Devil Water Read Online Free PDF

aching memory of her mother’s smile as they had once all gathered around the hearth by the flickering light of the peat fire. If only the bitterness of exile in the stifling pit-hovels of Gateshead could be over. If only she might go home. Meg was overcome with hopelessness. Dick would not let her go. And her father would not let her come back either, for he had decided that she must stay south three years. To better herself -- by which John Snowdon meant going into good service at Newcastle. There was a secretly dissenting minister there, Mr. Smithson. Snowdon had heard of him through Mr. Dean, the Presbyterian minister on the Border at Falstone. They had exchanged letters. Mr. Smithson had agreed to take Meg into his home after Christmas to teach her the Gospel, while his wife taught her sewing, brewing, and cookery, of a refinement unknown in Coquetdale. It was all arranged, and John Snowdon never changed his mind.
    “Well --” said Charles, who had been watching her face darken and the pink mouth droop at the corners. “Cat got your tongue, Meg?”
    “No, sir.” She tried to smile up at him. “I’m sorry. ‘Tis only that m’heart is heavy because I can’t be hame.”
    “You mean you’re going to wed Dick Wilson?”
    She sighed. “I’ll have to -- or into service as m’faither wants.”
    They had begun to walk towards the Faw wagons, but the pipes had stopped. Charles put his arm again around Meg’s shoulders, and squeezing her to him said, “You don’t love Dick, or you wouldn’t talk like that.”
    “I divven’t knaw,” she said after a moment, but she did not draw away. The tingle of closeness, and the pleasure it gave her caught her unaware. She began to breathe faster. Charles heard it and, bending, gave her a quick awkward kiss on the cheek. At once they both blushed, and moved apart. “Look at that old crone,” said Charles hastily at random.
    A skinny woman in a dirty pink skirt and brass earrings made beckoning gestures in their direction, while she sat on a three-legged stool by the campfire. Jem Bailey, the piper, stood watchfully behind her. He wore a large black felt hat with a sprig of heather stuck in the buckle. The small Northumbrian pipes dangled from their red plush bag, the bellows were fastened around his waist and right elbow.
    “The Faws tell a body’s fate,” said Meg doubtfully. “She wants ye to gi’ her silver.”
    “Why not?” Charles cried. “I’d like to hear my future!” He walked up to the Faw woman. “Here’s sixpence for you. Tell me something fine.”
    The old woman took the sixpence, bit it between her two remaining teeth, then dropped it down her dirty bodice. She peered up at the tall youth, and stiffening spoke quickly in Romany to the piper, who gave an exclamation. A dozen swarthy men who had been currying their horses and donkeys behind the wagons, now glided up to the campfire. They said nothing. They stood silent and watched.
    The sun had set, gloaming stole across the heath, and Charles had an uneasy pang as he saw the piper eying his mare avidly.
    The Faw woman’s beady eyes remained fixed on Charles. She said something unintelligible in a soft hissing voice. The piper stopped gazing at the mare and translated what was obviously a command. “Maria says we’ll not harm thee, or thine. She sees the white rose on thy brow. We Faws follow the white rose.”
    The old woman nodded and suddenly grabbed Charles’s hand. She squinted at it, poked along one of the lines with her cracked fingernail, then dropped the hand. She folded her arms and looked again at Charles with what seemed to be pity and fear.
    “What does she see?” asked Charles uncomfortably. “What does the old hag see?”
    The piper himself appeared astonished and questioned Maria rapidly. She shook her head, and finally said a few reluctant words. The piper translated with the same reluctance. “She sees the white rose wither and turn black. She sees a sword. She’ll not say