Philippa Carr - Witch from the Sea

It was a silent world—chill and dark. I thought of the raging storm of last year. I wondered whether Maria was remembering too.

There was no bonfire that night.

I asked Jennet why.

“Weather bain’t fit,” she told me.

But I didn’t think it was only the weather. Many of the servants believed there was a witch among us and it might have been that they feared to offend her.

So the night of Hallowe’en passed quietly.

But in the morning we discovered that Maria was missing. The bed in the Red Room had not been slept in. All that day we thought she would come back. But she did not. And as the days began to pass, we began to realize that she had disappeared.

She had left us Senara as a memento of that night a year ago, but she herself had gone as suddenly as she had come.

WHAT A STRANGE TIME that was. Christmas came and passed. My mother did not visit us because of the threat of the sweat. Silence had settled on the house; the servants whispering together. None of them would go to the Red Room.

Every day I waited for something to happen. Sometimes I would go to that room and quietly open the door, expecting to find her returned. The room was empty, silent; yet I sensed a presence there. Was it Melanie or did some mysterious aura of Maria remain?

The servants were convinced that she was a witch. She had come and gone on Hallowe’en. I could imagine that that was some wry joke of Maria’s; for I had often had the feeling that she was laughing at us in a contemptuous kind of way.

I thought during the first days that she would be back. In the first hours I had thought she might have eloped with James Madden. That was soon dispelled when he arrived at the castle. The news had reached him that she had gone and he had to discover for himself. I had rarely seen a man so stricken. At least it proved the theory wrong that she had gone to him.

A month later he had killed himself. He was found hanging in his bedchamber.

When we heard the news at the castle the servants were horrified. They were certain then that she had been a witch.

I myself wondered if this were true. Once I spoke to Colum about it. He did not seem disturbed by her departure. In fact, at times I thought he seemed relieved that she had gone. He had been attracted by her without doubt, and when I think of that incomparable and rather strange beauty, I was not surprised. I knew it must have been irresistible. I warmed towards Colum. It was amazing how easily I could. I believed that he had been attracted against his will and that now temptation had been removed he was glad.

With each day I felt myself growing away from the horror the first revelation of his way of life had brought to me. Could one grow accustomed to such things? My mother had. Was I the same?

I suppose in fact we were women with deep physical needs. There was nothing of the retiring female in either of us. Physical contact brought us that pleasure which is said to be somewhat repulsive to women of refinement. I knew from my mother’s revelations that she was of a similar nature. Colum could give me complete physical satisfaction as I knew I did to him. It was as though my relationship with him was on two levels. But for this physical relationship I should have been horrified by what he did—and indeed I was—and yet he was my husband, I could not leave him for he would not allow it, and even had I found a way of doing so it would have meant losing my children. Perhaps I was weak in suppressing my revulsion. I was certainly not happy and it haunted my life. On the other hand I could not leave him.

As that year progressed we settled into a way of life which did not change much. There were one or two wrecks but I tried not to think about them. While the storm raged I would lie in my bed, the curtains drawn and try to shut out of my mind the thought of what was happening outside the castle. There were one or two facts which forced themselves on my attention. I knew that Colum had agents in various foreign shipping ports—and English ones too—who informed him when cargo ships were leaving. He would know what route they would take and if they were likely to come near to our coast. Then he would watch for them. His men would be out on the coast and if the weather favoured him he would attempt to bring the ship on to the Devil’s Teeth.

I would lie there trembling sometimes, saying to myself: “You are a devil, Colum. You are cruel and wicked and I should take my children away from you. What can happen to them with such a father?”

My daughter was safe. She was essentially mine. Colum was proud of her healthy looks but he showed little interest in her. The boy was all his. Connell, now five years old, was beginning to look like his father. Colum would take him out on his pony; I had seen the boy riding on his shoulders. Connell could give that unadulterated adoration which Colum wanted. I think that Colum loved Connell more than anything on earth. He was determined to “make a man of him” and that meant bringing him up in his own image. He was succeeding admirably. The boy only came to me when he was sick, which was rarely. Then he would be like any other small child needing his mother. Colum had little patience with sickness, although if Connell was ailing he would be frantic with anxiety.

How different was my little Tamsyn. She was a bright child. Although a year and four months younger than Connell, I could see already that she was going to be more intelligent. She had a quick probing mind and asked continual questions. She was by no means pretty; she had a rather snub nose and she had missed her father’s darkness—which Connell had inherited—and was mid-brown, with large hazel eyes. Her mouth was too large and her brow too high; but to me she was perfect.

There was in Tamsyn a protective quality. It may have been that she sensed something of the relationship between myself and her father and instinctively knew that it was not all that could be desired. I always fancied that when Colum was in the nursery she was standing guard to protect me. To look at that small stalwart figure, ready to do battle on my behalf, moved me deeply. She had the same protective attitude towards Senara, which showed an uncommon trait in her character. She was going to be of the kind that fights for the rights of others.

Then there was that other occupant of our nurseries: Senara. She had been ten months old at the time of her mother’s departure and had very quickly forgotten her. Maria had never played an important part in her life in any case. It was Jennet and myself who gave her that affection and security which children look for.

It very early became clear that she was going to be a beauty. It seemed impossible that it could be otherwise with such a mother. Her hair was of the same black and silky texture as that of Maria; her eyes were long and dark; her skin of the magnolia petal kind, her nose was straight and perfectly formed and she had a lovely mouth. I wondered whether she would be as beautiful as her mother—it was too soon to say, but there was a sweet innocence about her which I felt sure Maria could never have had even in her cradle.

When Maria had left and there was all the talk about her being a witch I feared that some harm might come to Senara. She was, after all, the witch’s child. Some of the servants would not go near her and I talked seriously to Jennet about this.

“Jennet,” I said, “you must always let me know what the servants are saying. What do they think about Maria’s going away?”

“On Hallowe’en which was when she came,” said Jennet. “It goes to show. There can’t be no gainsaying that.”

“They are saying she’s a witch no doubt.”

“She be a witch, Mistress. How did her come, and where be her to now?”