Chapter Thirty-one The Mother of Storms #2
Their final stretch took them past standing stones carved with old symbols, which pulled on Kensa’s skirts as a winding finger.
She relished the breeze in the early morning, for it was unlike any she had known before: the Old Ways were present here, though their power was different.
In the distance, wild ponies thundered across the moors, while large rocky tors stretched high.
When they were far enough through Bodmin Moor, she and Jack parted ways with the cart and its horses, to continue on foot.
Occasionally, Jack cleared his throat to speak and then remained silent, prolonging the awkwardness between them.
At last, they reached Delford Bridge, a low, flat walkway in stone, which held a centuries-old age to it.
The running water of the De Lank River was beautifully clear and necessary on such a hot day, cooling against Kensa’s feet and brow as she paddled.
Jack too, stripped off his socks and boots, wading up to his knees in the water.
Swifts dipped to find their mirror in the river’s surface, seeking their breakfast, while an otter splashed idly in the reeds near by.
‘I’ll wait here,’ said Jack, for behind them and not far off was a low stone building in a squat circle where Kensa had been told to present herself.
She was early – it was not yet midday – though she approached anyway in the hope that the sooner she arrived, the sooner she could leave.
Kensa glanced behind her, once, to see Jack shucking off his shirt at the river’s edge.
It seemed he meant to swim. She snapped her head forwards and did not dare look again.
A different heat pierced her, as straight and fine as the sewing needle wrapped safely within her father’s satchel, which she wore across her body.
The door to the small circular building was open. Granite stone had been arranged high, beneath a rush-thick roof. A stunted hawthorn tree sat by the entrance, while rowan had been affixed to the low mantel above the threshold. Kensa entered, and only upon stepping inside did she hear voices.
‘That is not what I meant, Billy.’
‘She should never have done it!’
‘That being the case, we cannot—’
The wise women who Kensa had seen in the orchard turned to stare at her. She rocked on her heels and cleared her scarred throat, which had become quite suddenly dry. The small room was tight with burning sage, which hung in running shapes over their heads, as wild as the nearby horses.
‘I’m early,’ said Kensa.
‘Yes,’ said Eadain, mouth poised and unfeeling. She wore a long navy gown with a white leather waistcoat. ‘I am the one who summoned you to our circle at Bodmin to stand trial.’
Kensa immediately stepped back. ‘Trial?’
A hand shot out from the shadows at her right, where a previously unseen woman crouched, her prominent teeth and tight bodice prompting Kensa to recall her name: Honour of Newquay.
Her grip wrapped itself around Kensa’s forearm.
Eadain walked briskly, her skirts running in a sweeping motion as she closed the door.
Trapped inside, the burnt herbs stung Kensa’s eyes, hardened and weary.
‘I sensed the Old Ways break and reform themselves, against the solemn agreements made between the Bodmin Witches,’ said Eadain. ‘Tell me, Miss Rowe, was this your doing?’
‘Yes.’ Kensa wrenched her arm free and brushed her fingers over the bone-handled knife, a habit whenever a threat presented itself. If the coven noticed, none spoke. She had suspected she would meet their ire. Yet her nerve held out. ‘It had to be done.’
Eadain never reclaimed her seat, choosing to stand over her chosen victim. ‘Why?’
A wariness rose about Kensa’s shoulders.
Everything she spoke next, with difficulty, tipped a scale in her favour or against it.
Haltingly, the wise woman of Portscatho explained what had taken place.
Perhaps she should have been less honest. Lies no longer sat well on her tongue.
She wanted to voice the truth and pull it from others, which was what she did.
Often, there were murmurs and gasps from those assembled, whose shadows took on strange shapes behind them, as though they held a private conversation in another place.
Eadain’s eyes were piercing. She looked down her hawkish nose.
‘Why should you be allowed to remain in service to your community?’ When she spoke it was with emphasis on certain words, as though in that distinction was a secret test: one she wished Kensa to fail.
