The Ragwitch (10 page)

“Now you are awake,” said Lyssa, “I think you should tell me how you come to be here.”

“Yes, I suppose so,” said Julia, hesitantly. “In a way, this is all my fault.”

Slowly, she began to tell Lyssa about the midden, and finding the rag doll encased in the ball of feathers. Lyssa stopped her every now and then, to ask quite difficult questions, and she was especially interested in the midden, saying, “Even in her banishment, She contrived to be close to some power. A Hill of Bones would be such a place—particularly without its human guardians. Under certain stars and a sea wind, Her prison would be weak, and She could attract…you…”

“It’s funny,” said Julia, “but I don’t really remember finding the doll. I mean, I know I did, but I can’t remember anything properly, until I woke up here inside Her…”

Julia continued telling her story without faltering, until she got right up to the events of the night before, with the moon hanging low over the Namyr Steps, and the people who had tried to hold the gorge.

“What happened then?” prompted Lyssa, as Julia hesitated after describing the entrance to the Steps, and the beginning of their slow descent into the gorge.

“She just killed them,” whispered Julia, tears starting in the corners of her eyes. “The Gwarulch and the Angarling didn’t have to do a thing. She just walked down saying their names and pointing…and they died.”

“You’re sure She said their names?” asked Lyssa. “And they died?”

“Yes,” sobbed Julia, now openly crying. “But they didn’t stay dead! She called them again, and they got up—but their faces were all white and sunken, and they moved like Her! And their eyes didn’t move at all—they just stared ahead, all red and empty!”

“So,” said Lyssa, grimly. “I have heard of such. They are not really dead, but their minds are sleeping. She has Glazed them, and they are now Glazed-Folk, to serve Her till their bodies fail. But tell me—how was She attacked?”

“A…Wizard,” mumbled Julia, through her tears. “Thruan—the one who almost got away. And, Lyssa—every spell he cast against Her only hurt me!”

Lyssa frowned, and said reluctantly, “That is an old spell, and one I thought forgotten. But here, dry your tears.”

She gave Julia a large handkerchief, pulled out from one sleeve of her dress. It smelled faintly of
fresh green leaves, and absorbed tears far better than mere cloth. Julia dabbed at her eyes for a while, and then whispered, “She told me that I was Her curse-ward, and spell-shield, and that every spell against Her would hurt me instead. And they did…”

“Well, we shall have to put a stop to that,” said Lyssa cheerfully, taking back her handkerchief to mop up a few missed tears. “I have been thinking, while you were asleep, and there is something we can do against Her. It will be very dangerous, but…”

“I don’t mind!” interrupted Julia, “I wish I could kill Her!”

Lyssa smiled sadly, and said, “I doubt anyone could do that now. But perhaps we can trouble Her, in our way…”

It was still cold on the lowest of the Namyr Steps. The Ragwitch lay sprawled against it, as if upon a throne. Behind Her, the Angarling stood, one every two or three steps, looking like natural projections from the rock. Around them, Gwarulch were still looting the dead, or beginning to build campfires for their grisly luncheon.

In front of the Ragwitch, the Glazed-Folk stood, their faces already shining with the pale hue of the dead, their eyes red-washed and inhuman. Thruan stood a little way in front of them, his mouth gaping open.

“This Paul,” hissed the Ragwitch. “Describe him.”

Thruan’s mouth opened and closed several
times, but no sound came forth. The Ragwitch hissed again, and Thruan began to speak, his voice rasping and slow, devoid of all emotion.

“He…he…he…ten, eleven…brown hair…he walks slowly…and worries…about his…sister Jul…”

“Enough!” spat the Ragwitch, climbing ponderously to Her feet, swaying slightly on the wet limestone of the Step. “Oroch!”

Oroch came quickly, running nimbly down the steps, his black form like a shadow leaping across the white steps, dodging between the Angarling.

“Yes, my Mistress?” he asked, red maw panting.

“Send any Meepers we can spare to the east,” ordered the Ragwitch. “To Aillghill and beyond. They are to find a yellow balloon—and capture those in it.”

Oroch bent his head, and started back up the Steps, but the Ragwitch laid Her hand across his head, one bloated finger at each temple, and Her middle finger across his black-wrapped head.

“And send messengers to My Gwarulch in the east.”

“With what message, Mistress?” whispered Oroch, trembling beneath Her grip. “What are they to do?”

