The hedge witch, p.1
The Hedge Witch, page 1
Copyright
HarperVoyager
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HarperCollinsPublishers
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First published by HarperCollinsPublishers 2022
Copyright © Cari Thomas 2022
Map and chapter illustrations © Nicolette Caven 2022
Cari Thomas asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
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Source ISBN: 9780008546700
Ebook Edition © July 2022 ISBN: 9780008528935
Version: 2022-06-23
Dedication
To the magic of Wales and my uncle Roger Couhig, a Welsh wizard, storyteller and dreamer.
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Map
Epigraph
When Time Melted
A Garden Made of Moonlight
Stones the Land Grew
A Surprise of Birds
Flying a Flying Kite
Red Sky at Morning
Beyond The Hedge
Read on to discover more …
By Cari Thomas
About the Publisher
Map
Epigraph
I call to the watchtowers of the East!
To the Goddess of Air and Wind,
Wielding the wand of old.
To the leaves in the sky,
To the birds flying high,
To the scents of the flowers,
To limitless powers.
To the wisest of minds,
And the freest of souls,
Rise now and let your story go.
Rowan breathed onto the train window. A circle of mist appeared, soft as the blur of the landscape beyond. She drew two eyes and a smile inside it. Then, with a small burst of magic, the smile turned itself upside down. She glanced up and down the carriage – but no one was around to see her cast. It was empty. After all, why would anybody be going to a small, desolate village in mid-Wales on a perfectly good Saturday?
Anyone but me. Why me?
Exiled for the summer! Cast out! Left to fend for herself amid the sheep and bogs!
She could be going on holiday somewhere hot, with a beach. She could have stayed in London and attempted to attend parties she hadn’t been invited to. Even band camp was a preferable alternative. There were boys at band camp. But no. She’d been packed off for the summer to reside with Aunt Winifred, her arguably most crazy relation – and there was stiff competition. What chance would she have now when she returned to St Olave’s School for Girls having missed the entire summer’s social scene? Rowan laughed aloud. She wasn’t exactly in the social scene … but now she was as far from it as you could get, hurtling on a train towards the middle of nowhere. It was like facing her future – one day she’d probably be Aunt Winifred, living in a remote cottage surrounded by cats, smelling of cats, turning slowly but surely doolally, poking a stick at the local children if they came near.
Rowan sat back in her seat despairing at the vision. She’d hoped for a very different summer. Free of the chains of school, of the people who made it clear she would never be one of them, perhaps she’d find friends – friends who didn’t think she was a joke. Maybe she’d meet someone. Have a fling. It was necessary – she’d be going into the Sixth Form next year. Everyone at school had started coupling up, growing up, and she felt as if she were being left behind. No one ever looked at her with that kind of interest. Who would want me? Rowan batted the thought away, preferring her hyperbolic despair.
Just one kiss! One spectacular, spell-shattering kiss! Was it too much to ask of the Goddess? Or would she be alone forever? Never been kissed. It would be written on her gravestone:
Here Lies Rowan Greenfinch: Sorely Missed But Never Kissed. Buried With Cats.
A trundle of wheels distracted her before she could begin writing the full extent of her bleak obituary in her head. A young woman pulled up a tired-looking food trolley next to her. ‘Do you want anything?’ she asked, rolling gum around her mouth.
‘A boyfriend?’ Rowan suggested.
The woman stopped chewing, eyebrows meeting in confusion. ‘Wha—?’
Rowan laughed. ‘Sorry. Sometimes I say things out loud that are meant to be in my head. But hey, if you can’t do me a boyfriend then I guess I’ll take my own body weight in chocolate. Have you got that in there?’
The woman stared at her. She looked concerned. ‘I’ve got Cadbury’s Dairy Milk or KitKats. Do you want … all of them?’
Rowan sensed her humour was lost on her. ‘I’ll take a KitKat. Just the one.’ She didn’t want a KitKat but felt it was the least she could do now she’d confounded the poor woman.
