Cat's Cradle 03 - Witch Mark.pdf

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NA07 - Witchmark
Contents
Prologue . ............................................................................................................3
1: Arrivals . ....................................................................................................12
2: Strange Beasts . ..........................................................................................23
3: Missing Persons . .......................................................................................38
4: Arawn's Wheel . .........................................................................................44
5: An Unexpected Party . ...............................................................................57
6: A Journey in the Dark . ..............................................................................62
7: Unwelcome Visitors . ................................................................................75
8: Three Is Company . ....................................................................................79
9: Rissole Time . ............................................................................................87
10: Many Meetings . ........................................................................................91
11: Corn Circles . ............................................................................................101
12: Fire and Water . .......................................................................................105
13: The Land of Shadow . ..............................................................................114
14: There ... . ..................................................................................................118
15: Dagda's Wheel . .......................................................................................124
16: Altered Flesh . ..........................................................................................131
17: ... And Back Again . .................................................................................139
Prologue
Bathsheba watched motes of dust dancing in the shaft of sunlight and let forth a heavy sigh. It earned her
a stern glare from Siân but that didn't make the sentiment behind it any less heartfelt.
After fifteen days of solid rain, pounding the earth around the farm into a fury of mud, the sun had
emerged from behind the heavy layers of cloud and Bathsheba had, found herself confined to the hay
barn along with all the other children. It confirmed that this always happened, though Bathsheba had a
long enough memory to recall being grateful at the sight of the raven-haired teacher strolling towards the
farm at harvest time. Then Siân's lessons had brought Bathsheba a longed-for respite from h r fumbling
attempts, doomed to failure, at using the scythe.
The scythe had been her father's idea. It needed two arms to wield the instrument properly, two good
arms. To the shaft he had attached a leather thong which could be tightened around her right wrist and
with her left arm she was just about able to swing it. But her efforts were useless; the blade either swung
too low because she couldn't support it or it merely flattened the stalks. The exercise was intended to
strengthen her right arm, which had been withered at birth, but gradually it became apparent that it did
no such thing and so she was given a break from that work. Father had then given her the job of going
round the field, after the grain had been flailed from the stalks and the hay stacked, to pick up all of the
stray grains which had fallen. This job too was tiresome and, though it provided Bathsheba with time to
free her imagination, before a very great time she began to hate tramping up and down fields.
Her attention turned back towards Siân. What had she been talking about? The last thing she could
remember was something about Dinorben, the fortress where the council, the Tuatha De Danaan, held
their meetings. Bathsheba had never been there, although at most it must be only two days' ride away.
She had seen pictures of the circle which was guarded night and day by General Nuada and his soldiers
and she had heard stories, whispered late at night, about exactly why General Nuada and his soldiers
guarded the circle so closely. And though she had never really left the farm her mind had ranged far and
wide throughout the kingdom of Tír na n-Óg; to the Sidhe on the far western shores, to the ferocious
waves which beat eternally against the hospitable islands in the distant north, to the Fomoir who
inhabited the dark mountains to the south, just visible if you stood on top of the chimney - a risky
business for someone who could only cling on with one hand and who couldn't run very fast if Father
caught her up there.
Siân was talking about Goibhnie now and, judging by the expectant look on her face, she had just
asked a question. Bathsheba looked around wildly, hoping that she wouldn't be called upon to answer it.
To her surprise Gabby the eldest pushed himself to his feet and began to mumble in his usual manner.
'Speak up, Gabriel,' Siân told him, 'so that we can all hear you. It’s no good talking to the ground.'
Gabby blushed furiously and lifted his head up to stare fervently at a hayfork, hanging on the wall
behind Siân. Now his words tumbled over each other in their eagerness to get out of the constriction of
his throat, but at least Bathsheba could hear him. She never tired of hearing Gabby talk about Goibhnie,
for Goibhnie was a god and one day she hoped to meet him.
