The Professionals Circuit Archive - Witchery: A Tale of the Carbon Wars 
     Witchery: A Tale of the Carbon Wars

 

by Verlaine 

 
 *Written for the Discovered in Thirty Years Time challenge on the
discoveredinalj livejournal community*

 
The three of them came down the footpath from the ridge just before dusk:
the limping old one, ginger and cunning as a fox, the big dark warrior and
the green-eyed bard with the broken face.

 Ha!

 It's funny, how quickly we've gone back to the old archetypes. Wouldn't
have believed it, back in the days when this was called Cool Britannia and
people ate more curry than fish and chips. Back then, if you'd asked
anyone, the old days were gone and good riddance; the newest in
everything, from mobiles to clothes to banking, was coming from us. We
were the future. No time for the beliefs of our ancestors, or even the
language.

 Of course, that was before the water rose. And the carbon wars.

 Today, it wouldn't be a surprise to see Robin Goodfellow in the glen and
fairies at the bottom of the garden.

 And speaking of...

 I opened the cottage door as they came up the path, the two younger ones
slowing for the old man, though they didn't quite have the nerve to offer
him a supporting arm. As they got closer, I could see the signs of
fighting on all of them, and bone deep weariness as well.

 "Good evening, madam," the old man said in a strongly accented voice,
Scots if I remembered rightly. It'd been a long time since I'd heard any
voice that didn't come from within a day's walk. "My name is George
Cowley. These are my men, Bodie and Doyle. We're with the Young
Lieutenant's forces, and got separated during a skirmish."

 "Greetings, George Cowley." I didn't tell him my name; to those who
believe it, names have power, and since I didn't know him I wasn't ready
to hand over any of mine. He didn't smell of the old ways, but then, I've
never claimed to be a true witch either. Nevertheless, hospitality has its
obligations, even in these times. "Enter in peace, be welcome in spirit."

 I took the rowan branch that hangs by the door and passed it over each of
them as they entered. I didn't feel anything--as I said, I've never
claimed to be a witch--but they didn't know that. More than one person's
given themselves away at just the sight of it.

 I got them settled at the kitchen table and pumped some water up from the
well. Fresh running water into three silver cups, a sprinkle of salt, just
a few grains in each before I handed them over.

 Doyle, the green-eyed one, lifted his cup, touched it to his breast and
forehead. "Well-met to those within these walls," he said, and drank.
Cowley and Bodie hesitated, then did so as well. I could tell the old man
didn't believe, but would do what was expedient, and Bodie, well, he'd do
what he had to not to look a yob in front of his commander. No matter.
Sometimes it's *not* the thought that counts.

 With ritual out of the way, I stoked the fire, put the kettle on and got
some food from the larder. As I cut rabbit and leek pie and sliced bread
and cheese, I watched them, and didn't try to be subtle about it either.

 Doyle leaned over Cowley, asking him something quietly, and the old man
nodded and waved him off impatiently. "I'm alright, lad. Nothing a year of
rest and a drop of malt wouldn't cure, and there's neither to be had. See
to Bodie."

 Bodie was already stripping out of his jacket, showing a torn shirt tacky
with blood on the right side. No wonder he looked grim as death. That had
to hurt, but he'd never made a sound.

 Without being asked, I poured some of the warming water from the kettle
into two bowls and fetched clean cloths and my herbal bag.

 "Here." I opened my bag, and began to search for what I needed. As I
reached over the second bowl, Doyle's arm shot out, his hand intercepting
the sprinkle of powder.

 "Your pardon, wise lady." His voice was polite, but his eyes hard. I had
to smile inside.

 "The fault is mine," I said just as graciously. "I'm a stranger to you."
Carefully, I brought out my herb pouches and laid them on the table. "This
is willow bark, for fever and pain. This is boneset, for quick healing,
and rosebay willowherb, which will soothe and comfort." When Doyle nodded,
I added a spoonful of each to the water.

 "Wash him carefully with plain water, then soak a cloth in the herbs to
make a warm compress. Once that's had a chance to work, I'll put on some
antiseptic cream and strap him up."

 "You believe in antiseptic?" Bodie's voice was light with scorn.

 "I believe in what works." I smiled at him with a great many teeth. "Be
thankful I don't believe you need a good strong dose of salts."