‘Sure.’ The woman appeared relieved the exchange was over. The trolley trundled on through the empty carriage, rattling despairingly.
Rowan took out a bag from beneath her seat – the bag of treats her mum had packed for her. She threw the KitKat inside and breathed within – it was like opening up an oven with a freshly baked cake rising inside. Warm garden herbs and molten sugar. It smelled like home. Rowan didn’t know how many baked treasures the bag contained altogether, probably a six-month supply, knowing her mum. She could see lavender cookies, vervain brownies, nettle seed nut bars—
She picked out a marigold madeleine, a Bertie special. She bit into it, the marigold butter melting over her tongue and coaxing a smile to her lips. It was impossible not to smile when her mum’s marigolds were involved. Bertie had once served them at a wake, which had made for an awkward end to the funeral, everybody beaming away while they remembered the loss of Great-Granny Iris.
Rowan chuckled at the memory and settled back into her seat, surrendering to the view beyond the window, admitting that it was beautiful. Unearthly beautiful. The train poured through the middle of a valley, green hills peeling away on either side, rising slowly to larger, stony mountains, their rough, torn edges distressed with cloud; so many types of light that Rowan could hardly take them all in: thick golden curls high in the sky, rain-dusted beams piercing the clouds, rivers of light carving the textures of the mountains and falling windswept across the fields, restless and wandering, disappearing into dark knots of woods and finding silver stillness on the surface of sudden lakes. It was like something from a fairy tale. Wild, mythical, and … desolate.
Rowan’s phone went off, breaking the enchantment. She untangled it from her pocket. It was her mum. It was always her mum. She answered the call and Bertie’s voice was direct. ‘Are you on the train?’
‘Mum, you literally put me on the train.’
‘Well, are you still on it? You haven’t fallen off? Or been kidnapped?’
‘Who’d kidnap me? Surely you’d choose someone easier to manoeuvre.’
‘Don’t be silly. I’m sure there are plenty of people who would kidnap you.’
‘Thanks, Mum. That means a lot.’
‘You’re welcome,’ Bertie replied with a flash of teasing. ‘Are your bags with you? They haven’t been stolen?’
‘They haven’t been stolen.’
‘Are you hungry?’
‘Is that a joke? You’ve packed me enough food to feed a small army. A large army, in fact, travelling several continents overland.’
Bertie chortled. ‘Well, you’ll need your strength. Winifred’s a firecracker. A loose one that’s gone awry and is now sparking randomly.’
Rowan’s laughter met her mum’s. ‘What have you put me up to?’
‘Despite appearances, Winnie can teach you a thing or two, you know. There’s nothing like learning practical skills from a madwoman. The best kind of schooling. Plus, you might have fun!’ Bertie instilled her voice with cheerfulness. ‘I spent several summers in Coedyllaeth when I was young and I always loved it. Winnie and I running around like wild things. And anyway, she always wanted a child but she never had one and she’s been asking for years to have you stay. It’s time. Plus, you didn’t send her a thank-you card last Yuletide, so this is your chance to make it up to her.’
‘I’m being exiled to the middle of nowhere in Wales because I didn’t send a thank-you card?’
‘Not that you’re dramatic.’
‘Mum, this summer is critical socially. How am I going to compete when I go back to school if I’ve spent the entire time on a hill?’
‘Winnie doesn’t live on a hill. She lives at the bottom of one, and anyway, you don’t need to compete. You’re perfect already.’
‘You’re my mu
‘I only speak the truth and the occasional necessary green lie, but that isn’t one of them.’
‘I’m going to die alone.’
‘Not that you’re dramatic …’
‘I learnt from the best.’
‘You know there are boys in Wales. If I recall from my sixteenth year, some rather handsome ones. Dark and rugged—’
‘MUM! Too much information. Anyway, there aren’t any at Aunt Winifred’s.’
