Forbidden Fruits

The wind whistles sharp through branches heavy with reddening leaves and small, black berries. Megan pulls her coat tighter around her as she follows Lorna’s tiny, denim-clad bottom up the incline. Where is Mrs Perfect dragging her off to? What does she have to say that they couldn’t have discussed in her nice warm kitchen? Surely she can’t suspect? They’ve been so careful.

Rounding a bend, she finds the whole river valley spread out in front of them, and gasps, in spite of herself.

“Worth the hike, isn’t it?” Lorna favours her with a flawless, ice-white smile. “Here, sit down and appreciate it.”

There’s a bench alongside the path that must be popular when the weather’s better. Grimacing up at the dark clouds crowding above them, Megan doubts it’ll have many takers today. Apart from the two of them, the whole hillside is deserted. Not a dogwalker in sight. She sits, huddling deeper into her coat, and Lorna passes her a thermos cup. The liquid she pours into it has the most wonderful smell; honeyed and spicy.

“It’s delicious,” she says, sipping it cautiously, as warmth returns to her fingers. “What is it?”

“Oh, just a berry tea. My own blend.” Lorna waves her hand as Megan tries to pass back the cup. “You drink it. I don’t like to share.”

There it is, thinks Megan, the coldness Greg told her about. The only explanation for a man like him cheating on a woman as stunning as Lorna with his decidedly chubby, less than perfect neighbour.

He’d traced a finger over the plump swell of her belly, grinning like a schoolboy as she giggled. Then he’d frowned. “God help us if she ever finds out. She’s got ice where her heart should be, my wife.”

Looking at her now, she doesn’t doubt it. Lorna sits like a carved white statue, impervious to the chill breeze and gathering clouds.

Megan blinks away a strand of hair that’s blown into her eyes. “Hope it doesn’t rain on us,” she says, and tries not to flinch as Lorna leans forward to twist the tress around her finger.

“Pretty,” she says. “Almost the exact same colour as my sister’s was.”

“Was?”

“Before she died.”

“Oh. I’m sorry, I didn’t know. When did she…?”

“Years ago.” Lorna’s voice is chillier than the wind, and Megan isn’t sure which one sends shivers through her. “We were kids. It was this time of year, coming up to Hallowe’en. Greta was five, I was thirteen. She wanted to be a witch. Stole my favourite skirt and cut it up to make a cloak.” Lorna pauses, her lips pursed, remembering. “Do you have brothers or sisters?”

Megan shakes her head.

“Lucky. I never wanted them either. I was the only child for a long time. Everything’s fine, then the new baby comes along and suddenly your parents are dancing around it, trying to meet its demands, treating it like a bloody god. Greta never stopped demanding. Not for five bloody years.” Lorna’s digging her glossy, manicured fingernail into the faded wooden seat, gouging at it, and Megan grips the cup tighter, wondering where this is going.

“My father was a herbalist, you know, natural medicine and all that. We lived out in the country, and people would write to him for pills and potions. Herbs, that sort of thing. I suppose that’s where Greta got the idea. Or maybe where I did.”

Megan watches the fingernail as it digs, scarring the timber.

“They never bothered for me, of course. Just told me to keep away from it, and I did. But when bloody Greta came along everything had to be safe and sound. Couldn’t just give her rules. She never followed them anyway. They fenced off the whole end of the garden where he grew them. All the dangerous plants. The ones you had to know what you were doing with when you made them into medicines. There were rows of books in his office, about how to get the dosage right. Because even a little bit too much, you know, and it’s game over.”

Megan shudders and Lorna pours her more steaming tea. “Here. Warm you up a bit. Anyway, I liked reading about them all. He used to let me help him mix them into his medicines, before Greta came along.” She scowls. “That was the end of that.” The fingernail digs at the wood again and Lorna’s voice goes on, cold and steady.

“I helped her pick pretty plants for her witches’ brew. Crabapples, elderberries. Rosehips. We got the camping stove out of the shed and boiled them up in a pot. I told her to keep stirring it while I went to fetch a special ingredient. I said it would make her fly.”

There’s a creeping dread in the back of Megan’s mind now. “Why are you telling me all this?” Her voice comes out strangely, her tongue lying heavy in her mouth.

“Shh. We’re just getting to the good part. I climbed over the fence into the forbidden section. It was magical in there. Holly, ivy, cherry laurel. A real witches’ garden. I knew what I wanted, too. I’d got my gloves on ready. You have to be careful, you know. Every part of it’s toxic. Toxic and beautiful. Good name for it: belladonna.”

“Nightshade,” Megan whispers, her words slurring as realization grows sickly in her stomach.

“Deadly Nightshade,” Lorna nods. “Very useful in all sorts of medicine, if you get the dosage right. Got to be careful though, it only takes a few berries to kill you. Especially if you’re small.”

Megan can feel her heart fluttering in her throat. She doesn’t want to hear any more but she can’t bring herself to move. It’s like Lorna’s cast a spell on her and all she can do is listen, even though she’s beginning to suspect how this story ends.

“Drink it all up like a good little witch, I told her, and she did. Once they realized what had happened, it was too late. Dad blamed himself, of course. I denied all knowledge. Greta must have climbed in there by herself. I was a good girl. I always did what I was told.”

Lorna leans forward again to touch her hair, and Megan feels her mouth go dry.

“You really do remind me of her, you know.”

“I think I should go,” Megan croaks, staggering to her feet.

“The hair colour. The chubbiness. Not following the rules. Not staying away from what doesn’t belong to you.” The chill is back in Lorna’s voice, and Megan feels it creeping through her, freezing her where she stands.

The cup drops from her hand. “What did you do?”

“I told you,” smiles Lorna, and it’s pure ice. “I don’t like to share.”

She reaches to pluck a sprig of shiny black berries from the bushes that shelter the bench. Her black gloved fingers tuck it into Megan’s pocket as she scoops up the fallen cup and screws it back on the thermos.

Megan slumps onto the bench, her vision swimming so badly that she barely sees Lorna stand and walk away down the hillside.