‘No, I’m just getting my bearings. I think it’s this way.’ She pointed.
‘Ah, visiting Tamara?’
‘How did you know?’
‘It’s the only reason anyone comes to Willow,’ he said, matter-of-fact.
‘Oh. I suppose it is, yes.’
‘She’s a descendant of The Lansin Island Witches, you know? The ones who were burnt alive. More rightly, a descendant of
some
of them, you see.’ He shook his head in acknowledgement of the wrong committed on Lansin Island all those years ago.
‘Yes. I read that on the internet.’
‘The internet!’ He snorted. ‘I can’t get my head around this technology.’ He rambled for a while about people’s privacy and how technology would someday bring the end for us all, and Juliet nodded along. There was no point being rude.
‘Yes, I know. It’s terrible,’ she offered. Personally, she loved the internet; it was her favourite way to shop. But she couldn’t expect everyone to have the same opinion.
‘Anyway, I’m holding you up aren’t I? You be sure to tell Tamara I said hello.’ He smiled a pleasant but rotten-toothed smile. ‘My name’s Peter. She’ll know who you mean.’ He turned and waved.
It was that time of year where the white willow tree had lost some of its leaves. Almost thirty metres tall, it was in the centre of the hamlet and appeared enormous compared to the cottages.
The day was cold and the wind nipped at Juliet’s face, but she wanted to read the plaque in front of her:
Legend tells of a Willow tree here in the centre of the hamlet. In the 16
th
century, the tree was abnormally tall and lived an impossibly long life. It is said that The Lansin Island Witches worshipped the tree, extending its life and causing it to grow over fifty metres in height. After the horrific witch-burnings on the island, the story tells of the willow tree withering and dying. No evidence has been found to prove or disprove the tale, but this willow tree has been planted in memory of the legend, and in memory of the innocent people who were burnt alive.
Juliet had never cared much for the history of Lansin Island. But, with the phenomena she’d been experiencing, she contemplated if the legend could have been real; after all, stranger things had happened the past few days than an oversized tree living a long life.
It began to rain steady drops, so she made a move, ducking her face away from the rainfall.
Tamara’s house, to the left, two doors down, looked like the oldest cottage around. It was fairly small, but the roof appeared newly re-thatched. Plant pots were dotted about and vines neatly climbed up the sides of the building. The cottage looked loved.
With only two minutes until her start time, she knocked on the door and hoped she wasn’t disturbing an appointment already in action.
The door opened slowly.
‘Hello, hello. You must be Juliet Maystone. Please come in.’
‘Hello. Yes, that’s me,’ she confirmed as Tamara directed her inside.
‘I’m Tamara. It’s wonderful to meet you. Come take a seat.’
The room they were in had a low ceiling, wooden furniture, and a floral rug in the centre. The rug seemed old, not tatty, but the design was outdated. Juliet thought of the word ‘hovel’ as she gazed about herself, though the room wasn’t unpleasant in the slightest, just small and confined.
An open fireplace was to the far side, lit, and warmly clothing the living area. Although it was cosy enough for Juliet’s standards, she could imagine the entire place going up in flames, with its thatched roof and all.
‘I just bumped into … Peter? He said hello and that you’d know him.’
‘Peter’s a conspiracy nut. He didn’t ramble in your ear for too long, did he?’ Tamara asked.
‘No, just a little.’
Juliet sat down across from Tamara after being offered a hot drink but kindly refusing. She noticed a large chest in the corner of the room, intricately detailed with a pattern of flowers and leaves, and next to it was a broom.
An image of Tamara flying on the broomstick popped into Juliet’s head, but she quickly batted away the fantasy, condemning herself for being so childish and for getting into this situation in the first place.
‘So why did you come today?’ asked Tamara. ‘You didn’t give any information when you booked. I haven’t prepared like I usually would.’
‘Sorry. I didn’t know how to say it over the phone, and I’m not sure what you can do to help.’ After a pause, she added, ‘I’ve never done anything like this before.’
For the first time, she noticed what Tamara was wearing. The medium had on a dark purple robe that covered her whole body. It didn’t look as ridiculous as Juliet would have expected, but it did clash hideously with her orange hair.
