‘What do they say, Evey?’
Liar. Liar. Liar.
I drew her close. ‘They say, “Welcome, sisters. This way. This way.”’
And lying, I led Dill into the wood.
The night sky was clear, cupped by the waning moon, as my memories of that place dropped like pebbles to ripple a pond.
Last time I came with Mother, Dill was but a babe and I was no more than six year. Yet I knew the coven was close. Alder and yew stood all about, a crowd of tall shadows. And we heard nor smelled no beast. For witches do love to hunt.
‘Why do we come here, Evey?’
Spring whined upon Dill’s shoulder.
‘Have I not told you enough, Dilly?’
I stumbled in the dark, where a branch snapped. They would hear that right enough.
‘Tell me again, Evey Bird—’
‘Don’t call me that! You know as well as I. Because it was Mother’s wish! Because we need help! “Get to the coven. Find my sister,” she said. Because we must do what she wanted, and not keep asking why!’
Dill dragged her feet. She was tired. I was tired of her.
I felt a pull in my belly. Look to Dill. Like Mother jabbed me for what I had not said.
‘I can hear…’ Dill stopped. ‘Singing.’
We listened among those tall bodies of blue and black and grey. Then slight, then stronger came the sound of voices twisting through the branches. We were too far to hear what they sang. It was the coven for sure. For witches do love to sing.
‘Come on, we are close…’
But Dill pulled me back.
‘Dilly! We are going there. You swore to m—’
‘No, Evey, look!’
A shape came on through the trees.
Its white hands like gloves, hair long to its waist, as a blanket of silver threads.
Dill drew behind me. Silence, but for those singers, weaving their words.
‘Evey, what is that?’
‘Shhh…’
I would not be afeared, yet I felt my heart hammer so hard it might echo among those trees.
‘I… I am…’
‘Eveline of the Birds.’
Her voice filled the darkness. I could not see her lips. She was a shroud, floating above the ground.
‘Just Eveline.’
The woman looked down to us like one of the trees of the forest, tall and pale and still. Her face was narrow. Her eyes as a raven’s, sharp and quick. And I knew her then. She was my Aunt Grey.
‘And you must be little Dill.’
Grey bent to her. Spring growled.
‘Just Dill.’ I knew she was sullen for that ‘little’. ‘Who are you, please?’
The witch laughed. It was a sound like the turning of dry leaves.
‘Ah, little Dill, it is good to see you.’
She stepped closer, and I smelled lavender, wood bark, smoke. She stretched out her hands, as a silver birch springing to life, her hair flowing forward like to touch us.
‘You were but a babe when I saw you last.’
Another pebble dropped into the pool of my memory. A great fireside with Mother, the witches passing Dill from one to other. Dill stretching for Mother’s arms, crying as the witches kissed her. Me weighed with sleep. Mother and Grey talking close. Grey laughing. Mother frowning. And then nothing more, ripples run to still.
Grey kneeled. ‘I know what it is to be a younger sister. I am Grey. Your aunt.’
She reached to stroke Dill’s cheek. Spring barked.
Grey laughed again, and again that sound of leaves rustling.
‘Greetings, little pup.’
She stood, and turned her eyes to me, like Mother’s but not Mother’s.
‘Eveline – is my sister come?’
It was like an arrow to my heart, piercing right through.
For a moment I could bring no words, as my aunt looked out to the darkness. For a moment, I listened for the sound of her staff striking the trees, her scolding me and Dill for running on. For a moment I thought she was come and would step smiling to our midst and greet her sister.
‘She’s dead.’
Dill’s voice was hard like her hand.
Grey grasped my wrist.
‘When?’
‘A day gone. Men came. Hunters.’ My voice fell like a dead chick in that wood. I began to shake and Grey was about me, folding me to her, holding me close, and I could smell that scent of lavender and smoke, as she whispered to my ear,
‘They will never take her spirit. You know that, don’t you?’
I tried to nod, my head too tight to her shoulder, her long hair across my cheek.
‘Oh, my sister, my sister, our ways were different, but you were my blood always and ever…’ She stroked my head. ‘You poor little things.’
And she pulled Dill too, I heard her gasp as tighter Grey held us, with a shhh and a shush, now, like we were babes in the crib. It was strange. I did not know my aunt good, but she smoothed my hair like Mother used to, till I made her stop, for I felt too old for it, and now this woman who was both family and a stranger did it, and I wanted to cry and be comforted and told it would be all right, but also I wanted to push away her smell, her pulling arms, her voice like old leaves.
‘Come now, my sister’s children.’ Grey felt our faces. ‘Follow me.’
She turned, and walked between the trees, floating slow through the gloom.
I had to talk to the coven, tell them of Mother, of Tall One, his pack. I looked to Dill. I needed them to help me.
‘Evey, I’m not sure—’
‘Dill, are you hungry?’
‘Yes, but—’
‘Are you tired?’
That jab again at my belly.
‘And what of poor Spring? Your pup needs food.’
‘But, Evey, I am frightened.’
She pressed her face to Spring, breathing in her whimpers.
Grey stood still as a tree, watching us. And the singing came again, like they sang only to us, two lost witches in the wood.
‘Dill, I promise you, we will rest and then be on our way.’
I swallowed, my mouth was dry with lies.
She stopped her stroking the pup. ‘You do promise, Evey?’
The smell of fire came on the air, bringing more of meat and broth. I ached from hunger, ached to sit, but most I ached to get Dill there.
‘Promise,’ I whispered and reached for her.
And Dill clung gladly to me, as we followed our Aunt Grey, a spirit leading us deeper into the night.
‘Look, Dilly!’
Flames danced among the trees. And as we drew nearer, the voices grew louder.
‘There was a valley,
and in that valley,
was a woman,
of witching way.’
So they sang, so Grey floated on, so those voices led us. Till we made a clearing, where the trees were yellow and red and orange by the light of a great fire.
‘She walked the valley,
that witching valley,
that woman of our way.’
We stepped into that light and felt the warmth upon our faces. Around that lusty flame, a ring of witches sat singing over.
‘She walked that valley,
that witching woman,
as she made
her witching way…’
The singing stopped. The witches looked to us. Dill’s hand gripped tighter to mine. Grey curled her fingers about my shoulder.