Doctor Who_ Cats Cradle_ Witch Mark - Andrew Hunt [1]
Siân was talking about Goibhnie now and, judging by the expectant look on her face, she had just asked a question. Bathsheba looked around wildly, hoping that she wouldn't be called upon to answer it.
To her surprise Gabby the eldest pushed himself to his feet and began to mumble in his usual manner.
'Speak up, Gabriel,' Siân told him, 'so that we can all hear you. It’s no good talking to the ground.'
Gabby blushed furiously and lifted his head up to stare fervently at a hayfork, hanging on the wall behind Siân. Now his words tumbled over each other in their eagerness to get out of the constriction of his throat, but at least Bathsheba could hear him. She never tired of hearing Gabby talk about Goibhnie, for Goibhnie was a god and one day she hoped to meet him.
‘Please, Siân, I saw Goibhnie when I was very young. He were tall, taller than Father, even taller'n the man who came to tell us that Huw was dead. And he had on a hat so's you couldn’t see his face and he come on a big flying rock. He poked something into our sheep because Father said he din't want them to get no sick no more. That was before any of this lot was born so I’s the only one that's seen 'im.'
When .he had finished, Siân gave him a warm smile and told him to sit down again, then she turned to look for something in her bag. As she bent down her long black hair tumbled about her shoulders and this set Bathsheba off thinking again.
Bathsheba had always looked with envy upon Siân's hair. Not because it glistened in the sunlight, or because it always smelled so nice. Not because it was black whilst Bathsheba's was a thin mousy colour.
No, the reason for her envy was that Siân had such long flowing lengths. Bathsheba's hair was cut close to the skin and always had been. Nobody had cared to tell her why this was so, but eventually she had been given an answer of sorts by one of the other girls.
'It's in case you're a witch,' she had been told.
A witch! They thought she might be a witch. But how could they? She had never done anything bad, or had she? She had spent long hours thinking about it, but it was only when she had seen Father throw the small foal, with skin over its eyes and misshapen legs, on to the constantly burning fire at the back of the farm, that the reason had come to her.
It was all because of her withered arm. As far as her parents were concerned it was a deformity and for all they knew she could have been born deformed because she had witch's blood in her. Bathsheba shivered at the thought of the other burning which she had encountered and which had left an even deeper impression on her. On the far side of the farm there was a wood which, out of curiosity, Bathsheba had one day wandered into. As she ventured into the cool green silence a pungent smell assailed her nostrils. She walked further and further and the trees drew closer around her until she had found herself having to force her way through sharp brambles and sweet-smelling bracken. Eventually she had stumbled out into a clearing. The ground, littered with skeletal leaves and fragile branches, was scorched and blackened. Smoke rose where the debris still smouldered - little wonder, for a strong fire had burnt here. In the centre of the clearing there was a thick stone post, engraved deeply with signs and wardings against the power of Arawn. The markings were encrusted with charred remains and a light powdering