‘Evey Red Braid,
watch thy mist.
Evey Red Locks,
drop thy fist.’
Dill smiled to the girls in the water. The younger waved to see her. But her sister frowned and said, ‘Silly mite. This is not the time for playing. Come now.’
We brooked the stream, smooth stones under foot and held at roots to make the bank. I listened true. No dog came barking. Dill’s hand was soft and small as a mouse in mine. We passed through the wood, and after a time, we saw it, sitting far away, smoke lifting, like hair in the wind.
‘Why there, Evey?’ She pointed to town with her fist curled about the black stone.
‘Because that’s where dogs will home to sleep.’
And I swear, Mother. I never will let them lie. Only in death.
Only then.
Rain was after soaking us. The sky was lead. We had to shelter.
‘I’s wet to bone, Evey.’
‘So’s I, Dill. Won’t kill you none.’
She coughed. Little toad. Ever I must look to her, ever she must play. When we made the coven, then she would know better.
Croake Farm crouched on the hill. We watched it, as the rain combed our tired heads.
‘Evey…’
‘Shush it, Dill. Wait and listen, will you?’ I pulled her hand for quiet.
She did then, with a sniff. And there, the farm windows gleamed like the yellow eyes of a cat in the night.
I listened. The rain fell. Dill’s hand moved in mine. I must nest this mouse else the rain would take her. And that wouldn’t be. I swore to Mother I would look to her. She was just a child. Where I was a child no more.
A shadow moved cross a window. Chance we had then, to find warm. I pulled Dill on, and she followed, humming spite the cold.
We ran through the mud and the dark. Light from a window fell to the cobbles, slimy under our toes. A tree creaked like it moaned to be let in. I hammered the door, its sound echoing about that muddy yard. The wood was wet on my palm.
No sound, only the rain, hissing.
I knew this farm. Had cured stock here with Mother last summer. There was no danger. Still I steeled and tighter drew Dill’s hand. I went to knock again.
A bolt shot and the door cracked. A man’s face, I knowed him and he knowed me. His eyes moved to the dark, then to me.
‘What… What do you want?’ He was after being fierce, but I smelled fear upon him.
‘Shelter,’ I said over the rain. ‘We need shelter… James Croake.’
I had found his name, and the old face looked up, eyes blinking.
‘I am Eveline. This is Dill.’ Water clogged my tongue.
‘Hello, James Croake,’ Dill coughed.
‘I know who you are.’ His eyes darted from us to the pressing dark. ‘I cannot…’
He made to close his door. My hand went to hold it.
‘Please…’ I trembled, but I had to be strong. Had to find a way.
Dill coughed again. Croake looked down at her.
‘Where is… your mother?’ He knew it as quick as he said it.
I stepped closer, felt the light and warmth upon my face.
‘They came. They…’ My throat jabbed, like I had swallowed a needle. ‘She is gone…’
Dill’s thumb stroked over my shaking fist.
The old man stared at me with eyes rheumy and blue. His tongue turned with his thoughts. If he let us in, I knew that we would talk on it.
Then silent, he stepped back to open the door wide. Dill darted through, quick as you like, a little mouse happy to be home, stretching her arms through the warmth.
‘I thank you kindly, old man Jim.’ Even a smile rising upon her tired face.
‘Come, then, if you’re coming.’
He waved a hand, gnarled as the tree creaking in his yard. I nodded for his relenting, and I stepped into Croake Farm.
Shadows leaped about the walls, as Croake closed the door behind us. We breathed the heat from the hearth in the corner, the smell of sheep, smoke and broth. I moved my palm to the hearth, feeling the ash hot between my fingers.
Dill jumped up and the stone in her hand tapped against the slate. Ever she was holding it, whispering to it.
Croake limped to the fire. His breath rattled as he filled a bowl from the pot. I watched his mouth twitch.
‘Here…’ His hand shook slight as he offered the food.
‘Thank you, James Croake.’
Dill bent to her bowl, the steam rising through her wet hair.
Croake passed same to me. I tasted parsley, carrot and turnip as I drank, feeling the broth fill and flow about me. A chair creaked. I lowered that bowl, and the old man sat by the fire, watching the window, then watching us. At last he spoke, at last he came to it, as I knew he would.
‘I’m… sorry for… Your mother helped us. Helped our families hereabouts…’
Anger rose in me, like the steam from Croake’s pot.
‘Yes, Mother helped you…’ And his broth was sweet no more. ‘But now she is dead. Because of her witching way. Is that what you mean?’
I cast my words like stones. It was that same witching way I had told her I wanted no more on. But now she was gone and nothing could I tell her.
Croake cast his eyes down, as might a scolded child.
‘Tell me, old man, will your sorry bring my mother back? Will your sorry—’
‘Evey, it is not his fault!’
Dill buried her head to her knees, Mother’s stone clutched in her paw, as she rocked, like a hedgehog balled. She fought the same pain that coursed me.
‘Please don’t fight him,’ she said softer. ‘Can we not rest?’
I scowled to the old man who watched the shadows.
‘It is nobody’s fault, sister,’ I said. ‘But her own. For witches are wicked, evil things and must be hunted.’ My words simmered in spite. ‘Everyone knows that. Don’t they?’
Dill only turned from me, too tired to fight.
I drank again, but the knot would not wash from my throat. Croake kicked a log to the hearth and we fell to silence as the fire spat.
Dill yawned beneath her buried head. I shivered though I grew warmer and looked about. Some tools stood in a corner. A hoe and a scythe arching over the window. A table, a pair of chairs. Another door ajar showed a bed. Some rags beneath the window. They moved then growled.
‘Shush there, Dog,’ Croake muttered.
And just as she seemed won over by sleep, up Dill sprang with a cry,
‘Ah, pups! Evey, look, now!’
She kneeled where a young bitch lay. ‘Three, four… five little ones! What is her name?’
Croake gave a shrug, ‘Just Dog.’
The dog’s thin tail drummed the floor as Dill stroked her.
‘She must have a name. I shall name her…’ Dill put her face to the bitch’s brown nose. ‘Berry, for her eyes are black and she is sweet!’
She clicked her tongue. And so coaxed, Berry moved her head to Dill’s leg and they lay together with those pups, all curled into sleep.
‘The child has a way with beasts…’
‘Why, yes, Jim Croake.’ I licked the edge of my words. ‘My sister has gifts. All animals are drawn to her.’ I shivered again with a cold that curdled in my gut. I was prodding her, but I could not help it. Dill opened one eye to me.