The Furies. Katie Lowe
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shot her a warning look. ‘What we know, however, is that her accusers – for their numerous faults – were not entirely wrong, though naturally, they did not know it. At the time, accusations of witchcraft could be based on seemingly anything. She was simply unlucky. A local farmer said she’d cursed his crops, spirits trailing through the fields, uprooting them from the earth. It was his word against hers, and of course, his won out.
‘But Ms Boucher did, in fact, have a rather involved interest in the occult. She knew the myths, the ancient rituals, the Greek mysteries, and Celtic spells, primarily as a scholar – but such knowledge comes with certain temptations. Why simply read about it, when you can experience it for yourself? And so, she had been known, on rare occasions, to attempt these rituals. As she experimented with the arts, her interest became one of almost scientific curiosity. As far as we know, however, before the trial, she had not had much luck.
‘The lore, then, goes as follows. The night before her execution, she invited four of her students, all sixteen years old, for a final dinner in the tower. Right here, in fact, in this very room.’ I felt an involuntary shudder, and looked at Grace, who offered a weak smile, apparently having experienced the same flicker of the past.
‘They ate dinner, sipped wine, talked of their studies. It was as though nothing were out of the ordinary, but that Ms Boucher was to die the next day. And then, at nine o’clock, Ms Boucher performed a ritual, and summoned the Erinyes: the Furies of ancient myth. They stood before the trembling girls, dressed in black sable, tall and regal; their hair writhed with snakes and fire, their fingers dripping blood. In their eyes, it was possible to see the very depths of the human soul, the darkest imaginable desires reflected back into the mind of the observer, irrevocable and sickening.
‘“Erinyes,” she said, “take these girls’ souls in your hands, and help them to protect this place. They will be your conduit, your intention made flesh; they will destroy the corrupt and murder the wicked, oh goddesses, if you will give to them your gifts.” And the Erinyes did. The Furies joined hands, and reached for the girls, who reached, trembling, back, trusting their teacher completely– though they were, understandably, terrified of the ghouls that stood before them. If only I could gain the same respect from my students,’ she added, with a wry smile. The four of us laughed, a nervous flicker. Alex and Grace exchanged a glance, and Robin stared intently at Annabel, pencil hovering just above the page.
‘The next day, she died, burned at the stake in the centre of the Quad, where the wych elm now stands. But as the fire burned, onlookers swore they saw three figures surrounding her, protecting her from the flames. Most of the children had been sequestered in their rooms, so as to avoid the horror taking place on the grounds of their school. You must remember that this was the only home many of them had ever known and Ms Boucher had become their protector in the absence of their own mothers; the one who saved them from their intended fate.
‘But the four girls sat here, in the tower, and watched the burning. And they vowed, among themselves, to avenge the evils of men, the force of the Erinyes resting in their souls.’ She paused, and leaned slowly forwards, her eyes fixed on mine. She held my gaze until I looked away, and laughed, a soft, low sound. ‘That’s all myth, of course. But it does make a very good story. And the basic facts are true.’
I looked up. ‘Which facts?’
She smiled again, curling her fingers around a black pendant that hung around her neck. ‘That a society was founded the night before Ms Boucher’s execution. A society which continues to this day, and of which you four, now, are our newest members. I was a member, as was Alex’s mother; there are other names you would no doubt recognize, but as we keep each other’s secrets, I will not be providing you with a who’s who. The information reveals itself naturally, if required.’
‘And you do … magic.’
Annabel laughed. ‘Oh, heavens no. Some of our members do enjoy practising the old rites and rituals for fun, from time to time – but all that is simply our society’s mythology, a tale that makes the telling a little more fun.’ She folded her hands in her lap, nail imprinting knuckle. ‘What we do in this class, however, is discuss the history of the great women of art and literature, the joys of aesthetic experience – things forgotten these days, abandoned in the curriculum. We teach, essentially, the things Ms Boucher would have wanted, out of respect for her knowledge and love of learning.’
A dull pang of disappointment rose in my stomach, and settled. ‘Okay,’ I said. ‘But why us?’
Her eyes were pool-dark. ‘Why not you?’
‘I … I don’t know.’ I felt the other girls watching, the air suddenly close between us. After a seemingly interminable silence, Annabel shuffled in her seat, and pulled a book from the table beside her.
‘Shall we continue where we left off?’ she said, turning to the other girls. It was as though I weren’t there, and never had been. Robin gave me a sympathetic glance as she spread her book, and Annabel began to read. The clock’s black hands clicked onwards. ‘So the women had great power,’ I scratched aimlessly in my notebook, writing rote, unsure to which text, or to which women, she was referring, ‘but it came with quite a cost.’
It was that soft, still hour unique to autumn evenings, when the ember smell of bonfires mixes with the salty breath of the sea, and the leaves stop falling for a moment, as though afraid. Pylons stalked above the fields on tip-toe, the only sound our footsteps crunching leaves into the tarmac, damp from the brief shower that had rattled the clock faces while Annabel watched us leave.
At the foot of the stairs, Robin had lit a cigarette, and passed it to me. We stood under the arches, smoking in silence as we waited for the girls to follow, footsteps echoing faint circles far above. When they emerged at last, I followed the three of them down the long driveway, towards (I assumed) the bus stop. I paused to look at the faded timetable, and Robin turned back, brows arched in confusion.
‘Aren’t you coming?’ she said, glancing at Alex and Grace just behind.
‘Where?’ I said, feeling a swell of delight. Stay cool, I told myself, as though I knew what that meant.
‘Church,’ she replied, palms upturned like it was obvious.
So we had walked, through the empty fields, under the old bridge; hopped over railway tracks and badger setts underfoot. Into the woods, brambles snagging ankles and exposed wrists, creatures crawling overhead and rustling through the dead leaves. Robin led the way, whistling a song I felt I knew but couldn’t place, while Alex and Grace whispered, hands clasped tight.
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