Arcane II (15 page)

Mrs Stanley nodded. “That one there is briony.” She pointed to a pile of green and white flowers.

She poured some fungi on the tray.

“And these are fly agaric, and death cap.”

Jonty walked over with a black burnt pan and slid the herbs into the opaque liquid inside, putting the pan to rest above the fire.

“Now we wait till the mixture is good and boiled,” he said, smiling at Nettie.

“And then?” she asked.

He tapped the side of his nose, then turned and blew it clear into the straw-covered floor.

The pan started to agitate on the brazier, the thick green liquid spitting over the rim into the flames. The stench caught in the back of Nettie’s throat and she turned to cough into her hand.

Mrs Stanley put an arm round her shoulders. “Don’t worry, love. We’ll soon have you right.”

A thought occurred to Nettie.

“I don’t have to drink it, do I?”

Mrs Stanley and Jonty laughed, raucous, tobacco-stained laughter.

“Not unless you want to be in a box by the time the sun drops, lass,” said Jonty, recovering himself. “Drink it? Dear me.”

“No, love. No drinking, till you buy us a pint to celebrate getting your property back,” said Mrs Stanley, fingers twisting faster and faster through the ribbons in her steel grey hair.

Jonty bent down, his back clicking with the effort, and pulled a corn dolly out from the corner.

He passed the figure to Nettie.

“Hold this little ’un in your left hand, and put your right on the handle of the pan.”

Nettie did as the old man asked, feeling the glow of heat through the oak handle.

“Now say, ‘By those from the fields and shadow of the hedges, has so-so got my caul?’”

Nettie repeated the phrase, adding in the name of the girl who now turned her lover’s head. The straw figure squirmed in her hand, but nothing else happened.

“Try another,” said Mrs Stanley.

Nettie repeated the phrase with another name. Again nothing. She repeated the phrase four more times.

“By those from the fields and shadow of the hedges, has Temperance Kaylocke got my caul?”

The pan boiled over, throwing dark smoke everywhere. The corn figure squirmed free of her grip. Outside, tumbling kindling clattered. A dried riverbed curse echoed through the yard.

Mrs Stanley strode out, Nettie following behind, to find Temperance stumbling from her cascaded perch. Mrs Stanley walked over and retrieved an emerald ribbon from Nettie’s hair, binding it around Temperance’s clouded gaze.

“May the green of the oceans bring the salt to shutter your haunted sight.”

She whipped an orange ribbon out from her own hair, and bound it around Temperance’s left wrist.

“Let fire hold you from resistance.”

She reached into her pocket and pulled out a handful of earth.

“Let grave soil stop lies from polluting your tongue,” she said, crushing the grains into Temperance’s cracked lips.

Jonty guided an unresisting Temperance into the barn and barred the doors with an old piece of ash, bound round with holly. They glimpsed the smoke from the pan filling the barn, from the trampled floor up, listened as it rose through the air, in every nook, between bale and beam. They could hear Temperance stumbling, the dense steam fogging her steps. From inside came a knocking, scarred knuckles against hardwood. Nettie went to move the ash. Mrs Stanley stopped her.

“Not yet,” she said, holding Nettie back.

“But she’s—” Nettie said.

“Fine,” said Mrs Stanley. “We know what we’re about.”

The knocking continued, rising then dropping away, replaced by words.

“Your low magic tranced my feet, dragging me through field and thorn, and now you poison me with smoke and soil.”

“Do you have the caul?” said Jonty.

A coughing answered, “On my person.”

He knelt down, knees cracking, and tapped on the bottom of the door.

“Pass out the bag and I’ll open the doors.”

With a flower of smoke a bag appeared. Jonty gripped it tight and passed it to Nettie.

“Now you need to take what’s yours, and run it across your skin. Let the luck recognise you again.”

Nettie did as the old labourer said, feeling the softness of the caul lift the the ache from her bones and mirror the gaze of luck back to her. Mrs Stanley lifted the door bar, letting Temperance out into the early morning sun. She removed the ribbons, crystals of salt still encrusted on Temperance’s cataract eyes, soil still gritting her teeth.

Mrs Stanley stood with her hands on her hips.

“The only low magic here is yours, Temperance, and I think it’s time to herd it back to your own place.”

***

Over the next few days the luck started to return to Nettie. Her hair became brighter, the colour returning with the glow of each dawn. The cracked and worn skin slew off like an adder leaving an old body to be born afresh.

