Chapter Three

Outside the largest of the Dwarf Hole caves, Marion watched the sun slide towards the horizon. Imelda had gone inside to check for vagabonds or animals.

Marion felt hungry and thirsty, frightened but resolved. Since their conversation earlier that day, Imelda had forbade her any bite to eat or sip to drink. It was part of the preparation, she had said. They had hurried to Scrafford bridge, Imelda insisting they reach the caves before sunset, still early at this time of year.

“Empty,” said Imelda, coming out. She then gently took hold of Marion’s chin. “Now remember, you must do exactly as I say, or the opportunity will pass.” She smiled, moving her hand to Marion’s cheek. “Don’t worry sweet thing. I will be with you.”

“You should be home looking after Clement and John.”

“You cannot do this alone. As soon as we’re done, we will return.”

“But while we’re gone…”

Imelda interrupted her. “You said yourself that John needs to both feel and be respected. Having two women fuss over him will not help. I have tended to his hurts, he’s well enough to mind Clement for a few hours. De Erdington has what he wants and is unlikely to cause more mischief so soon. People will turn a blind eye only once in a while.”

“I’d just feel better if one of us were there.”

“You couldn’t stop them last night, and I couldn’t scare them so badly again. This is how we protect the boys. Here, now, in this way.”

Marion kicked a rock down into the Tame. “Very well,” she said.

They sat at the entrance to the cave, facing out over the river that had carved it. “There are few better places, few better times for this work,” said Imelda. She pointed to the Tame running a few feet below them. “We sit where the water meets the land.” She stared at Marion, as if determined to make something understood. She pointed to the cave mouth above them. “We sit where rock becomes sky.” Marion paid close attention, hoping things would come to make sense.

“Tomorrow is Lady Day, so one year touches another.” Imelda gestured to the setting sun. “In a few minutes, day will turn into night.” She filled her lungs and sat up straight. “Where opposites meet, when things change, the worlds come closest to each other. Crossing becomes easier.”

From out of her sack she pulled a shaft of wood, short and smooth with a rounded end.

“What’s that?” asked Marion.

“The end of an old broom stick.” Imelda then produced a small clay pot, with a piece of cloth tied over the neck. She undid the rag and folded it over her finger, then used it to dig a yellow ointment from the container.

Picking up the broom handle, she smeared the concoction over the rounded end. Once the top half of the wood was covered, she handed it to Marion, careful not to touch the coating with her bare skin.

“So what do I do with this?” said Marion.

“Put it inside yourself. Down there,” said Imelda, indicating with a slight nod.

“What? You mean...between my legs?”

Imelda glanced at the sunset. “Yes. Do it now or it will be too late.” Marion stared at the broomstick, the sun and then her servant. “Now,” said Imelda, in a tone Marion had learned to obey from childhood.

She hitched the bottom of her cote up to her thighs and leant backwards. Imelda knelt beside her so could not see, but Marion felt herself blushing furiously. She moved her legs apart and guided the coated piece of wood to her cunny. Holding her breath, she touched it to her outer lips, and felt a prickling sensation. Imelda nodded, and Marion slid it deep inside herself.

“Hold it there,” said Imelda, “and watch the day become night.” Marion stared at the sun as it eased down to the horizon. The broom handle did not feel uncomfortable, almost the opposite. The ointment however felt hot, and the prickling had turned to near stinging. She shifted at the strange sensations and bit her lip. She felt slightly dizzy.

Imelda reached into a second bag and pulled out the hen she had brought. It blinked and cocked its head, clucking softly as Imelda soothed it with murmurs. “Even here and now, we must push through to the otherworld, force an opening.” She pulled a short knife from her belt and slit the chicken’s throat.

The bird made a small noise and jerked. Its head drooped. Imelda spoke in a smooth, steady tone. “As the year turns and day becomes night, where water meets the land and rock kisses the sky, we turn life into death.”

Marion watched as the sun touched the land, bathing it in red light. The sun sank quicker, as if its fear of the earth had suddenly turned to lust. She licked her lips and tasted the sunset, warm and peppery, coating her mouth like honey. Imelda chanted something, but Marion couldn’t hear over the rushing in her ears. “I feel ...strange,” she said, her own words reaching her as if through an echo.

