Waking the witch, p.1
Waking the Witch, page 1
Contents
Title Page
Books by Rachel Burge
Dedication
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Acknowledgements
About the Author
Copyright
Books by Rachel Burge
The Twisted Tree
The Crooked Mask
Waking the Witch
For my mum, Leoni
1
I love it when a butterfly emerges from its chrysalis and unfurls its tiny, shrivelled wings. It’s freeing – the idea that whatever your problems, you can transcend them: wake up one day and find that you’ve changed into a different creature, grown wings and can fly away. Everyone gets excited about the miracle of nature, the power of transformation. At the same time, no one asks what the caterpillar had to sacrifice to achieve those wings. But then everyone loves the Disney version, don’t they? We all want to see the ugly grub become a thing of beauty. We all want the fairy tale.
In the real world, orphans go unadopted and little girls who are abandoned by their mothers are raised by wolves, only to be eaten by them. But no one wants to hear that. People aren’t interested in the cruel and messy truth, so I don’t tell them about me – the same way I don’t tell them what really happens to the caterpillar.
It’s Friday morning and I’m sitting on the specimen room floor at work, wedged between two cardboard boxes (there’s at least one advantage to being small), and hoping my jerk of a boss doesn’t find me. Before me is a row of wooden display cases containing various chrysalides, and in my hand is my phone. I glare at it, as if that might somehow shame it into ringing. It doesn’t. Eventually the screen dims and somewhere in my heart a light goes out.
Lifting the locket from my neck, I open the tiny, hinged door and take out the slip of folded paper as I’ve done a thousand times before.
I’m so sorry. I tried to keep you safe, but I see now that I can’t. They won’t stop until they have you, but I can’t let that happen. Be strong, little one, trust no one, and know that
Like me, the scribbled note was abandoned, a half-finished story containing more questions than answers. I stare at the words until they become as blurred and indecipherable as their meaning. Who was my mother keeping me safe from? What was bad enough to make her dump her baby at a motorway service station? I’m named after the cleaner who found me – Ivy. But what name did my mum give me? Where were the rest of my family? I have so many questions, but it always comes down to a single word beating inside me like a second heart. Why?
I fold the paper back inside and then tuck the brass locket into my shirt, my fingers briefly tracing the raised butterfly design. I guess it’s fitting that I ended up working at a butterfly zoo, but then I’ve always loved the tiny creatures. The locket is all I have of my mum, so to me butterflies are an emblem of hope, a sign that one day I’ll find her.
And now maybe I have.
I’ve spent years posting on missing person sites asking for information, and last week someone actually replied. The man said he was looking for his brother when he came across my photo – he has a memory for faces and I looked like a woman he’d met on holiday once. She lived at the lighthouse on Bardsey Island, off the west coast of Wales, and he saw her go to the mainland with her baby and then come back alone. He seemed so certain and the dates checked out, and somehow I just have this feeling.
Getting to Bardsey isn’t easy – a bus, two trains and a boat crossing – so I decided to send her a letter with my number. That was seven days ago. From what I’ve read online the island is tiny and barely populated so it’s not going to have the best postal service, but even if she’s moved surely someone would have received it. I fiddle with the silver stud in my nose and sigh. One thing’s for certain, I can’t stay in here. My boss will notice I’m missing and I’m the only assistant in work as Tom is late again, which means I have to give this morning’s talk.
I crawl out from my hiding place then wrap my arms around a display case which is almost as big as me. There are plenty of smaller ones, but I haven’t done three years of martial arts training to take the easy option. With a grunt of exertion, I lift the case and shove the door open with my foot. I love my job – I enjoy seeing the customers’ excited faces when a butterfly lands on them and I like teaching them about the different species we have at the centre. I just need to pretend it’s an ordinary day at work. You know, forget that my entire life could be about to change with a single phone call.
As I enter the glass butterfly house, I’m greeted by the familiar sound of wet hissing from the vents, a constant tic-tic and fizzling hum of artificial jungle. It’s always warm and humid, but the air feels stifling today. Beneath the scent of nectar is a cloying smell of overripe fruit and rotting vegetation and something I can’t quite place: a stench of decay that doesn’t belong here. It sits on my lungs and makes it hard to breathe.
Tightening my grip on the case, I head to the display area on the far side of the room. October half-term is one of our busiest times and the walkways are full of visitors. They wander amongst the glossy-leaved plants and tropical orange flowers, pausing every now and then to point at a flash of colour flitting about their heads. In other words, not looking where they’re going.
‘Excuse me, coming through!’ I can’t see around the case, so I have to shout and hope that people move out of the way.
‘You’ve got your hands full there, Ivy. Can’t you get young Tom to help?’
‘Hey, Dot. How are you?’ I recognise her voice and slow down to let her catch up.