‘Please, Siân, I saw Goibhnie when I was very young. He were tall, taller than Father, even taller'n
the man who came to tell us that Huw was dead. And he had on a hat so's you couldn’t see his face and
he come on a big flying rock. He poked something into our sheep because Father said he din't want them
to get no sick no more. That was before any of this lot was born so I’s the only one that's seen 'im.'
When .he had finished, Siân gave him a warm smile and told him to sit down again, then she turned
to look for something in her bag. As she bent down her long black hair tumbled about her shoulders and
this set Bathsheba off thinking again.
Bathsheba had always looked with envy upon Siân's hair. Not because it glistened in the sunlight, or
because it always smelled so nice. Not because it was black whilst Bathsheba's was a thin mousy colour.
No, the reason for her envy was that Siân had such long flowing lengths. Bathsheba's hair was cut close
 
 
to the skin and always had been. Nobody had cared to tell her why this was so, but eventually she had
been given an answer of sorts by one of the other girls.
'It's in case you're a witch,' she had been told.
A witch! They thought she might be a witch. But how could they? She had never done anything bad,
or had she? She had spent long hours thinking about it, but it was only when she had seen Father throw
the small foal, with skin over its eyes and misshapen legs, on to the constantly burning fire at the back of
the farm, that the reason had come to her.
It was all because of her withered arm. As far as her parents were concerned it was a deformity and
for all they knew she could have been born deformed because she had witch's blood in her. Bathsheba
shivered at the thought of the other burning which she had encountered and which had left an even
deeper impression on her. On the far side of the farm there was a wood which, out of curiosity,
Bathsheba had one day wandered into. As she ventured into the cool green silence a pungent smell
assailed her nostrils. She walked further and further and the trees drew closer around her until she had
found herself having to force her way through sharp brambles and sweet-smelling bracken. Eventually
she had stumbled out into a clearing. The ground, littered with skeletal leaves and fragile branches, was
scorched and blackened. Smoke rose where the debris still smouldered - little wonder, for a strong fire
had burnt here. In the centre of the clearing there was a thick stone post, engraved deeply with signs and
wardings against the power of Arawn. The markings were encrusted with charred remains and a light
powdering of ash clung to the surface of the post. Bathsheba moved around the very edge of the clearing
until she could see the other side of the post. She grimaced in horror at the sight but a morbid fascination
prevented her from looking away. A blackened corpse hung there, suspended by chains clamped tightly
around its wrists. What skin there was left was shrivelled, shrunken, but for the most part it had burnt
away, leaving crisp muscles and brittle bones exposed to the air. But the horror did not end there, for just
as Bathsheba had felt the bile rising to her mouth, the head lifted upwards, white eyes agape, and the
mouth fell open as if to scream. But rather than sound it was a torrent of oily black smoke that poured
out.
Sitting in the haybarn, Bathsheba's mouth felt dry as she remembered running as fast as she could
away from the apparition and finally, when she could run no more, falling to the ground and fainting in a
pool of her own sick. She had woken on her bed in the farmhouse with concerned faces looking down at
her but afterwards no one mentioned the incident. She had begun to wonder if it had all been a bad
dream, but had ventured into the wood again and had found the stone post. No horror hung there, but the
circle of sickly looking grass which surrounded it was more than enough to convince her of the truth of
what she had seen. And she knew that the stone post was the fate which awaited her if there was any
indication that she too might be a witch.
That was the reason why her hair was regularly shorn by her loving mother - so that at the first sign
of a darkening of the skin midway between the nape of her neck and the lobe of her ear, she could be
burnt without hesitation before she could cause any harm. Her family were watching for the mark of the
witch.
