A story from The Witch Cord

On one of the times Aggy Sampson turned twelve there was no school. It wasn’t that there was no school that day, there was simply no school. There was no school for anyone like her. There wasn’t even much of a birthday, truth be told. The woman who had taken her in from the church step simply tied a new blue ribbon in Aggy’s hair and managed a curt smile before packing her off to work.

Aggy saw nothing unusual in any of this. Except, perhaps, for the smile. Aggy received a gift each birthday but her foster mother was not known for emotion, having very little time to waste on it. She had lost too many children of her own and seen too many women of her age fall prey to a soft smile and an easy laugh. However, had she known more about who Aggy was or where she came from then perhaps things might have been different between them.

It was a dry day. The kind of dry you hoped for when you were looking forward to bonfires and apple bobbing. There would be plenty of those later. They’d light up the sky and Aggy would close her eyes and pretend the fires were candles on a cake meant for her.

But that would come later.

For now there was work and she was already late. Mr William Francis would be clacking his tongue and firing up to send one of the younger ones out in search for her. Aggy stepped up a mite quicker. Her place of work was a little over two miles from her home. To get there she had to cross two stiles and cut across the big field where Marcia and her had their den. Aggy was tempted to skip work altogether and sit in the den. She fancied opening the little tin they kept and pull out the scraps of paper on which Marcia, but not Aggy, wrote out little dreams like they were spells. She’d be daft to do that, though. Dafter than her foster mum told her she was most of the time.

Aggy put a little more effort into moving faster but the sun was already rising as she wove her way through thin streets, taking care to skip over the streams of night water. Suddenly she stumbled and almost fell onto the cobbles.

“Watch yourself there, Aggy” a voice called out. “Mr Francis will be having you whipped whether you’re late or not. No sense in two hurts.”

“Morning, Jean,” Aggy replied, picking herself up. She tugged on a smile for Jean, one of the village’s washer women, but she had turned pale and there was an echo of a twinge in her stomach. “Let him try. Old Tilly will eat him alive.” Aggy grinned and paused at a roughly whitewashed corner. “Old Tilly wouldn’t let anyone hurt me.”

Jean’s soft chuckle ebbed away as Aggy disappeared down another narrow street. Half-way along, she spied the baker hunched over his cooling loaves and made him jump by rapping on the window and running away.

She didn’t stop running until the gable of the lacemaker’s cottage frowned down at her. The door into the front shop was closed, but she could see all the other workers inside getting ready for the customers. Keeping close to a wall, Aggy noticed the side door standing slightly ajar. She held her breath and crept towards it. Once inside she would be able to pretend she’d been asked to prepare the foundation cord in the backroom. Mr Francis wouldn’t be happy but Tilly would back her up.

Opening the door as little as she could, Aggy slipped through into the wood-panelled corridor which led to the kitchen and backroom. She could hear the bustle of her workmates up the stairs. There would be time to reach the backroom. She smiled and stepped forward. Easy.

“Agnes Sampson.” Aggy froze and closed her eyes. “Stupid. Little. Girl.” The man spat the last word as though it were more of an insult than the first.

Mr William Francis stepped out from behind Aggy and placed a hand on her shoulder. His breath stank of onions, meat and bitter coffee and Aggy nearly retched as he leaned over her.

“Do you not know the time, stupid girl?” he said, his breath coming thick like butter. “Or do you think me the stupid man?”

Aggy’s face struggled to pick words from her mouth. “No, Willy – I mean, Mr Francis.”

“No to which? No to not knowing the time or no to thinking me stupid?” The man spun her around and seized her hair in his fist. “You’ve been warned about this, Sampson. Warned and re-warned.”

Aggy tried to pull her head away from him but he tightened his grip and her skin ached. Her fingers clawed into a fist as her stomach twisted again. She felt a throb pulse through her body but took a deep breath and calmed herself. “I know, Mr Francis. I just had to stop back a-while on account of it being me birthday.”

“And that makes you special, does it? We all have birthdays, girl. But not all of us have jobs.”

“Please, Mr Francis. Me ma said–“

“Ma, Sampson?” The owner of the lace shop released her hair with such force that Aggy was sent reeling backwards. “You may live in good Mrs Hone’s home, girl. But she isn’t your ma, any more than the house cat is. Although you are closer in nature to the things it catches, no doubt.”