 "You've a doctor in this area?" Cowley asked, interested.

 I shook my head. "The chemist in the village and I are the closest thing
to medicine there is around here. Luckily, we get on very well." I didn't
mention that Murphy'd been courting me for the last two years, and that
I'd been more and more hard pressed to find reasons to say no.

 Doyle tended to Bodie's wound while I made tea. It's not what used to be
called tea, of course: I'm willing to bet true *Thea sinensis* plants are
scarce as hen's teeth anywhere these days. The Second Carbon War went
chemical and biological pretty quickly, and from what the wireflush
managed to bring back before everything went off the air, most of
Southeast Asia was scoured bare within days.

 I've heard, though I can't say for sure, that in London a pound of real
tea will sell for its weight in sewing needles, or a visit to a real
dentist with proper equipment, or a whole day on a working computer. The
rest of us drink peppermint or horehound and like it.

 London. I put my hand to the water pump with a little more force than
necessary. I knew that what I remembered of London, half Camelot and half
EuroDisney, had to be a child's fantasy, piled on with years of nostalgia.
Even back then, I knew large parts of the place were a rat hole. But
still--

 I was just a kid when my parents left London and moved down here. 2014,
that was, the year of the First Carbon War, between the Yanks and China. I
hated it here, of course: out in the country, miles from anywhere, no
electricity except what dad got from the windmill, no television or phone
or computer. Not even a car: we rode our bikes into the village, or caught
the bus down on the B road if we needed to go further. Dad explained that
the carbon war meant things were getting very bad with the environment,
and we had to be prepared to fend for ourselves.

 "If we wait until it all goes to hell like everybody else is," I remember
him saying, "we'll get caught up in the panic and we won't make it."

 He was right, but try telling that to a ten-year-old girl who was used to
texting her friends a hundred times a day, and watching holodef television
downloads on her iSight.

 We had no idea how right.

 A hand suddenly covered mine on the pump handle. Pulled out of the past,
I jerked a little, and almost lost my hold on the bucket.

 "Why not let me do that?" Doyle said, easily grasping the bucket as well.
"Least I can do for your hospitality."

 I watched him a moment as he pumped. Not handsome, not with that round
face; he might have been pretty once, before the smashed-in cheekbone.
Twenty years ago, maybe even ten, that could have been fixed, I thought
bleakly, and for a moment all my herbs and knowledge seemed like nothing
but superstition and moonshine.

 Then he swung up the bucket and smiled at me, and suddenly he didn't need
to be handsome at all.

 While the men ate, we exchanged news.

 There had been, to my surprise, a sixth carbon war, this one in South
America.

 "I didn't even know there'd been a fifth," I said, counting back on my
fingers.

 "Yeah, fifth was in Nigeria," Bodie said, shoveling in cold pie. "I did
some merc work there. Got paid a packet, too. Only problem was--"

 "I didn't have a tanker to bring it back in!" Doyle finished in chorus
with him. Cowley rolled his eyes, obviously at a joke he'd heard far too
often, but Doyle cackled out loud and Bodie beamed with satisfaction.

 "Well, that should pretty well finish it, shouldn't it? There can't be
too many places left in the world that *have* oil."

 England didn't get hit until the Third Carbon War, and by then the fight
was about keeping the oil in the ground, rather than trying to get hold of
it and use it. The Norwegians were smart; they shut down their platforms
and stopped pumping as soon as the water started to rise. We, stubborn to
the end, kept on trying to fit the square peg of carbon accumulation into
the round hole of survival until the rest of the EU chopped it into
kindling for us.

 Cowley also told me that it looked as if the water had finally stopped
rising in London.

 "Yeah, you could scuba dive in the Houses of Parliament if you were so
inclined," Doyle said.

 "Now there's an idea, mate!" Bodie said triumphantly. "A job once we
muster out. Historical underwater adventure tours. Visit Buck House,
Trafalgar Square, the National Gallery. Luncheon included, gratuities
extra."

 Cowley shook his head. "The Young Lieutenant would not be pleased if your
retirement plans include tours of his ancestral home." His voice was
chiding but there was fondness in his eyes as he looked at them.

 More to both of them than met the eye then, I decided, if someone like
Cowley was willing to put up with their nonsense.

