The Secret

By Janet Baldey

          Harald drew back his arm and an arrow soared into the sky.  Tense, he stood watching, then scowled as it fell short. With a snort of disgust, he tossed away his bow, threw himself flat and lay kicking the ground, his heels sending spurts of dust floating upwards.  

         ‘I’m bored.’

         Alain’s eyes flicked towards his friend. Unease fingered his heart. When Harald was bored, mischief followed and afterwards it was always he who tasted the whip while Harald escaped with a merry toss of his blond head.

         His friend sat up, a grin dimpling his face.

         ‘I know!  Let’s find the witch.’

         The crescent shaped birthmark under Alain’s breastbone started to itch and his stomach cramped. The witch had an evil reputation, it was rumoured she stole new-born infants to roast over her fire.  He looked upwards, although the sky was still blue, the sun had started its downward slide and the shadows had a sharper edge.  Soon it would be curfew when they barred the castle gates and if they weren’t back to help Cook prepare the evening meal, it was they who would be roasted.

         He looked at his friend and saw scorn lurking behind his smile. Although he was by far the bigger boy, Harald was a year senior and never let him forget it; the slightest sign of fear and he would be called a ‘babe in arms.’

         So, he nodded, feeling as though his head was controlled by strings.

         In a flash, Harald was up and darting towards the drawbridge.  Luckily, the day was hot and the guard had downed numerous draughts of ale. As fleet as deer, they slipped past his slumped figure and ran out of the castle and over the moat towards the greensward separating the village from the wilderness beyond.

         At last, their lungs on fire, they threw themselves down at the foot of a grassy hill and squirmed on their bellies towards the top, Harald leading the way. Just before his head crested the summit, he turned and placed a finger on his lips before parting the long grass.

         A rotting pile of wood, masquerading as a cottage, was slowly decaying at the bottom of the hill.  They lay, hardly daring to breathe and as they watched, its entrance darkened and a grotesque figure emerged into the late afternoon sunshine. At first, a matted tangle of hair obscured its face, but when it raised its head they gasped. Its features looked fashioned in clay by a spiteful child; it was difficult to tell whether it was male or female. Their unspoken question was answered when the creature waddled forwards and with a grunt, hoisted its rags, squatted and released a flood of steaming urine.  As the stench wafted towards them, Alain retched and the witch sprang up, her hairy nostrils flaring. Jerking her head upwards she stared in their direction.  Even from a distance they saw her eyes glow like hot coals and she let out a screech rivalling that of a pig being slaughtered. Stooping only to grab a handful of round, white objects the witch hitched up her skirts and lumbered towards them.

         ‘Run’, shouted Harald but Alain’s legs were already pumping.  As they fled, the witch picked up speed and pelted them with the missiles but the boys were fuelled by fear and soon her screams faded into the distance.

         Deaf to the guard’s outraged bellows, they streaked into the castle grounds and ran until their legs shook. Collapsing against a dank stone wall, they slid to the ground, their breath rasping their throats.  Alain felt Harald’s fingers digging into his arm and heard his hoarse whisper.

         ‘Did you see what she threw at us?’  

         Harald’s eyes bulged, his face was ashen and his freckles stood out like breadcrumbs sprinkled upon snow.

         ‘They were skulls, Alain.  Little, tiny skulls’.

        

         Tossing and turning in his narrow cot, Alain couldn’t sleep. His birthmark was throbbing and every time he drifted off, he awoke in a sweaty terror, dreaming he was drowning in a pit of ivory bones while the witch capered above him.

         ‘Hush, my love. It’s just a bad dream.’

         His mother’s hands, cool as river water, stroked his forehead. Alain could bear it no longer, he was tired of being frightened.  He nestled his head against her breast.

‘Mother….’

As he told his tale, his mother’s body stiffened and his words trailed away as he glanced at her. Her head was bent and she sat quite still, her expression hidden beneath a waterfall of ash blonde hair.

At last, she roused and shook her head.

‘She’s just a lost soul. Touched in the head.  Forget about her.’

Rising, she left the room.

 

Of all the people he knew, Alain hated the Cook the most. Gross and evil tempered, he treated those working under him with spiteful cruelty. While his own belly overflowed his breeches, he slapped away the hands of hungry kitchen boys sneaking scraps destined for swill.  In return for turning spits all day, they were rewarded with a single mug of gruel but a surfeit of kicks.   