Nettie did not take the boy back to her bed, and she never married. Yet others came to her cottage, with gifts and riches, and when she wanted to be held while she slept, there was always a lover for her to take to her bed.

Palace of Rats

Anna Sykora

Deep in the forest of the Harz, sunset was burning through the dry trees when at last we reached the gate of Our Lady of Sorrow. Fida, my terrier, cocked a ragged ear; for hours we’d seen not a wagon, not a miner, while she trotted beside me patient as a friend. Why were we stopping here?

“We need this work,” I told her, unshouldering the pack of gear. My back ached; Bishop Bonifatius says I must be about 40, an old man. The bishop’s plump as a piglet, with hands like a lady who just sits inside. Men of the church eat well these days, but they can read and write.

When I pulled the gate’s chain, a bell tolled like a warning and Fida whined. “Bread or meat, you get a quarter of my feed,” I vowed, and we waited for a while like hopeful fools, sniffing the wind for cooking smells. I was just reaching for the chain again when a slide in the oaken gate grated open.

“What do
you
want, so late in the day?” demanded a lean old nun.

“I’m Franz Durr, with a letter from the Bishop of Halberstadt.” I held up the roll of vellum with his seal, and she snatched it like a goose grabs a crust.

“I am Sister Sieghilde, and this is an enclosed community. You must wait outside for our abbess to answer.”

My stomach growled. “For pity, Sister. We’ve trudged all the way from Wernigerode and we’re hungry as farmers in a famine. Won’t you let us inside your walls?”

“Well, we were not expecting you.” Bang—she shut the slide. I settled down on a rock to wait, and Fida stuck her damp nose in my cheek.

“Here’s a fine welcome,” I complained. “You’d think they’d show their bishop more respect.” The sun was slipping under the world. What if we had to sleep in the woods? Wolves and bears still prowl the Harz. Why had I jumped to the bishop’s bidding?

God forgive me, I knew why: other men heap up coins, but I spend my wages, liking strong drink more than water from the stream. I like pretty women too, though they don’t like me because of my trade. With this job at the convent I’d earn more coins before winter sank its fangs into me, the winter of
Anno Domini
1348.

The farmers swore it would be a fierce one, the rabbits in the fields already skin and bones. Plus I’d heard rumors of a new plague killing folks in the south like flies. What if these forest nuns turned me away? I could freeze like a man by the side of the road, but what about my dog? I’d trained Fida from a pup to help me, and I’d rather keep her than a sturdy young apprentice. Lately I’d sold my cart and pony, but before I sold Fida I’d sell myself to the Devil and his grim crew.

Suddenly the heavy gate creaked open, and out stepped Sister Sieghilde, black habit sweeping the ground and white of her wimple none too clean. Mean-mouthed, she looked like a witch, I swear, and Fida—who’d led me down a hundred drains as if we hunted meek mice for sport—backed away like a skittish girl. I grabbed her studded collar.

“Rat-catcher, you’ll sleep at our gardener’s cottage, right up the path. Tomorrow you trudge back to Wernigerode. We do not have an infestation.”

“But the bishop said—”

“Men of the church say what they please.”

“But he paid me a third of my fee, in silver, and promised to pay the rest when I’m done.”

“Then keep what he gave you, for your pains. We’ll ask our gardener to feed you tonight for the love of God.”

“For His or my own, as you wish,” I jested, and she cast me a look to shrivel an oak. “Come along, Fida; at least we’ll dine.” And I hoisted my heavy pack.

***

The sun’s light had faded to thin gruel when we reached the odd stone cottage set into a hill. No larger than a shepherd’s hut, it had no windows, and smoke puffed from an upside-down flowerpot capping the buried chimney. I crossed myself and rapped on the door.

A bent greybeard with matted hair opened it, peering up with kindly eyes: “
Guten abend
, son. The sisters said you’d share my humble home tonight.” How could he be expecting us? We’d seen no messenger on the path.

“I’m Franz Durr, of Wernigerode. Rat-catching is my trade.”

“Is that so? I’m Hans Memel, born in Halberstadt.” He shook my hand and didn’t complain when Fida followed me inside. She lay down before his hearth and shut her eyes. The pot in the tripod over the fire steamed meat stew, and I licked my lips.

“Hungry?” asked Hans.