“Tell them,” She said, lips arching back to show the rows of teeth. “Tell them to hunt. Tell them to hunt…a boy who travels in a yellow balloon.”

W
E MUST GO FARTHER
into the Ragwitch’s mind,” said Lyssa. “This small area around the white globe is only a tiny part of Her consciousness—a prison, separate from the rest of Her mind.”

“I’ve tried getting out,” said Julia, still sniffing back a few tears. “I swam for ages and ages, and I still ended up back here at the globe.”

“Ah, but you didn’t have a prisoner’s friend, did you?” said Lyssa, smiling. “Remember, I am not a prisoner here—and if I can escape, so can you.”

“But won’t She just call me back?” asked Julia. “It doesn’t matter what I do, I have to go when She calls—or part of me anyway. Does my body stay here when I’m with Her?”

“No,” said Lyssa. “We don’t really have bodies here. And this place doesn’t really exist—not like
the real world, with good earth, and trees, and flowers.”

“Except for the turf,” said Julia. “And you…the rowan tree.”

“That’s just a reflection of the real tree,” said Lyssa. “But it’s your way out of here…and She will never know. Look!”

With a sudden flick, she drew a single hair from Julia’s head, quickly transferring it to her left hand. In her right hand, she held a rowan twig, with a holly berry stuck on the end, and a long blade of grass tied lengthways across it.

“Ean, Tall, Yither, Wuin,” sang Lyssa, as she wound the hair around the twig. Then, with a clap of her hands, she threw the whole thing into the yellow flame, crying, “Tan!”

And there were two Julias.

“I won’t!” cried the Julia that had just appeared, stamping her foot. “I’ll never like your monsters! And I don’t care if I get hit by spells!”

“That’s me!” exclaimed the original Julia. She’d always wondered what she looked like rightways round, instead of same-side backwards like in a mirror.

“I hate you,” said the second Julia, out into the darkness. She stamped her foot again, stepped out of the ring of holly, and swam off towards the globe. Julia watched, fascinated, finally understanding what she did wrong with her left leg when she was swimming.

“The twig-maid will deceive Her for some time,” said Lyssa. “But, like all things of Nature, she will not be able to endure so close to her. And then, the Ragwitch will know I am here…so, we had best begin our journey now.”

Julia smiled and nodded, happy at being saved from being drawn back into Her senses. Even if it was only for a few days, the relief from not feeling those bloated limbs was like a second Christmas. Better still, she wouldn’t have to endure Her thoughts, or see the results of Her actions.

“Julia,” said Lyssa, for the second time in a slightly louder voice. “Please—you must listen to this. We are going to enter the main part of the Ragwitch’s memory, and there are things that you must, and must not do.

“Firstly, the place we are going to will seem to be real. I mean, it will seem to us like there are real trees, and plants, and birds, and people. But you must remember that it is not. What you see might change its form and nature in a second—and there will be many things you cannot see.

“I can only give you this to use against them.” Turning aside from Julia, Lyssa seemed to reach her hand into the yellow flame. Golden sparks rose briefly from her fingers, showering outwards like a brilliant firework. And then the sparks and flame were gone, and the green turf was suddenly blue in the harsh light of the distant globe. And in her hand Lyssa held a wand of yellowed wood that
held the hint of golden sparks and the bright and cheerful flame.

“Touch that to anything that threatens you, or anything that you are unsure of,” said Lyssa, giving the wand to Julia. “Not only will it drive dangerous creatures back, it will also reveal the true nature of things.”

“What sort of creatures could be in Her mind?” asked Julia, reluctantly taking the wand. “And aren’t you coming with me?”

“In answer to your first question,” replied Lyssa, “you will encounter Her memories. The part of Her mind to which we will travel is Her distant memory, and it is populated with all the creatures, landscapes and people of Her grim past. And, yes, I will be going with you. But only to the very beginning of the memory.”

“But why?” exclaimed Julia, close to tears again. “I thought…”

“Here,” interrupted Lyssa, “I am as I choose to be—just like the outside world. But in Her memory, I already exist. I am very old, Julia. Older than the Ragwitch—I was ancient when She was North-Queen. But She remembers me, how I was when She walked in human form. And inside Her memory, that remembrance will rule my shape and form.”

“But why does that mean you can’t come all the way?” asked Julia.