‘Actually, she has a boyfriend.’
‘What?’ Rowan exploded. ‘You didn’t tell me that! Aunt Winifred has a boyfriend. She officially has more of a life than me. I may as well adopt her cats now.’
‘Maybe she can teach you a few tricks.’
‘I am not taking love advice from Aunt Winifred. Last time I saw her she was wearing a hat with half a garden on it.’
‘She does like her hats – I’m coming Gardenia!’ Bertie yelled. Rowan could hear a ruckus in the background. ‘Your sisters are driving me mad – no, don’t touch that! – take care now, my socially destitute child. I hope you survive Winifred.’
‘I might try and get myself kidnapped before I arrive.’
Bertie cackled. ‘Farewell then, if we don’t meet again – I said don’t touch that!’
‘Bye, Mum.’
‘But also, call me when you get to Winifred’s. And maybe just before bed to say goodnight – GERANIUM, LOOK WHAT YOU’VE DONE—’
The phone cut off.
Rowan dropped it on the table and dropped back against the seat. She missed her mum already. She missed home. She even missed her sisters. Well, maybe not yet, but she would. She looked at her reflection in the window and, for a brief moment, didn’t recognize herself amid the rough hills and wind-shaken trees. Then she nodded at herself like a soldier might nod at a comrade before going into battle. She was Rowan Greenfinch. She did not give up. Like her mum often said, you can always make jelly from a hawthorn berry. She’d make the best of the summer, whatever was in store for her. She’d use her time away from the business of her family life to do the things she’d always meant to do, like exercise and school reading. She’d go on morning hikes, maybe she’d start a blog about living off-grid, or take up photography, or learn to paraglide. She’d return to school transformed – fitter and tanned and enlightened. Could you tan in Wales? And who knew, there could be a summer fling waiting for her in Coedyllaeth. Maybe she’d find someone to kiss.
She settled back into the unfolding drama of the landscape and let her imagination run wild through the fields ahead. Perhaps she’d go on a walk … lose her way and be rescued from a bog by a local farmer’s son … dark and rugged … a dreamy smile … arms strong enough to push an ox up a hill … did farmers do that?
Rowan’s thoughts were lost amid a tumble of hay bales when the train clacked slowly into a station. The sign came into focus: Coedyllaeth.
She jumped up. ‘My stop! That’s my stop! STOP THE TRAIN!’ she shouted to the empty carriage. ‘Shiiiiiit.’ She gathered her belongings together and yanked her bag from the overhead rack, hurtling down the carriage and only falling twice before she got to the train door. She pressed the open button repeatedly before realizing it was the wrong door. She veered to the other side and burst out onto the platform, dropping Bertie’s bag of treats – cakes spilling everywhere. She gathered them together and pulled herself up straight. She was used to dramatic exits.
No one else disembarked. The train pulled away with a sigh. She’d left from London Paddington but this station was no more than two platforms – one for each direction of travel – and a quaint stone building brightened with hanging baskets of summer flowers. It was empty save for a woman sitting on a single bench. Rowan knew from the hat it was Aunt Winifred.
Aunt Winifred stood up and faced her squarely. Rowan walked over, waving enthusiastically. ‘Hi, Aunt Winifred!’
Aunt Winifred did not smile. ‘Hello, Sorbus.’ Sorbus was Rowan’s actual name – the Latin name for the Rowan tree – though she did her best to hide it from the world. ‘You’re late.’
‘Always.’ Rowan grinned. ‘But to be fair, I think it was more the train’s fault than mine this time.’
Winifred blinked. ‘A Hedge Witch never blames her tools.’