He took one quick, wolf-like step towards her, pushing her back towards the roughly plastered wall which was covered in yellowing lace samples. Aggy shrank beneath his stare.

He was nearer to the truth than Aggy cared. Not the bit about the cat, but about not being part of Mrs Hone’s family. She’d been kind enough, taking her in when Aggy had first appeared in the village. But she’d never given Aggy her name. And nor had Aggy wanted it. Saying Agnes Sampson was about the only thing the young girl could manage that night when they’d found her. Agnes Sampson. Agnes Sampson. Over and over again like a cord wound around a wrist for strength.

“I ain’t a rat,” she muttered, not looking at him. “I just want to get on with me work.”

“You’re a slacker, girl,” Mr Francis hissed. “You’re not wanted. Perhaps if good Mrs Hone didn’t have to take care of the likes of you she’d find time to…”

“To what, William Francis?” Aggy looked up at the sound of Tilly Cotton’s voice. The old woman spoke in a Cumbrian accent which was as sharp as her one good eye. “Look to replace her poor dead husband with the likes of you? You’ve more chance of marrying the Queen, God rest her soul.”

Mr Francis shrivelled like a burnt match and turned to face the old woman. He coughed and held his head as high as he could – which wasn’t very high at all. “Cotton,” he said.

“Don’t you Cotton me, little Willy.” Aggy bent her head to stifle a laugh and just missed the glare sent her way. “We’ve a work to be doing and all you want to do is stand around harassing a young girl. And on her birthday. Happy birthday, Aggy.”

Aggy gave Tilly a smile, for the birthday wishes and for coming to the rescue for the umpeenth time that month. “Thanks, Tilly. I–“

“I know exactly how much work we have on, Mrs Cotton.” Mr Francis pulled a mostly white handkerchief from his pocket and began dabbing his face with it. “And I don’t have time to harass anyone, let alone a worthless lace girl. Fetch the inventory for the morning, Sampson. I want to inspect it immediately.”

Aggy looked to Tilly and then to Mr Francis. “All of it, sir?” she said. “But it’s–“

“Immediately, girl,” rapped Mr Francis.

“Best get a move on, Aggy.” Tilly shifted herself past the young girl and patted her on the head. “I’ll catch up with you later.”

Aggy blinked and then nodded before disappearing along the corridor and into the back rooms.

The women worked upstairs, mostly. They spun the laces which were sold in the front shop. At this time of year it was by the light and warmth of the fire although only the customers felt the benefit of that. Aggy shivered as she inched out a large box of yarn. This was all ready to be taken to the lace-makers. Usually she would shuttle it up and down the shallow flight of stairs when called for but Mr Francis wanted to inspect the lot. The box slumbered forward as she worked it off its shelf.

Tilly was the best lacer in the shop. Her work rivalled snowflakes and summer clouds. Tilly had been helping Aggy learn the craft too, not that Mr Francis would let her step up to the needle. Even Tilly couldn’t make him do that.

The pain in her stomach had dulled but she felt it spreading through her chest and down each arm into her fingers. Still, at least she could feel her fingers through the cold. Aggy leant back on one leg in order to take the weight of the box as it finally came free. She held steady and then began the slow shuffle forwards, like a slow landslide, towards where Mr Francis would be sat, waiting.

Nobody liked him. Nobody except maybe Sidney, and possibly Daisy. But nobody liked Sidney and Daisy so they didn’t matter much. Aggy thought about quitting, about running away. He shouldn’t be allowed to treat people the way he did. If she were bigger, and a man, she’d show him.

The door to the front shop was closed. He’d be in there, warming himself by the fire he kept from all of them. He’d closed that door on purpose, she knew he had.

There was no way Aggy could free a hand to knock so she used the weight of the box to shove the door open. It banged back against the wall and rebounded into the box again, knocking her off balance. The girl twisted her body to take the impact but her fingers gave way and the box slammed to the floor, spilling bobbins like a crashed wave.

“GIRL.” Mr Francis leapt up from behind his desk and hurtled towards her. Aggy dropped to the floor her fingers, still pulsing from the echo of her stomach pain, grasping for the yarn. “You STUPID, girl.” The shop owner tried to lift Aggy off the floor but his feet gave way and he toppled.

