Katharine Corr - The Witch’s Tears

‘But why is she there?’ Merry tapped the photo. ‘Ellie Mills.’

‘She’s one of the local witches. I don’t know her that well. Powerful, but rather … scatty, as far as I remember. Of course, she was only young when that was taken. She might be more disciplined by now. Why?’

Merry hesitated. Gran didn’t seem to know Ellie Mills that well, but still …

Her grandmother was peering at her over the top of her spectacles.

‘Merry?’

‘Er, the thing is … I think she’s dead. There was a photo of her in the paper today, and it said …’ Gran had gone sort of rigid, staring at the knife still in her hand. ‘I’m really sorry, Gran. I s’pose it was an accident. I didn’t read the whole article, but—’

‘No. It can’t have been. At least, not the kind of accident you mean.’

‘But – you don’t know that. Even witches have accidents. Mum told me about your sister and the car crash. So maybe Ellie Mills fell, or—’

‘No!’ Gran slapped the knife down on the table. ‘You think you know everything, Merry, when you’ve barely scratched the surface of what it means to be a witch! I won’t …’ Gran clamped her lips together. Merry could almost taste her gran’s agitation: an acidic fog filling her throat and her lungs.

‘What’s happening, Gran?’

‘I don’t know.’ Gran sank into a chair. ‘There are no more family curses. But—’ The oven timer went off and Gran flinched. But she made no move to get up.

They sat for what felt like ages, listening as the beep beep beep split the silence of the kitchen.

The meal that followed didn’t take long; neither of them had much of an appetite. Merry started the dishwasher then sat down opposite her grandmother.

‘Well?’

Gran sighed and pulled the journey book – still open at the page with the photograph – towards her.

‘Witches are … hard to kill. We can use magic to protect ourselves from ordinary people and to avoid accidents. We can heal ourselves. Usually, we prefer to expire in our beds: all our affairs in order, friends and family notified, and so on. Witches can’t hold back time, and eventually we’re usually ready to move on. But our deaths are expected. Organised.’

But Ellie Mills hadn’t died of old age. Merry glanced up at the ceiling; it was getting dark outside and even with the lights on the kitchen felt gloomy.

‘Unexpected deaths have three causes,’ Gran continued. ‘Usually, the dead witch has been experimenting with a dangerous or prohibited form of magic – that’s why it’s rarely discussed. Covens are embarrassed and try to cover it up. Or sometimes the witch has been killed in a fight with another witch. Or a wizard.’

Merry swallowed, remembering Gwydion: how he had controlled her and attacked her with fire runes. How he’d tried to kill Leo.

Gran brushed a fingertip across the image of the pink-haired girl in the photograph. ‘Ellie isn’t the first. There’ve been at least five unexplained deaths in the last year in the UK and Ireland. More abroad, before then. I’m just not sure …’ She lapsed into silence, fiddling with the journey book, folding and unfolding the corner of one page.

‘What about the third thing, Gran? You said there were three causes of unexpected deaths.’

‘Well … There are stories. Myths, some would say. Or at least exaggerations. Very old stories. The sort that nobody wants to believe could be true.’ Her grandmother’s anxiety was palpable now, surrounding Merry like a winter mist, seeping into her pores and her bones. A thought flashed into her mind: Maybe I don’t want to hear about these stories. These deaths are not my problem. Not this time … She picked up her phone and pushed her chair back from the table.

‘Sorry, Gran – I’ve just realised how late it is. Can we talk more tomorrow?’

‘Oh …’ Gran blinked and rubbed her eyes. ‘Of course. I can lend you a couple of books, just in case.’

In case of what? Merry wondered. But Gran didn’t say. Instead, she picked up the journey book and opened the elderly microwave that was sitting on the counter nearby. Inside – bizarrely – was a cardboard folder. Gran put the book on top of the folder, fiddled with the knobs and shut the microwave again. It pinged into life.

‘What the hell?’ Merry leapt up, hoping to stop the program before the book ignited. But there were no flames. In fact, when she opened the door, the microwave was empty. ‘Where did it go?’

‘It’s a concealment charm. I use this microwave to store things. Come on, let’s get you home.’ Gran paused with her hand on the light switch. ‘Honestly, sweetheart, prohibited magic is certainly the most likely cause of those deaths. I’m almost certain.’

Merry stared into her grandmother’s blue eyes. And she knew she was being lied to.

Merry was back home now, sitting in the kitchen, drinking iced water and stroking one of the cats. In front of her were the two books Gran had lent her. One of them, it turned out, Gran had actually written. She ran her fingers over the words embossed on its front cover:

Wizards: Their History and Customs

A Witch’s Perspective

by

Elinor Foley

Merry flicked through the first chapter, about how differently magic was practised by witches and by wizards. It was pretty dry and densely written, another big wodge of stuff to learn, by the looks of it. She pushed Gran’s book to one side and turned to the other book. The title had worn off the old leather cover, but there were still traces of some sort of design that looked like lots of strangely drawn animals swirling around and intersecting one another. She glanced through the opening pages, then turned to a bookmarked section and started reading.

Once upon a time –

Just for a change , Merry thought.

– a young witch, living in a remote village in the north, boasted of her skill at spinning and weaving. She claimed to be so magically gifted that she could spin ordinary flax into the finest cloth of gold, fine enough to be worn by the king himself. The earl in whose lands she lived heard of her boast and, pretending that he hated witchcraft, had her locked inside a cell. The floor and the ceiling and the walls of the cell were lined with mirrors, so the witch could not use her magic to escape. Then the earl revealed his true purpose: using only the flax that grew on his estate, he wanted her to weave a cloth-of-gold cloak that he could present to the king. If she succeeded in her task, he would give her a dowry and set her free. But if she failed, he would coat her in tar and burn her alive in front of the castle walls, as a warning to other witches and liars. The earl told the witch she had three days, then left her.

Of course, the witch knew no spell that would allow her to create cloth of gold from nothing more than flax. The best she could do was spin the flax into linen, which she could enchant to appear golden. But such an enchantment would only last a few days, and who knew how long the earl would keep her imprisoned?

The witch wept bitterly at her boastfulness. Then, on the third night, a man appeared in her cell. The witch was scared, because although the stranger was clearly magical, he seemed unaffected by the cage of mirrors. The visitor offered to help her by turning the flax she had been given into gold thread, which she would then be able to weave into a cloak. In return, he asked that she should give him the life of her firstborn child. The witch hesitated and begged the visitor to choose another reward, offering him all she possessed. But he still demanded her child, although he relented a little, telling the witch that if she found out his name before he returned, he would consider her debt cancelled.