The Flight of Gemma Hardy_ A Novel - Margot Livesey [11]
On one of our walks to the fort he had described the town of Bath, and how it had been built around the hot springs where the goddess Sulis lived. Sulis’s followers, my uncle said, used to throw lead tablets into the water inscribed with requests for children or good harvests, or sometimes curses.
“What sort of curses?” I had asked. We had reached the foot of the fort.
“Fierce ones,” said my uncle cheerfully, “and very specific. Cursed be he who stole my gloves. May his corn fail for five years. May he who lamed my horse have only feeble girl children.” He laughed and lifted me over the wall. “It’s not very Christian, but who doesn’t wish they had a god on their side, ready to smite their enemies?”
The idea that just by saying certain words you could harm someone fascinated me. I had asked if the curses worked; my uncle had said he didn’t know.
Now I stood looking at the rough mound, covered with heather and bracken, and tried to picture the soldiers who had lived here. “They were a tough lot,” my uncle had told me. “Down south on Hadrian’s Wall, the soldiers slept on sacks of wool and practised their archery, but up here there was nowhere to go, nothing to do, and yet they couldn’t be off guard for a minute. They’d be eating their porridge or milking their goats and suddenly these half-naked people would appear over the nearest hill and rush towards the fort, shooting arrows tipped with poison or flame. At night they’d see fires out in the heather, hear strange music and wild cries.”
Girls did not play much part in these stories. When I asked if there were any women warriors, my uncle described Joan of Arc, a poor shepherdess, not much older than I was, who had persuaded people to follow her into battle and save France from the English. After that I had pictured myself wearing armour and carrying a shield, successfully holding at bay marauding hordes.
I scrambled up the slippery hill. At the top the wind stung my eyes and blew my hair straight back. The blue and white bus was winding its way along the road to Perth. To the north the hills were white with snow. However hard I looked I could not see the sea.
Standing there, watching the bus grow larger, then smaller, I thought about running away. I could take the bus, or walk, it was only ten miles to Perth, but what would I do when I got there? No one would ever mistake me, as they might Louise, for a grown-up and give me a job in a shop. I pictured myself standing in a doorway asking for money, as I had seen the Gypsy women do. But what would I eat? Where would I sleep? My room was cold but outside was colder. And what would I do when my shabby clothes wore out? If the police caught me they would take me back to Yew House and things would be even worse. I must bide my time, I thought, until I was seventeen. I must endure.
A mournful chorus roused me. A V of geese was heading towards the fort, flying so low that I could hear the whistle of their wings. I waved but they gave no sign of seeing me. Perhaps, I thought, they were going to Iceland.
I was walking down the hill, barely keeping my balance on the loose stones, when a figure sprang out from behind a rock and, at the same moment, someone shoved my shoulder; I was sprawling in a clump of heather and then, on the grass, sliding fast. As the sky tumbled and rocks grazed my arms and legs, I saw four figures leaping around me, whooping, brandishing sticks and fists. For a moment I thought the Picts had got me; my uncle had taught me to identify with the cultured invaders rather than the barbarian Scots. Then one of them hastened my descent with a helpful kick, and I recognised my cousin.
The Monday after my visit to the fort I came home from school to find an envelope bearing my name on the hall table. I stared in wonder at the words: Miss Gemma Hardy, Yew House. I could