One market day, when Alain out was with his parents, he spied his persecutor waddling towards them and his heart sank.  Knowing the man’s malicious nature, he stepped to one side but as the Kitchenmaster drew abreast, the man deliberately changed course and barged into him, his heavy bulk sending him flying.

‘Out of the way, boy.’

His falsetto voice sliced through the hubbub.

Alain lay, drinking puddle water. Rage flooded his mind.

‘I wish you dead old man,’ he thought.

There was a crash, followed by silence. Then, women began to scream and men shouted, deepening the tumult.

         Startled, Alain sat up, wiping mud from his eyes.

         The Kitchenmaster lay sprawled under a barrowload of spilled golden russets, his face as red and swollen as a turkey’s wattle.         

         He looked around for his parents; they were standing a little way off staring, not at the fallen man, but at Alain;  their faces twin masks of despair.

 

         Alain heard his mother sobbing as he neared the cottage.  Entering, he saw his father comforting her; their heads pressed close together.

         Hearing the creak of the door, his parents looked up:  his mother’s face was streaked by tears.

         ‘Mother?’  

         Quickly, his father rose, holding up a hand to block his advance.

         ‘Son, there is something you should know.’ Alain frowned, his father’s voice sounded strange; it was off-kilter, like a bell with a hairline crack. 

         ‘Before you were born, my wife and I longed for children but we had no live births. We both grieved deeply and at last, I plucked up courage and went to the Witch for a potion. I went expecting a hag but was spellbound by the evil creature and saw, not her, but the phantasm of a beautiful girl.’

         He stared at the floor.

         ‘I was given no potion but was told to go home and wait. Nine months later, a basket containing a babe was left at our door.  A note was pinned upon its shawl. The babe was ours for a while. It said we would know when it was time to return the child.’

         He gave a deep shuddering sigh.

         ‘We will always love you, my son, but now you must go back to your true home.’

The seconds lengthened, and the innocence in Alain’s eyes faded:  when he spoke, his voice was wary.

         ‘What are you saying Father?’

         ‘Son, you are not your mother’s child. You bear the witch’s mark.’

         He lifted the boy’s shirt to reveal the half moon, glowing scarlet under his breastbone.

         ‘No!’   The word erupted from Alain’s mouth. He shook his head wildly until his coarse black hair stood on end, his thick eyebrows drew together in a scowl and his body started to swell.

         His father stepped backwards;  the love on his face changing to fear.

         Then, the only mother that Alain had ever known, spoke; her voice husky as if the words were being dragged from her.

         ‘Alain, do you recall what happened in the market place. When the kitchenmaster threw you to the ground, did you wish him ill?  Alain, we fear you have powers that can harm.  Powers that will grow just as your body does.  ‘Tis not safe to keep you with us.’ 

         Alain stared at his mother, mixed emotions of guilt and horror plain upon his face.    He whirled and fled outside where he stood trembling in the darkness.  He’d meant the Cook no real harm, ‘twas not his fault.  Hate welled as he realised how his parents had lied to him.  He wished they were…. his fist blocked his mouth and he tasted blood.  He squeezed his eyes shut, his lids glowing pink as he felt his heart pounding, like a mailed fist on an oak door. He fought to bring himself under control and when at last, his rage ebbed, he slumped against the cottage wall, his body weak and drained.  Slowly, he raised his head, moonlight washed over his face and as it did, a great weight rolled away.  Suddenly, he knew how to end his misery. He would wish himself dead.  He had the Power.  But, he would be so lonely in the afterlife without parents, for all their faults he loved them dearly.

         He felt no pang as their bodies thudded to the floor. After all, they would soon be together, reunited in some magical kingdom beyond the stars.  ‘I’m coming’, he thought as he willed himself dead.  Minutes passed and nothing happened.  Gritting his teeth, he concentrated harder. ‘Die,’ he commanded.  But no matter how many images of death he conjured, his heart beat with a steady rhythm. With rising panic, he rushed inside, grabbed a kitchen knife and stabbed himself repeatedly. The pain was immense but when the knife was removed his flesh healed over and not a drop of his blood was shed.  Bawling and wailing, he blundered about the cottage, beating his head against the walls, begging for death but still the breath in his treacherous body refused to still.

         When, at last all hope had gone and he’d found his way to his only refuge, he learned the true price of evil.  His stomach rebelling against the sour smell of her breath, he lay half smothered in the foetid embrace of his birth mother and listened as she whispered their secret.

         ‘Witches and their kinfolk live forever.’

 

Copyright Janet Baldey