Someone, somewhere, is suffering horribly

Marilyn Pemberton 

Chianti 

I stand at the counter, my head hardly above the edge, staring at the man with one eye. Luckily it is not in the centre of his forehead, that would be weird, but where his second eye should be there is just smooth skin. His one eye is black and seems to me to gleam with malice.

“Yes? How may I help you, young lady?” His voice is actually quite pleasant, so perhaps his eye is glinting with merriment instead.

I look down at the piece of paper I have clutched tightly all the way from the house and start to read from the top of the list that she has scrawled: “An owl’s eyeball.”

“Blue or brown?”

I squint at some squiggles, “brown.”

“Any other owl parts, whilst I am there?”

“No, the next one is from a lizard.”

“OK, hang on, that is in a different section.”

He rises silently into the air and hovers about five feet above me, scanning the small wooden drawers that fill the whole wall in front of him. He finds the one he wants, opens it, extracts an eyeball and pops it into a brown paper bag. I find it strange that in this day and age he still writes the label by hand.

“What next?”

“A lizard’s gizzard, and also the tip of the same lizard’s tail.”

“Oho! This sounds like a powerful spell. What’s it for?”

I have to admit that I don’t know; she is not one to share with a mere apprentice. 

I continue down the list: the egg of a phoenix, a cuckoo’s heart, three hairs from the back of a black bear, a pound of sugar and a bottle of Chianti.

The shopkeeper laughs, “She does like her wine doesn’t she? How is she?”

What can I say? She is a crabby old witch, literally, who makes my life a living hell. I hate her with all my being, even though she is my mother. It is easier to lie. “She is well thank you. There is just one last item. A kid’s liver.”

“What sort of kid, hairy or human?

“Human?” I screech. “It must be the hairy kind. ...... Mustn’t it?”

“You don’t know what the spell is for, do you? I’ll tell you what, I’ll give you both and you can bring the unused one back, as long as it is still fresh. There isn’t much call these days for a dried up kid’s liver, whichever the type.”

He disappears for a few minutes then returns with two more labelled brown paper bags, one also with a big black X marked on it.

“The one with the X is the human liver, just to be sure. Hang on and I’ll just make sure all this lot stays cool until you get back.”

He puts everything into one large Co-op bag, waves a hand - wands are so last century - and the contents are soon covered in a thick frost, which will keep everything fresh until I reach home. I am not trusted with money so the shopkeeper puts it all on account. As I leave through the door only a small number of people know exists, he blinks, or maybe he winks, it is hard to tell.

When I get home she is standing at the Aga cooker stirring the contents of a large saucepan with a long wooden spoon. She is wearing a brightly coloured apron, covered in small white ducklings and sweet yellow chicks. I notice she is still wearing her slippers that look like the heads of innocent puppy dogs. Anyone looking through the window would think she is making soup for the family lunch; how wrong they would be!

She glances at me quickly but says nothing, merely beckons. I hand her each of the brown bags, reading out the labels until I come to the last two.

“I didn’t know what you meant by kid’s liver. The man gave me both sorts but I assume you mean the goaty kind?” 

“Of course not! What would I need a young goat’s liver for? Give me the other one!”

She takes the slimy dark-red organ out of the bag and holds it reverently in the palm of her hand. It is so small! I feel the vomit rise in my throat at the thought of where it has come from. I squeeze my eyes shut and try to think of kittens and sandcastles and ice cream until I am sure that I won’t embarrass myself by throwing up. I open my eyes in time to see her putting the final ingredient into the ghastly stew that is now bubbling merrily, emitting a green, noxious fume. She hums tunelessly to herself; here is someone happy in her work.

She then starts to mumble an incantation in a language I have only just started to learn. With a sinking heart I recognise the word “BxƾɝͽѦ" and I know that someone, somewhere, is suffering horribly.