‘Your actions put us in danger.’ Eadain appeared at first impassive, though there was a certain shape to her lips, to her brows.
Behind her voice were unfathomable impulses, and none of them good. ‘Do you deny it?’
‘No,’ said Kensa, squaring her shoulders.
‘No,’ repeated Eadain ‘no,’ emphasising it to their small gathering with shock that was not as convincing as it should have been.
One thing became clear to Kensa. This woman – this witch – was enjoying their talk and the discomfort she draped over others.
Naturally, she hid it, though not well. Kensa recognised the bullish nature in herself, her desire to protect herself and protrude thorns.
This, however, was different and unsettling.
‘Leave her be,’ said a stout individual, Hawise of the Lizard, whose bonnet was perpetually in danger of falling from her grey curls. ‘I’ll speak for her.’
‘She’s earned her right to her wisening,’ said another, Uzella of Lostwithiel, who fanned herself with a lazy hand. ‘It’s rare one can make an error and mend it as she has done. Surely, it’s better to fail and right oneself than never know either?’
‘I suppose it’ll be entertaining, whatever happens,’ added Billy, the herbalist of Mevagissey.
Eadain expelled a derogatory hum from her throat, finely edged and, one could guess, oft used. ‘Let us not forget that the sea god who guarded the waters fed by the River Fal is gone and has been replaced by a mere child.’
Kensa snorted and raised her chin. ‘On land you’ll be safe with such words,’ she cautioned.
‘Though I would not speak them in sight of the sea or that mere child will see you at the bottom of it.’ Admittedly, Elowen could never harm another, yet the Bodmin Witches did not know that.
‘Isolde chose me to be the wise woman of Portscatho.’
Kensa faltered. Her late mentor’s old advice returned to her.
Once, she had been instructed to pretend well enough, to seem capable even when she was not.
This was a wise woman’s role and one the others in this room performed too, seeming authoritative and in command, even when doubting.
She could see it. Invisible veils pulled on, a pretence that could be peeled away if one knew what to look for.
‘I chose me,’ said Kensa, at last, standing a little straighter, ‘I am enough.’
And when she spoke it, she found she believed it.
In fact, she need not pretend at all.
By the time Kensa returned to Jack, he wore a peculiar expression.
Determined, yet vulnerable, as though he had set his mind to something – and it was not long before she realised he’d set it upon her.
She grinned, a little unsure, and he returned it.
Eager for a final dip prior to heading home, Kensa stripped off her shoes and hitched up her skirts.
And if she lifted the fabric higher than was deemed appropriate, Jack did not chide her.
And if Jack watched her, intently, she did not chide him either.
It was settled, approved by the Bodmin Witches Meet. At least, by the majority. There was one obstinate refusal, which was easily overridden. Kensa was and would remain the wise woman of Portscatho. However, there was one other concern that sat heavy upon her and it had nothing to do with witches.
It was summer’s height and all who saw her knew it. The wind was blowing from the south, warm and hot and heavy. A midday sun was combing heat from the earth and burning through her soles where they touched the road. By the coast it would be cooler and, in the sea, cooler still.
‘You’re wet,’ said Kensa, as Jack waded along the shallows towards her.
He stepped closer and she meant to push him away, she truly did.
Because his hair, grown out a little, was dripping onto her nose, and his skin was brackish from the river.
Yet there was no one in sight and no one to sight them.
Finally, the two were alone. Kensa raised her hands onto his bare shoulders and his own strayed to her hips, to where her dress bunched at the sides.
Jack’s warmth contrasted with the chilled water, as he stood flush against her.
She watched the uncertainty play across his lips – and with a second’s bravery she stole it – chased it away with her own mouth, with a kiss, which was certain enough for them both.
And when his tongue met hers, she was too happy to care about her own clumsiness or inexperience.
Because they were together and he tasted like all the summers she’d ever known and had yet to meet.
‘Again,’ said Kensa, breathlessly, and for once Jack did as she asked.