The Wise Woman

At the end of October there was a plague of sickness in Bowes with half a dozen children and some adults vomiting and choking on their vomit. Mothers walked the few miles out to Morach's cottage every day with a gift, a round yellow cheese, or even a penny. Morach burned fennel root over the little fire, set it to dry and then ground it into powder and gave Alys a sheet of good paper, a pen and ink.

'Write a prayer,' she said. 'Any one of the good prayers in Latin.'

Alys' fingers welcomed the touch of a quill. She held it awkwardly in her swollen, callused hands like the key to a kingdom she had lost.

'Write it! Write it!' Morach said impatiently. 'A good prayer against sickness.'

Very carefully Alys dipped her pen and wrote the simple words of the Lord's Prayer, her lips moving in time to the cadence of the Latin. It was the first prayer Mother Hildebrande had ever taught her.

Morach watched inquisitively. 'Is it done?' she asked, and when Alys nodded, silenced by the tightness of her throat, Morach took the paper and tore it into half a dozen little squares, tipped the dusty powder into it and twisted the paper to keep the powder safe. 'What are you doing?' Alys demanded. 'Magic,' Morach replied ironically. 'This is going to keep us fat through the winter.'

She was right. The people in Bowes and the farmers all around bought the black powder wrapped in the special paper for a penny a twist. Morach bought more paper and set Alys to writing again. Alys knew there could be no sin in writing the Lord's Prayer but felt uneasy when Morach tore the smooth vellum into pieces.

'Why do you do it?' Alys asked curiously one day, watching Morach grind the root in a mortar nursed on her lap as she sat by the fire on her stool.

Morach smiled at her. "The powder is strong against stomach sickness,' she said. 'But it is the spell that you write that gives it the power.'

'It's a prayer,' Alys said contemptuously. 'I don't make spells and I would not sell burned fennel and a line of prayer for a penny a twist.'

'It makes people well,' Morach said. 'They take it and they say the spell when the vomiting hits them. Then the attack passes off.'

'How can it?' Alys asked impatiently. 'Why should a torn piece of prayer cure them?'

Morach laughed. 'Listen to the running nun!' she exclaimed to the fire. 'Listen to the girl who worked in the herb garden and the still-room and the nuns' infirmary and yet denies the power of plants! Denies the power of prayer! It cures them, my wench, because there is potency in it. And in order to say the prayer they have to draw breath. It steadies them. I order that the prayer has to be said to the sky so they have to open a window and breathe clean air. All of those that have died from the vomiting are those that were weak and sickly and in a panic of fear in dirty rooms. The spell works because it's powerful. And it helps if they believe it.'

Alys crossed herself in a small gesture between her breasts. Morach would have mocked if she had seen.

'And if they can pay for a spell then they can pay for good food and clean water,' Morach said fairly. 'The chances are that they are stronger before the sickness takes them. The rich are always blessed.' 'What if it fails?' Alys asked.

Morach's face hardened. 'You had better pray to your Lady that it never fails,' she said. 'If it fails then I can say that they have been bewitched by another power, or the spell has failed them because they did not do it right. If it fails I go at once to the heirs and try to buy their friendship. But if they are vengeful and if their cattle die too, then you and I stay away from Bowes, keep our heads down, and keep out of sight until the body is buried and people have forgot.'

'It's wrong,' Alys said positively. 'At the abbey we followed old books, we knew the herbs we grew, we made them into tinctures and we drank them from measured glasses. This is not herbalism but nonsense. Lies dressed up in dog Latin to frighten children!'

'Nonsense is it?' Morach demanded, her quick anger aroused. 'There are people in this village who will swear I can make a woman miscarry by winking at her! There are people in this village who think I can kill a healthy beast by snapping my fingers over its water pail. There are people in this village who think the devil speaks to me in my dreams and I have all his powers at my command!'

'Aren't you afraid?' Alys asked.

Morach laughed, her voice harsh and wild. 'Afraid?' she said. 'Who is not afraid? But I am more afraid of starving this winter, or dying of cold because we have no firewood. Ever since my land was stolen from me I have had no choice. Ever since my land was taken from me I have been afraid. I am a wise woman – of course I am afraid!'

She put the pestle and mortar to one side and then spooned the dust into one scrap of paper and then another, her hands steady.

'Besides,' she said slyly, 'I am less afraid than I was. Much much less afraid than I was.'

'Are you?' Alys asked, recognizing the note of torment in Morach's voice.

'Oh, yes,' Morach said gleefully. 'If they seek for a witch in Bowes now, who do you think they will take first? A little old woman with a few herbs in her purse who has been there for years and never done great harm – or a girl as lovely as sin who will speak with no one, nor court with any man. A girl who is neither maid nor woman, saint nor sinner. A girl who is seen in Bowes very seldom, but always with her cloak around her shoulders and a shawl over her head. A girl who talks to no one, and has no young women friends. A girl who avoids men, who keeps her eyes down when one crosses her path. It is you who should be afraid, Alys. It is you who they see as a strange woman, as someone out of the ordinary. So it is you that they think has the skill to cure the vomiting. It will be you they praise or blame. It should be you who is afraid!'

'They cannot think these are spells!' Alys exclaimed. 'I told you from the start they were prayers! You asked me to write a prayer and I did! They cannot think that I do magic!'

'Go on!' Morach gestured to her impatiently. 'Write some more! Write some more! I need it to wrap these doses. It is your writing, Alys, that makes the powder work. Ever since you came back, the fennel has cured the vomiting. They say you are the cunning woman and I am your servant. They say you have come from the devil. They say that the singed corner of your robe was from the fires of hell – and that you are the bride of the devil.'

'Who says?' Alys demanded stoutly though her voice shook a little. 'I don't believe anyone says anything.'

'Liza – Tom's wife,' Morach said triumphantly. 'She says you've tampered with Tom's sleep. He names you in his sleep – a sure sign of hexing.'

Alys laughed bitterly. 'Oh aye,' she said tartly. 'He is calling me to rescue him from her sharp tongue.'

'Curse her then?' Morach's face was bright in the shadowy cottage. 'Try it! Curse her to death and make Tom a widower, rich with her dowry, so that he can return to you and you can use your roughened hands on his land where you will see the benefit. She's a useless, spiteful woman, no one's friend. No one would miss her.'

'Don't,' Alys said quickly. 'Don't speak of such things. You know I would not do it and I don't have the power.'

'You do have the power,' Morach insisted. 'You know it and I know it! You ran from your power and you hoped your God would keep you safe if you forgot your skills. But here you are, back with me, and it is as if you were never away. There are no safe nunneries left, Alys! There is nowhere for you to go! You will stay with me forever unless you go to a man. Why not Tom? You liked him well enough when you were young and he has never loved another woman. You could kill Liza. You should kill Liza. I can tell you the ways to do it. Hundreds of ways. And then you can live soft in Tom's farmhouse, and wash every day as you long to do, and even say your prayers, and think of how we would eat! A little spell and a great difference. Do it, Alys!'

'I cannot!' Alys said desperately. 'I cannot. And even if I could, I would not do it. I have no power but my learning from the abbey. I will not dabble in your spells. They mean nothing, you know nothing. I shall never use your skills.'