About the author

Buy "The Jewel Garden" now at https://www.amazon.co.uk/Jewel-Garden-Marilyn-Pemberton-ebook/dp/B079ZY877T  or https://www.waterstones.com/book/the-jewel-garden/marilyn-pemberton/9781912582037

Website: https://marilynpemberton.wixsite.com/author
Member of the Society of Women Writers & Journalists
Member of the Historical Novel Society
Member of the Society of Authors
Blog: writingtokeepsane.wordpress.com

Colours of Life

By Marilyn Pemberton 

mead 

 

I sit on my favourite park bench under a large oak tree, whose ancient canopy both shelters and camouflages me. I am close to the lake and I watch with pleasure as the ducks waddle intently from bread crumb to bread crumb as if it is their last meal. The late afternoon sun no longer penetrates my corner; no-one breaks their step to glance at me, it is as if I am myself a shadow.

I continue to sit as the birds begin to roost and the families leave for home. I wait in the gloaming and then she comes. A young woman in her mid-twenties, trying unsuccessfully to restrain a chocolate brown labrador puppy from pulling her arm out of the socket. She stops at the railing that prevents her from actually being dragged into the water. She loops the lead over one of the spikes and sternly commands the pup to “sit!” Surprisingly it does and the woman rewards it with a pat to the head and something tasty extracted from her pocket. She then takes a plastic bag from the same pocket and starts to throw lumps of bread over the fence into the lake. She laughs as the ducks come from all directions fighting each other for their supper, having seemingly forgotten that they had just been settling down for the evening. The woman is completely enclosed by an aura of pale green, the colour of a new leaf about to unfurl; fresh and vulnerable.

She points to a bird whose gorgeously coloured feathers shine in the dying sunlight. “That, Bella, is a male duck. The males are, quite unfairly to my mind, always more beautiful than the females, which are usually a dull brown and very plain. I am sure that the males love them, nonetheless.” Bella sits with her head to one side, as if listening to her lesson, but her eyes remain firmly on the prey just out of her reach. “And those big birds are geese. We need to make sure that they don’t get all the food. And that little black bird is either a moorhen or a coot, I can’t remember.” 

“It’s a moorhen.” So intently has the woman been feeding the birds and educating her dog, and so intently have I been watching her, that neither of us has noticed a young man arrive and stand nearby, accompanied by a shaggy dog of indeterminate breed. “The moorhen and coot are cousins, but the moorhen has a red beak and the coot has a white one. My name is Arthur, by the way, very nice to meet you.” He puts out his hand. Even though I can only see the woman’s back I can sense the blush that colours her cheeks. She touches her hair nervously but gives his hand a firm shake and tells him that her name is Elizabeth, but her friends call her Beth. He is a good looking young man with a charming smile and it comes as no surprise to me that he moves nearer and starts to give the correct names to the flock of birds that I and the woman have merely categorised as ducks. As the humans tentatively get to know each other, so too do the dogs, in their own inimitable way. I watch, unnoticed in my gloomy corner.

They come to the park most evenings, as I do. I watch with interest as their friendship flourishes, just like the flowers in the well-maintained beds. Over the next weeks and months I watch Beth transform from a young, lonely woman with only her dog as a companion, into a woman confident in herself and in her beloved. They only have eyes for each other and even as the leaves turn and fall, leaving my corner exposed to those with the sight, I know they will not see me. One evening when a full year has passed and it is spring once more, I notice a ring on Beth’s finger that sparkles brighter than the sunlight on the water. Her aura has matured into a bright yellow like a fully open sunflower, joyous and hopeful.

I always know when Beth is coming for the surroundings light up as if a hundred spotlights have been switched on. I prefer it when just she and Bella come; I enjoy her ridiculous conversations with her dog, who still yearns to chase the ducks but knows she shouldn’t. Even if the day is overcast and cool, her aura warms me and melts the coldness of my heart. When he accompanies her, however, his body casts long black shadows in the brightness and there is a coldness in the air that makes me shiver.

Summer has segued effortlessly into Autumn and they do not come to the park for a fortnight, but I sit on my bench patiently, knowing that they will return soon. When they do, both slightly tanned, I glimpse a gold band nestled next to her engagement ring. She looks so happy and still has eyes only for him, although I cannot but notice that his glance wanders sometimes as other young women stroll past. His smile is as charming as it ever has been, but his eyes lack warmth.

