I cannot say now why I did it. No, that is a lie. It is only
that I would rather not admit the thing out loud, nor even give it leave to
rattle around inside this unsound mind. But rattle, it will. And stab and thrash.
There is no one left to listen, save for the slithering and flying and crawling
creatures that inhabit this place. The telling is for me, to perhaps ease both
my conscience and my transition. Whatever comes next, I do not know. My only
remaining hope is this stone that burns hot in the palm of my hand. I won’t let
go.
Hateful world, which creates gossip circles and otherwise
exclusionary groups. From childhood, I never felt I belonged. The feeling
wasn’t cultivated as much as it was thrust upon me by the mean-spirited girls
with their immaculate frocks and perfectly arranged hair. We were not
contemporaries; we only happened to be of approximately the same age and
unfortunately also live within the same house.
Their unladylike taunts launched like a volley of darts and hit
their mark with precision. “Dirty Bess, Dirty Bess, only has a dirty dress!”
When I was younger, my mother cautioned me not to take their
remarks to heart. “Elizabeth, m’darling girl,” I remember her soothing me in
her fading Irish lilt while mending a silk stocking that was far too fine for
either of us to wear, “this is a thing that all young girls endure. In time,
you will find your place.”
I think I would have preferred being a boy. Even kitchen maids’
sons were schooled in the village, where books, communal lunches, and friends
were attainable. I was relegated to carrying pails of water, building fires,
and taking lessons with soot-stained fingers by kitchen lamplight in the
evenings.
Mother is to be credited for attempting to buffer the effects of
their taunts. She tried in many ways to make me believe that I was special. One
evening as she braided my hair for sleep, she told me a story of the Takeaway
Stone. The stone, she said, was magical. It could only be used by a woman with
magic in her blood. After tying up my braid, she opened her sewing box, pulled
out a small, shiny rock, and handed it to me. “My mother gave this to me. And
her mother gave it to her. One day, it will be yours. If ever you are in
trouble beyond hope, reach for it. It will carry you away.”
It was a lovely story. But if ever there had been a situation to
be carried away from, surely life as a low-ranking servant would qualify.
Mother’s health turned poor after the scandalous stillbirth of a
son; whose father was a secret she kept. Fortunately, her seamstress skills
assured our survival. But during the winter of my seventeenth year, when
sickness icily swept through the servants’ chambers, she was laid to rest in an
unmarked pauper’s grave.
She had her place; mine was never revealed. My sole inheritance
was her sewing box, and the curious, shiny stone. I carried it with me from
then on.
Time only amplified my cruel situation. As I grew into a
scullery maid position, the ladies only grew more wicked.
Once, my unfashionable dresses were the source of their taunts.
Now, the attacks caused real harm. One of the ladies rose effortlessly through
the ranks as prime instigator. Her name, and it stings my tongue like rusty
iron, was Anna.
Lady Anna, as she insisted that I call her, was beautiful. Her
black hair reflected sunlight like a mirror. Her blue eyes seemed to glow
against her pale skin. Her heart, however, was as dank as the sludge under a
shaded, rotting log. Lady Anna had many pastimes, as young women of her station
often did. But no parlor game was nearly as fun as seeking out the plain-faced
scullery maid for entertainment.
Sundays were particularly awful. Sometimes, after returning from
a fierce sermon in the village, the other girls accompanied Lady Anna on her
quest.I recall being encircled by those
creatures in their fancy dresses, many of which bore the fine needlework of my
mother, chanting words that still make my face flush hot.
“Dirty Bess, Dirty Bess, three-penny harlot, you must confess!”
It was true that my dresses were stained. I was also accustomed
to slurs about my mother’s supposed loose morals. But now, they suggested I was
the same. If those rumors took hold, I would surely never marry.
