one per haps twenty years younger.
‘Can you write your name?’
She shook her head. It occurred to me that Tamar and I should be getting back to End House; now that I could find my way into the cave, I could always return later.
‘Well, I wish you joy of the log,’ I said. I was about to add, ‘and will fetch you more,’ but on consideration I did not like her enough to promise that.
‘God bless and keep you, Sir,’ she whined in the tones of the professional beggar.
‘Farewell.’ Disgust rising in me, I turned and made my way out of the cave, Tamar shuffling after. It was a relief to emerge into the light and air of the outside world. I yawned and stretched, then looked about me and cried out: ‘Tamar! Who’s that?’
‘Who?’
‘Over there,’ I said, pointing. As she turned, I plucked an amulet from the thorns outside the cave door.
She strained forward like a dog that scents game. At last she said, ‘There’s nobody there.’
‘A man in a blue cloak.’
Tamar shook her head. ‘Gone.’
I could not tell if she was glad of this or not. I remembered what Rose Barnes had said about men visiting the witch, and wondered was it perhaps Tamar they came to see.
* * *
At last, in the privacy of my chamber, I was able to unravel the amulet, which was fragile and cost me some pains to penetrate without tearing. Unwrapped, it consisted of a piece of writing in the shap wridiamond, with a scrap of rag stained reddish-brown, a few hairs and what looked like a dried mushroom folded inside it. The paper had been scrolled around them to form a lozenge-like shape and then sealed with some sort of gum. It struck me that the outside of Joan’s cave must be well sheltered from rain, for the writing, though faint and purplish – it looked like blackberry juice, or sloe – was still clear. It appeared to be a love charm. The legend, complete with marks, ran thus:
turn
wanderer
turn three
times round three
three times cross and
three times back three
Under His tail & Out by His mouth
Contrariwise, the Lord of this world
Three hairs on his head
Three nails on his foot
home again
wanderer
turn
When I say ‘ran thus’ I mean it was something like that: ungodly gibberish and not easy to remember, though I would swear to the marks at each corner. The lines were uneven but the lack of a table would account for that. It seemed, then, that Rose had told me the truth: one of the women, at any rate, could handle a pen. I crumpled the spell in my hand and then opened the thing again, poring over it as if it might shed some light on the trackless way where I found myself; but I was as mired in darkness as ever.
*
Not so long ago, I had imagined I had only to wait until Tamar gained courage and spoke out, revealing my uncle’s secret. Now that I had spied into this wretched amulet, however, all manner of possibilities had opened to me along with its scribble: Tamar writing a letter under his dictation; Tamar substituting her own letter for his; Tamar taking his letter to Joan, who read it and then produced another more to her own taste. Each seemed equally likely, and equally pointless.
The worst possibility was that Robin had never written all. He had no crime to confess and nothing to put right; the women themselves had written the letter my father received. Even if I knew this for certain, and I was very far from knowing anything, what might their reasons be?
Had they perhaps done Robin some harm? My first childish thought was of spells, but I am sceptical of witchcraft. Poison, though … none could deny the power of poison. Slip it into a baked apple or a dish of broth, and what follows? Flux and vomit. Uncle Robin suffered both, and as a result my aunt stayed away from him, leaving all the nursing to Tamar. He was alone and helpless. My aunt had said his hands were stiff. How easy for Tamar to rub them as if to soothe the pain, and to slide the ring from his wasted finger. But (I now recalled)
‘Can you write your name?’
She shook her head. It occurred to me that Tamar and I should be getting back to End House; now that I could find my way into the cave, I could always return later.
‘Well, I wish you joy of the log,’ I said. I was about to add, ‘and will fetch you more,’ but on consideration I did not like her enough to promise that.
‘God bless and keep you, Sir,’ she whined in the tones of the professional beggar.
‘Farewell.’ Disgust rising in me, I turned and made my way out of the cave, Tamar shuffling after. It was a relief to emerge into the light and air of the outside world. I yawned and stretched, then looked about me and cried out: ‘Tamar! Who’s that?’
‘Who?’
‘Over there,’ I said, pointing. As she turned, I plucked an amulet from the thorns outside the cave door.
She strained forward like a dog that scents game. At last she said, ‘There’s nobody there.’
‘A man in a blue cloak.’
Tamar shook her head. ‘Gone.’
I could not tell if she was glad of this or not. I remembered what Rose Barnes had said about men visiting the witch, and wondered was it perhaps Tamar they came to see.
* * *
At last, in the privacy of my chamber, I was able to unravel the amulet, which was fragile and cost me some pains to penetrate without tearing. Unwrapped, it consisted of a piece of writing in the shap wridiamond, with a scrap of rag stained reddish-brown, a few hairs and what looked like a dried mushroom folded inside it. The paper had been scrolled around them to form a lozenge-like shape and then sealed with some sort of gum. It struck me that the outside of Joan’s cave must be well sheltered from rain, for the writing, though faint and purplish – it looked like blackberry juice, or sloe – was still clear. It appeared to be a love charm. The legend, complete with marks, ran thus:
turn
wanderer
turn three
times round three
three times cross and
three times back three
Under His tail & Out by His mouth
Contrariwise, the Lord of this world
Three hairs on his head
Three nails on his foot
home again
wanderer
turn
When I say ‘ran thus’ I mean it was something like that: ungodly gibberish and not easy to remember, though I would swear to the marks at each corner. The lines were uneven but the lack of a table would account for that. It seemed, then, that Rose had told me the truth: one of the women, at any rate, could handle a pen. I crumpled the spell in my hand and then opened the thing again, poring over it as if it might shed some light on the trackless way where I found myself; but I was as mired in darkness as ever.
*
Not so long ago, I had imagined I had only to wait until Tamar gained courage and spoke out, revealing my uncle’s secret. Now that I had spied into this wretched amulet, however, all manner of possibilities had opened to me along with its scribble: Tamar writing a letter under his dictation; Tamar substituting her own letter for his; Tamar taking his letter to Joan, who read it and then produced another more to her own taste. Each seemed equally likely, and equally pointless.
The worst possibility was that Robin had never written all. He had no crime to confess and nothing to put right; the women themselves had written the letter my father received. Even if I knew this for certain, and I was very far from knowing anything, what might their reasons be?
Had they perhaps done Robin some harm? My first childish thought was of spells, but I am sceptical of witchcraft. Poison, though … none could deny the power of poison. Slip it into a baked apple or a dish of broth, and what follows? Flux and vomit. Uncle Robin suffered both, and as a result my aunt stayed away from him, leaving all the nursing to Tamar. He was alone and helpless. My aunt had said his hands were stiff. How easy for Tamar to rub them as if to soothe the pain, and to slide the ring from his wasted finger. But (I now recalled)
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