A Word to the Wise about Gratitude; an exciting Chase upon horseback; our Heroine’s Conversations with two Wise Women of the Woods; and a most astonishing Prophecy.
WE GALLOP’D FOR A Time whilst I sought to catch my Breath and determine the next Course of Action. I thankt Lustre from the Bottom of my Heart for this amazing Rescue, thankt the Almighty for my Redemption, thankt the Man in the Moon, my Stars, and e’en the Fates themselves for preserving me thus from an untimely Demise. (For I have noticed that altho’ Mortals are very prone to beg the Almighty for Aid when they are in some Difficulty, they are equally forgetful of thanking Him when they are deliver’d, and it hath always been my Philosophy, with God as with Man, that an Ounce of Prevention is worth a Pound of Cure.)
Galloping thus, with the Wind at my Back, and my Thoughts all in Disorder about the Events that transpir’d at the Fair, I did not hear, at first, the Noise of Hooves drawing closer, nor did I notice that I was being follow’d.
But presently some strange Sense of Unease made me turn about and lo! I saw behind me, galloping like the very Devil, Doggett himself.
He was swinging a Net as if to catch me, and carrying o’er his Shoulder a Matchlock Musket with a five-foot Barrel, such as an old Country Squire might use to bring down Birds.
I spurr’d on Lustre, who was, anyway, galloping as fast as his weary Legs could carry him, but alas, Doggett kept gaining on us. As he drew closer, he shouted,
“What’ll ye have fer that Horse?”
“Nothing,” said I, “I’ll ne’er part with him!” So that was Doggett’s Game—to take Lustre and exhibit him like some Freak in his hideous Display of Grotesques.
“Ne’er!” I swore; and that Resolve giving me the extra Surge of Pow’r I needed, I jump’d a Fence into a neighbouring Meadow and led Doggett a Merry Chase o’er Stiles and Streams until we finally reach’d a rapid-rushing River, where his Horse stumbl’d and falter’d, but Lustre, undaunted, waded across.
We had lost ’em for the nonce; across the River, I saw Doggett and his defeated Horse turn back. I devoutly hop’d we had seen the Last of him. But in losing our Pursuer, we had also lost the Road. Lustre was tired from the extraordinary Exertions of rescuing me. He requir’d Sleep and Water; I requir’d Rest. There was no Inn to be found here in the Wilds, and if we slept in the Open, the dread Doggett might come to claim us.
I dismounted, kiss’d Lustre upon his blessed Blaze, ran my Lips down his gently disht Forehead, and led him to the Banks of the rapidly rushing River where, by the Light of the Moon, we both might drink.
I was kneeling thus by the Stream, cupping the cool Water in my Hands whilst Lustre lapp’d contentedly beside me, when suddenly I noticed a strange bent Figure in a high-crown’d Beaver Hat loping along the River-Bank, follow’d silently by a silky Persian Cat. In one Hand she held an Elderberry Wand with which, from Time to Time, she struck the River Water, and she mutter’d curious Syllables I could scarce, at first, understand.
“Lilith, Ishtar, Ge!” she cried. “Isis hear my Plea! O boundless bitter Sea! I, thy Priestess, call to Thee!”
The Form and Figure of this Person was so very like Pictures I had seen of Witches that at first I was frighten’d, and I strove to hide from her. But then suddenly she saw me and seem’d, i’faith, more affrighted by my Presence than I was by hers.
“’Tis not what ye think!” she cried to me. “I’m merely catching Toads for Soup!”
Toads for Soup? I thought; how very strange indeed. But as the old Woman came closer, I could see in the Moonlight that her Face was kind, tho’ she smil’d nervously as if to hide something. She had the ruddy Face of a Countrywoman of about fifty Years of Age, and ’twas healthy and astonishingly free of the least Line or Wrinkle. Her Eyes were bright blue and almost merry; and what was more, the Eyes of her Cat were the same Jewel-like Colour.
She bow’d ceremoniously, and I could only do the same—so gentle, almost fragile, was her Manner. ’Twould i’faith have seem’d rude not to bow as she did.
Her Back, it seem’d, had been bent by some childhood Disease, but when she straighten’d up as best she could, her Form was not altogether unpleasing. The Cat leapt up into her Arms and she strok’d it as she spoke to me.
“What brings a Fine Gentleman like you to this part of the Woods?” she askt, her lower Lip trembling slightly despite her confident Manner.
“O Madam,” says I, “there was a wicked Man who sought to steal my Horse. He said he wisht to buy him—but buy or steal, ’tis all as bad to me. I’ll ne’er part with him, ne’er. He’s all I have in the World.”