It’s mostly families that visit, but in winter we get older people who come for the free heating. Dot is one of my favourites. She wears an immaculate red wig with matching lipstick and hates wearing ugly shoes, but they help with her bunions. She usually brings a romance novel and will read it while eating pick ’n’ mix. I once made the mistake of accepting a jelly baby and then had to listen as she spent ten minutes describing a sex scene in alarming detail.
She ambles alongside me and whispers, ‘Shame to let a strapping lad like that go to waste. He’s a handsome specimen. If I was fifty years younger, I’d rip his clothes off and –’
‘Yeah, thanks, Dot. I’ll keep it in mind.’
The truth is that Tom would be more than happy to help me, but I don’t intend to give him the satisfaction. We’re the same age and started working here around the same time, about ten months ago, and we have this rivalry thing going on. Some days I think he only comes into work to wind me up. Besides, I make it a rule never to accept anyone’s help.
Dot lays an affectionate hand on my arm. ‘You’re too proud by half. You want to snap him up before someone else does.’
She hobbles off, presumably heading to her usual bench, and a huff escapes me. Tom’s a good laugh, but that’s as far as it goes.
When I get to the display table, I set down the case and then wipe my hands on my trousers. Sensing someone behind me I spin around, but there’s nobody there. Damn my stupid boss, always loitering and making me feel uncomfortable – it’s no wonder I’m paranoid. After checking he’s not around, I peek at my phone. Mobiles are strictly forbidden at work so I’ve set it to silent. I don’t want to get fired – I’m already on my second warning – but I have to answer if she calls. Not that I need worry: the screen is blank.
Nearly ten o’clock: time to start. I stand on tiptoes and raise my voice. ‘Hello, if I could have your attention, please? The talk will begin soon if anyone would like to join me.’ A couple glance over but keep walking. Maybe it’s my appearance – pastel pink bobbed hair, blunt micro fringe and nose stud – but people often seem surprised that I work here, even in my uniform. Or maybe seventeen-year-old girls are just easy to overlook.
I make my announcement again, louder this time, and a bearded man in a dirty anorak shuffles over, followed by a family, then two guys holding hands and a woman and her moody pre-teen daughter who come every few weeks. The woman wears her hair in a scraped-back ponytail and lives in leopard-print jumpsuits, which means I spend more time than I should wondering how she pees. We’ve chatted a few times, and now she waves and gives me a friendly smile. The girl sees me and rolls her eyes, seemingly convinced that Wye Valley Butterfly Zoo is lame and nothing I can say will change her mind.
I feel her pain – the border between England and Wales is blessed with amazing views (if you like hills and sheep) but isn’t exactly known for its entertainment options, and the poor thing must have heard my talk a dozen times. Her mum tries to hug her, but the girl shoves her off and takes out her phone. The casual indifference of the gesture cuts a hole in my chest and jealousy reaches in and squeezes my heart, quickly followed by resentment. Between them, they have a mighty strong grip.
Get it together, Ivy. Focus on w
I avert my eyes, uncomfortable with my own feelings, and bring my attention to the dozen people who’ve gathered to hear my talk. The man in the anorak stares at me, his facial muscles rigid as if they’ve been frozen into place. I wait for him to say something, or at least blink, but he doesn’t. We get some odd characters at the centre; dealing with them is part of the job. Even so, I can’t help feeling a little unnerved. He strokes his beard, repeating the movement robotically, and I wonder if he has a nervous tic or anxiety. I smile reassuringly at him, then thank the group for their patience and scan the walkways for latecomers.
A family enters through the hanging plastic strips that cover the entrance and something occurs to me. I included both my work and home addresses in the letter, so my mum might turn up here.
No. It’s so far to come; surely she’d ring me first. I don’t care how hard it is to get to Bardsey. If she doesn’t call by the end of the day, I’ll phone in sick and go to the island tomorrow. I have to know if it’s her.
A loud gasp brings me back to reality. People are pointing and staring at a spot above my head.
‘What the hell are they?’ asks jumpsuit woman. I glance up and fluttering over me are three huge grey moths – acherontia atropos, to be precise. These ones are adults of the species, each with a twelve-centimetre wingspan.
‘They’re death’s head hawkmoths,’ I tell my audience. ‘They get their name from the skull-shaped pattern that adorns their thorax.’
The sight of them makes me shiver, despite the heat. Not because they’re an omen of death, but because there’s something unnatural about the way they circle over me. Butterflies and moths usually fly haphazardly, going one way and then another, not around and around in a neat pattern. But this is like watching a few frames of film on repeat.
A high-pitched, pulsating screech fills the air and I raise my voice. ‘They make that noise to scare away predators. It’s particular to the species; not many moths do that.’
A few people in the crowd nod and look relieved, and then the creatures flit towards a fern and the sound disappears as quickly as it started. Unable to pull my gaze away, I watch their strange flight with a growing sense of unease. I’ve never seen anything here fly like that.
2
Needing to get the group’s attention, I clap my hands and turn up the wattage on my smile.