Rowan wasn’t sure how to respond. They assessed each other with equal uneasy suspicion. Aunt Winifred looked nothing like any of the members of Rowan’s family. She wasn’t technically an aunt, but a cousin of her mother – first or second, Rowan couldn’t remember, her mum had about a million. Winifred was tall, sinewy, and sturdy, made up of jutting angles that didn’t seem to quite fit together. She was wearing a floor-length, sleeveless lilac dress as if to soften her staunch figure but it had the opposite effect. A large hunk of shrubbery was attached to her straw hat, all leaves and sprigs, a few stray flowers flapping over the brim. Beneath, her light hair was cut short and her eyes were wide and owlish, one of them sharp as shears and the other occasionally veering off in a different direction as if it was seeing something the rest of the world wasn’t privy to. Her mouth was wide and her jaw stiff, but Rowan knew she wasn’t as formidable as she looked.
Winifred moved forwards and gave her a rigid hug. ‘You’ve grown.’
‘Upwards or outwards?’ Rowan cracked a smile. ‘To be fair, the last time you saw me I was ten.’
‘What are you now?’
‘Fifteen.’
‘Hmmm,’ said Winifred, with the disinterest of someone who couldn’t tell apart a ten-year-old from a fifteen-year-old. ‘Either way, you look big enough to work a hedge. Strong of arm.’
Rowan peered down at her arms. ‘I guess I’ll take that as a compliment …’
‘You should. Nothing wrong with being robust.’
Rowan crossed her arms around herself. She’d been called many things in her life – chubby, tubby, bubbly, curvy, plain old fat … but never robust. At least it was unique. She reimagined her gravestone:
Rowan Greenfinch: Robust and Strong of Arm. Still Died Alone.
‘Right! Greetings over! To the car!’ Winifred chivvied, setting off at a pace. ‘We have a drive ahead of us.’
Rowan hurried after her. ‘I thought the town was only twenty minutes away?’
‘It is.’
The car looked as if it was held together with tape – a small, disconcertingly battered and bruised 2CV. Rowan put her bags in the boot and noticed that the exhaust was, in fact, secured on with wire. The front passenger seat was covered in debris – a watering can, plant pots, a basket of flower cuttings.
‘Oh,’ said Winifred, as if accommodating another passenger had never occurred to her. ‘They can go in the back.’
Rowan squeezed herself into the front seat, pulling the belt around her. Several minutes later she was clinging to the seat, the belt, and herself, while Winifred hurtled with vigour down the small lanes of rural Wales, veering dangerously close to the hedges. She seemed to have only one eye on the road, the other roaming out of the window. Rowan closed her own eyes as they took a bend at speed.
Winifred turned to look at her. ‘So, you intend to be a Wort Cunning?’ The Wort Cunnings were the witch grove that Rowan’s entire family and most of their extended friends belonged to, including Winifred. They worked with the magic of plants, though everyone had different specialities.
Rowan clutched the seat, wishing Winifred would look back at the road. ‘Er – yes. Yes. Definitely.’
‘Good. The Wort Cunnings are the most respectable grove out there and it’s in your genes.’
‘It is,’ Rowan agreed. If my genes survive this car journey.
‘Any idea what type of plant magic?’
‘I think, probably, living plant spells like my mum.’
‘Hmph.’ Winifred pursed her lips. ‘Your mother always was so strait-laced.’
No one in the history of Rowan’s life had ever called her mum strait-laced.
‘Well, it’s the magic I’ve been doing my whole life,’ said Rowan. ‘And—MOTHER HOLLE!’
Winifred screeched the car to a halt in the middle of the lane. Rowan looked at her, but Winifred didn’t seem to register what had just happened, continuing the conversation. ‘It’s certainly an interesting branch of magic but you ought to consider other options, like hedgecraft. A much more rigorous form of plant magic. Multidisciplined. Multilayered.’ With that, she extracted a pair of shears from the glovebox and exited the car. She stood in the road, staring at the hedge. Rowan waited, not sure what to do. She was used to strange relations but she’d never been so entirely reliant on one. Winifred continued to eye the hedge for several more minutes and then with a quick clip of the shears cut away a branch. She returned to the car and laid the cutting in the basket.
