“Go and find her!” she cried, at long last giving in. “And if she has gone to that witch’s hole of hers, then. . .tell her she may just as well stay there, and the Devil take her! I’ve had enough of it, do you hear? Let them burn her at the stake; I’ll not have her bring shame upon this house. It’s all the same to me!” And she ran to the armchair by the fireplace, hiding her face in her hands.
The daughter followed, more confused and forlorn than ever. She loved her aunt, though she also feared her, and could not understand the vindictive nature of the words spoken against her.
“Mother, what are you saying? What are you thinking of?”
The hands came down to reveal a tired, careworn face no longer able to think of pity. “So, you never knew she was a witch? How blind a woman can be, when she wants to. Why, you don’t even know, still haven't guessed---” She faltered, then cried out. “Dear God, I cannot bear this cross any longer! You have taken my husband, my beloved son, and left me with his temptress.” Then turning to Mary. “Go to her! Get out, I tell you! She will tell you everything, everything now. Make your home with her if you like. Leave me to my wretched memories.” And physical sorrow bent her nearly double in the chair.
The girl took a step to console her, but the hateful, flashing eyes turned on her erased any such notion. She hesitated, then ran to the door in dismay, and out into the bracing, October wild. It seemed the last vestiges of solace and sanctuary were crumbling around her, leaving a world too terrible, too full of dark meaning to endure. She ran.
But her steps were not blind. Instinctively she stayed on the western side of the rise, which hid her from sight of the road. And though she had rarely seen it, the back of her mind knew where her aunt’s strange and secret abode lay: beyond the ravine, in land too wild and rocky to grow or graze.
It was growing dark when she finally reached the high pass in which it lay, and in place of the wind a cold stillness reigned. The rocky culvert did not benefit from the failing light. It was a harsh and cheerless place, all thorn and sloe, with here and there a gnarled, leafless tree.
The faraway cry of a wolf froze her to the marrow: she was alone, and could not find what she sought. Why had she come in such haste, without horse or cloak? Her body ached and the sense of youthful despair, never far from her, returned with the added force of cold, helpless exposure.
An owl swooped, and half fearfully she followed the line of its flight. As it rose again against the near horizon, she saw there at the meeting of stone and sky a trail of black smoke, barely distinguishable in the darkening gloom. She followed it downward. And there, half buried in the hard earth which bounded it on three sides, she saw her aunt’s sometime residence, the ‘witch’s hole’ as her mother had called it. And though she loved her aunt, and had nowhere else to go, she could not help feeling a moment of doubt.
A wedge of stone wall---one door, one window---was all the face it showed, the short chimney rising further to the sunken right. It was in fact a hole, dug and lined with stone perhaps a thousand years before by some wandering Pict, with a living roof of roots and turf. Her aunt had merely dug it out again and repaired the chimney. The window and door, framed in ready openings, were new, along with stout ceiling beams. Nothing more. It was a place that perhaps ten people knew of, and nine avoided.