon the altar.
‘So mote it be.’
Bread is broken and eaten in silence. As the Cup is passed from hand to hand, Ruth’s name is whispered. The temple is closed.
Philip Hunter-Gordon
9 February 2007
Yes! Had words with Professor Harris. I was told he had done some local research on Hallowfield; apparently he was living here at the time. This would have been about twenty years ago. Some of the Hallowfield families go back generations, and the prof got to know the older residents in an attempt to record the oral history before it all got lost. They told him the stories their grandparents had told them about what their grandparents had heard (Things don’t seem to get passed down like that any more.) Among the tales he managed to record were some gems about the witch hunts. When I explained what I had uncovered in our family, he was very excited and insisted on lending me his own writings. He did stress that it’s all folklore and hearsay, nothing can be authenticated. However, I am welcome to make use of his work, provided I make any new findings available to him.
Now, according to the old folks, there was an ongoing grievance between Sarah Norton, who lived in Stonewater Cottage at the time, and Adam Sewell, who owned most of the and that was not owned by my family. Sewell was not a well-liked man—apparently he had some sort of physical disfigurement and a personality to match. It seems he had made an offer of marriage to Sarah, which she rejected. He was possibly more interested in her property than her. (Some of the fields behind the cottage, including what is now our paddocks, were once part of the cottage grounds.) His ambitions thwarted, maybe he started looking for other ways of getting his hands on her land. But who knows?
For whatever reason, Sewell persuaded the Reverend Payton to stir up public feeling, to the extent that Sarah and her friend Abigail (my ancestor) were charged with witchcraft. Payton had already publicly accused the two women (no explanation for this, but apparently Payton made a regular thing of denouncing people from the pulpit), and so was more than ready to comply with Sewell’s demands. Incited by Payton’s and Sewell’s accusations, a group of men came at night to Sarah’s cottage and forcibly dragged the women away. They were taken off to appear at the assizes at Bury.
The women were accused of practising witchcraft and of being in league with the Devil. (Although, from what I understand, witchcraft has nothing to do with Satanism. In fact, modern witches don’t even believe in the personification of evil.) However, fortunately for the women, they were interrogated by a county magistrate who had retained some rationality despite the current wave of witch hysteria. A strange giant of a man by all accounts, quiet but influential and fair-minded. He was referred to as ‘The Badger’ on account of the white streak in his mop of black hair. Anyway, he released the women without charge and sent them home.
And apparently he sent Payton and Sewell off with a flea in their ear, which must have really pissed them off.