“I didn’t mean to… It were too heavy,” Aggy began. She stood, looking down at the man. “It were too heavy. And you knew it.”

“What? How dare…” Mr Francis’ arms and legs flailed over the bobbins as he struggled to regain his balance.

“I dares, Mr Francis. I dares.” Aggy felt the pain surge through her body again, animating her fingers. She pulled at the yarn, loosening it. “I just wanted to do me work and go home,” she said. “It’s me birthday, or what we call me birthday anyways.” The cord began to loop and knot in her hands and Mr Francis found himself unable to struggle. His knees locked together and his arms squeezed against his thighs.

“I just wanted to have me tea and go watch for fires out on the moor with Marcia and then go to bed and then come back to work again tomorrow.” The cord felt warm to her touch. She didn’t shift her gaze away from her employer as she continued to work the thread into shapes. With every loop, Mr Francis found himself less able to resist until he sat like a trussed chicken, even though there were no visible bindings around him.

“I don’t like you, Mr Francis. But I don’t have to like you. I just have to be left alone to do me work until I is old enough to go me own way.”

Aggy pulled the cord taut and the man’s head snapped back. His eyes began to bulge.

“‘nother year, maybe two, and I’d be free of you. Free to go work in some grand house where they probably treat their girls right. Well maybe it’s time I was free of you sooner.”

Aggy began to make shapes with the yarn and Mr Francis, his head still pulled back, found himself moving towards the fire.

“Maybe Guy Fawkes needs more friends like you.”

William Francis, rolling around in the wealth of his family, began to cry as Aggy added more loops and knots to the yarn. She was working instinctively now, guided by a knowledge she did not understand. Her yarn had become a Witch Cord, the channel for an ancient human magic. She could not remember the time before she appeared in the village but as she tied her knots she felt old, older than all the birthdays she had been given by Mrs Hone.

“Girl, I… please…” Mr Francis sobbed.

“AGGY.” Old Tilly threw the name into the room like a burning log. “Her name is Agnes Sampson and you do not know the half of who she is, William Francis.”

Aggy let the cord droop a little and Mr Francis slumped in front of the fire, scattering bobbins into it which began to pop and burn.

“It’s time to let go, Aggy,” Tilly said, more gently this time. “You’re still too young for this sort of thing to scar you.”

Aggy twisted the cord once again. More bobbins flew into the fire and some of the larger pieces of kindling were dislodged. A gout of flame took it up and began to reach for the loose strands of yarn around the room. One by one it made barrels of the bobbins, a miniature re-enactment of the gunpowder plot. Individually the cotton threads would have burnt out in seconds but together, fuelled by the Witch Cord, they flared bright and lit the room with tiny pyres.

Mr Francis gasped for breath, rubbing his neck. “The fires. Get the…” He tried to call out for his workers to come but his throat was still raw and his voice dry.

“He don’t deserve anything, Tilly. He treats us all like muck.” Aggy twisted the cord and Mr Francis cried out as fires roared across the room, catching the walls. “We’ll do better without him.”

Tilly stepped around the burning floorboards and through the lace-like smoke which was knotting itself around the three people. “Aggy, I can undo this. Even now.” She raised her hands and traced the tendrils of smoke around her. “But you have to let go of the anger. You have to put your cord into the fire.”

Aggy stared at Tilly. In her hands the cord snaked itself in and around of her fingers, describing her resentment. “No,” she said. Seizing the cord tightly, little Aggy Sampson tied a new knot. Mr Francis yelped as he rose into the air. He clutched his neck.

“Oh Aggy,” whispered Tilly. “I don’t think this is your time after all.” The old lady teased the smoke into threads and began to loop them in and out of each other. She worked fast and Aggy struggled against the heat and the pressure contained within her friend’s magic. “The Knot Witch is coming, Aggy. Remember that when you wake next. The Knot Witch is coming. Use your years to learn.”

It was the most beautiful lacework she’d made, but Tilly barely looked at it as the smoke surrounded the little girl and wrapped her in white. Through the holes it appeared as though an entire universe was being created and Agnes Sampson.

And then the smoke dissipated, and the young witch along with it – to a new time.

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