Ruth Warburton - Witch Finder

And you never saw his face? they’d questioned him afterwards. Luke had shook his head again and again, wishing there was a different answer, wishing he’d had the courage – not to save his parents, for he was wise enough, even as a child, to know that was not in his power and never had been. But the courage just to turn his head, to peep out and see the face of the man who’d sucked his father’s life from his mouth and vomited it, red and clotted, against the walls of their little house. But he had not. He had just lain, stifling his whimpers, mesmerized by the rise and shiver of the Black Witch’s shadow in the firelight, and the only clue he’d been able to give them was the cane that had rolled across the floor to lie against his leg, the cane with the ebony shaft and the silver head in the shape of a coiled snake. He’d lain there, trembling, as the hand in its black glove had groped closer and closer to his leg, like a monstrous black five-legged spider, creeping across the floor towards him.

And then – like a miracle – it’d found the cane and gripped it. The shadow against the wall straightened from its hunch and stood. Turned on its heel. Left.

The Black Witch had left Luke an orphan. It had left him with the knowledge of his own cowardice, his own powerlessness in the face of evil. And it had left him the dream.

‘I’m fine.’ He spoke more shortly than he meant to. ‘Leave me be.’

‘There’s nothing to be ashamed of, lad.’ His uncle stood in the doorway, the candlelight soft on his face. His voice, usually so loud, came low to Luke’s ears. ‘A man can’t be held a coward for his dreams.’

‘I’ve an early start. I promised Minna I’d shoe Bess ’fore she left.’

His uncle said nothing, only sighed. Then he nodded.

‘G’night, Luke. Sleep well, lad.’

I’ll try , Luke thought as he turned his pillow to the cool side and closed his eyes. The shadow rose up, wavering and black, and he fought down the fear that gripped him. You’re not a child any more. His fingers gripped the bedclothes. You’re a man. You will kill this witch and be done with it. She’s a sixteen-year-old girl, for God’s sake.

And then? Back to the forge. Back to real life. Back to the hope of finding the other witch. The Black Witch.

The dawn light was still thin and grey as he made his way across the cobbled alley between the house and the forge. Ice crackled in the puddles of smut-black water and his breath made clouds of white in the frosty air, but people and children were already up and about, making their way to their places of work, running errands, emptying the night slops into the street. He could hear the carts rumbling their way to Spitalfields market, or maybe to Smithfield’s, or Billingsgate, or others, further afield. From close at hand he could hear the muffled bone-shaking thump-badabadabada as the drayman rolled his barrels of beer off the cart and across the cobbles into the cellar of the Cock Tavern.

London was awake. Spitalfields never really slept anyway.

Luke unlatched the door of the forge, rubbing the last of the sleep from his eyes with cold fingers, and turned to the fire, pulling out the clinker and building it up again from the grey ashes of the day before. As he picked up the coal shovel, he winced, feeling the throb of his wound and the pull of the dressing beneath his shirt.

The forge was hot and roaring, and he was in a muck sweat from the heat of the fire and the effort of working the bellows, when he heard the clip-clop of hooves, and he turned his head to see a skinny girl astride a large bay mare coming into the courtyard.

‘Morning, Minna.’

‘I’ve to be at the dairy by six,’ Minna said without preamble. ‘Can you get her done in time?’

‘Yes, if you work the bellows.’

‘But I’ll get smuts on my dress! Who’ll want milk from a girl what looks like she’s bin up a chimbley?’

‘Do you want her shod or not? There’s an apron on the wall.’

Minna looked over at the stiff, dirty smith’s apron hanging by the door and gave a gusting sigh that blew the dark curls off her forehead. Then she rolled her eyes and pulled it down, winding the laces twice round her middle to make them meet.

‘The things I do for you, Luke Lexton.’

‘The thing I do for you , Minna Sykes. I could’ve been abed another hour if it weren’t for Bess and her shoe.’

‘It weren’t my fault she threw it off,’ Minna said pertly as she began to work the bellows.

‘No?’ Luke shoved the metal back into the heart of the blaze and watched it flicker from red to gold, then back. ‘Whose fault was it then? You’ll have to pump those bellows harder.’

‘Oh for the love of . . .’ Minna gritted her teeth and then winced. ‘Ow.’

‘Is that tooth still hurting you?’

‘Yes. Lucy give me a teaspoon of laudanum last night and I slept, but it’s back throbbing fit to bust today.’

‘I wish you wouldn’t take that stuff.’

‘What – laudanum?’ Minna’s face showed her surprise. ‘Don’t be such an old woman, Luke. If it’s good enough for Her Majesty it’s good enough for me, ain’t it?’

‘It’s not safe. Haven’t you seen the opium addicts down at Limehouse?’

‘A’course I’ve seen the opium addicts. But it’s laudanum, Luke, practically no more than weak gin – they give it to babies!’

‘And what happens when you can’t afford it no more, eh?’ He pulled the horseshoe out of the fire and looked at it again. ‘Nearly there.’

‘Then I’ll beg it off Lucy.’

‘What happens if Lucy says no?’

‘Then I’ll go without! For gawd’s sakes, Luke, stop fussing and shoe the bleeding mare.’

Luke said nothing. He pulled the shoe out of the fire and looked at it again.

‘It’s ready. You can stop.’

Minna gave a sigh of relief and came over to stand by Bess’s head as Luke hammered and bent the shoe, curving it to fit the shape of the one Bess had thrown yesterday. The ringing sound of the hammer was clear and true, filling the small space, driving out the evil whispers of the night before. Minna said something and he cried, ‘What?’ above the din.

‘I said,’ she shouted, ‘you’ll be as deaf as William in a year or two!’

Luke only laughed and carried on. It was true, but he could think of worse fates than ending up like his uncle: hard of hand but soft of heart, and deaf from the constant hammering.

At last the shoe was close to the right shape and he stood, holding it in the big pincers.

‘Let’s try it against Bess’s hoof. Come on now, old girl, come on.’

She was used to being shod and let him back her towards the forge and pull her hoof between his leg. But as he bent over to put the shoe to her foot, the wound on his shoulder gave a great stab, making him catch his breath and stop. Bess felt his pain and gave a little whinny, shaking her mane.

‘Are you all right?’ Minna asked curiously.

‘Nothing.’ He shook his head and bent again.

‘‘What’s that under your shirt? I can see something – have you hurt yourself?’

‘I said, it’s nothing,’ he said shortly. Minna gave him a look, but subsided. Then the hot metal bit and the smell of burnt hoof filled the morning air. Bess gave a little protesting snicker at the sharp smell, but he lifted it away before she could feel the heat.

‘It’s good.’ He plunged the shoe into barrel of rainwater, hearing the hiss and bubble as the hot shoe hit the cold water. ‘But you shouldn’t work her so hard, Minna. Her hooves are fit to split.’

‘That’s why I’m getting her shod, ain’t it?’ She stood, watching, as Luke fitted the shoe to Bess’s hoof, hammering it on, turning the nails flat.