Tamara asked, ‘Do you believe I can help you?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘You don’t seem to know a lot.’
‘I know a week ago I wouldn’t even have
thought
of coming here,’ she replied, sounding more curt than intended.
‘Do you not believe in the work I do then?’ Tamara’s voice was raw like a sound from the earth itself, grindingly natural.
‘Not really … no.’ She winced. None of this matched her frame of reference.
‘Please leave then. I can’t help you.’ Tamara glided to the front door and held it open. Juliet rose proudly to leave but as she reached the exit she expelled a heavy breath and began to cry.
‘Are you okay?’ The medium closed the door and turned to her guest.
‘This isn’t like me. I never cry like this. It’s not that I don’t believe in the work you do. It’s just that I’ve never experienced anything like this before. I’ve had a horrible week, seeing things that aren’t really there, that aren’t possible. I need your help … please.’
‘How do you know these things aren’t actually there?’
‘I don’t know, but strange things keep happening and I want it to stop,’ she said, frustrated, and hoping to avoid more cryptic responses.
‘Come sit back down and you can tell me the whole story. But first, let me tell you a little about me.’
They sat at opposite sides of the room facing each other, and the fire glowed behind Tamara, silhouetting her body.
Juliet used her gloved hands to dab her tears. She quickly recomposed herself and pushed her blonde hair out of her eyes.
Tamara’s eyebrows squeezed together as she looked down at the floor and rubbed her hands together awkwardly. Then she peered about herself in an eerie manner, as if she was seeing through the walls and viewing the entire hamlet in one sweep.
‘Do you know the history of this island?’ she asked.
‘I know what I learnt at school. It’s impossible not to know anything about it when you live here.’
‘Yes, but do you know the
real
history?’
‘Is what I learnt at school not the real history?’ Her eyebrows lifted.
‘Of course it’s not. I know the truth about my ancestors.’ Tamara’s voice compressed with a serrated sound. ‘I’m the only living descendant left. My sister died ten years ago, and I have no other family.’
‘I’m sorry to hear that.’
‘Do you know what the witches were capable of, my ancestors who lived here before they were burnt? They were powerful. They worshipped a willow tree in the centre of this hamlet and it flourished with their magic. They helped crops grow, they controlled the weather, they healed the sick and the wounded,’ frantically, she picked up pace, ‘they communed with the dead, they communed with the animals, they spiritually travelled between this world and the Otherworld. You come here, and you say you don’t believe in the work I do, in the gifts that have been passed down to me in my blood, the gifts that I’ve practiced with my whole life. You can’t be helped, if you don’t believe.’
‘I believe you know your … trade.’ Juliet said, instantly regretting her choice of words.
‘But you don’t believe the history of my ancestors, the
real
history of Lansin Island?’
‘It’s just not the history we were taught.’
‘You were taught wrong.’
Juliet ignored the medium for a moment and thought about the history she’d learnt at school. She’d never liked history; it had no practical use in her mind so she paid little attention. But she would have to walk around covering her eyes and ears her whole life to not know about the witch burnings. It was the tourist attraction on the island: The Burning Grounds, the nearly five-hundred-year-old weathered courtyard of stone platforms.
From what she remembered, in 1542, King Henry VIII introduced a Witchcraft Act declaring it a crime punishable by death to practice witchcraft. That included sorcery, enchantments, conjuring sprites, or invoking any spells that could manipulate others, cause harm, or be used for acquiring money. The population of Lansin Island at that time was roughly eight hundred people … but Juliet didn’t like to think about the rest of the story. One reason she didn’t pay attention in the lessons was because it frightened her at that age, knowing what happened in the centre of the island.
When the islanders heard of the Witchcraft Act, paranoia spread and a group of women in Willow were accused of casting spells to destroy crops and livestock. They supposedly sacrificed animals and engaged in devil worship and orgies. The women of Willow, many other females, and a few men across the island were rounded up: a total of one hundred and forty-three. Over the course of five days they were burnt alive, thirty at a time, before it was put to a stop.