‘Well, that was quite a display. Hello, everyone, my name is Ivy Jenkins and I’m an assistant here at the centre. As you may know, the female butterfly lays its eggs on plants, and these hatch into larvae called caterpillars. These voracious eaters spend their days consuming as much vegetation as they can and will shed their skin several times as they get bigger.’ I point at the case. ‘Once fully grown, the caterpillar forms a chrysalis.’
The man in the anorak hasn’t looked away once. He stares at me with bulbous eyes but doesn’t seem to actually see me. It’s like his eyeballs have stopped working. A prickle of dread creeps over my skin and I hurry on with my talk. I’m halfway through explaining the process of metamorphosis when the moody girl interrupts. ‘Ew, can’t we just look at butterflies? I mean, that’s why it’s called a butterfly zoo, right?’
Pretending I haven’t heard, I continue. ‘They may look like cute little sleeping bags, but these chrysalides are actually made from the caterpillar’s own skin. It sheds it one final time and remains inside while the metamorphosis takes place.’ The group peers at the branch and I smile sweetly at the girl and whisper. ‘You might think the caterpillar is resting inside, but it’s actually busy dying. The enzymes it used to digest its food are now used to break down its body. It devours itself and from the leftover juices, the butterfly is born.’
The girl’s face pales and a flush of satisfaction runs through me. The science is way more complicated than that, and the last bit is not in the approved script, but then why shouldn’t she know the truth? Nature is like life – cruel to some. Refusing to look at Anorak Man, I ask if there are any questions and a small boy tugs my sleeve. ‘Does it hurt?’ he asks.
I start to answer, when one of the chrysalides sways and pulsates as the tiny creature inside wriggles and moves about. Who’s to say the caterpillar didn’t panic as it shed its skin and formed a prison from its own body? Maybe it had been aware of another being inside it trying to take control; perhaps it didn’t want to die so that a new version of itself could be born. A while ago I mentioned this to a group of schoolkids and their heavily pregnant teacher complained afterwards, saying I’d upset them. Yet as far as I could tell, she was the only one who had cried. People are strange.
I smile at the boy and try to sound reassuring. ‘No, of course not. Don’t worry. They’re just grub-like little things. They can’t tell what’s happening to them.’
The man in the anorak grunts and my body tenses, but then I notice his eyes are no longer staring and he’s stopped touching his beard. His face is relaxed and he seems normal.
‘I think you’ll find that’s putting the process rather simply, and they aren’t grubs. They’re larvae,’ he says.
I feel my face redden but keep my smile in place, even when the girl shoots me a smug look as if she’s caught me out. ‘I didn’t call them grubs. I said they were grub-like.’ Remembering the customer is always right, I add, ‘But thank you for pointing it out, sir. Both caterpillars and grubs are insect larvae, but they come from different families.’
A figure walks through the hanging strips of plastic and my heart sinks. My boss would have to turn up when I have a difficult customer. As usual, he’s wearing shorts that are a size too small for him. I don’t have anything against the vertically challenged – I’m one of them – but his tiny shorts only accentuate the fact that his hairy legs are disproportionately small for his body. To make it worse, he walks at twice the normal speed, like a mechanical toy that’s been wound up too tight. Right now his face is bright red, telling me he’s one angry outburst away from firing someone or having a heart attack. Possibly both.
Thankfully, Anorak Man doesn’t push the grub issue so I carry on speaking. ‘We have more than fifty species of butterflies and moths here at the centre. You’ll have noticed that they have lots of different patterns on their wings. Butterflies have many predators, and their wings help to keep them alive. Some act as camouflage, making it harder for them to be seen. Others have brightly coloured wings that are designed to make them look poisonous and trick predators into leaving them alone.’
I glance up and see another figure walk through the door. This one is tall and well built and wearing shorts that fit. Tom. He flicks his floppy brown fringe from his eyes, a rueful smile on his face, and lopes along like he’s just won a prize he can’t be arsed to collect. Tom is Mr Neeson’s nephew, which means he’s safe from getting fired, unlike the rest of us, and he often saunters in late. With his crumpled uniform, he looks like he’s just rolled out of bed. And he probably has. Tom is a gamer and often boasts about his latest weaponry haul to the other staff, so I imagine he stays up at night killing people. We all need a hobby, I guess.
As he walks by, he crosses his eyes and sticks out his tongue and I suppress a smile. Tom’s favourite pastime at work is trying to put me off whenever I’m giving a talk to the public. Yesterday he left a plastic cockroach on top of the display case, which I calmly placed in my pocket before any of the visitors noticed. I’m surprised he didn’t think to put one in my lunchbox, which he still hasn’t given back after our little game of hiding things last week.
I got him back by filling his half-empty water bottle with salt. He took a gulp while giving a talk and nearly spat it out over everyone. The shock on his face made me laugh so hard I had to hide behind a banana-leaf palm and take calming breaths. Maybe Tom sent the guy in the anorak to freak me out? No. He’s not that devious, or that smart.