So trustworthy were those blue Eyes that I had blurted all this out in the girlish Voice that Nature herself had given me, whereupon my good Countrywoman lookt me o’er with much Relief and exclaim’d merrily, “A Lass! Of course, you’re but a Lass dress’d in your Brother’s Clothes!” Then she laugh’d like Wind Chimes jingling on a breezy Day.
“Are you weary? Are you hungry?” she askt, as if she were my own Mother.
I nodded that I was.
Whereupon she put her Arm around my Shoulder, saying, “Don’t think you’re the first Maid to wear a Gentleman’s Garb against the ungentle World. Since Eden fell, there’s many have done the same. Come, Child, we’ll find Provision for your Horse, and Food and Bed for your poor tired Bones. On the Morrow, ’twill all look brighter.”
So saying, she led me thro’ the Woods to a small thatch’d Cottage, with trellis’d Roses rambling all about, and Larkspur and Lilies lining the Path to the Front Door.
I was reluctant to leave Lustre, e’en for a Moment, so my Good Woman left him ty’d in the front where I could see him thro’ the low Cottage Window, and he soon lower’d his Head and fell to sleeping, e’en before we brought his Oats.
Within the Cottage, all was Simplicity and rustick Warmth. A large open Hearth, with Tea Kettle boiling upon it and also hearty Soup in an open iron Pott. Plain Furniture of Oak and homespun Cloth for Pillows, and a woven Country Rug upon the earthen Floor.
The Good Woman (whose Name, she said, was Isobel White) liv’d with another, a Woman of about the same Age call’d Joan Griffith. But whereas Mother White was pink-cheakt and ruddy with Hair of whitish Hue and bright blue Eyes, Mother Griffith was swarthy as the Night itself, with Eyes like dark Coals. Her Voice was as deep as the other’s was high, and she was strong-bon’d and stout as Mother White was small. Her Breasts were large, her Lips large—in short, a Woman of Substance.
But my Eyes were drawn particularly to the Bauble she wore about her thick Neck. ’Twas a little silver Dagger, an exact Replica of the sort that might be worn at the Hip of an Asiatick Prince, and it twinkl’d and glitter’d with each Breath she drew. She, too, greeted me warmly, offer’d to put away my Cloak, Hat, and Riding Wig, e’en help’d me off with my Boots.
As I unpinn’d my long, red Hair, both Women exclaim’d at once of its Beauty. I toss’d my Head, happy to be return’d, for a Time, to my own Identity. But I could not help noticing how intently Mother White studied me, as if she were wond’ring whether we had met before.
O’er a simple Meal of Oxtail Soup, thicken’d with Oat Meal and flavour’d with Thyme and Sage, I told her of my Adventures at the Fair, my wond’rous Rescue by Lustre, and my narrow Escape from the greedy Hands of Mr. Doggett.
“Lucky you are the Rabble did not try you as a Witch,” said Mother Griffith in her booming Voice, “for ’tis a Country Belief amongst the Ignorant and Weak of Understanding that any Person of the Female Sex who hath perfect Communion with an Animal must therefore be a Witch and that Animal be her Familiar. Sure, your Stars are most auspicious, for you were spar’d the Ordeal by Water, which I myself have undergone on two Occasions.”
She said all this as casually as you please, but I was deeply shockt, for ne’er before had I met a Person tried as a Witch, tho’ certainly I had heard tell of such Things. I’faith, I had read horrible Accounts of the Burnings and Hangings of earlier Times and I knew such Things were not yet quite finish’d, tho’ the educated Persons of the Modern Age were quite divided upon the Subject of Witchcraft.
Many Persons of Understanding believ’d that tho’, in gen’ral, there might be such Things as Witchcraft, Commerce and Intercourse with Evil Spirits, and the like, ne’ertheless they could give no Credit to any particular Instance of it. I’faith, whene’er some old Woman had the Reputation of a Witch all o’er the Country, she was found, upon closer Inspection, to be a wretched Creature, doting and distemper’d, not so much malevolent as poor and infirm. Certainly, I had heard Tales of some of these old Women being hang’d or burnt or committed to Bridewell, upon the Evidence of some Half-Wit Child that he was made to vomit Pins, or the Evidence of some slatternly Dairymaid that the old Woman’s Look had curdl’d Milk, or the Evidence of some Town Trollop with Clap that the old Woman’s Touch had caus’d her to abort a Babe she doubtless wisht dead in any case—but nothing of the sort had happen’d in our Parish, so I tended to hear such Stories with a Divided Mind. Could such Cruelties really still exist in our Age, which was the Embodiment of Reason and Common Sense? I believ’d, and yet I did not believe. Such horrid Practices and dark Superstitions belong’d, I was sure, to previous Ages.
“Joan,” said Mother White to her Companion, “Fanny was disguis’d as a Man, thus the Accusation of Witch did not occur.”
