Wishing Well

"Why, Sir, you are pleasing young and handsome of feature."

"For you, my pretty, I will do anything."

Agatha Sontheil was smitten. He was an attractive youth and full of easy praise for her. Life had been hard. Orphaned at fifteen, Agatha had fallen into begging from the big house, and any passing nobility. Her small Yorkshire village of Knaresborough was charitable enough, but things were still difficult. The lovely river Nidd ran through the gorge, and on the wooded hillsides were perched many old cottages. It was pleasing fair and pretty. In the distance was the castle. Agatha loved to walk in the Beech Avenue, pick the early summer bluebells, the late spring yellow primroses, and listen to the birdsong. The green canopy overhead was shelter to Agatha, when she was not at rest in a cave in the hillside. Her handsome beau had said many pleasing things to Agatha and she had eventually yielded to him that most precious of things ~ her virginity. This had been unwise forsooth, for soon, all too soon, he turned away from her. She was shocked at the cold betrayal. She sought him out and pleaded with him. He struck a bargain with her ~ for her complicity he said he would grant her many gifts ~ all she had to do was say nothing.

"Many gifts?" said Agatha, nervous and wary.

"Yes, I can grant you many special things. I am a spirit's child."

"Oh, what can this mean,? she said.

"It means your child will be blessed with many attributes also; just be one with me, be my friend. We can have many happy times together."

Soon Agatha was known in the local area of Knaresborough for her talent as an oracle. She could tell the future. Many came to consult her. But it became too much for her, all the gossip and unkind looks, and once in a fractious mood she raised the wind to send the countryfolk packing ! There was much speculation and some said, there goes a witch. Before very long the judges of the County heard these allegations and charged her, but nothing came of it and she escaped. Then in the summer of 1488 the child she was expecting was born. The infant was mighty homely and misshapen ~ ugly, with defects of gait and ambience. Agatha called her daughter Ursula. Ursula was plain by any standards. She had a hooked nose, and an unpleasing complexion. As she grew, many of her peers laughed at her or called her names, but Ursula was a flighty child and could fight back. It seemed she had the power too, just like her mother, so often children would fall or injure themselves if they had nothing good to say to her. Verily I tell you, Ursula was a witch.

As time passed and her wiles grew ever more sophisticated she managed to snare a husband. At twenty-four she married Toby Shipton of nearby Shipton town. As she advanced in years she became known as Old Mother Shipton. The cave she lived in, for the couple were terribly poor, was near a beautiful petrefying well. She placed many small objects in the well, a child's bootee, a mitten, a glove, and then hoped to sell them as curiosities in the town on market day. She soon became known for this as much as her prophecies and people came from far and wide to buy petrefied objects as souvenirs and also to hear how their future would turn out.

She spoke wise words indeed. Necromancy was an occult art, however, and many were suspicious of her. Toby knew many of her secrets. She told him many things under cover of darkness in the cave. It was a cool summer's night as the two sat by a pot boiling over an open fire.

"Tell me, Ursula, how do you know the future really, what is it gives you special knowledge ?" he asked.

"Why, Toby, it is all quite simple. I commune with the spirits. It is an ancient art."

"You mean you talk to the dead."

"Yes, the spirits tell me of the future."

"How can they ?"

"Because they have lived in the future. You see, Toby, time is relative. It is in many ways an illusion. The future has already happened and the past is yet to come."

"There is much people on earth do not know, Ursula."

"Yes, Toby, and I will not teach them, but you, my dea,r are party to the knowledge I alone have possessed. No one else here in Knaresborough has any idea how it is done, though of course they suspect witchcraft. I know a maiden queen will come to England Toby and that the protestant persecution will end. It will mean the end of Romanism. The monasteries will be dissolved and a Church of England will be established. The papal influence will be ended for good. A catholic queen will be beheaded, so too an earl. A spanish armada will be defeated also by a great seafarer and there will be an attempt to blow up parliament. It will become known as the great Gunpowder Plot."

"When will this come to pass, Ursula?"

"All too soon, Toby, in this century we live in now."

"But what of the future in centuries to come, Ursula. Have the dead of the future told you anything of their times?"