She raised her free hand. It left a trail of black smoke hanging in the air like fog. The sun froze in its descent, and the Tame turned into a torrent of blood. Marion stretched for Imelda, and saw a young man standing between them.

He was beautiful. He had large eyes the colour of gold, skin as white as milk and clear as daylight. His hair fell in a black curtain to the shoulders of a pale gown. He beckoned to her, a silver ring on his thumb.

Marion pointed at him, but Imelda’s eyes stayed fixed on her. She tried to speak, but her tongue stuck to the roof of her mouth. She jabbed her finger again, still Imelda did not look.

The young man beckoned once more, and Marion felt lighter. She became so weightless she floated to her feet, almost against her will. After taking a few steps, she realised that the broom handle had gone.

She looked behind her, and saw herself on the cave floor. The sitting Marion gazed towards the sunset, drooling, her knees up and apart, sliding the broom handle in and out.

Marion, the standing Marion, laughed. Her other self looked so funny, her nose comically crooked. She then realised her standing self was barefoot, and that made her laugh too.

Imelda was watching the seated Marion closely. When Barefoot Marion waved a hand in Imelda’s face, she did not see it. Barefoot Marion shouted in Imelda’s ear, but she did not flinch, and that was the funniest thing of all.

Barefoot Marion laughed loud and long, but Imelda and the Seated Marion did not join in. The beautiful man looked bored. Barefoot Marion stopped laughing and went to see what he wanted.

The young man turned his back on her and walked deeper into the cave. She followed, leaving the other two behind. At first it got darker as the day’s last light struggled to reach them. Then a patchy, warm, green-white light grew in the darkness ahead. Without knowing exactly when or how, Marion found herself walking in a green wood at the height of summer.

There were woods to the North of Erdington, and large ones near Sutton Coldfield. This might be one of those, but that didn’t explain how they’d travelled from early spring to summer. Instead of bare branches with only their first buds, the trees stood in full leaf, acorns and beechnuts ripening.

Marion looked around as she followed her silent guide. This was a wild wood. No coppicing, clearing or pollarding was apparent, and fallen branches lay un-gathered. Yet they followed a path that someone must have cleared. Short, sweet-smelling grass cushioned Marion’s bare soles. Everything was beautiful, warm, dry and bright.

Then they passed a stand of holly and entered a glade with a house in it. Marion’s house. “What’s that doing here?” she said, surprised. Her house hadn’t moved before, at least not as far as she knew. Perhaps it did so when she wasn’t at home. The outbuildings had not come with it though, not even the privy. That did seem odd.

The young man had obviously expected to find her house here. He walked through the door without knocking, which Marion considered rude. She followed him inside.

The gold-eyed man was cross-legged on the floor, gazing into the burning hearth. Someone else sat on the bench stitching a grey tunic. A woman, wearing a full-length brown cote. An undyed woollen wimple shaded her face, until she looked up and smiled. “Hello Marion.”

“Mother,” said Marion. “What are you doing here?”

“I’m sewing this for John. Here, come closer so you can see how I stitch it. Your sewing needs work.”

Marion knelt in front of her mother, knowing she could never stitch so neatly. “What I meant,” she said, “when I asked what you were doing here, was why are you here?”

“This is our house. Where else would I be?”

“Yes, but you’re dead.”

“Well that’s no excuse for idleness. Here, look how small the backstitches are. It’s more work but makes for a stronger seam.”

Marion leant forward and tried to concentrate. Her sewing skills didn’t seem the most important matter of the moment.

“Mother. What shall I do about de Erdington? He’s stolen our oxen.”

“Yes dear, I saw. You know what you have to do, you just don’t think you can, or should.”

“I do? What? What should I do?”

“You’re a beautiful young woman Marion. You have what you need.”

“I don’t understand. A strong man might do something, but what can I do?”

“Take off that wimple first of all.”

“I’m not wearing a…” Marion touched the veil covering her hair, and the wimple over her neck and chin. “But...I wasn’t wearing this when I came in.”

“You’ve worn it for years. Your father put it on you. It’s time it came off.”

Marion lifted the fabric. Fine white linen. “This must have cost a lot. It seems a shame to take it off.”

