Chapter 11: To Become a Witch

Tuesday, 21 June 1955, Northern England

The bus bounced violently as Rebecca finished her letter and her signature streaked across to the edge of the onionskin paper. She would send it via air mail tomorrow. They would sleep tonight in Keswick and explore the little towns around the lakes before returning tomorrow.

She grabbed her walking stick to keep it from falling and groaned. She squinted her eyes in discomfort. Writing on a bus while navigating the curves and ruts of the Northern English countryside might not have been the best idea. Her stomach rebelled against the tallow of a lunch of lamb and butter sandwiches.

She had almost become used to the meals of lamb and mutton that were served more frequently than beef in this country and in Scotland. For lunch today, though, she would have given anything for a good T-bone and would have been happy with a bologna sandwich. She was just thankful that food was the worst of the problems she had faced so far.

After she and Wesley parted in London, he for Greece and she for Scotland, it had taken no time at all to get settled in and actually begin working on her thesis. Her Scottish advisor, a very crusty old man who sneered at her premise, had immediately directed her to a half-dozen additional texts on Druidism and the various Fairy traditions of the region. Then he had told her that she simply must catch this two-day tour to the Lake District to be grounded in the reality of ancient ritual sites.

She pulled the brochure from her satchel as she put away her writing materials. They had visited Hadrian’s Wall after Gretna, Scotland. There was something special about standing at the site that had been built by the Romans to protect the south from invading Picts. The whole place seemed still inhabited by the spirits of those long-dead defenders of civilization. She thought about ‘old’ buildings in Indiana and could not remember one more than 150 years old. Hadrian’s Wall was nearly 2,000 years old. Everything here was ancient.

Another jolt on the bus sent the brochure flying from her hands and her eyes turning to the back of her head. Thank God, the last stop before the evening’s end was coming soon. Looking at the brochure just made her sicker to her stomach than she had been. Castlerigg—a stone circle predating the great Stonehenge circle—was next on the tour. She leaned back against her seat and closed her eyes with a soft moan.

“Feeling poorly, sweet?” said the old woman in the seat next to Rebecca. “A little seltzer water would perk you up.”

The woman had fallen noisily asleep shortly after Wordsworth’s Cottage and Rebecca was surprised to find her awake and chattering as if she had been conversing all along.

“A bit nauseous from the bus ride,” Rebecca answered. “I don’t usually suffer from motion sickness, but the past few miles have been a little stressful.” The past few miles had been along a single-track dirt road that seemed to have ruts in its ruts and had been interrupted only by a herd of sheep moving across ahead of them.

The strange old woman had delivered a running commentary on all aspects of the trip—Hadrian’s Wall, The Lake Poets, and even the process of spinning wool. She had apparently taken this tour frequently. And the commentary went on. Now she talked of cures for headache, upset stomach, cramps, and a dozen other pains that Rebecca didn’t realize she had until the woman itemized them. Under any other circumstances, Rebecca would have found the information on folk remedies fascinating. But her nausea was mounting, multiplied by the brush scraping along the windows with an irritating screech as the bus lurched along the track that was not wide enough for it.

“People think we didn’t get motion sickness in the days of horse and carriage,” continued the old woman, oblivious to Rebecca’s discomfort. “Not true. I remember one time sitting behind a trotting horse in a buggy tottering back and forth, back and forth, back and forth with that incessant clippity-clop of the hooves in front and the awful smell of wet blankets making me so ill I couldn’t walk for an hour after we finally stopped. Oh, I know the motion sickness all right. That day was one that I will never forget. Then there was my first train ride.”

“Please,” moaned Rebecca.

The old woman’s words amplified Rebecca’s feelings of nausea. She could hear the pulse pounding in her throat. She swallowed hard at regular intervals. Not since her first ride on a merry-go-round as a child had she felt so dizzy and ill. The memory only made it worse. Images faded in and out of her mind in rapid succession and she found herself unable to focus on anything.

“Of course, airplanes, I understand, are a completely different feeling,” continued the old woman, oblivious to Rebecca’s discomfort. “Not so much the motion as the altitude, though did you know air can be rough? Imagine! My friend Dorothy rode an airplane to visit her daughter in Canada. She said riding that aircraft was bumpier than the old Winchester rail line. Now that I find hard to believe. That is the worst rail line in this country. So, I asked her why she didn’t go by ship? Any sensible person would stay as close to the earth as possible. And she said, she always gets seasick. And I said, well, you got sick anyway. And she said, yes, but it was over so much more quickly!”

The old woman laughed and Rebecca choked on the smile she attempted.

“My dear,” she said. “You don’t look at all well.”

The bus lurched again and Rebecca nearly lost control, choking and coughing. Her companion offered a handkerchief, but it smelled of a sickly sweet perfume that doubled the effect of her nausea. Then the bus finally slowed to a stop.

“There is a cure for this sort of thing, dear,” went on the old woman as they left the bus.

Rebecca gasped in a deep breath, attempting to inhale the whole out of doors, only to find that she was squarely in the exhaust of the bus. She forced down the bile again, unable to free herself from the tour group and the old woman. She wished she had Wesley to lean on. She felt terrible.

“Of course, it’s an old witch cure,” the woman continued, “but it won’t harm you. Come this way and help me over the stile, dear. That’s a good girl. Now just down the hill over here, there is a stream and an herb that grows there will have you feeling better in no time. Just come with me, dear.”

Rebecca stumbled along with the old woman down the hill, tears streaming from her eyes. She wanted to tell the woman to just leave her alone and let her sit down, but the words choked in her throat. The old hag kept propelling her along toward the river and away from the group at the stone circle.

At last they reached the edge of the river and the old woman broke a stem from a weed that Rebecca did not recognize, crushed it and held it up to Rebecca’s face.

“Here now, dear. Breathe deeply of this and you’ll feel better in no time.” Rebecca inhaled deeply and when the acrid aroma dawned on her senses, it was too late to shut it out. She threw herself away from the old woman and vomited, choking behind a low bush.

“Yes, dear. Best way to cure a motion sickness is to void yourself completely.”

“What was that?” choked Rebecca, tears brimming into her eyes.

“Why, just what you needed,” answered the old woman. “You want to be all clean and fresh. Here, now take a drink of water and clear your mouth. And let’s wash your face. You’ll feel much better in a few moments.”

Rebecca was too weak to resist anything at this point and the old woman easily guided her to the riverbank to wash. She handed Rebecca a canteen. “Don’t drink from the streams in the summer,” she admonished. Apparently, however, it was fine to wash in it. She remembered the advice of her travel agent to never bathe in anything she couldn’t drink. Rebecca could not quit crying. The physical purge was redoubled by an emotional one. Wesley! She wanted him. She ached to be near him, to hear his voice, to be one with him. She was so far away. So all alone. Wesley.

She lay on the river bank sobbing with her head cradled in the old woman’s lap. She was rather a nice grandmotherly type. Rebecca slowly began to feel better. She would just lie here and wait a few more moments and thank the woman for her help. Then they would rejoin the tour group. The treatment had been a little brutal, but it did work. Just for a minute, Rebecca thought, and then I’ll be fine.

She fell asleep, conscious only of the old woman stroking her hair and a voice softly crooning above her.

When Rebecca awoke, she was alone.

She was alone. It was dark. It was silent and a sour taste lingered in her mouth and in her nose.