As the weeks pass I notice that her aura is turning to a contented hyacinth blue, and I know that under her winter coat her belly is gently swelling. He, however, has the look of a trapped animal and his eyes are forever searching, for what I know not. Then, two months before Beth is due, there is a whole month when my evenings are empty. I am filled with apprehension. I feel as if I have swallowed a canon ball and I dread their next visit.

I see her aura before I see her, a vast cloud of blackness that almost engulfs her. She shuffles rather than walks and rests heavily on Arthur’s arm. The two dogs walk quietly by their side, sensing the grief that threatens to devour her. But not him; I can see the relief in his walk, in the glint of his wandering eyes. Her melancholy does not lift and her aura remains an impenetrable veil such that I can hardly discern her slender body. My anger mounts as each evening goes by and he supports her less and less, and criticises her more and more for not “getting over it.”

Then one evening she comes alone, but for the two dogs. I long to go to her and wrap my arms around her but I know it is a battle she has to fight on her own. She continues to come each evening, as if the habit is the only thing that is keeping the strands of her life together. It takes many months, maybe even years before her aura turns from black to charcoal grey, to silver, just like the strands in her hair. She turns to look in my direction sometimes and my heart breaks for the sadness I see in the downturn of her mouth, and the emptiness in her dark eyes.

The years pass, as do both dogs, but she continues to come and I am pleased when she arrives with another puppy straining at the lead. I am even happier when I see that her aura, silver for so many years, is tinged with pink. Her tread is lighter and I see the ghost of a smile. She teaches the new pup the names of the birds, learnt all those years ago. Then one evening she turns up with another man. I am surprised at how old he looks, but I count back the years and realise that Beth must be well into her forties by now.

There are five years of quiet contentment. Her aura never brightens to the shining yellow of her youth, but it remains a steady apricot colour. They marry, but no honeymoon breaks their daily routine and my heart grows heavy as I see how tired she now becomes by the time she reaches the lake, and how she has to rest for longer and longer on the railing. She starts to use a walking stick, and the paleness of her face haunts me. Her husband remains faithful and loving and offers the support and comfort she deserves. He now pushes her in a wheelchair, as effortlessly as if it was empty, so frail has she become.

It is a cold Monday evening in January. There is no-one else by the lake except myself. My heart flutters in anticipation. I hear his steady step and the crunch of the wheels on the gravel. The dog is now old and pads slowly by his mistress’s side. She no longer has the strength to throw the bread but she watches him follow the ritual, a gentle smile hovering over her lips. He screws up the paper bag and carefully puts it in his pocket. He continues to look out over the still water until she says something quietly to him and he turns towards her. I am shocked by the anguished expression on his face. He bends to kiss her gently on the lips, then takes the small pillow from behind her head. 
I can almost feel the satin pressed firmly against my own nose and mouth; I smell the faint scent of lavender and I remember the absolute relief as my breathing dwindles to nothing and my aura glows pure white.

About the author

Buy "The Jewel Garden" now at https://www.amazon.co.uk/Jewel-Garden-Marilyn-Pemberton-ebook/dp/B079ZY877T  or https://www.waterstones.com/book/the-jewel-garden/marilyn-pemberton/9781912582037

Website: https://marilynpemberton.wixsite.com/author
Member of the Society of Women Writers & Journalists
Member of the Historical Novel Society
Member of the Society of Authors
Blog: writingtokeepsane.wordpress.com

Joy

By Marilyn Pemberton 

mild ale

I hold her tight to my breast; she is as light as a fledgling’s feather and I am afeared that the spring breeze will take her and waft her out of the window, straight up to the blue heavens.

But I’m not ready to let her go just yet.

The minister stands patiently at the head of the bed, his cheeks still flushed from the ride from the next village. His hands are cupped around the chalice as if he is waiting for some nourishing broth to cool, rather than to dispense holy water at this too-early christening.

He has just asked “What are you going to call her?” but how can I give this tiny scrap of skin and bone a name? A name will make her real; a name will make her impossible to forget; a name will need engraving on a head-stone.

I am glad the babe is a girl, naming will not be such a problem. The tradition in Matthew’s family is to call the first-born male Thomas. If we had had a boy instead, would we have to call him Thomas, even if he only lives a few hours? I argued against the tradition; I dislike Matthew’s elder brother and don’t want any son of mine to bear his name. Matthew had laughed when I said this. “You like the inn-keeper at The Bear, and Father Hammond, they are both called Thomas, you can think of them instead!”

