Chapter 42
SUSANNA
You shade your eyes against the thin sunshine of the first fine day of the year – down South, they say, General Sherman marched to the sea through raging storms, and here in Maine it’s rained every day for months.
Finally liberated from the weather, the children of Haven are racing around outdoors.
Your son is the youngest and he’s all puffed out already.
You see he’s worried he won’t be able to keep up.
You reach toward a blossom and beneath the power of your magic it blooms, falls, then reveals its tiny fruit, which swells, ripens, reddens.
The apple loosens as you twist it and drops into your palm.
A few swift charms later, a red ball rests there instead.
‘Howabout catch?’ you say, wandering over to where Redhaven’s children have piled like puppies into a writhing heap.
‘Catch is boring,’ says the eldest girl, Constance, who you’ve never much liked. Her mother’s a prig, too.
‘Only if boring people play it,’ you say. ‘Here, Tommy, catch!’
Your boy pulls himself out from the bottom of the heap. He’s red-cheeked and flushed, freckles spattered across his nose like molasses on drop scones. His da was a handsome one, though you can scarce remember the man’s name, now. Nate? Niall? A summer’s dalliance for a springtime reward.
Tommy holds his hands out eagerly. You toss the ball and as it leaves your hand it shimmers, as you’ve heard the hot sun does over African sands, and lets out a lion’s roar. Your son squeaks with delight and clasps the ball tight.
‘Pass it on,’ you prompt him. ‘Pick someone.’
He chooses (of course) the biggest boy, Jesse, whom they all idolise.
As the ball leaves Tommy’s hands it sprouts wings, firm scarlet feathers like a macaw’s, and takes off.
All the children look skyward, cooing, as the ball flits about before coming to rest in Jesse’s nested hands.
Tommy runs over to stroke the wings as they fold back alongside the ball.
Sighs with soft disappointment and wonder as the wings fade away.
‘Here, Connie, catch!’
Jesse hurls the ball skyward in a high arc, and as it leaves his hands it bursts into flames. A miniature comet blazing toward the heavens. Constance shrieks and flinches from its descent.
‘You, then Tommy,’ you urge your son. ‘It won’t hurt you.’
Trusting as always, your son cups his palms, and you extinguish the flames even as you nudge the ball right into his hands.
‘To Connie next,’ you instruct, seeing him ready to toss it right back to Jesse.
Her expression is disdainful at his clumsy throw, but you transform the ball into a large iridescent butterfly for which even Constance Kilpatrick eagerly holds out her hand.
The ball alights in the form of a giant Red Admiral, batting gleaming wings, and Connie bends over it enraptured, as if she’s a fairytale princess able to charm the creatures of the air.
You indulge her awhile, before prompting, ‘And on—’
Constance shoots a resentful look in your direction, before confusion crosses her face. The butterfly drops from her hand, just a bruised red apple by the time it hits the ground, as she points and screams.
You spin, and from the orchard staggers Abner, your community’s stableman and groundskeeper.
The young man is badly beaten, the faded indigo of his shirt now blood-dyed a deeper navy around several rips and tears.
Constance won’t stop screaming and Tommy looks about to start, so you call over your shoulder to Jesse to take them inside, and hurry to Abner.
He sinks to his knees as you reach him, and you ease him down, tearing off your apron to roll under his head.
You’re far from the most skilful healer the community has, but you’re the only adult here, so you swiftly unbutton his shirt.
He moans as the fabric tugs away from a long gash across his torso.
At his shoulder is bruising that suggests a large spill of blood beneath the skin.
Perhaps a complex fracturing of bone. How fragile is a man! How easily broken and torn.
‘What happened?’ you ask, pressing your fingers to the most grievous wound which pulses blood in a sluggish ooze.
Its coppery tang reminds you of the kitchen pans on scouring day.
The blood of a living man is a powerful thing.
If you reached into that ragged red cleft, lifted a finger to your tongue, who knows which of Abner’s secrets it might give up.
But you’re not here for that. You’re healing. Concentrate, Susanna.
‘Was jus’ doing our trading in Mountbron,’ Abner gasps. ‘I’d left Joe Ironmonger’s when they came on me outta nowhere. Four of ’em.’
‘What for?’
‘Well they took the money, but—’
Abner chokes off as pain wracks him beneath your unskilled ministrations. You sure hope Connie told her mam there’s a man here hurt and in need of her skills.
‘But?’
‘I don’t know, Susanna. They called me names.
Them names, about what we are. Said the town didn’t need our money coz it was fairy gold and good for nothing.
I protested it was good as any man’s money and we were honest folks at Haven.
One jeered and said he’d have to take the cash for testing, to tell if I were liar or none.
When I wouldn’t hand it over, they went for me. ’
‘All these hurts before they got the purse from you? I didn’t know you had it in you, Abner, you brave lad.’
Any nonsense to distract him as you pinch shut the lips of a wound and he wails. The man turns his head away, you think to hold back the wince of it, and wet stands in his eyes though it doesn’t spill. Then you realise it’s shame that’s made him turn.
‘No, they got it off me real quick, Susanna. All the rest, the boot-heel, the knife, that was for being filthy as you are, one of them said. He … he spat on me, too.’
Your power crackles inside you and you force it back down deep.
Abner’s barely enough magic in him to spark a fire from winter-dried wood, though the stable-creatures love him.
Yet that didn’t matter to the human beasts who beat and tore him.
Like enough they’ve no great grievance against witches.
Just saw an easy target for robbing. But the cruelty and callowness.
The spitting! When Abner’s half meek lamb and half patient donkey, who’s never harmed a fly.
What those lads did to him, you’d pay back to them in kind, each one. Blow for blow. They’re not good enough to deserve even the spittle from your lips. A piss upon them!
‘Goodness, Susanna, whatever are you doing? Hands off!’
Missus Kilpatrick, her honey-gold tresses all pinned up neat. Not a hair tumbling out of place as she kneels at Abner’s side and bats you away.
‘Keeping him alive,’ you say.