Deanna Raybourn - Silent on the Moor

“Oh, yes. There are soft places where the souls of those who have been sucked into the bogs cry for help.”

“Is that all?” I demanded. “They don’t drag folk down into the bog with them or carry off one’s children?”

“No,” she said, her tone edged with peevishness. “I think you are making sport.”

“Not a bit,” I told her truthfully. “We have the most useless ghosts at my father’s house. I always think if one is going to be haunted, it’s rather nicer to be haunted by something useful , don’t you think? Your tolling bell, for example. Quite helpful indeed. An Allenby would hear that and know he ought to change his ways or at the very least make a proper confession if he is to die soon.”

She turned wordlessly and led the way across the moor. I realised my tongue had run away with me and thought to make amends, but the wind rose and rendered conversation impossible. We trudged along, here and there helping each other over the muddiest bits, until we reached a crossroads in the path. A direction board pointed out the proper way to the village, but Miss Allenby struck out toward the left, taking a smaller path that wound higher up on the moor. I followed now, struggling to catch my breath as Miss Allenby led the way, unruffled as ever. If my flippancy had offended her, she had decided to overlook it, and I relaxed a bit, enjoying the glorious fresh air and the spectacular views.

After a few minutes, we came over a rise and I saw, sheltered just below us, a cottage sitting beside another crossroads. It was a tumbledown little place of faery-tale proportions, with a high-peaked roof that sagged in the middle and a profusion of roses twining about the doorway, although the flowers themselves would not bloom for another two months. The cottage was set apart from the path by a low stone wall, and within its shelter lay the most enchanting garden I had ever seen.

In spite of the cold and the mud there was a profusion of green, a whole world yearning toward the sunlight and spring. Set into the stone wall was a little wicket gate, and Miss Allenby pushed through, scattering a few fat, speckled chickens as she walked. They clucked at her but continued to scratch at the ground contentedly. A fragrant plume of smoke issued from the chimney, and welcoming lights glowed at the leaded windows.

Before Miss Allenby even raised her hand to knock, the door was thrown back.

“Miss Ailith!” cried the woman on the threshold in welcome. “You have brought me a visitor,” she said, stepping forward and taking my hand in her own. She was an extraordinary creature. Her colouring, like most Gypsies of my acquaintance, was dark, all olive skin and striking black eyes. Her black hair was loose, curling to her waist and threaded thickly with silver. Gold coins hung at her wrists and ears, and long chains of them were wrapped around her neck. A single thin band of gold circled her marriage finger. She wore several skirts, each more colourful than the last, and a becoming blouse with a deep ruffle at the elbow. Her hand was warm over mine, and her smile was genuine.

“You are Lady Julia,” she pronounced in tones of great import.

I gave her a cool, deliberate smile. “It is no great feat of clairvoyance to listen to neighbourhood gossip,” I said blandly.

She laughed at this, displaying beautiful white teeth. “Come in, lady. I am Rosalie Smith. Come along, Miss Ailith.”

She ushered us into the cottage. It was as charming within as without. A single room, it was comfortably furnished for any possible use. A cheerful fire burned on a wide brick hearth, an assortment of pots and pans ranged around it on iron hooks. Bundles of herbs and flowers hung from the rafters well away from the fire, their fragrances mingling to something spicy and delicious in the warm room. There was a scrubbed table, large enough to seat four, and comfortable chairs with freshly-woven rush seats and gaily patterned cushions. A snug bed had been pushed under the window and tucked neatly with a spread of patchworked cottons and velvets edged in bright taffeta. A black cupboard, beautifully painted with pastoral scenes, stood in the corner, and next to it stood a small table with a violin and a sheaf of music.

The Gypsy woman held out her hands for my wraps. “Come and warm yourself by the fire. I will make a tisane for you. Something to warm the blood.”

I struggled out of the blue shawl and various other bits and pieces and took a chair, grateful to be out of the wind. Miss Allenby rested her basket on the stone-flagged floor at her feet while our hostess busied herself with cups and saucers and little pots.

At length she joined us at the table. “Miss Ailith, black tea with a bit of raspberry leaf,” she said, passing her a tiny teapot. “Lady Julia, a tisane of borage.” I peeked into the pot and was enchanted to find a pale green decoction, spotted with just a few tiny, starry blue flowers.

“How lovely,” I said. Rosalie Smith gave me an enigmatic smile.

“All herbs have their purpose, lady. They can heal or kill, but one must know their secrets.”

The conversation seemed mildly sinister to me, and I glanced sharply at my harmless-looking tisane before changing the subject.

“I confess, Mrs. Smith, I am surprised to find a Romany living so settled a life. You are far removed from the road up here, are you not?”

Another might have taken offence at the question, but not Mrs. Smith. She merely gave me one of her inscrutable smiles and poured out her own cup of tea. Very strong and black, she took it with no sugar, straining the leaves through her teeth as I had so often seen the women of her people do.

“I am here because it suits me, lady,” she said, her tone friendly. “I have a purpose here. When it is served, I will rejoin my own folk.”

“A purpose?” I sipped at the borage tisane. It was delicious. The flavour was light and reminded me of tea, but greener somehow, with a thread of something I could not quite place.

“Cucumber?” Mrs. Smith hazarded, watching me.

“Yes! It is quite refreshing,” I told her. She smiled again, clearly gratified.

“I make many tisanes, for many ailments. The villagers and farmers have learned to come to me for their troubles.”

“Are there no doctors? Not even in the village?”

Mrs. Smith shrugged, and Miss Allenby put down her cup. “There is one, but he is quite elderly. His hands tremble, and he is very often the worse for drink.”

“Besides,” put in Mrs. Smith, “the old ways are often the best, do you not agree, Lady Julia?”

I shrugged, thinking of Val’s enthusiasm for the latest advances. “They can be. I think there is much to be said for modern medicine as well.”

Mrs. Smith laughed. “You are a complicated woman, I think. You look with one eye to the past and another to a future you cannot yet see.”

“Doesn’t everyone?” I asked coolly. I was well-accustomed to the Gypsy tendency to make mystical pronouncements.

Mrs. Smith turned to Ailith Allenby. “How does your lady mother?”

“Better, thank you. She asked me to fetch more of the ointment for her joints and more of the meadowsweet and liquorice tea. Her hands have been troubling her of late.”

Mrs. Smith nodded. “I will send along some quince jelly as well. Tell her to take a spoonful every day. And you will take her some fresh peppermint from the garden. Steep a handful in hot water and tell her to sip it slowly. It will stimulate the appetite.” She cast an eye over Ailith’s slender figure. “Drink a cup yourself. You will not last out another winter if you do not put meat upon those bones.”

To my surprise, Miss Allenby did not seem to resent the observation. She merely smiled and sipped at her tea. Just then there was a scratching at the door and a low, pitiful moan. I started, but Mrs. Smith waved me to my chair with a laugh.