Chapter Thirty-one The Mother of Storms
Chapter Thirty-one
The Mother of Storms
Elowen had been gone a whole month. Since the Pact had been made and the Sea had taken her, there had been no sign of the fair-haired girl.
Each day, when she was done with her duties, Kensa went to the harbour side and waited.
Today, she shucked off her responsibilities, dogged by Fox – or Lowarn, as the Bucka had called her – until she reached more populated areas.
With a parting nose to her calf, the vixen turned back to the undergrowth and waited for Kensa’s return to the cottage.
Often, she thought on Isolde. Had the crone known this would happen?
Possibly, her onions were shrewd enough and now under Kensa’s watch.
The morning was butter weather, with thick fog spread as fat into every earthen cradle.
It would not last. Summer had arrived. Kensa walked along the curving harbour wall and sat down, the sea a gentle rhythm beneath her.
The stonework was numbing to her rear and she knew she’d long for this coolness later, when the earth had soaked up the day’s heat and sang it out, almost burning to the touch.
For the first time, Kensa did not sit here alone. Another came to join her, his lanky legs bending comically as he took a seat not too far from her, though not too close either.
‘She was born clutching a shell,’ said Mr Skewes.
He seemed set to talk on and Kensa remained silent, staring down into the mist-dipped horizon and waiting for the sun to burn it away.
‘It was Old Sal who delivered her. I wouldn’t have the wise woman do it, I was too scared.
In her hand, in Elowen’s tiny hand, was a winkle,’ he continued, voice wobbling.
‘I think I knew then what she’d be. Course, I was told it was nothing, only birthing matter.
’ Mr Skewes bobbed his head fiercely and patted a pocket sewn into his shirt, into every shirt he had ever worn, painstakingly stitched by Derwa.
‘I knew what it was and it’d lead to this, as did your mother – though she’ll grieve for her daughter nonetheless. ’
Kensa’s mouth was firm. Although it was Elowen who tied them together, their relationship had always been a fraying one and Kensa pulled on those errant threads now.
‘You never told me what you did to my father,’ said Kensa. ‘Even though you were the one who sent him to the gallows.’
Mr Skewes’s tongue poked at his teeth, his nervous habits plainly visible in the early light. ‘He was a murderer and a crook and a rapist and a drunk,’ said the Coast Guard. ‘And the worst he did, well, I kept it from Derwa.’
Kensa’s jaw clenched, though she did not speak.
‘If your father had not met the rope, he would have sent others to a worse end, your mother and you included.’
‘You don’t know that.’
Mr Skewes released a heavy breath. ‘I do not ask forgiveness,’ he said.
‘I loved Derwa and I wanted to protect her and … and do more than that, I’ll admit.
When I took the Coast Guard position, I knew the village’d turn on me, being inclined to side with the smugglers or being smugglers themselves.
That were never Derwa. She always had a smile for me, talked to me when others turned their backs – and when I saw what Rowe did to her, the bruises and how he spoke to her, taking what money she had and leaving her with nought, I couldn’t stand it.
I never thought she’d want me, and when she did, well, I told Sir George what I knew.
It was the only way I thought I could help her – and you. ’
Tears fell down Kensa’s cheeks, falling as clear, hot baubles onto her skirt. ‘Am I like him?’ With what she had done, there was much she wished she could undo.
‘You’re stubborn,’ said Mr Skewes. ‘I suppose you’re brave, as he was.’ He looked at her and it was not unkindly. ‘No, you do not take after him. Whoever you are, Kensa, you are a woman all yourself, exactly as your sister is.’
In the cresting light, as the waves sang gold and gulls found height, a shape walked from the water.
Tall, serene and glowing as the tide tops on the brightest days.
Her skin was bluish, her eyes bluer still.
The two figures at the harbour knew her at once – and when they smiled with joy, the sea and all her bounty smiled back.
‘It’s a letter,’ said Elowen, as a courier’s heels vanished from the doorway at the cottage in Bohortha.
August had brought a burning heat and, in the afternoon’s height, neither sister could stir much enthusiasm.
