CONTENT WARNING: Threat with a weapon / Something pretty disgusting happens this chapter. It's not pictured, but...think 'toilet humour', only fairly worse.
[Excerpt from Reynold's writings with the Watcher]
I think it will take time and patience for others to come around to what I've been saying. The Peteran order has never had much focus on the self, but there is a level of selfishness that everyone should have. We should allow ourselves to enjoy things, to put ourselves first on occasion.
As the saying goes, we cannot pour from an empty cup, though that seems to be the common expectation. I believe it will take a lot of hard work to get my point across to people. I suppose this is the trouble, training to become leader of the Peteran church at a young age. Everyone assumes me to be inexperienced and entitled, and therefore my words seem to have much less meaning t [the ink trails across the page.]
Reynold
"Brother Reynold! Why are the pews dirty? Why haven't the flowers been watered?"
"Mother Joyce, may I remind you my writings with the Watcher are intended to be a private mat- Oh, it's you, isn't it?"
I can tell by the cheeky laughter exactly who it is.
It has been almost a month since the Fire Festival. Áine and I had been spending most of our time working on charitable efforts since. She and the other adults at the refuge had been helping the children to control their raw magic. Now to hope that Annabeth does not destroy anything hundreds of years old in the process.
"Brother Reynold! A visitor at the door. Go and speak with him, would you?"
"Okay, okay, Áine, that's quite enough mocking of Mother...ah. Hello, Mother Joyce."
She gives me a narrow stare, and I return with an awkward grin. When I get to the door, it's a man I don't recognise at all, with a confident and serious demeanour about him.
"Good afternoon, Sir. I'm Gideon Reyes, a local witchfinder. I wanted to enquire about the whereabouts of a suspect. Pale, dark hair in an updo, an expensive white dress. Possibly with some kind of mole or wart on her face."
Even if I did see a woman who looked like that, I would never tell him. It takes me a short moment to gather an air of priestly placidity.
"I'm afraid I haven't, sir. Withernham is mostly a place for working folk. You likely won't see anyone like that around here. There's a more affluent town to the west, though. Could be a good place to start."
Finchwick isn't in that direction at all- it's mostly a stretch of rural land- but it'll keep him out of the way of whoever he's pursuing for some time.
"It seems I'm after someone particularly elusive this time around, hm? I appreciate your assistance, sir. Keep yourself and your family safe- this witch could strike at any time."
Off he goes, into the countryside, and with any luck he'll end up miles away from his target.
I can't let anger get the better of me. Before it does, I head down to the basement immediately to warn the refuge. I don't like that the children have to hear it, but we've all grown up much faster than we should have. We've had no choice; it's how we've learned to survive, after all...but that doesn't mean it doesn't break my heart to see their eyes glaze over with panic.
"Áine...Are we going to be safe? Is someone coming after us?"
"Yeah. Are we gonna be hurt?"
I can't help but notice that Áine has been a little more sensitive as of late. Maybe it's just from being constantly surrounded by other witches, constantly having their hidden stories on her mind.
"No, no-one is after us, okay? There is a witchfinder around, but he won't be after us. And if he comes back to Withernham, we'll do everything we can to protect you. I know that it's hard, but we're going to try and have to be brave, okay? Remember that story I told you about the mouse who snuck past the lion to get his cheese back?"
"I think so," the boys say in unison. Annabeth says nothing, throwing her arms around Áine and bursting into tears. They don't always realise it, but in the hands of the women here, no harm would come to the children. Whilst I'm here, no harm will come to anyone under my roof...or so I keep telling myself.
* * *
Once my work is over, there's someone outside waiting for me- someone I didn't expect to see again until I had to go to the Jacoban Cathedral. We take an awkward walk towards a common fishing pond. Walking alongside her feels like I'm in the company of a complete stranger. Anyone would think we barely knew each other.
"How is everything going for you?"
