The Return of the Witch (7 page)

 

PART TWO

 

5

BATCHCOMBE, 1647

I became aware that I was no longer sleeping, which is not to say that I was properly awake. My senses were confused and disordered. My body would not respond to my wishes, so that I was not even able to open my eyes. I felt rested and peaceful. In fact, my overriding feeling was one of calm. I had no real desire to rouse myself, yet I knew things were oddly out of kilter. Knew that I ought to be concerned and to fight against such seductive lethargy. I could hear sounds, faint and fragmented, but they were familiar. I attempted to focus my attention upon them in an effort to identify each. Birdsong. Light, high notes of small birds. Some louder crowing a short way off. Above me, the rustling of leaves as if disturbed by a gentle breeze. A curious distant creaking, rhythmic and steady, the sound of something heavy in motion, such as I was certain I had not heard before. I breathed deeply and could detect the scent of hawthorn and sun-warmed grass, could taste pollen and dusty soil; the scents and flavors of a summer meadow. Slowly I regained command of my body, sensation returning to my limbs, so that I was once again conscious of my own weight, my own strength, and that I was not sitting but lying down. I moved my hands out at my sides, palms flat, and felt soft, dense turf beneath them.

At last I opened my eyes and my vision confirmed that I was indeed in a beautiful field, a hay meadow, with fescues and grasses in full flower, and a benign sun warming the day. I shook my head to clear it, forcing myself to make sense of the nonsensical. The sky was sharply blue and devoid of clouds. On two sides the swath of pasture was bordered by ancient woodland. I was able to lift my head but was far too weak and too drowsy to sit up, let alone stand. One thing was clear to me: This was no dream. I was no longer in the kitchen, no longer in Willow Cottage. I noticed a thudding through the ground, growing stronger. Footsteps. Heavy. A man. I struggled to move, to find a place to hide. Was it Gideon? Was he coming for me now, too? I was so weak and vulnerable. My vision blurred as a figure came into view. A tall man, broad shouldered. I could not see his face clearly enough to identify him. I tried to speak but could utter no sound. I sensed a powerful magic emanating from him. The man stooped down and picked me up. I felt the rough fabric of his shirt against my face. I could smell bread, and as the strangeness of this struck me I fell into a giddy darkness and unconsciousness claimed me once more.

The second time I awoke was markedly different from the first. I was jolted from my sleeping state violently, aware of thunderous, crashing noise, and a shuddering of the very bed on which I found myself. I came to suddenly, gasping for breath, and cast about me to see where I was and what could be causing such unnatural sounds. I was in a low-ceilinged, sparsely furnished room with shuttered windows. Daylight fell through the gaps between and around them. The walls were of an uncommon construction, appearing to form a hexagon rather than a rectangle. The area of the ceiling was narrower than that of the floor. I swung my legs over the side of the rustic bed and as soon as my feet connected with the bare boards the strong trembling and juddering passed through them and disturbed my entire body. It was as if the very building was straining at its foundations, wishing to pull itself up and charge away across the countryside. In the center of the room was a curious column, a wooden inner chamber of sorts, which traveled up through the ceiling and down through the floor. Confused, I went to the nearest window, undid the latch, and threw open the shutters. At once an enormous board swooped down past the opening, causing me to fall backward in my shock. As I scrambled to my feet once more, I at last understood. I was inside a windmill. I watched a moment longer and sure enough, another sail passed the window, and seconds later another. The rumbling would be the millstone, the shuddering the echo of its heavy movement traveling through the whole building. I tightened my shawl about my waist and straightened the scarf on my head. Aloysius surprised me by peeping out of my pinafore pocket. I pushed him gently back inside and stepped warily down the dusty stairs that led from the far side of the room.

As I descended, the noise increased. Below the bedchamber was a storeroom, stacked with sacks of corn and flour. I noticed two fat tabby cats sunning themselves on a window ledge. Naturally, where there was food there would be mice, and where there were mice there would be those who liked to eat mice. I put my hand in my pocket to ensure Aloysius did not choose that moment to go exploring.