“And lucky she was,” said Mother Griffith, dishing out more Soup for us all. “The Maid was born under a lucky Star.”
“That she was surely,” said Mother White, looking at me, as if she wisht to puzzle out a Mystery. For some Reason, her look frighten’d me, so I quickly brought the Conversation ’round to the Fact that I did not know my precise Birthdate, being as I was an Orphan.
“An Orphan?” askt Mother White. “Where then were you rais’d?”
“At Lymeworth, Lord Bellars’ Country Seat,” said I, all Innocence. But the Looks that the two old Women exchanged upon hearing that News were meaningful indeed.
“Come,” said Mother Griffith, as if to distract her Friend from some Troublesome Thought I knew not of, “let me prophesy your Future.”
She was, she said, an excellent “Skyrer,” or Crystal Gazer, but she had made very few Predictions of late for fear of reviving the Charge of Witchcraft, from which she had so narrowly escap’d.
“Is there such a Thing as Witchcraft?” I askt, sincerely wishing to know.
“Ah, Fanny,” said Mother White, “’tis a Subject so complicated that no two reasonable Persons can speculate upon it and find themselves of one Mind.”
“Not true at all,” said Mother Griffith, contradicting Mother White like a cantankerous old Husband who doth not agree with his wife’s Conversation. “There’s but one Explanation for Witchcraft and ’tis nothing more than the Enmity and Fear that Men bear for Women!”
“’Tis not so simple, Joan!” says Mother White, her blue Eyes flashing. “’Tis a Question of Old Beliefs carried on despite the Preachments of the Church…. For doth it not say in Exodus, ‘Thou shalt not suffer a Witch to live’? And in Leviticus, ‘Turn not to Mediums or Wizards’?”
“’Tis not the Point at all, Isobel,” says Joan warmly, her Voice becoming fever’d, her Expression serious and intense. “Many innocent Women have been burnt and hang’d thro’out Europe and e’en here in Merry England, because they knew Midwifery or Herbal Cures, or e’en because they were dislik’d and People wisht to steal their Land.”
“True enough,” says Isobel, “but Fanny wishes to know whether there is such a Thing as Witchcraft or no, and all your Fury doth not enlighten her one Whit!”
’Twas almost droll how they argu’d betwixt themselves. I had not seen the like of it since I had witness’d an Argument betwixt Mrs. Locke the Housekeeper and her Husband Locke the Butler. They had been married upwards of twenty-five Years and were e’er engaged in Domestick Strife, much to the Amusement of the other Servants.
“Fanny, my Dear,” says Isobel, “let me tell you my Opinion concerning Witchcraft and then Joan can tell you hers. ’Tis my Belief that in Ancient Times, in the Pagan Albion of Old, Women were not as they are now, subservient to Men in ev’ry Respect. Rather they were Queens and Priestesses, responsible for the Fructification of the Crops, and the Multiplication of the Herds; they were the Leaders of the Holy Rituals—”
“E’en the very word ‘Witch,’” Joan interrupted, “derives from our Ancestors’ Word ‘Wicca,’ meaning only ‘Wise Woman.’”
Isobel lookt cross. “Are you quite finish’d, Joan?” says she. “Will you hold your Tongue now and let me speak?”
“Yes, yes,” Joan mumbl’d, looking not a little vext.
“Well then,” says Isobel, “when Christianity came to these Isles, ’twas the Task of the Church to stamp out the Old Religions, but some of the remaining Wise Women would not relinquish their Learning, their Spells, Charms, and Healing Pow’rs, the which they had learnt at their Mothers’ Knees—”
“’Twas all White Magick, too!” interrupted Joan. “Nothing at all for Harm—but the Priests in their Fear told the ignorant Country Folk to fear us—”
“Will you hold your Tongue?” says Isobel.
“Very well,” says Joan.
“So these Wise Women,” continu’d Isobel, “were oft’ denounced, tortur’d, or kill’d; but if they were truly wise, they practis’d secretly—”
“As we do,” said Joan, smiling.
“Hush!” said Isobel.
“You—you are Witches?” I gasp’d, suddenly afraid of these two kindly old Ladies.
“Of course we are, Pet,” said Joan.
“O dear, O now you’ve ruin’d it.” Isobel sigh’d, burying her Head in her Hands.
“Fanny won’t betray us, will you, Dearling?” Joan askt, more with Menace in her dark Eyes than Beseechment. I’faith, I would be afraid to do so, I thought, for fear of Reprisal.
“Upon my Word, I will not,” said I. “I swear it by all that’s Holy….” I chok’d on that last Word and then was mute.
