Here is the entry for the third-place winner of this year’s Writerwerx University Novel Opening contest.
Buy The Magnificent Madness of Tessa Wiggins now.
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ONE
THE FRAGILE VEIL of life’s daily routine was unraveling under the weight of Tessa Wiggin’s wonder and apprehension. As her dust rag traced the window moldings, raindrops tapped on the glass. Sacred water Tessa thought, longing to feel their cool caress on her face. When she was born, a parish priest poured holy water over her and gave her to God. Thirty-six years later, she was preparing to be baptized again—this time in the waters of rain and river.
As raindrops speckled the glass, Tessa noticed that each windowpane framed a watercolor miniature of the verdant Welsh landscape she loved. St. Matthew’s feast day was less than a week away, and the heather-clad hills and moorland were bathed in sunlit reds and golds. It was seed-fall, the time Tessa loved the most. When she walked on the moors and meadows, seeds covered her shoes and found their way into her pockets and hair. When they fell to the ground, the seeds held fast to their own distinctive promise.
The elfin lines of Tessa’s mouth turned up as she saw a lumbering figure walk through the main gate. Nell had not called since the night of her anointing. She carefully slid the side table in place and centered the hand-painted kerosene lamp on the doily. Removing a head covering, Tessa shook out her long black hair as a booming knock echoed from the front door. She winced when she saw her workmate Clark hurrying into the hallway.
“Crazy Nell is here,” he said from the parlor door. His jaw tightened as he measured his next words. “If she must come, have her go to the back.”
Tessa tossed her dust rag aside, swept a strand of hair from her sweaty forehead, and strode toward him. “Nell has the best herbs in Gwynedd.” There was a metallic edge to her voice, and her emerald eyes narrowed. Poking a finger gently into Clark’s chest, she added, “Nell is my friend and can enter where she may.”
“You think herbs are the answer? The sisters arrive in four days, and we do not have time for wasting. Don’t get caught up in all that nonsense again.” Tessa brushed Clark’s hand aside and set him back on his heels as she strode wordlessly into the hallway.
The hinges of the manor’s massive hobnail door groaned as Tessa opened it just far enough to allow entry. Nell Rees had an enigmatic closed-lipped grin and bright blue eyes that popped from her sun-dyed face. Standing five feet, Nell was heavily bundled in layers of clothing: men’s britches beneath a mouse-brown skirt, bulky grey- green sweater pulled snug around her neck, and a worn black Brixton tiller hat over her ears. A covered basket was looped on one arm.
“Morin’, Nell.”
“Bore da, Miss Wiggins,” Nell echoed in her thick Welsh brogue.
Tessa stepped back and motioned for the old woman to enter. “What do you have for me today?” As Nell passed, the acrid smell of a wood fire permeated the air. Her eyes flitted about the hall, finally resting on Clark, who looked on warily. Nell smiled at him and offered a nod. Clark returned the nod.
Tessa put a hand on Nell’s elbow. “There is a chill in the air,” she remarked, eyeing Clark. “It looks as though you could do with a cup of tea. Dewch ymlaen—come along to the kitchen.”
Tessa led the way toward the back of the manor house. Water trickled from the brim of Nell’s hat and the hem of her skirt as she waddled behind Tessa, clip-clopping on the oak floor in boots that were too large for her. Tessa restrained a grin when she heard Clark groan.
Fetching a tin of tea from the pantry, Tessa returned to find Nell lingering in the doorway. She pulled a chair away from the slab-oak table that sat in the center of the kitchen and motioned for Nell to come in. After kindling a flame under the kettle, Tessa sat next to Nell, who had arranged a neat row of emerald bundles along one edge of the table.
“Crazy Nell” she is called by some, but not the locals—the Cymry. They know Nell as a dryw—a seer and a bard. The olde way and olde gods still remain in Wales. You can still see people drop a pin in a well or leave a tiny rag on a bush in the woods, bowing their head for a moment before
moving on. Ganna had told Tessa she was a bard—a verse maker, adding that bards were mightier than kings or warriors and that a poet’s word-songs can shudder people’s bones and transform their hearts. Nell’s words had that kind of power, though she seemed oblivious to it.
As Tessa made two cups of tea, she surveyed the packets of plants, fully expecting she might hear Ganna’s voice in her head— herbs being the old Druid’s specialty. But she wasn’t aware of Ganna’s ethereal presence. This fact offered only modest relief, for Tessa knew that she could not escape Ganna’s spirit.
“You’ve been busy, Nell.”
“I have reaped the forest’s bounty for you.” The crone patted the contents of the herb hamper in her lap. “I heard you was ailin’, missy.” Tessa’s lips tightened. “How do you know these things? Never mind, I suppose the whole district knows.”
“Pay them no heed, missy,” Nell said. Noticing the vacant look on Tessa’s face, she added, “She is with you now, isn’t she?”
With those words, Tessa found herself again surrounded by the elders of the Iceni tribe in a candlelit sea cavern. Ganna had drunk from the bowl of poison and pulled her closer: “My spirit passes now to you.” As her final breath escaped, Tessa wondered then if Ganna’s spirit would come to her. Eight months later, she had her answer. She’s afraid, and rightfully so. I know her fear, for her story is mine as well.
Buy The Magnificent Madness of Tessa Wiggins now.