The ground floor housed the workings of the mill. Here a huge, flat stone lay, pinned at its middle by the colossal metal rod that dropped though the height of the building. The one acted upon the other through a series of cogs and wheels, each working the next, driving the stone on its slow revolutions, all power harnessed from the easy wind outside via those four broad sails. At one end of a series of troughs, a hopper dropped wheat through a chute to feed the hungry stone as it crushed and ground the grain into flour. The air was thick with fine white dust that tasted of breakfasts and picnics and warm, family kitchens. However appealing my surroundings, I was on edge. It was clear to me I had been transported to an unknown place and time, but by whom? Could the summons I sent out to a Time Stepper have been so swiftly heard and acted upon, and without my further conscious participation? Or had Gideon returned for me? It was crucial I remain on my guard. My witch senses were tingling, alert to danger, detecting a strong magical presence, and yet I did not discern a threat proportionate to Gideon's power.

The main door of the windmill was open, and through it came the sounds of someone wheeling something. I ducked into the shadows, hiding myself as best I could, waiting to see who would enter the building. Seconds later a man pushed a trolley through the doorway, on which were stacked several heavy sacks. He stopped at the hopper and took out a long knife with which he sliced open each sack before emptying the grain into the worn wooden receptacle. His movements were not deft, but they were swift, impatient perhaps. My view of the man was partially obscured by the grain bins in front of me. I crept forward a little, needing to see his face. His build was similar to that of Gideon, but that in itself was not sufficient to alarm me. Surely if this was my adversary of centuries I would know him now? I reminded myself how adept the warlock was at masking his identity. I must be certain.

I watched as the man finished one task and began another. He removed the freshly filled sacks from the end of the chute and tied them securely before hefting them up onto slatted shelves nearby. He grunted with effort as he worked, and seemed strangely awkward in his movements, almost as if such labor was unfamiliar to him. As he lifted a particularly tightly stuffed sack he faltered as he swung it to his shoulder. His gripped loosened and the hessian slipped through his fingers. With a shout he stumbled, upending the entire sack of flour over himself. He cut such a comical figure, muttering oaths as he beat at his coated clothes, wiping flour from his eyes and face, that I could not suppress a gasp. He looked up. I was discovered. Steeling myself, I stepped forward into the pool of sunlight that fell through the open door. Now, with a clearer view, even in his floury state, it was obvious this was not Gideon. It was not simply his physical appearance—which could have been easily influenced by magic—it was his aura, his own personal energy. There was no evil emanating from him, nor did I detect anything blocking my reading of him. I had not realized that I had been holding my breath. The relief was tremendous, but accompanied by short temper, as if so often the case when one has been close to an imagined danger and feels foolish for being fearful.

“Ah-ha!” exclaimed the miller, “You are awake.”

“Evidently.”

“And do you feel quite well?”

“Thank you, yes.”

He stared at me hard, as if examining some rare creature. I became uncomfortable beneath such scrutiny.

“I have no wish to interrupt your work…” I told him.

“Oh, this?” He laughed, making further futile attempts to dust off his shirt. “It can wait. A guest is more important than a few bags of flour, surely.”

“The families who rely upon it to stave off winter hunger may not agree with you.”

“Indeed they may not,” he nodded, with mock seriousness.

I found his teasing impertinent and unhelpful. I was at a disadvantage, not knowing where I was or who had brought me here. He must have known something of my circumstances and I did not appreciate his levity.

“If you would be so good as to tell me where I might find your master,” I said, “I will trouble you no further.”

This made him grin like an imbecile! After a pause he answered. “I regret he is not in a condition to receive visitors at present. However, I know he will be with you just as soon as ever he can. Might you be more comfortable waiting upstairs?”

“I would rather use the time to take some air,” I told him. “Please inform him that he will find me outside.” So saying I turned to step through the open door. A sudden swooshing and the passing of a swift shadow made me halt in my steps. I waited, realizing that the sun had been made to blink by the passing of the great sails of the mill. It was difficult to tell, without having seen the building from the outside, how low the swirling arms reach.