“Ah,” said her mother, lifting her sewing to see it better. “I’ve missed a stitch. Watch and see how I fix it.”

“I can sew well enough. I need to know how to put things right. I need to protect myself, John and Clement too. I want justice.”

“Well you won’t get that by asking for it,” said her mother. “You’ve got to take off that wimple.”

“Why? What good will that do?”

“Well then everyone will see your beautiful hair. It has gotten much thicker since I died.”

“But if I take it off…”

“Yes?”

“Well, it doesn’t seem proper, mother. You’re wearing one.”

“Yes, but I’m married. Are you?”

“No.”

“Well then, it’s perfectly proper.”

Marion considered that. It did seem silly to keep it on when she hadn’t even known she wore it. She reached up and started to search through the folds of the veil. Her mother watched her, stilling her needle at last.

“I can’t,” said Marion. “I can’t find the end. My fingers have gone stiff.”

“If it was easy, you’d have done it before now. It will take effort; most worthwhile things do.”

“Help me,” said Marion. Her eyes started to sting, making her blink.

“Oh, my little girl,” said her mother. “I am helping you. If I’d lived, I would have helped you years ago.”

Marion fumbled with the folds of cloth. “It’s suffocating me. Please take it off.”

Her mother tsked. “I can’t do it for you. A woman has to do it herself.”

The tears started to flow as Marion tugged at the veil, pulling her hair painfully. “Why did you die and leave me with father? He treated us horribly. I hate him.” She felt part of the veil loosen.

“He was never a good man, or a kind one,” said her mother. “He protected and fed us, and thought that enough.”

“He beat me. I don’t know what he did to Mark, I think he may have killed him.”

“He told himself he was protecting you, but in truth he was afraid you would leave him.”

Marion’s fingers found the corner of the veil. She pulled hard. “Oww! It hurts,” but she persisted. The veil started to unravel. She panted now, unwinding the cloth, pulling at the tucks and folds. With one last tug the white veil covering her head came free.

Throwing it away she grabbed the wimple, a square piece of cloth with a hole for her face. It covered her hair, neck and chin, and should have come off easily. Somehow though it was sticking to her head. Clawing at it, she managed to get a grip near her jaw. She pushed her thumbs under and tried to peel it up. “Get...off…” she hissed.

“Nearly there little one,” said her mother.

“Get off, get off, get off, GET OFF,” shouted Marion, as she tore the fabric up over her head. She threw it into the fire, which flared up white. The whole blaze then became blood red, before finally the flames turned black. The veil on the floor ignited with the same dark, impossible fire.

Marion watched with her hands covering her mouth. The black fire writhed, danced and died. The fabric left no witness in the fire, no ash on the floor, but the smell of burning cloth filled the room.

“Well done my daughter,” said her mother. “You look beautiful.”

Marion pushed her hair back and dragged her fingers through it. The young man looked at her strangely. It reminded her of the way Mark used to look at her, before father caught them. She had not felt a gaze like that in so long. And yet...someone else had looked at her that way, just a few hours ago.

Daniel. He had been polite, formal and unhelpful, but he had desired her. He didn’t say so, he didn’t act on it, but looking back now, she knew. How had she not seen it at the time?

She smiled at the young man, and his cheeks coloured. Marion lifted her chin and continued to arrange her hair. She looked towards her mother, who smiled approvingly.

“That’s better,” said her mother.

“I feel better.”

“Now you can look after yourself and your brothers. It won’t be easy, but you have everything you need.”

“Are you sure? Is nice hair really such a blessing?”

“It’s not your hair you’ve found silly, and you know it.”

Marion looked at the pale young man from the corner of her eye. He studied her, as if she suddenly fascinated him.

“Have you given me some kind of power?” she asked her mother.

“No. It’s lain within you for years. It frightened your father, so he denied it to you. Now he’s gone, embrace it.”

“Isn’t that wicked?”

“No, it isn’t. Men use their fists, their muscles, the laws they have raised in their favour. Why shouldn’t we use our strengths against their weaknesses? We just need to be cleverer, more subtle, turn their appetites to our advantage.” Her mother picked up her sewing and tightened the thread. “It’s time you went back to Imelda.”

“Can’t I stay? I’ve missed you.”

“You’ve got work to do. We might meet again, now you know the way. Besides, one day you’ll die too, and we will have all the time in the world.”