"Oh, many things, Toby, many of them incredible. There will be transport without horses, balloons will fly through the air and they will invent flying tubes that zoom through the air at great speeds. There will be ships on the sea, great heavy ships made of lead, not as now made of wood. Thoughts will fly through the air and you will be able to speak to people many miles from you. The poor will be educated in establishments of learning just like the nobility. A herb will be brought to England and inhaled by many for pleasure. They will call this thing smoking. A new vegetable will be brought here too. It will become the staple diet of all."

"Does anyone speak of the end of the world, Ursula ?"

"I am working on this one, Toby. I hope to have an answer by tomorrow. My scribe is coming and I will dictate a lot of my prophecies to him, so he can record them for all time."

"I do not think you should divulge such a matter, Ursula."

"Oh, it is not for hundreds of years,Toby. Nobody alive today is affected by it, I know. I am sure the date is somewhere around the millennium. I am waiting for a definitive revelation."

Mother Shipton's eyes were dark and gleaming, a pure dun colour. The fire sparked and spat, the water hissed as it spilt onto the burning logs She poured the boiling water over an infusion of herbs she had already prepared: feverfew, herb robert, camomile. It would help them sleep and calm their minds as the old witch prepared to ask the spirits for the year the world would end. Her scribe Edward would record it tomorrow. Full of pride, Mother Shipton was aware of her great gifts, aware too of how she would be famous in the world far into the future.

The morning air was pleasant and fresh. Ursula passed by the old well and looked at a petrefying comb she had placed in there a few months ago. It would be many more before it would be ready for sale as a souvenir. She would one day buy a shank of mutton with the proceeds, some fresh bread too from the bakers. Until then it was a diet of fresh fish from the river. The further people came to see her for advice the more they seemed prepared to pay. One man from London had promised to pay her five guineas if she could tell him when the world would end. She would be rich! Gossip had it he was a bishop from Lambeth Palace, either that or a papal legate eager to inform the Vatican in Rome.

Edward came into the wood about two o' clock. The sun cast dappled shadows on the woodland pathway. Cowslip and parsley, bluebell and red cranesbill dotted the grass beneath the trees. The well was covered in greeny moss and its slow trickle was a delight to hear, its water crystalline and shining like silver. Ursula was sat in the cave near the well.

"So, Edward, I have all my prophecies ready for your book, a book I want placed in the library of the monks at York."

"Yes, Ursula, I am ready."

Edward took out his parchment and his quill and dipped the quill in his travelling ink-well. Ursula took much time reciting all she wanted recording. Edward had filled many sheets of parchment.

"When can I see what you have written, Edward?"

"Well, I will go away and send you a copy for your approval."

"Thank you, thank you so much."

The weeks passed and still no copy of Mother Shipton's predictions reached her hillside cave in Knaresborough. She became testy and disappointed with Edward. He had promised so much, how he was going to present the document to court, even go to Caxton's publishing house in London. Old Mother Shipton grew old and famous in her retreat, never venturing forth much outside of her locality, and yet her knowledge was so wide-ranging and special it belied her humble life.

"I am going to die in 1561," she said one day to Toby, and as the years passed she grew more and more concerned that her predictions would not survive. What had happened to the scribe Edward? Growing frail and sick it was put about locally that there was not much time left for Mother Shipton. Then one spring day in 1560 Edward appeared with the book she had been hoping to see years ago. She flicked through it and all semed well; then she got to the final page; oh no, she thought this is important and he has got it wrong. The date for the end of the world had been printed as 1991.

"That is not right," she screamed out to Toby. "The spirits told me it would be 91 years after the millennium, that is 2091. The world will end in 2091. I said things will start to go wrong in 1991, but the world will collapse one hundred years later. People in the future will think I got it wrong, certainly for a hundred years."

So, that would explain much. Old Mother Shipton usually was right. She took off her old glasses and placed them under the petrefying well to become another souvenir of a life well-lived, of much extraordinariness and insight. They carried the coffin over the bridge and to Briggate. Blossom from the trees floated down, touching the bier in never-ending showers. 

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

The moon will turn to blood, The oceans rise up, And the planets collide. It will be the end of an age.

Old Mother Shipton (1488-1561)