“Fear not, mistress!” the man called after me. “You may step outside without risk of injury.” Even then I could hear the laughter in his voice.

I nodded rather curtly, not wishing to give away how rattled I was. I stepped forward with more confidence than I felt. The day was warm and bright, and the air wonderfully fresh after the gritty atmosphere inside. I looked up, shielding my eyes against the sun. The building towered above me, much taller than I had first realized, with windows suggesting at least two more floors above the one in which I had found myself. The lower portion was constructed of red brick, while the upper part was wooden. There appeared to be a manner of cap that sat on the top in place of a more common roof, and it was to this that the sails were attached. There were four of them, each about twenty feet long and six wide. They moved gracefully, quietly, save for a small amount of creaking now and again, and a soft swooshing as they scythed through the air.

The windmill was situated at the top of a low hill, surrounded by fields and approached by a broad track that was well worn by cartwheels. I could see an expanse of woodland below. The countryside looked familiar. It could have been the area near Batchcombe, but I could not be certain. It might have been any corner of rural England. And what of the date? If I had truly journeyed back through time, what were the chances of my emerging at the precise time Tegan now inhabited? Did I even, in truth, know when that was? I had only the vaguest information to go on. The uniforms of the Parliamentarian soldiers had been a common sight for more than a decade. I had little chance of finding Tegan if I had arrived late, and none at all had I arrived early. The thought of her, of what she might be enduring, of her being Gideon's prisoner, caused my heart to ache. I reminded myself that she was a brave, resourceful woman and an accomplished witch. She would not be helpless. And she must know that I would follow. That I would never give up my search for her. If only she could endure, could withstand Gideon and whatever purpose he had for her, until I could find her.

I was just wondering how long my host would keep me waiting when a voice behind me made me start.

“I see you are enjoying the view. It is charming enough in its rustic way, I grant you.”

I turned to find the miller standing behind me. He had washed the flour from his face, though his unkempt, shoulder-length hair was still dusty with it, and he now wore a jacket of dark tweed with a scarlet spotted kerchief knotted at his neck. So revealed, he was younger than I had first thought, with pale grey eyes that crinkled when he smiled, which he did frequently.

He dipped a swift bow, then stuck out his hand. “Erasmus Balmoral. Exceptionally pleased to make your acquaintance,” he said. “Though, of course, we have already met, albeit without introduction. I apologize for the somewhat intimate nature of our interactions so far. I often feel it is a poor way to encounter someone for the first time, something of a leap over the usual order of things, but there we are. Time Stepping is an inexact science. More an art, in truth. And as such, I suppose, we must forgive it the occasional impropriety.”

I stared at him. “
You
are the Time Stepper?”

“For my sins. I trust you have not suffered any ill effects? Some find a ringing in the ears persists, or a giddiness. Headaches, perhaps?”

“I am quite well, thank you. But, I confess, I wasn't expecting…” I hesitated. This was not how I had pictured a Time Stepper. They were bookish people, exceedingly clever, committed to their calling, having spent years studying their singular craft. This man was roughly hewn, shabby-looking, dishevelled, and engaged in manual labor.

“… a miller? No, I don't suppose you were.” He grinned, waving his arm at the windmill behind him. “It is rather splendid, though, don't you agree? True, the living quarters are a little basic, but I believe I have made them acceptably comfortable. Why don't we go in, and I'll prepare a light luncheon? You must be hungry, after all, you haven't eaten in centuries!” He laughed loudly at his own joke and offered me his arm. I took it and allowed him to lead me briskly back into the mill house. It seemed he did everything at some speed. He released my arm to bound up the stairs ahead of me to the chamber in which I had awoken. He hastened to throw open all the shutters, clearly a man given to energetic movements, and I saw that there was a simple stove on the far side of the room, with a water bowl, jug, and shelves and cooking utensils about the place. I sat at the small table and watched as he took bread and cheese from a slatted cupboard and placed them before me, snatching up a jar of pickles and a pat of butter, too.