When pressed, Elowen could provide coolness with a touch, though it drained her to do it.
Gone was the Sight which had ravaged her body, its task done.
She had yet to master the Sea’s ways and her time on shore was limited, especially in such fair weather.
Kensa sank down onto what had once been the Bucka’s chair, while Elowen perched on the footstool nearest the window, summoning a cool breeze as she stroked the last surviving chicken, sitting contentedly on her lap.
With the Pact taking a new form, oddities had begun to emerge.
The books on the shelves misbehaved at the slightest touch, until Kensa could not tell bad from good.
What’s more, the animals in the surrounding woodland had begun to grow tame and Kensa found she could keep a bloom alive for long past its flowering months.
One thing that had not altered was the relationship between Kensa and Elowen. Despite their lengthy spells of separation, the sisters still behaved like sisters.
And that was how their mother treated them.
Although she had a wise woman and a sea god as her children, Derwa behaved no differently, as though this was their youthful fancy and they’d leave it behind, eventually.
‘You’ll grow out of it,’ she’d repeat whenever the pair visited her, stroking Elowen’s odd, salted hair.
Kensa did not argue, understanding what her mother needed.
If she thought her daughters too far beyond her reach, she would lose herself, too, and so she did not comment on Elowen’s changed appearance or Kensa’s growing reliance on the Old Ways. It was safer that way, to pretend.
Elowen’s voice was deeper, stranger. ‘No one has sent us a letter before.’
‘I know,’ snapped Kensa. She flipped the paper and showed it to Elowen, revealing only one name on the back which surely did not begin with an ‘E’. ‘You mean no one has sent me a letter before.’
Not even Mr Skewes had ever received such an item, for he was not deemed important enough for such correspondence.
The paper had a strange and foreign smell to it, which did not belong in Portscatho.
Its wax seal was heavy and Kensa had no desire to break it, as pretty as it was, for fear she would never hold such a thing again.
‘Can I see it?’
‘No,’ said Kensa, hastily breaking the seal, lest her sister do it first.
Inside was a neat and sloping script, which read:
You are instructed to journey to Bodmin
where the Witch Meet will hold its Summer Hasting.
An assessment will take place to determine your suitability as wise
woman to those residing on the southern tip where the River Fal lies.
Kensa had learned of the Bodmin Witch Meet from Isolde, who herself was summoned there once yearly.
Now it was Kensa’s turn and she could not deny her nervousness.
With the letter were clear directions across Bodmin Moor, with a crude map depicting stone boundary markers and the winding De Lank River.
The word ‘assessment’ grated. She thought on the events in the orchard, years ago.
‘I cannot go there with you,’ said Elowen, frustrated. ‘I cannot leave this shore.’
‘Jack will take me,’ said Kensa, her cheeks warming at the thought.
It was on this subject that Elowen did not tease.
Although Kensa and Jack had seen one another, the pair had never been alone.
The Weaver and Isolde had needed to be buried and their funerals conducted – for a second time on the latter’s part – the village cleared and the fires seen to on the hills, as well as the removal of dead sheep.
There had not been the moment or the space with which to speak together.
Even if it had been granted, Kensa did not know what she’d say, which was exactly the predicament she faced on the morning Jack accompanied her to Bodmin.
The pair arranged a lift on a cart heading from Tregony to Truro, though what it carried the owner would not say.
He was pleased enough to have a wise woman and the mine owner’s son travel with him, which did not put Jack’s mind at rest. This was the furthest Kensa had ever been from home and it bit her nerves as thin as her nails, forever worried at her teeth.
Naturally, Jack handled everything, even accommodation at a nearby tavern.
Kensa was assigned her own room and, as a woman travelling alone with a man, she was given a few sideways glances.
None, however, would argue with a man Jack’s size.
That being said, Bodmin was a place where wise women gathered and, when Kensa’s role became common knowledge, she woke to a trinket or two outside her door in payment for any healing which may ever need take place at the tavern.
She accepted the gifts – mittens shot through with bright threads and the straightest sewing needle she had ever seen – with grace.