“Sure. From Wernigerode it’s all uphill.” He had me lean my pack against the wall and offered me a low stool. His one smoky room boasted no table, just a lumpy sleeping sack, and garden tools glinted along the walls. He ladled stew into a wooden bowl and handed it to me carefully; I gulped it and burned my mouth.

“This is delicious,” I mumbled. “Tastes like rabbit raised in a hutch.”

Hans only smiled and served himself. “Hunger’s the best cook, they say.” I stared at the middle finger stumps on his left hand. “A mining accident,” he said calmly. “For twenty-five years I toiled like a mole, chipping out silver ore.”

“A nasty job. Miners miss the sun.”

“And you grab at rats with your bare hands and stow them in a cage.”

“I’m used to my work. I’ve been at the trade for nigh on twenty years.”

“Ever been bit?”

“Many a time.” Pushing up my sleeves, I showed off my scores of scars and missing pinky tip.

“Working does eat up a working man.” He slapped his knee with his maimed hand.

“I’m grateful the world has nests of rats, so I can work and eat.”

Hans tipped back his head and guffawed at this, revealing blackened teeth. I had only four rotten ones, and felt a glow of warmth for the man.

“You know, rats aren’t so bad. They want the same things people do: a warm hole to nest in, food to spare, safe company and plenty to drink.”

“Never thought of the critters that way.”

“Plus, rats fight you fair. They don’t come sneaking up in a horde; they fight to defend their nests and young. Oh, I’d rather live in a rat-eaten hut than with the worst rogues I’ve met.”

“Say, Franz, would you like a taste of my mead? I brew it with honey from the woods.”

“You may think me a fool, and many do, but I’ve sworn a vow to give up drinking. It’s hard drink has kept me poor all these years I’ve worked like an ox that turns a mill.”

“More stew, then? I can spare another bowl.”

“I’ve got some
groschen
here; I can pay.” I jingled the bishop’s silver in my purse.

“Save your money, son; let the sisters pay me.
They
can afford it,” Hans said firmly, plopping another dollop in my bowl. While I gobbled half, he sat stroking his beard.

“This bit’s for my dog. She earns her keep.” I set the bowl near Fida, who was snoring like a man. “Hans, aren’t our nuns supposed to be poor? And here, deep in the forest of the Harz...”

“Son, don’t always believe what people say. I’ve got a pair of eyes; you too.” He peered around his snug nest then, as if to find a stranger. Fida moved her paws in her sleep as if she trotted beside me. “Other men have visited Our Lady of Sorrow,” Hans whispered and winked. “
I’ve
never seen them leave.”

“How’s that? This is a convent.”

He tapped his lips with a grubby finger. “That’s all I’ll say; I’ve a safe home here, growing cabbages and carrots for the sisters... Now let’s rest our bones.” He wanted to loan me his straw-stuffed sack, but I helped him arrange a rush mat with a blanket near the fire. As soon as I lay down next to Fida she woke and started to whine. I offered her the leftover stew, but she trotted to the door and scratched at it.

“I’ll let her out to piss,” I said. “She’s always comes right back.” When I opened the door she scooted out, and a light snow was falling, like flurries of sawdust. Meaning to wait up for her, I lay down again before the crackling fire.

Dreaming I stood with a taper in my hand beside a moss-clotted grave, a grave marked only by a bare wooden cross. “Mother, I’ve been a wastrel,” I told her, “I’ve spent all my wages and most of my strength, with no wife or child to call my own, no hut, not even a chicken. I had to sell my rig to pay my debts, so I carry my gear like a wandering peddler.”

Magda’s grave breathed smoke as she whispered: “Have a care, my son. I lived and died a scullery maid, scouring pots in the houses of other women, and all for a wage of crusts and slop a sick pig wouldn’t swallow. Franz, use your eyes, before it’s too late.” But the taper in my hand hissed out, leaving me the world of dark.

Now I heard barking: Fida? Was I dreaming her too? When I forced my eyes open the room lay still as a grave, the fire just a child’s handful of embers.

“Hans?” I whispered but he didn’t stir. Getting up I opened the door a crack, and saw the half moon drifting over the trees like the wreck of a sailing ship. I heard another fit of barking far off, and out I rushed without my cloak. What was Fida doing, hunting rabbits in the woods when I needed her safe and strong! “Fida,” I howled and waited. “Fida!” She didn’t come running back to me. I waited till I couldn’t breathe in the bitter cold.