While most of the girls were satisfied using words as weapons,
some enjoyed slapping me hard across the face or pulling my hair. Lady Anna was
rarely satisfied until she saw blood. Maybe it was a pin or a small razor she
had hidden in her pocket. It didn’t matter as long as it was sharp. As an even
greater assault, she would then drag me to the servants’ table in the kitchen
to dress whatever wounds she had inflicted. Mrs. Dudley, the head cook, always
praised Lady Anna’s kindness and scolded the accident-prone scullery maid.
For me to speak harshly would result in immediate termination
without a letter of reference. To strike one of them, even in defense, would
risk something much worse.
Foul creatures, all. But I would have my revenge.
My plan was foolproof, or nearly so. It was that lukewarm space
in-between that sealed my fate.
It was easy enough to fashion the device of my plot: a small
poppet, stitched in the wee hours, using scraps from my mother’s sewing box. On
the doll’s head were wisps of my own copper-red hair. The eyes were two knots
of brown thread. The mouth was a thin line of pink yarn. After stabbing my
finger to produce a drop of blood, I smeared it to form a heart on its chest.
Then I plunged the pin straight through the red stain.
It wasn’t pretty. But no one would imagine Lady Anna possessed
expert sewing skills. All that must be planted was the seed of implication: she
dabbled in forbidden witchcraft to harm the scullery maid. The vicar was
old-fashioned. Witch trials may be relegated to the past, but that didn’t save
the stretched neck of an occasional poor, accused soul now and then. Lady Anna
would serve as payment, and I would not shed a tear.
While the ladies were having tea on a Tuesday afternoon, I
sneaked upstairs and hid the poppet in one of Anna’s pockets. With evidence
planted, the rest of my plan would easily unfold.
On Wednesday, I pleaded with Mrs. Dudley for half a day’s leave
to go into the village. Her brow furrowed in displeasure, but she ultimately
agreed.
Once away from the manor house, I ran at top speed into the
village. The air was bitter cold, but it helpfully stung my cheeks red and
caused tears to form. The vicar’s eyes flew open at the story I told in
seemingly terrified pants and puffs. He gasped when I described witchcraft and
the blood-stained poppet. I stood reverently as he prayed. And then I turned to
leave.
The deed was done; now I had only to wait for that seed to grow.
For three days, I carried out my duties with an uncharacteristic
lighthearted manner. The kitchen maids teased that I must have a suitor. Mrs.
Dudley asked whether I was ill. Even Lady Anna’s taunts failed to cause their
usual mental anguish. I was happy.
I barely heard the bell ring on Sunday evening. The kitchen was
abuzz with activity, as servants prepared the family’s meal. But a hush fell at
the booming voices of the lord of the manor and other men whom I could not
quite identify.
They grew closer. Words rang out toward the kitchen as clear as
fine crystal. “Fetch the scullery maid to my study, now!” The voice did not
suggest compassion.
Mrs. Dudley stepped away from me. A footman pressed his back
against a wall. Three kitchen maids scurried. I eyed the back door and looked around
the room at the accusing faces.
You’ve been caught. Run, m’darling, run. It was my
mother’s voice, as clear as if she were standing there and not across the
divide.
The thicket welcomed me. I broke through vines, dashed around
rocks, trudged through mud, and ultimately took cover behind an old, rotting
log.
The shouts and barking dogs grow louder now. I am prey to be
hunted before being torn asunder.
The time for the telling is over; it is time for doing. Mother
said I have magic in my blood. I have no choice left but to find out. The
latest cut from Lady Anna was still fresh. I scratched until red flowed, held
the Takeaway Stone hard against it, and wished with all my heart, not caring
who or what heard me.
THE END
Carole Oldroyd is a full-time chandler, freelance writer, and mischief maker, who spends most of her days mainlining coffee and earning her living with wax and words. She and her two cats (RIP, dear Sashi) are plenty familiar with rattling doorknobs, footfalls on the staircase, and things that go bump in the night. She believes that if more people were familiar with James Whitcomb Riley’s spooky poem, Little Orphant Annie, which her grandmother used to recite with animated glee, we would all be a lot kinder to one another.
Cover design by Carole Oldroyd.