A story from The Witch Cord

Private Teddy Francis, 47th regiment, was the first to be fixed. The fighting had taken its share of young men along the Black Sea but Teddy Francis was, thankfully or otherwise, not among its number. The price extracted from him was sorely given nonetheless. His right leg had been mostly severed mid-thigh and an attempt was made to pull it together using the thickest of threads. When this failed, the surgeon had no choice but to call for the bone saw. Throughout the ordeal, Teddy Francis emptied his chest of screams before giving in to unconsciousness sometime around dusk.

When he woke, Teddy Francis did so to a mended leg. It was slightly burned from the flesh fire it had been tossed on to hours before but no less the worse for that. The surgeon inspected the mend and found a neat line of stitches and knots – like a dry, red river.

Nobody on shift that night had seen or heard a thing, save perhaps the whisper of metal on metal like a knife being sharpened or scissors slicing. Schwp, schwp, one nurse said. Schwp, schwp.

Whether he slept through the night or whether we saw the whole thing, Teddy Francis would never say for that was not the extent of the stitching to be found on his body.

One more set of stitches, tiny, neat and unnoticed at first, were found. Scissors were called for. Schwp, schwp they went as they cut away a single kiss of thread binding his mouth closed. The tiny knot keeping the X in place was easily cut away, yet for all his trying Teddy Francis could no longer speak.

Bring paper, the officers called. And paper was brought. Teddy Francis held the pen but could not write and two more stitch kisses were found in the palms of his hands.

Catherine Fellmore, who was not one of the nurses on duty that night, bit her nails and began to talk. She made little sense, talking of knots and threads and officers soon told her to hold her tongue and do her duty. So Catherine Fellmore knotted her fingers into her uniform and went about her rounds.

Schwp. Schwp.

The next night, three beds down from where Teddy Francis lay sleeping, Snarly Bill Fulton thrashed about something rotten. His wooden bed became a shipwreck in a storm, creaking as he threw his heavy body this way and that. Nurses came running and the man was calmed, a surprising thing to have to do considering he had died hours before. His body hadn’t been moved for want of orderlies to do the job but blood stained sheets gave testament to his final pain.

Three stitch kisses, finished with a knot, kept Snarly Fulton from growling out the who and why of his remarkable recovery. Two on the hands and one on the smacker. Fulton was a ladies man, or so they said. But none would be wanting to kiss those scarred lips again, that’s for sure.

The surgeon was called for again but could find no reason for this latest recovery. The good doctor said they should just give thanks to God and turn their attention to the rest of the wounded who were flowing in their hundreds from Home Hill that day.

Catherine Fellmore said nothing as she went about changing the bed sheets and giving Fulton a rough bed bath. Fulton sat dumb as a pillow as she scoured his face with almost clean water.

Schwp. Schwp.

Captain James Stinton was not a nice man. Not even his friends would say he was. Maybe not even his mother. He went to the Crimean with a mean streak in his chest and none of those who waved him off were of a mind to see him again.

Before the inexplicable fixing of Teddy Francis and Snarly Bill Fulton, James Stinton had been wounded by a Russian dagger. It was easily fixed by a nurse with a steady hand and a neat thread. Stinton took a shine to her, though she was not interested in the slightest. Said she had a fella back home who’d probably be called up soon. The captain grinned his grin and Nellie Trimle said no more as she finished his stitch with a small, neat knot.

Lancashire’s a long way off, Stinton told her. He grinned that grin of his to friends who stood by as Nelle Trimle snipped her thread with a schwp schwp. Come on Snarly, said Stinton as he buttoned his jacket. Come on Teddy. We’ve men’s work to be doing. Maybe Nellie will join us later. But Nellie worked nights and said she wanted nothing more than to sleep when she could.

That was then. Before the fixing began.

Afterwards, with rumour and fear spreading through the camp, James Stinton received a second wound. A bullet cut though his face like he was a cauliflower in a Sunday dinner and he fell into the mud. His friends, lying with stitch kisses on their lips, weren’t there to catch him.

Nellie Trimle wasn’t around either. She hadn’t been on duty when Francis and Fulton were brought in. Catherine Fellmore had tried to report her missing but there were too many people missing in that war. One quiet nurse was not likely to be missed. Not even one whose neat stitches and tiny knots had helped so many of the wounded in her few short months with the regiment.

When Catherine Fellmore saw the Captain stretchered in that day, with his face half on, she knew. She knew what one soldier plus one soldier plus one soldier added up to. She’d seen the three of them talking – back when they could still talk – to Nellie Trimle after her shift that morning. She’d seen Stinton and Fulton bar her way in the morning fog, which was thick with gun smoke and the cries of men. Then she’d seen Teddy Francis looking about like they were all deep behind enemy lines.

Catherine Fellmore had hurried to her shift without saying a word.

So when she saw the Captain lying wounded in her unit she’d said I’ll take this one. It’s time you went, said her superior. Get some rest. It’s no trouble, said Catherine. I’ll stay.

Then she sat beside the Captain’s bed and watched as the night shift went about their duties. His eyes stared out at her and his lips tried to move but the damage was bad. She leant in and stroked the good side of him and whispered.

“You told her not to say anything and she didn’t. You didn’t need to finish her off.”

Captain James Stinton went wild-eyed and tried getting up but Catherine Fellmore steadied him easily. She was a strong woman. Not quick to learn, maybe, but strong.

“Maybe you did and maybe you didn’t. Maybe Nellie finished herself off. It don’t matter now, I suppose. She’ll be here soon and you might have seen how lucky you are.”

Catherine Fellmore had known Nellie in the old country. They’d learned together and Catherine had marvelled how Nellie’s knots were so gentle, so kind. She used her cord to help. Used knot magic in ways Catherine did not fully understand. Catherine didn’t have the same gifts Nellie had and couldn’t fully make it as a Knot Witch.

Schwp. Schwp.

When Nellie’s ghost turned up that night there was nothing it could do to help James Stinton. Knot magic can do much but its power is mostly in the strength of living fingers, not ones that fade in the daylight. Nellie’s time of power was almost passed, her knots too weak.

Catherine Fellmore stood to end her shift and whispered into the air.

You always were too kind, Nellie Trimle. Too quick to forgive and too quick to mend. Rest easy now. I’ve stitched this one up good and proper.

—

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Illustration courtesy and copyright of Carl Pugh.