Jan Siegel - Witch’s Honour

In the reconstructed conservatory, Morgus was planting the Tree. It was midnight, under the pale stare of an incurious moon. The triangular panes of the roof cast radiating lines of shadow around the stone pot in which Morgus placed the sapling. Here was a different kind of magic, a magic of vitality and growth: the air shimmered faintly about the bole, and the leaves rippled, and the sap ascended eagerly through slender trunk and thrusting twig with a throb like the beat of blood. Morgus crooned her eerie lullabyes, and fed it from assorted vials, and the cat sat by, motionless as Bastet save for the twitch of her tail. ‘We are on the soil of Britain: my island, my kingdom,’ said the witch. ‘Here, you can grow tall and strong. Fill my flagons with your sap, and bring forth fruit for me—fruit that will swell and ripen—whatever that fruit may be.’ She gathered up the discarded wrappings and left the conservatory, Nehemet at her heels. Behind them, unseen, the heavy base of the urn began very slowly to split, millimetre by millimetre, as the severed taproot forced its way through stone and tile, flooring and foundation, down into the earth beneath.

‘I wish you’d stop giving me advice,’ Will Capel complained. He and his sister were returning from Great-Aunt Edie’s funeral in the West Country, an event that many of her relatives felt was long overdue. She had ended her days in a retirement home near Torquay, but this had not prevented her from descending on hapless family members for Christmas, Easter, weddings, anniversaries and christenings, not to mention the funerals of those less hardy than herself. Since she had been ninety-one when she died, Fern felt excessive grief was not called for. While she drove, she found she was remembering her own aborted wedding, and Aunt Edie’s hovering presence there, usually clutching a copita of sherry.

‘What did you say?’

‘I said , I wish you would stop giving me advice.’

‘I didn’t,’ Fern said serenely. ‘I never give advice.’

‘It’s the way you never give advice,’ said Will. ‘I can feel the advice you’re not giving me radiating out from your brain in telepathic pulses. And there’s your expression.’

‘I haven’t got an expression.’

‘Yes you have. It’s your favourite cool, you-can’t-guess-what-I’m-thinking expression. If we were playing poker, I’d know you had a particularly sneaky Royal Flush. As it is, I’d be prepared to bet you’re thinking about Aunt Edie’s last trip to Yorkshire, and your wedding-that-wasn’t, and that means you’re about to criticise my love life.’

‘Your love life,’ said Fern, ‘is entirely your own affair. Or several affairs, as the case may be.’

‘You see?’ said Will. ‘Love life: criticism.’

Fern sucked her lip in an attempt to suppress a smile. ‘I hate to disappoint.’

Will gave a grin which stiffened gradually into something more artificial. ‘How is Gaynor?’

‘You’ve been a long time asking,’ Fern said lightly. Her eyes were on the road; Will found that her profile was no longer something he could read. ‘She got over the flautist very quickly, which may indicate that there was not much to get over. A recent news bulletin told me she was still resisting the advances of Hugh, slightly estranged husband of Vanessa. However, sources close to Miss Mobberley inform me that she may not be able to hold out. When men cry on her shoulder, she has a tendency to go soggy inside.’

‘Has she tried waterproof clothing?’ said Will, a little too sharply. ‘Anyway, I didn’t want a resumé of her sexual activities. I just wanted to know how—she—is.’

‘Last weekend,’ said Fern scrupulously, ‘she was perfectly well.’

There was complete silence for almost a mile. Since Fern had decided recently she did not want music on while she drove, believing it was a serious distraction, the quiet was as noticeable as a power-cut in a shopping mall.

Eventually, Will said, changing the subject without apology: ‘I may be going to India later this year.’ Fern made an interrogative noise. ‘Looks like Roger and I might have got our first real commission. Someone at BBC 2 likes the Himalayan idea. You know: tales of the hidden kingdoms. Power politics in Buddhism, the true origins of Shangri-La, that kind of stuff. I told you about it in the Caprice.’

‘If it comes off,’ said Fern, ‘ you can take me to the Caprice.’

‘I did take you to the Caprice!’

‘Next time,’ his sister said darkly, ‘you pay for it as well.’

It was late by the time they reached London and Will accepted an invitation to share a takeaway in Fern’s flat. They bought an assortment of Thai nibbles and a bottle of Chardonnay and took them back to Pimlico. Once inside, Fern switched on lamps, drew the curtains, lit a scented candle. ‘There’s something about funerals,’ she said. ‘The smell always stays with you. That damp, rusty sort of smell you get when people take out the black coat they haven’t worn for years and then stand around for too long in the rain.’

‘It didn’t rain,’ Will pointed out, uncorking the wine.

‘The air was wet,’ Fern insisted.

It was after they had sat down and were opening up the cartons that she went suddenly still and quiet. ‘What is it?’ Will asked, watching her face change.

Fern said nothing for a few seconds. When she spoke again, it was a half-tone louder. ‘Show yourself. This is my brother: his presence need not trouble you. He is accustomed to the ways of your folk.’ And, after a pause: ‘I don’t wish to Command you. That would be discourteous, and I should deeply regret any further discourtesy. You know I want friendly relations with the Queen.’

The Queen ? Will mouthed, his eyebrows shooting upwards.

Fern ignored him. Her gaze had focused on a place at the foot of the curtains, where the drapes were bunched together in many folds beside the looping leaves of a pot-plant. Presently, Will saw some of the shadows detach themselves and move forward, taking shape in the light. A diminutive, ungainly shape, hunch-shouldered and bow-legged, with long simian arms. Fern noticed his patchwork clothing looked newer than last time and he had acquired a species of malformed hat, squashed low over his brow, with the words ‘By Appoyntmnt’ embroidered on it in crooked stitches. His tufted ears were thrust through slits in the brim; his sloe eyes gazed slyly from underneath.

‘Skuldunder,’ Fern acknowledged.

‘Who invited you in?’ Will demanded.

‘It isn’t necessary,’ Fern sighed. ‘He’s a burglar. We’ve met before. He usually burgles on behalf of Mabb, Queen of the goblins. So are you here on private business, or does this visit have an official sanction?’

‘The Queen sent me,’ the goblin prated, briefly inflating his hollow chest. ‘She says, she is graciously pleased to accept your gifts, and…and your friendship. It is a great honour.’

‘For whom?’ Will murmured, fascinated. Fern stood unobtrusively on his foot.

‘A great honour,’ the goblin repeated. ‘She knows you are a powerful witch, but she believes you mean no harm to her and her people. And me,’ he added, throwing her an apprehensive glance and clutching his hat-brim for support.

‘Of course not,’ said Fern. ‘I would prefer not to harm anyone.’ Will, noting the language of diplomacy, thought the statement held an element of warning, but Skuldunder appeared tentatively relieved. ‘Have a glass of wine,’ she continued. ‘Is there something I can do for the queen?’

‘It is she who has sent me to help you,’ the goblin declared. ‘She says she will overlook the matter of the bodkin—’

‘Bodkin?’ Fern frowned. ‘Oh—the spear.’