"Quite well. I've been training with my sword, got myself a few cuts in the process, but they're healing. Shepherd Julian says I'm doing well. People are gradually coming around to the first woman in charge of Finchwick's cathedral."
Part of becoming a Jacoban priest involved becoming proficient with 'Jacob's Sword', which was a weapon supposedly 'blessed' with the love of Jacob through a ritual. Originally, it was used to deal with 'opponents'. Nowadays a Jacoban priest would swear to defend all who mattered to them with it. It's safe to say I would never want to come between Clem and any weapon. Considering that I no longer know whether or not she'd consider me someone who matters, who knows if it'll become a reality someday.
"And how is -"
"I'm dealing with it." She knows not to bring it up. Why does she always insist on bringing it up?
"I was going to ask you how you were getting on as Prior, but now that you mention it-"
"Not for months, Clem. You know how hard it is, and yet you feel the need to mock me about it every time! Why am I the only one trying to fix things between us every single time we see each other? It's bad enough you haven't responded to any of my letters-"
It worked. Clem is trying to test me, and I failed miserably. I release my clawed hands and take a breath.
"I see you still need to work on it then, dear brother..."
That laugh. It sounds like chalk scraping across a board.
"Oh? The poor thing." I can't tell if that's a joke or not. "Well, make sure you look after her- remember I've been practising with a sword!"
"You know I'll look after her, Clem- with or without your threats."
Gideon
I forget how big the Henford countryside is until I spend hours trawling through it looking for a supposed witch. At last, into a stormy night, I think I've found her. I can hear her chanting something in what may be Old Simlish, her arms raised in the air. A streak of lightning crashes down in the distance with a harsh flash of light. Some sort of ritual, perhaps? Has she possibly even caused this storm herself? I'm not entirely sure, but what I see definitely seems to be witchcraft. So Lord Volpe and Princess Cordelia were right in their suspicions, after all.
I try to sneak up on her, easier said than done with the squelch of the wet mud under my boots. When I am just behind her, I draw my sword.
"Gideon Reyes, witchfinder. Stop what you are doing this instant!"
Whilst her arms are raised, I grab them back, binding her hands with a length of rope, and she falls to her knees. She turns her head to the storm above.
"Screaming won't help you. What is it you were doing there?"
"Nothing! It was nothing!"
"It didn't look like 'nothing', madam. I heard the chanting-"
"Now, now, what's going on here? You two are out here on an awful night like this?"
...It's her. The woman from the bar. The cunningwoman and her owl.
* * *
Katlego
The poor woman. My senses don't lie; she is definitely a witch, and for some time, she will likely think I am betraying her. I do not wish to cause her so much pain, but in order to try and save her life, I must let her feel that way for a while.
"This is the suspected witch, madam. I heard her chanting, with her hands raised in the air."
"I see. Well, there's only one way to be absolutely sure that she is a witch, yes? - and that is with my help."
Gideon raises an eyebrow at me, and asks how much he owes me for the trouble.
* * *
I did not enjoy having to strip this poor woman of her dignity, but I had to no choice if I were to 'prove' to Gideon that she was not a witch. Sometimes, overuse of magic could cause physical 'imperfections' of sorts- maybe a mole, a wart or a beauty spot of some kind- but it wasn't particularly common. Sometimes it caused a marked paleness, but I didn't notice anything of the sort.
"Right there, on her face, look. That little wart. That must mean something."
"No, no, not at all. It would have to be much bigger to be a sign of witchcraft. It doesn't look out of the ordinary to me."
"I've been told by a knowledgeable witchfinding partner that they are clear signs of witchcraft. On top of that, I heard the old language coming out of her mouth at the top of her lungs! With her hands in the air! What part of that doesn't spell 'ritual' to you? You saw it as well, didn't you?"
"Yes, of course I did. But you paid me for my expertise and not your 'expertise'. Now, I understand that you are a man that wants to do his job correctly, yes? Would you feel comfortable with the weight of killing a potentially-innocent woman on your shoulders?"