There were no trials. The island people took it into their own hands, using cattle to bring rock from the hills to build platforms: each made circular with a hole in the middle to support the stake, and each wide enough to tie the witch and pile wood and hay around the victim. Wooden platforms would have sufficed, but in their hate and paranoia they built thirty platforms of stone, maybe expecting an on-going witch crisis. Stone would endure. And
had
endured; right to this day. As far as Juliet could remember, it was the worst case of witch burnings recorded in the history of Britain, maybe even Europe.
To try to get the appointment back on track, Juliet smiled and said, ‘Maybe we were taught wrong then. I’ll have to think more about it in my own time.’
‘You will.’ Tamara was frank in tone.
‘So, are you a Wiccan? Or … erm, a different type of … Pagan, is it? I don’t mean to be ignorant. I’m only asking out of curiosity.’
‘No, I’m not religious. There’s no magic in religion.’
That’s a bit harsh,
was Juliet’s initial thought, but she kind of agreed, not being religious herself.
‘Okay. But don’t Wiccans practice the sort of things you do?’ She didn’t want to say aloud the type of ‘things’ she meant.
‘I’m a witch. Witches practice witchcraft; we use magic. Some witches follow a religion, or they are on spiritual journeys, or both, or whatever they want to tell you. I don’t agree with their ways. Magic shouldn’t be doused by all that nonsense.’ The medium came across ardent in her opinion. Her final sentence had an impatient tone to it, like the way a master annoyed at an apprentice who incessantly failed would sound, having to tell them what to do again and
again
.
‘Why do you call yourself a medium, or a psychic, or a clair ...?’ Juliet stopped, unable to recall the word.
‘A clairvoyant? They are some skills of mine that are listed on my website. Most people feel more comfortable calling me a medium rather than a witch.’
‘That’s understandable. I’m sorry to ask so many questions, but what is a Pagan then?’
‘Pagans follow an earth-based religion, like the people of the Wiccan faith for example, but there are many other Pagan religions besides Wicca.’
‘Okay, I think I’ve grasped it. Thank you for that.’ Juliet nodded to show her appreciation.
‘Now, tell me your story. Tell me why you’re here.’
She started at the beginning, the incident in Amiton upper grounds when the car almost hit her, and then covered the impossible things she’d seen over the past few days. She told what happened in the kitchen, where she thought she heard something say ‘Help me.’
As she shared the story, she tried to place Tamara’s age. Her face looked proud and smooth, the way she moved was sprightly, and her hair was a vivid orange colour; but she came across as someone in her late sixties. Juliet couldn’t tell what gave away her years, but something did.
Once the story was told, Tamara remained still for a while. She seemed to be in deep thought, her eyes aimed at her lap. Looking up sharply, she said, ‘I think I know what’s happening to you. Give me your hands please.’
Juliet took off her gloves and placed them down. She stretched out her hands towards Tamara who took them slowly into her own. Tamara used one hand to scan over Juliet’s palms, as if trying to sense the heat they radiated.
Thoughts were definitely going through the medium’s mind. She raised one hand to Juliet’s face, and with the same movements she scanned it as if her hand were a metal detector searching for treasure inside of Juliet’s head.
‘You’re different,’ said Tamara. ‘I don’t know what you are, but you’re different.’
Juliet laughed, hard and loud. This was just too rich. ‘I’m not paying for you to put on a show. I thought you could help me.’ She moved back to her seat and put her gloves back on.
‘It’s not a show. No one like you has ever come to me before.’
‘What do you mean
like me
?’ she asked, annoyed at being foolish enough to believe this woman could help.
‘What did you feel when the car almost hit you?’
Juliet paused, remembering what she’d felt.
I went over the edge. I felt myself die
. It had been so vivid, but then she’d opened her eyes to the dark-haired guy holding her.
‘What does it matter?’ she asked.
‘You felt something, didn’t you?’
‘I felt the car hit me. I saw myself fall and die. But here I am. Not dead. I obviously imagined it. So what does it matter?’ Impatient to leave, she spoke abruptly.
‘You were meant to die.’
‘What?’
‘You were meant to die, Juliet, and in fact … you kind of did die.’ Tamara’s tone was serious, so much so that Juliet found herself considering the crazy notion. She recalled the bus journey after the incident, how she’d felt disconnected, like she was there but also somewhere else.