“Because,” said Lyssa, smiling sadly, “She
remembers me only as a Rowan. In Her memory, I will stand with my sisters on Alnwere Hill, roots drinking from the deep waters of the Pool.”

Julia bit her lip hard, ashamed to be crying again, but upset at losing her only companion so soon. Lyssa smiled again, and took her hand, saying, “Come—we must go, before the twig-maid joins her consciousness.”

“But where?” asked Julia, looking around at the blackness and the single white globe.

“Why, into the globe,” replied Lyssa, pushing off into the darkness. “But I shall guide you along a different path.”

The first, hesitant rays of sunlight were just striking the sea as Paul, Quigin and Leasel crawled onto the soft sand of the beach. A few hundred meters behind them, out past a long sandbank, the wicker basket bobbed on the waves, securely anchored by the yellow-panelled balloon which was now full of water.

Paul coughed again as the last little rush of a wave pushed up against his nose and throat. He knew he should go a little farther up the beach, but it was so easy just to sink into the sand.

The Master of Air’s sneeze had carried them just out past the land, and Quigin had used the reserve bottle of lifting spirits to slow their landing—or crash, as it turned out to be. Paul had only just had time to kick off his boots, before they were plunged
into the sea, last-minute gulps of air knocked from their lungs, and nothing but choking water all around them.

Another wave washed past, more foam than water, but it was enough to make Paul crawl a little farther, before he collapsed again.

“Just a little rest, Julia,” he muttered, feeling fingers pulling at the back of his neck. I only want a little rest, thought Paul dimly. Julia can swim all day with her friends, but I’m tired. I don’t like the pool…

Paul coughed again, and made a feeble effort to crawl a little farther, and then collapsed, waves foaming at his ankles.

I’ve drowned, thought Paul, as he felt consciousness returning. He seemed to be a long way underwater, and the surface was only a dull, rippling light above. He kicked desperately upwards, and the light seemed to get closer and closer, but he absolutely had to take a breath…and then the light somehow changed, and hardened, turning into the smiling face of Quigin.

“Quigin!” said Paul, waking up, and focusing on his friend’s face. “You’ve got a black eye!”

“I think you kicked it when we fell,” said Quigin, lightly touching the bruise. “It could have been worse.”

“Yeah,” said Paul, propping up on one elbow to have a look around. He still felt fuzzy in the head, but that was a lot better than feeling drowned. He
saw that he was lying on a straw-stuffed pallet that was leaking in one corner—though that might be due to Leasel, who was sitting near his feet, looking guilty. Quigin sat on an upturned cask that smelled rather strongly of fish.

In fact, the whole room smelt of fish, thought Paul, after taking a few tentative sniffs. It was obviously some sort of fisherman’s store—a single-roomed hut, constructed from driftwood, with only a single door that doubled as a window. Around the straw pallet, there were piles of nets and ropes, and odd-looking tools—mostly of sea-rusted iron.

“Where are we?” asked Paul, and then, suddenly feeling the absence of his pouch, “And where’s my pouch? Is the Breath safe?”

“Oh, everything’s here,” said Quigin, holding up a loosely tied bag of sailcloth, with pieces of Paul’s clothing trailing out of it.

“We even got your boots back,” he added, holding up a salt-encrusted pair. “That is, one of the shell-fishers did. They’re the best swimmers, because they dive for shells, and everyone else fishes from boats…”

“But where are we?” interrupted Paul.

“A village,” answered Quigin, as if stating the obvious. “Somewhere on the eastern coast. The people here are Trazel-fishers, and dive for Raunshells. I think the place is called Domebreye.”

“That’s Donbreye,” said a voice from the door, a
slow, bass voice, that cast a pall of tobacco smoke over the fish smell.

Coughing, Paul sat up higher, to get a good look at the man in the door, and was surprised by the size of him. He could barely stand within the door, and that only by bending his head. And he was as thin as an oar, with a sea-worn face that somehow seemed even thinner, probably because the rest of him was encased in a heavy wool coat, trousers of a sort of dull tartan, and what looked like sharkskin boots.

“I am Deamus,” said the man (pronouncing it Day-mouse), folding himself over a little more, so he could fit into the hut. “And you are Paul.”

“Yes,” said Paul, almost adding a “sir.” Except for his height, Deamus looked just like the Headmaster at Paul’s school—though he was perhaps a little younger.