 The Young Lieutenant was the only member of the royal family still in
England, as far as anyone knew. The Old Queen had stayed as well, not that
that was a surprise: the poor old cow never turned her back on a duty in
her life. Even when all she could do was watch as the water rose, and make
speeches urging people to stay calm and behave responsibly, she did it,
right to the end.

 It was the Young Lieutenant who rallied what was left of the police and
the army into a protection force. It was a constant struggle--the men
sitting battered and worn at my kitchen table were proof of that--but in
large areas of the country people could feel at least marginally safe from
looters and gangsters. Of course, the fact that his men hung looters and
gangsters on the spot didn't hurt either; sooner or later, we were bound
to run out of them.

 "How's the lieutenant doing?" I asked, wondering what an old fox like
Cowley would make of being commanded by an aristolad in his twenties.

 Cowley considered the question as seriously as if it had come from a
cabinet minister (I think I remember what those were from the old days).
"He's the kind whose mettle doesn't show until the fire tempers it," he
said at last.

 "Some fall to the occasion, and some rise to it," I said, and decided
that next full moon, I'd pull out all the stops on a decent warding sign
for the boy.

 The news I had to share sounded more trivial, but I noticed Cowley
writing down every word in a small notebook.

 Such as: Going by the records I had, back from when the old farmer still
lived in this place, the growing season was now thirteen days longer than
it used to be.

 "In the last five years, we've had three without any killing frost at
all. If there's still anybody left who deals with those sorts of things,
somebody needs to start watching out for hoof-and-mouth and anthrax. Not
to mention rusts, blights, moulds, and heaven only knows what else. My
neighbours are seeing some strange things in their fields. It's hard to
tell whether some of these diseases have just spread up from southern
regions, or if they're mutations on what we already had here."

 "How are people coping?" Doyle asked as he poured more tea. "Food
supplies holding out okay round here?"

 I nodded. "We're pretty well all back to being what my dad called
subsistence farmers, but we manage. There's a market down in Oakdean, and
we trade as best we can. And you'd be surprised what skills people can
come up with when they need to. We've even got an old gaffer who actually
apprenticed as a blacksmith when he was young, and he's got a couple of
lads in training."

 "Anything the government could do for you?" Cowley had his pencil at the
ready.

 I laughed. "Stay as far away as possible. The last thing we need is some
oddjob coming down here to take taxes we can't afford for promises they
can't keep."

 "What about protection?" Cowley demanded.

 "*I* never have any trouble," I replied blandly, and looked pointedly
across at my rowan branch.

 Cowley nodded, and put away the notebook with a snap. He suddenly looked
very tired, and I rose to clear away the table, and set the kettle on
again.

 "Given your view on the government, I suppose you'll have no use for an
official reimbursement chit?"

 It was right there, the difference between the old ways and the older
ways, though he couldn't see it, of course. By his reasoning, he'd done
the honourable thing by offering to pay for what he and his men had
received. By my reasoning, it was an insult to trade silver for my food
and fire.

 Which was why I didn't keep my fool mouth shut.

 "No," I said, when I was sure my voice would stay steady, "your city
paper's no good here. But if you're willing to offer payment, then I claim
this: your man Doyle in my bed tonight."

 Cowley turned bright red, and shook his head. "I'll nay order him to
that."

 Bodie had leaned back in his chair, fingers laced behind his head, a
broad smirk on his face. "Lucky Raymond. Under fifty, warm and comes
across--"

 "Shut it, Bodie!" Doyle snarled.

 The smirk on Bodie's face grew even broader, but there was something in
the way his eyes skimmed over me that spoke of anger, pain, loss.

 *So that's the way the wind blows, is it?* I thought. *Well, we'll see.*

 "Wise lady," Doyle said with a rueful smile, "you're not getting the best
of the bargain. This," he flicked a finger over his broken cheek, "isn't
the only thing that's bent on me. And good or bad, I'll be gone in the
morning."

 "Did I say otherwise?" I retorted. "That wasn't a marriage proposal, you
know. Tonight, and tonight only. You're clean, you're decent and I've seen
smaller scars worn with less grace."

 "Then in thanks for our shelter, and you tending Bodie," *oh, yes, the
wind is definitely blowing!* "it will be my honour." He stood up and made
an awkward little bow.

