The three could be found like this most days. They were close-knit; the events of years ago when Vetchling’s son Jackdaw had been banished from Stonewylde bound them together. The whole community had ostracised them, but even before that they’d lived on the fringes. Diligence and sheer hard work were prized by the Villagers and these three were not good examples of such virtues. Starling had never been hand-fasted, but as a young woman had enjoyed the company of many of the Village lads, especially when they’d been drinking and weren’t feeling fussy. Unlike most Village women, Starling had conceived Magpie late in life. She had no desire for a child and thanks to her mother and aunt’s knowledge, had managed to avoid falling pregnant until his conception. His father could’ve been one of many and Starling made no secret of her indifference to the unwanted baby, neglecting him shockingly.
The three women sat now in companionable silence, sucking on their pipes and slurping at their tea. Just as they always avoided the Stonewylde doctor, they’d also rejected the services of the Stonewylde dentist. Consequently Violet and Vetchling were now almost toothless and Starling would be following just as soon as her puffy gums gave up their hold on her remaining dark stumps. They treated their ailments themselves as the two older women had a good knowledge of herb lore. Even today, Violet and her sister cultivated a diversity of unusual plants. Stuffed in the dresser drawers were paper twists bursting with various seeds, all gleaned from this year’s gathering. The back garden of their cottage, where fruit and vegetables were supposed to be grown, bore harvests unlike those of the other Villagers. The dense weeds and undergrowth were merely a blind. Nobody ever examined the nature of the rank fecundity of Violet and Vetchling’s plot, and an abundance of strange plants thrived there undisturbed, producing crops not grown elsewhere at Stonewylde.
‘Fire needs stoking,’ muttered Vetchling, grunting as she leant forward to fling another log into the flames. ‘More wood, Starling.’
‘He’s out there now chopping,’ replied her daughter. ‘Can’t you hear him?’
Vetchling was a little deaf but could just hear the rhythmic thud of axe on wood coming from the lean-to outside. She nodded.
‘Taking his time about it,’ she grumbled. ‘Always does, lazy clout. If there’s a job to be done, he’ll make it last all day, that one. Bone idle.’
‘Aye, sister. Listen, he’s stopped again.’
‘Magpie!’ bellowed Starling. ‘Hurry up with them logs!’
The back door crashed open and Magpie tramped through the kitchen into the sitting room bearing a great basket of newly cut logs. The three women eyed him malignantly as he shuffled between them with his burden, trying to place it on the hearth whilst avoiding their feet. His coat hung in filthy folds about him and his nose was running. He kept his dull eyes down.
‘Lazy good-for-nothing!’ spat Starling, aiming a solid kick at his bent form. He yelped like a dog. ‘Is that all the wood cut now?’
He stood there in their midst with his head hanging, greasy hair covering his face, and nodded.
‘About time too – it’s taken you all morning. Now get the water, boy. WATER! D’you understand?’
He nodded again miserably and stood there waiting for any other instruction.
‘Well get on with it then, you half-wit!’ Starling screeched, picking up the heavy stick she kept propped by her chair for just such a purpose and lashing out at him. He could have avoided the blow but didn’t, and it caught him soundly on the hip. He’d learnt over the years that dodging the blows and kicks only made them rain down harder; it was best to take them stoically from the outset. He began to shuffle away, sniffing hard, and Violet’s boot shot out to connect with his shins.
‘Don’t dither about fetching the water, boy,’ she said. ‘I’ve an errand for you myself and I’m not waiting all day. If you take too long there’ll be no dinner. You’ll come back to an empty bowl and ‘twill serve you right.’
He regarded her mournfully then left the room, collecting the water cart from outside to pull down the lane to the nearest pump in the heart of the Village.
Starling chuckled and stuffed another pinch of the herbal mixture into the bowl of her pipe.
‘He ain’t getting no dinner anyway, the stupid git. I already told him that this morning when he spilt the ashes all over the hearth. Mind you,