She gave another wistful look at the small patch of blue sky just visible through the circular window
above the barn door and then tried to concentrate on the lesson. She slipped easily into daydreaming
again and before she knew it the lesson was over and she was following the others out of the barn. By
the time she had emerged from its shadow the yard was empty and she stumbled across the cobbles
towards the delightful smell of freshly baked bread. She could hear her brothers' and sisters' cries of
pleasure as they snatched up the hot bread from their plates and juggled it from hand to hand until it
cooled enough for it to be eaten. She pushed open the door and was greeted by a breath of warm air,
then she entered the dimly lit humidity of the kitchen. The family sat around the table waiting for her -
there were two empty places at the table, one for her and the other set with an ample helping just in case
Dagda or maybe Silvanus should arrive at the doorstep.
 
Bathsheba settled down on to her stool and waited whilst Mother burnt the first loaf from the oven
before she, and all the others, began eating their own meals. A chunk of bread, a wedge of cheese, a ripe
purple beetroot and, as a treat, a piece of salted fish made up the meal and it was consumed all too
quickly. Bathsheba pushed her plate down along the table and then rose and went out into the yard. One
of the cows was gazing soulfully at her over the wall and so she went and rubbed its face. The other
children kicked a broken tin cup around the yard and laughed at her when it landed at her feet and she
tried to kick it back. She turned away from them and saw Druffud the troll watching her from the
shadows of the cowshed. She waved at him and grinned as he tried to manoeuvre his heavy features into
a smile.
And then Siân was standing in the door to the barn calling for them to come and settle down again.
Bathsheba leant against the wall where the sun had just been falling and felt its warmth seep into her
back. Siân’s voice droned on and on and then...
...she felt the wind rushing over her skin as she pounded across the grassy plain. Her large lungs drew in
the air, sweeping it over the sensitive mucous membranes of her nostrils which responded by sending
messages to her brain and painting a picture of smells so vivid that she could almost see it superimposed
on her vision.
Her feet drummed a rhythm out upon the ground. Her left foot hit, then her right foot. She lifted her
left foot, and then another left foot went down. Another left foot! Yes, for she now realized that she had
four feet. Her right foot rose and then her two hind feet were on the ground together. Up came her left
hind, then momentarily she was flying! Then the tattoo against the soil was repeated, and again, and
again. She let out a whinny of joy at the strength that she felt and flicked her ears back and forth. A low
ditch appeared in the distance, approached rapidly and she leapt. The moment lasted forever and then
she was on the ground again.
Now shapes impinged on the edge of her sight and she realized that she wasn't galloping alone. To
either side of her were grey shapes whose legs moved in perfect harmony with hers. And in front and to
the left she saw a marvellous stallion and her heart filled with love. It was a large creature with sleek
black lines. Sunlight glistened in an iridescent sheen on hair which rippled as it followed the
contractions and relaxations of wonderfully strong muscles. His tail streaked out behind him, swirling in
his slipstream. His appearance was heightened by a hazy aura of smell which excited her unaccountably.
She wanted to impress this one and so she tried to put on an extra turn of speed. Pushing her warm
muscles to overcome their limits she inched closer to him and veered to her left so that she was closer
behind him. His smell grew stronger, inciting her to greater efforts. But she couldn't overtake him and so
she resumed her original position and merely let the feeling of her vitality course through her and
then . . .
... she was back in the haybarn, trying to catch the thread of what Siân had been saying. A trickle of a
tear twisted sinuously down her dusty cheek at the thought of the power she had just felt. Her body with
its weak muscles was nothing compared to that.
'Luckily for us Goibhnie was able to trap all the demons he had made under his island and so all the
evil that they had within them has stayed there.' Siân gave a stem look to the children and paused, an
indication to the children that they were about to be told the moral for the day. Even if they hadn't paid
any attention during those hours they should at least remember this message. 'But that doesn't mean that
we can become complacent, for once in a while a demon may escape and come among us and cause all
sorts of mischief. The way to recognize such a creature is by a mark on the back of the neck and the
remedy is burning.'
Bathsheba hadn't heard half of this because she had been wondering what 'complacent' was, but she
heard the last word and she rubbed the soft, downy hair on the back of her head and shivered.
 

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