 Bodie snorted, and I made a silent resolve to find something strong and
emetic for his morning tea.

 I put out mats and blankets for Cowley and Bodie by the fire. Before I
led Doyle up the stairs, I went back to the kitchen and poured two small
glasses of elderflower wine. Into Doyle's, I put a leaf of heart's-ease
and some angelica flower. In my own--oh, what do you think I gave myself?
A pinch of mandrake root, and a drop of the green distillate of
womb-flower that I brew in season. I've never claimed to be a witch, but I
needed all the help I could get.

 We sipped the wine while I helped him undress. He was lithe and wiry, not
that most of us have any choice these days, what with food rationing in
the towns and those of us in the country relying on ourselves as best we
can. Still, he had beautiful arms and shoulders, lean and all muscle. I
thought I knew what he'd meant earlier when his shirt came off, and I saw
the terrible mass of scars on his chest and back.

 Took some bullets in an ambush, he said almost indifferently when I
asked. Lucky they were home-loaded and underpowered or he'd have been
dead.

 I reminded myself to pack some boneset salve for him in the morning. Too
late to do anything about the scars, but it would soften the underlying
keloids and make it easier for him to bear the cold and damp.

 He was a good lover. Gentle and considerate, a bit playful as well, and
that's something I'd had little enough of. Most of the men I'd had treated
me either like their dowager auntie or as if I'd grow teeth in the wrong
place if they weren't careful.

 Having him inside me was a pleasure, but even at the height of it, I knew
there was a part of him that was somewhere else, and I had a damn good
idea where, too. If I'd been younger, I might have started to cry and
pushed him away, but I swallowed it down. I'd asked for nothing but this;
more fool me if I valued myself higher.

 Coming was a relief for both of us, but I felt his grief, and on the
heels of it, something else in me that was both heartache and joy.

 Ah, well, that's what mandrake does for you.

 He pushed himself up and looked down at me blindly.

 "Bodie?"

 I used a voice that was not my own to say, "Right here, angelfish," and
he dropped down on top of me like a sack of potatoes.

 I held him then, and rocked him very gently, and he talked about Bodie in
disjointed little snatches, sometimes only murmured words. How brave, how
beautiful, how lucky to have such a good friend and companion, what a fool
he was to want more.

 Eventually, he fell asleep, and I lay there holding him while the
moonlight moved from one side of the bed to the other and then died away
to the darkness before dawn. In those hours, I finally made up my mind.
The next time Murphy came courting, I would say yes, and if our first
child was a green-eyed, bard-touched boy, well, Murphy knew me well enough
to have no illusions.

 When the first of the dawn chorus trilled at the window, I eased myself
out of bed and tiptoed down the stairs. Cowley was still asleep, but
Bodie's eyes followed me as I made my way through to the kitchen. I didn't
even try to tell myself that I'd come down those stairs naked through
forgetfulness.

 I stood out on the grass, shivering from the dew on my feet, looking out
over the garden, with its neat little patches of herbs and vegetables,
fruit bushes and trees, the chicken coop and rabbit hutch down by the
compost bin. A rich place, these days, when wealth was measured by whether
or not you had enough food and fuel to see you through the winter. If I'd
chosen to, I could have done better than Murphy the chemist.

 But not Doyle. Rich this place might be, and peaceful, but not for him.
He'd wither here, a crop abandoned on the branch instead of allowed to
ripen to its full potential.

 Not for me.

 Feeling a bit ashamed, I went back into the cottage through the front
entrance to avoid any further looks, and got dressed.

 I was stoking the stove and pulling out bacon to slice when Bodie went
through the kitchen without a look in my direction, heading for the privy.
On a sudden impulse, I grabbed up my rowan branch and went after him.

 I waited until he was coming back, and stepped in front of him so quickly
he couldn't avoid me. Fast and deadly, reflexes trained in battle to a
razor's edge, but I had the advantage of surprise and used it. I touched
the rowan to his forehead, his lips, and his heart.

 "See what is true, feel what is true, say what is true!" I commanded, and
held the rowan out between us.

 He froze, stock still, and oh, those blue eyes burned at me! If looks
could kill, I'd have been dead in the dew.

 "Tell me!"

 His mouth worked, but he made no sound. I was impressed: not many have
the sheer strength of character to resist a speaking challenge.

