5. Witches on the Meadow
It was raining heavily on Wednesday. The rain started at noon and lasted for several hours. Uncle Albert lit the stove, sat in an armchair and took a nap. Riona was sitting in the corner of the room, writing a letter. Eric was dying of boredom. Cradled in the armchair, he was thinking about home, his parents, and the strange town where he was staying.
Eleanora was sitting with the same bored face as Eric, staring out into the street or playing with her golden strands. The silence would have lasted longer if Eric didn’t break it.
“Aunt Riona, do you know the people who live on the other side of the river?”
“My dear, a lot of people live there, as well as on this side. I don’t know everyone, but yes, I do know some of them.”
“Do you know three girls, one of them is dark-haired, the two others red-haired?”
Eleanora and Riona simultaneously looked at Eric.
“It’s hard to say,” Riona said. “There are a lot of girls with such hair color.”
“Yes, but they seem to be famous in Hollow.” Eric ran his hand through his hair. “I once saw them in the square. Some of the folks insulted them.”
“I think I know whom you’re talking about,” Eleanora said.
“Really?”
She bent forward to Eric and said, “You are talking about the witches of Hollow, aren't you?”
“Eleanora, what are you talking about?”
“Mom, don't you think we should warn Eric? If he’s going to stay here for a while, he should know what kind of place Hollow is.”
“Don’t talk nonsense, child, there are no witches in Hollow.”
“They are witches.”
“Eleanora, gossiping is not nice,” her mother tried to stop her.
“It’s not gossip; they are witches, as well as their aunt. People say that at nights they fly on broomsticks, cook soup of frogs, go to the cemetery, collect the teeth of wolves—”
“And they also live in a house on chicken legs and drink the blood of infants,” Eric jested.
“I’m not joking,” Eleanora said.
“Are they sisters?”
“No, they are cousins. Orphans, who live with their uncle and aunt at the edge of the forest.”
“Stop it, child. Your flight of fancy might scare your cousin.”
Eleanora pretended she didn’t hear her mother. “We went to school together. Then they were expelled, and their cousin Jack left with them.” Upon telling this, Eleanora seemed sad.
“What are their names?”
“That's enough,” Albert murmured in a sleepy voice. “Enough, Nora. Better bring us something from the kitchen—a pie or fruits.”
“Dad, the pie and fruits are on the table, open your eyes and you’ll see. Their names are Electra, Cassandra, and Medea. Medea is the dark-haired, the other two are redheads—the little witches. And their Aunt Andromeda is the head witch.”
“Nora, that's enough,” Albert almost shouted. “I don't want to hear those names in my house.”
“Eric also lives in Hollow. He has the right to know whom to stay away from.”
“I shall take care of Eric myself, and you should learn to be silent when necessary. Never talk about them in my house.”
Eric noticed how Riona shook her head. She probably knew something that he didn’t know, but said nothing. She rose up and tried to reconcile the family members.
“No need to quarrel, the rain is over and the sun has appeared. Why don't you go for a walk?”
“I lost the mood,” Eleanora said dolefully.
“I’ll go for a walk.” Eric rose from the armchair, but Riona stopped him.
“My dear, could you take my letter to the post office?”
“Sure I can. Where’s the post office?”
“I will show you.” Eleanora bounded to her feet, changing her mind about staying at home. She snatched the letter from her mother, put it into Eric’s hand, and dashed out of the house. Eric hurried after her.
As expected, all the way to the post office, Eric was asking his cousin about the witches of Hollow. Eleanora didn’t tell a lot, since she last talked to them almost three years ago, and most of the stories didn’t happen to her personally. She had heard from someone, who in turn had heard from someone else, that someone had seen Cassandra talk to the animals, and that a woman once went to Andromeda to ask her to cure her son, and that the sick boy soon felt better, though Dr. Pill had warned her not to expect a recovery.
“But is it bad to heal people?” Eric wondered. “Why would anyone fear them?”
“Because people say that she will cure one and kill another,” Eleanora said, leaving Eric in confusion. He began to think that the people of Hollow couldn’t separate the good from the bad.
“When I was a child, I had a music box from the Old Curiosity Shop. This box, like many other things from the shop, was made by Andromeda’s husband, Colin Fitzroy. It was the strangest thing I had ever seen. I would show it to you, but my father, trying to understand how it was made, turned it inside out, and then was unable to patch it. It played music when I opened the lid, but the best thing about it were the sparkling lights inside; blue, yellow, purple—they were iridescent, and sometimes little stars shone above the light. My poor box, it was so beautiful, but now it’s ruined.”
“Why not give it to the one who made it? Maybe he could mend it?”
“My father forbade us to enter that shop.”
“Why?”
“Because of the witches and our neighbors. The McCormack and the Baldric families some years ago organized a big meeting. Father came home and told us never to deal with anyone from the family of witches. Then they stopped coming to school. By the way, here is our school.” Eleanora pointed to the brick building with a lawn and wooden pavilions. A narrow road at the edge of the lawn led to the low hill. Heading down the hill, Eric and Eleanora reached the post office. It was a small, grey, one-story house with a wooden roof and a low stone fence. Nearby, in the green arbor of the neighboring house, women were arguing. One of them was furiously trying to convince the others that she was right and now and then shook her head and stopped anyone who dared to doubt her words.
