Page 104 of The Changeling

In the vision within the scrying bowl, no dog trotted at my heels.

‘’Tis no’ me. ’Tis her, pretending to be me! Sorcha, t’was no’ me that sent you to the henwife, twas no’ me who was so unkind. It was her, my mother!’

Sorcha sat up in bed, staring at me. Then a very faint smile curved her lips.

Within the scrying bowl, the faery queen halted, pointing towards the little glow of flames between the trees. Sorcha trudged towards it, looking scared and miserable. At once the faery queen transformed into the shape of a hare and raced through the forest, changing herself into the old henwife, scant seconds before Sorcha came into sight through the trees. The old woman smiled and beckoned Sorcha close. ‘Welcome, my lambkin. Look in the pot, and you will see what you seek.’

My twin looked down into the boiling water, then screamed. A sheep’s head bobbed in the boiling water. Its opaque eyeballs rolled upwards, its tongue lolling from its mouth. Sorcha started backwards, horror on her face, then began to run around as if possessed, wrenching at her own head, bleating in distress.

I stared in utter incomprehension. Slowly, understanding dawned.

Sorcha thought she had a sheep’s head, instead of her own.

It was such a cruel, strange spell. Why make Sorcha believe such a thing? Was it because Mam had always called us her lambkins? Was it because she had made us guising costumes from sheepskins, saying the best way to hide from the eyes of faeries and boggarts was to look like one?

I did not know. I did not understand my mother at all.

I had thought Sorcha’s ailment was sorrow. I had heard of traumatised children who did not speak, of grief-stricken women who did not eat. I had tried to coax her back to wellness. It was not until the soft downy hair began to grow on her face and neck that I realised something uncanny was afoot.

And I had thought Robbie believed what Margrit said about me and loved me no longer. I had been too proud to seek him out, to try to convince him of my innocence. He should ken me better, I had thought. I wouldna believe such lies about him.

But now I knew. The faery queen had ensorcelled my sister, and Robbie too. She wanted to bend me to her will, and had used her magic to strike down the only two people I loved in the world.

I had bound the faery queen, though, using her own hair. How could she have unwound my spell?

‘I watch and I listen,’ she had told me.

Of course, she had seen me make the poppet and of course she had seen me hide it. All she had to do was retrieve the little clay doll and dissolve it in water again, letting my binding thread drift away on the tide. I was a fool. I should have hidden it much more carefully.

‘I’m so sorry,’ I whispered, squeezing Sorcha’s hand. ‘I will find a way to break the spell. It won’t be long and you’ll have your own bonny face back again, I promise.’

The evening passed much as the one before. I tied the little bell to Robbie’s wrist again, and sat and sewed by the fire, Carlin lying by my feet. Carefully I cut the shape of a lamb from one of Sorcha’s petticoats, and sewed it to her block, giving it embroidered eyes as blue as her own.

Despite all my best efforts, I dozed off and was woken with a start by the jangling of the bell. I hurried after Robbie as he strode down through the dark and silent castle. I scrambled up behind him, and clung to him as his stallion galloped through the starry night. Carlin ran behind us, all the way to the cave.

Robbie rapped on the rock with a hazel stick and cried, ‘Open, open, green hill, and let me in!’

Once again, I filled my pocket with hazelnuts and rapped on the stone with my stick.

Once again, I followed him down into the bowels of the Knock.

Once again, I watched Robbie dance and dance and dance.

I could not bear it. I had to turn away. Behind my mother’s tall throne, a narrow aperture showed a gleam of light beyond. I crept along the passageway and found a whole network of caves, passageways, terraces and staircases, lit with small horn lanterns hung from hooks. Many small caves were furnished with beds made of heather drawn close around sullen peat fires. Tousle-haired children slept together under furs, while older faeries sat cross-legged whittling wood into tools and utensils with sharp flint blades, or playing at little flutes made from elder.

On the walls were chiselled spirals and rings and strange beasts, or wall hangings made from bright rags. Naturally formed shelves were neatly stacked with small sacks and barrels, while dried herbs hung from the ceiling, helping mask the damp smell. In one cave, I found a well with a winch made of timber and rope to lower and raise a bucket. Another was a dovecot, with birds sleeping in little hollows carved into the rock and softened with dried grass. They stirred and rustled as I crept past, then tucked their heads under their wings to return to sleep. One earthy-smelling grotto was given over to growing mushrooms, another had herbs and vegetables and fruit trees growing in pots. Looking up, I could see stars through a cleft in the cave roof, and hear water tinkling down from above.

Far down in the depths of the hill, I found an archway that led into darkness. Curious, I unhitched a lantern from the wall and carried it within. I raised the light high, then almost dropped it in shock. Hundreds of human skulls were stacked neatly on top of each other like newly harvested apples, stretching as far as I could see. A dark hunched shape at the far end of the cavern terrified me so much I could not move or breathe. It looked like an old woman in a grey cloak. But she did not move, and after a long while I crept closer.

It was a Carlin stone, carved all over with circles, crosses, spirals, knot chains, dancing figures and strange unworldly beasts. At her feet were piled many offerings – burned bones and ashes, wreaths of dead flowers, tiny figurines carved from wood, melted candle ends, necklaces of seeds and dried rowan berries, scraps of parchment tied with rags.

I had nothing to give but the hazelnuts in my pocket. I took three out and laid them at her misshapen stone feet, and then I knelt and bent my head. Help me, I prayed. Help me save my sister and my beloved. Show me what I must do.

A cold touch on my brow, like a falling snowflake or the tip of an icy finger.

You know what to do. Trust in yourself and in your shadow.

I shuddered, every hair on my body erect and shivering. It was as if I stood naked in a dark wood, frost creeping along my skin. I bowed and backed away as if she was a queen, then hung the lantern on its hook and went back through the network of caverns and passages, marvelling at one cave lined with shelves of scrolls tied with string and wax seals, a grotto filled to the brim with stacks of peat, another with horses standing in piles of dried wild grasses, heads sunk low in sleep.