H C Turk, page 34
"Oh, and apologetic we are to burden your door with our presence, missus. But Mother and I traveling to be with kin find that no conveyance shall we gain today, and therefore require any simple spot to situate ourselves throughout the night as God watches over our sleeping, and harsh would be the streets and likely unlawful for our resting. Therefore, we thank you greatly for the bedding that you graciously provide, and bless you through Jesus. To display my appreciation, I shall burden you no more with my speaking, in that I require respite from movements of my head from a terrible accident that yet brings pain after a few sentences-see?" the young lady said, and lifted her veil, up to the tidy room, no thank you for the food either because we've recently eaten or would puke to have that grease within us, only one of the two comments made by the girl, take her non-mother upstairs and wait for Thursday.
Out the next morning after thanking the missus, but we'd be taking no meal and especially no mead in that our faces were too sore for the eating, including that of the mother-see? Then to the streets of a more significant version of London than little Bournchester, Oxford having cathedrals and gardens of its own, an open market providing us with vegetables to feed us for days; for though soon to be in the wilds, we might require some time to become adjusted again to morsel of dulse. To the sinners' house for the waiting, into our hole for another day and night in which we mainly slept for the accumulated resting, eventually to the man with the wagon, all as per schedule. Schedule, schedule.
He relished me at once. Though cordial, this son was fully adult, and proceeded to waft out that sub-belly smell of males upon sensing me, although he was accompanied by his dour wife. Anxious the man was to aid me into the wagon beside his inhuman cargo of cockles. Most forward I was to walk within a hand's width of this male to speak as he deserved.
"Sir, one of your hands on my buttock and I shall beat you to death with this face," I whispered, and raised my veil. Under my own motive force, I climbed into the wagon, the father wondering why only Marybelle's entry was aided, wave good-bye, the wife soon complaining to her husband about a cargo to starve them were it not for the persons' fare behind, this very pair drawing stares from sinners on the streets who wondered of us amongst the seafood, through Oxford and out.
Thus began a journey lasting days. Even the first hours removed from Oxford were a thrill for me, in that our travel was through a land bordered by no buildings. The soil road led through an expanse of fields with no sinners and none of their noise, which was stunning. Though only massive church caves are perfect in their silence, God's wilds have a gentle lack of noise that the sinners' greatest city greens cannot duplicate even at night, for therein even a frog's croak reverberates against buildings and strikes back harshly. But in the open, all the sounds were soft, the wagon's creaking the last aspect of sin heard. Here as well was a lack of stink. Though the city smell was yet in my nose, the stench was replaced by specifiable fragrances of sap, small animals, and blossoms. I then gained a foretelling of even superior experience, for once away from cockles and males, would we not be in Heaven?
We soon came to humor, for I smelled water. Ahead was a river to cross-but, no, it was but a creek, one shallow enough to walk. Sodden logs had been secured across the bed, affording the wagon a shallow path not swelling the axles. As we entered the water, I cackled, the driver turning in wonderment of my sound. Laugh I did at this water I could safely leap into, water that would offer no threat if the wagon collapsed. The additional runnels in our days of travel brought me such high spirits that I fondly anticipated them, for here was relief from dreams of wet subjugation.
As though boasting to myself of our escape, I attempted to smell the sinners behind; and, yes, there was a city, but not London. Oxford I could smell, but the same as a person, land areas are individualistic, and London was not within my senses. And London was my home. Then within me peaked an emotion that I had been bearing long: the loss from being removed from normalcy. So abrupdy had I left my established life that I felt lost. As we continued moving away, ever away, the fact of my having abandoned all contact with London by having lost its every scent was a blow to me as though I had lost a friend. And, truth be known by God, friends I had lost there. Only God, however, knew how many.
We rested in the day's center, the driver and wife sharing their bread and water. Marybelle and I offered them beans, which the sinners preferred cooked, thank you. Graze the horses in a natural land not wild enough to satisfy me, not with a wagon and sinners present; and had I been in the near-wilderness so long as to have acquired indulgent sensibilities? After another day's journey, would nothing please me but Man's Isle? This demeanor soon ended, for after boarding the wagon and proceeding, dusk brought a new smell of society, for ahead was a town. Gaining this settlement, the sinners parked near a barn to bed the horses and themselves for the night. Even the conveyed ladies were provided with a louse-infested cot, a good night's sleep with no misery from the bugs' biting us and not the first male slipping in to examine me factually.
Out of town the next morning into extending wilderness, though not wild enough for a witch as long as sinners could infiltrate the land with horses and a bit of easy riding. This day was repetitive of the previous, including resting in the middle and gaining a village at day's end, one smaller than those before: our goal of Whitford. Jonsway's edges were reminiscent of this village: sparse, unsophisticated buildings not arranged with the formality of London. Few people were seen, the best dressed of them no more social in their attire than Elsie. The moderate gown I wore-with its velvet surface and full petticoats to promote a lady's shape-made me a cipher, especially since I was a wagon's cargo.