Gideon sighs to himself. "You're right. I got ahead of myself. So what do you recommend to find out if she is a witch?"
"Well, there is a way, though it is not pleasant. It involves drinking from a 'witch bottle', and it will not be pleasant but it will be necessary. I will need to take a urine sample from both of you."
"What?!" - it was simultaneous between the woman and Gideon.
"Yes. I will need some urine, some hair, and I'll need you to clip off one of your nails. Whether from your fingers or toes, I'm not fussy."
"Katlego...is this necessary?!"
"Yes," I state. "You see, you must drink it. If this woman feels no pain when you do, then she is not a witch. If she is writhing in agony, then she's a witch. It is a surefire way to find out. I need the bodily energies from you both, you see. One from someone with and without magic in your blood."
I hand him a flask and send him outside, telling him to hide behind a tree or something, telling him the woman and I need our privacy. As soon as she lifts herself from the table, she shudders. I can't help but burst into a fit of laughter.
After the woman has done her duties, she seems more concerned than humoured. "Are you even a real cunningwoman?"
"In the sense that I am a knowledgeable herbalist? Yes. In the sense that I am willing to give up a witch to someone like him? No, not at all."
The lady who used to own this home kept a stack of books for techniques for finding witches, which she stashed away so no-one else would find them. Most people were not The real witch bottles involved burying the mixed bodily fluids under the ground. Supposedly, the witch would feel pain if she were to have placed a curse on the other person. I've just changed the lore up a little, just to mess with him. Most people who used my services were not literate; they trusted my words, after all.
The woman goes back to feigning fear as soon as the doorhandle creaks. I do the sickening job of combining everything in a flask, trying to curb my giggles as I do so. As soon as his head turns, I see a smile out of the corner of my eye.
"There we are, Gideon. Once you are done, our witch will writhe in pain...or, she won't, if she's not a witch. I don't have all day. Pretend it is a refreshing glass of wine."
It's hard not to cry comical tears as he downs the whole thing as if it were a drink from the local pub. He immediately recoils, groaning in pure disgust.
"I swear to whatever miserable made-up deity who's listening that I never have to do that again. Ugh..."
"I did tell you to pretend it was a refreshing glass of wine, didn't I?"
I can't help it. I can't control my laughter at all. "Now, now, Gideon- I think you owe her an apology, don't you? Look- she's fine. No pain, no screaming. You put your sword to an innocent lady, and now what do you say to her?"
He looks defeated, sitting down at the table with her, trying not to be sick.
"I sincerely apologise, Miss. I hope you will understand- I must be thorough in this line of work. I am trying to keep women from you safe from the plague that is witchcraft. I hope you will accept my apology."
"O-of course," she replies, her voice quivering. "Have a good day, Sir."
With that, Gideon gives me fifty Simoleons, and heads off on his way through the rainstorm. The way those against magic will believe anything they are told can, on occasion, be a thing of beauty.
"I...I don't know how to thank you, Katlego. I don't have my money on me right now, but I am fairly rich. I'm sure I can-"
"Nonsense. I haven't treated you or anything, and you didn't ask for my help. If you want to help me, come to me next time you're unwell. Whether it's a fever, nausea, anything at all. I can likely ease it. Maybe even cure it."
"I'll tell everyone you're here, Katlego. Thank you again for your kindness."
It seems my luck has turned! I've lost a boat, I've lost my business, but I've gained another. Swindling witchfinders and helping everyone else- sounds like a good way to earn a living. After all, I may be staying here a while.
My mother used to tell me many stories when I was a child, but one that stuck with me was the story of the clever spider from folkore- ever the trickster, and always one step ahead, outwitting foes much stronger and larger. I have always strived to be like the spider, and should any witch-finders happen to become stuck to the web, well...