Marion found that comforting. She stood up and straightened her cote. “How do I get back? I’m not sure how I got here, so how can I find my way?”

“He brought you,” said her mother, pointing to the young man. “I’m sure you can persuade him to escort you back.” The beautiful, black-haired, golden-eyed young man had looked bored by Marion when they’d met. Now his gaze barely left her.

She put a hand on his shoulder and smiled, delighted to see his pale skin blush. “Would you take me back to the cave please? I think I’d get lost without your help.”

The man nodded and stood up eagerly. He bowed, offered his arm, and Marion made the briefest curtsey before taking it. She looked back at her dead mother and raised her eyebrows slightly. Her mother nodded and blew her a kiss.

“Remember daughter, men are easy.” Then she went back to her sewing.

The young man indicated the way with a gesture and led Marion from the house.

It remained bright daylight outside, but with no sun visible Marion had no idea of the time. Her escort led her around the house, to the opposite side of the clearing they had entered from. “Shouldn’t we go that way?” she asked. The young man shook his head confidently and pointed ahead. She decided to trust him and placed her other hand on his arm.

Marion admired his handsome features as they walked. He became bashful, obviously aware of her gaze. She smirked and started to enjoy the scenery instead. As before it felt full summer, sunny, warm and bright. If death brought you here, perhaps she needn’t fear it so much.

Her guide led her down an aisle of beech, so narrow that their branches met overhead. With each step forward, the shade became deeper. Soon only the young man’s reassuring presence kept her going.

Then a silvery glow lit the way ahead. The warm grass beneath Marion’s bare feet became cool, fine dirt. The strengthening moonlight revealed brown stone around them. She had returned to the Dwarf Hole, and found herself standing over Imelda and her own vacant body.

Imelda rocked backwards and forwards, muttering under her breath, eyes fixed on the sitting Marion. That Marion’s face reflected moon-silver in a sheen of sweat. Her eyes darted about and her mouth hung open. The length of rounded wood lay discarded between her knees. She didn’t look so funny now, thought barefoot Marion. Time to wake up.

She slipped her arm from the beautiful young man, and he bowed to her. When he straightened, she placed her hand under his chin and kissed him. His skin felt cool but his lips warm. She held him until he returned the kiss, then released him. His eyes opened and shone at her.

“Thank you for bringing me back,” she said. “I am sorry I do not know your name. I hope we meet again.” He did not smile for a second, having a look of thirst about him. Then he drew in a deep breath, nodded and forced a smile. He turned and walked into the black depths of the cave.

Marion blinked. She sat by the cave entrance, with her shoes on. Barefoot Marion had gone, as had the young man. She looked at Imelda, who immediately stopped rocking and muttering.

“Marion?” asked Imelda.

“Yes,” she answered. “I’m back.”

It proved a slow walk home with only the moon to light their way. Marion had expected Imelda to question her closely, but thankfully she had not said a word. Marion might discuss her experience tomorrow, but not yet.

When they arrived home, John sat by the fire barely awake, his sword close at hand. His right eye had swollen almost shut; his left was turning purple. Imelda had decided against sewing up the gash on his forehead, bandaging it instead. “What possible business kept you out so late in the black of night?” he asked.

“Woman’s work,” said Imelda, helping him to his feet. “Your work now is to sleep. Next to me by the fire.”

“I will sleep in my own bed,” he declared.

“If you tried to climb that ladder, you’d fall and break your neck, even if you hadn’t drunk so much,” said Imelda, wrinkling her nose.

“You advised rest and ale for my ribs. So, I rested, and drank ale.”

“Just like father,” said Marion.

John gave her a hurt look, and Imelda scowled at her.

“Sorry,” said Marion.

Her brother flickered a smile and pushed himself up from the chair. “Let me go to the privy before I lie down.” He stretched his back with a grimace and went outside on an old man’s walk.

Marion beckoned to Imelda and leant close. “There’s something else I need from you. Will you promise not to argue or ask questions? It’s important, and if you don’t help me, I’ll do what I have to anyway, whatever the risk. Agreed?”

After a few seconds Imelda nodded. “Agreed.”

“Good,” said Marion. “There’s another potion I need from you.”