Chapter 22
Avice
The following day – the second full one Trewoofe had been under her care – he did not wake up. Avice had tried to rouse him at each mealtime, even wafting the dreaded pickles under his nose, but he did not stir.
She tried dribbling the healing waters into his mouth, but he did not swallow and pushed it out with his tongue, drooling it down his chin.
That night, she fell asleep in his arms again, clinging to him, and willing him to stay with her.
On the third day, he still slept.
The whole time, anxiety clawed at her chest. She would check on him obsessively, ensuring that his pulse still fluttered in his jugular, and his chest still rose and fell.
As a distraction, Avice busied herself outside.
She gathered the magical blooms that had grown from when Trewoofe, still in his Knucker body, had been in her garden.
Once she had collected several baskets, she sat on the pallet next to him, weaving flower jewellery in a variety of sizes for the Good Neighbours who would participate in the Spring Equinox ritual.
Throughout the day, she tried to get him to drink, but it simply dribbled back out. Tears stung her eyes in frustration at the healing waters being wasted. He had said himself that he used it to recover, so why did it not work?
As she laid down beside him that night, Trewoofe – still unconscious – tossed an arm over her, his claws grazing her belly.
She wriggled around in his grip and pressed her palm to his forehead.
Her face pinched in concern. He was freezing, and his body no longer trembled.
She rubbed her palms up and down his bandaged arms to try to warm him up.
Her eyelids dropped as she continued the repetitive action, her dreams stalked by images of burying Trewoofe under the frost.
By the morning of the fourth day, the healing waters had run out.
Avice knelt beside him on the pallet and pressed her fingers to his cold throat. Trewoofe was pale as a corpse, and she felt only the slightest flutter of his pulse. His chest laboured, and ragged breaths wheezed in and out of his nose.
She grazed her lips over his forehead, and brushed her fingers through his hair, and around the base of his horns. “You cannot leave me,” she whispered. “We have only just found each other.”
Bramble whimpered by her side. Avice, is he going to die?
She stuck out her chin. “Not if I can help it.”
What will you do?
“I am going to the well for fresh water, and to see if anything else down there may help him,” she explained.
But… it is underground. Bramble flattened his ears back against his head. Are you sure you can do it?
She swallowed and squeezed her eyes shut. “With you by my side?” she said, opening her eyes, her expression softening. “I know I can.”
The Grim poked his nose into Trewoofe’s face and snuffled. Who will look after the Well King?
Avice smiled into the hearth. “Ashling?” The Wisp floated out and landed on her outstretched hand. “Will you keep him warm and stay on the pallet with him?” She fought back the tears that threatened to fall. “I cannot bear it… if he should die, and he is alone.”
Ashling chirruped and wafted down to Trewoofe, perching lightly on his horn.
“Thank you.” Her voice cracked as she turned to Bramble. “To Knucker Hill and the well.”
Together, the midwife and the Grim stood at the entrance to the sacred well.
Ancient magic thrummed up and out, calming her thundering heart.
She squinted down into the tunnel. The huge, mossy flagstones that lead to the arched entry shifted into quartz steps.
After four of them, she could see no more as they plummeted into the pitch.
Avice grasped her pendant in her gloved hand and chewed on her lip. She kicked a pebble by the toe of her boot. It bounced down the stairs and into the gloom, letting out a crystal-clear chime each time it landed further into the descent.
“All these turns of seasons,” she marvelled, “and I have never been inside.”
With good reason. Even the Lord of the Well understood why you would not want to go into the Underneath, Bramble commiserated, butting his head against her dangling hand.
She scratched fondly behind his ear as she readjusted the empty water bags. Avice titled her chin to the sky, allowing the gentle light of Trewoofe’s garden to warm her face, just in case she never felt the Sun again.
She dropped her gaze to Bramble, releasing his fur. “Into the well.”
I am with you, Avice.
Together they jumped down the first step: steep, slippery with moss, but manageable.
As they descended, the pleasant thrum of magic deepened in its resonance, reminding Avice of the deep honey tones of Trewoofe’s voice when he was in his Knucker shape.
A rainbow of crystals accented the dark walls of the stairway, each glowed more brightly as they moved past, welcoming their presence.