“I am telling you,” the old woman repeated for the umpteenth time, “I saw myself; they were not even married then, but Allegra already had a visible belly, what a shame. Then she tried to convince me that the child was born earlier than expected. Ha, ha! Four months earlier?”
“No, Noemia, you are not right, I remember the wedding day, it was that very cold February, and their daughter was born in September—”
Noemia Prizzi stopped her companion with a gesture.
Noemia Prizzi, Hollow's head newsmonger. Noemia Prizzi, who always knew everything about everyone, and even if she didn’t know, she could convince anyone that she knew best, even better than the people she was talking about. At seventy-five, she hadn’t lost any energy or the love to talk. Noemia Prizzi loved to talk, rather, to talk nonstop for hours, if not for days. It was the only meaning of her life, her only vocation—talking without an end, without a break for lunch or dinner. Her companions too were not averse to have a good long conversation, but they could never compete with Noemia Prizzi. Without leaving the house, she knew what was going on over the hill, what had happened in the market, and how much the milk cost.
When Eric and Eleanora were passing nearby, Noemia called them over.
“That is Eric! What a handsome young man! Come over here and let me see you.”
Eric didn't hurry to approach her. He tried to remember whether he had met that woman before and how she knew him. Miss Prizzi continued in the same tone—nauseatingly sweet and persuasive.
“Ladies, this is Eric O'Brian, Albert O'Brian's nephew. He has recently come to Hollow, and will stay here all winter.”
Eric didn’t like Miss Prizzi and her squeaky, wearisome voice. Standing near the arbor, he looked at her as if a dreadful stench was coming from her, but the woman didn’t seem to
notice his scowl, and continued to pester him with a hail of questions: where was he from, why, when, how long...
Eleanora tried to speak several times, but Noemia was only warming up. She recollected about all the people who stayed in Hollow the last several years, where they lived, what brought them to the town, and how they loved to visit her for a cup of tea. The latter didn’t seem as plausible as Miss Prizzi described. Her never-ending buzzing tired an unprepared Eric. He whispered in Eleanora's ear that he was leaving, gave her the letter, and left Miss Prizzi's company.
Going down the hill and wandering in solitude, Eric didn’t notice how the path led him to Enchanted Garden, where the open gate reminded him of the day when he was there with Dinah.
He thought about his neighbor. Eric was fond of her; he felt tenderness and affection towards her. She was stunningly beautiful, and yet there was something strange about her. Dinah wasn’t vicious or glum, but was often temperamental and capricious, which at first added some fun to her character, but after a while had become irritating. Sometimes Eric noticed a cold fire in her eyes, but convinced himself that it was nothing but the gleam of her blue eyes.
Eric opened the garden gate. It was clear why the gate was never locked: it was so low that the padlock on the gate wouldn’t have fulfilled its mission. He walked slowly between the blooming bushes. The fluttering butterflies and the lilacs’ delicate fragrance reminded him of something distant. He didn’t understand what it was—a flash of memory, something long forgotten, as if from another life. And again whispers, quiet, almost indiscernible, coming from somewhere far away.
“Eric.”
Silence. Only the voices of the blackbirds above the trees.
“Eriiic.” So quietly, gently, in a low voice, as if from a dream—a forgotten, distant dream.
Eric neared the bushes, drew the branches apart and forced his way through the greenery. There was no one, only twigs covered with thorns that were scratching him. Squeezing through the thicket, Eric emerged on a low hill from where he could see the orange forest and a meadow covered with thick yellow grass. A shallow stream of the river flowed before his feet. Eric carefully crossed the Sirtalion on the wet, slippery rocks.
He heard sounds of music; someone was playing the flute. Eric walked up the hill and couldn’t believe what he saw.
They were flying! Flying on the brooms!
Two girls had saddled long black brooms and were hovering above the ground. They were not just flying, but dancing to the music, dancing in the air.
Those were the girls he had seen in the street and in Enchanted Garden. Those were the girls whom Dinah and Eleanora called witches. Wearing long dresses, with bare feet, they fluttered and circled above the meadow, and the folds of their dresses and their long hair wavered in the air.
Eric gaped at them.
“Cass, take your broom and practice,” he heard one of the flying girls say. “One fall shouldn’t scare you.”
But the third girl kept lying on the ground and playing the flute, her long broom with a saddle by her side. The other girls continued spinning above, telling her to join them.
“That’s why we shall make a Levitation Potion tonight,” the dark-haired girl said, flying higher. She spread her hands and began spinning in the air.
“Come down! Someone might see you.”
Witches, Eric remembered Dinah's words. They are witches, and they are dangerous.
Now he believed her. They were indeed witches. Witches who were riding brooms, and only heaven knew what other witchcraft they could perform.
When the skies darkened, the girls came down and sat in a circle on the ground, Eric wondered what other miracle he was going to see, but then the dark-haired girl looked up at the sky and turned to the others. They grabbed their brooms and ran away. Eric followed them with his eyes until they disappeared in the woods. After waiting a bit and making sure that no one was near, he went down the hill and stepped on the meadow. He didn’t notice anything strange; only some trampled grass gave away the recent presence of people. Eric looked at the sky. It was late in the day. Uncle Albert had asked him not to stay out late. Pondering over what he had seen, Eric returned home.