The Furies. Katie Lowe
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She pulled a pin from her hair, and turned it around in her fingers, a thin, white smudge of clay on the edge of her hand. ‘The reality, of course, was rather different. Ms Boucher had been something of a scholar, though of course there were few opportunities for a young educated woman to use this knowledge at the time. She loved the Greek and Roman tragedies; adored folk myths, studying them with an almost anthropological eye. She read plays and poetry, devouring whatever she could get her hands on, and regularly journeyed to London to see performances by Shakespeare and Marlowe, and others since forgotten. She spent three months in Italy, touring Florence and Rome, completely alone, purely to see the great works of Michelangelo and the other great Renaissance painters.
‘So, as you can imagine, she was hardly inclined to teach her students the importance of correct cutlery placement.’ She gave a wry smile; bit her lip, as though catching herself unguarded. ‘Soon enough, the school had sixty pupils, then a hundred; mothers would send their daughters here clutching forged notices of their parents’ deaths, in the hope that they might have a better life than the one which seemed their fate.’
The clouds above shifted and the moonlight began moving from the east clock face to the north.
‘But in 1615, the fashion for witch finding reached the area. Women were dragged from their beds and burned at the stake, or thrown into the sea bound and weighted with stones. Neighbours betrayed one another for the witch finders’ gold. So-called moral society ran amok, with endless accusations made in bad faith. Heaven help the woman who is perceived imperfect, or of unusual character … So I am sure you can imagine the outcome for Ms Boucher, whose school by this point was a source of envy and bitterness among those who believed women should be seen, and not heard. She was accused of occult magic, of summoning demons from the earth and teaching her pupils the wicked arts of witchcraft, and thus sentenced to death.’
She picked up the mug again, and, finding it cooler, began to drink, the silence thick between us. ‘That’s awful,’ I said, finally, willing her to go on.
‘You just wait,’ Robin interjected.
Annabel 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 СКАЧАТЬ