So small was Whitford as to have but one church and no glassblower. Similar to great London, this settlement was situated on a river. The driving couple would not cross this water, however, for Whitford was their end. Off to their home outside the village after securing for their passengers a shed for sleeping, thank you everso, and up the next morning for business, walk to the market where farmers gathered to exchange goods. There the witches sought transport to Wystghllaen-niomb. One staring male offered to convey us to the village for a fee if only he could comprehend.
"I see ladies too finely dressing to be in the hill land of Wales. If you've kin there, why are they not named nor here to meet you? If you lived there afore, why is it I, who's been here an ever, have not seen-"
"Excuse me, sir," I interrupted, "but we have difficulty replying, in that being from London, we are unaccustomed to such rude intrusions into the personal affairs of ladies."
The farmers surrounded us, though all were hesitant to approach our veils. All of them wondered of our apparel, these people so innocent of society as to find Marybelle's
common weave equal to my handhewn piping.
"Might any gentle person be amongst you to convey us to this village named and receive from us a grateful payment in metal coin as well as our kindest wishes and blessings of God?" I asked of all.
Aye, there were at least one, but he could not be leaved until days next. One old and knotted man with permanent amusement and no foolish questions could depart now with his fresh horse and be returned with coin instead of spending it on sea eatings only the wife relished and it did terrible things with the gas in her besides. Leave at once, through Whitford and to a river to kill us.
We journeyed in a small, flexible wagon with remarkably large wheels for extremes of landscape. The farmer offered an endless chat despite our poor interest in discourse, but Marybelle had to reply alone, for I knew our goal. I recalled the Wye, the killing river first mentioned by Wroth in London. My companion also knew, for she could smell my fear.
"We approach a river, sir?" she asked the farmer.
"We are, and a most beautiful and wild thing nearer the mountains."
"We cross this water with effort?"
"No, and ma'am, in that our path leads to the shallows that are most this dry season."
"I swim not, sir, and have a fear of needing to do so," Marybelle continued.
"Well, don't be fearing for that Wye which lies before us. Walking across it you could without getting your vest wet, though some water might be seeping up from the wagon's floor, so hold your goods high if they should be keeping dry."
Soon visible through the trees, the river proved to be narrow ahead, though it had an odor of wet bulk. The sound as well was mild: no raging currents to drag me under. But with all my fear as we approached, I found further emotion, found surprise at the sinner's lack of preparation, for he simply droye into the river. Up I stretched to view, seeing the far side of the Wye-as well as its bottom, so shallow and clear was the water. And I thought of a pool in a huge garden in some opaque city left behind, but Pangham's had been water enough for drowning, despite its clear aspect. Then I settled within the wagon as we crossed, the single horse wet to its belly, the witches receiving some seeping as the farmer had warned, but no drowning as per Satan's nocturnal vows.
As we gained dry land, the farmer stated: "And this is Wales, ladies, once over the river, in that it be the border between England."
We proceeded to wilderness, a land I was finally able to contemplate, to feel. Only after crossing the river did I become aware that I had been regarding nothing but this water. During the day's travel, I had thought little of our goal, because I understood that any thinking would lead to a river's fear. But as we continued into Wales with all drowning behind, I sensed the countryside, seeing a wealth of deep greens ending with no brick building. I saw tall trees with countless peers, saw the land about me in rising, falling curves, hills never flattened for a cathedral's foundation. And where were the sinners? No road had they here, and scarcely a trail. This dent in the land we followed throughout the day, twice resting the farmer and his horse, the witches sitting on soft ground to smell cats of no London household, perhaps a bear, birds seen throughout the air, and enough insects to support them all. I also smelled a witch, in that Marybelle's salve was worn away so that again she smelled like family. Soon, cresting a hill like a tide to carry me high, not drown me below, I viewed through the trees a unique sight, an idea known but never experienced. In the distance were ragged, conical cliffs of enormous scope called mountains. And when the sinning farmer turned to me, I had no explanation for that terrible sound of cackling, Marybelle's only response a pleasure I could smell.
Days on wagons' bucking bottoms had yet to pain my bones, but soon my nose hurt. Deep into the day we gained a final settlement, the younger witch disheartened to be amongst sinners again. Wystghllaenniomb was no more than a supply center for the local horse ranchers whose mobile crop we also smelled. Unreadable words carved on the rare sign proved the foreignness of this region. The entirety of the village could be seen in a brief walk, no buildings here requiring stairs, no high roofs from which to observe more of the sinners' constructions. No gardens to give a witch respite, for sinners were the aberration here, and around them was God.
"And where about this place is it you go?" the farmer asked as he halted his horse at the village's far edge.
"We would go beyond this place," Marybelle replied; and I wondered when last I had heard her speak, but could not recall.
"Nothing past but farms," the man stated. "Toward which one would you go?"
"That one nearest the mountains," Marybelle answered. "My father has a cabin in the forest beyond. There I take the daughter for healing."
"A few farms be about, madam, and two that I know of toward the mountains. One lies there," he said, and pointed north, "the other there," and stretched his arm south.
After a pause, Marybelle replied, "I believe it the one southerly."
"And how is it we will know right or wrong, madam?"