 "Tell me about Doyle!" I put some snap into that, the way I might with a
kid who wouldn't take a worming dose.

 He tried to hold it back, but in the end it burst out of him.

 "Mine!"

 "Why?"

 He lowered his head, shook it back and forth miserably.

 I gentled my tone. "Bodie, why?"

 "I love him!"

 "Well, then." I dusted my hands. "Truth spoken, truth heard. Life's
easier when you don't lie to yourself, you know."

 I don't take what I can do for granted, but if I've a fault, it's that
I'm used to having my knowledge respected. Power and carelessness do *not*
mix well. I was too confident too quickly, and to my shock Bodie suddenly
lurched forward and grabbed the rowan out of my hand. He flung it behind
him, and I heard a sharp crack of breaking wood. Suddenly I was nothing
but a woman, with an angry man's hand around her throat.

 "What have you done to us?" he snarled.

 "Nothing," I said, trying desperately to keep my voice level. "Nothing
but open your eyes."

 "And Doyle's?"

 "Did not need opening." I managed to squirm one hand free and rested it
on his chest. His heart was beating as fast as a bird's, and I could see
that he was as much frightened as angry. "I've taken nothing from either
of you, and made nothing that wasn't there already."

 "So what was last night about?" he asked.

 Lies are never a good idea. They tend to rebound when you least expect
them to, and synchronicity seems to ensure it's always in the worst
possible way for the liar. Still, I thought a small obfuscation would do
no harm.

 "You're injured. Another night, I might have chosen you, or even Cowley."

 "Luck of the draw," he said, and there was both relief and revulsion in
his voice.

 *Don't like my morals, Bodie?* I thought. *Too damn bad.*

 He shook his head again. "What do I do?" He sounded suddenly like a lost
little boy.

 Feeling braver, now that I apparently wasn't going to get my neck broken,
I took a step back, straightened my shirt and folded my arms.

 "Do you need me to tell you that?"

 He straightened, all dark control again. "No." He hesitated. "If you're
wrong--"

 I hadn't survived this long by being faint-hearted. "I'm not."

 He brushed by me without another word and slammed into the kitchen. I
waited until my knees stopped shaking, then walked over to the wall and
picked up the pieces of my rowan. If this were a story, it would be lying
there covered in blossoms, or I would pick up the pieces and meld them
back together, new-forged and stronger than ever. Instead, I took up the
splintered pieces of what was now just a stick and tossed them on the
kindling pile.

 It's a good thing I paused a moment before I went back through the
kitchen door myself. Doyle had Bodie pinned against the pantry door and
was kissing him like a man starved. They were grabbing and groping each
other hard enough to leave bruises, I was sure, and I hoped that they were
at least being quiet enough not to bring Cowley out in a rage before
breakfast.

 I went down to the chicken coop and gathered some eggs, and when I came
back, I made sure to sing at the top of my voice as I approached the
kitchen.

 After breakfast, I bandaged Bodie's side again, handed over a packet of
various salves and powders, and sent them on their way.

 "Follow the footpath down to the Westphale crossroad, and from there take
the fork to Oakdean. There's a little pub there, the Spade and Becket. The
owner brews what I'm told is a decent beer. If the Young Lieutenant's
waiting anywhere, it'll be there."

 Bodie and Doyle said goodbye, and thanked me, and then hustled off down
the footpath, shoving and laughing like two escaped schoolboys.

 Cowley looked after them, and then back at me. "How much of this is your
doing?" he asked in a faintly accusing tone.

 "I created nothing," I said serenely. "If they finally chose to open
their eyes, I'm not to blame."

 After all, I'm not a witch.

 These days news travels slowly through the villages and dales. It was
only three days later that I heard that, yes, the Young Lieutenant and his
people had stopped at the Spade and Becket, and left when three of their
own had come back to them.

 The next day, I was digging in the herb garden when the gate creaked and
long footsteps came up the path.

 Murphy.

 For the first time, there was true lightness in my heart to see him, true
warmth in my welcome as I rose to greet him.

 "Well met, Charlie Murphy. Well met and welcome!"

 The smile on his face was all I could have wished to see.

 "Well met!" said my future husband. "Well met, Anne Holly."

 -- THE END --

 *March 2008*

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