The further they went, the deeper the darkness.
The cut of light from the entrance above finally faded, and all Avice could see was the spark of Bramble’s eyes and the light of the geodes.
It hit her then, the memories. She came to a sudden stop, her feet rooted to the spot as an all-encompassing pressure of blood pounded in her head.
Bramble nosed her clenched fist. You are alright, Avice. I am here; it is not the ale cellar.
She squeezed her eyes shut, trying to avoid the image of a glinting blade and meaty fists that danced in the dark. On the back of her eyelids, she saw the shimmer of Trewoofe’s scales, and the call of his comforting voice.
“I can do this,” Avice murmured, forcing her eyes open.
She reached for Bramble and gripped onto his fur for support.
Together, down, down they went, step by step, as the roaring in her ears calmed.
Her gaze adjusted to the gloom, the crystals guiding the rest of the way.
She grinned as she spotted the Well of Healing Waters below and jumped down the final step.
She dashed to the bank, Bramble on her heels, and knelt by the glistening river.
Avice tugged off her gloves, rolled up her sleeves, and dipped her hand in. “It is warm!” she exclaimed, smiling in wonder.
She washed with tepid water and a rag in Winter, and submerged herself in cold rivers during the Summer, but never had she dreamt of being able to sink herself completely into heat.
Right then and there, she wished she could tear off her cloak and dress and slip in.
Bramble pawed at the river, and it let out a bell-like peal, reminding Avice of the church bells, but far more pleasant to her ears.
Wishing she could linger, she unstrapped a bag and sunk it into the river.
Glugs of bubbles popped at the surface as it filled, bursting in dulcet tones.
She heaved it out, muscles straining at the weight.
She dropped it next to her with a dull thud, some water sloshing out, and quickly laced the top closed.
Just as she was about to fill the second, she paused, mind turning like a spinning wheel.
Avice straightened and studied the walls of the Underneath, sweeping her eyes from crystal to crystal.
Their variety of colours, lustres, and songs drew her in.
Her thoughts scrambled for the idea that was there.
Why did the healing waters work better fresh?
Why was it not helping as much now? Why did Aunt Agnes always insist she should not store too much at any one time?
Why did the witches in her family make this march up Knucker Hill so frequently?
She had always thought it was tradition, because that was what had always been done.
Her aunt had never explained why. Perhaps because she did not even know herself.
The idea struck her like lightning.
Because it was all connected. The gems, the water, and the King. Like threads of a woven rope. When they were all braided together, they were stronger, more effective.
She pointed to the wall. “The crystals!”
Bramble pricked his ears. What about them?
“We are taking some back with us,” she explained, dashing over to them, and pulling her herbing knife from her belt.
Her familiar trotted over to her. Why?
“I cannot explain why I think this, call it intuition, but I believe that the crystals and the waters aid each other in their efficacy.”
So, what are you doing?
Avice rose her knife high above her head and plunged it into the wall next to a lavender crystal the size of her palm.
She blinked in surprise at the ease it went in, like a hot knife through butter.
She wiggled the blade around, the metal squelching in the damp earth, before it finally fell out with a satisfying pop.
She caught it in her palm and grinned. The geode vibrated through her muscles and bone, sending a tingle up her pearlescent scar. Holding it out, Avice turned to show her familiar.
“See?”
He was gone.
“Bramble?”
Her breath hitched. His constant presence by her side was the only factor that kept her from falling to pieces. She shoved the gem into the bag and frantically looked around the cavern.
“brAMBLE!”
A ripping snarl echoed through the pitch. Followed by a blood-curdling shriek.
YOU DO NOT TOUCH HER!
Rancid hot breath on the back of her neck made her arm hairs prickle. She froze, hand clutched to her pendant, flexing her fingers over the smooth crystal.
She willed herself to run. Move Avice!
The air had been robbed from her lungs, and she struggled to suck in a breath.
Black, thorn-tipped fingers traced the scars on her face, gentle as Trewoofe’s touch. But this was not her Knucker. This was something older, stranger, and twisted.
The hand, long and many-knuckled, drifted down. It caressed her chin and landed on her thudding jugular. A claw pricked at her, dimpling the skin enough to draw a drop of blood.