"If correct, my father will appear with donkeys shortly."
"But what, missus, if the farm be incorrect?"
"I will know when we approach it. If incorrect, we shall hie to the other. Surely an extra fee shall be paid you if more toting is needed."
"Very well, and off we are, missus. And kindly speak to me of the wrong way as soon as it be known you."
We proceeded beyond the village toward the west and south. Before us was the same land seen for hours, hills increasing in size as the mountains grew nearer, the green of the foliage deep, the breeze clean and smelling more of horses than sinners, the mountains seemingly as expansive as the sky itself, a grey atmosphere of stone.
We continued for another hour, continued toward animals. Soon, small, dark horses were seen at pasture. We then arrived at a farm, its buildings well removed from the path we traveled. Having sensed about carefully,
Marybelle of course recognized the site.
"Yes, and this without question is the proper locale, sir, one not mistaken by me. Then we ask for you to travel as far as you might to the dense forest ahead."
He did, and we journeyed effortlessly, halting at the forest near dusk, stopping at wilderness.
"No farther can I travel, madam," the man announced, "what with having no path beyond. Yet I see no father nor donkey."
"Surely he is immediately about, or coming. If not, then we walk to his cabin which is exactly in that direction," Marybelle asserted, and pointed into a forest she had never seen before.
"And, madam, I have some concern if you may be wrong."
The younger traveler then provided an answer.
"Kind sir, your thoughtful generosity of concern we dismiss with appreciation and clear explanation; for if by rare chance we have the wrong locale, then return we shall to the passed farmhouse by walking."
"But, miss, you will be walking in the dark."
"Sir, we would be walking beneath the moon. If ever you had traveled in London at night with criminals likely to attack from every doorway, you would glory in the solitude of being away from true beasts. The horses about are safe, are they not, so what is to endanger persons?"
"No more than being lost, miss," he replied. Even the smell of this sinner's concern had become odd, for I was no longer of his people.
"Sufficiently lost, sir," I continued, "and we sleep until daylight, thereupon to gain the farm, or even the village if need be. But no longer shall we gain your concern, for we deserve no worry from you to make you suffer, in that no suffering shall burden us, I assure you. Therefore, with the grace of Lord Jesus we bid you adieu, and pray for your safety even as we pray for God's kindness toward you to never end."
Finally the talkative lass convinced the farmer to abandon us, though he refused the additional coin Marybelle offered, for his thoughtfulness would not be moderated by money. A tip of his hat, a wish for good waiting, and he was gone.
Marybelle looked toward the forest. I watched the farmer depart. No horses were about, no farmhouse nearby, only a receding sinner returning to his world, leaving me for a wild land that seemed not only immediate, but infinitely beyond. The wagon left trails, but none existed past the forest entrance. Only untouched Earth and its remaining warmth of day, vines and grasses never seen by men, animals never corrupted nor killed by sinners, a new world so complex in its sensings and promise as to form a whole engulfing my perceptions. And all this world was ours.
Tan we be so safe so easily?" I pondered, speaking to Marybelle while facing the disappearing wagon and its dissolving sound.
"Only the end was easy," she replied.
"This area is unknown to us."
"Smells like God's Earth to me."
"In what manner do we select a direction?"
"Until the hills become mountains we walk. Farther than that, eating and water may be sparse. We move away from the sinner smell."
"And thereafter what is done?"
"We live. We live away from sinners. We walk and follow our sensings to the homesite that best fits us. We walk away from any trapper's cabin, any other poison in the natural land."
This was no Elsie. Marybelle lacked the servant's sweetness, but also her navet. As Marybelle removed her veil to relieve herself from having to hide, I saw how ugly she was, for the first instance in my life not finding a witch's true face pleasing in appearance. Elsie's and Rathel's and Eric's-faces like my own-were familiar and accepted, if not preferred; but was not this witch's visage of God's nature?
"We walk, then, into God's land," Marybelle stated.
"Away from Satan's," I replied. And we entered.
Twenty-two
We entered the forest to a depth precluding the view of sinners potentially approaching on horseback. Then we slept in the grass near the raised roots of huge oaks, an experience wholly unlike our night in Oxford's commons, for in these wilds we were not bounded by sinners. We slept until dawn was announced by birds with their flapping and insects abandoning their night buzz. Then we sought a home.
The Cambrian Mountains were not visible through the forest, but the pervasive stone smell of our site had a massive source I was eager to see again. Around us were parts of that range from its ancient past, mossy boulders separating the trees. Past these hard forms of God I walked with Marybelle, through a haze of tiny moths, beneath flitting swallows, frightening a rabbit, which brought a smile to me. I had forgotten how rapid and erratic were the moves of these beasts. But, of course, not erratic: Drunks in London were erratic; hares were precise in their complicated turnings. The witches themselves remained steady, having stuffed hats and vests into bags, proceeding through a land of true life.
"Not enough undergrowth to feed even two witches," I offered some unspecifiable time later when the coarse terrain had yet to change.
"We'll not settle in a place to starve us," Marybelle replied, "and not one so near a village and farm."