* * *
The next morning in the Henford countryside feels beautiful. I much prefer it here than I did in Finchwick- there is greenery everywhere you look, and sometimes you can spot the rabbits and the deer lingering about...only what I see is not a deer and not a rabbit.
What I see looks like a young woman, kneeling as if she is in pain. Or perhaps she feels ill? Either way she doesn't look good...which is why she's lucky there's a cunningwoman just down the path from where she is!
I make my way over to her. She seems to be short of breath.
"Excuse me? I can't help but notice you seem to be unwell. I'm a cunningwoman- I may be able to-"
"Cunningwoman? Stay away from me," she spits. Her accent sounds nothing like anything I've heard here yet. "You lot have been selling out your own people since the witch-hunts began! I'd rather die than be treated by a traitor!"
"Traitor? Me?! I've only just got to this country! My boat was stolen! If I still had my boat I'd have left this sad-sack of a country days ago!"
I believe we've both gotten the wrong end of the stick. I realise she, too, is a witch. That would explain why she is so sensitive to the cunningwomen...also, I am losing a customer here. Better slap on an air of friendliness.
"My apologies. I am Katlego Anansi, and I'm an arcane merchant by trade. I'm a herbalist. Just last night, I actually tricked a witchfinder into not killing a witch. A long story. If I were to repeat it, I think your nausea would only become worse."
Her expression seems to soften, and her eyebrows lift. "My greatest apologies. I've spoken out of turn and judged you too quickly and too harshly, Miss. I have been feeling unwell lately. Mostly tired, but also lately I've been a little ill. I haven't been eating much lately. There's been a lot going on, but..."
Áine
I've completely misjudged this lady. I don't believe she is lying to me. I let my knowledge of the backstabbing cunningwomen distract me from the fact that some practiced their trade properly, mainly as healers. Part of me can't help but feel a little angry about cunningwomen. People often ask them for help with services that involve their magic. Any other witch would be killed for using magic, but not the cunningwomen. It angered me to think about it, but I shouldn't be wholly angry at them.
In a dark way, the cunningwomen were also victims. Their magic was only acceptable when it furthered the goals of those that would kill them without a second thought. Many people have fallen into a trap of doing absolutely anything to stay alive- even giving up their own people. As furious as I am about it, I have to realise that these people are acting out of desperation, and that the majority of my rage has to remain on the witch-finders, and those responsible for our deaths.
I take up Katlego's offer. Her home is cosy; part of me doesn't want to leave. It's a nice change from the cold stone of the monastery. I'm greeted by an adorable little owl with big, curious eyes, whose name is Nia. Katlego helps me onto her examination table, and the slight bending-over doesn't help my sickness at all.
I let her do her job. She notices my forehead is a little warm, but she doesn't think it's a fever. I notice a hand move down to my breasts.
"I noticed you flinched a little. Did that hurt?"
"A little. They've felt a bit tender for a while. I think maybe I just need to find something better to support them, I don't know."
Her hands then move down to my stomach, pressing lightly at my flanks. My body freezes stiff. Somehow, the possibility never occurred to me. It has been difficult. The combination of stress and the long walk across to Henford took it out of me. That's what I thought it was. That, and all the hard work under a warm early-Summer sun.
"What is your name?"
"Áine."
"Very well, Áine- when did you last have your blood?"
It feels as if it's been forever. I didn't think much of missing it, either, and I don't know why I did. I didn't say anything to her. Shock and embarrassment seal my lips. How did I not think...
"And when was the last time-"
"It was the night of Beltane."
At that moment, she laughs to herself.
"Let's see: tender breasts, missing your blood, feeling unwell and unusually exhausted, a well-spent night on a day where people celebrate fertility...I diagnose you with denial, my dear!"
It's at that moment she slightly nods her head in apology. "I was only trying to lighten the mood. I've been foolish. Now isn't the time, I understand."
My mind becomes so overrun with how to feel, that it doesn't feel anything at all.
AUTHOR'S NOTE: The 'witch bottle' is based on something from real life history.