Matthew had said that I could choose the name if we had a girl, and if she had been born when she was ready I was going to call her after the month of her birth. I thought that a girl called June was bound to have a sunny character, she would be plump and healthy and would be a great help on the farm. Following my own logic, I should call this little one May, but that name makes me think of white and pink blossom and fresh green leaves uncurling in the spring sunshine; it is not a name to give to my daughter, whose skin is wrinkled and hairy and whose pallor is pale grey. She looks as one already dead, but I can feel her heart still fluttering against my breast, like a trapped moth against a window pane.

I steal a glance at Matthew, dreading to see condemnation in his eyes, but all I see is concern and grief for now. The recriminations will come later, when he realises that it is my fault that our daughter has been born into the world too soon, and so cannot remain for much longer. I had been sitting in my rocking chair this morning, embroidering a coverlet for the crib that Matthew had taken so much pride in making. He had spent hours sanding it until it was as smooth as the surface of a frozen pond on a winter’s morning, and he had even chiselled little leaves and flowers on the sides as decoration. But all it needs now is a lid to become the bed where our daughter will sleep for all eternity.  

As I had rocked gently this morning, humming quietly to myself, something had caught my eye, glistening in the corner of the room. In truth the web was as fine as gossamer but to my eyes each strand was as thick as a piece of rope and I could not rest until it was gone. So I took a stool, another of Matthew’s creations, made sure it was stable and very carefully raised myself onto it. I made sure that I was balanced properly and only then stretched out my hand the small distance to brush away the offending web. It was then that the baby decided to give an almighty kick and I was so startled that I stepped backwards into nothingness.

It was my screams that brought Sam, one of the farm hands, from the fields.

************
In the end my daughter had come quickly and silently and even a sharp slap on her bottom by Old Ma Brown, the midwife, had raised no more than a whimper. She wasn’t ready to be born and was not yet fully formed. I thank God that Matthew had not seen her before I wrapped our unfinished daughter in the unfinished coverlet, for I don’t know what he would have done if he had seen the bud where an arm should have been. Old Ma Brown had then sent for the vicar and whispered to me that everything was probably all for the best, for life would not be easy for one such as her. But I had wanted to scream at her that I would have loved her regardless, for isn’t that what mothers do, love unconditionally? 

I wonder why God is punishing us so? We had waited until we were married before we had full sex and we both went to church most Sundays as we should.  Matthew sometimes took God’s name in vain, but I always told him off and I know he would have made every effort not to do so in front of the child.

But it doesn’t matter now, does it?

My linens are saturated in blood and need changing; I just want it all to be over and for everyone to leave me in peace to start my grieving. I clutch my daughter tightly to my chest and stroke her downy cheek. As I do so she turns her head slightly towards me and opens her mouth. I instinctively put in the tip of my little finger and she sucks, not hard, but she sucks.

I gasp and without giving a thought to the blushes of the men in the room I take out my left breast and put the nipple gently into her searching mouth. God be praised, she continues to suck, not hard, but enough. The pain of the milk beginning to flow is glorious and I feel a wave of emotion flow right through me, primeval in its rawness. As she sucks, her eyes open slightly, and she seems to look at me, to see into the depths of me, to recognise me. Even as I watch her cheeks begin to lose their ghastly hue and become tinged with a healthier pink.

The minister is looking everywhere but at me, and doesn’t seem to know what to do with himself or with the holy water.

“You asked me what we are going to call her, vicar. Well, her name is Joy, for she is and ever will be to me and Matthew.”

  And with my own tears I christen her. 

About the author

The Jewel Garden is available https://www.amazon.co.uk/Jewel-Garden-Marilyn-Pemberton-ebook/dp/B079ZY877T  or https://www.waterstones.com/book/the-jewel-garden/marilyn-pemberton/9781912582037

Website: https://marilynpemberton.wixsite.com/author
Member of the Society of Women Writers & Journalists
Member of the Historical Novel Society
Member of the Society of Authors
Blog: writingtokeepsane.wordpress.com