A sudden Panick seiz’d me. Perhaps they did not believe in God at all, but only in the Devil. Perhaps they were in league with him, us’d his Pow’r to fly thro’ the Air upon their Broomstaffs, held Sabbats at which they were defil’d by him and kiss’d his Arse, defil’d the Host, e’en turn’d the Cross upside down! O now I was really terrified! The Devil himself might rise at any Moment, with Horns upon his Head, Fire in his Mouth, a Tail in his Breech, Eyes like Basons, Fangs like a Dog, Claws like a Bear, and Nostrils that breath’d out the Smell of Brimstone.
“Come, Fanny,” said Isobel, once again looking up and focussing those bright blue Eyes upon me, “sure you don’t believe all that?”
“All what?” I askt, for I had not said a Word.
“All that you are thinking,” said Isobel calmly.
“Are you hearing my very Thoughts?” I cried in Terror.
“Dear Fanny,” she said, taking my Hand (which had grown quite cold with Fear), “’tis not as you think. A Wise Woman can hear certain Thoughts,” she said, “but not because she is wicked, and not because the Devil gives her Pow’r, but because she hath train’d her Mind to it by Extream Concentration, by Meditation in Solitude, and by many other Mental Rigours.”
“Then you can perceive what I am thinking?” I askt.
“Not always,” said Isobel. “But I can hear certain Thoughts as loudly as if they were Words. Thoughts like these are loud indeed. In fact, ’tis always true that Fears are easy to read. Fears are louder than any Thoughts, but e’en so they are the most foolish Thoughts of all.”
I star’d at her with Amazement, not knowing whether to credit her as a Genius or to abhor her as a Sorceress.
“Fanny, my Dear, you are too clever a Girl to believe what may have been confess’d under Torture by poor terrified Women examin’d by vicious Inquisitors. The Sisters of Wicca sure ne’er conjur’d the Devil, nor did they use their Broomstaffs except to sweep the Floor! They studied to be wise, to heal the Sick, to preserve their ancient Herbal Receipts, to gain Pow’r o’er their own Minds and Bodies, to bring Babies to Birth, and Crops to Harvest. All the Rest was but the evil Report of evil Men who fear’d the Wisdom of Women, who fear’d Female Knowledge, thus Female Pow’r….”
“Then there ne’er was a Black Mass, nor a Sabbat at which Babies were eaten?” I askt, still shaking.
“Perhaps there was,” said Joan, “but those who partook of it were poor deranged Souls, doom’d to imitate the Things of which they stood accus’d by their Inquisitors. They were not the Sisters of Wicca. And, sad to say, they were not Wise Women.”
I fell silent now, trying to understand these many Arguments. I was still not sure my Reason was sufficient to grasp ’em all.
Joan clear’d away the Soup-Dishes and Isobel brought out a fine Pudding studded with Currants and Raisins.
“Witchcraft,” she said, pointing to the Pudding. This broke the Spell of Silence and we all laugh’d heartily.
For a Time, we amus’d ourselves with humorous Rhodomontade, whereupon at last, when we had quite finish’d the Pudding and once more were merry and gay, Joan went to a large Sea-Trunk lodged under the Bed the two Women shar’d, and from its very Bowels extracted a strange Object. ’Twas the Size and Shape of a Bowling Ball and ’twas nestl’d in a Shroud of black Velvet, inky as the Sky on a moonless Night. Joan carefully unwrapp’d it to reveal a gleaming Crystal Sphere in whose Depths were mysterious Lights, Planets, Stars, whole Worlds.
Isobel rose and blew out all the Candles in the Room but one. Joan sat at the Table, staring into the Heart of the wond’rous Crystal. She grew e’er more pensive and melancholick as she did so, rockt back and forth in her Chair, mutter’d to herself, and press’d her Eyes very tightly shut. Then she chanted strange Syllables in a high-pitch’d Voice.
I, too, lookt into the Ball, searching in its mysterious Depths for the Key to my Future. I fancied I saw Seas and Continents swirling within the Ball, but perhaps ’twas just my Imagination deceiving me. I also thought I saw Lord Bellars’ handsome Face, then the ugly Face of Doggett, then the Face of a Copper-hair’d little Girl, then the Face of an ugly old Bawd—but all these Visions I discredited as Delusions and Fancies, not true Prophecies.
Finally, Joan began to speak. She spoke in Rhyme and in a Voice not like her own. ’Twas higher and shriller. Her Eyes blaz’d like smould’ring Coals and her whole stout Form sway’d and rockt like a Chandelier in a House that is about to collapse. I listen’d to ev’ry Word as if my Life hung in the Balance. Perhaps it did.
This is what she said:
“Your own Father you do not know.
Your Daughter will fly across the Seas.
Your Purse will prosper, your Heart will grow.
You will have Fame, but not Heart’s Ease.
From your Child-Womb will America grow.
By your Child-Eyes, you will be betray’d.
You will turn Blood into driven Snow.
By your own strong Heart will the Devil be stay’d.”