“Your friend Quigin has told us you are searching for your sister,” said Deamus, ponderously. “And he had tales of great enchantment and ancient evil. Many of our folk will not believe it…but I wonder…there have been creatures in the sky these past nights, and…”

He paused for a moment to take a puff on a long, loose-rolled cigar of green tobacco that shed half-burnt flakes every time it went from hand to mouth. Through the cloud of smoke, Deamus fixed Paul with a thoughtful gaze.

“Is it true,” he asked, “that you have seen the
Ragwitch? And that She really is the North-Queen, who once despoiled the Kingdom?”

“I haven’t seen Her here,” said Paul, hesitantly. “But I did see Her in my own…country, and Tanboule the Wise said She was the North-Queen in a different form, and that She was already…fighting in the north.”

“Slaying more than fighting, I’ll warrant,” said Deamus. “But if the Wise know She is back…has word been sent to the King at Yendre?”

“Yes, I think so,” answered Paul. “Aleyne…that is, Sir Aleyne was sent by the Wise. But that was only yesterday—when I first met Quigin…”

“Four days ago, you mean,” interrupted Quigin, who had been absently stroking Leasel. “You’ve been lying here like a stunned fish for the last three days.”

“Four days,” muttered Deamus. “I was worried why we had not heard. But four days is not enough for the message to go to Yendre, and for the Storm Boy to come from there to us.”

“The Storm Boy?” asked Paul, wondering at the way Deamus had said it—as if it were something dread, but somehow expected.

“It is a statue,” replied Deamus, somberly. “The mark of our fealty to the King. A prime Trazel-fish we send at Midsummer, to the Court, and the King sends back a brandy pudding of the same weight as the fish. But the Storm Boy, now he’s an older thing altogether. For the Storm Boy is the call to
War, and that we have not seen since my far ancestors’ time.”

Silence followed Deamus’ explanation, until the fisherman blew another cloud of smoke, making Paul cough.

“Ah, I’m sorry lad,” said Deamus, making some attempt to clear the smoke with his hand. “We all puff away here—it’s good for the lungs, to clear the sea damp from them.”

Paul nodded, biting back a comment about cancer and all the other diseases associated with smoking. Still, maybe they didn’t have those here—and it was marginally better than the smell of fish…

“We’ve some nice Trazel cooking down at home,” said Deamus, mistaking Paul’s expression for one of hunger. “Why don’t you come down and have some? It’ll do you better than that fish oil this lad’s been feeding you.”

“Fish oil?” asked Paul, glaring at Quigin as he felt the gorge rising in his throat.

“Fish oil, molasses and some herbs,” replied Quigin, holding up an earthenware bottle. “Do you want some more?”

Paul didn’t answer; he just struggled to his feet and weakly made his way to the door. Deamus stepped back out, steadying Paul as his legs buckled under him.

“Easy, lad,” he murmured, as Paul gulped at the fresh sea air. “You were nearly drowned, and your
strength is all watered down.”

Paul didn’t reply, thankful to be out of the fish and tobacco smell, and away from the helpful Quigin and his fish oil cocktail.

After a few deep gulps of air, Paul looked around and saw that the hut lay on a rocky ridge. To the north, he could just see the beach where they’d crashed. To the south, and much closer, there was a harbor, crowded with small boats sheltering behind the breakwater. Around the harbor, and climbing up to the ridge, there were forty or fifty wooden houses, with roofs of greyish slate, and yellow-brick chimneys shining in the sun.

There were lots of people about too, small figures, all clustered around the harbor wall, intent on some great business. From a distance, Paul could hear shouts and laughter, and the faintest touch of some cheery song.

“It is a Festival day,” said Deamus behind him. “A day for the sea, when we give thanks for its bounty. I’ll not tell them your news today, young Paul. Tomorrow will be soon enough to prepare ourselves for the Storm Boy.”

“Will many of you have to go?” asked Quigin, who had come up behind. Turning back, Paul noticed that even while talking, Quigin was watching an albatross cruise effortlessly above, and other birds as they dived about the rocks.

“All who can bear pike and sword, and march five leagues,” replied Deamus, still watching the
festive preparations below. “Perhaps thirty of the men, and a score of the women.”

“The women too?” asked Paul. “Is that normal?”

Deamus looked back at him, puzzled, and said, “We have never answered the Storm Boy before. But the women practice on King’s Days, as do the men. I do not think the North-Creatures are particular as to their prey—so it is best if all can fight, if they must.”